The Tarnished Chalice

CHAPTER 4

Daylight did not last long in December, and Bartholomew felt time was slipping away far too fast that morning. The bells were already chiming for the next office, and the Gilbertines were preparing themselves by humming and clearing their throats. He begged hot water from one of the cooks, and washed his hands, trying to rinse away the odour of death that clung to them. He did not want to visit Mayor Spayne smelling like a cadaver.

‘There is Father Simon,’ said Michael, pointing to where the arrogant priest was hurrying towards St Katherine’s Chapel. ‘I shall have a few words with him while you change.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew.

Michael indicated a stain that had not been on Bartholomew’s tunic before he had examined the two bodies. ‘When you resume your duties as Corpse Examiner in Cambridge, we shall have to invest in some kind of apron. Now you own decent clothes, you need to take better care of them.’

‘I meant why do you want to speak to Simon?’

‘Because he was the one who found Aylmer’s body, and we know from experience that those who discover a corpse sometimes have additional information to impart.’

Cynric had anticipated his master’s need to exchange a soiled tunic for a clean one, and was waiting with a spare. Bartholomew removed the dirty garment and donned the replacement as he walked with Michael to intercept Simon. The priest was not pleased to be waylaid in the yard, claiming he had been warming up his voice in the refectory, and that standing in the cold might reduce its effectiveness.

‘A cup of claret usually works for me,’ said Michael, who was also proud of his musical talents. ‘It combats chilly weather very nicely. But tell me what happened when you found Aylmer.’

‘Now?’ Simon’s eyes strayed towards the chapel. ‘I might be late.’

‘It will not take long, and I am sure you are eager to co-operate with the bishop’s investigation.’

Simon sighed. ‘Very well, if you put it like that. It happened yesterday morning, as you know. We were quartered in the guest-hall’s main chamber – Aylmer, de Wetherset, I and a dozen others. The bells rang for prime, and we either went to the chapel or left the convent for business in the city. Aylmer walked with me to the chapel. When the service was over, everyone else went straight to the refectory for breakfast, but I was cold and wanted a thicker shift. When I arrived, there was Aylmer, slumped across his bed with a knife in his back. There was blood… ’

‘You did not see him leave the chapel before you?’

‘I was praying, Brother. I did not notice anything at all, except Whatton singing flat all through the Magnificat. When I saw Aylmer’s body, I observed two things: he had died counting the gold that was in his purse, and he was holding my chalice – the one I intend to donate to the cathedral.’

‘His gold and your chalice were on the bed with his corpse?’ asked Michael. Simon nodded. ‘Then robbery is unlikely to have been the motive: the thief would not have left such riches behind. What do you think Aylmer was doing with your goblet?’

‘Admiring it,’ replied Simon. ‘Possibly as a prelude to stealing it. Anyone in Lincoln will tell you he had sticky fingers, and it would not be the first time he made off with another man’s property. But we cannot ask him now he is dead, and I dislike maligning a man who cannot defend himself. I refuse to condemn him out of hand.’

‘Where is it now?’ asked Michael.

‘I put it on St Katherine’s altar for safekeeping. Even the most hardened of thieves will think twice about taking it now – it would earn him eternal damnation. You probably noticed it when you were in the chapel. It does not look like much, and is showing its age, but holiness still shines through it.’

‘How did you come by it?’ asked Bartholomew, straightening his clean tunic.

‘I bought it from a relic-seller. Do you know its history? How it was in St Hugh’s hand when he died in London? Many years later, it was decided that it should be at his shrine in Lincoln, and two friars were given the task of carrying it north. But it was stolen from them in a wicked act of theft.’

‘Was it stolen before they left London?’ asked Michael. ‘Or when they arrived in Lincoln?’

‘Neither. It went missing on the journey between the two places. In fact, the crime took place near Cambridge, a town they were obliged to pass en route. I cannot remember the exact details – this happened twenty years ago, so my memory is excusably hazy – but I recall hearing that these two hapless priests fell asleep under a tree, wearied from the distance they had walked that day, when the chalice was removed from their possession.’

‘They travelled on foot?’ asked Bartholomew incredulously. ‘Carrying a sacred relic?’

‘I imagine they did not want to draw attention to themselves with a cavalcade. Anyway, the chalice was stolen, and the thief sold it to a priest in the village of Geddynge – a place that is just a few miles from Cambridge. But Geddynge did not keep it long, because it was stolen again within a few days.’

‘By the same thief?’ asked Michael dubiously.

‘Very possibly. If he knew he could get twenty shillings for it once, then why not retrieve it and sell it for twenty shillings a second time? And a third and a fourth? But no one knows for certain what happened. Eventually, it appeared in the hands of a relic-seller, here in Lincoln.’

‘That was very convenient.’ Bartholomew tried not to sound sceptical of its timely arrival, just when Simon was about to accept a prebendal stall in the cathedral and was of a mind to make a suitable donation. He did not succeed, and the priest regarded him coldly.

‘It is the same chalice. I have never been more certain of anything in my life. And if you do not believe me, then ask Bishop Gynewell. He also senses its sanctity.’

‘He did say he believed it to be genuine,’ acknowledged Michael.

‘Of course he did, because it is true. But if you need more proof, then inspect its markings. As even you will know, there are two icons associated with St Hugh: a pet swan and a chalice engraved with an image of the Baby Jesus. If you look on my chalice, you will see the carving quite clearly.’

