Bartholomew 08 - A Summer of Discontent, page 20
Bartholomew was about to resume his reading when a flicker of movement among the bushes on the opposite side of the cemetery caught his eye. He watched in fascination as the branches parted and the priory’s hosteller emerged, looking around him in a way that Bartholomew could only describe as furtive. William fluffed up his hair and ran nervous hands down his habit, to brush away twigs or grass, before gazing around slowly to ensure that he was alone. Then Bartholomew saw him take a circuitous route through the graves until he reached the tree under which Tysilia had taken refuge. Moments later, there came the hum of a muttered conversation.
Because both Tysilia and William had taken some care not to be seen, Bartholomew concluded that their meeting did not have the blessing of Lady Blanche or the Prior. He predicted that William was in for a good time, while Tysilia would be able to add a Benedictine to her list of conquests – assuming that she had not already notched up some of them already. He was surprised that William had succumbed to Tysilia’s charms; he had imagined the hosteller to have more self control than that. But whatever their intentions, it was none of Bartholomew’s affair. He gave his back a quick rub and turned back to his book, quickly losing himself in its subject matter and forgetting whatever was happening below his window. His work was interrupted by a voice that was raised in irritation.
‘But I am acting normally! It is you who is acting oddly. How could you not, with that hair?’
This was followed by an urgent whisper by William, apparently ordering Tysilia to keep her voice down. Bartholomew leaned forward, and glanced over the sill. He could see the top of Tysilia’s head, although William was concealed by leaves.
‘And I will not be quiet!’ Tysilia’s furious voice went on. ‘Why should I?’
William gave a heavy sigh and spoke in a loud voice himself, exasperation apparently winning over the need for silence. ‘Because you do not want anyone to hear us here together, and neither do I. Think of your reputation.’
‘My reproduction has nothing to do with you!’ replied Tysilia indignantly. ‘I can look after myself.’
‘Then think of mine,’ snapped William. ‘My reputation, that is. What do you think people will say if they see us together like this?’
‘Why should they think anything amiss?’ demanded Tysilia petulantly. ‘It is not as if we are doing anything wrong. We are only talking.’
‘That is beside the point,’ said William, and Bartholomew could hear the frustration in his voice. ‘No one will believe we are here innocently.’
‘Then I will just tell them that we are,’ announced Tysilia, as if that would solve everything. ‘They will believe me. Who are we talking about, anyway? Who knows we are here? I told no one we were meeting. Did you?’
‘No,’ sighed William wearily. ‘Of course not. I was speaking hypothetically.’
‘Speaking hypocritically is not nice,’ said Tysilia firmly. ‘Lady Blanche told me so. And if you intend to speak that way to me, I shall leave.’
‘I was not being hypocritical,’ said William, sounding bewildered. Bartholomew smiled. He had engaged in similar conversations with Tysilia himself, and he knew how frustrating the woman’s slow wits and ignorance could be. He imagined that William was already regretting meeting her. ‘But never mind that. Tell me what you have discovered.’
‘Discovered about what?’ asked Tysilia, sounding baffled in her turn.
‘About what we discussed. About Glovere’s death.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Tysilia. ‘I remember now. No.’
‘No, what ?’ snapped William, sounding agitated. His voice was now louder than Tysilia’s, all pretence at whispering abandoned.
‘No, I have discovered nothing about Glovere’s death,’ said Tysilia slowly, enunciating every word as though she were speaking to a dim-witted child. ‘I even asked Lady Blanche whether she had killed him, but she said she had not.’
‘You did what ?’ exploded William. Bartholomew started to laugh, moving backwards so that he would not be heard, although he suspected that they were both far too engrossed in each other to detect any sounds of mirth from above.
It was Tysilia’s turn to sound aggravated. ‘You told me to learn anything I could about Glovere’s death, so I asked people about it. How am I supposed to find things out unless I ask? And, as I have just told you, I demanded of Blanche whether she had killed Glovere herself, just as you told me she might have done, but she said she had not. So, she is innocent after all.’
