‘The union between the Earl and Blanche produced no heirs,’ replied Michael ambiguously, giving Bartholomew a meaningful wink. ‘And we know that was no fault of Blanche’s, given that she was able to produce healthy babies for amorous clerics.’
‘You think she did not produce any heirs for Lancaster because he discovered she had already provided someone else with one?’
Michael sighed, impatient with his slow wits. ‘No. You must remember that Lancaster was a member of the court of Edward the Second, and that Edward preferred men to women. It is generally believed that Lancaster never consummated his marriage with Blanche. When he died of the plague, all his possessions went to his sister. That partly explains Blanche’s bitterness.’
‘The fact that her marriage was unconsummated, that she lost her husband to the pestilence, or that she lost her possessions to her sister-in-law?’ asked Bartholomew, bewildered.
‘The last, of course,’ said Michael scornfully. ‘Blanche went from being the wife of one of the richest landowners in the country to being a widow with little property of her own – and that is why what she does own is important to her. De Lisle should not have set fire to her cottages at Colne.’
‘Well, all this is irrelevant anyway,’ said Bartholomew. ‘What the Duchess did with the Bishop more than two decades ago can hardly have any bearing on this case.’
‘Never dismiss anything, Matt,’ lectured Michael. ‘Who knows where this trail of murders may lead us? But the cooks are only just carrying the food from the kitchens, so it will be some time before it is ready for eating. Walk with me to the cathedral.’
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously. A long queue was forming outside the refectory, and Michael was usually not a man who walked away from a meal that was about to be served.
‘Because I want to think more about Thomas’s death before we tackle any suspects. And because I want to see whether pilgrims are still being charged three pennies for access to St Etheldreda’s shrine. It was Robert’s idea, and I was wondering whether his death has resulted in the lifting of the levy.’
‘It is grotesque,’ said Bartholomew angrily. ‘I know it is customary for pilgrims to leave gifts at shrines, but they are for the saint, not for the monks who tend them. And I have never heard of a fixed fee imposed before.’
‘Nor me,’ said Michael. ‘I was surprised that Alan allowed it. But then I saw the amount of money the priory makes from the levy, and I suppose natural greed stepped in. Alan is a good man, but he is blind to everything when it comes to financing his buildings.’
They entered the cloister, where the shade and coldness of stone was a welcome pleasure after the heat of the noonday sun. Delicate tracery cast intricate patterns of shadow and light on the flagstones, while in the centre of the courtyard the gurgle of water from the fountain that supplied the lavatorium was a restful and pleasing sound. A dove cooed on the tiled roof above, and Bartholomew caught the scent of baking bread wafting from the kitchens. It seemed inconceivable that murder should have entered such a haven of tranquillity and beauty.
‘You know, Matt, even our exalted ringside view of Thomas’s murder has not left us with any decent clues.’ Michael sounded exasperated and dispirited.
Bartholomew understood how he felt. ‘Although we saw Alan, Symon, Welles and Julian enter the infirmary via the Dark Cloister, anyone else could have entered through the rear door, knowing that we were being detained by an irate prelate and his grubby steward.’
‘Well, at least we know de Lisle is innocent of Thomas’s murder. He was with us when Thomas died, and so could not possibly be the culprit.’
‘That is not necessarily true, Brother,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘We have no idea when Thomas died. For all we know, Henry could have dropped off to sleep the moment we left for the refectory, leaving all of breakfast time free for the killer to strike. De Lisle may have killed him while we ate, then returned later to the Dark Cloister to berate you for sluggish investigating.’
‘So, it may be wholly irrelevant that we saw various monks enter the infirmary?’ asked Michael despondently.
‘Yes. Thomas’s breathing was shallow – so shallow that Henry was obliged to fetch a glass to see if he lived, while I had to press my ear against his chest at least twice during the night. A casual glance would not tell anyone whether he was dead or alive, and so we cannot read anything into the fact that Symon, Alan, and the novices failed to raise the alarm.’
‘Damn!’ muttered Michael. ‘I was hoping we might be able to eliminate at least someone from our list of suspects.’
‘We can. Henry.’
‘He was never on my list,’ said Michael. ‘Henry is no killer. But why are you suddenly so sure? I would have thought he was suspect in your eyes because he was alone with Thomas for a good part of the night and this morning.’
‘True. But if Henry were the killer, he would have chosen a time when he would not be the obvious suspect.’
‘So, what convinces you of his innocence now?’
‘The saliva Alan mentioned, basically. Drooling often occurs when someone is in a particularly deep sleep or an awkward position – and Henry was in both. Also, the amount of saliva present on the desk suggests that Henry was dozing for some time. It is not the kind of detail anyone would think to fabricate – even a cunning fellow like our killer. I might have suggested that Henry feigned sleep in order to excuse his presence in the infirmary when Thomas was murdered. But the drool is a fairly iron-clad alibi.’
‘Thomas was definitely alive after prime – we have your testimony for that. Henry would not have needed to risk dispatching Thomas this morning, with all these visitors traipsing in and out of the infirmary, when he could have selected a safer time at his leisure.’
‘He probably would not have stabbed Thomas, either,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘There are other ways to kill that are far easier to conceal, not to mention the fact that no physician likes to lose a patient in his own hospital.’
‘We will ask the old men whether they saw anything,’ said Michael. ‘They will know whether Henry was asleep or prowling around.’
‘Then you had better hope Roger was awake. You will not get much from any of the others. Another thing you need to bear in mind is that Thomas’s murder may have been someone copying the killer’s methods. Remember how I said I thought Julian might well want to test how it worked? Even if we solve Thomas’s murder, it may not give us the identity of the man who killed the others.’
Michael swore softly under his breath.
The cloisters ended in the beautiful carved door that opened into the cathedral. It was silent inside the great building, with no monastic offices in progress, and the nave abandoned by the parishioners of Holy Cross. Sunlight created patterns in the dust of the clerestory high above, and the blind eyes of saints gazed at them from every direction, as if disturbed by the footsteps that echoed as Bartholomew and Michael walked.
In contrast to the rest of the cathedral, the area surrounding St Etheldreda’s shrine was a hive of activity. People clustered around it, some kneeling, some standing, and prayers of all kinds were being spoken. Some pilgrims were awkward and self-conscious, whispering their entreaties almost furtively, as if they imagined that the great saint would never bother to listen to them and that their mere presence was presumptuous. Others had no such qualms, and their prayers were more akin to demands, often delivered with ultimatums.
De Lisle’s were among the latter. He knelt on a velvet cushion at the shrine’s head, holding the jewelled ring that he promised would be St Etheldreda’s if she would only free him from his predicament. Evidently, the deal was to be payment on delivery, because the Bishop replaced it on his finger before leaving.
Also among the multicoloured throng that surrounded the tomb was Guido, holding his gold hat awkwardly in his hands. Next to him Eulalia was kneeling on the floor with her hands pressed together in front of her and her large dark eyes fixed solemnly on the saint’s wooden coffin. After a few moments, she rose and walked away, her brother at her side. When she saw Bartholomew her eyes lit with pleasure.