‘And you bought it from a relic-seller,’ said Michael. ‘Had you met this man before?’

‘No, he hails from Rome. But I recognised the Hugh Chalice at once, and I am delighted to play a role in putting it where it belongs. The translation will be made on St Thomas’s Day, where the cup will take pride of place in my installation ceremony, in front of a thousand grateful pilgrims.’

Bartholomew remained unconvinced. ‘But it is odd that it should appear now, Father, just when you happen to be in a position to make this spectacular benefaction.’

‘It is not odd – it is a miracle,’ declared Simon, glaring at him. ‘And you can think what you like, but as far as I am concerned the only thing that matters is that this holy thing will soon be in the cathedral, where it belongs.’

‘You do not have a mark on your shoulder, do you?’ asked Bartholomew incautiously. ‘Of a cup.’

Simon regarded him with narrowed eyes. ‘A mark? What are you talking about?’

‘A self-inflicted sign. A scar picked out with ink. One that depicts a chalice.’

Simon regarded him with distaste. ‘I know the sort of self-mutilations to which you refer, and they are favoured by men of lesser intelligence. I am offended that you should ask me such a question, but I am also curious. Why do you think I should let myself be so scarred?’

Bartholomew shrugged. It had been a stupid thing to ask. Simon was a priest, and had no reason to associate himself with Aylmer, Nicholas Herl or Flaxfleete. ‘I have seen others adorned with chalices recently, and your obvious devotion to–’

Simon smiled unexpectedly. ‘You are right about my dedication to St Hugh, but any marks I bear are on my soul, not my skin. Do you want to inspect me?’

‘No, thank you,’ said Michael hastily, when the priest’s robe started to come up, revealing a pair of scaly legs. ‘Your word is good enough for me, and we do not want you to take a chill when you are about to entertain the Gilbertines with your fine voice. Is this relic-seller still in Lincoln?’

‘No,’ replied Simon, adjusting his habit. ‘He left the city as soon as he sold me the chalice.’

‘Why did he approach you to make his sale?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Why not the cathedral, which might have given him more money?’

‘The cathedral has no spare funds, and everyone knows it,’ said Simon scornfully. ‘Do you have any idea how much it costs to maintain a building like that? The relic-seller knew he would get a better price from an individual. He chose me because I have always made my veneration of the saint public, and because it is common knowledge that I am wealthier than most parish priests.’

‘Brother Michael!’ called a cheerful voice behind them. It was Hamo, licking his moist lips. ‘You must attend nones with me, and afterwards, you shall have more Lombard slices. I said we would look after you, and we mean to do it well. You will enjoy your sojourn at our priory, I promise you.’

‘I am sure of it,’ said Michael politely. ‘But I am a man of modest appetite, and I have already eaten seven cakes this morning. That is perfectly sufficient for now. But we were talking about Aylmer’s murder. The bishop asked me to investigate, although you already know this, of course.’

Hamo had the grace to blush. ‘I did hear Gynewell murmur something when I was polishing the door to Prior Roger’s solar.’

Bartholomew was thinking about what Simon – and Sabina – had said about Aylmer’s character. He turned to the priest. ‘Aylmer was a known thief, yet the cathedral said nothing when Suttone made him his Vicar Choral. Why were there no objections?’

‘The appointment of deputies is left to the individual canon,’ explained Simon. ‘Brother Michael will tell you that. The cathedral has no say in the matter.’

‘That is true,’ said Michael, ‘although someone could have mentioned to Suttone that he had appointed a felon, nonetheless. It would have been polite.’

It was Hamo who answered. ‘No one said anything because folk are loath to offend a Suttone by telling him he has made a bad decision. Complaints were certainly aired in Chapter meetings, though, especially by Dean Bresley. Aylmer was disliked, not just because he was a thief, but because he was a member of the Commonalty. That rabble think they can win the town’s heart with their Miller’s Market, but it will take more than free cakes to alleviate the wrongs they have perpetrated.’

‘What wrongs?’ asked Michael.

‘Think carefully before you cast aspersions, Hamo,’ said Simon sharply. ‘It is because of spiteful chatter that this feud has escalated. Remember how God struck down your predecessor, Fat William, for his venal sins? Well, gossip is just as great a transgression. Watch your tongue.’

Michael sighed. ‘I applaud your lofty principles, Father Simon, but if either of you know anything that may help me locate Aylmer’s killer, then you must tell me.’

Simon rolled his eyes; he thought Michael was putting too much store in idle talk. ‘There are rumours that Miller’s import-export business is helping to undermine the local cloth trade, but I do not believe them. These are lies invented by the Guild, because they want to set the weavers against the Commonalty.’

‘That is one interpretation,’ said Hamo. ‘But even you cannot deny that Miller associates with some particularly nasty people – Thoresby, Nicholas Herl, Langar, Chapman, to name but a few.’

Simon’s expression was icy. ‘Those are no nastier than Kelby and Dalderby of the Guild.’

‘I do not care whether Miller and his friends are servants of Satan,’ said Michael, exasperated. ‘I just want to know what is said about them.’

Hamo answered, his expression gleefully spiteful. ‘Miller and several cronies arrived in Lincoln twenty years ago and, almost immediately, there was an increase in crime – a lot of property went missing over the next few months and they became ever more rich. At the same time, they started to infiltrate the Commonalty, and now they run it to suit themselves. Personally, I think they still deal on the wrong side of the law.’

