‘Where have you been?’ demanded Michael, hurrying to meet him as the physician walked through the Steeple Gate. It was still early, but the sun was up and its rays were already warm, presaging another scorching day. ‘Cynric and I have been looking for you everywhere.’
‘With the gypsies. Guido is dead, and he confessed to William’s murder. He said he did not kill the others, though, and I think he was telling the truth.’
‘He was,’ said Michael grimly. ‘Our killer has been busy again, and last night he claimed yet another victim.’
‘Who?’ asked Bartholomew nervously. ‘Where is Cynric?’
Michael gave a hollow smile. ‘You need not worry about him; he is more than capable of looking after himself. The killer took Symon this time.’
‘But he is locked in the Prior’s prison. Or, at least, he was.’
‘Keys and bolts do not deter our man. I am on my way there now, to ask Leycestre and his nephews whether they saw anything useful.’
‘Our list of suspects is becoming smaller all the time,’ observed Bartholomew, falling into step with him. ‘Symon was near the top, as far as I was concerned, but now we know the gypsies are innocent and so was he.’
‘Yes,’ said Michael harshly. ‘It is just a pity we know people are innocent only because they are dead, and not because we deduced it for ourselves. We must resolve this soon, Matt, or people will begin to say that I am waiting for everyone in Ely to die, and will only know the culprit when he is the last man left alive.’
Cynric came running to meet them when they reached the cathedral; he smiled in relief when he saw Bartholomew was safe. ‘Ralph is dead,’ he said conversationally. ‘De Lisle found him at dawn, and is said to be rather peeved about it. The rumour is that Ralph had a fatal seizure when told he had to mind Tysilia for the rest of the summer.’
As they walked towards the prison, which was located near the castle ruins, Bartholomew told them exactly what had happened the night before, including John’s role in the affair. Michael shook his head in disbelief, and said that the priest had been at prime that morning as usual, and had been more vocal in his prayers than ever. His congregation had been enormous, with people coming from every corner of his parish to direct sullen looks and rebellious muttering towards the monks who held their leader captive. Michael had tried to find him later, to ask whether he had seen Bartholomew, but the priest’s house was already empty and his few belongings gone. As soon as the mass was over – and he had ensured his congregation were suitably aggrieved by the priory’s arrest of Leycestre – he had apparently melted away into the Fens to bide his time until the uprising began – if it ever did.
When Bartholomew mentioned that de Lisle had commissioned the gypsies’ services to pretend to be Blanche and set the fire under his house, the monk gave a grin of amusement.
‘Ingenious, but flawed. It would certainly cast doubts on the validity of Blanche’s accusations, and make her appear a few wits short of sane. But great ladies simply do not wander around at night setting fire to houses. People will not believe what they “saw”.’
‘Barbour was sceptical immediately.’
‘I suppose it was worth a try, though,’ said Michael. ‘Poor de Lisle has had this charge hanging over his head for almost two weeks now, and it is crippling him financially. He cannot leave Ely until it is resolved, and his debts are such that he cannot afford to stay in one place for any length of time. He needs to visit people, so that they will feed his retinue and relieve him of the expense.’
‘It was still an underhand thing to do to Blanche.’
Michael shrugged. ‘But at least he did not murder anyone or steal.’
‘He had no need to steal,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘He now owns a sizeable share of the treasure he found in the fallen transept. And how do we know he did not murder? Guido would have something to say about that.’
‘No,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Eulalia said Ralph paid Guido, not de Lisle. She believed it enough to condone Goran killing the man. De Lisle cannot be held responsible for the actions of an over-zealous servant.’
The glorious day belied the uneasiness Bartholomew felt. There was not a cloud in the sky, which was a fathomless pale blue. The sun bathed the countryside in yellow light, making the strips of barley and wheat a more brilliant gold than ever. It lit the cathedral, too, and, as they walked towards the castle and looked back, tendrils of pale mist hugged the base of the cathedral and gave the impression that it was sitting atop a bronze cloud.
The Prior’s prison was an unpleasantly dank building inside the monastery walls. Made of thick, heavy stones from the demolished fortress, it comprised three small dark holes that passed as cells, linked by a narrow corridor. The ceilings were low and barrel vaulted, and the only light was from a tiny slit that was no wider than the length of a finger.
‘I hope your priory does not keep people here for long,’ said Bartholomew, watching Michael remove a key from his scrip to open the outer door.
‘They are holding cells for people awaiting trials. No one is here for more than a few days.’
‘There is no proper guard?’ asked Cynric disapprovingly, as they entered a narrow, damp corridor. Water dripped down the walls, which were coated with a layer of green-black slime, and the little points of lime that jutted from the roof attested to the fact that leaks were continual.
‘A lay-brother comes twice a day with food and water,’ replied Michael. ‘This is a secure place, and there is no need for constant vigilance.’
‘But there is,’ Cynric pointed out. ‘The killer came and murdered someone here.’
‘This has never happened before,’ said Michael irritably. ‘Prior Alan saw no need to do things any differently last night than he had done before. How could he – or anyone else – have predicted that the killer would strike in a prison?’
‘How many people have access to these keys?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking that the Prior’s security and care of his prisoners left a lot to be desired. What happened if one of the captives became ill or needed attention? He supposed that the needs of a prisoner, who was doubtless deemed guilty of the crime with which he was charged by virtue of being in the cells at all, were not a high priority to the monastery, just as they were not to most other law-enforcing bodies.
Cynric answered. He was observant when it came to that sort of thing. ‘The keys to the prison are on hooks in the chapter house – just like the keys to the back gate. Anyone inside the monastery is able to take them.’
‘Usually, it is not an issue, because most monks do not want to converse with criminals,’ said Michael defensively.
‘But last night was different,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘A monk was captive here. What was to stop Symon’s friends from coming to let him out?’
‘His personality,’ replied Michael tersely. ‘No one liked him enough to help him evade whatever punishment Alan decides is just. He should have been safe here.’
Three stout wooden doors with heavy iron bars denoted the three cells. Each door had a grille set into it, which allowed anyone in the corridor to watch the captives. Bartholomew recalled Cynric mentioning that he had placed Leycestre and his nephews in one cell and Symon in another, so that they would not harm each other in their fury at being caught. He opened the grille of the first cell, and peered through it to see a trio of bedraggled specimens huddled on the floor.
‘We made a mistake,’ Leycestre said in a low voice. ‘A night in this foul place has given me time to reconsider, and I realise now that we were wrong. The landlords are oppressing the people, and it is unjust that some folk eat themselves fat while others starve, but now I see that attempting to steal from the priory was not the best way to rectify matters.’