The Tainted Relic (36 page)

‘That is impossible to prove…’ warned Michael, thinking the supposition unsound, to say the least.

‘It is very simple to prove,’ countered Seton. ‘No blood–soaked into the True Cross or anything else–came from the Holy Sepulchre. It is a lie, perpetrated by greedy and unprincipled men. Did you see the parchments they claim authenticate the thing?’

Michael nodded. ‘One was ancient, and bore the seal of a bishop.’

‘It probably is old,’ agreed Seton. ‘It was signed by a knight named Geoffrey Mappestone, who then affixed the seal of the Bishop of Durham.’

‘So?’ asked Michael, not understanding the man’s point.

Seton made a moue of impatience. ‘So the Bishop of Durham at that time was
not
Mappestone, but a man named Ranulf Flambard. Flambard never set foot in the Holy Land–we know about his life from ecclesiastical records–and so could
never
have set his seal on this document. And if the relic were real, do you not think it would have been venerated at Flambard’s own cathedral at Durham? But no! Andrew’s splinter has been hidden in an obscure priory in Exeter. If you view it with an unbiased, dispassionate mind, you will see the whole thing is ridiculous.’

Bartholomew thought he might well be right. There were enough ‘genuine’ pieces of the True Cross to crucify the King’s entire army, and fragments could be bought for pennies, although to claim this one was stained with Holy Blood made it a little unusual. If Witney was about to expose Andrew and his acolyte as charlatans, however,–and perhaps deprive them of a handsome gift from a grateful Norwich abbey–then it was certainly a good motive for murder.

‘That pair killed my colleague,’ reiterated Seton firmly. He wrinkled his nose suddenly, and looked around him with disapproval. ‘Ever since you arrived, I have been unable to get the stench of fish from my nose. Do you smell it, too?’

‘No,’ said Michael sharply, brushing his shoulder.

‘What do you think, Matt?’ asked Michael, as he and Bartholomew left St Bernard’s Hostel and started to walk to Michaelhouse together. It was almost dark, although the western sky was still tinged pink by the summer sun.

Because it was summer, many folk had been labouring in the fields outside the town, harvesting grain before the fine weather broke. Too much sun meant it had been a poor year for crops, however; granaries were half empty, and there would not be enough to see the poorer folk through the winter. The street along which they walked was baked as dry as fired clay, although the manure that carpeted it meant it was never really hard under foot. The river was unnaturally low, some brooks had run dry, and the entire town stank. Earlier that week, Bartholomew had gone to visit his sister in a nearby village, and when he had returned his eyes had stung and watered from the acrid stench of rotting sewage, festering entrails abandoned by the slaughterhouses, and the rank aroma of unsold fish on the quays. Living in the town, he had not realized how bad the reek had become.

‘What do I think about the cursed–and potentially fraudulent–relic? Or what do I think about Seton’s claim that Witney was murdered?’ asked Bartholomew, glancing up to see the first of the stars begin to twinkle. A soft breeze blew from the south, although it was hot and arid, and did little to reduce the heat.

‘Both. But take the relic first. Do you think it is real?’

‘I have no idea, but I have been offered two fragments of the True Cross this week alone, and there is always someone trying to sell some sacred body part or item once owned by Christ and His saints. Why should Andrew’s be different?’

‘Because of Andrew himself,’ replied Michael. ‘I have been Senior Proctor long enough to gauge a man’s character with reasonable accuracy, and I sense he is telling the truth.’

‘Perhaps he is, but that is not what you asked–Andrew believing in the sanctity of his relic does not prove its case. But Seton was right about the Bishop of Durham: the one who lived during the first of the crusades
was
called Ranulf Flambard and not Geoffrey Mappestone. I have been to Durham, and I was told about Flambard when I visited the cathedral. That is two suspicious things: the seal does not match the name on the document, and Flambard never went to Jerusalem. He was far too busy doing unpleasant things here and in Normandy.’

‘Then we must agree to differ. I think you are wrong, and Andrew does hold something powerful and holy.’ Michael hesitated, and his next words were blurted. ‘I sensed it when I reached out to take it from him.’

