Susanna GREGORY - A Summer of Discontent

‘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.’

‘Me?’ asked Michael, startled and rather offended. ‘What have I done wrong? I am not unpleasant and disliked by everyone.’

‘But you are on his trail and likely to expose him as a murderer. And you are a large man who is used to sudden ambushes. Henry is quick and strong, but he could not hope to kill you in the way he has dispatched the others. He would never be able to wrest you to the ground and kneel on your head while he cut the back of your neck.’

‘But what about you?’ asked Michael, unconvinced. ‘If he killed me, then you would take up the investigation in my stead.’

‘Henry knows he can kill me in the same way as he has killed the others. He almost succeeded in the Bone House, remember? However, that did not stop him from considering alternative methods, too.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael uneasily.

‘He gave me his hemp tonic and watched its effects very carefully. It was at the same time that he refilled my wineskin. When I turned from putting it in my bag, he was holding a knife – to chop garlic.’

‘So? That sounds innocent enough to me.’

‘No physician ever chops garlic for remedies: we crush it with a pestle. I think he was seriously considering whether to kill me then, when I was sluggish from the hemp.’

‘And he offered you more hemp later,’ mused Michael. ‘I declined it on your behalf.’

‘He has also been dosing Northburgh and Stretton,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘Hemp produces a feeling of well-being, so Henry provided them with as much as they wanted, so that they would not bother to investigate the murders he committed. He claimed Northburgh was already addicted to hemp, but Northburgh did not seem affected by it when he first arrived in Ely.’

‘Then why did Henry not give me hemp, too?’ asked Michael, raising his eyebrows in rank scepticism. ‘I was also investigating.’

‘Because he knew I would have noticed any hemp-induced changes in your behaviour and would have looked into it. He might have managed to slip you a dose or two, but not enough to achieve the desired result.’