Bartholomew 08 - A Summer of Discontent Read online

  ‘Michael! At last!’ exclaimed de Lisle, extending one beringed hand to be kissed. He gave Bartholomew a cool nod of recognition, then his attention returned to Michael. ‘Where have you been? I expected you yesterday.’

  ‘I was detained by pressing business in Cambridge,’ Michael replied vaguely, giving the proffered ring the most perfunctory of kisses, and indicating that while he might be the Bishop’s spy, he was a cut above the sycophantic ranks that clustered around him. Michael was an ambitious man, and it was promises of future promotion and power that induced him to remain in the Bishop’s service, not financial necessity.

  ‘I needed you here,’ said de Lisle sharply. ‘And when I want my people, I expect them to come to me at once.’

  ‘Well, I am here now,’ replied Michael, a little tartly. ‘How can I be of service?’

  De Lisle took a deep breath and when he spoke his words came out in a rush. ‘I have been accused of the most heinous of crimes!’

  ‘So I have heard,’ said Michael expressionlessly.

  De Lisle nodded a dismissal to the servants who crowded around him. Reluctantly, they moved away until only one man was left: Ralph, the steward, who looked rough and unkempt with his lousy hair and unshaven face. It was said that Ralph would do almost anything for his Bishop, and certainly anything for money. He sported a mouth full of black, broken teeth, and even cast-off clothes from a fashionable dresser like de Lisle failed to render him more attractive.

  Bartholomew edged away with the others, having no desire to hear any secrets de Lisle might want to divulge to Michael. He was surprised, and not terribly pleased, to feel Michael’s restraining hand on his sleeve. He fought against it, but the monk’s grip intensified, and Bartholomew saw he would have to stay unless he wanted to tear his shirt. De Lisle hesitated before beginning his story, glancing uneasily at the physician.

  ‘Do not worry about Matt,’ said Michael. ‘He is as good a man as you will ever hope to meet, and has been my right hand in many a nasty case.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ muttered Bartholomew in dismay. ‘I came here to read, not to become embroiled in one of your investigations.’

  ‘Of course, none of these stories about me are true,’ said de Lisle, ignoring him. ‘They are lies, put about by my enemies to discredit me.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Michael smoothly. ‘What stories are being told and by whom?’

  ‘Do you know Lady Blanche de Wake?’ asked de Lisle. ‘She is the widow of the Earl of Lancaster and a close relative of the King. Her estates border mine, and she is constantly trying to steal a field here and a sheep there.’

  ‘Typical of the Lancasters,’ announced Michael. ‘They are a greedy, grasping brood. But how does she relate to this charge of murder?’

  ‘She has accused me of burning her tenants’ houses,’ said de Lisle indignantly. ‘At Colne.’

  ‘And did you?’ asked Michael casually.

  Bartholomew glanced uncertainly at his friend, anticipating that de Lisle would not take kindly to such blunt questioning. But the Bishop apparently realised that he needed Michael’s good graces, and he bit back what had doubtless been a crisp response.

  ‘Yes and no,’ he said, exchanging a guilty glance with his steward. ‘Ralph and I had a slight misunderstanding one evening. He took something I said literally, when I was speaking figuratively.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Michael flatly. ‘One of those misunderstandings.’

  ‘But she has no evidence to prove I did it, and Ralph was very careful,’ de Lisle continued. ‘The case came to the courts, and the King ordered me to pay a fine of ninety shillings. He listened with great care to his kinswoman, but refused to hear my side of the story at all.’

  ‘He would,’ said Michael sympathetically. ‘He is well known for showing partiality to his favourites. Did you pay the money?’

  ‘I did, even though I can scarce afford such a monstrous fine, but worse was to come. About ten days ago, Lady Blanche’s steward died here, in Ely, and she has accused me of killing him!’

  Michael gazed at his Bishop, and Bartholomew held his breath, half expecting the monk to demand to know whether de Lisle had added murder to the crime of arson. But Michael merely regarded the prelate with sombre green eyes, rubbing the bristles on his chin as he did so.

