‘But that is not necessary here,’ Bartholomew said. ‘There is no one close by.’
‘Blanche is over there,’ Tysilia pointed out, reverting to her normal bellow, so that the King’s kinswoman turned around even though she was still some distance away. Blanche’s eyes narrowed when she saw Tysilia clinging to Bartholomew’s arm. She hoisted her skirts and powered towards them, her mouth set in a narrow, grim line. The physician was not sure whether the disapproval was directed at him or at Tysilia, and determined to extricate himself as soon as possible.
‘Blanche has long, sharp ears, like a horse,’ Tysilia went on. ‘She hears all sorts of things.’
‘A horse?’ asked Bartholomew, before he could stop himself. He needed to ask about William before Blanche reached them, not allow Tysilia to side-track him with what would doubtless prove to be some asinine observation.
‘Horses have long, sharp ears,’ said Tysilia authoritatively. ‘Although I suppose they are more pointed than sharp, really. In fact, I am not sure what is meant by a “sharp ear”. But whatever it is, Blanche has them. William told me so, and he is my brother, so he must be right.’
‘Why did he say that about Blanche? Has she overheard you and William talking?’
‘She may have done. He told me that Ely is a dangerous place at the moment, and he thought it would be more dangerous with her in it.’
‘Why did he think that?’
‘He did not tell me,’ Tysilia whispered, her voice confidential now that she knew she was speaking about William’s secret matter. ‘But he thinks there is a killer here, in the monastery! He said this killer will be watching me all the time, and that he has the power to look at my most secret thoughts.’ She glanced around her fearfully. ‘That means he is watching me now.’
‘William was trying to frighten you into keeping quiet about what you discussed together,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The killer is a vicious man who owns a knife, but he has no supernatural powers or ability to read minds.’
‘You do not know that for certain,’ she shot back.
‘Then tell me what William told you, and we may be able to expose this fiend and put an end to all the fear and suspicion,’ Bartholomew reasoned.
She smiled her vacant smile again, her dark eyes empty of intelligent thought. ‘He said the killer is in the monastery.’
‘What did he mean? That the culprit is a monk?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Tysilia uncertainly. ‘Monks do live in monasteries, after all. But then, so do other people. I have seen them myself – servants and tradesmen and visitors.’
Bartholomew stared at her. ‘Blanche is a visitor at the monastery. And there are all manner of lay-brothers working in the grounds and the kitchens.’
‘Oh, yes!’ agreed Tysilia happily. ‘I remember now. William did say that the killer could be just about anyone here. And he said that Glovere, Chaloner and Haywarde were not likeable men, and so someone relieved the world of them. That is why they died: because no one liked them.’
Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘William believes that someone is killing people just because they are unpopular?’
‘Yes,’ said Tysilia. ‘And because William is unpopular, someone will want to kill him, too. Everyone who is nasty is at risk. That means that I am safe, of course.’
Blanche stormed up to Tysilia and Bartholomew and regarded them both with rank suspicion. ‘What have you been doing?’ she demanded. ‘I hope you have not been romping in the cemetery again, Tysilia. I have already caught you doing that once, and have explained that a graveyard is no place for that sort of thing.’
‘It was Julian’s idea,’ objected Tysilia indignantly. ‘He assured me that all the monks used the cemetery for their–’
‘Thank you, Tysilia,’ interrupted Blanche. ‘We do not need to know the details. Go and wait for me in the solar. And leave my tapestry alone, if you please. You will ruin it again if you take a needle to it.’
‘I can sew,’ said Tysilia proudly, giving Bartholomew a bright grin before skipping away in the direction of the Outer Hostry.
‘I cannot leave her for long,’ said Blanche, looking after her. ‘Wretched woman! She is a dreadful liability, and I never should have agreed to take her on. I was most shamefully tricked on that score – de Lisle again.’
‘I heard he gave her to you as a symbol of your last truce – by placing a member of his own household in your care, he is demonstrating trust.’
Blanche gave a bitter laugh. ‘And when she becomes pregnant again – which is only a matter of time, given her uncontrollable behaviour and undiscriminating tastes – de Lisle will claim that I have abused that trust. I should have known better than to accept such terms from him. He pretended to be reluctant to part with her, but I suspect he was only too glad to be rid of her.’
‘Probably.’ Bartholomew chewed his bottom lip, realising it was not wise to be agreeing with de Lisle’s enemies that he was a devious schemer who might well use Tysilia as a weapon to inflict on his opponents. ‘But the truce you had is surely broken, now that you have accused him of murder. Why does he not demand her back?’
Blanche gave a humourless smile. ‘Declining to accept his niece is his way of wreaking revenge upon my household. You may have noticed that she is not pleasant to have around. But what was she doing with you? Did you catch her lying in wait for that William again? I cannot imagine why she has taken a liking to him – he is old enough to be her father.’
‘Or her brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That is who she claims he is.’
Blanche regarded him in astonishment. ‘They are not related! William is my cousin, actually.’
Bartholomew was certain that the claim of kinship was merely William’s clever way of ensuring that he gained Tysilia’s willing services. Poor Tysilia was gullible and a little pathetic, and might well believe such a tale, no matter how improbable. However, Tysilia was actually the Bishop’s illegitimate daughter, although few people, including Tysilia herself, were aware of the fact. William’s claim might mean that he imagined he was de Lisle’s kinsman, too. And if that were true, it could explain why he had gone to some trouble to investigate whether Blanche might have played a role in the murder for which his relative stood accused.
‘Tysilia has an unbreakable habit of securing a man at any place we visit,’ Blanche was saying, cutting across his thoughts. ‘She is like an eel, slipping out of windows and past guards to reach the objects of her lust. Keeping her childless is one of the greatest challenges I have ever faced.’
‘How do you like Ely?’ asked Bartholomew, hoping to steer the conversation around to the fact that he had seen Blanche in the Mermaid Inn with the gypsies two days before.
Blanche looked around her disdainfully. ‘Ely is a far cry from Huntingdon, which is as fine a town as ever graced the face of the Earth. But it has its good points, I suppose.’
‘Such as the taverns?’ asked Bartholomew probingly.
Blanche regarded him as though he were insane. ‘How would I know about the taverns? I was thinking of the cathedral. Huntingdon does not have a cathedral.’
‘Have you actually been in any of the taverns? Some of them are comfortable places, and offer decent accommodation for travellers.’
‘I am sure they do,’ said Blanche with distaste. ‘And I can well imagine the kind of traveller who stays in them, too. I am sure the bedclothes are crawling with vermin, while one would share the straw mattresses with rats. It may suit Tysilia, but it would not do for me.’
‘The Mermaid has that reputation,’ said Bartholomew, watching her closely for any reaction. ‘Although the Lamb is better.’
‘Well, I would not be caught in either,’ said Blanche firmly. ‘Staying here is bad enough, but it is better than sharing an inn with the common folk. Glovere was fond of the Lamb before the Bishop murdered him. It just goes to show that my wariness of such places is justified.’