The Tarnished Chalice

CHAPTER 10

Simon did not appear for prime the following morning, and the Gilbertines declared they missed his booming voice. Candles were lit in St Katherine’s Chapel, more prayers were howled and, at first light, Bartholomew went out again to see if he could find him. The promised snow had not materialised in any significant way, although there was a nip in the air that suggested the threat was far from over. He walked all the way to the Bail, asking everyone he met whether they had seen the priest, and returned via the frozen-edged Braytheford Pool and Simon’s old church, Holy Cross.

The priest’s successor, a fresh-faced youth proud of the fact that he had spent a term at the University in Oxford, said Simon had been kind to him, and had spent a lot of time making sure he understood his duties. The lad was staying with a kinsman until the burned house could be rebuilt, but claimed he had seen nothing of Simon for days.

‘I am worried,’ said de Wetherset, when Bartholomew reported his lack of success to the prior in his solar. Roger, Michael and Suttone sat in a row near the window; Dame Eleanor and Christiana were in chairs near the fire; and Hamo, de Wetherset and Bartholomew stood, because there were no more seats. Hamo kept rubbing his arm, as though it pained him. ‘An attack on Simon is an attack on the cathedral.’

‘How have you reached that conclusion?’ asked Suttone, startled.

De Wetherset stifled a sigh of impatience. ‘Because Flaxfleete is dead and Simon is missing. That means only Michael, you and I are left out of five canons-elect.’

‘And two of your Vicars Choral are dead as well,’ said Hamo, doing nothing to soothe the atmosphere of tense agitation. ‘Aylmer and Tetford were–’

‘As far as I can tell, the last time Simon was seen was when he parted company with you last night,’ said Roger to Michael. ‘You went to say prayers in the cathedral, and Simon walked home.’

‘Perhaps he is still in the city, then,’ said Bartholomew, noting Michael’s sly glance at Christiana: the monk did not want her to know where he had really been. ‘And we are searching the wrong–’

‘You said he wanted to return here as soon as possible, because he thought it was going to snow,’ interrupted Roger. ‘Why would he have lingered elsewhere?’

‘I hope nothing bad has happened to him,’ said Eleanor unhappily. Christiana took her hand. The younger woman had forgotten to arrange her hair properly that morning, a sign of her concern.

Michael’s expression was grim. ‘And we should not forget that he is not the only thing missing: so is the Hugh Chalice.’

‘It was there yesterday afternoon,’ said Dame Eleanor. ‘I saw it myself.’

‘So did I,’ said Roger. ‘Therefore, it must have gone missing between then and midnight, when we all went to pray for Simon. That is a gap of about nine hours.’

‘I have searched every building in the convent,’ said Hamo. ‘The chalice is not here.’

Michael rummaged in the bag he carried, and held a cup in the air. ‘Is this it?’

‘You have it!’ exclaimed Roger, while Eleanor and Christiana gasped in surprise, and Hamo looked peeved that he had wasted so much time searching for it.

‘Examine it carefully,’ ordered Michael. De Wetherset started to speak, but the monk silenced him with a glare. ‘Is this the Hugh Chalice you have been minding since Aylmer was stabbed?’

Roger did as he was told. He tried to hand it to Dame Eleanor, but she hesitated to touch it, so he passed it to Hamo, and no one spoke until the Brother Hospitaller looked up.

‘It is the one,’ said Roger, while Hamo and Eleanor nodded agreement. ‘Look at the engraving of the Baby Jesus. The artist gave him only three fingers on his left hand, which makes it distinctive and unique. Why do you want to know if we recognise it, when it is obvious we would?’

‘Then what about this?’ asked Michael, producing a second cup.

Hamo snatched it from him. ‘They are the same! This babe has three fingers, too!’

Michael inclined his head. ‘So which is the real one?’

‘This,’ said Hamo, pointing to the first. ‘It is shinier than the second, and Simon kept it well polished. The other must be a copy.’

‘And these?’ asked Michael producing a third, a fourth and a fifth.

Dame Eleanor shook her head in appalled disbelief, while the two Gilbertines were more vocal, shouting their dismay and horror. Hamo stood all five cups in a line, and his face was white when he informed the gathering that Jesus only had a total of fifteen left-hand fingers: the ‘unique’ carving had been precisely duplicated. Then Roger covered his eyes while Christiana swapped them around, and the prior was forced to admit that he could not tell one from the other, and that he had no idea which of the five had been in his chapel for the past few days.

