Bartholomew 08 - A Summer of Discontent, page 50
Michael shrugged. ‘But at least he did not murder anyone or steal.’
‘He had no need to steal,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘He now owns a sizeable share of the treasure he found in the fallen transept. And how do we know he did not murder? Guido would have something to say about that.’
‘No,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Eulalia said Ralph paid Guido, not de Lisle. She believed it enough to condone Goran killing the man. De Lisle cannot be held responsible for the actions of an over-zealous servant.’
The glorious day belied the uneasiness Bartholomew felt. There was not a cloud in the sky, which was a fathomless pale blue. The sun bathed the countryside in yellow light, making the strips of barley and wheat a more brilliant gold than ever. It lit the cathedral, too, and, as they walked towards the castle and looked back, tendrils of pale mist hugged the base of the cathedral and gave the impression that it was sitting atop a bronze cloud.
The Prior’s prison was an unpleasantly dank building inside the monastery walls. Made of thick, heavy stones from the demolished fortress, it comprised three small dark holes that passed as cells, linked by a narrow corridor. The ceilings were low and barrel vaulted, and the only light was from a tiny slit that was no wider than the length of a finger.
‘I hope your priory does not keep people here for long,’ said Bartholomew, watching Michael remove a key from his scrip to open the outer door.
‘They are holding cells for people awaiting trials. No one is here for more than a few days.’
‘There is no proper guard?’ asked Cynric disapprovingly, as they entered a narrow, damp corridor. Water dripped down the walls, which were coated with a layer of green-black slime, and the little points of lime that jutted from the roof attested to the fact that leaks were continual.
‘A lay-brother comes twice a day with food and water,’ replied Michael. ‘This is a secure place, and there is no need for constant vigilance.’
‘But there is,’ Cynric pointed out. ‘The killer came and murdered someone here.’
‘This has never happened before,’ said Michael irritably. ‘Prior Alan saw no need to do things any differently last night than he had done before. How could he – or anyone else – have predicted that the killer would strike in a prison?’
‘How many people have access to these keys?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking that the Prior’s security and care of his prisoners left a lot to be desired. What happened if one of the captives became ill or needed attention? He supposed that the needs of a prisoner, who was doubtless deemed guilty of the crime with which he was charged by virtue of being in the cells at all, were not a high priority to the monastery, just as they were not to most other law-enforcing bodies.
Cynric answered. He was observant when it came to that sort of thing. ‘The keys to the prison are on hooks in the chapter house – just like the keys to the back gate. Anyone inside the monastery is able to take them.’
‘Usually, it is not an issue, because most monks do not want to converse with criminals,’ said Michael defensively.
‘But last night was different,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘A monk was captive here. What was to stop Symon’s friends from coming to let him out?’
‘His personality,’ replied Michael tersely. ‘No one liked him enough to help him evade whatever punishment Alan decides is just. He should have been safe here.’
Three stout wooden doors with heavy iron bars denoted the three cells. Each door had a grille set into it, which allowed anyone in the corridor to watch the captives. Bartholomew recalled Cynric mentioning that he had placed Leycestre and his nephews in one cell and Symon in another, so that they would not harm each other in their fury at being caught. He opened the grille of the first cell, and peered through it to see a trio of bedraggled specimens huddled on the floor.
‘We made a mistake,’ Leycestre said in a low voice. ‘A night in this foul place has given me time to reconsider, and I realise now that we were wrong. The landlords are oppressing the people, and it is unjust that some folk eat themselves fat while others starve, but now I see that attempting to steal from the priory was not the best way to rectify matters.’
‘Tell Alan that,’ said Michael, unmoved by the rebel’s remorse.
‘I would, but I am not likely to run into him here, am I?’ There was a hint of anger in Leycestre’s voice. ‘Tell him for me. Ask him to be lenient with my nephews. They are boys and were only following my orders.’
‘They are grown men, and perfectly able to see the difference between right and wrong,’ said Michael sternly. ‘However, I will petition the Prior on your behalf, but only if you tell me who killed Symon.’
