A Summer of Discontent (60 page)

‘
You
poisoned him?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘I thought Henry had done it.’

‘Henry prefers more compassionate methods of execution,’ said Roger matter-of-factly. ‘Poisons can be nasty.’

‘A knife in the neck might be painful,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It would render the victim immobile, but he would know exactly
what was happening to him. Henry’s victims died in terror.’

‘Thomas did not,’ said Roger. ‘Unfortunately.’

‘Do not tell me that was you, too?’ asked Bartholomew, horrified.

‘It was,’ said Roger with pride. ‘I knew from Henry how it was done, and it was not difficult when the man was just lying
there, so still and so silent. I did it while Henry slept so deeply that he drooled on his table – a small detail that did
not escape Alan’s attention, I remember.’

‘So, there was no cloaked intruder wandering through the infirmary and praying as he went?’ asked Michael.

Roger gave a wicked grin. ‘You see how willing you were to believe a tale that made me look like some feeble halfwit? It
never once occurred to you that if a killer really had entered my home, I would recall every detail about him.’

‘That is because I did not think you would lie to me,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘You are offended now, because you think I imagine
you to be some drooling ancient who can barely see. But you would have been even more offended if I had claimed I believed
nothing you said.’

‘So, Henry’s shock at discovering that Thomas was murdered was quite genuine,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘He was right: Thomas probably
would not have died if Henry had not slept.’

‘Henry was distressed,’ agreed Roger carelessly. ‘He had hopes that Thomas’s illness might make him repent of his wicked ways
and render him a more pleasant person. Personally, I thought Thomas beyond that kind of salvation, and so I decided to remove
him from this world while the opportunity was there.’

Michael shot Bartholomew a triumphant glance. ‘You see? I told you Henry would not have killed a patient.’

‘But he killed everyone else,’ said Bartholomew.

‘It is no more than they deserved,’ said Roger, unmoved.

‘And he intended to have
me
die from poison,’ said Michael bitterly.

‘True,’ admitted Roger. ‘But that was because the vigour of your investigation was unsettling him. He could not dose
you with hemp like Northburgh and Stretton, because Bartholomew would have noticed. Poor Henry was at a loss to know what
to do about you.’

‘You admit Henry drugged the official investigators?’ asked Michael, disapprovingly.

Roger shrugged. ‘It has done them no harm. Indeed, it has made that miserable Northburgh much more amiable company.’

‘William stole ten marks from the priory,’ said Michael, abruptly changing the subject. It was disconcerting to hear his death
discussed in such dispassionate terms, especially since Henry was involved. ‘We found it in the granary. What do you know
about that?’

‘William did not steal that money. Robert lied to him, saying he did not have enough alms for the poor, so William drew on
the hosteller’s fund to help him. Robert, however, merely hid the coins away for himself.’

‘That does not sound like William,’ said Michael doubtfully. ‘Why should he give his own funds to help the almoner – especially
when that almoner was a man he despised?’

‘Because William was not wholly wicked, like Robert,’ said Roger impatiently. ‘He was cunning and sly, but he did not allow
the poor to go hungry. He genuinely believed that Robert really had run out of funds, but became suspicious later. That was
why he watched Robert so closely all the time.’

‘We found him searching the almonry once,’ said Bartholomew, recalling that the hosteller had hidden behind a tapestry in
Robert’s domain so that he could search it for evidence that the almoner had been lining his own pockets.

‘Henry caught Robert in the vineyards,’ Roger went on, eyes gleaming, as though he was proud of what had happened. ‘The man
was not going to look for William, as Alan had ordered him to do, but was taking the opportunity to gloat over the hoard he
had secreted in the granary. Henry said you found it and returned it to the priory coffers, so that ended well.’

‘But why did Henry kill Robert?’ asked Michael, rather plaintively. ‘Or rather, since we already know why, why then? Why not
later? Why did Henry take the considerable risk of slaying Robert in broad daylight and dumping his corpse in a very public
place?’

‘Because Robert was asking too many questions, and Henry had the impression that he was forming his own suspicions as regards
the identity of the killer. It was simply not worth the risk. I told Henry to dispatch him as soon as the opportunity arose.
And it did – when that reprobate went to the granary to pore over his ill-gotten gains.’

