‘It looks like a workshop,’ said Michael, peering into the farthest corners. ‘Perhaps that is why you saw so little bleeding on the victims: perhaps he drained their blood when they died to use here.’
‘It would not be easy to exsanguinate someone from a small puncture wound in the back of the neck. If you wanted to kill for blood, you would have to slit a major vessel, and keep the person alive as long as possible, so that it all drains out.’
‘Like butchers with pigs,’ said Michael distastefully. ‘I have never liked blood pudding for exactly that reason. But is that what happened here – the killer wanted his victims’ blood?’
‘I cannot begin to imagine what he was doing, but there are pots of what appear to be different kinds of soiclass="underline" here is peat, and this looks like the clay we have near Cambridge, while this small one seems to be powdered gold.’
Michael went to prod about under the eaves. He was silent for a moment, then gave a shrill shriek before leaping backward.
‘What is the matter?’ asked Bartholomew unsteadily, afraid the monk had finally found something truly repellent.
‘There,’ whispered Michael, pointing.
Bartholomew peered into the darkness and saw what had so alarmed the monk. In a piece of sacking, untidily wrapped, protruded the bloody end of a recently chopped bone.
‘It is all right,’ said Bartholomew, speaking in a voice that betrayed his relief as he studied the grisly object. ‘It is only part of a pig.’
‘A pig?’ echoed Michael, his face pale in the candlelight. ‘Are you sure?’
‘You can tell by the shape. It is fairly fresh, and leads me to believe that the bucket of blood on the bench may belong to the same animal. There is nothing here to suggest it is human.’
‘There is not a great deal to suggest it is not,’ countered Michael, gazing around him with a shudder. ‘I do not like being here, Matt. We have assumed the killer has gone, but he is not like other criminals we have encountered, and he does not do what we expect.’
Bartholomew followed him down the ladder, and then into the comparative warmth of the night air outside, grateful to be away from the Bone House and its sinister contents. He walked with the monk towards the Black Hostry, taking deep breaths of air to clear the cloying odour of death from his lungs. He felt a certain unsteadiness in his own knees, and wished he had not allowed the monk to drink all his wine; a sip or two would be just the thing to calm his battered nerves.
‘There is the call for lauds,’ said Michael, as a small bell began to chime. ‘It is almost morning, and we have been chasing shadows all night.’
‘But we have learned little of interest,’ said Bartholomew gloomily. ‘We know that the killer collects phials of soil and pig blood, but we have no idea why. And we know he is an able fighter who bested us with ease.’
‘Tysilia told us nothing of use, and we are still missing William and Mackerell. It would not surprise me at all to learn that they are both dead.’
‘We will rest for an hour or two, and then walk up the river, to see what we can find. And while we are out, we can visit Mackerell’s house. Perhaps he is in it, hiding.’
‘We can try, I suppose,’ said Michael without enthusiasm. ‘But I have searched it twice already and found nothing to help us. Do you think he is the man who likes making blood pies in the Bone House?’
‘Symon did say he thought he saw him in the priory grounds the other day,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘But William is more my idea of a killer than Mackerell.’
‘Mackerell is foul tempered, abusive and dishonest. And William is cunning and sly. Both possess qualities that may make them murderers.’
‘Perhaps we will learn which one is our culprit tomorrow,’ said Bartholomew tiredly.
‘I do not believe that traipsing all over the countryside will achieve anything. Still, it is better than sitting here and dwelling on our failure. We will sleep until the breakfast bell rings, eat a little something, and then do as you suggest and wander upriver. If we leave early, it will not be too hot.’
Bartholomew went straight to his bed, then slept like the dead for three hours. He woke feeling sluggish and tired. He ate breakfast alone in the infirmary, while Henry fussed over his old men, and Julian and Welles were nowhere to be seen. Breakfast comprised more of the priory’s delicious bread, a plate of smoked eels and a dish of apples. He considered visiting Ely more often, where he fared far better in the culinary department than at Michaelhouse. It was good to experience a change from watery oatmeal and cloudy breakfast ale, even if such luxuries did come attached to wrestling with killers in bone houses in the middle of the night.
When he had finished eating, he went to talk to Henry. The infirmarian seemed listless, and Bartholomew suspected he had spent much of the night in prayer, asking forgiveness for the neglect that had brought about the sub-prior’s death. He gave Bartholomew a wan smile, and leaned back in his chair, putting down the pen with which he had been writing.
‘It looks as though you slept badly again,’ said Bartholomew sympathetically.
‘I was in the cathedral until well after midnight, and then exhaustion overtook me. But, when I came to my bed, I found that every time I closed my eyes, the spectre of Thomas arose before me.’
‘Spectre?’ asked Bartholomew uncertainly. Somehow, he could not envisage the obese sub-prior in ghostly form. It would be more amusing than disturbing.
‘Yes,’ said Henry, pointing a finger in accusation. ‘I think his spirit blames me for where it is.’
‘Purgatory?’
Henry shook his head. ‘Hell! A man like Thomas will not be in Purgatory: he was too selfish and greedy. But did you learn anything from your meeting with that woman? You told me you were going to meet the Bishop’s niece, although how a good man like that can be related to such a wanton soul is wholly beyond me.’
‘De Lisle is fond of her,’ said Bartholomew carefully, not wanting the kindly infirmarian to know that the relationship was a good deal closer than everyone was led to believe.
‘Yes, he is,’ agreed Henry. ‘He is complex: arrogant and condescending one moment, but capable of great acts of kindness and compassion the next. Did you know that during the Death he was tireless in his care of the sick? He visited the houses of the poor to grant them absolution before they died without a thought for his own safety. How many bishops did that?’
‘Not many,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘And his care of Tysilia shows him in a good light. He has taken her to all sorts of places in an attempt to find somewhere she might be happy. She even spent a short spell in a leper hospital.’
‘Why there?’ asked Henry, bewildered. ‘That does not sound very safe.’
‘Brother Urban is good with diseases of the mind, and de Lisle wanted him to observe Tysilia, to see whether anything could be done for her.’
‘Nothing can,’ said Henry confidently. ‘The disease is permanent and incurable. She is a lunatic, and that is all there is to it. She is probably harmless, but she will never find a place in normal society.’
Bartholomew’s own experiences with Tysilia led him to concur with Henry’s diagnosis. ‘She told us little of use last night. Everything she said was hearsay, and she knows nothing that can help us. But you say you left the cathedral after midnight. Did you see anything unusual?’
‘Such as what?’
‘Michael and I met the killer last night. He was doing something horrible with pots of dirt and what appeared to be the parts of a dead pig. We disturbed him at his work and wrestled with him, but he escaped.’
‘You encountered him?’ breathed Henry in horror. ‘You had this man in your grasp and you let him go?’
‘We did not do it intentionally,’ said Bartholomew, slightly testily. ‘But it happened just after midnight, so did you see anything?’
Henry shook his head slowly. ‘Nothing that could be relevant. The gypsies were at St Etheldreda’s shrine for a long time.’