The Tarnished Chalice (43 page)

Michael and Langar were engaged in a sniping, dangerous debate about Shirlok’s hoard. They were intent on worming information out of each other, and the confrontation looked set to continue for a few moments more, so Bartholomew told Miller that he had left the knife he used for cutting bandages with Chapman. Miller indicated, with an impatient flick of his head, that he should go and fetch it. Heart thudding, Bartholomew stamped up the stairs, then tiptoed down them again and approached the cellar door. The smell verged on the overpowering.

He listened hard, hearing Michael’s voice raised imperiously and Langar clamouring to make a point. He glanced down the steps and saw a lamp burning in the room at the bottom. There were soft, scraping sounds, too. Someone was there. He began to descend, aware that he would have no excuse if he were caught. He moved as quickly and quietly as he could, then almost ruined his efforts by skidding on ice near the bottom. It was cold in the cellar, and a damp patch had frozen hard.

At the foot of the stairs, there was a second door, also ajar. He peered around it into a long room. Someone was at the far end, masked against the stench. It was Lora Boyner, her back towards him as she laboured over a still figure that lay on a table in front of her. Bartholomew took a step closer, determined to know what she was doing. A sliver of ice cracked under his boot.

‘Who is there?’ Lora called, looking up immediately. She squinted, because the light at the table was bright, but the stairs were in darkness, and while the physician could see her, she could not see him. As she started to walk towards him, he saw the face of the person on the table for the first time. She strode closer, so he turned and bolted up the steps as fast as he could. He was walking towards the front door, feeling sweat trickling down his back, when Miller spotted him. At the same time, Lora emerged from the dungeon steps, dragging a scarf away from her nose and mouth.

‘I dropped it outside Chapman’s room,’ said Bartholomew, waving his knife and hoping the smile he gave did not reveal the depth of his shock at what he had witnessed.

Lora narrowed her eyes. ‘Have you just come from upstairs?’

Bartholomew’s heart was pounding. ‘Where else would I have been?’

‘There is ice on your boot.’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘It is cold today, so there is frost everywhere. Look.’ He touched his toe to a place where water had frozen in a corner of the corridor. However, there was no earthly way it could have transferred itself to anyone’s foot – at least, not someone walking normally.

Miller accepted his explanation, although Lora remained suspicious. ‘So there is,’ he said, spitting at the ice and scoring a direct hit. ‘Thank you for seeing to Chapman, but he is
better, so do not come back. We will bring you the other two pearls when he is on his feet.’

‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew, hoping he did not sound as relieved as he felt. While he disliked the notion of abandoning a patient quite so early on his road to recovery, he was perfectly happy never to set foot in Miller’s lair again. He escaped from the house without another word, and walked briskly around the nearest corner. When Michael found him, he was leaning heavily against a wall, shaking violently.

‘Whatever is the matter?’ asked Michael, regarding him in alarm. ‘Chapman is not worse, is he? Langar just told me that Miller will kill you if he dies after enduring your ministrations.’

‘Shirlok,’ said Bartholomew, gulping fresh air. ‘He is in Miller’s cellar. Dead.’

Michael took Bartholomew’s arm and strode towards the city. It was mid-afternoon, but the clouds were a sullen grey-brown, which meant some of the shops on the main street were already lit with lamps. Bartholomew tried to explain what he had seen, but Michael stopped him, claiming that it was not safe to speak on roads that teemed with weavers. One might overhear the discussion, and report to Miller that things had been seen that he might prefer to keep concealed.

They passed through the crowds that had gathered to watch a fire-eater in the Pultria, ducking into the porch of St Cuthbert’s Church, when they saw Kelby and a sizeable contingency of guildsmen processing towards them. Behind was a coffin, and Bartholomew supposed Dalderby was about to be buried. The merchants’ faces were bleak and watchful, expressions that did not go unnoticed by the weavers. Inside the chapel, a priest told Michael that
Dalderby’s murder was considered an act of war on the Guild, and that he expected revenge to follow shortly. A weaver overheard, and slipped away quickly. Bartholomew saw him talking to several of his fellows outside, and knew it would not be long before the priest’s prediction became hard fact. There was menace and fear in the air, and he sensed it would take very little to spark off the kind of riot he had experienced in Cambridge.

