Susanna GREGORY - A Summer of Discontent

‘And plenty of time for Henry to return to the library, so that he could clatter noisily down the stairs and pretend to be horrified when Symon came with the news of Robert’s death. Henry is a fit man – caring for his patients sees to that – but he could not keep up with Alan and me when we ran to the Quay; he lagged behind with you. That was because he was tired from having made the journey once already.’

‘But if Henry is the killer, it means that he is the man with whom we struggled in the Bone House,’ said Michael, as if he thought such a fact exonerated the priory’s physician. ‘Why would he tinker with pots of blood and buckets of soil in the depths of the night?’

Bartholomew sighed as the answer to that became clear, too. ‘Because Alan has put Henry under considerable pressure to find a remedy for Northburgh’s wrinkled skin. Every physician knows that no known herb or plant will work such a miracle, and so Henry was experimenting with other ingredients – blood – which is the essence of life; and earth – the substance from which all life springs.’

‘But why the Bone House, when he has a perfectly good workshop for that kind of thing?’

‘He would not bring pig’s legs and buckets of blood into the infirmary, where their presence might distress his beloved old men. He would also not risk dabbling with those kinds of ingredients publicly, because all physicians are cautious of encouraging accusations of witchcraft. So, he chose a place where he thought he would not be disturbed.’

‘It was unfortunate we happened to intrude, then,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘Most monks are in bed at midnight, not wandering the grounds near the Bone House, but I could not sleep and felt the need for a stroll.’

‘By his own admission Henry was up and about that night, too,’ said Bartholomew, as he recalled fragments of conversations with the infirmarian. ‘He told me he was in the cathedral, praying for Thomas, and that he saw the gypsies there. They were meeting de Lisle and Ralph, who were to give them the final details regarding this silly business with the house burning. And then there is the fact that Henry also has a bad back. I have seen him rubbing it at least twice.’

‘Half the town seems to be doing that,’ Michael pointed out.

‘Henry knew we would be looking for someone with an aching back after our encounter in the Bone House. That was why he raised the subject when I saw him the next day. By telling me that de Lisle and Symon had complained of similar problems, he was able to deflect suspicion from himself. And then there is William.’

‘Guido killed William,’ said Michael immediately. ‘You heard him confess, remember? You cannot blame that on poor Henry.’

‘But Guido said two things that should have made me realise Henry’s role in this. First, William said to Guido that he had told a friend he was going to fetch another investigator; and second, Guido said William had some kind of stomach cramps.’

‘I do not see how either of those incriminates Henry.’

‘I think William told Henry that he was going to fetch another investigator. As we have said on numerous occasions, people like Henry and trust him. William may well have turned to the gentle infirmarian, to tell him what he intended to do. And then Henry poisoned him, which accounted for the cramps Guido noticed. Guido may well have knocked William over the head, but William was a dead man anyway.’

‘You are quite wrong, Matt. Henry is the best monk in the priory, and he is also a dear friend. However, I have known you long enough to be aware that unless we prove Henry’s innocence to your satisfaction, you will take matters into your own hands and set about investigating on your own. I do not want you to do that – not in my priory. So, we will go together and settle this matter once and for all.’ He stood and put both hands to his back as he stretched. He realised what he was doing and gave Bartholomew a rueful smile. ‘Now even I am doing it!’

They made their way up the hill in silence, thinking about what they were about to do. Bartholomew dragged his heels, as though by walking more slowly he could avoid a confrontation that he knew would be distressing. Michael was less reticent, since he was certain there was no truth in the allegations anyway. Even so, the prospect of asking his mentor to prove his innocence was not a pleasant one.

They reached the infirmary and gazed up at its carved windows and creamy yellow stones, bright in the sun. It was silent, and, for the first time, Bartholomew felt its peace was more sinister than serene. They entered through the Dark Cloister and walked along the rows of beds in the hall. Julian lay on one, fast asleep, while old Roger sat bolt upright in another, his hands clasped in prayer. The other old men slumbered, some quietly, others fitfully.

‘You have no proof of anything,’ said Roger. ‘You will not convict him.’

‘Why do you say that?’ asked Bartholomew. Roger had guessed exactly why they were there. ‘And what do you know about it?’

‘Enough,’ said Roger. ‘I can see what has been happening, and I have ears.’

‘Not ones that work, though,’ muttered Michael.

Roger turned bright eyes on him. ‘My hearing is not as dull as I would have you believe. It just suits an old man’s pleasure to feign deafness. And it has served me well; I have been able to help Henry a good deal in his dispensing of justice.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew nervously. His jaw dropped. ‘You mean you have been eavesdropping on secret conversations and passing information to Henry? Everyone believes you are deaf, and so no one minds what they say when you are near?’

Michael sat heavily on a bench, and Bartholomew saw the colour drain from his face. He had expected Henry to provide alternative interpretations of the evidence Bartholomew had presented, which would lead them to pursue other suspects. The fact that Roger admitted to helping Henry was a bitter blow.

Roger smiled, although it was not a pleasant expression. ‘The young are always dismissive of the old. But we are wiser than you, and more clever. You might never have resolved this case, if it were not for Henry’s imprudent use of that poison.’

‘What poison?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘The one that killed William, or the one intended for Michael.’

‘The latter. I told Henry that using such a method to dispense with Michael was unwise, when stabbing had worked so well on the others.’

‘Why would he want to harm me?’ asked Michael, hurt. ‘I have done nothing to him.’

‘But your investigation was leading you ever closer,’ explained Roger patiently. ‘I told him he had to stop you before you learned too much. He was only spreading a little goodness in the world; I do not see why he should be punished for that.’

‘Murdering people is not spreading good,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

Roger rounded on him. ‘Who says? Visit Mistress Haywarde, and tell me that her husband’s death was not a good thing for her and her family. Speak to the novices, and ask them whether they preferred life with or without Thomas and Robert.’

Bartholomew walked across to Julian, and rested his hand on the young man’s cooling forehead. His face was peaceful, as though he had experienced in death what he had never known in life, and the wound in his neck had bled little, which suggested a quick end.

‘I absolved him before Henry killed him,’ said Roger with satisfaction. ‘He repented his sins, and so perhaps will not spend as long in Purgatory as he might otherwise have done.’

‘But Julian was young,’ protested Bartholomew, covering the assistant’s face with a blanket. He glanced quickly around at the other patients, but Henry loved them and clearly intended them no harm. ‘He might have changed.’