The Tarnished Chalice (11 page)

‘So do fishwives,’ said Suttone in an undertone. ‘And it is not seemly.’

‘May I have a word with Brother Michael alone, Roger?’ asked Gynewell, after several attempts to change the subject had failed, and they were still discussing the Gilbertines’ unusual approach to their devotions a quarter of an hour later. ‘Please stay, Doctor. What I have to say is not private.’

‘No?’ asked Roger, settling himself behind his table. ‘Then I shall stay, too.’

‘It pertains to Cambridge, Roger,’ said Gynewell, prodding the fire with a poker. He added several logs and jabbed them until the flames roared. ‘You will be bored, and I am sure you have a lot to do.’

‘Not really,’ said Roger, leaning back comfortably. ‘And I am always interested in learning about new and exotic locations. I hear Cambridge sits on a bog, just like Ely.’

‘And I hear Lincoln is full of imps,’ retorted Michael, irritated by the dual slur on his town and his abbey. ‘Little ones, which hurl rocks at the choir during masses.’

Gynewell cackled his mirth, and it occurred to Bartholomew that he looked rather demonic himself, with his horn-like hair and gap-toothed grin. ‘The Lincoln imp is a charming folk tale, Brother. But I am starving. Would you mind showing Ravenser here where you buy those lovely red marchpanes, Roger? He can never find the right shop, and I am sure you will not mind obliging your old bishop.’

‘And purchase a few Lombard slices while you are at it,’ suggested Michael opportunistically. He smiled slyly. ‘The Benedictines will certainly provide me with an unlimited supply of pastries if I stay with them. But if the Gilbertines do the same, I shall have no reason to leave.’

Roger stood reluctantly, knowing he was outmanoeuvred. ‘The bakeries will open soon, so I shall see what we can do. However, the Black Monks will not give you Lombard slices, Brother. I told you – they have no money with which to pamper their guests.’

‘And if they did, they would spend it on themselves,’ added Ravenser nastily, swallowing a second goblet of wine before turning to leave.

‘I shall come with you, Father Prior,’ said Suttone. ‘I dislike Lombard slices, and red marchpanes sound unpleasant. I must make sure you buy something I will enjoy, too.’

He, Roger, Hamo and Ravenser left together, and Gynewell grinned conspiratorially at the monk. ‘I see you and I will work excellently together, Brother. Roger is a good man, but I did not want to talk to you while he was listening.’

‘And your clerk, My Lord?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Why did you send him away?’

Gynewell did not seem to take offence at what was essentially an impertinent question. ‘We do not need a written account of this meeting – not that Archdeacon Ravenser would have made a decent record anyway. Did you see the state of him? He was at a Guild meeting last night, and
they can turn very debauched. Poor Ravenser seems incapable of refusing a cup of wine, but I think he drinks to lessen his desire for women.’

‘Perhaps you should try it, Matt,’ muttered Michael. ‘It would be a lot safer than traipsing across half the world hunting them out.’

‘Not necessarily,’ replied Bartholomew, thinking about Ravenser’s fragile health.

Gynewell glanced at the door. ‘They will not be gone long, so we had better speak while we can. Have you heard about this murder?’

‘You mean Flaxfleete’s?’ asked Michael. ‘We had nothing to do with that.’

‘I know. John Suttone told me you tried to help him. Poor Flaxfleete. He would have made a diligent canon, although I suspect he would have been argumentative in Chapter meetings. But I was not referring to him. I meant Aylmer – Suttone’s Vicar Choral.’

Michael sighed wearily. ‘Yes, I heard about it.’

Gynewell grinned again. ‘De Wetherset says you and Bartholomew were very good at solving murders when he was Chancellor, and thinks you must be even better at it by now.’

‘He is exaggerating, My Lord,’ said Michael unhappily.

‘Perhaps, but Bishop de Lisle also extolled your virtues, and he seldom has a good word to say about anyone. You are exactly the kind of man I would like in my cathedral Chapter, and I hope you will stay with us for a very long time before you leave young Tetford in charge.’

Michael’s smile was pained. ‘Unfortunately, I have pressing duties in Cambridge, and I am obliged to leave the day after the installation.’

Gynewell’s face fell in dismay. ‘So soon? There is so much I want to show you!’

‘I will return,’ said Michael, more kindly. ‘In the summer, when the students are no longer in residence, and my own town is quiet. Then I shall spend two or three months here.’

