He was about to give up, when it occurred to him that he should try to climb as high as possible, and then inspect the entire barn from above, to ensure that no one was hiding on top of the piled bags. He peered around, and located the rough wooden ladder that led to the upper floor. He called to Michael, to tell him what he planned to do.
‘Do not bother,’ the monk shouted back. ‘William is not in there. No one is. How could a normal person survive in it? It is as hot as a baker’s oven and the air is thick with dust.’
‘It will not take a moment,’ said Bartholomew, putting one foot on the bottom rung and beginning to climb. ‘And we do not want to miss something.’
Michael sighed heavily, but came to hold the bottom of the ladder. ‘I suppose I had better wait here. Since you were afraid of falling on the outside, I should be prepared to catch you if you fall on the inside.’
Carefully, because the ladder was in a poor state of repair, Bartholomew began to ascend. At every step it grew hotter, so that it was almost impossible to breathe. Wheat dust caught in his throat, making him cough, and through his choking he could hear Michael sneezing in the darkness below. He supposed that it would not be so bad when the great doors were thrown open, or when the weather was not quite so hot, but that day it was a vile experience. Anxious to complete his task and return to the comparative cool of the sunlight outside, he climbed more quickly, ignoring the protesting creaks of wood that should have been renewed years before.
When he reached the top of the ladder and stepped cautiously on to the platform at its head, he found his way barred by sacks that were piled as high as the ceiling. There was no earthly way anyone could be hiding there – even a rat would have problems insinuating itself between the closely packed bags. Moving carefully, he turned to inspect what lay below.
Looking from above offered a radically different perspective. The bags were lumpy and uneven, although they appeared to be neat enough from the ground. Bartholomew could see Michael below him, wiping his nose on a piece of linen that gleamed very white in the gloom. There was something else, too. Directly beneath him, Bartholomew saw an indentation in a sack that would perfectly match the shape of a man: someone had recently been there.
Still moving cautiously, he climbed down a few steps, then leapt from the ladder to the top of the pile, landing on his hands and knees and releasing a choking cloud of chaff. He coughed hard, vaguely aware that Michael was demanding to know what he thought he was doing. Almost blinded by the whirling dust, Bartholomew groped around, trying to see whether the person who had been in the granary had left some clue as to his identity. It was not long before his tentative fingers encountered something hard. He took hold of it and discovered it was yet another grain sack, although a clanking sound suggested that something metal, rather than cereal, was contained within. Slinging it over his shoulder, he began to descend the ladder.
He was halfway down when the thing he had been afraid would happen did: one of the rungs gave way. Had he been using both hands to climb instead of one, he would have been able to save himself, but he was unbalanced by the heavy sack and the broken rung was the last straw. With a yell, he found himself precipitated downwards, arms and legs flailing.
He landed with a thump on more bags of grain. They were not as hard as the ground would have been, but the fall winded him nevertheless. He decided that wheat was a lot harder than it looked. His sudden weight had caused the cheap material of one sack to split with a sharp rip, and its yellow contents began to spill across the floor. Mixed with the grain was something darker, and when Bartholomew inspected it closely he saw it was gravel. He rubbed his elbow ruefully, and thought it was not surprising the sacks were so hard for a falling man if they were more than half full of stone.
‘I caught it,’ he heard Michael say. He turned to see that the monk had deftly fielded the bag he had dropped.
‘Well, that is a relief,’ he grumbled, standing stiffly and flexing his bruised arm. ‘I am glad you decided to save the bag and not me.’
‘The sack looked the lighter of the two, and I thought you would come to no harm on all that soft wheat anyway.’
‘Most of it is grit,’ said Bartholomew. ‘No wonder so many people in Ely have broken teeth, if they eat bread made from this rubbish.’
Michael leaned down and ran a handful of the grain through his fingers, his eyes round with surprise. ‘The lay-brothers should have been more careful with what they accepted. Alan will not be pleased when he learns that most of the tithes comprise gravel.’
‘True. And he will never know who gave it to him, either.’
‘He will if all the sacks are like this,’ said Michael grimly. ‘Let us hope that only one farmer has been so rash as to try to cheat the priory. But I do not like it in here, Matt. We should go outside to see what you have found.’
Bartholomew was grateful to be out in the sunshine. Michael’s habit was covered in chaff, and no amount of brushing seemed to remove it. Bartholomew took off his tunic and gave it a vigorous shake, disgusted by the dust that billowed from it. He was even more disgusted to see how much stuck to his body, but supposed it would come off when he had cooled down.
He sat next to Michael in the shade and watched the monk struggle to untie the thongs that fastened the sack’s neck. It was secured very tightly, and it was some time before it could be unravelled. When it was finally open, Michael up-ended it on to the ground. With a clank and a clatter, three objects rolled out. The first was a handsome silver chalice that appeared to have come from the high altar of a church.
‘Has a theft of religious vessels been reported in the city recently?’ asked Bartholomew, picking it up and polishing it on his tunic.
Michael shook his head and reached for the second object – a small pouch. He opened it, and bright coins rolled into the palm of his hand. They were gold nobles and he counted twenty of them – a total of ten marks.
‘Ten marks is what William took,’ said Bartholomew, regarding his friend soberly. ‘Or it is what Thomas told us William requisitioned from the hosteller’s fund.’
‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘That had not escaped my attention, either.’
The third object was perhaps the most puzzling. It was a neat white package, similar – if not identical – to the one they had seen Thomas secreting away the night before.
‘Well,’ said Michael, picking it up and turning it over in his hand. ‘Is this Thomas’s property, do you think?’
‘It looks the same,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But does that mean Thomas took William’s money and hid them here together?’
‘Or does it mean that William took or was given this package before he decided to flee with all his belongings?’
‘Then why did he leave them behind?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I am sure ten marks would come in useful for a man on the run, especially if he does not intend to return.’
‘I do see how he can return. Stealing monastery property is not something most priors look kindly on. No, Matt. If William has gone, and his missing belongings suggest that he has, then he will not be coming back.’
‘But what about his gold? Why leave it? The barn was only a temporary hiding place, because the grain will be used by the end of the year. It is not as if he can come back for it whenever he likes.’
Michael shook his head. ‘I wish Thomas could speak! A few sentences from him would probably solve all these mysteries.’ He grabbed Bartholomew’s arm suddenly. ‘He may not be able to speak, but he can write! That will suffice – we shall have our answers after all!’