‘We are at war with France,’ said Mackerell icily, unexpectedly patriotic. ‘I would not allow any brew produced by Frenchmen to pass my lips.’
Michael sighed, and took a swallow of the wine before handing it back to Bartholomew. Then he quickly shuffled up the bench, so that Mackerell found himself trapped between the window and the sizeable bulk of the large-boned monk. Mackerell tried to back away, but there was nowhere to go. Michael favoured him with a grin that was neither humorous nor friendly.
‘Come now, Master Mackerell,’ he said in a soft voice that oozed menace. ‘You cannot object to passing the time of day with a man of God. But neither of us is comfortable crammed together like this, so I will be brief. What do you know about the three bodies you found in the river?’
‘They drowned,’ replied Mackerell sullenly. ‘Now leave me alone.’
‘They did not drown,’ said Michael firmly. ‘They were stabbed. You found all three: should I assume that you had a hand in their deaths?’
Mackerell regarded him with open loathing. ‘Leave me alone, and go back to whatever vile monastery you come from.’
‘Ely,’ whispered Michael sibilantly. ‘I hail from Ely Cathedral-Priory, and I will not be going anywhere. Now, someone has accused my Bishop of murdering one of those men, and I happen to know that he is innocent. I disapprove of innocent men being called to answer for crimes they did not commit, and that is why I want to talk to you.’
Mackerell shrank away from him, unsettled by the monk’s persistence. ‘But I know nothing! It has nothing to do with me!’
‘What has nothing to do with you?’ pounced Michael.
‘Their deaths! I know nothing!’
‘You know something,’ Michael determined, regarding the fish-man intently. ‘Behind all that arrogant bluster, you are a frightened man. If you tell me why, I may be able to help you. If you do not, then perhaps a fourth corpse will appear tomorrow, dripping river water over the church floor, dead by foul means.’
‘Those three died of foul means, all right,’ said Mackerell. ‘There is nothing more foul than a death by water. First comes the shock of the cold, then the water grips you, and the weeds and mud suck at your legs. Then you realise you cannot breathe, so you struggle, but it is to no avail. The water closes over your head, and your ears are full of roaring–’
‘Please!’ exclaimed Bartholomew with a shudder. He had once had a narrow escape from drowning himself, not eight miles from where he now sat and Mackerell’s vivid descriptions brought back memories that he would rather keep suppressed.
Mackerell gave a cold smile. ‘All I can tell you is that the rumours about Haywarde are untrue: he never intended to take his own life. A man intent on killing himself would not choose the Monks’ Hythe to do it. The water there is too slow-moving, and it would be too easy to lose courage and swim to safety.’
‘So, all three were murdered elsewhere, and their bodies thrown into the river upstream,’ deduced Bartholomew.
Mackerell glowered at him. ‘I did not say that. You did.’
Michael sighed again, and eased even closer to the man, so that Mackerell’s breath began to come in agitated pants. Bartholomew glanced uneasily at him, uncomfortable with the monk’s ways of gathering information. ‘Are you telling me that my colleague’s suppositions are wrong?’
‘No,’ gasped Mackerell. ‘I am saying that I was not the one who told you all this.’
‘I see,’ said Michael, easing the pressure a little and rubbing his chin with one fat hand. ‘You are afraid that the wrong person may learn that you have been telling tales. Who?’
‘I did not say that either,’ said Mackerell angrily. ‘You are like the Inquisition, putting words into people’s mouths that they never intended to say! It is typical behaviour for a churchman!’
Michael regarded him sombrely. ‘How did you come to find the bodies?’
‘I am always the first to arrive at the hythes of a morning. Ask anyone here. They will all tell you that I am about my work long before anyone else bothers to stir a lazy limb. Of course I was the one to find them.’
‘I see,’ said Michael, regarding Mackerell in a way that indicated he had not completely accepted the man’s story. Bartholomew supposed it was a ploy intended to make Mackerell nervous, and it seemed to be succeeding.
‘I know nothing,’ said Mackerell again. ‘All I can tell you is that you may be right when you say they went into the water away from the town – either that or they were dumped in the Monks’ Hythe very late at night, because no one here saw or heard anything as far as I know.’
‘I see,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘Have you seen any strangers here recently? Folk you do not know, or who you consider dangerous?’
‘The Bishop often strolls down here of an evening,’ said Mackerell slyly. ‘He is dangerous.’
‘That is not what I meant,’ snapped Michael, becoming angry. ‘Have there been mercenaries or rough men, who might stab a man for his purse?’
‘The gypsies,’ said Mackerell immediately. ‘They have been burgling their way around the town, and so it is possible that they have been murdering people, too.’
Michael sat back, finally releasing the fish-man. ‘You have not been helpful at all. I have a good mind to arrest you, and see that you spend a few nights in the Prior’s cells.’
‘Arrest me?’ asked Mackerell, the belligerence in his voice replaced by a sudden hope. ‘You will put me in the prison near the castle?’
‘Yes,’ said Michael with grim determination. ‘But the Prior’s prison is not a place most sane men would want to be. Do not look as though you consider it a rare treat.’
‘I would be safe there. It is a long way from the river, and the water-spirits will not be able to penetrate the walls. Yes, take me, Brother. Lock me away.’
Bartholomew regarded him intently. ‘It was not water-spirits that murdered those men: it was a person. And this person must be stopped before he harms anyone else.’
‘You know nothing,’ said Mackerell contemptuously. ‘The spirits are all-seeing, and they will know if I betray them. But the prison is a safe distance from the river, and no one would ever think to look there …’
‘It would be more comfortable if we arranged for you to stay in the priory precincts,’ said Bartholomew practically. ‘I am sure a bed can be found in the stables or in the infirmary.’
Mackerell shook his head firmly. ‘It will have to be the prison – at least until the water-spirits have had their fill of human souls and return whence they came. The prison has locks and thick walls.’
‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Michael impatiently, never a man interested or tolerant of the superstitions that governed the lives of many common folk. ‘There is no such thing as water-spirits.’
‘You are wrong,’ said Mackerell. ‘But I will not talk to you here. Put me in the cells first, and then I will discuss the spirits with you. If–’
He broke off as the door opened and Bartholomew was surprised to see the gypsies enter – Guido first, then the slack-jawed Rosel with Eulalia, and finally Goran, who wore a hood over his head to protect it from the sun. Eulalia smiled at Bartholomew and waved, earning a black glower from Guido.
Just as Goran was closing the door behind him, one of the stray dogs that lived on the streets rushed in, and there was a commotion as it ran around the tables barking at people and snapping at ankles. It was almost wild, and the foam that oozed from its mouth indicated that it was probably sick. No one wanted to touch it, and it was some time before it was evicted and calm was restored. When Bartholomew turned his attention back to Mackerell, the man had gone.
The pot-boy came to stand next to them. ‘Mackerell says he will meet you at the priory gate on Broad Lane tomorrow after compline,’ he said in his annoyingly cheerful voice. ‘He told me that he wants to put his affairs in order first, but that he will tell you all you need to know then, in return for the favour you offered.’