The Tainted Relic (43 page)

When they arrived at the Dominican priory to ask Big Thomas about the missing relic, Prior Morden hurried to greet them, his elfin face creased with worry.

‘Little Tomas told me what happened this morning,’ he began, wringing his hands as he stared up at Michael’s monstrous bulk. ‘It is a dreadful business, but I hope you do not think a Dominican brought about this death. A number of friars–and some were Franciscans, so you can be certain
they
would not lie in our favour–were with Tomas when Urban met his end, so he is not your culprit.’

‘It is not Tomas I want to see, but his namesake,’ said Michael.

‘He did not dispatch Urban, either,’ squeaked Morden in alarm. ‘And you must not make that accusation publicly. Can you imagine how it will look, to have one of our Order accused of killing a Carmelite?’

Michael shrugged. ‘If he has done nothing wrong, he has nothing to worry about. Where is he?’

‘Unwell,’ replied Morden. ‘He was unable to attend church this morning.’

Bartholomew felt a pang of unease. Was Barzak’s malediction working its ugly magic on Big Thomas, too? Or was he allowing an overactive imagination to run away with him? He had heard so many people say the curse was real that he was slowly beginning to believe it. ‘What is wrong with him?’

‘We do not know. Some ailment brought on by the heat, perhaps.’

Without further ado, Morden led them to the dormitory where his friars slept. It was larger than the one used by the novices, but it was a more pleasant chamber. Large windows flooded it with light and it boasted immaculately polished floor-boards, spotless walls and cobweb-free window sills. Several friars were there, sitting in companionable silence as they read or knelt in quiet contemplation. Tomas of Pécs was on the pallet nearest the door, but was engrossed in a psalter and did not look up as Morden trotted to the far end of the hall, where Big Thomas lay. Bartholomew advanced cautiously, aware that even if the ailment was something within his powers to treat, he might die regardless: the mind held a powerful sway over the body.

‘Here is Dr Bartholomew to tend you, Brother,’ said Morden loudly, as if he thought illness rendered the sufferer hard of hearing, too. ‘Sit up, so he can make his examination and calculate a horoscope for your recovery.’

‘No!’ shouted Thomas, making several men jump. ‘Make him go away.’

‘Why?’ asked Morden, startled. ‘He is here to help you.’

‘He cannot,’ cried Thomas. ‘No one can. Go away.’

So, the relic’s curse would work yet again, thought Bartholomew unhappily. Thomas would die simply because he believed he was beyond earthly help, and there was nothing a mere physician could do to prevent it.

‘You look well enough to me,’ said Morden. His eyes narrowed. ‘Are you telling the truth? You have not fabricated this illness as an excuse to stay in bed?’

Big Thomas looked furtive. ‘No,’ he said, clutching the blanket to his chin.

‘Perhaps we could speak alone,’ said Bartholomew. ‘A physical consultation is a very private thing, and I do not usually conduct them with an audience.’

‘Very well,’ said Morden, ignoring Thomas’s furious protestations as he retreated with Michael to the other end of the room. The monk watched sullenly, resentful that he had been excluded. His irritation did not focus on Bartholomew for long, however. Tomas had been distracted from his text by his namesake’s yells, and the monk homed in on him, to ask more questions about his movements during the time that Urban met with his unpleasant death.

‘You are not ill,’ said Bartholomew to the ugly friar. ‘And
that
is why you say no one can help you–they cannot, because you do not need a cure. Prior Morden is right: you feigned sickness because you want to remain indoors today. Why?’

Thomas rubbed calloused hands over his face. ‘Damn Prior Morden! Why did he have to fetch
me
a physician, when I told him all I needed was rest and good food? It is not fair! He does not foist physicians on other friars, when
they
decide to take a day off from their labours.’

‘You are malingering because you do not want to work?’

‘Gate duty,’ explained Thomas bitterly. ‘I
hate
it. Why can they not use me as a thatcher, which is where my skills lie? Have you seen the state of the roof here? It is in desperate need of repair.’ He sighed. ‘Now you will tell him I am shamming, and I will be forced to do gate duty for the next month, as penance.’

‘I will not tell him–but only if you answer my questions,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Kip Roughe brought you a box recently.’

