‘Eh?’ asked Roger.
‘DID YOU SEE HOW HE DIED?’ howled Michael, making his voice crack.
‘Did I see his eyes?’ asked Roger. ‘I wish I had! I would have liked to have seen him aware that it was his Judgement Day. He would have known that there was not much hope for his soul after all his years of gluttony.’
‘Thomas did have a reputation as a man who would do anything for his stomach,’ admitted Henry. ‘But I do not think that alone will send him to Hell.’
‘Speak up!’ snapped Roger. ‘I cannot hear when you whisper.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Henry, patting the old man’s blue-veined hand.
Roger smiled at him. ‘I was glad you were not with Thomas when he died, Henry – you would have absolved him of all his crimes against us, and he did not deserve that.’ He turned bright eyes on Michael. ‘Poor Henry was so tired from all his nights of vigil that he slept in Julian’s chamber while Thomas died. I saw him, drooling with his head on the table.’
‘Please!’ whispered Henry, mortified. ‘You do not have to remind me of my negligence.’
Roger’s sharp expression softened. ‘I apologise, Henry. I have allowed my dislike of Thomas to overshadow my concern for your feelings. But I am still grateful you were not there to absolve him. I am glad it was someone else.’
‘Someone else?’ asked Michael immediately. ‘You saw someone else with Thomas at the time of his death? Who?’
‘Eh?’
‘WHO WAS WITH HIM?’ bellowed Michael.
‘Armour! A sword!’ hollered Ynys. ‘The Scots are coming!’
‘I do not know whether he was a Scot,’ said Roger. ‘I did not see the fellow clearly.’
‘Was it a monk?’ demanded Michael. ‘A lay-brother?’
Roger scratched his head. ‘I did not notice. I saw a fellow in a dark cloak leave the room where Thomas lay. Later – I am not sure how long, because time means little to me these days – Alan arrived, and he and Henry went to tend Thomas. Then Henry reeled from the chamber for some air, and I could tell from the expression on his face that Thomas had taken a turn for the worse.’
‘Death is a turn for the worse,’ agreed Michael wryly. ‘It is a pity Julian had his back to the window, and saw none of these comings and goings. JULIAN SAW NO ONE COME THROUGH EITHER DOOR.’
‘I can well believe it,’ said Roger. ‘The boy is not observant, and anyone intent on mischief would find it easy to elude him.’
‘How did this cloaked man leave?’ shouted Bartholomew, looking at Roger. ‘Through the back door?’
Roger nodded. ‘He was walking slowly, his head bowed in prayer, and he was making the sign of the cross.’
‘Symon!’ exclaimed Michael in satisfaction. ‘We already have his confession that he cut through the infirmary hall to reach his library.’
‘Did you see this figure enter the hall the same way?’ asked Bartholomew loudly.
Roger gave one of his pink smiles. ‘I saw no one arrive – I doze, you see, so I may have been sleeping – but I saw this fellow leave, after kneeling a while with Thomas. As I said, it appeared as though he was praying as he went.’
‘You observed the way he walked, and yet you cannot tell me whether he was a monk?’ said Michael, in disbelief.
‘Not very often,’ said Roger, answering whatever he thought Michael had asked. ‘Few of the younger ones bother with us, and visitors are rare. Prior Alan comes occasionally, but apart from Henry, that vile Julian and young Welles, we seldom see anyone. That was why I noticed the fellow who came to see Thomas.’
‘Can you describe him?’ yelled Bartholomew. ‘WHAT WAS HE WEARING?’
‘I could not see whether he had an ear-ring,’ replied Roger, puzzled by the question. ‘Not that I would have noticed, given that his hood was up. He must be like me, and feels the cold.’
‘He did not want to be seen,’ said Michael. ‘And he wore this cloak for the same reason.’ He glanced at Bartholomew. ‘I did not see Symon wearing a cloak.’
‘But Alan’s prior’s habit is cloak-like,’ suggested Bartholomew softly.
‘All our robes would look cloak-like to Roger,’ said Henry in a low voice. ‘He does not see well. Besides, we are Benedictine monks, and all of us own dark cloaks with hoods that we could use for a disguise.’
‘But it would be unusual to wear one today,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘It is hot, and anyone wearing a cloak would stand out as odd.’
‘He probably removed it as soon as he left the infirmary via the rear door,’ said Michael, disgusted. ‘Damn it all! Here we have a man who actually saw this killer, and all he can tell us is that the fellow disguised himself.’
‘Thomas was murdered,’ shouted Bartholomew to Roger. ‘Can you tell us any more about this person you saw? It is very important.’
‘Thomas’s mother?’ asked Roger, confused. ‘What does she have to do with this? I imagine she is long since in her grave.’
‘THOMAS WAS MURDERED!’ yelled Bartholomew.
‘The Scots are here!’ howled Ynys. ‘Lock up your cattle!’
‘Murdered?’ demanded Roger. ‘You told me he had a seizure. Which is it?’
‘One led to the other,’ shouted Bartholomew. ‘Can you tell us any more about this visitor?’
‘I saw him only for an instant,’ said Roger. ‘It is a pity: now I know what he did, I wish I had shaken his hand. But I have told you all I know: I glimpsed a figure leaving Thomas’s room, and he was praying – probably asking God to reward him for the good he had done.’
‘That is not kind,’ said Henry admonishingly. ‘And if you know anything at all, you should tell Michael so that he can prevent more people being harmed.’
‘I know nothing more,’ said Roger. ‘I wish him luck in evading you, though. There are plenty more of our “sainted” brethren whom the priory would be better without.’
‘Like who?’ asked Michael curiously. Roger leaned forward in exasperation, pulling his ear to indicate that Michael should speak louder. ‘WHO ELSE WOULD THE PRIORY BE BETTER WITHOUT?’
‘Robert,’ replied Roger immediately. ‘He steals alms intended for the poor, and has been doing it for years. It is also a wicked sin to demand payment from the pilgrims who visit our shrine. And William is not much better.’
‘He steals from the priory, too?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘He pits one man against another, so that their division will make him stronger. It would not surprise me to learn that he is behind this cruel slander against the Bishop.’
‘Would it not?’ mused Michael softly. ‘Now that is interesting.’
When their questions showed that Roger knew nothing more, and that the list of monks he wanted to send to an early grave were those to whom he had taken a personal and frequently irrational dislike, Bartholomew and Michael left the infirmary and went to the Outer Hostry, to speak to Lady Blanche de Wake and her retinue.
Blanche was just sitting down to a meal, and her table was almost as loaded with food as were the ones in the monks’ refectory. There were roasted trout, plates of boiled eel, a huge pot of parsnips and a dish of bright green peas. There was bread, too, in tiny loaves made from the priory’s finest white flour. She glanced up when the two scholars tapped on the door, but did not stop her dining preparations. She rolled up her sleeves, so that grease would not spoil them, while a lady-in-waiting tied a large piece of cloth around her neck. A sizeable knife, the blade of which had been honed so many times that it had been worn into a sharp point, was presented to her, and then she was ready.
‘Interesting knife,’ said Bartholomew in an undertone to Michael. Since he had identified the killer’s unique way of dispatching his victims, he had taken to inspecting people’s weapons, to see whether any matched the length and width necessary to commit the crime. Blanche’s fitted nicely.
‘You think that could be the murder weapon?’ asked Michael in surprise. ‘And she is using it to eat her dinner?’