‘And Aylmer?’ asked Michael, ignoring the way Simon shook his head in a way that suggested he thought there was no truth to the accusations. ‘Was he one of the men who arrived with Miller?’

‘No, he came a few weeks later,’ replied Hamo, also ignoring Simon. ‘But he lost no time in having himself elected to the Commonalty. Miller was fond of him, and I imagine the killer will be quaking in his boots as we speak. He will be terrified his identity will be exposed, and Miller will come after him. He will not appreciate you asking questions that might reveal him, Brother, so you should be careful.’

Bartholomew regarded him in alarm, although Michael remained unmoved. ‘If what you say is true, then I shall have Miller on my side.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Hamo. ‘He will be keen to subject the killer to his own brand of justice, and will try to prevent you from getting to him first. I do not envy you your task.’

It was after noon by the time Bartholomew managed to escape from Michael and climb the hill to see Spayne. He walked briskly, Cynric trotting at his side, and his stomach churned when he considered how important the meeting might be to his personal happiness, despite Michael’s cautionary warnings. But his nervous anticipation was all for nothing, because when he arrived, he was informed by a maid that both Spayne and his sister were out.

‘Where?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking he would collect his horse and ride to meet them.

The maid shook her head. ‘I do not know, sir. I can only tell you that Mistress Ursula said not to expect them back until after nightfall tomorrow, and to lock up the house early.’

‘You have some very large fires going, lass,’ observed Cynric, peering past her into the hall. ‘Why would you make such a blaze, if no one is at home?’

‘Mistress Ursula ordered them for the snow on the roof,’ explained the maid. She led them away from the door and into the middle of the street, where she pointed upwards. ‘It fell very thickly a few nights ago, and the weight has made the roof sag. Can you see it? Mistress Ursula said we need to keep fires burning all the time, so the heat will melt it away.’

‘It might slough off and land on someone,’ said Bartholomew uneasily. ‘In Cambridge, we once had a man die when a great mass of ice fell from a roof. We did not find his body for months.’

She crossed herself. ‘I will warn Mayor Spayne. Perhaps he can build barriers, to stop folk coming too close. Of course, then the guildsmen will say he is claiming part of a common highway for himself. They will moan if he tries to protect people, and they will moan if someone is hurt. Vile men! Tell me, did you really travel here with a member of the Suttone clan?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Why?’

Her eyes gleamed. ‘It is a great honour – they are so well thought of in these parts. Bishop Gynewell was delighted when he heard one was in holy orders and might be persuaded to take a prebendal stall. Everyone likes the Suttone family.’

Bartholomew was amused. ‘We had no idea we were in such exalted company. Have the Suttones taken a side in the city’s feud?’

She shook her head. ‘They do not come to town very often – perhaps because when they do, the Guild and the Commonalty try to recruit them.’ She gave him a shy smile. ‘Mayor Spayne had business with Sheriff Lungspee this morning, sir. I doubt he is still there, but one of the soldiers might know his plans for later. You will find the castle on top of the hill.’

Lincoln’s main street was so spacious in places that it was able to accommodate a whole string of markets. First, there was an area where corn was traded, which had pigeons picking at the filthy ground and sturdy scales ready for weighing sacks of grain. Then there was the Pultria, or Poultry, which was fringed with tightly packed houses and churches. The air was full of clucks, hisses, coos and quacks, and underfoot, feathers, eggshells and bird droppings had been trodden into the mud to form a thick mat. The fish market was next, but the silting of the Fossedike meant it took too long to bring the catch from the sea, and the specimens on display were dull-eyed and smelly. Gulls soared overhead, diving occasionally to snatch a morsel from under the feet of the haggling fishmongers, and cats stalked and crouched in the shadows. Then came the High Market, with ramshackle stalls that sold everything from ribbons to rabbits. It reeked of old urine and decaying meat.

The houses on the high street were mostly handsome, but when Bartholomew glanced along some of the alleys that radiated off it, he saw Lincoln’s grandeur was superficial. Groups of men slouched aimlessly against cracked, crumbling walls, and their eyes were dull and flat, as though they were resigned to the hopelessness of their situation. He assumed most were weavers, whose forebears had flocked to Lincoln half a century earlier, when there were fortunes to be made in the wool trade.

‘I do not understand,’ said Cynric, regarding them with pity. ‘This is a rich city, with its great minster and fine Norman houses. So why are its people poor?’

‘Apparently, it is because the Fossedike is clogged,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘It means the weavers cannot send their finished cloth for export, and they are losing out to those who live in more easily accessible ports. I read that royal parliaments were once held in Lincoln, but I do not think His Majesty would be very impressed by what is here now. I have never seen streets more choked with filth, not even in Cambridge.’

‘Not even in France,’ agreed Cynric. ‘And that is a terrible place.’

They passed through the gate that divided the lower part of the town from the plateau known as the Bail. Then they turned left, towards a fortress that transpired to be as dilapidated as the rest of the city. Unimpressed, Cynric announced that to storm it would take no more than a good, hard shove at one of its teetering walls.

‘Oh, no!’ he breathed suddenly, gripping Bartholomew’s wrist in a pinch that hurt. Before the physician could look around, he found himself hauled backwards and pressed into a doorway. ‘It is Bishop Gynewell! We do not want him to see us.’

