The Tarnished Chalice (49 page)

‘Rubbish,’ snapped Miller. ‘I have never trusted her, and should have listened to your concerns years ago. What is wrong with you? I thought you would be pleased.’

Langar shot the visitors another uncomfortable look, then headed for the door. ‘I cannot say I will miss her, but this was not how I envisaged the problem being solved. But we can discuss it later; now we must be about our business, if we are to survive this confrontation.’

Miller sneered disdainfully as the lawyer swept from the room. ‘We will do more than survive – we are going to win. Thoresby, rally the men. Lora, go to Spayne, and tell him we have need of his help.’

‘Wait,’ said Michael finding his voice at last. ‘This is not the way to resolve a dispute. We—’

‘Out of my way,’ said Miller, shoving him to one side. ‘We have work to do.’

‘Please,’ begged Michael. ‘Let us talk to Kelby and—’

‘I am inclined to dispatch you, too,’ said Miller, regarding Michael and then Bartholomew with his small eyes. He spat on the floor. ‘Especially as you have just witnessed what you probably regard as a murder. You are lucky that I do not want to annoy the Suttones by shooting their friends, so I shall let you go. However, the physician can consider it a temporary reprieve.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael in a low voice.

‘I mean that if Chapman dies, then so will he.’

Cynric bundled Bartholomew and Michael out of the house and down the nearest alley as fast as he could, afraid that if they tried to reason with Miller he might change his mind about letting them go. Even Bartholomew’s recent battle experiences had not steeled him for a murder ordered in front of his eyes, and he was deeply shocked. Michael was more concerned with the lives that would be lost if Lincoln went to war, and was ready to do anything to stop it.

‘You did your best to make him see sense,’ said Cynric, holding the monk’s sleeve when he attempted to return to Miller and argue the case for peace. ‘So did Langar, but he has the wits to see he was wasting his breath. And look what happened to Sabina when she argued for moderation.’

‘Cynric is right,’ said Bartholomew shakily. ‘We are completely helpless. If we warn Kelby, he will summon his own troops, and there will be a skirmish for certain.’

‘Sheriff Lungspee will not help, either,’ said Cynric. ‘When I told him his city was about to erupt into civil war, he asked whether I thought his gate would withstand invaders. He intends to lock himself in, and only emerge when the battle is done and he knows which side to favour.’

Michael peered around the corner, watching the scurrying preparations around Miller’s domain. Bartholomew
stood next to him, seeing ancient weapons pulled from storage, and men assembling so quickly that he could only assume they had been waiting for the call. He was alarmed: he had not anticipated that Miller’s friends would be so numerous. He saw several traders among them, looking terrified, and suspected they had been forced to show their colours against their will.

‘Not everyone wants this fight,’ he said. ‘The more militant of the workless weavers have little to lose, and rich guildsmen will be desperate to protect their houses from looters. But most people are frightened, because they do not know where this dispute will take them – no matter who wins.’

‘What can we do?’ asked Michael, appalled. ‘This is our fault, for going to Miller without thinking the situation through. We must stop him, or the blood will be on our hands.’

‘No, it will be on that killer’s, Brother,’ said Cynric practically. ‘It was him who unleashed all this mayhem with his poisoned wine. You are innocent.’

‘Well, I do not feel innocent,’ stated Michael. ‘I repeat: what can we do?’

‘Find the real killer,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And then hope Kelby and Miller will listen to reason.’

‘How?’ cried Michael, frustrated. ‘I thought we had our answer when Hugh said he delivered Simon’s letter to Langar, but all we have is another attempt on Chapman’s life.’

‘I think I know who it is,’ said Bartholomew quietly.

Michael whipped around to face him. ‘You do? I suppose we may have enough clues to allow a logical deduction now. Who is it? It must be someone from the cathedral, since we have eliminated the Gilbertines, and I do not think Miller and his people would try to kill Chapman,
because he is one of their own. Well, Sabina might have done, I suppose. Is it her?’

‘I do not know how to say it,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘You will not be pleased.’

‘Gynewell!’ said Cynric in satisfaction. ‘I always said there was something odd about him.’

‘Not Gynewell,’ said Bartholomew.

‘The dean, then,’ said Michael. ‘Yes, that makes sense. The night we were attacked, it was Bresley who said we did not need an escort, and that we would be safe walking to the Gilbertine Priory alone. He had henchmen waiting, and he intended us to be murdered.’