Bartholomew was startled. ‘I had not expected a pragmatic man like you to be convinced by something as ephemeral as a feeling.’

‘Do not scoff at me,’ snapped Michael. ‘It is not easy admitting that I was assailed by a wave of reverence when I saw Andrew’s blood relic, so do not make my discomfort worse. All I know is that I sensed something decent about Andrew, and something strong in his pouch.’

‘That was because he did not let you touch it,’ replied Bartholomew practically, supposing he had better nip Michael’s uncertainties in the bud before they interfered with his investigation. ‘Such tactics work on the feeble minded, but I am surprised you succumbed.’

‘Seton was right,’ retorted Michael irritably. ‘You are a physician and know nothing of theology. But we should not argue when we are unlikely to agree. What do you think about Seton’s claim that the Carmelites murdered Witney?’

Bartholomew considered the question for some time. ‘Urban seems a hot-headed lad, but I do not see him climbing on to a roof to dispatch his victim in so bizarre a manner–nor would Andrew condone it. As far as I am concerned, the evidence suggests that Witney was unlucky enough to be peering up a chimney when a piece of it fell. He was stunned and died inhaling soot. But…’ He rubbed a hand through his hair and sighed deeply.

‘But what?’

‘It is too convenient. A Franciscan argues with two Carmelites and threatens to expose them as charlatans and, shortly afterwards, he is found dead in an accident that is unusual, to say the least. Urban and Andrew just happened to be in the house at the time, while Seton just happened to be out.’

‘So Seton says. Andrew and Urban claim
he
was with the body when they arrived to investigate the strange sound. Someone is lying.’

‘I am inclined to think it is Andrew.’

‘I think it is Seton,’ countered Michael. ‘Urban is not clever enough to deceive someone of my intelligence–I would have caught him out in any inconsistency.’

‘Not with his master ready to step in and help him,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘You prefer Andrew because he is reasonable, whereas Seton is aggressive, rude and arrogant. But character does not make a murderer or an innocent.’

‘So,’ concluded Michael as they reached Michaelhouse and hammered on the gate to be allowed in, ‘you believe Witney threatened to expose the Carmelites’ relic as a forgery, and they killed him before he could do so. Meanwhile, I think Witney and Seton had some sort of argument that left one of them dead. You say yourself that he squabbled with Big Thomas the other day, so he was clearly a quarrelsome sort of fellow–and he died as a result of it.’

‘How? Did he wait obligingly with his head inside the hearth while Seton dropped a stone down the chimney?’

‘Why not? It is what you envisage Urban doing.’

Bartholomew rubbed his chin, and nodded an absent greeting to the night porter who had opened the gate. ‘It does not make sense, does it? You and I have our suspects, but the reality is that we cannot prove there
was
a murder. It is more likely–far more likely–that Witney died in an odd, freakish accident.’

Michael was unwilling to dismiss the case so soon. ‘What do you think of Tomas? He seems to crop up with suspicious regularity in this case–he quells public quarrels between Witney and the ex-thatcher; he knows a good deal of blood relic theology, Witney’s favourite subject; however, we are told that his knowledge of angels–Seton’s speciality–is lacking.’

‘I do not see why Tomas should be involved in Witney’s death, Brother. He is intelligent, but not so obsessed with his studies that he cannot laugh, unlike most of these clerics. I am looking forward to knowing him better.’

Michael pursed his lips. ‘You have just warned
me
against allowing amiability to colour my judgement, and now you are falling into the same trap. However,
I
think there is something unsettling about Tomas. He is a Dominican, whose Order believes blood relics should not be revered, just as the Franciscans propose they should be accorded the greatest respect.’

‘You have uncovered one or two odd facts about him, and you are determined to see him guilty of some crime. As I have told you–twice–I do not think there
was
a crime. And nor do I think Tomas had anything to do with Witney’s death.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘Because he has an alibi: he was in the Dominican priory when Witney died–and you and I were with him.’

‘So we were,’ acknowledged Michael with poor grace. ‘However, just because he did not physically scramble on the roof, hurling masonry atop the heads of rival Franciscans, does not mean he did not hire someone else to do it.’ He was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Did you say the argument he quelled between Witney and his namesake was about thatching?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Big Thomas was a thatcher before he took the cowl.’