Leycestre sighed. ‘I was afraid you would ask me that, and you can be certain that I would tell you, since you have just agreed to speak to Prior Alan for us. But the truth is that we saw and heard very little. These doors are thick, and the grille can only be opened from outside.’
‘I suppose a little is better than nothing,’ said Michael, his voice conveying his disappointment.
‘In the middle of the night – I cannot tell you when exactly, but it was dark – I heard the grille on our door open. I thought it might be Father John, coming to pretend to hear our confession, so that he could set us free, but then it closed again. Whoever opened it did not speak to us.’
Michael looked at Bartholomew. ‘That means that the killer was looking for Symon specifically. He was not interested in the others.’
‘I leapt to my feet and tried to peer through the bottom of the grille, where the wood is warped,’ Leycestre continued. ‘But all I saw was a figure in a dark cloak. I could not tell whether it was a monk or layman; I could not even tell whether it was a man or a woman.’
‘Tall?’ asked Michael. ‘Short? Fat? Thin?’
‘I could not see. He had a candle, but it threw out shadows, and I could only make out a shape. He unlocked the door of Symon’s cell and I heard prayers. Mass.’
‘We shouted to him,’ added the nephew called Adam Clymme from his place on the floor. ‘But he would not answer. He stayed with Symon for a while, then left, locking all the doors behind him.’
‘Who found Symon?’ asked Bartholomew of Michael.
‘Julian the novice,’ replied Leycestre at once, trying hard to provide as much information as possible to ingratiate himself with Michael. ‘He opened our grille, and shoved bread and three cups of water through it, and then went to do the same for Symon.’
‘What did he do?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did he yell out in shock when he saw Symon dead?’
‘Not him,’ said Leycestre bitterly. ‘I heard the grille being opened. Then, after a moment, he unlocked the cell door, which I thought was an odd thing to do, given that Symon might have rushed him. It was not long before Julian came out again; he was grinning and, as he passed our door, he said “Symon will not be reading any more books”. Then he left.’
Bartholomew gazed at Michael. ‘I wonder if the nocturnal visitor was merely some kindly monk who came to offer Symon words of comfort, but the murderer is actually Julian. We have been suspicious of him from the start.’
Michael agreed. ‘And if Symon was sleeping, then it would have been easy for Julian to slip into his cell and kill him.’
‘Have you seen Symon’s body?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Yes. There was a grazed ear and cheek, and a small wound in his neck.’
‘Any signs of fighting, like we saw with Robert?’
‘None that I could see. It was as if Symon was taken completely by surprise. If you examine the body now, will you be able to tell whether he was killed in the night by this mysterious visitor, or an hour or two ago by Julian?’
Bartholomew shook his head apologetically. ‘Leycestre is vague about the time this night visitor came, and it might have been only a short while before Julian. Had you called me immediately, I might have been able to tell by the warmth of Symon’s body, but not now.’
‘I would have done, but you happened to be off enjoying yourself with your paramour,’ said Michael accusingly. He addressed Leycestre again. ‘Is there anything else we should know?’
Leycestre swallowed hard. ‘Only one thing. I apologise for knocking you into the crates on Wednesday night at the Quay.’
‘I guessed that was you,’ Michael said, although Bartholomew knew perfectly well that he had not. ‘I suppose you were discussing which house you wanted to burgle?’
Leycestre licked dry lips, and the glance he exchanged with his nephews indicated that Michael had put his finger on the reason for their violent reaction to the interruption that night. ‘But we did you no harm. We used no weapons, even though we all had daggers in our belts.’
‘Most thoughtful of you,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘But Matt said you had been drinking heavily, and were on the verge of a brawl with the gypsies that night. Were you sober enough to break into houses?’
