Susanna GREGORY - A Summer of Discontent

‘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.’