Bartholomew heard a groan. The physician knew how William felt. Conversations with Tysilia did tend to make one wonder whether one was dreaming.
‘I asked you to be discreet and to listen,’ said William tiredly. ‘I did not mean you to interrogate Blanche. You cannot begin to imagine the harm you have done. Now she will know that I suspect her, and she will be on her guard. She may even decide that I should go the same way as the servant she so despised.’
‘But I did not tell her it was you who told me to ask,’ protested Tysilia, with a pout in her voice. ‘And I was discreet. I took care to lower my voice when I put my question.’
‘Well, that is a relief,’ said William heavily. ‘And how did she respond to your clever probing?’
‘Oh, she was a little annoyed,’ said Tysilia cheerfully. ‘She asked me who had put such an idea into my head, and I told her it had occurred to me all by myself, with no prompting from anyone. Then she told me I should never ask such a question again, and that I should leave the matter of Glovere well alone unless I wanted to end up in Abraham’s bosom.’
‘She said that?’ asked William in alarm.
‘Yes. I told her I knew no one called Abraham, but that if I met him I would take care that he did not embrace me. What did she mean, do you think?’
‘She meant that your clumsy enquiries could result in your death,’ said William flatly.
‘Oh,’ said Tysilia. There was silence as she mulled over this piece of information. When she spoke again, it sounded as though Blanche’s words and William’s translation had finally shaken her thick-skinned resilience. ‘She was threatening to kill me?’
‘I do not know,’ said William. ‘If she killed Glovere, then yes, she may well have been threatening to throw you in the river, too. If she did not, then she may simply have been warning you not to meddle in matters that might prove dangerous.’
‘Well, that is all right then,’ said Tysilia, sounding relieved. ‘Blanche told me she did not kill Glovere, and so she cannot have been threatening to kill me.’ Bartholomew could hear that she was pleased with her logic.
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. What had possessed William to use the doubtful and dangerous talents of a woman like Tysilia as his spy in Blanche’s household? And what had possessed Tysilia to agree to such an arrangement? Did William have evidence that Blanche had murdered Glovere and arranged for the Bishop to be accused of the crime, or was the hosteller merely speculating? Blanche had been at her estates in Huntingdon when Glovere had died. Was her absence deliberate, so that no one would think she was responsible for the death of her own steward? Glovere had not been one of her most prized servants by all accounts, and it was possible that she was delighted to be rid of him and strike a blow against her enemy the Bishop at the same time.
And what about the presence of Blanche with the gypsies in the Mermaid Inn the day before? Was the King’s kinswoman more deeply embroiled in Glovere’s murder than they had thought, and had she engaged the travellers to help her? Were William’s suspicions justified? Bartholomew knew Michael did not believe that it had been Blanche wrapped in Goran’s cloak, but Bartholomew knew what he had seen.
There was something distasteful in listening to others’ conversation, even though it involved a discussion about the murder Michael had been charged to solve. So, when Tysilia started to regale William with ghoulishly intimate details of Blanche’s private life, Bartholomew turned his attention back to his book, trying to ignore the embarrassing revelations that were being made below. Suddenly, there was an angry yelp from Tysilia, a sharp rustling of leaves and then silence. Bartholomew surmised that William had slapped one hand over her mouth and had dragged her deeper into the undergrowth. Puzzled, he peered across the cemetery to see what had alarmed them.
Michael, looking inordinately large in his flowing black robe, was ambling among the tombstones. His casual stance suggested that he was merely taking the air, although Bartholomew knew the monk was not the kind of man to indulge in exercise without good reason. Occasionally he went for a walk when the weather was fine, but he complained bitterly if any distance was covered. Left to his own devices, Michael was far more likely to remain in his room, to work on University business or to enjoy the food and drink he invariably had stashed there.