‘Why not?’ asked Bartholomew, rubbing his arm. ‘He seems a pleasant man.’

Cynric regarded him in disbelief. ‘He is a demon, boy! You only have to look at him to see he is one of Satan’s imps – he makes no effort to disguise his horns. And if that is not obvious enough for you, then bear in mind that he likes roaring fires and food made with powerful spices. Ask anyone.’

Bartholomew studied him warily, wondering if it was a jest to take his mind off Matilde, but could tell by the earnest expression that his book-bearer was perfectly serious. ‘Gynewell is not a demon.’

Cynric’s amazement intensified. ‘But he is! And you should remember it when you visit him – it might save your life. Or better yet, do not enter his domain at all. He might spear you with his pitchfork or rip you to pieces with his claws.’

Bartholomew was about to argue further when Gynewell started to walk in their direction. With a grim face, Cynric gripped Bartholomew’s sleeve in one hand, his sword in the other and shot through the door to someone’s house. He slammed it behind him and made for the back entrance, ignoring the astonished gaze of the family that was sitting around their kitchen table. Bartholomew grinned sheepishly as he was hauled past them, unable to break free of Cynric’s iron grip.

‘Hello,’ he said, feeling he should make some effort at conversation. ‘It is cold today.’

‘It is indeed,’ stammered the man at the head of the table, while his wife and children sat with mouths agape. ‘We shall have more snow soon.’

And then Bartholomew was in their private garden, where Cynric marched down a path and ushered him through the rear gate and into a lane.

‘There,’ said the book-bearer, closing it firmly. ‘We have escaped. The castle is up here, I believe.’

Leaving Bartholomew at a loss for words, Cynric strode towards the barbican’s ancient metal-studded door. When he knocked, Bartholomew noticed the wood was so rotten that his fist left indentations. On closer inspection, he saw he could probably hack his way inside with one of his little surgical knives, and knew its neglected defences would present no obstacle at all to a serious invader.

‘Mayor Spayne,’ repeated the guard who came to ask what they wanted. ‘Let me see my list.’

He was a slovenly fellow, with bad teeth and a festering boil on his neck that he kept rubbing with grime-coated fingers. He made a great show of consulting a piece of parchment, which Bartholomew saw was a well-thumbed gaol-delivery record. He was puzzled, wondering why Spayne should be on a register of felons, but then saw the document was held upside down, and realised the ‘list’ was the guard’s way of impressing illiterate visitors with a show of administration.

‘I am sorry,’ he said eventually, rolling up the warrant in a businesslike manner. ‘He left several hours ago.’

‘Do you know where he went?’ asked Bartholomew, disappointed.

The guard shook his head. ‘But Sheriff Lungspee might. Sheriff! Sir! Over here!’

Before Bartholomew could demur, a man with long greasy hair and a shabby leather jerkin started to walk towards them. The physician swore under his breath, knowing it was unwise to draw the attention of city officials after what had transpired at Kelby’s house the night before. He started to back away, hoping to avoid the encounter, but Lungspee was too close, and it would have looked suspicious to make a dash for it.

‘Look at this,’ said the sheriff, proffering a hand adorned with a large emerald ring. ‘Have you ever seen a more magnificent object?’

‘No, sir,’ said Bartholomew, thinking it rather gaudy. He could not imagine wearing such a thing himself. It would be in the way when he examined his patients and he would almost certainly lose it. However, many of his medical colleagues believed that emeralds controlled unruly passions, and he wondered whether he should invest in one for Michael. ‘Can I buy one like it in Lincoln?’

‘Not these days, unfortunately,’ replied Lungspee sadly. ‘Flaxfleete gave it to me, although it had nothing to do with his acquittal, you understand. It is even better than the three white pearls I had from Miller, around the time I released Thoresby following the Dalderby affair. What do you think?’ He hauled a purse from under his jerkin and showed off a trio of milky gems.

‘Very nice. What Dalderby affair?’

Lungspee pursed his lips as he put the jewels away. ‘You must be a stranger, or you would know about our town and its troubles. Thoresby threatened to chop off Dalderby’s head – he would have done it, too, if I had not stopped him. Then Miller gave me these pearls, and I decided Thoresby had learned his lesson, so I let him out of prison. Dalderby was not very pleased, but I made up for it by looking kindly on his friend Flaxfleete yesterday. It is a delicate business, being sheriff.’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew weakly. ‘I imagine it is.’

Lungspee looked him up and down. ‘Do you have any items of value you would like to share with me? Your clothes are of decent quality, and a man of good standing always has a few baubles to pass to the sheriffs he meets, especially if he wants a favourable verdict at some point in the future.’

Bartholomew was acutely uncomfortable. Should he oblige, lest he and Michael were accused of foul play over the business with Flaxfleete, or would the fact that they were innocent be enough to see any spiteful accusations dismissed? He glanced at Cynric, who winked and nodded, indicating he thought coins should change hands. But Bartholomew had never bribed an official in the past, and was loath to start now.

‘Actually, I am looking for Mayor Spayne,’ he said, aware of Cynric rolling his eyes in disgust at the lost opportunity. ‘Do you know where I might find him?’

‘No, I am sorry,’ said Lungspee. ‘Pleasant man, Spayne. There is only one flaw in his character: his failure to impress his local sheriff with small gifts that demonstrate his affection. Is that all you wanted? You did not come here to tell me your side in a legal matter?’

