The physicians finished their ale and went to the cathedral to celebrate prime. A thin column of black-robed monastics was already winding its way into the chancel, each man pushing back his hood as he crossed from the cloister to the church proper. They walked in silence, their sandalled feet tapping softly on the flagstones. Henry nodded a farewell to Bartholomew and joined the end of the procession. The physician’s heart sank when he saw a door open in the west end of the cathedral and Father John bustle in. Prime would not be a peaceful, contemplative occasion after all.
The monks began to chant their prayers, and Bartholomew closed his eyes to listen as the rich rumble of the basses acted as a drone for the higher notes of the tenors. Then Michael’s pleasant baritone began to echo through the chancel, singing alternate lines with the rest of the monks acting as a chorus. Just when the physician began to lose himself in the beauty of the music, Father John’s mass started.
Bartholomew opened his eyes to see Michael glowering in the direction of the nave, displeased that his singing was being spoiled by the priest’s continuing battle with the priory. Bartholomew tried to concentrate on the words of the psalm, but found instead that he listened with horrified fascination to John’s bastard Latin. Most of it was entirely nonsensical, but some bore enough resemblance to the original to be amusing. John’s parishioners did not know, and probably did not care, that their priest’s mass was incomprehensible, and were present in their usual numbers.
Bartholomew spotted Leycestre standing near the back with his two nephews. Feeling that it was unreasonable for anyone to expect him to pray under such conditions, he slipped out of the chancel and made his way to the nave, intending to ask Leycestre what had happened in the Lamb Inn that had resulted in the gypsies’ undignified expulsion. Not surprisingly, given his state the night before, Leycestre looked fragile and his face was pale and unshaven.
‘I trust you arrived home safely last night?’ Bartholomew whispered.
Leycestre blinked stupidly for a moment, then rubbed his head as he understood what the physician was saying. ‘It was you who prevented that fight. I am sorry. I was the worse for ale, and should have been better mannered.’
‘Even to gypsies?’ asked Bartholomew archly.
Leycestre smiled ruefully. ‘Even to gypsies. They are thieves, and it is possible that they killed our three much-lamented townsmen, but we need their labour at this time of year, and we cannot afford to have them leave just yet.’
‘That is not the position you held last night,’ Bartholomew remarked. ‘Eulalia told me that you accused them of stealing the wages from honest local folk.’
Leycestre edged around one of the great, thick columns, so that the priest would not see him talking during the mass. ‘I should have kept my thoughts to myself. I do believe that we should have the money the landowners are willing to pay the gypsies, but it is not the gypsies’ fault that the situation is as it is.’
‘Will you apologise to them?’ Bartholomew asked. ‘It cannot have been pleasant to be accused of stealing in such a public place.’
‘I will mention to Eulalia that I may have spoken out of turn,’ said Leycestre, resentment thick in his voice. ‘But I will not apologise to her loutish brothers – especially that Guido.’
‘Was there a reason for all that drinking last night?’ Bartholomew asked curiously. ‘A large number of people were in the taverns, and they were all buying a lot more ale than usual.’
Leycestre gave him a puzzled glance, as though he could not believe the question had been asked. ‘It was a Wednesday.’
It was Bartholomew’s turn to look bemused. ‘What of it?’
Leycestre gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘We are paid on Wednesdays. It is the day before the weekly market, you see, and the landlords want us to spend all our hard-earned wages on the goods of other rich men. It is a cunning ploy.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, wondering whether that was truly the reason for the choice of day, or whether it was to allow the women to make their purchases in the marketplace before the men had time to squander all their earnings in taverns. If the previous night was anything to go by, such a policy might be well justified.
‘Market days are always interesting occasions,’ Leycestre went on. ‘They are excellent opportunities to discuss the heavy yoke of labourers with men who feel empathy with us.’
‘I am sure they are,’ said Bartholomew. He changed the subject, before Leycestre could start preaching. Like many men who burned with the fire of his convictions, Leycestre was tedious company once he had started holding forth. ‘Do you know a man called Mackerell? He was supposed to meet Michael last night, but he never arrived.’
‘He drinks in the Mermaid,’ said Leycestre helpfully. ‘You should ask there for him.’
‘We tried, but no one seemed to know his whereabouts.’
Leycestre rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘He is Ely’s best fisherman, but the monks insist on buying all his eels for an absurdly low price. He is finding it increasingly difficult to manage on the wages they pay him, but they refuse to give him more.’
‘He found the bodies in the river,’ said Bartholomew, refusing to be side-tracked by Leycestre’s biased assessment of fish economics – Mackerell was not that poor. He had been reasonably well dressed and had declined Michael’s offer of free wine. ‘We wanted to know whether he noticed anything that might lead us to the killer.’
‘He might have done I suppose,’ said Leycestre. ‘He has certainly been acting a little oddly since he found them.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Naturally, he was unsettled at being obliged to haul corpses from the river, but he makes his living by water and such men are used to drownings. However, I was surprised they bothered him as much as they seem to have done. He is a surly fellow at the best of times, but the discovery of these bodies has done nothing to improve his temper.’
‘Other than the gypsies, who you believe are responsible for everything bad, is there anyone else who might have committed those murders?’ Since Leycestre was a man who liked holding forth in taverns, Bartholomew wondered whether he had heard any rumours that he might be prepared to share.
‘None of us know who else it could be,’ came the disappointing answer. Bartholomew supposed he should not be surprised: Leycestre was rigid in his belief that the gypsies were the source of all evil.
‘And none of the three dead men had any particular enemies?’ he tried again.
Leycestre shrugged. ‘They all had a great number of enemies. You must have heard by now that they were not popular. Haywarde drank heavily and was inclined to fight; Glovere was a miserable pig who wronged people with his vicious tongue; and Chaloner had an annoying liking for the property of other people.’
‘A thief?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘No one has mentioned this before.’
‘Well, I suppose no one likes to speak ill of the dead. We do not want them returning from Purgatory to wander among us because we have unsettled their souls.’
Bartholomew smothered a smile. While that might usually be true, few Ely citizens seemed to have any qualms about saying exactly what they thought of Glovere, Chaloner and Haywarde. ‘And Mackerell?’ he asked. ‘Is he liked in the town?’
‘Not especially,’ replied Leycestre. ‘He is an excellent fisherman, but he occasionally tops up his basket with the catches of others.’
‘You mean he is a thief, too? When he does not catch enough eels for himself, he steals?’