‘Henry could not have killed Robert,’ said Michael with a superior smile, knowing he could prove his point. ‘He was in the library when that happened. I heard him moving around up there, and so did you, when Robert was in the vineyard having his neck slit.’
‘True,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘Henry can be discounted then. But your Bishop cannot. While he may not have wielded the knife himself, it would not surprise me if he knows who did.’
‘But that does not explain why he instructed me to investigate,’ said Michael. ‘If he wanted the truth left undisturbed, he should have asked someone sycophantic to investigate for him.’
‘Perhaps he did,’ said Bartholomew soberly. ‘I do not mean to offend you, Brother, but in the past you have made no secret of the fact that you might alter the truth in order to achieve the verdict you want, and your Bishop is always delighted when things work to his satisfaction.’
‘But I am not prepared to overlook the murder of innocent people,’ objected Michael.
‘You might be if you considered hiding the truth was for the greater good. Both you and I have kept silent on matters in the past, when we thought it was better people did not know the truth. For example, no one but us knows that the martyred Simon d’Ambrey lies in Master Wilson’s grave in St Michael’s churchyard in Cambridge.’
‘That was different,’ said Michael. ‘Justice had been served, and we were merely tying up loose ends. Four murders are not loose ends, and I would not be prepared to see a killer go unpunished for such crimes.’
‘I hope not,’ said Bartholomew noncommittally, still not certain that the monk would make public the facts of the case if he felt it was inappropriate to do so. While he generally trusted Michael to do what was right, he felt the monk was somewhat under the power of his Bishop, who might not do the same.
‘And on top of all our suspects, we have a clan of gypsies who appear at peculiar moments; we have a missing fisherman who promised to tell us what we wanted to know but then fled; and we have talk of water-spirits and other such nonsense.’
Bartholomew stood. Henry was stirring in the hall. The infirmarian rubbed sleep from his eyes and went to kneel next to Thomas, indicating with a tired nod to Bartholomew that he was ready to begin his vigil and that the physician was free to go.
‘There is only so much we can do by speculating,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘We need some facts, and we will not find them here. We must go out.’
‘Out?’ asked Michael suspiciously. ‘Now? In the full heat of day? It was bad enough when we had to chase to the Quay. I am not sure I am up to another foray under the blaze of the sun.’
‘Oh, I am sure we will survive,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And we need full daylight for what we are going to do.’
‘And what is that?’ asked Michael warily.
‘We are going to walk upstream along the banks of the river, to see whether we can find the place where Glovere, Chaloner and Haywarde were murdered. But first, we will look in the vineyard, to see whether we can determine where Robert met his end.’
‘Very well,’ said Michael, reluctantly heaving his bulk to its feet. ‘The sooner we can uncover this murdering fiend, the sooner we can return to the safety of Cambridge. And believe me, that little town has never seemed so appealing.’
It was very hot in the late afternoon sunlight. Michael fetched a wide-brimmed black hat to keep the sun out of his eyes, while Bartholomew changed in the infirmary. He dispensed with hose and jerkin in favour of a loose tunic and some baggy leggings. Michael declared that the physician looked like a peasant, but at least he was comfortable. Michael was sweating into his voluminous habit, and complained that it prickled his skin and caused rashes.
Since he was there, Bartholomew asked Henry about the keys to the back gate, but the infirmarian merely confirmed what Michael had already summarised: that there was a number of spare keys, and that the brethren tended to help themselves as and when they needed them. No one took any notice of who took what and the chapter house was deserted for most of the day; anyone could enter and take a key without being observed.
Henry walked with them to the infirmary door, looking for Julian, so that he could dispatch the lad to fetch wine from the kitchens. He wanted to make a soothing syrup from cloves and honey for Ynys’s chest, and he needed the wine as a base. Julian, however, had made the most of his mentor’s uncharacteristic afternoon nap, and had disappeared on business of his own. Henry made an exasperated sound at the back of his throat.
‘That boy is his own worst enemy! I am doing all I can to give him a trade that will earn him respect – and a living if he ever finds himself expelled – but he flouts me at every turn.’
‘You should let Alan dismiss him,’ advised Michael. ‘You have done all you can, but there is clearly no good in him. You cannot make a beef pie from a weasel and a pile of sand.’
Henry smiled bleakly. ‘I confess I am beginning to wonder whether all my efforts have been in vain. Still, I am not ready to concede defeat yet.’
‘What kind of wine do you use for your syrup?’ asked Bartholomew, ignoring Michael’s bored sigh as the monk anticipated the start of a lengthy medical discussion.
Henry raised his hands in a shrug. ‘Whatever the cooks give me. Why? Do you find one type makes for a better result than another?’
‘Without a doubt,’ said Bartholomew. ‘For example, the vile vintage from the monks’ vineyards will not be very soothing for Ynys. I use a rich red from southern France.’ He rummaged in his bag and produced the small skin he always carried there for emergencies. ‘Try this, and let me know what you think.’
Henry took it from him. ‘That is very kind. I will replenish it with something of equal quality later. Do not forget to ask for it back. But here is Bishop de Lisle’s steward, Ralph. What can he want? I hope no one was taken ill during the mass for Robert.’
‘I have come for some cordial,’ said Ralph, approaching and leaning against the door. He treated the three men to a confident grin. ‘It is too hot for beer – even bona cervisia – and my Bishop wants some of that nice raspberry syrup you make.’
‘But I do not have much left,’ objected Henry indignantly.
There was a cold gleam in Ralph’s eyes, which intensified when he straightened from his slouch. ‘That is not a pleasant attitude to take, Brother. Do you want me to return to my Bishop and tell him that the infirmarian refused him a refreshing drink after he has spent all afternoon saying masses for the almoner?’
‘Be off with you,’ ordered Michael angrily. ‘You are doing my Bishop a disservice by going about making demands like this.’
‘It is all right, Brother,’ said Henry. ‘The Bishop can have the last of my cordial if that is what he wants.’
Ralph revealed ugly black teeth in a grin of victory, and followed Henry inside. Bartholomew eyed him with distaste, disliking the man’s confident swagger and assumed superiority because he was a bishop’s servant. He was dirty, too, and a sharp, unwashed smell emanated from his greasy clothes. He was not a good ambassador for a fastidiously clean man like de Lisle.
Michael shook his head. ‘That is not de Lisle’s errand, Matt. That is Ralph acting on his own initiative, and I will wager you a jug of bona cervisia that my Bishop will never see that cordial. Ralph has always been a selfish sort of fellow.’
‘Why does de Lisle keep him in his service, then?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Surely it is not good for a bishop to employ such a man?’
‘He needs someone he can trust,’ replied Michael, stepping from the shade of the hospital door into the brightness of the sun beyond. He winced as the heat hit him. ‘Such trust is difficult to come by, and usually results only after years of service. I doubt de Lisle likes Ralph, but Ralph is loyal and that counts for a good deal.’
They walked slowly through the vineyard, each taking one side of the main path as they scanned for signs that a scuffle had taken place. Bartholomew smiled when he saw one area of disturbed soiclass="underline" it was the spot where he and Michael had dropped to their hands and knees to spy on Thomas. He heartily wished Cynric had been with them, because the Welshman would not have allowed himself to be caught, and he would almost certainly have overheard the conversation without being detected.