The Tainted Relic (37 page)

‘He is just plain nasty,’ replied Deynman, tilting his head so Bartholomew could inspect it. The wound was not serious, although, like many scalp injuries, it bled profusely. ‘He has no reason to lob missiles at me. I have never even spoken to him, although I know who he is–everyone does, because he is a lout.’

‘He even brawls with students from his own institution,’ added his friend. ‘Poor Bulmer has a sore face from one of his punches.’

Bartholomew recalled Bulmer’s jaw–a nasty bruise that would make eating painful for weeks to come. He gave Deynman a clean dressing to hold to the cut and sent him home. He warned him not to retaliate to Roughe’s assault, knowing how quickly such situations could escalate, and watched until he was out of sight. Then he marched towards St Botolph’s Church and stamped inside.

The interior was cool and dark after the brilliance outside, and it took a moment for his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. Then he saw two shadows easing silently along the south aisle, aiming for the priest’s door in the chancel. He broke into a run and had Kip Roughe by the scruff of his neck before he could reach it. Kip was a burly fellow, with the kind of battered face that indicated he enjoyed a brawl, while his brother John was larger. It occurred to Bartholomew that it was unwise to tackle them when they could easily overpower him, but the grabbing was done and he knew it would be a mistake to reveal his unease.

‘What did you think you were doing?’ he demanded, not relinquishing his hold. ‘You could have hit Deynman’s eye, and blinded him.’

‘It was an accident,’ objected Kip. He tried to free himself, and looked angry when he found he could not. ‘We were aiming at the pigeons.’

John stepped forward in a way that was threatening, so Bartholomew released his brother and pushed him hard, so they stumbled into each other. ‘I will report this to Prior Morden,’ he said coldly. ‘He can decide what to do with you.’

‘It will be your word against ours,’ said John, leaning against a pillar and removing his knife from his belt. ‘Who will believe you?’

‘Morden,’ replied Bartholomew curtly. ‘And the Senior Proctor.’

‘Let’s go, John,’ said Kip sullenly. ‘I am not staying here to be threatened.’

John pulled away from him. ‘We are alone here. No one will—’

‘People saw him chase us in here,’ snapped Kip. He took a firm hold of his brother’s arm and dragged him outside, leaving Bartholomew angry and unsettled.

Bartholomew sat for a while in the church, relishing the coolness of the stones after the heat of the day, and left only when scholars from the Hall of Valence Marie entered for their afternoon prayers. They were noisy, speaking loudly about a debate that had just ended, and shattered the peace with their strident voices. Bartholomew emerged into the sharp afternoon sunlight, and looked both ways along the street, wondering whether the Roughe brothers might still be there, ready to lob stones again. As he did so, he saw Michael outside St Bernard’s Hostel. The monk was standing on the opposite side of the road, his eyes fixed on the roof. Bartholomew went to join him.

‘Do you think you will understand how Witney died if you stare up there long enough?’ he asked, amused by the monk’s intense interest.

Michael did not smile back. ‘Look at the chimney and tell me what you see.’

‘Stone tiles, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, not sure what the monk wanted him to say. ‘This is an old building, so some are probably worn.’

‘I must know for certain,’ said Michael. ‘I want you to go up there and look.’

Bartholomew laughed at his audacity. ‘Do you, indeed! Well, you can go and do it yourself.’

‘I cannot. I am too heavy–do not deny it, because you are always telling me to eat less–but you are fit and agile. It will only take a moment.’

‘And how do I get up there?’ asked Bartholomew, who had no intention of doing anything so perilous. ‘Fly?’

‘I suggest you use a ladder, like everyone else. Bene’t College has a long one; I will fetch it for you.’

Before the physician could object, he was gone, and Bartholomew was left alone at the side of the street doing much what the monk had been doing just moments before. He saw Andrew and Urban pass by on the opposite side of the road, the teacher deep in a monologue and his student straining to appear interested. Andrew looked ill and tired, and Bartholomew was concerned by how heavily he leaned on Urban’s arm.

‘I heard what happened,’ came a voice close enough to make him jump.

‘Tomas!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, regaining his composure, and smiling a greeting. The Dominican stood next to him, gazing up at the roof.