Gynewell’s expression was wistful. ‘That would be delightful, although it seems a long time to wait. Will you help me with Aylmer’s murder? Prior Roger seems content to let the matter lie, but an unlawful killing on sacred ground is a serious matter, and I would like the culprit under lock and key as soon as possible. I shall grant whatever authority you need to investigate.’

Michael frowned. ‘Surely you have your own agents for this kind of thing? De Lisle does.’

‘Of course, but they are busy policing the felons gathering for Miller’s Market, and have no time to look into the death of a man no one liked very much.’

‘He was unpopular?’ asked Bartholomew, his heart sinking on Michael’s behalf. If Aylmer had a lot of enemies, it might be very difficult to locate the real killer.

‘It grieves me to speak ill of the dead,’ said Gynewell. ‘But there is no point in my telling you he was an angel, because he was not. I would not be so concerned, if it were not for this chalice.’

‘What chalice?’ asked Michael.

‘The Hugh Chalice,’ explained Gynewell. ‘It belonged to St Hugh of Lincoln, so is a very valuable relic. Father Simon has offered to donate it to the cathedral when he is installed, but I am not sure we should accept it.’

‘Why not?’ asked Michael. ‘If it really did belong to St Hugh, it will attract pilgrims. And pilgrims bring trade to the city and will leave donations at his shrine. And the shrine is in your cathedral.’

‘I know,’ said Gynewell. ‘But this particular relic has an odd history. The story goes that Hugh was holding it when
he died in London’s Old Temple. It stayed there for a hundred and thirty years, until my predecessor, Bishop Burghersh, arranged for it to be brought here.’

‘Burghersh died years ago,’ said Michael. ‘Did his arrangements fail, then? And why is it Simon’s to donate?’

‘It never arrived,’ explained Gynewell. ‘It was stolen on its journey north twenty years ago, and its whereabouts were a mystery until it reappeared in the hands of a relic-seller recently. It was fortunate Simon happened to hear about it, or one of Lincoln’s convents might have snapped it up. However, I cannot help but wonder at the coincidence.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael.

Gynewell shrugged. ‘Let us say I am suspicious. It was missing for two decades, and then suddenly it is about to be presented to the cathedral for no charge. It is too good to be true. In essence, I would like to know where it has been in the interim.’

‘Perhaps it is not the real cup,’ suggested Michael. ‘That is the most rational explanation. You must have come across forgeries in the past.’

‘It is no forgery,’ declared Gynewell with startling conviction. ‘I am absolutely convinced of its authenticity. My dean disagrees, though. He held it in his hands, and said it did not instil in him a proper sense of reverence. I asked him to explain further, but he is not very good with words.’

‘I understand him,’ said Michael. ‘We had some bones in Cambridge a few years ago, which were said to belong to a saint. Only the more perceptive of us saw they were not holy.’

‘The more “perceptive” of us also knew they had been hacked from a pauper,’ added Bartholomew.

‘So, Dean Bresley thinks our Hugh Chalice is not the real one,’ said Gynewell, off in a world of his own. ‘However, I feel with every fibre of my being that he is wrong.’

‘Why mention your dean’s scepticism if you disagree with him?’ asked Michael.

‘You cannot investigate the matter properly unless you are fully informed,’ replied Gynewell. ‘And you should be aware that the chalice has provoked conflict among your future colleagues – the dean doubts its sanctity, but most of the Vicars Choral do not.’

‘Thank you for being candid, My Lord,’ said Michael. ‘But I thought you wanted me to find Aylmer’s killer. What has the Hugh Chalice to do with him?’

‘It is very simple,’ said Gynewell. ‘Aylmer was holding it when he was stabbed.’

It was not long before the door opened and Roger entered with a plate of Lombard slices. Bartholomew was keen to go in search of Spayne, but did not want to offend the prior by racing away the moment he arrived with his victuals. He lingered awhile, then made his escape when Michael announced that he was going to begin his investigation into Aylmer’s murder. Suttone volunteered to help, but the offer was a half-hearted one, and he was visibly relieved when the monk said the best thing he could do was act as Michaelhouse’s ambassador by charming their hosts. Gravely, Suttone agreed to sample the Gilbertines’ pastries, all in the interests of establishing friendly relations between the Cambridge College and the Lincoln convent.

‘I do not want to stay here,’ said Michael resentfully, as they left Suttone to his arduous duties. ‘And nor do I want to investigate a suspicious death.’