When they reached the Swan, Michael pushed the physician inside and took a table near the fire, calling to the potboy to bring them wine. The tavern was warm after the chill of the December afternoon, and the braziers on the walls emitted a cosy red glow. Bartholomew found he was shivering, and wondered if it was the cold or a reaction to what he had seen in Miller’s cellar.

‘You are as white as a corpse,’ said Michael, when the boy had gone. He poured dark claret into two goblets as he grimaced an apology. ‘Sorry – that was an unfortunate analogy. Drink some wine; it will make you feel better. Cadavers are never very nice to behold.’

‘It was not the corpse,’ said Bartholomew shakily. ‘I have seen too many for them to shock me. It was the whole business of sneaking down the steps, and expecting to be trapped between Miller and Lora. I do not understand how Cynric has the nerve for that sort of thing. It was worse than a battle.’

‘What was Lora doing?’

‘Wrapping Shirlok’s body in a winding sheet. I suppose they intend to bury him somewhere, because he is beginning to reek.’

‘If he smells as strongly as you say, it means he has been dead for some time.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Especially as cold weather tends to retard that sort of thing. No wonder Lora – along with
Chapman and Miller – was able to declare Shirlok dead when Cynric overheard her discussing him in the Angel tavern. She had his body in her basement!’

‘But Langar thought Shirlok might still be alive,’ said Michael, rubbing his flabby cheeks. ‘Which means he may not know Shirlok is currently in need of a shroud. This suggests the other three killed him without their lawyer’s knowledge.’

‘Langar is clever, Brother. He may have killed Shirlok himself, and left the body for his friends to dispose of. If we were in Cambridge, I would suggest lying in wait with your beadles, and catching them red-handed when they go to bury Shirlok, but not here. We do not know who is a friend.’

‘Gynewell,’ suggested Michael. ‘He stands aloof from the city’s feud.’

‘We think he is aloof, but we cannot be sure he will not go straight to Miller.’

‘Prior Roger and Hamo, then. They are not too deeply embroiled in the dispute.’

‘But Aylmer and Tetford were killed in their convent; Herl died in the Braytheford Pool – a stone’s throw away; and their guest Simon is missing. Also, Hamo does not approve of your liking for Christiana, and he injured his arm on the night we were attacked. We cannot trust them, either.’

‘Well, I do not think we should involve Sheriff Lungspee. It might be Miller’s turn to bribe him.’

‘You would overlook a murder?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘What is to say Shirlok was murdered? Perhaps he just died.’

‘There was a noose around his neck, Brother. He had been hanged.’

Michael regarded him askance. ‘Are you saying you were mistaken twenty years ago, when you saw him run away?

They exhumed him and brought his bones here for some odd reason?’

‘I am saying he was hanged in the last few weeks. He is older and greyer – like all of us – but it is him without question. His face has been etched into my mind ever since he “died” the first time.’

‘And you are sure he is dead? He will not leap up and run away again?’

‘No, Brother. He is beginning to rot.’

Michael sipped his wine. ‘So, let us assume he stayed low after escaping from Cambridge, living the life of a travelling thief. Eventually, he arrived in Lincoln, perhaps by chance, but perhaps because he heard Miller and his cronies are now influential citizens. Once here, he demanded money for his silence about their past. You seem sure they were guilty of the charges he levelled against them, so perhaps he felt they owed him something.’

‘Yes, but in Cambridge, he tried to save himself by exposing their roles in his crimes. Even a stupid man will know that sort of behaviour will not see him welcomed with open arms.’

‘How long did you say he has been dead? Exactly?’

‘I did not say – I cannot, not after the merest of glimpses. The smell suggests weeks, though.’

‘So, his death could coincide with the first appearance of the Hugh Chalice, about a month ago?’

‘It could.’ Bartholomew drank more wine, and his thoughts wandered to another matter. ‘Those symbols on Chapman, Herl, Aylmer and Flaxfleete are significant: you do not make permanent marks on yourself for something inconsequential. The only one of the four still alive is Chapman, and he keeps telling us how important the Hugh Chalice is. Those signs must represent that cup, Brother.’