‘The word is that Witney was crushed by a chance stone that fell down the chimney,’ said Tomas. ‘I have also been told he died because he touched a sacred relic–a cursed sacred relic. Did Father Andrew mention this to you?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Why should he not?’

Tomas shrugged. ‘I thought he might try to keep it a secret, lest the Chancellor demand he hand the thing over to a higher authority. He is old and frail, and may not have the strength to refuse.’

‘He
is
concerned that someone might take it. He claimed Witney tried.’

‘Witney was a Franciscan, and his Order is determined to preserve blood relics. Perhaps he was trying to make sure it was kept safe.’

It was a possibility Bartholomew had already considered, but it was interesting to hear it from another quarter. ‘Did Witney follow his Order’s teaching or did he have his own opinion?’

Tomas shrugged. ‘I have no idea: we never shared personal reflections on that debate. He did tell me he was horrified Andrew carried such a thing around his neck, and it is possible a misunderstanding arose–that Andrew mistook a well-meaning gesture for something else.’

‘You knew Witney,’ said Bartholomew, recalling him singing the Franciscan’s praises at the Dominican priory the previous day.

Tomas nodded. ‘His main interest was the Holy Blood debate, and he was deeply involved in the question of whether it is possible for Christ’s blood to exist as a sacred form outside His body–if His body was fully raised from the dead, then His blood would have been resurrected with him. He expressed some very powerful theories, all very well phrased, and his logic could not be faulted.’

‘Was he firm enough in his beliefs to make someone want to kill him?’

Tomas gazed at him, and answered with a question of his own. ‘Are you saying his death was not an accident? It was not the relic’s curse that killed him, but some jealous mortal?’

Bartholomew made no attempt to keep the scepticism from his face. ‘I do not believe a relic–cursed or otherwise–can bring about a man’s death.’

Tomas raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you not? But Seton told me you have been appraised of this relic’s history. Are you not suspicious of the amount of blood in its history? Personally, I err on the side of caution: I do not know whether such things can manifest themselves, but I treat them with respect lest they do. It is a policy that has served me well for many years.’

Bartholomew was surprised that Tomas, a Dominican friar, should adopt such a stance, but supposed Michael had done as much, too, despite his customary scorn for superstition. ‘You did not answer my question. Was Witney the kind of man whose strong opinions caused offence?’

Tomas considered, then nodded. ‘It is possible. However, although he was not easy to like, I do not think having an objectionable character is a good motive for murder.’

‘He was objectionable?’

‘He was not always pleasant, and I sensed a certain dishonesty–that some of the ideas he expounded were not his own.’

‘A theory thief?’

Tomas shuffled uncomfortably. ‘I should not have been so blunt, but yes. A few of his ideas actually came from Meyronnes, the Franciscan theologian. Witney was a brilliant logician, and few could best him in an argument, but he was not an original thinker.’

‘And Seton?’

‘His theories about angelic manifestations are all his own. However, since Witney did not “borrow” ideas from Cambridge men, I do not see how plagiarism is relevant to his death. Are Michael and the Roughe brothers carrying a ladder?’

‘He wants me to inspect the roof,’ said Bartholomew resentfully, scowling at monk and servants as they approached. Kip and John did not acknowledge him.

‘That is a good idea, especially since Seton is watching–he will see you taking his accusations seriously, and even if you find nothing, he will know the Senior Proctor did everything possible to investigate the death of his colleague. Do you want me to help?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew. Then he saw the Roughe brothers lean the ladder against the wall in a way that was precarious, and changed his mind. ‘You can hold the bottom. It looks unstable.’

‘It is unstable,’ said Tomas, elbowing the servants out of the way while he set the steps in a more secure position. Bartholomew could not but help notice the unreadable glance that passed between Kip and John. Had they wanted him to fall? He took Michael to one side.

‘Did you ask Kip about his fight with Bulmer?’

Michael nodded. ‘While we were waiting to borrow the ladder. It was all Bulmer’s fault, of course: Kip was innocently drinking ale when Bulmer attacked him. Bulmer is a troublemaker, and Kip knows that–without independent witnesses, it will be impossible to prove who started the fracas.’

Given his own recent experiences with the sullen servants, Bartholomew was not so sure. ‘Did you ask what they were quarrelling about?’

