Susanna GREGORY - A Summer of Discontent

Michael regarded Alan with questioning eyebrows.

‘William was the most senior monk when the last incumbent passed away,’ said Alan defensively. ‘He was not my choice as hosteller, either, but it was his right and I had to appoint him.’

‘He wants to be Prior when you die,’ said Michael bluntly. ‘He is ambitious.’

Bartholomew stifled a laugh. Michael had no small ambition himself.

‘I must be very wicked for God to give me men like William and Robert in my flock,’ sighed Alan. He glanced at Michael in a way that indicated he might as well add him to the list of undesirables, too.

‘Perhaps God does not like the designs of your buildings,’ suggested Michael rudely. ‘That octagon is a peculiar thing; I have never seen anything quite like it.’

‘That is the point,’ said Alan, offended. ‘It is unique.’

‘It is a masterpiece,’ said Bartholomew warmly. ‘You must have a remarkable understanding of the properties of force and thrust to invent such a fabulous–’

‘William is devious,’ interrupted Michael, still agitated by his exchange with the hosteller. ‘And Robert is a snivelling liar, who is mean with the alms intended for the poor.’

‘They are not popular,’ agreed Alan, reluctantly giving his attention to Michael. It was clear he would rather discuss his octagon. Bartholomew did not blame him. ‘The other monks do not like them much.’

‘Your sub-prior, Thomas de Stokton, is hardly destined for a place in heaven, either,’ remarked Michael, raising his bulk from the chair and strolling to the window, where there was a bowl of nuts. He took a handful and slapped them into his mouth. ‘He is a selfish glutton, who would benefit from a few weeks away from the dining table.’

Bartholomew glanced at Michael, whose own girth was by no means modest. He imagined the sub-prior must be of almighty proportions indeed to attract that kind of criticism from the monk.

‘We finished painting the octagon last week,’ said Alan, smiling hopefully at Bartholomew and eager to talk about his life’s work to an appreciative listener. ‘What do you think of it?’

‘Very fine,’ said Michael flatly, although Bartholomew knew he had not yet been inside the cathedral to see it. The monk rifled carefully through the Prior’s bowl, selecting the best nuts with a concentration and attention to detail he would never lavish on any aspect of architecture.

Alan ignored him, and turned to Bartholomew. ‘Do you know the story of the octagon? The original cathedral tower was too heavy for its foundations, and it collapsed in 1322. Something lighter and smaller was required, but it had to be a design that was both impressive and elegant. The octagon was my solution.’

‘What will you do now it is finished?’ asked Michael, jaws working vigorously as he rooted in the bowl. ‘Will you shore up the foundations on the unstable north-west transept? I saw the scaffolding around that when we arrived. It looks as though it is ready to tumble down at any moment.’

‘But it is not,’ said Alan. ‘It is more stable than it appears, although I do not mind people believing it is about to collapse.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, failing to see the advantage in making people think their cathedral was about to fall around their ears.

Alan was wistful. ‘Because then they might ask me to rebuild it. But as things stand, I am now obliged to devote my energy and resources to completing the parish church. Have you seen it? It is that uninteresting half-built lean-to structure against the north wall of the cathedral. The parishioners have been demanding that we finish it soon, so that they have a place of their own, and no longer have to use the cathedral. They do not like saying their prayers in the nave while we are in the chancel.’

There was a perfunctory knock on the door and William entered, followed by a servant who carried a heavy pewter jug and three goblets on a tray. The jug was filled to the brim with frothing ale, and the sweet, rich scent of it had Michael leaning forward in eager anticipation, nuts forgotten. William poured it, then infuriated Michael by deliberately presenting him with the cup that was only half full. Smiling maliciously, the hosteller gave Alan a brief nod and left again, closing the door behind him.

‘Bona cervisia,’ said Michael, taking a deep draught of the ale and sighing in appreciation, foam clinging to his upper lip. ‘A drink fit for the angels.’

‘Only ones with very strong stomachs,’ said Bartholomew, wincing at the power of the brew in his cup. ‘I could render patients insensible for amputations with a goblet of this.’

‘It is wasted on you,’ said Michael critically. ‘You are too used to the watery muck served at Michaelhouse to be able to savour a fine brew like this.’

‘I cannot help but worry about what de Lisle has asked you to do,’ said Alan, taking his own cup and walking to the window, where he stood looking in dismay at his depleted nut bowl. ‘I am sure it will not end well.’ He turned to fix Bartholomew with his intense blue eyes. ‘Can you not persuade Michael to return to Cambridge, Doctor? You can say he has marsh fever. There is a lot of that about at this time of year, and the Bishop would never suspect that Michael had removed himself for his own safety.’

‘We could do that,’ acknowledged Michael, draining his cup and refilling it – this time to the brim. ‘But de Lisle is not the only one with a cunning mind. I have a little cleverness myself.’

‘You do,’ agreed Alan. ‘And your success in solving the most perplexing of crimes is known in Ely, as well as in Cambridge. But that worries me, too. De Lisle knows you are clever and he knows you are likely to uncover the truth.’

‘So?’ asked Michael, draining his cup a second time. ‘I do not understand your point.’

‘I mean that if de Lisle knows you are likely to reveal him as a murderer – if he is guilty – then why did he send for you? Why not appoint a lesser investigator instead – one of his own creatures?’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Because he is innocent, and he wants me to prove it?’

Alan remained uneasy. ‘Perhaps. But the murder of this servant is not the only thing that has happened to the Bishop recently. There was a burglary, too.’

‘He was a victim,’ Michael pointed out. ‘No one has suggested he is the thief!’

Alan inclined his head in acknowledgement, although the anxious expression did not fade from his eyes. He was about to continue, when there was another knock, and William entered a third time.

‘I thought you should know, Father Prior, that a messenger has just arrived. He informs me that Lady Blanche is a short distance from Ely, and will be here within the hour. She says she wants to ensure that the murder of her steward is investigated in a proper and thorough manner.’ He shot Michael an unpleasant glance, as though he thought the matter well beyond Michael’s capabilities.

‘Damn it all!’ muttered Michael. ‘This case will be difficult enough to solve without the likes of that woman demanding to know my every move and trying to pervert the course of justice.’

While Alan de Walsingham and William hastened to make ready for the great lady’s arrival, Bartholomew and Michael were left to their own devices. The physician wanted to go to the library, to begin his reading, but it seemed that the Prior and hosteller were not the only ones engaged in the preparations for Lady Blanche: Brother Symon, who was in charge of the books, was also unavailable, and sent a message to Bartholomew informing him that he would have to wait until the following day.

‘But I only need him to unlock the door,’ Bartholomew objected to the messenger, a cheerful novice with freckles, whom Michael introduced as John de Bukton. ‘I do not require him to fetch books or carry them to a table. I can do that myself.’