Michael agreed. ‘However, Miller could not dispose of it
as long as Shirlok was alive and waiting to accuse him again, and its public appearance would certainly have attracted Shirlok’s attention. I think it – along with the rest of Shirlok’s goods – has been languishing somewhere, all but forgotten.’

‘That assumes Miller knew Shirlok’s execution was unsuccessful.’

‘He did. Langar had a friend who was witness to his escape, if you recall.’

‘But Cynric overheard him tell Langar that Shirlok was definitely executed.’

‘And when did Cynric hear this? Two days ago – and you have just said Shirlok has been dead weeks. Of course Miller knows Shirlok is dead now, because the corpse is in his cellar.’

‘All right,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘So, Shirlok arrived in Lincoln unexpectedly, Miller hanged him properly, and he and Chapman were free to sell the goods at last. Chapman has a special interest in the chalice, because I think he really does believe it is sacred. He sold it to Flaxfleete – another man who carries the mark of the cup.’

‘Then it was stolen, perhaps by Aylmer, although nothing was ever proved.’ Michael snapped his fingers suddenly. ‘I see what happened! The bishop found the chalice in the crypt. And who has access to the cathedral vaults and owns a penchant for the belongings of others? Besides Aylmer?’

Bartholomew sighed. ‘The dean! I saw him steal a goblet from Miller myself, and everyone at the cathedral seems aware of his “illness”. It is obvious now: the dean took the cup from Flaxfleete, and Gynewell returned it on the understanding that the matter would be quietly forgotten.’

‘Aylmer had been unjustly accused, and perhaps being blamed when he was innocent shocked him into wanting to turn to a new page in his life. Then what? Did Flaxfleete sell it to Simon?’

‘I think he probably gave it back to Chapman, although I doubt we will ever know why. And Chapman sold it to Simon, knowing he would donate it to the cathedral, where he thinks it should be.’

Michael rubbed his chin. ‘We can make a few assumptions about Herl now, though. He became disenchanted with the “chalice fraternity” and scraped off his mark, suggesting he no longer believed in it. Then he crafted copies of the cup and sold them to Tetford – and probably to others, too.’

‘I do not think Chapman had anything to do with that, because he was horrified when he learned there were replicas. He reveres the thing too much for skulduggery.’

‘I agree. So, I suspect Herl was killed by another member of the fraternity – for his sacrilege.’ Michael finished his wine and stood. ‘We should return to the Gilbertines, and see if they have news of Simon. He may be able to answer some of our questions, and I would like to see his shoulders.’

‘He denied having a mark when you asked him about it.’

‘And I stopped him before he could remove his habit to prove it. Perhaps I should not have done.’

They left the tavern, Bartholomew light-headed from gulping too much wine too quickly. It was dark, and he wondered whether they should pay some of the itinerant weavers to escort them home, in the hope that their presence would avert another attack. Then it occurred to him that the weavers might owe allegiance to the ambushers, and would melt away at the first sign of danger. On reflection, he decided they would be safer alone. He rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, only to find it was not there: he had forgotten to bring it with him. He stumbled across a frozen heap of entrails outside a butcher’s shop, drawing a worried glance from Michael.

‘That wine did not taste of fish, did it? There was no poison?’

‘I saw Quarrel giving other customers wine from the same jug, so it should be all right. Of course, if it were poisoned, you mentioning it now would do us no good. It would be too late.’

Michael blew out his cheeks in a sigh. ‘This business is unnerving me. I am seriously considering locking myself inside the Gilbertine Priory until Sunday, then jumping on a horse as soon as I emerge from my installation and riding as fast as I can to Cambridge.’

Bartholomew glanced at the sky. ‘It is snowing again, and a heavy fall will block the road. It would be unfortunate if you were to dash away in all your splendour, only to be turned back by drifts.’

‘It would be embarrassing,’ conceded Michael. He frowned unhappily. ‘Do you think I am justified in abandoning my investigation? I know I am under an obligation to help Gynewell, but this is not my city, and I do not understand its intrigues and plots. Things are different in Cambridge, where I have beadles and a sheriff to protect me. But then I remember that Tetford is Bishop de Lisle’s close kin, and—’

Bartholomew stopped suddenly. ‘Tetford! We were supposed to collect his poison on our way back, and drop it in the river, but Shirlok knocked it from my mind. We shall have to go and get it.’