‘This is hopeless!’ mumbled Michael, wiping his sweaty face with his sleeve. ‘We do not know that Robert used this path, and these vineyards are enormous. We are wasting our time. We should pay another visit to the Mermaid, and see what else we can find out about Mackerell.’
‘We would learn nothing,’ said Bartholomew. ‘First, I suspect they have already told us all they intend to say, and second, they are Fenmen, who are a taciturn lot at the best of times. They will not surrender information to people like us.’
‘And what they are prepared to tell us is nonsense,’ agreed Michael in disgust. ‘Water-spirits, indeed! I will give Mackerell water-spirits if I ever see him again.’
‘I hope you will have the opportunity. I expected to see him dead this morning, washed down the river into the Monks’ Hythe, like the others.’
‘He is alive. Symon said he saw him this morning near the castle.’
‘Symon was uncertain. Why would Mackerell be in the priory grounds, anyway? I think that if he is still alive, then he has done what Thomas said – disappeared into the marshes he knows better than anyone else.’
‘Do you think we can discount Symon’s sighting then?’
‘I think so. It does not make sense – unless Mackerell killed Robert of course.’
‘Why would he do that?’ asked Michael tiredly. ‘Mackerell was not a particularly poor man, and so would have no cause to deal with the priory’s almoner. He could not have been resentful about miserly alms.’
‘We do not know that,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘As we keep saying, there is a good deal we do not know about this case.’
‘I had not expected Robert to be the next victim,’ said Michael with a sigh. ‘But we are getting nowhere with this, Matt. We should walk up this damned river, since you are so sure we will find something there.’
‘In a moment,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I want to look along some of these smaller paths first.’
He ignored Michael’s groan of displeasure, and concentrated on exploring a promising area near some scattered stakes. But the presence of feathers suggested that a fox had killed a bird there, and that the scuffed soil had nothing to do with Robert or his killer. Eventually, they had walked the entire length of the vineyard, and were near the rear gate. Behind them, the tithe barn loomed, casting a cool shadow across the path along which they walked.
Michael shuffled across to the barn and flopped against it, wiping the sweat from his eyes with a piece of linen. Bartholomew picked up a stick and began to prod around in the grass near the path, looking for he knew not what. It did not take him long to see that Michael was right, and that they were unlikely to discover anything that could help them by searching at random. And even if they did manage to pinpoint the place where Robert had died, it would probably tell them little that they could use in the tracking of his killer. Dispirited, he went to join Michael. He was hot and thirsty, and wished they had some ale with them.
As if he read his friend’s thoughts, Michael rummaged in his scrip and produced a wineskin, showing that Bartholomew was not the only one who carried supplies for just such situations. It contained a rather robust white, which tended to increase Bartholomew’s thirst rather than relieve it, but he took a hearty swallow anyway, grateful for the fact that it washed the dust from his throat. He looked up at the barn that towered above them.
It was a huge structure, designed to take grain from the people who worked the priory’s land. There were two giant doors at the front, with smaller entrances piercing the sides about halfway down. Several substantial locks sealed them, and the whole thing was robust and rigid, intended to protect its contents from marauding flocks of rats as well as those people who might decide to repatriate some of the wheat within.
‘Who has the keys to the barn?’ Bartholomew asked, taking another swallow of the wine, then passing the skin back to Michael.
‘A number of people, I imagine. The Prior will have his own set, as will sub-prior, hosteller, almoner and cellarer. I heard at the evening meal last night that this barn is already full, and that any tithes presented from now on will go to the sextry barn near St Mary’s.’
‘Another vast edifice,’ said Bartholomew disapprovingly. ‘Your priory certainly knows how to squeeze its money’s worth from its tenants.’
‘It owns a lot of land,’ said Michael defensively. ‘Of course it needs large barns. But I knew this one was full anyway, because I recall watching some lay-brothers trying to cram the last few sacks inside it a couple of days ago.’
‘I remember, too.’ Bartholomew looked thoughtfully at Michael. ‘So, everyone knows it is full, and that it has been locked until the grain is needed at the end of autumn. There is no need to disturb it and risk rats getting inside until then, is there?’
‘I imagine not,’ said Michael, bored. ‘I really have no idea about agriculture, Matt. You must ask a farmer if you are interested in that sort of thing.’ He took another swallow of wine, tipping his hat back from his face as he did so, to run his sleeve across his wet forehead.
‘You do not need to be a farmer to know that a full barn will not be disturbed for some weeks. It would make a perfect hiding place. And you just said that the hosteller has a key.’
Michael’s eyed gleamed, and he scrambled to his feet, his lethargy vanished. ‘You are right, Matt! We should have thought of this sooner.’ He stepped back, and squinted up at the barn, scanning it for weaknesses. ‘There is a window on the upper floor. You can climb up those beams and undo the latch.’
‘I most certainly cannot,’ said Bartholomew, laughing at the near-impossible feat Michael expected him to perform. ‘I am not an acrobat. We should try the doors first.’
‘They will be locked,’ objected Michael. ‘There is no point.’
‘Locks can be forced,’ said Bartholomew, producing a hefty pair of childbirth forceps he had used in this way before. At one time, he would have been appalled to think of his handsome forceps being used for such a purpose – they had been a gift from a very dear friend, quite aside from the fact that he used them to grab a baby’s head while it was still inside the mother – but no expense had been spared on the forceps, and they were the most resilient thing he owned. It was almost impossible to bend or dent them, and they had proved useful for all sorts of purposes.
Michael watched as Bartholomew inserted the arms of his forceps into the gap between door and frame. It was an easy matter to ease it open, and the physician wondered whether they should mention the fact to Leycestre, so that the would-be rebel could arrange for some of the wheat to be returned to the folk who probably had a better right to it.
With a creak, the door swung open, and Bartholomew and Michael peered into the dusty gloom. It was almost completely black, because all the windows were closed to keep out pests and any gaps in the timber sides had been sealed for the same reason. But, after a while, their eyes grew used to the darkness, and they could detect the vague outlines of heaped sacks within. They pushed open the door as far as it would go for light, and made their way inside.
At first, Bartholomew thought they had wasted their time. It was unpleasantly hot inside the granary, and dust from the wheat made his eyes scratchy and his throat tickle. Michael began to sneeze uncontrollably, and it was not long before he abandoned the search to Bartholomew, while he waited outside. There was a sudden eerie rustle, and the physician froze, half expecting a furious William to come leaping out of the shadows, incensed that his hiding place had been so easily discovered. But whatever had made the noise was still when Bartholomew inched his way over to investigate, and he could see nothing other than endless rows of wheat sacks. He decided the granary was not as rat-resistant as it appeared.