‘So, Robert was killed for his greed,’ mused Bartholomew softly. ‘If he had not gone to a remote place to count his gold,
then Henry could not have killed him. Well, not then at least.’

‘What underhand business was Thomas involved in?’ demanded Michael of Roger. ‘We saw him in the vineyards and a package changed
hands. What was that about?’

Roger smiled. ‘You are right. Thomas
was
involved in underhand business. That lovely book of hours belongs to our library, as
I
would have told you, had you bothered to ask an old man. It is one of our most valuable possessions. Robert stole it, and
that incompetent Symon did not notice it was missing. Robert gave it to Thomas in return for turning a blind eye to inconsistencies
in the almonry accounts, which, as sub-prior, Thomas was obliged to check.’

‘So it was Robert who met Thomas in the vineyard?’ asked Michael.

Roger nodded. ‘One thief paying another with stolen property. No wonder they met in such an isolated venue.’

‘And Thomas was not about to reveal anything about the murders when he had his seizure in the refectory,’ surmised Michael.
‘He was about to confess his nasty little plot with Robert. He knew nothing that would have helped me track down the murderer.’

‘No,’ said Roger. ‘Not a thing. He was too completely immersed in himself and his own world to have deduced
anything about the murders. But Henry put an end to such wickedness. We will now have a good and honest sub-prior and an
almoner who feels compassion for the poor.’

‘And a librarian who will know how to look after books?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Is incompetence on Henry’s list of sins, too?
Is that why he killed Symon?’

‘Symon was more than merely incompetent,’ said Roger, unperturbed by their patent disgust. ‘He was responsible for suppressing
learning and education among the monks. And he plotted with Leycestre to strip our monastery of all its treasure. Henry heard
him confess. I urged him to deal with the man last night, lest the soft-hearted Alan set him free.’

‘And Mackerell?’ asked Michael coldly. ‘Was he another man you consider steeped in sin?’

‘He was not what you would call pleasant company,’ said Roger. ‘But he died because he saw Henry standing over Symon’s corpse.
Henry had said mass with Symon, then killed him quickly when he drowsed from the hemp in the wine. He had forgotten that Mackerell
was hiding there, thinking himself safe from water-spirits. It was unfortunate, but some sacrifices have to be made.’

‘I see,’ said Michael coolly. ‘But we need to find Henry, before he does any more mischief.’

‘No,’ said Roger. He rose from his bed on unsteady legs. From the next bed Ynys rose, too. Both held swords that had been
hidden under the bedclothes.

‘What is this?’ asked Michael, backing away in alarm. ‘Are all of you involved?’

‘Roger and I are men who want to see justice done in our dying years,’ said Ynys, clutching the bed for support. ‘And we have
no grudge against you, so sit down and behave and no one will come to harm. We were soldiers once, so you had better take
us seriously.’

‘But this is madness,’ protested Bartholomew, moving away from Roger, whose grip on his sword was dangerous in its unsteadiness.
‘Henry is not a dispenser of justice! It
has gone beyond that. He is now a ruthless killer, and you must see that is not right or just.’

‘Sit!’ snapped Roger angrily. ‘We will wait here until Henry comes, and then we will decide what is to be done. Perhaps he
will agree to let you go. But then again, perhaps he will not.’

‘The battle of Bannockburn,’ said Michael harshly to Ynys. ‘Were you really there, or are those memories as false as your
act of senility?’

Ynys’s eyes flashed. ‘I was there, boy. And I am not senile, either. At least, not unless it suits me to be thought so, just
as Roger’s deafness serves him.’ He gestured to his friends, lying restless and confused in their beds. ‘I only wish I could
say the same for these poor fellows.’ His expression hardened when his glance returned to Bartholomew and Michael. ‘Now sit
down.’

Bartholomew prepared to argue, but the door opened, and Henry himself entered. The infirmarian surveyed the scene in front
of him with open-mouthed horror, and the dish of fruit he was carrying as a treat for the old men clattered to the floor.

‘We have been hearing all about how you have been removing some of the town’s more unpleasant residents for the good of mankind,’
said Michael coolly.

Henry sat heavily on Roger’s bed. ‘I did what I thought was right,’ he said in a low voice. ‘There is too much evil in the
world, caused by men who have no thought for others and who are concerned only with their own well-being. They do cruel and
unjust things, then go about their lives quite happily.’

