‘I did not see – I only spotted shapes in the shadows. Then I went for a walk myself, because, as I said, it was an unpleasantly humid night for sleeping. But Ely is a respectable city – it is not like Cambridge, where killers lurk on every corner. I sincerely doubt that one of our citizens is our culprit, and you are the only strangers who have been here in the last two weeks. Other than the gypsies, of course, but they come every year.’
‘Leycestre is spreading rumours that the gypsies killed Glovere,’ said Michael.
Barbour nodded. ‘But they had no reason to harm the man. Leycestre also thinks they are responsible for all these burglaries – there was yet another last night – and I think that is much more likely. Gypsies like gold.’
‘As opposed to everyone else, who hates it?’ asked Bartholomew archly. ‘Who was burgled last night?’
‘One of the cordwainers who lives on Brodhythe Street. He had sold a consignment of leather laces and had boasted about the high price he got. Then, the very next night, he lost it all when someone broke into his house.’
‘So, whoever committed this theft must have known where to look,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘The gypsies would be less likely to have that information than someone who lives permanently in the town.’
‘Not true,’ said Barbour. ‘The cordwainer was celebrating his good fortune loudly, and virtually every man, woman and child in Ely – gypsies included – knew exactly how much money he had in the chest in his attic.’
‘All this has nothing to do with these murders,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘I–’
‘Murders?’ pounced Barbour immediately. ‘I heard Glovere was murdered, but was under the impression that Chaloner’s death was an accident and Haywarde took his own life. Do you know different?’
‘All three met their ends in the same way,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘You can ask Father John if you want details. Chaloner and Haywarde were stabbed in the neck, as was Glovere.’
‘I was unaware that the Bishop even knew Chaloner and Haywarde,’ said Barbour in confusion. ‘Why would he kill them?’
‘He did not,’ snapped Michael. ‘It is obvious that someone else dispatched all three. What can you tell me about Chaloner and Haywarde?’
‘Not much,’ said Barbour, eyeing the other patrons in his inn, as though already contemplating the enjoyment he would have when he revealed this particular piece of gossip. ‘Chaloner died about a week ago. He was drinking alone – as usual, since no one much liked his company – and he left when it was dark. He was next seen when he appeared dead in the river the following day.’
‘And Haywarde?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘He sat by the hearth and muttered in low voices to Leycestre and that pair of discontented brats, Adam Clymme and Robert Buk.’
‘Agnes Fitzpayne said they are his nephews,’ said Bartholomew.
‘She was there, too,’ added Barbour. ‘Agnes Fitzpayne. The five of them huddled in the corner and mumbled. Then I told Haywarde that if he wanted to stay longer, he would have to give me a few pennies towards the debt he had incurred for past ales. He decided to leave.’
‘That is interesting,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It sounds as though Agnes was happy enough with Haywarde to spend an evening drinking with him, yet she was disgusted that the cost of his requiem fell to her when her sister could not pay.’
‘I confess I was surprised by the sight of a decent woman like Agnes deigning to converse with the likes of her idle brother-in-law,’ said Barbour. ‘But I suppose he was family. However, I can tell you that she never liked him. When he left the tavern drunk the night he died we all knew that his wife and children would feel the brunt of his temper. Only he never arrived home. Like Chaloner, Haywarde was next seen face-down in the river.’
‘Could someone who liked Mistress Haywarde have stepped in and prevented him from returning home?’ asked Michael, clearly thinking of Agnes.
‘We all like Mistress Haywarde,’ said Barbour. ‘But her husband was a regular drinker – and a regular bully – and no one ever attempted to intervene before.’
‘And once they had left your inn, as far as you know, no one set eyes on these men until they were found in the river the following day?’ asked Bartholomew, wanting to be clear on that point.
‘No,’ said Barbour. ‘Believe me, it was something that was debated a good deal, both here and in the other taverns. We are all interested to know who was the last person to see them alive. It is generally agreed that it was me and my patrons, here at the Lamb. Other than the killer, of course,’ he added hastily.
‘Who found the corpses?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Master Mackerell. When you talk to him, do not expect a pleasant discourse, such as you have had with me. Mackerell is another malcontent. He lives on Baldock Lane, but you may find him in the Mermaid Inn at this hour.’
‘Right,’ said Michael, finishing the mutton and rising to his feet. ‘Let us visit the Mermaid Inn, Matt.’
Bartholomew declined to trawl the city’s taverns again, claiming Michael could manage that on his own. Instead, he returned to the priory to seek out Henry and ask his opinion about the marsh fever that struck many Fenland settlements at certain times of the year. Henry professed to know a good deal about it, although Bartholomew decided his knowledge was anecdotal rather than analytical. Henry was the only physician covering a fairly large area, and Bartholomew supposed he had a rather inflated opinion of his skills because there was no one qualified nearby to contradict him. Henry was not as arrogantly dogmatic with his diagnoses as some medical men Bartholomew had encountered, but his immodesty was a flaw nevertheless.
‘I see dozens of cases of marsh fever every year,’ boasted Henry. ‘Sometimes, it seems that there is not a soul in the entire region who does not want me for some ailment or other. I am famous for the efficacy of my treatments, so people travel considerable distances to ask my advice.’
‘You must find it tiring,’ said Bartholomew politely.
Henry smiled. ‘Sometimes. But I like to help people, if I can. There is so much suffering in the world that it is good to be able to alleviate some of it. Julian claims we cause more than we cure, but he is a miserable boy who has nothing pleasant to say about anything.’
‘That is certainly true,’ agreed Bartholomew, glancing to where Julian and Welles were giving one of the elderly inmates a bath. Welles was being careful with the frail bones of the very old man, but Julian was rough and Bartholomew could see the patient wincing. Henry rebuked the novice twice, but was eventually obliged to oversee the operation. Personally, Bartholomew would have sent the boy packing, or found him a task that did not involve contact with anything living. He was torn between admiration for Henry’s hopeful persistence with what was clearly a lost cause, and exasperation with him for wasting his time.
Meanwhile, Michael discovered that Barbour was wrong in his prediction that Mackerell would be at the Mermaid. The inn was deserted and locked, and a friendly bargeman told him that it tended to be closed during afternoons at harvest time, because most of its patrons were in the fields. The monk strolled back to the priory, where he spent the rest of the day in the chapter house, enjoying the pleasant chill of its shady stone interior and chatting to other Benedictines who knew that it was the best place to be on a day when the sun was hot enough to fry eggs.
Towards the end of the afternoon, Almoner Robert also arrived to take advantage of the chapter house’s cool. He tripped over a step when he entered, blinded by the sudden darkness after the blaze of light outside, and Michael heard the distinctive jangle of coins bouncing together in his scrip. He suspected that the almoner was not carrying his small fortune to give to the poor, but that he intended to use it for some purpose that would benefit himself. Robert was that kind of monk. Hosteller William watched Robert carefully, and Michael saw that the clash of coins had not gone unnoticed by him, either.