‘If any,’ said Christiana. ‘Perhaps the original is with Simon – or with a thief who killed him and made off with it. His may be the real one, and these five are just poor imitations.’

‘They are not poor imitations, My Lady,’ countered Hamo. ‘They are very good ones. However, Simon’s must be the genuine relic one. Why else would it be stolen?’

‘Perhaps none is the original,’ suggested de Wetherset. ‘Perhaps there is no original.’

‘How many of these things are there, Brother?’ asked Eleanor, after the monk had explained that Cynric had ‘found’ one and the others had been confiscated from cathedral ‘seamstresses’. Bartholomew did not think he had ever heard so many euphemisms in a single sentence. ‘Or do you have them all?’

‘I doubt it,’ said Michael. ‘It was only chance that we happened to stumble on these. I would like to know how Tetford came to have four silver–’

‘Metal,’ corrected Roger. ‘I know silver when I see it. These are probably tin.’

‘–four metal goblets to give his sewing ladies,’ finished Michael. ‘And we are not in a position to make enquiries about the one Cynric “recovered”, either. It is difficult to know how to proceed.’

‘I am sure one of these cups was part of the property Shirlok stole in Cambridge,’ said Bartholomew, speaking more to himself than to the gathering. Michael shot him a warning glance, but it was too late: Roger pounced on the slip, pointing out that the physician was morally obliged to share information that might reflect on the chalice’s authenticity. Reluctantly, Bartholomew and de Wetherset gave an account of the trial. Bartholomew omitted what had happened to Shirlok at the end of it, and de Wetherset declined to mention that he had been a juror.

Hamo was gleeful. ‘So, Miller did commit crimes of dishonesty and was brought to task for them!’ he said, rubbing his arm again. ‘The Guild was right all those years ago when–’

‘The Hugh Chalice is worth far more than the twenty shillings paid by that Geddynge priest,’ said Roger. ‘It will make any priory or cathedral wealthy, from the pilgrims who flock to petition it.’

‘Perhaps the Hugh Chalice is,’ said Michael. ‘However, we cannot be sure if any of the cups we have – or even the one from Geddynge – is the original, and–’

‘One will be real,’ said Roger firmly, ‘although I cannot imagine how we shall identify which.’

‘I shall do that,’ announced de Wetherset. ‘I told you: I have a gift for that sort of thing.’

Roger gestured to the five cups. ‘Go on, then.’

‘This is not helping poor Simon,’ said Eleanor, after several moments when de Wetherset picked up each chalice in turn, but was obviously not going to be honoured with immediate divine insight. She stood. ‘I am going to the chapel, to petition to St Hugh on his behalf.’

Bartholomew and Michael left Prior Roger’s solar, and escorted Dame Eleanor to the chapel. They watched her walk to the altar and stand with her hands clasped in front of her. A psalm echoed around the building as she prayed.

‘Her Latin is excellent,’ said Michael. ‘Better than some of our colleagues in Cambridge.’

‘She likes to read,’ said Bartholomew, recalling their discussion about Hildegard of Bingen. ‘There is something I forgot to tell you yesterday, Brother. When I tended Chapman, he insisted on paying me with pearls worn by the Virgin Mary.’

‘The Blessed Virgin did not wear pearls,’ said Michael scornfully. ‘He tricked you, my friend.’

‘White pearls were also among the goods Shirlok was accused of stealing with the chalice.’

‘You think they are the same? Show me.’

Bartholomew handed them over. ‘Do you think it is possible that Shirlok’s hoard has been hidden somewhere, and is suddenly circulating?’

Michael stared at him. ‘It might be! Cynric overheard Langar and Sabina say they think Shirlok is still alive – although Miller, Chapman and Lora disagreed. Do you think Shirlok is in Lincoln, selling the goods he once stole in Cambridgeshire?’

‘It is possible, although I cannot imagine how he laid hands on them again. He ran out of the castle very quickly, and I doubt he came back.’

‘But then the goods mysteriously went missing before they could be returned to their owners. Perhaps he did get them somehow.’

Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘Or Langar did. He was a castle official – in a position to make items disappear – and it seems he left Cambridge very soon after Shirlok’s trial.’

Michael scratched the stubble on his cheeks. ‘No connection was ever made, that I heard, between Langar’s departure and the loss of this property.’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Why would it? Langar was a law-clerk, a respectable man.’