‘He said it contained a relic–a gift from a Carmelite,’ replied Big Thomas, transparently keen to be helpful. He frowned. ‘It was odd, actually, because I do not know this Carmelite. No one ever brings me presents, and to be frank, I did not like the look of this one.’

‘Did you open it? To see what was inside?’

‘I was going to, but I have been talking to Tomas, and he mentioned a blood relic that kills anyone who touches it. He said it was missing, so I decided to be cautious, and let someone else open it instead.’

‘Who?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘Did Tomas look on your behalf?’

‘I did not trust him not to steal it, so I took it to Kip Roughe instead. Do you
promise
not to tell Prior Morden any of this? He will be angry if he finds out–and that would not be fair, because I gained nothing from it.’

‘I promise,’ said Bartholomew reluctantly. ‘But what have you done?’

‘When Kip heard what the box held, he suggested I sell it to an abbey. He looked inside–he said we needed to be sure what it contained before we acted–and there was a small glass bottle. It was the relic right enough: we were going to be rich! I hid the box under my bed, but then Urban came to see me and repeated everything Little Tomas said–only
he
told me what had happened in Devonshire thirty years ago, when his master was witness. He said the relic had come to me by mistake, and offered to risk his life by returning it to its rightful carrier.’

‘And you handed it over?’

‘I did–the boy was very persuasive, and I am not ready to die yet. Kip was furious, of course, but that is too bad. I know my Order claims Holy Blood relics have no divinity, but I am not so sure. Urban’s master died from being around this one, and so did that Oxford man who tried to steal it from him–Witney. Urban told me
he
would die, too, as soon as he had delivered it to Norwich. These things are beyond the ken of us mortals, and I am inclined to leave such matters to those who think they know what they are doing.’

‘Very wise,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Where is Kip now?’

‘I have not seen him since we argued. Perhaps he is dead–he did touch the relic, after all. Do you think the curse can pass through wood, Doctor? Will I die, because I held that damned box?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, as firmly as he could. ‘You will not die. However, your prior may have other ideas if you malinger. You do not look ill, so I would not try to fool him, if I were you.’

Thomas grinned in a conspiratorial manner that made Bartholomew feel guilty. He took his leave and went to where Michael was standing over Little Tomas. Immediately, he sensed something was wrong. Several friars had gathered in a quiet block behind their prior, and Tomas was kneeling on the floor, an expression of shock on his dark features.

‘You are just in time, Matt,’ said Michael grimly, as Bartholomew approached. ‘I want you to see this.’

‘I do not know how that came to be here,’ said Tomas in the kind of voice that suggested he had said as much before and had not been believed. ‘I have no use for poppy syrup.’

‘I have witnessed
one
use of late,’ said Michael. He held several pots in his hand, all labelled as containing a powerful soporific. ‘It can be fed to elderly friars, so they drown when they are pushed in the river.’

Tomas’s face was white. ‘You think
I
brought about Andrew’s death? I was not even there, as Urban will tell you. I was with you–you watched me try to save him.’

‘We cannot ask Urban, as you well know,’ said Michael coolly. ‘He is dead–murdered attempting to give
you
the missing relic.’

‘That had nothing to do with me,’ protested Tomas. ‘Many friars saw me—’

‘You are clever,’ interrupted Michael. ‘It is not beyond your talents to arrange witnesses to “prove” your innocence. However, no one else has strong soporifics in his possession, and a substance like this contributed to Andrew’s death.’

Tomas’s shoulders sagged in defeat. ‘Is there nothing I can say to make you believe me?’

Michael’s expression was harsh. ‘You had an ancient quarrel with Andrew, while Urban had something you wanted. You did not have to kill the boy–he was going to give you the relic anyway.’

Meanwhile, Morden had been searching the rest of the friar’s possessions. He held something up for the monk to see. ‘What is this? It looks like a diagram, but I cannot tell of what.’

Michael took it from him, and when he looked at Tomas, his eyes were accusing. ‘It is a picture of the chimney at Bernard’s Hostel, and a map showing the safest way across the roof towards it. Now I see why you were prepared to risk your life to climb up there with Matt. We thought you were trying to help, but your intention was to make sure he interpreted the harness and the pile of missiles in a way that suited you. So, you killed Witney, too.’

