De Lisle had no more idea how to speed up the investigation than did Michael, but that did not prevent him from making all manner of impractical suggestions. Michael listened patiently while the Bishop recommended arresting Blanche’s entire household and holding them until one of them confessed, followed by an illogical analysis of the reasons why the missing William was at the heart of everything, aided and abetted by the now-dead Robert.
The interview came to an end when the agitated prelate abruptly spun around and began to stalk towards the cathedral, muttering under his breath that since Michael did not seem able to prove his innocence, he would have to petition the help of St Etheldreda. A handsome ruby ring, he claimed, would be hers if she came to his rescue. Prior Alan overheard as he passed them on his way to the infirmary, and shook his head to show what he thought of the notion that saints could be bribed with baubles. Bartholomew and Michael were about to follow Alan, when the monk became aware that Ralph had fastened his dirty claw on to the fine fabric of his habit.
‘You need to do more than stroll up the river today,’ said the steward unpleasantly, not relinquishing his hold even though Michael glared angrily at him. ‘My Bishop is not a wealthy man, and he cannot afford to stay in Ely much longer. He needs to visit other people, so that they are obliged to house and feed his retinue. You must dismiss this case so he can go about his business before he is bankrupt.’
‘I assure you, I know that,’ said Michael, knocking the filthy hand from his sleeve in distaste. ‘And I am doing the best I can. He – and you – must be patient. The truth is not something you can just summon to appear. It must be teased out carefully, and each fact properly analysed.’
‘Bugger the truth,’ said Ralph vehemently. ‘I said you should dismiss the case, not mess around with irrelevant details.’
Michael regarded the steward disapprovingly. ‘You are an ignorant man, and so you cannot know what you are saying. The Bishop must be totally exonerated from these charges, or they will haunt him for the rest of his life. The verdict must be the truth. Nothing else will do.’
He turned away, but Ralph was not so easily dismissed. He delivered his own little lecture about loyalty and trust, to which Michael listened with barely concealed astonishment at such impudence. When Ralph saw that his homily was not inspiring Michael to go out and declare the Bishop’s innocence by any means necessary, he gave up in disgust and followed his master to the cathedral.
‘He is a nasty little man,’ said Michael, watching him go. ‘He thinks he is the only one capable of serving de Lisle, just because he has done it for longer than anyone else.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘He must be a saint.’
‘Which of them?’ asked Michael. ‘De Lisle for putting up with that horrid little worm, or Ralph for selling his soul to de Lisle? But come, Matt. We cannot stand here all day chatting to whoever happens to come past. We have a killer to catch.’
But before they reached the door of the infirmary, Henry emerged and started to walk towards the cathedral. His shoulders slumped with tiredness, and he grimaced at the brightness of the sun in his eyes.
‘How is Thomas?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled that the infirmarian should leave when he had a seriously ill patient to tend.
‘He slipped away in his sleep – between the time you left and a few moments ago,’ said Henry with a catch in his voice. He saw Michael’s face fall, and mistook the monk’s dismay for grief. ‘I am sorry, Michael. Bartholomew and I did all we could, but old, fat men are prone to such attacks, and death is not infrequent. In my experience this appeared to be a serious episode, and I doubt he would ever have recovered his faculties fully. It is better this way.’
‘Damn!’ swore Michael vehemently. ‘If we had not dawdled here, listening to de Lisle and Ralph ranting on about nothing, we might have been able to talk to Thomas before he died.’
‘I do not think he ever woke,’ said Henry wearily. ‘And even though you are my friend, and I know how hard de Lisle is pushing you to prove him innocent of murder, I would not have allowed you to disturb Thomas with potentially distressing questions.’
‘I am surprised he died this morning, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘When he survived the night, I thought he was through the worst.’
‘I hoped so, too,’ said Henry. ‘But yesterday’s seizure was long and violent. To be frank, I thought he would slip away in his sleep last night. I was astonished that he still lived when I relieved you of the vigil at dawn.’
‘This is a sorry business,’ said Michael, defeated. ‘Were you with him when he died?’
Henry’s eyes filled with tears and he turned away. He tried to speak, but no words came.
‘What is the matter?’ asked Bartholomew, alarmed.
‘I fell asleep,’ said Henry in a muffled whisper. ‘I did not work on the accounts while I watched over him, because I thought I might doze off with the heat and the lack of recent rest, and so I decided to mix Ynys’s medicine instead. But as soon as I sat down, I must have fallen into a slumber. Even if God sees fit to forgive me for this, I will never forgive myself!’
His voice cracked and he put both hands over his face as his shoulders shook with anguish. Michael turned him around and guided him through the hall, where he sat the distraught infirmarian down in his workshop. The old men slept fitfully, although Roger seemed to be watching what was happening. In the chamber at the far end of the hall, Bartholomew could see Prior Alan kneeling at the bed where Thomas lay. Julian and Welles were nowhere to be seen. Bartholomew’s wineskin still lay on the table, its contents untouched, so he poured some into a goblet and urged Henry to drink. After a few moments, Henry regained control of himself. His shuddering sobs subsided, and he was able to give them a wan smile.
‘I am sorry. I hate to lose a patient. It is not why I became a physician.’
‘You cannot blame yourself for falling asleep,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I knew you were exhausted; I should not have left you.’
‘I wish you had not,’ said Henry bitterly. ‘I hope to God that poor Thomas did not wake to find he was alone in his last few moments of life.’
‘What happened?’ asked Michael.
‘I sat here and began to grind the cloves,’ continued Henry unsteadily, ‘and the next thing I knew was that my head was on the table and Prior Alan was shaking my shoulder, asking whether I was unwell. I leapt to my feet and ran to Thomas, lest he had been calling for me, but he was dead. I hope it was a peaceful end.’
Bartholomew patted his shoulder, then went to look at the sheeted form that lay in Henry’s bed. While Alan continued to pray, and Henry and Michael looked on, Bartholomew pulled back the cover, and saw the still features of the sub-prior beneath, layers of fat already waxy white as they rippled away from his face. Bartholomew thought Henry’s diagnosis had been right, and the sub-prior had indeed slipped away in his sleep. But his stay in Ely had made him cautious: he slipped one hand under the back of Thomas’s neck and then withdrew it in alarm. Something cold and metallic was there.
Alan leapt to his feet in horror when Bartholomew tugged the inert figure on to its side, revealing the short blade that protruded from the base of its neck. The bed-covers below were stained red, and when Bartholomew touched the knife he found it was firm and unyielding under his fingers. Someone had forced it in very hard. However, there was no grazing of Thomas’s ears or cheeks, because the killer had not needed to secure his victim this time: Thomas had been powerless to defend himself.