‘He has thrown in his lot with some very dubious characters since, though. It is entirely possible that his deviousness went unnoticed in Cambridge. You have said from the start that there was something odd about the way Miller and the others were acquitted. Now I am beginning to see why.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Langar somehow arranged a favourable verdict, seized the goods Shirlok stole, and the entire group – minus Shirlok, presumably – came to Lincoln, where they accrued power through the Commonalty and merrily continued their illegal activities.’

‘So, the cup was stolen three times: once from the friar-couriers, once from Geddynge and once after the trial. Chapman and the others made copies, intending to sell them as relics of St Hugh. They were not even subtle with the ones they hawked to Tetford, giving him four and claiming they were a set used by the saint at parties. How could Tetford have been so gullible?’

‘Tetford loved revelry, and probably thought it great fun to possess something St Hugh had used to celebrate. Whoever sold them to him knew exactly how to persuade him to buy.’ Bartholomew hesitated, as something else occurred to him. ‘Sabina said Nicholas was a silversmith.’

Michael nodded. ‘She thought the mark on his shoulder was a work burn. I see where you are going with this, Matt: Herl could have made the copies, because he had the skill to do so. Sabina did tell us he had been unusually busy over the last month. Perhaps he was in league with Chapman.’

‘I am supposed to visit Chapman again today. I will ask him.’

‘I do not like the thought of you in that house alone, so I shall come with you. I will tell a few lies about my imminent solution to Aylmer’s murder. And then I will have to go to the cathedral and do penance at the Head Shrine for bearing false witness.’

The obvious place to look for Simon was the minster, where he would soon be made a canon, so Michael and Bartholomew decided to search it on their way to see Chapman. De Wetherset escorted them to the Gilbertines’ gate, although he declined to join the hunt himself. He was clearly afraid to leave the convent, and Bartholomew hoped Michael would not pay for his greater courage with his life.

‘Perhaps I will return to the University when this is over,’ said de Wetherset worriedly. ‘Lincoln has grown dangerous, and it was uneasy politics that made me leave Cambridge. If I am to be caught up with intrigue and plots, I might as well be where there is a decent collection of books.’

Bartholomew regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Are you caught up with plots and intrigue? It is odd that you happened to select Lincoln as a haven of peace, when you are tied to it by your appointment as a juror in Miller’s trial all those years ago.’

De Wetherset’s expression was cold. ‘That was coincidence, and I resent your implication that it was anything else. I told you – it was a shock to be confronted by men I had acquitted.’

Bartholomew was unconvinced. ‘Miller tried to intimidate me when he thought I might remember the trial. Ergo, I seriously doubt you escaped with nothing said – unless he knew he could trust you to reveal nothing harmful. Now why would he think that?’

‘Matt,’ warned Michael uncomfortably. ‘De Wetherset is above suspicion.’

Bartholomew pressed on. ‘Several pieces of information have just clicked together in my mind, and I now know something you would rather keep concealed. So does Miller, which is why he does not mind you being here.’

De Wetherset glared at him. ‘And what might that be?’

‘It concerns the goods that went missing after Shirlok’s execution. We have just discussed the possibility that Shirlok may have been instrumental in their disappearance, but that is not the case.’

De Wetherset continued to glower. ‘What does lost property have to do with me?’

‘Matt,’ said Michael uneasily. ‘You are a long way from the mark with this.’

Bartholomew ignored him. ‘After Shirlok was hanged, I remember the valuables being loaded on a cart. There were a lot of people milling around in the bailey, because Nicholas Herl and several others had just been released from gaol, and Miller had hired wagons to move their possessions, too.’

‘Then you will also remember the line the sheriff drew in the mud with his boot,’ said de Wetherset. ‘No felon was permitted to cross it, on pain of death. None of them did.’

‘But “felons” did not pile the recovered goods on the cart,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You did – the only juror without an excuse good enough to let him evade the sheriff’s demand for help. You were in a hurry, determined to finish and be about your own business as soon as possible. You put at least some of the items on the wrong wagon.’

‘That is outrageous!’ De Wetherset turned to Michael. ‘If you are his friend, you will make him stop. Do not forget that I intend to be Chancellor again one day.’

‘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 sure this 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.’