So, what was he doing in the cemetery, looking as though he were taking a stroll? Fascinated, Bartholomew watched him saunter right past the tree where William and Tysilia were hiding, then cut across the grass to a box-like monument against the south wall of the cathedral. Carefully selecting the side that was hidden from casual observers – unless they happened to be hiding in the trees opposite or watching from the library window – he settled himself on a convenient ledge and turned his face towards the sun.
‘Oh, look!’ Bartholomew heard Tysilia sigh. ‘It is that handsome Brother Michael!’
William’s reaction to this description was much the same as Bartholomew’s. ‘Where? I can only see the Michael who lives in Cambridge.’
‘That is the one,’ Tysilia said wistfully. ‘He is the most attractive man I have seen in this city. I wonder why I did not notice his charms before. I have only recently become aware of the fact that he is worthy of my affections.’
‘Michael?’ asked William, sounding as incredulous as Bartholomew felt. ‘Are you jesting with me?’
‘Why would I jest about such a thing,’ said Tysilia, sounding genuinely puzzled. ‘Michael is all a woman could ask for in a man, and I intend to have him.’
‘Keep your voice down!’ whispered William in alarm. ‘He will hear you.’
‘I do not mind,’ said Tysilia dreamily. ‘I would like him to know that I am fond of him.’
‘Then you can reveal your unlikely infatuation at your peril, but not now. We do not want him to know we are here, having this secret meeting, do we?’
‘No,’ admitted Tysilia. ‘Because then it would no longer be a secret, and that would be a pity. But I wonder why he is here. I hope he is not meeting another lover. I would not like that at all.’
Bartholomew also had no idea why the monk should choose to bask in the rays of the late afternoon sun while hiding behind a mortuary monument, until he spotted yet another figure walking among the graves. The physician grinned, wondering whether he would see half the priory and its guests emerging to engage in ‘secret’ assignations in the cemetery, if he watched long enough. This time, it was de Lisle.
The Bishop was a man imbued with plenty of energy, and he walked briskly and purposefully to the place where Michael waited. At the last moment, he stopped and spun around, gazing back the way he had come, looking for signs that he had been followed. Apparently satisfied that he had not, he quickly stepped behind Michael’s mausoleum; pushing himself close to the monk, he leaned out around the wall and looked back a second time. Cynric, Bartholomew thought, would have been horrified at such a poor display of stealth. His book now completely forgotten, Bartholomew watched with interest.
‘That is my uncle!’ Bartholomew heard Tysilia whisper loudly. ‘He is the Bishop of Ely, you know.’
‘What was that?’ demanded de Lisle immediately, gazing intently in her direction. ‘Did you hear a voice, Brother?’
‘A bird,’ said Michael carelessly. ‘Do not worry, my lord. No one else will be in the cemetery at this hour. My brethren are already massing outside the refectory to wait for the dinner bell, while Lady Blanche and her household are down by the river, where it is cooler.’
‘Well?’ demanded the Bishop. He made no attempt to keep his voice down as he addressed Michael. Bartholomew wondered whether de Lisle was as devious a plotter as he would have everyone believe, if he did not know that it was safer to speak quietly when meeting agents in graveyards – just because he thought he had not been followed did not mean that he could not be heard. ‘What have you learned so far about Glovere?’
Bartholomew wondered what he should do, aware that anything Michael said would also be heard by the hosteller and Tysilia. If Michael felt the need to meet de Lisle in the cemetery, rather than openly at his house or in the cathedral, then the monk clearly wanted privacy. While he felt no particular allegiance to de Lisle, and cared little whether the Bishop revealed his innermost secrets while William and Tysilia listened, Bartholomew did not want the discussion to incriminate Michael. He picked up a small inkpot, and fingered it thoughtfully, seriously considering hurling it at Michael to warn the monk that he and de Lisle were not alone.
‘I have learned very little, I am afraid,’ replied Michael. ‘A fellow named Mackerell spun some story about water-spirits snatching the souls of the three dead men.’
