Michael had disliked both men since they had all been novices together. Robert was self-interested and dishonest even then, while William had been secretive and difficult to understand. Their lives had not been improved by the vast, looming presence of Thomas, who rewarded those youngsters who told tales about the others, creating an atmosphere of suspicion and unease.
Then a young man called John de Bukton – who, like Welles, was always referred to by the name of his village, because there were so many Johns in the priory – chattered away to Michael, revealing that his own experiences as a novice at Ely were much the same as Michael’s had been. Sub-prior Thomas’s rule was still based on a system of favourites, and most youngsters were unhappy and uncertain about a future with the Benedictine Order. Michael was startled to learn that William was sympathetic to their grievances and that the novices turned to him, rather than to Alan or Robert, who tended to be dismissive of their complaints. The novices liked Henry, too, because he was patient and soft-hearted, and often shared with them the ale he brewed himself. Michael was not surprised that Henry was popular with the youngsters, recalling Henry’s many acts of kindness when he had been a novice.
Once the sun had set and the day was cooler, Michael went to see whether Bartholomew wanted to visit the Mermaid Inn. Bartholomew, however, was deeply engrossed in treating one of Henry’s patients who had a rasping cough, and the monk knew he would never prise him away for a mere murder investigation. He went to the Mermaid with Cynric and Meadowman instead, but although they passed an enjoyable evening, Mackerell did not appear.
The following day broke clear and bright, with the sun soaring into the sky and flooding the cathedral with light at prime. Michael noticed that Bartholomew deliberately avoided the office – he knew the physician had not over-slept, because that was impossible in a priory with dozens of bells chiming and clanging to announce each rite and a hundred monks hurrying around the precinct.
Cynric had somehow learned that Mackerell planned to take his breakfast in the Mermaid Inn that morning, and Michael was determined to speak to the man. He found Bartholomew in the infirmary, arguing about bunions with Henry, and suggested they go to see him together.
‘Who knows where he may disappear if he learns we want to question him?’ he added.
‘Why would he disappear anywhere?’ asked Bartholomew. His early morning discussion had irritated him. Henry was very willing to dispense his own ideas, but was considerably less willing to listen to anyone else’s, once he had had his say. It was a fault Bartholomew had encountered in other physicians, and was not a trait he admired. ‘We only want to know what he saw when he discovered the bodies. We are not accusing him of putting them there.’
‘That depends on what he knows,’ said Michael. ‘He is said to be another of Ely’s less appealing characters. Perhaps a fourth malcontent murdered the other three.’
Bartholomew did not reply, feeling that Michael was grasping at straws in his determination to see the case solved, and they walked in silence through the priory grounds towards the Steeple Gate. They had not gone far when a commotion caught their attention.
‘Now what?’ muttered Michael, watching the new arrivals in disapproval. ‘Is another Blanche arriving, to throw the priory into a state of emergency ingratiation? It made me sick on Sunday to watch the obsequious fawning by the likes of Robert and William.’
‘I know him!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, as a slightly hunched figure dismounted carefully from a donkey and brushed himself down fastidiously. When he took the cup of wine that was offered by the ever-ready Robert, he sniffed suspiciously at it and then wiped the rim with his sleeve before deigning to put it to his lips. ‘He was at St John’s Hospital in Cambridge when I was last there. He asked me if there was any hope of discovering a cure for death.’
Michael chuckled. ‘That is Roger de Northburgh, Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield – the man Prior Alan has appointed to investigate the charges against de Lisle. And you see that fellow behind him, with his hair cut like a mercenary and the face of an ape? That is Canon Stretton, whom Blanche has chosen as her agent.’
‘I know appearances may be deceptive,’ mused Bartholomew, regarding the canon’s pugilistic features uncertainly, ‘but Stretton does not look very astute to me.’
‘Look,’ said Michael gleefully, pointing as Alan and de Lisle emerged from the Prior’s house and Blanche strode purposefully from the direction of the Outer Hostry, all coming to greet the new arrivals. ‘And listen. This should be entertaining, just as long as I am not seen and dragged into it.’
He pulled Bartholomew behind a buttress at the sacristy, and proceeded to observe the meeting of the protagonists with unconcealed merriment.
‘Bishop Northburgh,’ said Alan formally, his voice carrying across the yard. ‘Welcome to our cathedral priory. I have asked you to come because a grave charge has been laid against Thomas de Lisle, and you were the closest prelate to hand. I hope my summons has not inconvenienced you.’
‘It has, actually,’ replied Northburgh peevishly. ‘The priests at St John’s Hospital were treating me for a debilitating disease.’
‘I am sorry to hear that,’ said Alan, sounding genuinely concerned. ‘But we have an excellent infirmary here, should you need our medical services.’
‘Oh, I shall,’ vowed Northburgh, making it sound like a threat. ‘I am a dying man. My heart beats quickly if I exert myself, my limbs are not strong, and my hair is brittle and dry.’
‘That sounds serious,’ said Alan sympathetically.
‘It sounds like old age,’ remarked Bartholomew to Michael. ‘You said he is ninety, but he looks much younger. For his years, he appears to be in excellent health.’
Michael nodded. ‘It is said that he has never had a moment of genuine illness in his life, although he has enjoyed a good many imagined ones.’
Northburgh had moved away from Alan and was gazing at de Lisle. ‘So, Ely,’ he said, looking his fellow Bishop up and down contemptuously. ‘I am informed that Lady Blanche de Wake thinks you killed her servant. Did you?’
‘Of course not,’ snapped de Lisle, treating Blanche to a hostile glower. ‘She is deranged if she imagines me to be the kind of man to commit so base a crime as murder.’
‘That was badly worded,’ muttered Bartholomew to Michael. ‘It sounds as though he is quite happy to commit crimes that he does not consider to be base.’
Blanche bristled with indignation, heaving her skirts up under her mighty bosom, as if girding herself for a fight. But before she could begin what promised to be an entertaining verbal assault on the haughty Bishop, Northburgh turned to her.
‘There you have it, madam. Ely tells me he is innocent of this crime. The matter is resolved.’
Even Michael was startled by this assertion, and the wind was taken out of Blanche’s outraged sails in an instant.
‘Is that it?’ she asked, aghast. ‘That one question is the full extent of your investigation?’
‘That one question is all I have been charged to find an answer to,’ retorted Northburgh briskly. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I must visit the infirmary. I am a sick man, and it is not good for me to stand around for hours in draughty courtyards.’
There was a stunned silence as he stalked away. Even de Lisle seemed unsettled by the brevity of Northburgh’s examination, and Bartholomew saw him looking around, obviously for Michael. The monk eased further into the shadows of the buttress, not wanting to play an active role in the uncomfortable scene that was unravelling in front of them.
‘Well!’ exclaimed Blanche, watching Northburgh stride across the yard with an agility men half his age would envy. ‘I am glad I did not rely on your choice of investigators, Father Prior.’
‘I will have a word with him,’ said Alan nervously. ‘Doubtless he was playing games with us when he claimed he had finished with the matter. Northburgh is noted for his sense of humour.’