‘You are moving far too fast, Matt. We were told it was the suspicious demise of the wicked Canon Hodelston that escalated the rivalry between the factions. His was the first death, and I suspect there have been others, too. However, the next incident pertinent to us occurred in the summer, when Flaxfleete burned Spayne’s storerooms, causing such an inferno that Spayne’s roof is set to collapse.’

‘And around the same time, Thoresby threatened to behead Dalderby. Yesterday, Dalderby gave Sheriff Lungspee a bribe, and it is obvious that he stabbed Chapman – and that he expected his crime to be exposed. But Dalderby is now dead, killed by a blow to the head, but he was able to stagger to Kelby’s house before breathing his last. Under the circumstances, we should not forget the rumour that Kelby killed his own friend Flaxfleete as a sacrificial lamb, to prevent Miller from avenging Herl and Aylmer. Perhaps Kelby killed Dalderby for the same reason.’

‘You are still going too fast, Matt. Herl’s death came before any of this.’

‘Herl ingested poison after drinking ale in the Swan tavern, and either fell or was pushed into the Braytheford Pool. A few days later, Aylmer, having renounced his life of sin, was stabbed while holding Simon’s goblet – which may or may not be the Hugh Chalice.’

‘Now you have left something else out,’ said Michael. ‘The chalice was stolen by Aylmer once before, when it was in Kelby’s possession. Remember?’

‘I remember Gynewell saying an accusation had been levelled, but that Flaxfleete had agreed to drop the charges. Gynewell had found it in the cathedral’s crypt.’

‘And Aylmer – in holy orders – had access to the vault.’

‘That thing certainly circulates,’ said Bartholomew in distaste. ‘Then we have another odd connection: Aylmer, Flaxfleete, Herl and Chapman have drawings of cups on their shoulders, and all – except Herl – have been in possession of the chalice.’

‘Herl did have it. We think he may have been the silversmith who made the fakes. Next, Tetford was shot. Like Aylmer, he had decided to turn over a new leaf, but was killed before he could do it. The consensus is that he was sincere, but that he probably would not have succeeded.’

‘He died while giving you poisoned wine. That does not sound like a new leaf to me. It was the same kind of poison that killed Herl and Flaxfleete, and we have just found a large pot of it in a place where Tetford spent most of his last day. Perhaps he is our culprit, and your case is solved.’

‘Or perhaps he was killed because someone objected to the fact that he shut the Tavern in the Close. His ladies were none too pleased, for a start. Perhaps the poison belongs to one of them. Or to Ravenser, because he wanted to run the alehouse.’

Bartholomew sighed. ‘We have worked out a logical sequence of events, and we have unearthed new connections between victims and suspects, but none of it tells us the identity of the killer. Anyone could have poisoned Flaxfleete’s wine keg while it was waiting to be delivered; Herl drank his ale in a tavern full of people; and the Gilbertine Priory is so lax in its security that anyone could have wandered in and stabbed Aylmer. Our suspects still include virtually everyone we know.’

Michael grimaced. ‘You are right: we are no further forward, but at least my thoughts are clear now. So, let us see what we can learn from Master Miller.’

Miller was waiting for Bartholomew, staring out of the window at the palisade of pointed stakes that protected his house. Langar was with him, and together they escorted physician and monk to the sickbed. Chapman smiled warily when he saw them, and said he was feeling better. Bartholomew removed the bandage and was pleased to find no signs of mortification. As he worked, Miller, Langar and Michael formed a looming wall behind him, and Miller spat on the floor.

‘I promise not to hurt him,’ said Bartholomew, not liking the way they hemmed him in. He sat back, bumping into Langar as he did so. ‘There is no need for you all to stay.’

Miller’s eyes narrowed, and he removed his dagger to pick one of his four yellow teeth. ‘Are you trying to get him alone? To ask him about matters that are none of your concern?’

‘Of course not,’ said Michael scornfully. ‘Very well. We shall all watch, if that is what you want, although we should step back and give him room to work. We can talk about Aylmer while we wait.’

‘Do you know who killed him?’ asked Miller eagerly.

‘Not yet,’ replied Michael, ‘although I know a good deal more now than when I was first asked to investigate. However, you can help me advance even further by clarifying a few points.’

‘That depends,’ said Miller. ‘I am not talking about Cambridge, if that is what you have in mind.’

