The Tarnished Chalice (41 page)

‘I do not think you did it deliberately,’ Bartholomew went on, ‘but you realised what must have happened when the news started to circulate about the goods’ disappearance. You said nothing, and Miller must have had a lovely surprise when he reached Lincoln and unpacked.’

De Wetherset regarded him furiously. ‘How dare you accuse me of being party to a theft!’

Michael’s expression was troubled. ‘He is not. He is just saying that haste made you inattentive.’

De Wetherset regarded Bartholomew with dislike. ‘You cannot prove any of this.’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘I do not want to. It is irrelevant
now, and all it does is help us understand another step in the curious travels of the Hugh Chalice.’

‘Perhaps St Hugh guided your hand, forcing you to put his cup on a cart bound for Lincoln,’ said Michael, trying to pacify the furious ex-Chancellor. They had enough enemies, without making another. ‘Perhaps he did not want it to sit in quiet obscurity at Geddynge. Bishop Gynewell himself told me that holy objects make their own way to the places they want to be.’

De Wetherset regarded him doubtfully, some of his rage lifting. ‘Do you think so?’

‘Why not?’ asked Michael. ‘It makes you an instrument of God.’

De Wetherset’s temper cooled a little more. ‘You have a point.’

‘I hope you will remember who brought this to light,’ said Michael, somewhat sternly. ‘You cannot bear a grudge against Matt for pointing out that St Hugh selected you to do his will.’

‘I do not mind him saying that,’ said de Wetherset. ‘I mind his accusatory tone.’

‘It is not accusatory,’ said Michael. ‘He is just awed by the divine favour you have been shown.’

De Wetherset did not look convinced, but at least he was not scowling when they left the priory.

‘Do you really believe all that?’ asked Bartholomew, when the gate had closed behind them.

‘Of course not,’ replied Michael scornfully, ‘but it may prevent him from doing something nasty to you at some point in the future. And you do not want him after your blood, believe me.’

The city felt uneasy as Bartholomew and Michael walked through it. Men were beginning to gather in huddles, and the
alehouses were fuller than usual. Merchants scurried here and there with their heads down, as if they were afraid that eye contact might result in a confrontation that would see them deprived of their purses – or worse. Many of the better houses on the main road had kept their windows shuttered, and even one or two of the churches had firmly closed doors.

When the scholars reached the cathedral, and reported Simon’s disappearance to Gynewell, the bishop responded by ordering his officials to search the Close, roping in Ravenser, John, Claypole, Choirmaster Bautre and even the boy singers. Dancing up and down on the balls of his feet with restless energy, Gynewell directed them to specific areas, although Bartholomew doubted the clerics could be trusted to be thorough. Ravenser looked as though he had imbibed too much of his own ale the previous night; John complained that the hunt would interfere with his library duties; and Claypole and Bautre carped about the inclement weather. Young Hugh was the only one who seized on the adventure with any enthusiasm, and Bartholomew was impressed by the systematic way the boy and his fellow choristers combed the land near the Vicars’ Court.

‘I am sorry, My Lord,’ said Hugh a while later. He was soaking wet, covered in mud and close to frustrated tears. ‘I was hoping
we
would be the ones to find him. Give us another area. I do not think Claypole scoured the Close churches, like you asked. We could look there for you.’

The bishop dismissed him to the kitchens to dry out, and ordered Claypole to return to the two Close churches – St Mary Magdalene and St Margaret – and search them properly. The priest slouched away resentfully, and Bartholomew suspected he had no intention of doing as he was told. Then Michael pointed out that the vain, self-important Simon was more likely to be in the cathedral than in a humble chapel, and proposed they look for him there themselves.

Bartholomew took the northern half of the building, Michael took the south, and they explored every nook and cranny. Bartholomew was near the Great Transept when he met Hamo and Roger.

‘You seem to be in pain,’ said Bartholomew, noting the way Hamo held his arm. ‘Can I help?’

‘I told you: I fell and bruised it,’ said Hamo, moving behind his prior, as if for protection. ‘I do not need poultices and purges, thank you.’

Bartholomew was not sure whether to believe him. ‘On the night Brother Michael and I were attacked, you said you were both in the chapel. Did you notice any of your brethren miss—’

‘No,’ interrupted Roger sharply. ‘No one was absent. We are delighted to have Master Suttone … I mean all of you in our convent, and would do nothing to make you want to leave. I assure you the ambush had nothing to do with us.’