‘Neither do I,’ said Bartholomew. ‘If Spayne tells me where Matilde might be, I would like to leave as soon as possible. I will not abandon you to investigate this stabbing alone, but I do not want to wait weeks before going after her. The delay might see her slip through my fingers again.’

‘We had better get on with it, then,’ said Michael. He sighed. ‘I did not think accepting a prebendal stall would see me inconveniently beholden to a second bishop.’

‘I suppose you can still decline the honour,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I do not think de Lisle will be very pleased if you do, though. He said he had sacrificed a good deal to secure it for you.’

Michael nodded. ‘He was obliged to promote three of Gynewell’s archdeacons to posts in his own See in return.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘But to return to the murder, I am under the impression that it is not Aylmer’s death that worries Gynewell. What bothers him is the prospect of accepting the Hugh Chalice if it is implicated in a crime.’

‘How will you begin your work?’

‘By looking at Aylmer’s corpse. It lies in the mortuary chapel, and I was hoping you might spare a few moments to help me. I know you are eager to visit Spayne, but I will come with you to interview him, if you oblige me with Aylmer now.’

‘I do not need you with me when I talk to Spayne.’ Bartholomew was surprised the monk should think he might, given that he had spent the last year and a half making enquiries on his own.

‘Do not be so sure,’ said Michael. ‘He may not want to help you – a man determined to marry the woman who rejected him – but he may be more forthcoming with a monk.’

Bartholomew supposed he had a point. ‘Can we see Spayne first, then inspect Aylmer?’

Michael tapped him on the arm with a plump forefinger. ‘You dallied weeks in Cambridge after hearing about Spayne from Matilde’s friend – waiting for term to end so Suttone and I could travel to Lincoln for our installation. Why the sudden hurry?’

‘Because people here knew Matilde, and they have made the search real again.’

‘The trail is still six years old, Matt. Be patient, and do not allow your expectations to rise too high. I do not want you crushed with disappointment again – like that time you heard she had gone to Stamford, only to learn she had not been there in a decade.’

Bartholomew nodded. The monk was right, and he tried to put Matilde out of his mind. He was about to follow him inside a low, dismal building, when he spotted Father Simon’s pockmarked face. The priest was leaning against a disused stable, in earnest conversation with a fellow wearing crimson hose. When a group of lay-brothers clattered towards them, carrying pails of milk and sharing some ribald joke, Simon started in alarm and shoved his companion out of sight, placing a hand over the fellow’s mouth to stop him from speaking. The man put up a token struggle at the rough treatment, but desisted when Simon whispered something urgent. Simon scanned the yard quickly when the cowherds had gone, although he failed to notice Bartholomew watching him. Then he and his companion finished their discussion and parted quickly. Bartholomew was puzzled, wondering why the priest should act so furtively, but then dismissed the incident as none of his business.

‘I was about to start without you,’ grumbled Michael when the physician entered the chapel, as if the delay had been hours rather than moments. The mortuary was small, dark and smelled of mould. Cobwebs swayed on the ceiling, and the floor was slick with slime. ‘Still, you should enjoy this. It will remind you of how you anatomised cadavers with the French all last year.’

‘I did no such thing,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Well, I suppose there was the occasion when—’

‘You can keep that sort of information to yourself,’ interrupted
Michael tartly. ‘I do not want to lose you to an accusation of witchcraft now I finally have you back again. It would be a wretched nuisance. Besides, chopping up human bodies is not a normal thing to which to aspire.’

‘Neither is examining them for your investigations.’ ‘That is different,’ said Michael loftily. ‘As I have told you before.’

‘I cannot see in here,’ complained Bartholomew, beginning to resent the wasted time. ‘It is too dark and there are no windows to open.’

‘We will be poring over bodies until sunset at this rate,’ said Michael with an impatient sigh. ‘First you dawdle outside, then the room is too dim.’

‘Well, it is dim,’ Bartholomew pointed out, irritable in his turn.

‘Lord, Matt!’ snapped Michael, as he stamped outside. He continued to rail as he stalked towards the kitchens, oblivious of the fact that the physician could no longer hear him. ‘You are all complaints this morning. Make a start, then, while I fetch a lamp. You should have remembered to bring one yourself. You know perfectly well these places are always gloomy, and I cannot be expected to do everything. You are worse than Doctor Rougham—’