‘The burglaries were becoming more difficult,’ said Clymme ruefully. ‘People were on their guard, you see, and each new house we robbed was harder than the last. We drank because we needed the courage ale brings. Eventually, we even had to pretend that Agnes Fitzpayne was also burgled, so that no one would think to blame us.’ He unravelled himself from the floor and walked towards the door. His loutish face was streaked and dirty, and arrogance had been replaced by a pathetic misery. ‘Will you chase the rats from the last cell before you go?’ he pleaded. ‘They kept me awake all night with their scratching and clawing.’
‘That is not necessary,’ said Leycestre to Michael, shoving his nephew away from the grille and shooting him an angry glance. ‘We only ask one favour: speak to Alan on our behalf. We can put up with the rats, if you will do that.’
Bartholomew took the torch from Michael and went to investigate. Clymme’s request was not difficult to grant, and the prison was grim enough, without having to contend with the sound of rodents scuttling around. The door of the third cell was not locked, so Bartholomew pushed it open, then held up the torch to illuminate the inside. He gasped in astonishment at what he saw.
The missing Mackerell was slumped against the wall, while a large brown rat hovered proprietarily in the background. When Bartholomew stepped forward it scampered away, but did not go far. The physician crouched down to touch the wound in the fish-man’s neck. It had bled a little, and the side of his face was bruised, as if he had been held down hard. The body, however, was fresh, and Bartholomew concluded that Mackerell had been dead for a few hours at the most. He strongly suspected that the killer had dispensed with Mackerell at the same time as he had dealt with Symon.
‘I will fetch a stretcher and arrange for him to be taken to the church,’ said Cynric. He shot an arch expression at Michael. ‘Do not worry about directions – I know where everything is. I am growing quite used to recovering the bodies of murder victims in Ely.’
‘Did you hear this nocturnal visitor unlock just Symon’s door?’ the monk asked Leycestre, ignoring Cynric’s facetiousness. ‘Or could he have opened the third cell, too?’
‘I could not tell,’ said Leycestre. ‘I thought I heard the scrape of a key in the lock once, but we were shouting to gain his attention and we were not listening to what he was doing.’
‘I thought I heard Symon yell,’ added Clymme. ‘It happened just a few moments before the visitor left. It sounded frightened, as if he had suddenly realised that something terrible was about to occur.’
‘I suspect Symon was dead before that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The killer probably entered the cell and went about his business before Symon could fight him off. The shout you heard was probably Mackerell, when he realised that the Prior’s cells were not so safe after all.’
‘I cannot believe this,’ said Bartholomew, as they left the oppressive dampness of the cells and stepped into the bright sunshine outside. He blinked at the sudden brilliance, and felt his eyes water.
Michael carefully locked the door behind him and shook it vigorously. ‘Leycestre and his nephews should be safe in there. At least I hope so.’
‘They are safe anyway. The killer is not interested in them. They are not nasty enough.’
Michael gazed at him, and then nodded slowly. ‘I had forgotten that our killer only removes people who are unpleasant. All three townsmen were fellows whom the town was glad to be rid of; Robert was a thief who forced pilgrims to pay for the privilege of speaking to St Etheldreda; Thomas was a glutton who bullied the novices; and Symon was an indolent fraud who did harm to our priceless books.’
‘And Mackerell had a reputation for stealing and lying,’ said Bartholomew, looking away across the undulating ruins of the castle and the vineyards beyond. ‘But this is beginning to make sense, and I can see at least some answers – such as the identity of the killer.’
Michael took his arm and they went to sit together on an ancient stone that had once acted as a lintel over the door of one of the fortress’s finest chambers. It was now a moss-covered relic, half buried in grass and split down the middle, too heavy and damaged to be of use for building. A small oak tree offered welcome shade. Bartholomew gazed down at the moving patterns of leaves and sunlight that played and danced around his feet.
‘Well?’ asked Michael. ‘Who? Prior Alan, because he has completed a beautiful cathedral and does not want it sullied by the presence of evil men? My Bishop, so that no one will think he killed Glovere? Blanche, because she is a lady and no one believes that a lady could set fire to a house, let alone commit murder? Henry, because he has been corrupted by that horrible Julian? Tysilia, because she does not like nasty people?’