‘He has met that woman – Sabina.’ Langar spoke the name with utter contempt. ‘She has been gossiping, telling him how you were once accused of heinous crimes. She should not have been released with the rest of you, she should have shared the fate of her first husband. She turned very odd after Aylmer retook his vows a month ago, and I do not trust her. So, we will answer the monk’s questions, Miller, to make sure he has the truth.’

‘Sabina did mention a misunderstanding in Cambridge,’ said Michael cautiously. ‘She also said you were not guilty. Shirlok was hanged, though.’

‘I deplore hangings,’ said Langar with a shudder. ‘I could not bring myself to watch.’

‘I could,’ said Miller, ‘but I missed that one, because it took place sooner than I expected.’

There was a tap on the door and Sabina entered, bringing food on a tray. She was surprised to see the scholars, and Bartholomew was startled to see her: he had been under the impression that she had broken away from the Commonalty. She saw what he was thinking and explained.

‘I came when I heard Chapman was unwell. The others do not know how to care for a sick man, and I do not want the poor fellow to die for want of gentle hands.’

Langar sneered. ‘She told you her decision to leave us and lead a blameless life, did she, physician? I doubt she will endure it long.’

She glowered at him. ‘I am doing very well, thank you.’

Langar regarded her with contempt. ‘You are not here for Chapman, but because you detect unease in the town and you want our protection. Your past association with us means you are still considered fair game by the Guild. You own allegiance to one person only: yourself.’

‘She can stay until Lincoln is calm again,’ said Miller, cutting across her response, and silencing Langar’s objections with a glare. ‘I would rather have her where I can see what she is doing, anyway.’

Sabina shot the lawyer a triumphant look, then addressed Michael. ‘Have you come to tell us who killed my Nicholas?’ She smiled spitefully when Langar winced at the use of the possessive.

‘The monk has been looking into Aylmer’s murder,’ snapped Langar. ‘Nicholas’s was mine to explore.’

‘And have you learned anything useful?’ Sabina asked him mockingly.

He ignored her and addressed Michael. ‘I visited all the apothecaries, and asked whether they have sold any fishy poison recently. None have. Ergo, the toxin came from another source.’

‘Why would an apothecary own such a thing?’ asked Miller, puzzled.

‘It can be used as a medicine,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘I suspect the killer collected black rye grains in the summer, though. These can be crushed and added to wine or ale. With alcohol, they combine to deadly effect, which is why both Herl and Flaxfleete died so quickly.’

‘Then anyone might have done it?’ asked Miller. ‘Anyone who knew which grains to use?’ When Bartholomew nodded, he grimaced his disappointment. Then he blew his nose in a piece of linen, and shoved it up his sleeve to use again later. The physician looked away, revolted.

‘Tetford had some in his possession when he died,’ said Michael casually. ‘But he is dead, so we have no way of knowing whether he was aware of the fact.’

‘Tetford,’ mused Miller softly. ‘He was an unpredictable devil. He told me he planned to close his tavern and buy no more of Lora’s ale, but would not say why. Then Ravenser renewed the Close’s order for ale, so all is well again.’

Langar walked to the window, flung open the shutter and stared out, gazing thoughtfully into the yard below. Michael started to ask something else, but Miller raised an authoritative hand, and the monk faltered into silence. Sabina watched Bartholomew bathe Chapman’s arm without a word, and it seemed the Commonalty was used to being quiet when Langar was deliberating. The tension was stifling, and just when Bartholomew felt he could stand it no longer, the lawyer spoke.

‘You seem to think Tetford killed Flaxfleete and Nicholas, because you found poison among his belongings, but you are wrong. First, he was not brave enough. Secondly, he liked Flaxfleete, because Flaxfleete donated wine to his brothel. Thirdly, Nicholas once gave him a shilling when he was destitute, and he never forgot the kindness. Fourthly, he seldom read, so I doubt he knew what the physician has just told us about the poison. And fifthly, he was in holy orders, which moderated his behaviour to a degree: he would never have committed murder and damned his immortal soul.’

‘The cathedral,’ said Miller bitterly. ‘That is the cause of this trouble. Aylmer was perfectly normal until he began frequenting the minster. Then he started to repent his sins, and other such nonsense.’

‘You probably think we killed Flaxfleete to avenge Aylmer,’ said Langar, ‘but we did not. We have allowed his murder and Nicholas’s to go unpunished, because we do not want a bloodbath.’