‘You will not be so delighted if Michael discovers Aylmer was stabbed by a Gilbertine,’ said Bartholomew, knowing he was taking a risk by making such bald statements, but persisting anyway.

Roger licked dry lips. ‘No Gilbertine killed Aylmer. Come, Hamo. We should visit the Head Shrine and pray for Father Simon’s safe return.’

He left, but Hamo lingered, his expression as icy as the weather outside. ‘I do not like your tone, physician, and nor do I like the way Michael leers at Lady Christiana. I do not like it at all.’

He stamped away, leaving Bartholomew staring after him unhappily. Could jealousy have been the motive for the attack in the orchard? Hamo fawned over Christiana, and it was possible that he was as smitten by her charms as was Michael. Had he gathered like-minded colleagues for the
bungled ambush, hoping to prevent the monk from luring her away from the convent that had been her home for so long? And was Roger compliant, because he did not want to lose the valuable source of income Christiana had become? Miller thought the culprit was in holy orders; perhaps he was right.

Eventually, Bartholomew and Michael met by the shrine of Little Hugh. The cold weather had depleted the number of pilgrims, and it was deserted, except for Bautre, who was fortifying himself with Eleanor’s holy ‘water’. He blushed when he realised he had been seen, and scuttled away before they could talk to him.

‘Cynric told me he found Simon’s prayer for his brother Adam Molendinarius here,’ said Michael. ‘Did you see it? I am not sure I trust Cynric’s Latin.’

‘He read some of it aloud, but I did not look myself, obviously. I certainly did not believe his translation of the part that “proves” Simon was the lover of Christiana’s mother.’

‘Is it here now?’ asked Michael, taking a dead twig from a wreath and trying to rake the petitions towards him. ‘Do not look disapproving. I am a monk. It is all right for me to do this sort of thing.’

Bartholomew glanced through the railings. ‘You are out of luck, Brother. Simon used some very white parchment, and I cannot see it now. Perhaps he noticed it in the wrong place, and retrieved it.’

‘Or someone else got it, and decided Miller’s brother is fair game in the city’s feud. Here comes Archdeacon Ravenser. We shall ask him whether he has noticed anything untoward happening here.’

‘All the time,’ replied Ravenser, sounding surprised Michael should need to enquire. ‘Visitors are always using the stems of flowers in an attempt to snag jewels and coins. However, Tetford was scheduled to tend Little Hugh this
week, and he did fulfil his obligations – unusually for him. I saw him collect the prayers and read them all. He forgot to burn them on the altar, though, as we are supposed to do.’

Michael exchanged a glance with Bartholomew. ‘What else did you see?’

‘Nothing,’ said Ravenser. ‘No, wait! There was something. I saw Tetford talking to Miller later, and whatever he was saying made the fellow very angry.’

‘He could have been telling Miller he was going to close the tavern,’ warned Bartholomew, seeing Michael start to draw conclusions. ‘And so would no longer buy Lora Boyner’s ale.’

‘You should look to the Commonalty for Tetford’s death, Brother,’ said Ravenser. ‘You certainly should not search the cathedral for clues, and especially not around me. I know Bartholomew thinks I killed Tetford to get his alehouse, but he is wrong.’

‘I shall bear it in mind,’ said Michael. ‘Is there anything else you can tell me?’

‘Not really. Tetford spent a lot of time with Little Hugh the day he died. Thinking, probably. He kept reading the letter Bishop de Lisle sent him, and he drank a lot of the wine Christiana sneaks into Dame Eleanor’s flask. Still, at least he had the decency to provide a replacement pot.’

He pointed to a flask, cunningly concealed at the back of the tomb. It was identical to the one in which Eleanor kept her holy water, and Bartholomew had seen others just like them for sale at the market the previous day. The physician retrieved it with difficulty, and Ravenser sauntered away. The dust Bartholomew had disturbed in laying hold of the container made him sneeze. He raised his hand to his face to stifle the noise, then recoiled in horror when his fingers reeked of fish. Thoughts tumbling in confusion, he inspected the jug’s contents. Sure enough, it held poison.

‘So, Tetford was trying to kill me,’ said Michael indignantly. ‘And here is his secret supply to prove it. He wanted me dispatched, in the hope that he would proceed straight to my stall.’