Michael’s eyed gleamed. ‘A thatcher is an expert on
roofs
. And Witney was killed when something dropped from a
roof
. I wonder whether that is significant.’

‘It is not,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘It is far too tenuous a connection.’

Michael sighed. ‘We will get nowhere with this tonight, so we should put it from our minds and see whether there is anything for supper. I am ravenous.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘You ate enough at the Dominican priory to last most men a week.’

‘I am not most men, Matt,’ replied Michael comfortably. ‘I am different. And that is why I shall prod about this peculiar death until I have answers.’

The next day, Bartholomew spent the morning teaching, then went with two of his senior students to visit a patient in the Carmelite friary. The victim was the prior, William de Lincolne, a large man with an oddly brushed tuft of hair that rose vertically from his forehead. He had been confined to his bed since the onset of an ague, and was more than willing to pass the time of day in idle chatter with his physician. Bartholomew found it hard to extricate himself, and it was some time before he escaped to his other duties.

It was another scorching day, and he sweltered under his woollen tabard. He longed to pull it off, but the university had decreed that all college scholars should wear liveries that were immediately identifiable, and he did not want to set a bad example to his students.

He was not the only one overheating. He was just walking past St Botolph’s Church on the High Street when he saw a familiar figure. It was Father Andrew, sitting disconsolately on the wall that surrounded the graveyard, mopping his forehead with the sleeve of his habit.

‘Can I fetch you some watered ale, Father?’ asked Bartholomew solicitously, knowing that hot weather could take its toll on the elderly.

Andrew shook his head. ‘It is not the heat that ails me–I have known far fiercer suns in the past. Ten years after I took holy orders, my prior dispatched me on a long, arduous mission in the lands of the Bohemians and Magyars.’

‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew, intrigued. It was unusual to meet men who had journeyed to such exotic places. ‘That must have been interesting.’

Andrew smiled. ‘It
was
a stimulating interlude in my life. It allowed me to visit distant universities, and I was appointed as a law-keeper in one, a post rather like Brother Michael’s. But I never really settled, and was glad to return to the peaceful Devonshire hills once my mission was completed.’

‘What was your mission? To search for relics?’

Andrew grimaced. ‘I was a minor political envoy, but Prior William’s real purpose in sending me away was to cure me of what he perceived to be a dangerous obsession with my relic. However, during my absence, that prior departed and another replaced him. Master Hugh and his successors did not try to “cure” me; they left me to my own devices–until John de Burgo was elected, that is.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew. He was more interested in the man’s journeys than in what had happened when he returned; even the name of the kingdoms of the east brought back memories of his own travels. ‘How far did you go?’

But Andrew did not share his enthusiasm. ‘Too far, and I was glad to be home.’ He sighed, and wiped his head again.

‘What ails you, if not the heat?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Can I help?’

Andrew indicated Bartholomew’s bored medical students, who waited at a discreet distance. ‘I have nothing a physician can cure, and your boys are restless. Do not linger here, wasting time with old men, when you could be instructing them in the ways of virtue and goodness.’

‘I teach them medicine. Goodness and virtue I leave to the priests.’

‘You should take more care of them,’ recommended Andrew. ‘If you do not temper their learning with the teachings of the Church, they will make their own interpretations of what you tell them, and they will hurt you with betrayals.’

Bartholomew helped him to his feet and watched him hobble away, puzzled by the advice. His students immediately began a barrage of questions about the effects of the heat on elderly humours, and he was absorbed in answering them until one, Deynman, gave a yelp and raised his hand to his head. It came away bloody.

‘A stone!’ he cried indignantly, pointing across the road. ‘He threw a stone!’

‘Who?’ asked Bartholomew. He could see no one.

‘Kip Roughe,’ shouted Deynman. ‘He is the Dominicans’ servant, and is always jibing us because we are not theologians. He hurled the rock: I saw him.’

‘Why would he do that?’ asked Bartholomew, leading him to the churchyard wall. The student was pale, and he did not want him to faint.