A Summer of Discontent by Susanna Gregory

talking to his brethren
     that afternoon.
    ‘According to Alan, Glovere was universally disliked because he was a gossip. When he and de Lisle had that very public argument
     two weeks ago, it did wonders for de Lisle’s popularity – everyone was delighted to see Glovereon the receiving end of some eloquently vicious insults. Now it seems that very same disagreement is leading people to believe
     de Lisle guilty of murder.’
    ‘It is not just the public row, Brother,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Even
you
think he may have done it, and you were not even a witness to this squabble.’
    ‘Whatever,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘But suffice to say that Glovere was loathed by all, and no one is prepared to pay a
     few pennies for a hole for his corpse.’
    ‘Because he told tales?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘I can see that would make him unpopular, but I cannot see that it
     would lead to such heartlessness regarding his mortal remains.’
    ‘Apparently he was a liar, too, whose uncontrolled tongue caused a lot of unnecessary heartache. Alan told me that his malicious
     stories resulted in a young woman committing suicide last winter.’
    ‘How?’
    ‘He started rumours that she was with child, which led her intended husband to marry someone else. It transpired that Glovere’s
     accusations were wholly unfounded, and were based on the fact that he had seen the girl sewing clothes for a baby. The clothes
     were for her sister’s child.’
    Bartholomew regarded the monk uncertainly. ‘But if Glovere was a known liar, why did this husband-to-be believe him in the
     first place?’
    ‘Because he was a foolish man with too much pride and too little trust. It was one of those silly affairs that would have
     righted itself, given time. Unfortunately, the intended groom acted immediately, and Glovere’s spite thus brought about a
     tragedy. But the city has not forgotten the story and Glovere remains friendless and graveless.’
    ‘And the body is in a church somewhere?’ asked Bartholomew, wishing he had not agreed to help Michael after all. The last
     ten days had been gloriously hot, and a corpse of that age was not going to be pleasant company.
    ‘Lord, no!’ said Michael. ‘No sane parish priest wouldagree to hosting a corpse for that length of time in the summer. Glovere resides in the Bone House.’
    ‘What is a bone house?’ asked Bartholomew dubiously. ‘It sounds horrible.’
    Michael started to explain. ‘When the foundations of the Lady Chapel and the Church of the Holy Cross were laid, we kept unearthing
     bones. The whole area to the north of the cathedral – where these buildings were being raised – is the lay cemetery, you see.’
    ‘I hope plague victims were not buried there,’ said Bartholomew immediately. ‘I do not think it will be safe to unearth those
     bodies for a long time yet.’
    ‘Most were found thirty years ago. But there were so many remains that it was decided a bone house should be erected to store
     them until they could be reburied.’
    ‘Why not inter them straight away? Why keep them above ground at all?’
    ‘Because we did not want to lay them to rest only to dig them up later when more foundations were needed. It is better to
     stack them safely, then bury them with due ceremony when we are sure they will not be disturbed again. Look – there it is.’
    Michael pointed to a two-storeyed lean-to building near the north wall of the priory, between the Steeple Gate and the sacristy.
     It was sturdily built, but was little more than a long house with one or two very small windows and a thick, heavy door. It
     was evidently anticipated that the occupants would not require much in the way of daylight, because the shutters had been
     painted firmly closed, giving the whole building a forlorn, secretive appearance that did not encourage visitors. For some
     peculiar reason, the Bone House had also been provided with a chimney, although Bartholomew could not see