‘No!’ said Bartholomew, trying not to sound shocked. He did not think he had ever encountered such brazen corruption. ‘I just wanted to speak to Spayne.’

‘He left hours ago, and might be anywhere by now. He often journeys to distant villages on business, but since the Guild would dearly love to place an arrow in his back, he seldom confides his travel plans. All I know is that he told me he intends to sleep elsewhere tonight, but that he hopes to be back in Lincoln by tomorrow evening. Of course, if he were to die in mysterious circumstances, then a guildsman would not be long in following him to his grave. That is the way of this city, and has been ever since Canon Hodelston died during the plague. That was what started it all.’

‘Someone mentioned Hodelston to us before,’ said Bartholomew, trying to recall why.

‘He was a dreadful fellow, even after he became a priest,’ explained Lungspee obligingly. ‘Charges of theft, rape and even murder followed him around like flies, and his minster friends were hard-pressed to find something nice to say about him at his funeral.’

‘And him a canon, too,’ muttered Cynric, shaking his head censoriously.

‘Well, someone has to be. But he did do one good thing: he founded the Tavern in the Close. And that place is a boon to us all, because it keeps the clerics inside the cathedral precincts at night, and stops them from rampaging through the city.’

‘We were told Canon Hodelston was poisoned,’ said Cynric, rather salaciously.

‘That was the rumour,’ acknowledged Lungspee. ‘I thought we were better off without him, but his fellow canons took umbrage at his murder and made a terrible fuss. Personally, I think we should all concentrate on more important issues, like draining the Fossedike.’

‘Lincoln’s link to the sea,’ said Bartholomew.

Lungspee nodded. ‘Funds were raised for its repair, but they were divided between the Guild and the Commonalty for “safekeeping” and they seem to have disappeared. I would pay for the work myself, but I am struggling to keep this castle in one piece. The King might visit one day, and I should like to show him at least one wall that is not in imminent danger of collapse.’

Bartholomew surveyed his domain critically, trying to pinpoint some part of it that might be sound. ‘That round tower looks all right.’

‘Dry rot,’ confided Lungspee. ‘I wrote to the King thirty years ago, telling him we were in a bit of a state, but he did not reply.’

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘Then perhaps you should try again. He may not be pleased if he decides to avail himself of your hospitality, and the roof caves in on him while he is asleep.’

‘That would not create a good impression,’ acknowledged Lungspee, glancing around dolefully. ‘So, if he comes, we shall have to allocate him an upstairs room. From personal experience, I can tell you that it is better to drop through a floor than to have a ceiling drop on you.’

The following day was cloudy, and it was still dark when Bartholomew was shocked from sleep by the harsh jangle of the Gilbertines’ bells. He leapt from his bed, but managed to stop himself from snatching up his sword when he realised it was a call to prayer, not a call to arms. Michael watched, then turned back to his psalter without comment, although his silence said more about his disapproval than any words could have done. They attended the beginning of another deafening prime, but the monk strode out in disgust when some of the Gilbertines started to clap in time to the music. Bartholomew followed him, relieved to be away from the racket.

‘It is too much,’ complained the monk petulantly. ‘It is a chapel, not a tavern. We should sing prime at the cathedral tomorrow, because I do not think I can stand much more of this … ’ He waved his hand, not sure how to describe it.

After breakfast, he and Bartholomew sat on a low wall near the refectory while he reviewed what he knew about Aylmer. He had not been pontificating for long when Hamo bustled towards them.

‘Is anything amiss?’ the newly created Brother Hospitaller asked, licking his moist, pink lips anxiously. ‘Neither of you ate much, and we would be horrified to think you were dissatisfied with our humble fare. Prior Roger was saying only last night how good it is to have a Suttone under our roof, and he has written to the family, to let them know you have elected to stay with us. They have promised to remember us in their wills, you see, and some have plans to be buried in our chapel. It would be terrible if you were to go elsewhere. And if you did, Prior Roger might demote me.’

‘We shall stay,’ said Michael, although not very graciously. ‘You were right when you said everywhere else is full. Of course, Bishop Gynewell offered us a bed in his fine house, but Matt’s book-bearer has encouraged us to decline the invitation.’

This was an understatement. In a startling display of mutiny, Cynric had virtually ordered the scholars to keep their distance from the Bishop’s Palace, even threatening to resign if they did not accede to his ‘request’. Michael had been inclined to ignore him, but Cynric had been with Bartholomew for many years, and the physician was loath to upset a man who was more friend than servant. Thus Michael had been obliged to do as the Welshman demanded, although he was far from happy about it. Suttone, however, was livid at the loss of a luxurious sojourn, and declared that the book-bearer’s new-found confidence after his travels had rendered him impudent and rebellious. It was not really true: Cynric had always had strong feelings on matters of religion, and it was not the first time Bartholomew had been obliged to pander to his superstitions.

‘I shall have to give the man a jug of our best ale,’ murmured Hamo, pleased.

‘When I was inspecting Aylmer’s corpse, I noticed a drawing on his shoulder,’ said Bartholomew, deciding to see what he could learn for Michael. ‘Is that a common habit in Lincoln?’

‘I have seen some men mark themselves so,’ said Hamo, determined to be amenable, no matter how odd the topic of conversation chosen by his guests. ‘There was a sect that scratched crosses all over themselves during the Death, to prevent them from becoming infected. It made no difference, though: they were taken regardless.’

