‘They cannot escape?’ confirmed Bartholomew.
‘The doors are locked with a key and bolted from the outside.’
‘Then you should deliver your treasure to Alan. I am sure he will be suitably grateful.’
Cynric and Meadowman walked away, leaving Bartholomew aimless and certainly not ready for bed. He saw the servants leave the Prior’s solar a short while later, and the glitter of a coin that Cynric was tossing in the air. Alan had evidently paid them well for their troubles. They headed for the Steeple Gate, then crossed the road towards the taverns.
Bartholomew was half tempted to join them, but did not feel like sitting in a humid inn drinking copious quantities of ale. He wanted to do something active that would dispel the restlessness that was dogging him. He left the priory through the Steeple Gate, and began to walk towards the marketplace without much thought as to where he was going. The night had brought cooler air, and the fierce heat of the day had eased. Had he not been unsettled by the business with the burglars, he might have enjoyed the stroll in the velvety darkness of night from the cathedral to the quayside, past houses where candles gleamed in the windows and delicious smells still emanated from the kitchens.
More people thronged the streets than he had expected so long past dusk on a Sunday, and there was an atmosphere of anticipation. Some people were running, while others were chattering in excitement. Bartholomew wondered whether the news had already spread that their main rabble rouser was in the Prior’s cells. He recognised the bulky form of Master Barbour of the Lamb, and went to talk to him.
‘I trust your stolen gold was returned safely to you,’ he said.
‘Most of it,’ said Barbour with a grimace. ‘The thieves had already spent about a quarter, but better most back than none. The Bishop shall have my prayers for finding it, even if he did do so at the expense of a gargoyle landing on his niece’s head.’
Bartholomew smiled, thinking that de Lisle had done well if he had taken that sort of percentage for himself. He nodded to the noisy streets. ‘What has happened to make people leave their homes so late?’
‘The Bishop’s house was set alight,’ said Barbour disapprovingly. ‘That was an evil deed.’
‘Was there any damage? Was anyone hurt?’
‘No,’ said Barbour. ‘The alarm was raised by the gypsy folk before the blaze took hold, and there is only a scorch mark to show for her efforts. As you can see, the excitement is over and most people have gone home now.’
‘Whose efforts?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Tysilia’s?’
‘There are some who say they saw Lady Blanche,’ said Barbour, puzzlement creasing his face. ‘But she does not seem like the kind of woman who would sneak around at night and set light to people’s homes.’
‘She thinks de Lisle did exactly that to her cottages at Colne,’ said Bartholomew.
‘But she does not think he did it himself,’ Barbour pointed out. ‘She thinks he arranged for someone else – Ralph, probably – to do it for him. Anyway, that is what people are saying. But I must be back to my tavern, or I shall miss the pleasure of discussing this with my regular customers. They will be all but ready for their beds by now. Few linger in taverns too late when there is the harvest to be gathered at daybreak.’
‘Except on Wednesdays, presumably,’ remarked Bartholomew, ‘when the men are paid. A good deal of late-night drinking takes place then.’
Barbour grinned. ‘Wednesdays are different.’
Bemused by the story about the fire, Bartholomew watched him hurry away. He knew Blanche harboured a strong dislike for the Bishop, but he still could not see her setting light to his house personally. It seemed altogether an odd story. He turned to be on his way, but one of the buckles on his shoe had worked loose, so he stepped to one side and knelt to adjust it.
Moments later, he looked up to see Guido approaching, walking briskly as though he had business to attend. He wore his yellow hat, despite the fact that the evening was warm and that it must be uncomfortably hot. Straightening quickly, Bartholomew intercepted him and wished him goodnight. Guido glared at him.
‘For some who never work, maybe,’ he said, shoving past the physician to continue walking down the hill towards the Quay. ‘Some of us are too busy to waste time looking at whether an evening is pretty.’
‘Why are you busy?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Do you plan to leave tonight after all?’
Guido rounded on him suddenly, seizing a handful of his shirt and almost lifting him off his feet. ‘Stay away from my sister!’
Releasing Bartholomew with such abruptness that the physician stumbled, the scowling gypsy king went on his way. Bartholomew watched him go thoughtfully. The brief encounter had told him all he had wanted to learn from the man: Guido’s hat was not as pristine as it had been. It was slightly muddy, and a peculiar bunching at one side indicated that a thread had been caught on something sharp and been pulled out. He wondered whether the local sheriff would consider it evidence enough to charge Guido with William’s murder.
Bartholomew felt a surge of disappointment with the gypsy clan. It was easy to blame crimes and mishaps on strangers. He did not like Guido, but he had hoped the man’s claims of innocence were genuine, and that he would not prove the bigoted accusations of narrow-minded townsfolk correct. The physician sighed, and wondered what to do. On the one hand, he wanted nothing more to do with the city’s turmoils, but on the other, he suspected that Guido would not be an easy man to apprehend once he had left Ely, despite Michael’s claims to the contrary. The monk would want to question Guido about William’s death now that there was the evidence of the gold thread to consider.
He stared after the gypsy, noting again that the man was not walking for the pleasure of exercise, but striding along purposefully. What had he meant when he said he was busy? Was he planning his departure that night, when he would disappear into the maze of ditches and dykes and islets with his people, never to be seen in the area again? After a few moments of hesitation, Bartholomew decided on a course of action: he would follow Guido to see where he went, and then he would drag Cynric from his revels if it appeared that the gypsy king intended to evade justice.
Taking a deep breath, not entirely convinced that he was doing the right thing, the physician followed Guido at a discreet distance, edging in and out of doorways to avoid being spotted – not that it was necessary, for Guido never once looked behind him.
He followed Guido to the Mermaid Inn on the Quay, then hesitated outside the door. Now what? He had done what he had set out to do, and knew Guido’s intended destination. But the speed of the man’s walk suggested that he had pressing business inside, and now Bartholomew decided he wanted to know what. He could hardly enter the inn and continue to observe Guido without being seen, and he did not want to linger outside waiting for him to come out – there were not many places to hide and he was sure his loitering would be noticed and reported to the occupants of the tavern.
Wiping sweat from his eyes with his sleeve, he ducked down a narrow passageway that led to the rear of the premises, uncertain of his plan, but determined to do something. He found himself in a small yard that had weeds growing between the cobbles and a generally derelict air about it, as though it was seldom used. In one corner was a large pile of sacks. Bartholomew had seen sacks like them once before: stacked inside the priory’s granary.
He glanced around him, looking for a window or a back door through which he might enter unobtrusively. He saw a small window, and peered through it. It led to a pantry. Like the yard, it appeared to enjoy little regular use, and was piled high with crates and barrels, but none of them looked as if they had been moved recently. Bartholomew pushed open the shutter and eased himself inside, swearing under his breath when a sharp rip told him that he had caught his last good shirt on a nail that protruded from the neglected latch.