He gazed at her vacant face as he thought about what she had told him. Was William the kind of man to relieve a silly woman of her property and then flee with it to save himself from the killer? Had he put the cup in the bag in the granary, along with the book and the gold? But then why had he left it? Did he plan to return, and take not only the treasure, but Tysilia, too? Or was he already dead, yet another victim of the killer’s slim blade? Or could he be the one with the blade, who was even now fingering it as he considered his next victim?
‘Is there any more you can tell me about William or Blanche – or anyone at all – that may help Brother Michael to help catch this killer?’
He did not hold much hope that any significant facts had lodged themselves in the peculiar mess of ideas and fantasies that passed as her mind, and was surprised to see her nod. ‘I know a good deal. But I will only tell Brother Michael, since it is he who is looking for this killer.’
‘We must go,’ said Ralph, tired of waiting for her. ‘I do not want to lose my job because you have kept me out all day. I like working for the Bishop.’
‘What were you going to tell me?’ asked Bartholomew of Tysilia. ‘I promise to pass any information to Brother Michael.’
‘I do not trust you,’ said Tysilia. ‘I will tell Michael or no one. Tell him to meet me here, at this door, at midnight tonight.’
‘How do you think you will gain access to the priory at that hour?’ asked Bartholomew, smiling at the ludicrous nature of her proposal. ‘And what do you think the Bishop will say when he learns you wander the town at night meeting men?’
‘He will not know,’ said Tysilia confidently. ‘My chamber is on the ground floor, and I only need to climb out of the window. And I will do what William told me to do when I met him late at night. I will borrow my uncle’s cloak, raise the hood and join the end of the procession of monks as they leave the cathedral after the midnight mass.’
Bartholomew considered her suggestion. Was Tysilia the cloaked figure who had wandered into the hospital and murdered Thomas while Henry dozed within hearing distance? He shook his head impatiently. He knew perfectly well that she was not sufficiently clever to carry out a careful and meticulous murder and leave no clues. But could she have done it if William had told her how? He rubbed a hand through his hair, but then decided that he could not be more wrong. Tysilia was exactly what she appeared to be, and she did not have the wits to pretend otherwise.
‘Michael will not come unless he knows you have something useful to tell him,’ he said. ‘And I see nothing to suggest that is the case.’
‘I will tell him about William,’ said Tysilia.
Bartholomew gazed at her. People tended to dismiss her as a lunatic, and to ignore her presence when they were up to no good. Therefore, she often saw or heard things that were important and, occasionally, she even recalled some of it. It was just possible that she had something relevant to say about the hosteller.
‘Midnight,’ she whispered again, her breath hot on his cheek. ‘Tell Brother Michael to come and meet me right here.’ She paused, and then treated Bartholomew to a smile that was mostly leer, so that the physician was sure she had more in mind than an innocent exchange of information. ‘And tell him to come alone.’
Chapter 9
‘The last time we arranged to meet someone after dark in a quiet place, he never appeared, and we have seen neither hide nor hair of him since,’ grumbled Michael, as he and Bartholomew sat together in the priory refectory later that evening. ‘I cannot believe you allowed Tysilia to make the same arrangement with you. Especially on my behalf.’
They had missed the evening meal – Michael because he had been questioning the monks about Thomas’s death, and Bartholomew because he had been in the library and had lost track of time – but Michael had learned that Symon had been inaugurated as temporary hosteller in the absence of William, and had hunted him out to provide him with a list of items he would consider devouring at a privately served meal. Too inexperienced to know how to deal with a demanding glutton like Michael, Symon had obliged to the smallest detail, and the repast that was set out in front of them was intimidating.
‘This is enough to feed King Edward’s entire army,’ said Bartholomew, eyeing the spread in dismay. ‘How do you imagine we will ever finish it?’
‘Experience tells me that we shall make a respectable impact,’ said Michael comfortably, tucking a piece of linen under his chin, and rubbing his hands together. He looked like Blanche, so sure she would make a mess that she took precautions before she began. ‘And what we do not finish will be given to the poor, so we are doing them a favour, in a way.’
It seemed a peculiar way of viewing matters, but Bartholomew was in no mood for an argument. His mind was still fixed on Thomas, and how the killer had waited until the sick man had been left alone before slipping unseen into the hospital to do his deadly work. It did not make him feel easy, and a chilling sensation ran down the back of his neck. He glanced behind him, half expecting to see someone with a thin blade in his hand. He almost jumped out of his skin when he saw Bishop Northburgh there, with Canon Stretton at his heels.
‘God’s teeth!’ he exclaimed. ‘It is not wise to sneak up behind men when there is a killer on the loose, my Lord Bishop. You will cause them to have seizures, like Sub-prior Thomas.’
‘I am not the kind of man to have seizures,’ said Northburgh with a vague smile. Bartholomew stared at him. The Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield was persistently fluttery and irritable, and the mere mention of a disease induced him to imagine its symptoms, but now he seemed unnaturally calm. In fact, Bartholomew thought there was something not quite right about the man. He glanced at Stretton, whose heavy features were creased into a curiously beatific grin, and wondered what they had been doing together.
‘How is your investigation coming along?’ Northburgh asked pleasantly of Michael. ‘Discovered anything new?’
‘But you resolved the case the moment you arrived, Northburgh,’ said Stretton fawningly to his companion, his voice rather slurred. ‘De Lisle said he did not kill Glovere.’
‘True, but someone did,’ said Northburgh. ‘And that is why we are here, Brother Michael. We are enjoying our sojourn in Ely, and Henry is working to find a cure for wrinkled skin for me, but I feel we should be doing something more about these charges laid against poor de Lisle.’
‘You should not drive Henry to pursue pointless remedies,’ said Bartholomew, nettled by the man’s insensitivity. ‘He is exhausted from looking after his old men and distressed by the death of Thomas. He needs to rest, not scour the library for literature on your behalf.’
‘I have promised Ely Cathedral a chapel if Henry can oblige me,’ said Northburgh, strangely unperturbed by Bartholomew’s sharp reprimand. ‘Alan will ensure he succeeds.’
‘So, what do you want from us?’ asked Michael warily. ‘I know of no cure for gizzard neck, and Matt is too busy to start experimenting with animal grease and nut juice.’
‘We have decided that we want you to investigate these murders, Brother,’ said Stretton, sounding rather surprised by Michael’s question. ‘Northburgh thinks we should not leave until we have a culprit hanged, and we thought we should allow you to find us one.’
‘Too many men making enquiries could cause problems,’ elaborated Northburgh. ‘So, Stretton and I have elected to let you do it.’
Michael regarded them through narrowed eyes. ‘That is what I have been doing – while you have been pestering Henry or enjoying the ale in the city’s taverns. What has changed?’