‘It is the marks on their souls that count,’ said Michael. He clasped his hands in front of him, and gazed skywards in a gesture of monastic piety that was wholly out of character.

Bartholomew was puzzled until Christiana and Dame Eleanor passed by, on their way to the chapel.

‘Amen,’ said Hamo, adopting a similar pose, but with considerably more sincerity. ‘Alleluia!’

‘Alleluia!’ chorused three Gilbertines who happened to be within hearing distance.

‘Aylmer’s mark looked like a cup,’ said Bartholomew quickly, before the brethren could revisit one of their fervent rites in the yard and expect him to join in. ‘Perhaps a chalice.’

Hamo frowned as he lowered his hands to his sides. ‘Really? How odd. I never noticed it, but then I never saw him without clothes. Perhaps you should ask Simon. He is considered an expert on sacred vessels, because he is going to donate the Hugh Chalice to the cathedral. It is a pity, because it looks nice on St Katherine’s altar, and we shall be sorry to see it go.’

‘We have already spoken to Simon, and he was not very helpful,’ said Michael, dropping his prayerful posture the moment the ladies were out of sight. ‘He told us about the Hugh Chalice’s curious travels, but revealed nothing about the man who sold it to him.’

Hamo rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Prior Roger might be able to help. He and Simon discussed the Hugh Chalice at length yesterday. You see, Simon had kept it in a box under his bed in the guest-hall, but after what happened to Aylmer, it was decided the chapel would be safer. You are honoured guests, so he will be pleased to oblige you with anything Simon may have neglected to mention.’

He began to lead the way to the Prior’s House, but Bartholomew glanced at the sky to judge the time. ‘I wonder if Spayne will be home yet.’

‘His maidservant and Sheriff Lungspee told you he plans to be away until this evening at the earliest,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘And even if he did return sooner than expected, you cannot leave me to investigate alone. If Cynric is to be believed, I have been given a commission by the Devil – and you will not want me on the wrong side of Satan for failing to provide answers.’

‘Take no notice of Cynric. He has been listening to too many soldiers around too many campfires. He has always been superstitious, but his reaction to Gynewell is excessive, even for him. We–’

He stopped abruptly when they neared the Prior’s House and someone wearing crimson hose scurried past. His head was down and his hood pulled over his face, but the distinctive leg-wear made Bartholomew sure it was the same man he had seen with Simon the previous day. He watched him go, wondering why the fellow should be skulking in so furtive a manner.

‘I am about to say a mass for one of our benefactors,’ said the prior, when the visitors were shown into his solar. ‘A few kyries with the organ should rattle his soul free from Purgatory.’

‘Did you know Aylmer had carved a chalice into his arm?’ asked Michael, declining to comment on the Gilbertines’ rumbustious approach to prayers for the dead. ‘Matt detected–’

‘No, I never saw him naked,’ said Roger. ‘But I have seen others with marks that sound similar.’

‘Where?’ demanded Michael eagerly. ‘And on whom?’

‘On a member of the Commonalty named Thoresby. You may have heard of him – he was recently acquitted of threatening to behead a rival merchant. I saw a cup carved into his shoulder when he came to our hospital suffering from Summer Madness. Then there was Fat William, Hamo’s predecessor. He had one, and so do a number of canons.’ He listed several names that were unfamiliar.

‘Does Father Simon have a–’

Roger raised his hands. ‘I have no idea.’

‘He says not,’ said Bartholomew, recalling how the priest had come close to showing them before Michael had become squeamish and stopped him.

‘I have never known him lie,’ said Roger, ‘so there is no reason to disbelieve him. Last summer, when we swam in the river together, I asked Canon Stretle what the carving meant, and he said it was the mark of a foolish young man who should have known better. I suspect it had something to do with the Hugh Chalice. When it was due to arrive in Lincoln twenty years ago, people did some very wild things in anticipation. The fervour died away when it disappeared en route, although I suspect it will be resurrected now it has risen from the dead. Just like Christ the Saviour, praise His holy name!’

‘Amen,’ said Michael, seeing some pious response was expected. ‘Simon bought his chalice from a relic-seller. Did you ever meet this man, and assess whether he was an honest–’

‘No. He always wore a hood, but I had the sense that I might have known him, had I been permitted to see his face. Simon said he was from Rome, though, so I am doubtless mistaken.’

‘Is he still in Lincoln?’ asked Michael.

‘Simon told me he left as soon as the sale was made, although I do not think that can be right, because I have seen him several times since.’

‘He wore a hood?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He does not own red hose, too, does he?’

‘Yes,’ said Roger, startled. ‘How extraordinary you should know that! God does move in mysterious ways! Alleluia!’

‘Alleluia, indeed,’ said Michael dryly.

Although Michael was assiduous in scouring the Gilbertine Priory for a man in red leggings, it was clear the fellow was long gone, so he abandoned the search in order to walk to the cathedral and be fitted for his ceremonial vestments. Bartholomew accompanied him, hoping they would meet some canons who might be prepared to talk about Aylmer. Michael complained bitterly about the distance between convent and minster – more than a mile, and some of it up a hill. Then, to take his mind off the exercise, he talked about which Lincoln saints were most likely to answer prayers, confiding that Bishop Hugh was not one of them, because there had been so few miracles at his tomb.