  ‘And the Bishop had nothing to do with the death, before you ask,’ put in Ralph nastily, apparently believing that Michael hesitated only because he was searching for the right words to phrase the question. ‘In fact, there is no evidence that Glovere met his end by violence at all. It is obvious to me that he was in his cups and he fell in the river.’

  ‘He drowned, then?’ asked Michael. ‘Did anyone see him drunk or walking near the water?’

  ‘That is what I want you to find out,’ said de Lisle. ‘And then, at dawn yesterday, another man was found dead, floating near the hythes in the same river.’

  ‘Haywarde,’ muttered Bartholomew, recalling what the malcontent Leycestre had told them. ‘A suicide.’

  ‘Quite. But it is only a matter of time before that vile-minded rabble in the city claim that my Bishop killed him, too,’ said Ralph indignantly. ‘That is why he sent word for you to come yesterday.’ His stress indicated that he strongly disapproved of Michael’s tardiness.

  ‘Your task is to exonerate me from these malicious and wholly untrue charges,’ said de Lisle to Michael. ‘You must begin immediately; there is not a moment to lose.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Michael. ‘But is there anything else I should know about this case? Have you and Blanche’s steward argued in public at any time? Did any of your household issue threats against the man?’

  ‘Glovere was a vile specimen of humanity,’ said de Lisle with distaste. ‘I have never known such a misery. All he did was complain; he was even unpopular among Blanche’s retinue.’

  ‘That is true,’ agreed Ralph. ‘He was hated intensely by anyone who knew him. Blanche loathed him, too, and she is only showing concern for him because he is dead.’

  ‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘But neither of you has answered my question. Was Glovere the subject of threats from the Bishop’s household?’

  ‘I doubt we were any more hostile to him than the unfortunates in Blanche’s employ who were obliged to work closely with the fellow,’ said de Lisle ambiguously.

  ‘So, you did threaten him,’ surmised Michael thoughtfully. ‘That could prove awkward. What did you say, exactly?’

  De Lisle gave a sigh. ‘It all happened two weeks ago – four days before his death. I happened to meet Blanche, here in the priory – she stays here when she visits her Ely estates, because it is more comfortable than the shabby manor house Glovere maintained for her. Naturally, I told her that I was disappointed with the King’s verdict over the burning of her tenants’ houses, and we started to argue.’

  ‘Glovere took part in the disagreement, even though it was none of his affair,’ elaborated Ralph. ‘He became abusive, and claimed that my Lord Bishop was the kind of man to father children and then abandon the mothers.’

  ‘Really,’ said Michael flatly. He kept his voice neutral, as though he did not know for a fact that the Bishop had indeed fathered children, and that Michael and Bartholomew had encountered one of them fairly recently.

  ‘I wonder what gave him that impression.’

  ‘The monks were appalled, both by the foulness of Glovere’s language and by his unfounded accusations,’ continued Ralph hotly, outraged on de Lisle’s behalf. ‘The only way my Bishop could shut him up was to threaten him with dire consequences if he did not.’

  ‘So, the entire priory heard you promising him harm,’ mused Michael, regarding the prelate gloomily. ‘This is not looking good at all.’

  ‘Even the most dim-witted Benedictine must have seen that the threat was made purely to silence him,’ said de Lisle testily. ‘No sane person could imagine it was issued in earnest.’

  ‘It is not the dim-witted and the sane I am worried about,’ s
aid Michael. ‘It is the sharp-witted and the insane, who may well use this nasty little incident against you. Not all the monks here like you, and one may well have capitalised on the enmity between you and Blanche to have you accused of this crime.’

  ‘If it is a crime,’ suggested Bartholomew tentatively. ‘Ralph said that Glovere had simply fallen in the river. If that is true, then any threats to kill him are irrelevant.’

  ‘True,’ agreed de Lisle approvingly. ‘If Michael can prove that the man died in his cups, then there is no way Blanche or anyone else can substantiate this charge of murder.’

