‘I imagine the Black Prince encouraged Blanche to appoint Stretton.’ Michael smiled complacently. ‘But she will soon learn not to take advice from relatives, no matter how well meaning. Stretton will present me with no problems.’
‘This investigation promises to be a farce,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘The principal for the Church is an aged malingerer; the principal for Blanche is a man who cannot read; and the principal for the Bishop is you, who has been charged to “find de Lisle innocent”. I can already see the way this will end.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Michael comfortably. ‘Matters are looking up. But now that Blanche’s accusation is official, we have work to do. Come with me to the taverns, and we will see what more we can learn about Glovere that may help to exonerate my Bishop from the charge of murder.’
Traipsing around every tavern in Ely that evening was not Bartholomew’s idea of fun, although Michael seemed to enjoy it. Scholars were not permitted to enter inns in Cambridge: such places were obvious breeding grounds for fights between students and townsfolk, so any drinking in the town needed to be conducted with a degree of discretion. No such restrictions applied in Ely, however, and Bartholomew and Michael could wander openly into any establishment they chose.
Ely’s taverns varied enormously. Some were large and prosperous, like the Lamb and the Bell, while others were little more than a bench outside a hovel where the occupants brewed and sold their own beer. Some of it was surprisingly good, although Bartholomew found that the more he drank, the less discriminating he tended to be.
As evening turned to night, they finished with the respectable inns on the Heyrow and reached the less respectable ones near the quay. While the Heyrow taverns were full of visiting merchants and the occasional cleric, the waterfront hostelries were frequented by townsfolk and the beer was generally cheaper.
Michael’s Benedictine habit caused one or two raised eyebrows, but most people accepted the fact that monks had a talent for sniffing out the most inexpensive brews and so their presence at the riverside taverns was not uncommon. Michael eased himself into conversations, pretending to be a bumbling brother from one of the priory’s distant outposts, and earning confidences by making the odd disparaging remark about the wealth of the Benedictines. The ploy worked, and he soon had people talking to him about Glovere, Blanche, de Lisle and Alan.
It seemed that none was especially popular in Ely. The Prior was disliked because he was a landlord; Blanche was arrogant and unsympathetic to the plight of the poor; de Lisle was criticised for his love of good clothes and expensive wines; while Glovere was deemed a malicious gossip. The gypsies, who had been in Ely for almost two weeks, were also the object of suspicion, although Bartholomew did not think this was based on more than a natural wariness of outsiders. He sympathised with the travellers: once on his travels he and his Arab master had been on the receiving end of some unfounded accusations, because it was easier to blame misfortune on passing strangers than to believe ill of friends. He and Ibn Ibrahim had barely escaped with their lives, despite the fact that they had had nothing to do with strangling the local priest’s lapdog.
When Bartholomew and Michael entered an especially insalubrious tavern named the Mermaid, they found the patrons sitting at their tables listening to a rabid diatribe delivered by the disenfranchised farmer Richard de Leycestre. Leycestre stood on a bench, waving a jug of slopping ale, his face sweaty and red from the drink and his passion.
‘Anyone who cannot see that there is a connection between the gypsies and the burglaries is blind,’ he raved. ‘The thefts started the day after that crowd of criminals arrived. That is all the evidence I need.’
‘I am sure it is,’ muttered Bartholomew, regarding the man with disapproval as he waved to a pot-boy to bring them ale.
Michael nudged him hard. ‘Watch what you say, Matt. Rightly or wrongly, these travellers are not popular, and it is not wise to be heard speaking in their defence.’
‘Why not?’ demanded Bartholomew, rather loudly. One or two people turned to look at him. ‘Are you saying that no one should speak up for what he believes, for what is right?’
‘Yes. There is no need to court problems. We have more than enough of those at the moment without you going out on a limb to protect the reputation of people you do not know.’
Michael turned to the man who stood next to him, and began a conversation about Glovere and the woman who had killed herself. The man only reiterated what they already knew – that young Alice had committed suicide when Glovere’s tales had caused her betrothed to marry someone else. Alice had been pretty, sweet-tempered and likeable, and it seemed that Glovere was generally regarded as the Devil incarnate.
Bartholomew took a deep draught of the rich ale. It was stronger than anything available in Cambridge, and he felt his head swimming. He had been tired and thirsty, and had drunk too much too quickly when he and Michael had started their round of the taverns. He was well on the way to becoming intoxicated. Someone bumped into him, and a good part of the jug spilled down the front of his tabard. The culprit regarded the mess in horror, and then released a chain of impressive oaths.
‘I am sorry,’ she mumbled eventually, seeing that Bartholomew was regarding her warily. ‘Nothing has gone right today, and now I drown a scholar in his own ale. Allow me to buy you more – although I can ill afford it. Haywarde’s suicide will cost me a pretty penny.’
‘I do not need any more ale,’ said Bartholomew, trying to make sense of her seemingly random statements. ‘Haywarde?’
‘My sister’s husband,’ explained the woman. ‘Damn the man for his selfishness!’
‘Selfishness for committing suicide?’ asked Bartholomew, bewildered by the conversation’s peculiar twists and turns. The ale slopping around inside him did not help.
The woman gave a tired grin. She was a large lady, who wore a set of skirts around her middle that contained enough material to clothe half the town. Her face was sunburned and homely, and she possessed a set of large, evenly spaced beige teeth. She was as tall as any of the men in the tavern, and a good deal wider than most, and Bartholomew supposed it was this that allowed her to thrust her way into a domain usually frequented by males.
‘Forgive me. You are a stranger, and so cannot know what is happening in our town. My name is Agnes Fitzpayne, and my sister had the misfortune to be married to that good-for-nothing lout Haywarde, may God rot his poxy soul! His death will cost me a fortune.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, who did not.
‘It is not as if I even liked him,’ continued Agnes bitterly. ‘He was a bully, and my sister and their children are glad to see him gone.’
‘I heard a man had killed himself yesterday,’ said Bartholomew, trying to clear his wits. ‘Leycestre said it was because it is difficult for folk to feed their families these days. If that is why Haywarde died, then his suicide will not help them either.’
‘If Haywarde committed suicide, then it was not for selfless reasons,’ said Agnes harshly. ‘He was far too fond of himself to think of others. Leycestre wants to see everything in terms of the struggle between rich and poor. But then perhaps he was thinking of Chaloner. He committed suicide, too.’
‘Chaloner? Who is he?’
‘He drowned five or six days ago.’
Bartholomew gazed at her. ‘So there have been three deaths in Ely over the past ten days? I thought it was just Glovere and this Haywarde.’
‘Then you thought wrong. The river has claimed three souls recently. But I cannot see Chaloner killing himself to benefit others, either. He was no better than Haywarde in that respect.’
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, rubbing a hand through his hair and wishing he had never started the discussion. ‘What had he done?’