‘Julian,’ said Bartholomew heavily. ‘Because he does not like people with the capacity to be nastier than him.’
Michael nodded slowly. ‘We have witnesses to confirm that he was alone with Thomas in the hospital, and now with Symon in the prison. He therefore had the opportunity to commit those two crimes. And then there is his penchant for sharp implements. We almost arrested him yesterday. I wish to God we had – then Symon would still be alive. But Henry will be distressed to learn that all his goodness has failed to save the boy from himself.’
Bartholomew stared at him, and the scraps of information and disconnected facts that swirled around in his mind started to snap into place. ‘No!’ he exclaimed vigorously. ‘We are quite wrong. That is what we are supposed to think.’
‘Explain,’ ordered Michael impatiently. ‘We have suspected Julian from the start. Why is he not guilty all of a sudden?’
‘The killer is a clever man,’ said Bartholomew, his thoughts racing ahead of him. ‘Julian is cunning and inventive, but he does not possess a brilliant mind – not like our murderer.’
‘You think it is Alan, then?’ asked Michael. ‘People say he has one of the most brilliant minds the priory has ever known. And he, like Julian, had time alone in the infirmary when Thomas was killed. Also he has his own copy of every key in the monastery – prison, back gate and so on.’
‘Not Alan, either.’
Michael’s eyes gleamed as he mulled over the remaining possibilities. ‘There is one person left whom we have virtually ignored in our reckoning, but he also had the opportunity to kill all the victims. He is lowly and unimportant enough for us to have overlooked him completely.’
Bartholomew stared at him, thinking this description did not match his prime suspect at all. ‘Who do you have in mind?’
‘Welles,’ said Michael with satisfaction. ‘The boy with the masonry nail. You said yourself that it was a long, thin blade that killed those men – such as a nail used by builders and left lying around the cathedral. I have seen him with one several times – and he was present when that paring knife went missing, then reappeared. Everyone blamed Julian, but perhaps we were all wrong.’
‘I was not thinking about Welles. I was thinking of Henry.’
Michael gazed at him. ‘Henry? But he is a physician, dedicated to healing people.’
‘Physicians are as capable of murder as anyone else.’
‘Henry is a good man,’ objected Michael firmly. ‘I have told you this before. Think about the patience and understanding he has shown Julian. The man is a saint: if Henry was the killer, Julian would have been dead a long time ago. Henry is also an intensely moral man. This killer has no morals at all.’
‘He does,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘At least, morals as he sees them. He thinks he is doing good, and does not see himself as wicked or criminal. That is what makes him so dangerous. He is probably one of those people who thinks God is telling him what to do. They are the worst, because they cannot be made to see that they are wrong.’
‘Henry is not a fanatic,’ said Michael firmly. ‘He is just a physician dedicated to healing the sick. You should appreciate that, Matt. It is what you do.’
‘Clues have been staring us in the face all along, but we have ignored them,’ Bartholomew went on, increasingly convinced by his own argument. ‘First, we agreed when we inspected Glovere’s body that the killer had a certain knowledge of anatomy. Henry is a physician.’
‘That is not evidence,’ snapped Michael. ‘It is coincidence.’
‘Then consider the death of Guido. He was poisoned, probably with mercurial salts. At first Eulalia blamed me, because he drank the wine from my medicine bag, but then she thought the poison was smeared on the coins de Lisle gave him.’
‘We know Ralph did that,’ objected Michael. ‘And he has been executed for it.’
‘But, on reflection, I think Ralph did no such thing. He was not stupid. He knew that Guido would tell the rest of the clan what de Lisle wanted him to do, so killing him would be futile. And they planned to disappear anyway, so de Lisle had nothing to worry about. Eulalia was right the first time: the poison came from my wineskin.’
‘I do not understand,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘Are you now accusing yourself?’
‘I gave Henry my own wine to make Ynys a tonic. And yesterday he refilled the wineskin for me. He dosed it with poison, because I mentioned to him that you were in the habit of drinking it. It was not Guido he wanted to kill: it was you.’