‘We debated it for hours,’ elaborated Miller, ‘but Langar said that if we kill a guildsman, the situation would spin out of control, and he says we cannot be sure of winning an all-out war yet. I think we can, but he does not.’

‘There is no point in risking all on a battle with an uncertain outcome,’ said Langar irritably. ‘Besides, I do not want random guildsmen dispatched. I want the real killer.’

‘What about Dalderby?’ asked Michael. ‘Did someone in the Commonalty kill him?’

Langar pursed his lips. ‘I have just explained why it is unwise to engage in unfocused violence, and you immediately ask that question. Of course we did not kill him, although Kelby thinks we did.’

Miller was becoming restless. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Chapman is on the road to recovery?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘As long as he is not plied with salves from anonymous donors again.’

‘We do not know who did that, either,’ said Miller. ‘Langar says the “crone” I saw was wearing a disguise, so it could have been anyone. Even a man.’

The comment sparked a three-way debate between Langar, Miller and Sabina as to which guildsman or cathedral official might have delivered henbane to an ailing man, and Michael inflamed the discussion by suggesting several names. He moved away, drawing the others with him and shooting Bartholomew a glance that said he was to question Chapman while his friends were preoccupied. Bartholomew hastened to oblige, leaning close to the relic-seller so his voice would not carry.

‘This chalice you sold Father Simon,’ he said, trying to keep the urgency from his voice. ‘We found another five last night, virtually identical to it.’

Chapman gaped at him. ‘That is impossible! The cup I sold Simon is unique.’

‘You lied when you said you bought it in Huntingdon, though. It was one of the items stolen by Shirlok. So how did it come to be in your possession?’

Chapman was not well enough to prevaricate. His expression was resigned. ‘All right, I admit the Hugh Chalice was part of Shirlok’s hoard – although he did not know it – but it surfaced later, as stolen goods always do. I sold it to Simon, because it is sacred, and I knew he could be trusted to donate it to the cathedral.’

‘I thought you did not like the cathedral.’

Chapman’s voice dropped further still, so Bartholomew had to strain to hear him. ‘I do not like the men who infest the minster, but I revere St Hugh with all my heart. I wanted his chalice where it belongs – at his tomb. I did it for the benefit of future generations.’

Bartholomew was not sure whether to believe him. ‘And the mark of the cup on your shoulder?’

‘That is part of it,’ said Chapman. ‘I–’

‘What are you whispering about?’ demanded Miller, breaking away from Michael when he became aware of what was happening. ‘It had better not be anything about my import-export business. I do not want to go on trial for theft again, just because I happen to give you the occasional–’

‘The occasional drink in the Angel,’ interrupted Langar sharply.

Michael drew his own conclusions from what was not quite said. ‘Because you give him the occasional item to sell for you? Does this largess extend to objects from a hoard that disappeared twenty years ago? One that contained white pearls, like the two you gave Matt?’

‘No,’ said Miller coldly, while Bartholomew came to his feet fast. Michael’s question had been too blunt, and trouble was inevitable. ‘We do not mean those objects.’

Langar was gazing at Michael with eyes that were hard slits. ‘Those pearls came from an old woman who needed ready money to repair her roof. They are most certainly not part of any hoard that went missing twenty years ago.’

‘No,’ agreed Miller, but unconvincingly. He began paring his nails with his dagger, but his hands were unsteady and Bartholomew saw blood. ‘And neither did the Hugh Chalice. It is not the same cup that Shirlok agreed to steal from Geddynge.’

‘Agreed to steal?’ pounced Michael.

‘He means arranged to steal,’ said Langar, stepping in quickly to minimise the damage, while Bartholomew thought that manoeuvring Miller into a position of power in the Commonalty must have been a daunting task. He decided Langar was either a genius or blessed with the patience of a saint.

‘It should be in Lincoln,’ said Chapman softly. ‘Not Geddynge. It belongs with St Hugh.’

‘Does St Hugh really want it?’ asked Michael. ‘It has been handled by some very devious folk.’

Miller led the way down the stairs and opened the door to usher the scholars out, while Sabina remained with Chapman, who said he felt weak and needed a woman’s soothing touch. Trailing at the end of the procession, Bartholomew was about to step into the yard, when he happened to glance along the hallway to his left and notice the cellar door ajar. He wondered whether it was the same one that Cynric had complained about not being able to open. Then his stomach clenched in alarm when he noticed a familiar – and far from pleasant – odour.