The Bishop nodded. ‘Superstition is rife in the Fens, despite my attempts to try to teach otherwise. I am not surprised that ghosts have been blamed – but better them than me, I say!’
‘True,’ agreed Michael. ‘Mackerell has agreed to meet me by the back door of the priory tonight, where he has promised to reveal all.’
‘What could a man like Mackerell know?’ demanded de Lisle disparagingly. ‘He is a mere fisherman.’
‘He is a mere fisherman who gave the impression he knew something that frightened him,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘We should not dismiss him without hearing his story.’
Bartholomew’s grip on the inkpot loosened. The Bishop and his agent were not discussing anything incriminating or dangerous. He wondered why they had decided to meet in secret. Perhaps it was force of habit that encouraged them to be circumspect, even when there was no need.
‘Very well,’ said de Lisle, although he did not sound convinced. ‘You have more experience in these matters than I do, and I shall bow to your superior knowledge. What else have you learned?’
‘I spoke to Haywarde’s family today,’ said Michael. ‘And I also ascertained that Chaloner and Glovere had no kin – at least, no kin that would acknowledge them.’
‘No family would ever admit to owning Glovere,’ Bartholomew heard Tysilia whisper to William. ‘He always smelled of horse dung, you see.’
‘What?’ William whispered back, evidently more interested in the conversation between Michael and de Lisle than in listening to Tysilia’s deranged ramblings.
‘I think he rubbed it in his hair,’ explained Tysilia helpfully.
‘Be quiet,’ ordered William. ‘And keep your hands where I can see them.’
‘And?’ asked de Lisle of Michael. ‘What did the kinsmen of the unhappy Haywarde tell you?’
‘Nothing,’ Michael admitted. ‘I was hoping to find some connection between him and the other two victims, but nothing was forthcoming. I thought they might be involved in the rebellion that seems to be fermenting in the town.’
‘Leycestre and his silly nephews,’ spat de Lisle in disgust. ‘Nothing they discuss can be of sufficient importance to warrant murder.’
‘Not everyone is as sanguine as you are,’ Michael pointed out. ‘Seditious talk may be considered treasonous.’
‘What salacious talk is this?’ demanded Tysilia in a hoarse whisper, sounding very interested.
De Lisle glanced sharply towards the tree in which she hid. ‘Are you sure you can hear nothing, Brother? That sounded like a voice to me.’
‘It was probably squirrels,’ said Michael complacently. ‘There are a lot of them around at this time of year, looking for nuts.’
‘What about Northburgh and Stretton?’ asked de Lisle, after a searching gaze revealed nothing amiss. Bartholomew could almost hear William holding his breath. ‘Have they learned anything?’
‘Hardly!’ snorted Michael in disgust. ‘Stretton had to ask me how to begin his enquiries, while Northburgh declines to leave the priory lest he contract some peasant ailment.’
‘This is not good,’ said de Lisle worriedly. ‘My name will never be cleared as long as that pair is supposed to be uncovering the evidence. Everyone will merely assume I could not be proven guilty, rather than that I am innocent.’
‘But you have me,’ declared Michael, a little peevishly. ‘I will uncover the truth.’
De Lisle regarded him uneasily. ‘I know. But this investigation is proceeding a good deal more slowly than it should. I dislike being accused of murder: it is not good for a bishop to be seen as the kind of man who commits earthly sins.’
‘I imagine not,’ said Michael. ‘But this is not an easy case to solve, because there is very little for me to work on. I cannot see any link between these three men, except for the fact that they were all killed by the same unusual method. We may have to resort to using a tethered goat to draw the killer out – perhaps dangle some other malcontent in order to force him to strike.’
‘As long as I am not the goat, you can do what you like,’ said de Lisle. ‘But do not linger over this, Michael. You have always been my faithful servant, and I am in your debt for the loyalty you have shown me in the past. But now my very life is in your hands. Prove me innocent of these charges, and I shall see you rewarded in ways that even you cannot imagine.’
