‘Well, I can assure you that you will find no kitchen maid here,’ said de Lisle, giving the two monks an icy glare before strutting away, his bearing arrogant and determined.
Exchanging an amused smile, Thomas and Robert watched him go, then resumed their walk. When they had gone, Michael followed the route his Bishop had taken, before ducking quickly around the corner and heading in the direction of the Black Hostry, where a bell was ringing to announce that a meal was ready for any Benedictine guests who might be hungry. Bartholomew was sure Michael was hungry.
Moments later, Tysilia emerged from the trees, brushing leaves from her clothes. She gave William a conspiratorial grin, and announced in a loud voice that she hoped to hear from him very soon. Then she scampered away among the graves. As she reached the place where de Lisle had met the two monks a few moments before, someone appeared out of nowhere and all but sent her flying.
‘Be careful!’ she cried angrily, when she had regained her balance. ‘You cannot take up all the path, you know. You must leave some of it for others.’
‘I was not even on the path,’ replied a bemused Thomas defensively. ‘I was walking on the grass. Turf is easier on my ankles, you see, so I always tread on it, rather than the beaten earth of a trackway.’
‘That is because you are fat,’ declared Tysilia uncompromisingly. Bartholomew winced, recalling that the young woman had an unendearing habit of saying exactly what was in her mind.
She dashed on, leaving a startled Thomas gazing after her. Slowly, a grin of understanding spread across the sub-prior’s porcine features, and Bartholomew could hear his delighted laughter. Clearly, Thomas had drawn his own conclusions about the sudden appearance of a young woman making her escape from the cemetery moments after the Bishop had left. Bartholomew heard an amused cackle from the tree below, as William also realised what the sub-prior had assumed.
William was the last to leave. He walked briskly among the graves, then peered around the corner to ensure that no one was watching, before turning towards the cathedral. And then the graveyard was silent and empty again. Bartholomew set down his pen and wondered what to make of it all.
The dinner served at the monastery that evening was excellent. It surpassed anything Michaelhouse was likely to produce, except perhaps at feasts or other special occasions. Considering that it was just a normal day, Bartholomew could not begin to imagine what was on offer when the priory had cause to celebrate. There was a pike in pear-flavoured jelly, the inevitable locally caught eels, a dish of turnips that had been roasted slowly in butter, and a bowl of thick pea pottage. In addition, there was bread made from the finest white flour, which was soft and delicious to eat with the creamy cheese from the priory’s own dairy. Bartholomew ate his fill, and then retired to the infirmary to talk to Henry.
As sunset approached, Michael came to find him to ask if he wanted to take an evening stroll, carefully not mentioning the fact that it was almost time for their meeting with Mackerell. The monk was rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and Bartholomew assumed he had followed his own repast with a pleasant nap.
‘What have you been doing today?’ Bartholomew asked, as they walked towards the vineyards and the priory’s back gate. ‘Did you have a useful meeting with de Lisle?’
Michael smiled. ‘I am glad you were not too engrossed in your studies to have missed that.’
‘You mean you wanted me to eavesdrop on it?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘Why?’
‘Because I hoped he might say something important, and I wanted you to hear. But in the event, he said nothing of interest at all.’
‘Perhaps he knew the discussion was not quite as private as it appeared,’ suggested Bartholomew.
‘No. We have met in the cemetery before. And although he is aware that you are working in the library, it would not have occurred to him that you might overhear anything he said.’
‘But it did, Brother,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘He knew that someone might be spying on him, and kept gazing at the undergrowth below my window.’
‘Then you should not have made all that noise. You were giggling and whispering to yourself like some half-mad crone. I was lucky he believed me when I said the racket was caused by birds or squirrels.’
‘That was not me. William and Tysilia were already in the midst of their own meeting when you arrived. It was Tysilia you heard chattering.’
‘Was it indeed?’ said Michael, raising his eyebrows. ‘Then it is just as well de Lisle said nothing incriminating. That William is a cold man, and I would not like him to be after the Bishop’s blood. What were they talking about?’
‘William has apparently charged Tysilia to discover whether Blanche was responsible for Glovere’s murder. Needless to say, she was not a wise choice of accomplice.’
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Michael, amused. ‘Did she march up to Blanche and demand to know whether she killed her own steward?’ He chortled at the notion.
‘Yes, actually. It is difficult to gauge Blanche’s reaction from Tysilia’s description of it, but she warned Tysilia that to probe further might be dangerous. However, it is not clear whether the harm would come from Blanche or someone else.’
‘I wonder why William is meddling in this,’ mused Michael. ‘What can he have to gain from discovering who murdered Glovere?’
‘A good deal. If he proves de Lisle guilty, he will be able to demand a high price for his silence. If he proves de Lisle innocent, then he will earn the Bishop’s undying gratitude.’
‘If he thinks that, then he is a fool. De Lisle will not take kindly to being blackmailed, and he gives his undying gratitude to those he trusts, not to those who interfere in his affairs. But this is all very revealing.’
‘It is?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully.
Michael nodded. ‘It means that William may have discovered something I have not.’ He rubbed his hands in sudden glee. ‘Now this is more like it! I was afraid I might be obliged to deal with some mindless butcher, who kills because the fancy takes him. Such a person might prove impossible to find – unless he grows so bold that he reveals himself by accident. But now I learn that no less a person than the hosteller – one of the priory’s most important officers – is recruiting spies and asking questions.’
‘I do not know why you consider that good news, Brother. William may be asking questions because he is the culprit, and his enquiries are merely to allow him to gloat as people speculate about his identity.’
‘He will not outwit me,’ boasted Michael. ‘A clever man will have a certain method in his actions, which a man who kills by instinct will not. Patterns are revealing clues for us: we will be able to use them to trap him.’
Bartholomew laughed softly. ‘A few moments after you left, Sub-prior Thomas doubled back on himself and bumped into Tysilia. I saw from his face that he thought she was the reason why the Bishop was in the cemetery.’
Michael’s green eyes grew huge and round. ‘Really?’ he chuckled. ‘It is not common knowledge that de Lisle has a “niece”, and no one is likely to believe him if he conveniently produces one now. And no one will accept that it was William she was meeting, either. That sly, treacherous dog will never own up to meeting his doxy in the bushes.’
‘There is nothing to suggest she is his doxy, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They stood chastely side by side, and the only physical contact was when William dragged her out of sight when you arrived. Anyway, Tysilia has set her heart on you.’
Michael glanced sharply at him. ‘What are you talking about? She barely knows me, and I can assure you that I have done nothing to encourage her attentions.’