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.’

‘Not tonight, Matt,’ said Michael firmly. ‘It would mean toiling back up that hill, and it is already too late to be out. Besides, you hid it very well. I will destroy it first thing tomorrow–’

‘Brother, look!’ hissed Bartholomew suddenly, gripping his friend’s arm. ‘There is Simon!’

Michael followed the direction of his finger and saw the priest walking briskly along the road in front of them. Michael opened his mouth to yell, but Bartholomew warned him to silence.

‘He is moving furtively – he does not want to be seen. We will follow him and see where he goes.’

‘You must be drunk,’ said Michael uneasily, ‘or you would not suggest such a thing.’

‘We will just see where he is going,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Come on.’

Michael was about to object further, but the priest was striding down the road he and Bartholomew needed to take anyway, so it was no inconvenience to stay behind him. There were a few footpaths off the main track, leading to the river in one direction and the parallel dike in the other, but Simon took no detours. Eventually, he reached the place where the road crossed an odorous ditch called the Gowt. He glanced behind him, but the night was dark, and Bartholomew and Michael had been careful to stay in the shadows.

‘He is going inside Holy Cross,’ whispered Bartholomew, hanging back.

‘His old church,’ murmured Michael. ‘He keeps looking around him in a very sly manner.’

‘Yes, he does,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘So do not walk so fast, Brother, or he will see you.’

‘I do not like this,’ grumbled Michael. ‘I am too heavy-boned for stealth, and Cynric told me I look like a hippopotamus when I tiptoe. Shall we follow him inside?’

‘Is the building open? It is well past sunset, so it should be locked.’

Holy Cross was a dark mass against the night sky, and the charred remains of Simon’s old house comprised a sinister blackened shell. The priest walked across the churchyard and fiddled with a chancel window. After a moment, there was a hollow, echoing clank as a bar fell away on the other side. He glanced around quickly, then climbed in. Moments later, Bartholomew heard him unlock the door.

‘He knows that window is a weak point,’ said Michael. ‘He went straight to it.’

‘He worked here for twenty years, so that is not surprising. However, he must be expecting company, or he would not have opened the door. What shall we do? Clamber through the window, and hope he does not see us? Or wait out here, to see who comes to meet him?’

‘You said we were just going to see where he went,’ said Michael accusingly. ‘Well, we have done that, and it is too cold a night for lurking in icy churchyards. We should return to the Gilbertines.’

‘We should find out what he is doing. His intentions are not innocent, or he would not be breaking in – he would have asked his successor for the key. Watch the door while I go through the window.’

Michael sighed testily. ‘This is not a good idea. Hurry up, then – and be careful.’

Bartholomew scrambled through the window, wincing when his feet scraped noisily on the sill, then dropped lightly to the floor on the other side. It was warmer in the church than it was outside, although not much, and the air was still and damp. It was also pitch black, and he waited for his eyes to adjust.

The nave walls were stone, but its floor was of beaten earth, which served to muffle his footsteps. He moved slowly, afraid of making a sound that would alert Simon to his presence. He found him at the altar in the chancel, kneeling with his hands clasped in front of him and his eyes fixed on the wooden cross. Bartholomew eased into the shadows to watch, but Simon remained in an attitude of prayer for so long that the physician became uncomfortable with what he was doing. He had assumed Simon was up to no good, but now it appeared he had just been coming to his old church to pray, and no one had any right to spy on him. He began to edge away, intending to leave the way he had come. Then there was a sudden clamour of voices from outside.

‘No!’ yelled Michael, and there was a clash of arms.

Abandoning any pretence at stealth, Bartholomew bolted towards the door. He collided heavily with someone coming in, and was bowled from his feet. He scrambled upright, instinctively fumbling for his sword before realising again that he did not have it. Hands snatched at him, but he struggled away from them, tearing the clasp from his cloak and leaving the garment behind. He dashed outside, and saw Michael doing battle with a man who held a sword. The monk had grabbed a shoe-scraper, and was managing to fend off the blows, but only just.

Bartholomew hurtled towards them with a battle cry he had learned from Cynric. The swordsman turned towards him with a start, and raised the weapon to defend himself. Bartholomew swung wildly with his medical bag, and caught the fellow on the side of his head, sending him reeling. Then someone leapt on the physician from behind. He went down hard, and his mouth and nose were suddenly full of suffocating snow.