‘He did say he wanted to advance quickly in the Church,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘Can we be surethis belonged to him? A lot of people have access to this shrine. Anyone could have put it there.’

‘Ravenser said Tetford was on duty here this week, and you have to admit it is a clever hiding place. He hatched his plot to kill me, but tried to blackmail Miller over the identity of his brother first. Fortunately for me, someone shot him before he could share his celebratory wine.’

Bartholomew shook the flask. ‘We need to dispose of this before someone else dies – dispose of it properly, I mean, by pouring it down a drain.’

‘They are all frozen solid, so it will have to go in the river. No, do not put it in your medical bag, man! We are about to visit Miller, and if he finds out you are carrying enough poison to murder his entire household, we will end up with our throats cut for certain.’

‘Well, we cannot leave it here. We shall have to go to the river first.’

‘There is no time. Did you not sense the city’s restlessness this morning? I have the feeling that unless we resolve some of these crimes fast, the place is going to explode into violence. Push the flask as far behind the tomb as you can, and we will retrieve it as soon as we have finished with Miller.’

‘Leaving poison lying around is not a good idea—’

‘And neither is carting it around a city that is on the verge of a riot. Besides, it was Tetford’s poison, and he is dead. Who else is going to use it? Do as I say, Matt. You know I am right.’

Bartholomew did know, but he was not happy about the decision, even so.

‘I know I said time was short, but we cannot see Miller yet,’ said Michael, as they left the cathedral. ‘I am too confused. I need to sit quietly for a few moments and think. With a man like Miller, asking the wrong questions might see us in very deep water, and I do not want to make unnecessary mistakes.’

‘Can you do it while we walk to the river?’ asked Bartholomew, turning to go back inside and collect the poison.

‘That will take too long, and I cannot think clearly when my heart pounds from scaling that hill anyway. We shall visit the minster refectory, and you can analyse what we have learned so far while I listen.’

‘I cannot – I do not understand it myself. I do not even know where to start.’

‘In Cambridge, twenty years ago. I have a feeling that is where this business originates.’

Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘No, it begins in London, before the Cambridge trial. The two friars were given the Hugh Chalice to transport to Lincoln, but Shirlok relieved them of it when they broke their journey at Cambridge. Shirlok then sold it to the priest at Geddynge, and within a few days had taken it back to sell again, with the help of Lora Boyner.’

‘Shirlok was caught and decided to name ten accomplices in an attempt to mitigate his sentence. Meanwhile, Chapman told us the two friars were killed on their way back to London – he said by robbers, but I suspect by Miller’s gang. Come with me, Matt. It is too cold to think out here.’

Bartholomew followed him into the refectory that served
the cathedral’s officials, where they found a table near a fire. The windows were shuttered against the bitter weather, and the room was lit and warmed by the braziers around the walls. A servant brought bread, cheese and ale, then left them alone. The physician was silent for a moment, then began again.

‘The accomplices Shirlok named were Nicholas Herl and Sabina – not married at that point – Miller, Chapman, Aylmer, Lora Boyner and four others, including Miller’s brother. Langar was the clerk who recorded the case.’

Michael took up the tale. ‘The appellees were acquitted, despite the fact that some were known felons: Herl had been accused of robbery the year before, but was released for lack of evidence; Sabina’s first husband was hanged for theft and she was implicated in his activities; and Chapman could not leave Cambridge with Miller, because he was in gaol on another charge.’

‘Shirlok was hanged, but miraculously escaped. Then the recovered property went missing, thanks to de Wetherset. Perhaps it was then that Herl, Chapman and Aylmer marked themselves with cups. Miller did not, because he said he had always wondered what the symbol meant. Later, Flaxfleete joined their ranks, although by the time we met him, he was their enemy.’

‘When they arrived in Lincoln, Miller and the others took over the Commonalty. A feud was already bubbling, and the intervention of ambitious upstarts from another county will have done nothing to calm troubled waters. How did they come to amass so much power?’

Bartholomew watched Michael eat. ‘They have had two decades to do it, and I imagine it is easy when you have lots of money. When people died and the two sides became uneven, Spayne elected to support Miller, not from any sense that Miller is good or right, but to maintain the
equilibrium. Then we come to the first death. Nicholas Herl was poisoned three days before we arrived.’