‘The dean has no reason to want us dead,’ said Bartholomew. ‘On the contrary, he wants you to stay in Lincoln and help him keep order among his unruly clerics. I imagine he was more worried about the bishop’s safety when he told Gynewell not to accompany us – there will not be another prelate so understanding about his stealing. I am afraid the culprit is someone clever enough to stay one step ahead of us today. It is someone who deliberately sent us to Miller’s house in pursuit of the letter Simon sent Chapman – the missive Langar never received.’

Michael regarded him with round eyes. ‘You think young Hugh is the killer?’ He started to laugh. ‘Really, Matt! He might have lied about giving it to Langar – God knows, he has fibbed before – but his motive would have been mischief, not malice. Besides, he is a child.’

‘Of course I do not think it is Hugh,’ snapped Bartholomew impatiently. ‘But our culprit learned that we wanted to speak to Hugh this morning, and managed to reach him first. I think Hugh was ordered to lead us astray by saying Langar accepted the letter.’

‘It may have been Langar doing the lying,’ Cynric pointed out. ‘He is a law-clerk.’

‘I believe he was telling the truth. The note was intercepted by someone who then killed Simon and tried to do the same to us. Ineptly.’

‘Spayne,’ said Michael with great delight. ‘He enticed us away from Hugh with tales of an ailing sister, and sent a crony to tell the boy what to say.’

‘Not Spayne,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We did not tell him our plans, so he could not have known them. However, there was one person who knew exactly what we intended to do, and who encouraged us both to visit Spayne before interviewing Hugh. She did it so she could speak to him first.’

Michael narrowed his eyes. ‘I sincerely hope you are not referring to Lady Christiana.’

Bartholomew saw it was not going to be easy to convince him. ‘She insisted we visit Ursula. Then she asked Hugh to lie about delivering the note to Langar, because the truth is that Hugh gave the note to her – the woman who buys him wooden soldiers.’

‘This is rambling from a deranged mind,’ said Michael, beginning to walk away. ‘I will not listen.’

‘It is true,’ said Cynric gently to Bartholomew. ‘You cannot be right.’

‘I
am
right,’ said Bartholomew, gripping the monk’s sleeve to prevent him from leaving. ‘You saw what Hugh did when he had finished speaking to us: he darted straight to Christiana. And she asked to accompany us to the cathedral when she heard what we were going to do.’

‘She went to pray,’ said Michael coldly, freeing himself. ‘As she does every Tuesday.’

‘And she has others who do her bidding, too,’ continued Bartholomew, ‘such as the “priest” who delivered the poisoned wine to Chapman. Only an hour ago, we saw Ravenser, Claypole, Bautre and John follow her about like lovesick calves. They do anything she asks.’

‘Christiana has no reason to kill Chapman,’ said Michael. ‘You are deluded.’

‘The poison is unusual,’ said Bartholomew, thinking aloud. ‘Yet it features in the deaths of Herl, Flaxfleete and Tetford – and now the attempts on Ursula and Chapman. And there was the man who died during the plague … ’

‘Canon Hodelston,’ supplied Cynric. ‘Rapist, thief and extortionist.’

‘And I think Fat William had some sort of toxin-induced seizure, too. Perhaps this poisoning has been going on for years – ever since she arrived in Lincoln – and we shall never know how many have really died.’

‘Then what about the possibility that Ursula may have given herself a non-fatal dose because she knows we are coming close to the truth?’ demanded Michael archly. ‘She certainly has a knowledge of poisons, because she dispatched Christiana’s mother with some.’

‘There is Christiana’s motive for trying to kill Ursula,’ pounced Bartholomew.

‘Christiana thinks her mother killed herself,’ said Cynric doubtfully. ‘She does not hold Ursula responsible.’

‘She is lying,’ said Bartholomew, ‘so she will not be a suspect when Ursula dies.’

‘That is ludicrous!’ exclaimed Michael. ‘I suppose she took her bow with her when she killed Simon and Tetford, did she? Or do you think Dame Eleanor is the archer? I would not put it past her: the elderly are known to be very deadly.’

‘She does not need Dame Eleanor. She has willing priests from the cathedral to help her. Claypole is tall, so perhaps he is the swordsman. And John and Ravenser were the others.’