‘There have been more at the Shrine of Little Hugh,’ he said. ‘But I am not sure I believe the story of his crucifixion. Neither does the Pope, because the cult remains unofficial. Of course, the cathedral is unlikely to tell pilgrims that, since Little Hugh is a great source of income.’

‘It is a pity there is not a saint who is kindly disposed to investigators,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You need all the help you can get with this case. You are only supposed to be solving Aylmer’s murder, but he is linked to Flaxfleete and Nicholas by the marks on their shoulders, and he died while holding the Hugh Chalice. I have a feeling this might be more complex than it appears.’

‘And it has been made more so by the fact that this city is uneasy, and everyone has taken sides. I thought at first that someone had killed Aylmer because he was unpopular, but now I suspect his personality might have nothing to do with it.’

They walked along Wigford’s high street, where Michael admired the large houses and dozen or so churches that clustered along it. Many had gardens that ran down to the banks of the River Witham, and, between them, grey-brown water fringed with reeds could be seen. Small boats bobbed on the wind-ruffled surface, carrying goods to the city wharves. Scattered among them were the white flecks of gulls and swans, while ducks dabbled in the shallows.

‘I wish Gynewell had not asked you to do this,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘Hamo was right: you are in danger from two sources – from a killer desperate to avoid detection, and from the Commonalty, who will want to catch him before you do.’

‘So Hamo says, but perhaps Miller will be content to see the wheels of justice work.’

Bartholomew thought about his encounter with Sheriff Lungspee. ‘The wheels of justice here are rather too dependent on how well they are greased. However, it is always possible that the killer is in holy orders, and will claim benefit of clergy. Then your “wheels of justice” will see him sent to some remote convent to live out his life, and I do not think that will satisfy Miller.’

‘What makes you think the killer is a priest?’ Michael was startled.

‘Aylmer died in a convent, which is not a place where anyone can wander as he pleases. And we have been told that the cathedral’s vicars never leave home without arming themselves. Of course, we have also been told Aylmer was a criminal, so perhaps he was killed by an associate – a falling-out among thieves.’

Michael rubbed his chin. ‘I am acutely uncomfortable with the connections that are beginning to emerge. Not only did Aylmer, Nicholas and Flaxfleete share similar scars, but Nicholas and Flaxfleete were both poisoned after swallowing drinks from the Swan tavern. However, Flaxfleete was a guildsman and Aylmer and Nicholas favoured Miller and the Commonality. They were not friends.’

‘Roger said the marks might have been made twenty years ago, so perhaps they owned different allegiances then. However, these three murders are certainly connected to each other. People have made reference to other odd deaths, too – the wicked Canon Hodelston and Fat William. You must be on your guard, Brother. I shall ask Cynric to stay with you, if I am obliged to leave Lincoln before you are ready.’

Michael glanced at him. ‘Do not be too hopeful about Matilde. Folk here remember her, but no one has the faintest idea where she might have gone. Spayne may be the same.’

Bartholomew rubbed his eyes, unwilling to entertain the possibility that his last chance might fizzle into nothing. ‘She may have shared secrets with him that are not common knowledge.’

‘She confided matters to you that she never shared with others, and you do not know where she went. Personally, I am inclined to think that if you cannot find her, then no one else will, either. Remember what she told Yolande? That once she had made up her mind to disappear, no one would ever locate her. She is not given to idle boasts.’ He sighed when the physician made no reply. ‘Are you listening, or are your thoughts so choked with love that you cannot see the logic in what I am saying?’

Bartholomew squinted up at the bright white sky. ‘I know all this; I have thought of little else for more than a year. However, I was not thinking about Matilde just now, but Sabina.’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Why? She is too old for you, probably past childbearing age.’

Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘God’s teeth, Brother! I was not considering her in that way! I was actually thinking about something that happened a long time ago. It has been scratching at the back of my mind ever since we arrived, and I probably should have mentioned it before.’

Michael regarded him uneasily. ‘I do not like the sound of this. When you have failed to mention things in the past, the “oversight” has invariably caused me problems. For example, the time you neglected to reveal the presence of a woman in one of our Colleges. And look where that led us.’

Bartholomew grinned sheepishly. ‘It is nothing of that magnitude. It concerns Aylmer. When I examined his body yesterday, his face was familiar – that odd crease in his nose is distinctive – and I have been trying to recall where I might have seen it before. Then, during prime this morning, the memory surfaced suddenly. Do you remember what Suttone said about him – about his past?’

‘He mentioned a misunderstanding with a sheriff. The comment made Sabina smile. Is that what you meant?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Many years ago, my brother-in-law was ordered to act as juror for a series of trials at Cambridge castle. It was out of term, and I was home from Oxford with nothing to do, so I went with him. One of the cases involved a man called John Shirlok.’

‘Even I know about him,’ said Michael. ‘He turned “approver” – he named accomplices – but they were acquitted, and it was rumoured that he had simply supplied a list of people he did not like.’

‘Aylmer was one of them. I remember his nose among the ranks of the accused. So was Sabina.’

Michael stared at him. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. She was Sabina Godeknave then, which must have been the name of her first husband – she referred to herself as a widow at the trial. And I have a vague recollection of Nicholas Herl being there, too, gazing out of the window, bored. I cannot remember the names of everyone Shirlok accused, but I know there were ten in total: eight men and two women.’