‘No!’ cried Tomas, appalled. ‘I have killed no one!’

‘The evidence is too strong to ignore,’ said Michael gravely, gazing at the stunned faces that surrounded him. ‘I have always been suspicious of you, Tomas, and now I see I was right. You have lied to us from the start–about the fact that you were once Andrew’s student, and about your true purpose here.’

‘To study angels,’ began Morden, appalled at what was happening.

‘To spy for your Master-General,’ said Michael harshly. ‘To find out what honest Dominican friars think of the Holy Blood debate, and to report these findings to powerful men.’ He pointed a finger at Tomas. ‘
You
are our killer–and I am arresting you on three counts of murder.’

Tomas was led from the Dominican priory and marched through the town to be placed in a cell near the church of St Mary the Great. He said nothing more in his defence, but declined to provide Michael with details of his various crimes. Bartholomew walked behind him, feeling angry and rather guilty. He had liked Tomas, and had defended him against Michael’s accusations, but he had been wrong, and he was unsettled to think he may have influenced the monk in a way that had seen a murderer left free to take another two victims–Andrew and Urban.

‘I cannot make you speak to me,’ said Michael as he prepared to abandon the Dominican in the proctors’ prison. ‘But it would be helpful if you would tell me where you have hidden the relic. Holy Blood is potent, and should be treated with respect. I would like it put somewhere safe, where it will do no more harm.’

‘Against the teachings of my Order, I am inclined to agree with your assessment,’ replied Tomas. ‘Holy Blood is powerful
and
divine. But I cannot tell you where it is, because I do not know.’

‘Urban gave it to you before he died,’ pressed Michael.

Tomas sighed softly. ‘The only words we exchanged pertained to his absolution. I knew he did not have many moments to live, and I thought the fate of his immortal soul was of greater importance than this tainted relic. He tried to talk about it–he said it dropped from his hand when he fell on the shoe-scraper–but I urged him to make his final confession instead.’

‘I will find it,’ vowed Michael. ‘I will dig up the churchyard if I have to, but I will recover it.’

‘Good,’ said Tomas with a smile that lacked humour. ‘It is a comfort to know that it will soon be in your able hands.’

Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. His comment sounded like a threat. He decided to go with the monk when he began his search, and ensure he was very careful before he laid hands on anything that looked like a splinter in an ancient glass vial. He rubbed a hand through his hair, realizing that he, too, was becoming certain there was something sinister about the relic–beginning to accept that it could do great harm to those unfortunate enough to come into contact with it.

‘It will go better for you if you tell me where it is,’ said Michael, trying for the last time.

‘I know,’ said Tomas tiredly. ‘But I cannot tell what I do not know.’

Michael locked the door to Tomas’s cell, and walked into the sunlight, heaving a sigh of relief. ‘The case is solved. The diagram of the hostel’s roof proves he planned mischief up there, and I imagine his intended victim was Andrew. Unfortunately, it was Witney who went to investigate odd noises coming from the chimney and he paid the ultimate price for his curiosity.’

Bartholomew nodded, feeling chilled, despite the warmth of the sun. ‘Tomas mentioned a discussion he had had with his namesake about roofs. On its own, it means nothing, but it is suspicious in the light of Witney’s peculiar death.’

Michael nodded, eyes gleaming as details of the case began to come together in a way that made sense. ‘He was taking advantage of Big Thomas’s expertise. But his cunning ploy failed. Still determined to kill Andrew, he fed him a powerful dose of poppy syrup to render him helpless, and encouraged him to walk on to the rotten jetty. And we know how he killed Urban.’

Bartholomew frowned. Michael’s explanation was too simple, and did not take into account some of the facts. ‘I am not sure about this. First, Urban did not mention Tomas giving Andrew potent medicine, or being present when the old man trod on the pier. He said they were alone. Second, I saw Andrew and Urban not long before Andrew died, and Tomas was not with them. And third, we know Urban was killed while Tomas was praying inside the church–we have independent witnesses who will attest to that.’

Michael did not seem discomfited that his carefully constructed explanation had several glaring inconsistencies. He shrugged. ‘As I keep saying, Tomas is clever. Perhaps he will answer these questions when I interview him again later, but perhaps he will not, and we will never know.’