Michael was so disgusted, he could find no words to express himself. Cynric spoke for him. ‘The cold must have addled your head,’ he said, concerned. ‘We should return to the Gilbertines, and—’

Bartholomew ignored him. ‘Christiana spends a lot of time at the tomb of Little Hugh, where we discovered that poison. Now I see why it was in Tetford’s flask. It was not to harm you, but was intended to kill him.’

‘Why should she want to do that?’ demanded Michael, finding his voice again. ‘You just said she recruits men like him to go around ambushing people for her.’

Bartholomew could think of no good reason. ‘Perhaps he refused,’ he suggested lamely.

Michael pulled a face to indicate he did not consider the theory worthy of further discussion. ‘Hundreds of people visit that shrine, and the poison could belong to any one of them. Everything you say about Christiana is arrant nonsense.’

‘Miller is innocent in all this,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Well, as innocent as such a man can ever be. He did not poison Flaxfleete, he did not kill Aylmer or Herl, and he did not send tainted milk to Ursula.’

‘He and his cronies just hanged Shirlok, shot Sabina and are planning to plunge a city into civil war,’ said Michael tartly. ‘Aside from that, Miller is as pure as the driven snow. And now you must excuse me, Matt, because I have a killer to catch.’

Bartholomew ordered Cynric to stay with Michael, overriding the book-bearer’s objections that he preferred to be with the man who had lost his wits. He believed the monk had allowed passion to interfere with his reason, and was convinced he needed protection from a very ruthless criminal. Michael flounced down the hill, indignation in his every step, with Cynric trailing reluctantly behind him. Bartholomew watched them go and wondered what to do. Should he confront Christiana, since it was clear Michael would not do so? Or should he try to gather more
evidence first? What he had was flimsy, and he did not see her giving herself up when presented with it.

He started to follow Michael, glancing up when something brushed his face; snow was falling again. He shivered. It was bitterly cold, and he would have preferred to return to the convent, to sit in front of the fire and discuss Blood Relics with Suttone. He had had very few intellectual debates over the past year, and was surprised how much he had missed them. A cold winter’s day, with a blizzard in the offing, meant the best place for any scholar was by a hearth with like-minded company. But he was unsettled and troubled, and felt compelled to discover more about the killer.

It was a dull morning, so lamps were burning in some houses, and the air was thick with wood-smoke as people lit fires to ward off the chill. The snow began to fall in earnest, which meant it was difficult to see Michael and Cynric, even though they were not far ahead. Through a whirl of white, he watched the monk skid and Cynric jump forward to catch him. Roughly, the monk shoved him away, and Bartholomew saw his theory about the identity of the killer had genuinely enraged him.

The streets were curiously empty of people, and Bartholomew’s immediate assumption was that the blizzard had driven them indoors, and that snow might accomplish what peacemakers could not. Then gradually he became aware of furtive movements in the shadows of the darker alleys, and the few people who were out were heavily armed. He was about to hurry forward and suggest he, Cynric and Michael return to the Gilbertines while they could – to sit out the storm caused by Miller and the weather at the same time – when a figure loomed out of the swirling whiteness. It was John.

‘Have you seen my brother?’ he demanded. ‘Bautre
wants him to learn the solos for the installation ceremony on Sunday, but he has slunk off on business of his own. I cannot find him anywhere.’

‘I last saw him with Christiana at the Head Shrine.’

John’s harsh expression softened at the lady’s name. ‘She is good with him, and he is much better behaved when she is around. You owe me your thanks, by the way. I delivered that flask to Chapman, to aid his recovery, just as you asked. However, there is a rumour that it did not work, and that Chapman is dying. I am sorry.’

‘That claret was not from me. And it was tainted. Who told you I wanted it delivered to Chapman?’

John’s jaw dropped, and he started to back away. ‘No! There must be some mistake … ’

Bartholomew grabbed the front of his habit. ‘Who?’ he repeated angrily.

‘I cannot...I did not...I see the answer! Someone must have deceived Christiana, and she in turn deceived me, although she did it unknowingly. We are both innocent of wrongdoing.’

Bartholomew released him. ‘You had better find Hugh. A child should not be out in this weather.’

‘He will be all right,’ said John, backing away before he was grabbed again. ‘He has an uncanny instinct for his best interests, and he is almost fourteen years old, anyway, a child no longer.’