‘Vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord,’ quoted Michael pompously.

Henry rounded on him. ‘But it is not, is it? Evil people do evil deeds, then live to a ripe old age to enjoy the fruits of
their wrongdoing. There
is
no justice in the world. Surely, you know people whom we would all be better without?’

‘Who does not?’ said Michael. ‘But that does not mean I have the right to decide who should die and who should not.’

‘But someone must,’ argued Henry. ‘Unless we take action to destroy wickedness, then the Death will return. And I, for one,
do not want to live through that again.’

‘The plague will not return,’ said Michael with a conviction Bartholomew certainly did not feel. ‘And I am becoming tired
of people using it as an excuse to do whatever they like. I am hurt that you are the culprit, Henry. I loved you like a father!’

Henry shot Roger an agonised glance. ‘I told you we should have stopped after you killed Thomas! There was no need to take
steps against Michael. My life is not worth his!’

Roger disagreed. ‘He will expose you as a killer. He has to die. We
need
you – we do not want another infirmarian to care for us as we approach our final days. Michael may love you like a father,
but we are like fathers to you. You
owe
us our last little happiness.’

Henry looked from Roger to Michael in an agony of despair. It was clear he did not know what to think. Then, before they could
stop him, he had leapt to his feet and darted towards the infirmary chapel.

‘After him!’ howled Michael to Bartholomew, starting to run.

‘No!’ yelled Roger, lunging with his weapon. It missed Michael by the merest fraction of an inch. The monk was still gaping
at the gouge it had left in the wooden bed when Roger struck again. Michael ducked backward and snatched up a mop with a long
handle to defend himself.

Meanwhile, Ynys advanced on Bartholomew, wielding a short fighting sword in a skilled manner that left the physician in no
doubt of his expertise. The knives that were in his medicine bag were useless against such a weapon, and there was little
he could do but back away and keep out of the range of the swinging blade. Henry was in the chapel, and they could hear his
voice raised in pleading supplication.

‘We cannot let you go,’ said Roger to Michael apologetically. ‘Despite Henry’s affection for you. You would tell Alan what
has happened, and he will send Henry away. And then what would happen to us?’

‘Henry’s motive may have been honourable, but you are only interested in your own welfare,’ hissed Michael furiously, ducking
away as the old man advanced. ‘You have driven the poor man to despair, and he does not know which way to turn.’

‘You saw his distress when you killed Thomas,’ said Bartholomew, also moving backward. He knew he was in no real danger from
Ynys as long as he kept out of range of the sword, which was not difficult given that the old man moved so slowly. ‘You have
confused him so much that he may do himself some harm. Put down your weapon and let me go to him.’

Ynys faltered, but Roger remained unconvinced. ‘You are lying. Henry would never leave us.’

‘You have pushed him too far,’ said Michael. ‘He is a good man, but you have corrupted him to the point where he does not
know what to believe.’

‘It is all Ralph’s fault,’ said Ynys, his sword shaking dangerously close to Bartholomew’s chest. ‘It was Ralph who came up
with the idea – when he killed Glovere.’

‘Just a moment,’ said Michael, stepping quickly around a chest at the bottom of the bed as Roger edged closer. ‘
Ralph
killed Glovere?’

‘De Lisle wanted rid of Glovere,’ explained Ynys. ‘So Ralph obliged. Then Roger here saw the good that stemmed from Glovere’s
demise – no more malicious gossip in taverns, poor young Alice avenged and her grieving family relieved of a heavy burden
…’

‘
Roger
saw the good in Glovere’s death?’ echoed Michael, bewildered.

‘I did,’ said Roger in satisfaction. ‘I heard what people told me, and I saw I could spend my last summer helping people who
deserved it. Then Ralph came to Henry to confess.’

‘Henry is loved by all,’ said Ynys fondly. ‘Many townsfolk use him as their confessor. He is kinder and more lenient than
the parish priests.’

‘Ralph told Henry how he murdered Glovere with a small knife in the back of the neck. He made his confession here, in the
infirmary, thinking that we were too deaf or weak-witted to understand.’ Roger looked pleased with himself. ‘But we did understand
and it gave us an idea.’