  ‘What about the man who died yesterday?’ asked Michael. ‘Did you quarrel with him, too?’

  ‘I had never heard of him before he was carried dripping to St Mary’s Church,’ said de Lisle. ‘I do not even recall his name. I have no idea what is happening here, but I do not like it at all.’

  ‘Will Haywarde,’ said Ralph. ‘He was a suicide, but you know how people let their imaginations run away with them. Mark my words, it will not be long before one of these silly monks puts two with two to get six.’

  ‘What about the theft from your house ten days ago?’ asked Michael of de Lisle. ‘Do you have any idea what happened there?’

  De Lisle did not seem particularly interested. ‘The rumour is that the gypsies did that – the burglaries started in the city the day after they arrived, you see.’

  ‘If everyone is so convinced of their guilt, then why are they tolerated here?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘Why are they not driven away?’

  ‘Because we need them for the harvest,’ explained de Lisle. ‘They undertake the heaviest and least popular work, and it is in no one’s interests to send them away now. People will just have to lock their windows and doors, and be a little more careful until they have gone.’

  ‘What was stolen from you, exactly?’ pressed Michael. ‘Were any documents missing?’

  De Lisle smiled wanly at him. ‘I know what you are thinking: the burglary was political, rather than a case of random theft. But, fortunately for me, you are wrong. I had a number of sensitive documents on my desk, but these were ignored. I lost a silver plate and a ring – things that an opportunistic burglar would snatch because they are saleable and easy to carry.’

  Michael rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he considered the information.

  ‘You will prove me innocent of any involvement in these unfortunate deaths,’ instructed de Lisle when the monk did not reply. ‘And do it quickly. I cannot leave Ely until this is settled and I have business elsewhere that needs attending.’

  Michael nodded. ‘Very well. I—’ But he was speaking to thin air. The Bishop had swung around and was stalking across the courtyard towards the cathedral, with his sycophants strewn out behind him as they hurried to catch up.

  ‘And this is the man to whom you have tied your ambitions?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘He does not seem to be the kind of person who would remember favours done. In fact, I imagine he would expect loyalty, but then slit your throat when you have outlived your usefulness to him.’

  ‘You have not seen him in his best light,’ said Michael defensively. ‘He is a good man at heart. He was one of few bishops in the country who visited the sick during the Death, and he does pen a remarkable sermon.’

  ‘It occurs to me that he might be qualified to give one on his personal experience of murder,’ said Bartholomew nervously. ‘I hope you know that he may not be innocent of this crime, Brother. He denies it, but so do most killers, and I do not see him offering any good reasons as to why he could not have killed this Glovere.’

  ‘That is what I must find out,’ said Michael, turning to steer Bartholomew towards the Prior’s house. ‘I do not imagine it will take me long. I shall inspect the corpses of these drowned men this afternoon, assuming they are still above ground, and will lay the matter to rest once and for all.’

  ‘I suppose you want me to go with you,’ said Bartholomew heavily. ‘To see what clues might be found on the bodies.’

  ‘No,’ said Michael, opening the door that led to the Prior’s private garden and pushing his friend inside. ‘I want to introduce you to Prior Alan, and then I want you to spend your few days here reading about fevers. That is why you came, after all.’

  Bartholomew gazed at him in astonishment. ‘You do not need the help of a medical man?’

  Michael shook his head. ‘I have watched you often enough to manage perfectly well alone.’

  Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘I am coming with you.’

  The monk gave a humourless smile. ‘Thank you, Matt. I only wish you were as forthcoming in all the murders I am obliged to investigate. But this is a simple matter, and I do not need you.’

  ‘You do not want me involved,’ said Bartholomew, trying to read what the monk was thinking. ‘You are as suspicious of de Lisle’s protestations of innocence as I am, and you think you will protect me by not allowing me to help.’

  ‘Nonsense, Matt,’ said Michael brusquely. ‘You travelled to Ely to indulge yourself in your unhealthy fascination with diseases, not to traipse around the city’s inns to learn how much these dead men had to drink before they stumbled into the river. You do your work and I shall do mine.’