Michael waved a dismissive hand. ‘I did not, but it will be over poorly cleaned shoes, or whether Bulmer paid Kip enough for making his bed. It will be nothing of consequence.’

‘Ask him,’ suggested Bartholomew.

Michael sighed, but did as he suggested.

‘Bulmer was spying,’ came the unexpected reply. Kip was simultaneously indignant and sanctimonious, neither expressions that sat well on his pugilistic features. ‘Prior Morden does not approve of behaviour that brings Dominicans into disrepute, so I suggested Bulmer should stop. He refused, and we fought. He threw the first punch, though, as I told you earlier, Brother.’

Michael scratched his chin. ‘And whom was Bulmer spying on?’

‘He was lurking outside St Andrew’s Church, where the whores display their wares. It was even more reason to send him back to his prior.’

‘Right,’ said Michael flatly. ‘And your sole intention was to protect the Dominicans’ reputation?’

Bartholomew grabbed his arm and tugged him out of earshot. ‘Several prostitutes
do
work near that church, and Bulmer
is
the kind of novice to forget his vow of celibacy and hire one now and again. But Seton mentioned that Tomas also visits St Andrew’s Church–as does Seton himself, and perhaps Witney, too. I think you should interview Bulmer and find out
exactly
what he was doing when he was caught by his friary’s servants.’

With Michael and the Roughe brothers holding the bottom of the ladder, Bartholomew climbed to the top, expecting at every step that a rung would break and send him tumbling to the ground below. Then he became aware of Tomas behind him.

‘What are you doing?’ he demanded, grasping the rungs tightly.

‘It is much safer with two,’ replied Tomas. ‘Brother Michael declined to oblige, and I do not think Kip or John would be much help, so I came myself.’

Bartholomew nodded his thanks, and stepped on to the roof, clutching one of the bands that held the thatch in place. As he did so, and while his balance was at its most precarious, the ladder jerked to one side.

‘Hey!’ came Michael’s angry voice as Bartholomew scrabbled to gain a handhold. ‘Be careful!’

‘I am sorry,’ said John, not sounding at all repentant. ‘My hand slipped.’

‘Then do not let it slip again,’ called Tomas, shocked. Bartholomew glanced at him and saw that his face was white. ‘Bartholomew almost fell, and so did I.’

‘You might topple to your dooms yet,’ called Kip carelessly. ‘I had to climb on the friary thatch a few weeks ago, and it was very slippery. Men who poke about on roofs are asking for accidents.’

While Bartholomew pondered what sounded ominously like a threat, he became aware that the ladder was moving again, as Tomas clambered up next to him.

‘Do not stand there,’ advised Tomas. ‘Go to your right.’

‘Why?’ demanded Bartholomew, declining to comply. He did not feel comfortable so far above the ground, and disliked the way his legs were shaking.

‘Big Thomas was a thatcher, and knows a lot about roofs. He told me never to stand where you are now, because that is the part most vulnerable to decay and instability.’

Hastily, Bartholomew followed the advice, and together he and the Dominican made their way towards the chimney. At one point he started to slide, but Tomas caught his wrist and held it until he had regained his footing. He smiled his gratitude weakly, wanting the examination over so that he could descend to the ground again. When they reached the chimney, Bartholomew stopped in surprise, and exchanged a startled glance with Tomas. There was a harness fastened around it, as though someone else had been there and had wanted to make sure he would not take a tumble.

‘Is this from last year?’ Bartholomew wondered. ‘When the roof was repaired?’

Tomas shook his head. ‘It is recent–the rope is almost new.’

Bartholomew grabbed the chimney in a rough embrace and squinted down it, praying someone would not choose that moment to light a fire. There was a narrow ledge just inside, and several broken tiles had been placed on it.

‘Missiles,’ mused Tomas thoughtfully, lifting one out to inspect. ‘It looks as though someone intended to drop them down the chimney. They have not been here long, because they would be more covered in soot if they had.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘You know rather a lot about this kind of thing.’

‘I was a proctor–or its equivalent–at Pécs, and investigated far more deaths than would be considered decent by my order. I became quite adept at it.’

Bartholomew returned his friendly smile, trying to hide the clamouring thought that would not be silenced: had Brother Tomas learned enough from solving murders to be skilled at committing one himself?