  ‘I am coming with you,’ repeated Bartholomew, this time with determination. ‘You might need a good friend.’

  Michael’s smile became gentle. ‘You were right the first time, Matt; I do not want you involved in this. It may lead to places you would not like, and it is better that I investigate alone.’

  ‘It is better that you investigate with me,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘I am not afraid of de Lisle. The worst that could happen is that I lose his favour and he tries to make my life uncomfortable at Michaelhouse.’

  ‘No, Matt,’ said Michael softly. ‘Discrediting you is not the worst he could do at all.’

  Chapter 2

  THE PRIOR OF THE BENEDICTINE MONASTERY AT ELY WAS an important man, and his living quarters reflected that fact. Set aside for his personal use was a handsome house with its own chapel and kitchen, while at right angles to it was the Prior’s Great Hall, a sumptuous building with a lofty-ceilinged room that was almost as large as the one that served the entire community. The house itself was roofed with baked red tiles imported from the north country, and its plaster walls were neat and clean. Real glass in the windows allowed the light to filter into the rooms where the great man worked, slept and ate, although these were thrown open so that a cooling breeze whispered through the documents on the tables and billowed among the gorgeous hangings on the walls.

  Originally, Ely had been an abbey, with an abbot to rule and a prior as his second-in-command. But when the post of Bishop of Ely had been created by Henry I, the position of abbot had been abolished – an abbot and a bishop in the same diocese would have been impractical. The Bishop then ran the diocese, while the Prior controlled the monastery. Without an abbot, Ely became a ‘cathedral-priory’, with the all-important ‘cathedral’ denoting the fact that although the foundation boasted no abbot, it was a cut above the average priory.

  Prior Alan de Walsingham was sitting in his solar, a light and airy room that afforded a pleasant view over his private gardens. The sweet scent of ripening apples and newly mown grass drifted through the windows, along with the sounds of the priory – the chanting of a psalm in the chapter house, the distant voices of lay-brothers hoeing the vineyards, the clatter of pots from the kitchens and the coos of birds roosting in the dovecote.

  Bartholomew had seen Alan officiating at masses when he had visited Ely on previous occasions, but he had never met him in person. From afar, Alan had given an impression of frailty, and his voice had barely been audible in the massive vaults of the cathedral. But as he glanced up from his work, Bartholomew could see that Alan was not frail at all. He was a slight man in his mid-fifties with a head of thick, grey hair and the kind of wiry strength that came from clambering over scaffolding and supervising the b
uilding work for which he was famous. He was generally regarded as one of the most talented architects in the country, and had personally overseen the raising of the cathedral’s new tower and the splendid Lady Chapel. It was not easy keeping a band of masons and their apprentices in order, and that Alan had done so over a period spanning more than thirty years said a good deal about the strength of his character, as well as his body.

  ‘Ah, Michael,’ said Alan, presenting his ring for Michael to kiss. ‘I imagine you are here because Thomas de Lisle has landed himself in trouble again?’

  ‘He says Lady Blanche de Wake is responsible for these accusations,’ replied Michael, making another perfunctory obeisance. He was never keen on acts of subservience, even to the Prior of his own monastery. ‘He assures me that he is innocent, and has ordered me to prove it.’

  Alan regarded Michael worriedly. ‘I sincerely hope you did not accept such a commission. You have a reputation for tenacity, and if you explore this matter too closely, you will almost certainly discover that de Lisle did have a hand in this steward’s death.’

  ‘You believe the Bishop is guilty of murder?’ blurted Bartholomew, alarmed that even the Prior should consider the accusations a matter of fact. Michael dug him in the ribs with an elbow, but it was too late. The Prior had already fixed Bartholomew with keen blue eyes.

  ‘I know harsh words were exchanged between Glovere and de Lisle, and I know that de Lisle is not a man to allow such insults to pass unpunished. If de Lisle decided that the world would be a better place without Glovere in it, then it is not inconceivable that Glovere’s days would have been numbered.’ Alan’s expression was sombre.