Michael continued to stare as his own memory began to work. ‘You are right. The trial was a significant event because of the large number of people who were involved, and news of it even reached the ears of lowly novices at Ely. Nicholas Herl, John Aylmer and Sabina Godeknave were among the appellees. I cannot imagine why I did not make this connection.’

‘Why would you? It happened twenty years ago, and in a different city. There is nothing to link Cambridge-past to Lincoln-present, except some names in an ancient memory.’

Michael was mulling over the new information. ‘If Sabina Herl is Sabina Godeknave, then her first husband did not “die” – he was hanged for theft. Sabina was charged with the same crime, but was released for lack of evidence. At the abbey, we were astonished to learn she was later acquitted a second time. You said you remember some names, but not all. Who else do you recall?’

Bartholomew rubbed his chin. ‘Just two more. Shirlok gave them in Latin, in an attempt to lend weight to his claims, although his pronunciation was all but incomprehensible. They were Adam and Simon Molendinarius. As you know, a molendinarius is a miller.’

Michael’s jaw dropped as the myriad implications of that association rattled about in his mind. ‘Adam Miller! God’s blood, Matt! What is happening here?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Probably nothing relevant to Aylmer’s murder. However, it appears that at least some of the people Shirlok accused decided to leave Cambridge, and make Lincoln their new home. The timing fits: the trial was twenty years ago, which was roughly the time Miller arrived here and began to take over the Commonalty.’

‘I am not sure about this,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘Why did they leave Cambridge at all?’

‘Probably because the sheriff would have been watching them too closely. I recall knowing, with absolute certainty, that the appellees were guilty, despite the verdict. They doubtless moved so they could continue their illegal activities without the eyes of the law on them.’

Michael scratched his tonsure. ‘It is possible, I suppose. So, of these ten villains, we know there were two Miller brothers, Aylmer, Sabina and Nicholas. There were five more.’

‘I have been wrestling with the matter ever since prime, but nothing has come to mind. I remember poor Shirlok, though. He was sentenced to hang, much to his surprise. The executioner had to do it immediately, because he was already well on his way to being drunk, and would have been totally incapable had it had been left any longer. Shirlok was dispatched within an hour of his trial.’

Michael shrugged. ‘He pleaded guilty, and hanging is the only sentence for self-confessed thieves. He cannot have expected any other outcome.’

‘He did, though, Brother. He thought naming the others would earn him a reprieve. He was even more astonished when he was convicted but his accomplices were allowed to walk free.’

Michael regarded him thoughtfully. ‘You seem to think the verdict was unfair, and I remember being shocked to hear about the acquittals myself. But your brother-in-law was one of the jurors. Oswald’s morals are pliant on occasion, but they are not that flexible.’

‘He was only one of the twelve “good men and true”. Another was Stephen Morice.’

Michael grimaced. ‘The man whom every Cambridge resident knows to be the most dishonest fellow in Christendom, and who is so brazenly corrupt that he makes Lungspee look like an angel?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘And then there was Thomas Deschalers, the grocer whose death we investigated not long ago.’

Michael frowned. ‘He was a sly fellow, too, but the jury was not all bad, because de Wetherset served on it, too. He once confided to me – at a College feast, when he was drunk – that being obliged to pass verdict on Shirlok upset him so much that it was a major factor in him taking holy orders; clerics cannot serve on secular juries. He and Oswald would have seen justice done, though.’

‘I am not so sure about de Wetherset: he has always struck me as a man who would do anything to advance his own interests. In essence, though, the whole thing reeked of corruption, and I have often wondered why the appellees were never investigated. Their homes might have been stuffed to the ceilings with stolen goods, but we would never have known, because no one looked.’

‘When a man is about to be hanged, he will say all manner of things to save himself, including trying to indict innocent people.’ Michael was trying to be fair, by looking at both sides of the story. ‘It happens all the time, and Justices must be used to it. So, just because Shirlok’s accusations were dismissed does not necessarily mean there was a miscarriage of justice. Right?’

Bartholomew said nothing until they were across the High Bridge. ‘When Shirlok was hanged, something odd happened. He was a small man, and kicked for some time before the executioner declared him dead. He was cut down, and his body displayed in the castle bailey, as a deterrent to other would-be thieves. Eventually, the hangman went to a tavern, and I was able to look at Shirlok alone.’

Michael regarded him in distaste. ‘You had a ghoulish fascination for corpses even then?’

Bartholomew hesitated. ‘I once told Cynric this, but never anyone else.’

Michael was concerned. ‘Do not confide in me, if my knowing whatever it is will impede the investigation. Aylmer’s murder will be difficult enough to solve, without having restrictions put on it.’

‘This has nothing to do with Aylmer. As I stared down at Shirlok’s body, he opened his eyes. You see, because he was light, it had taken longer for him to choke than most men, and the hangman was too drunk to notice the signs of life. When I reached out to touch him, he leapt up and ran away.’

The monk could see it was a troubled memory, so tried not to laugh. ‘What happened then?’

‘Nothing. The executioner told everyone he had buried the body, and I decided not to contradict him, mostly because of an enduring sense that there was something rotten about the whole affair.’

‘There is de Wetherset,’ said Michael, nodding to where the portly ex-Chancellor was plodding towards them. ‘Perhaps we should ask him what he recalls about his duties as a juror that day.’

De Wetherset had attended prime in the Franciscan Friary, and smugly informed the scholars that it was considerably more uplifting than what usually transpired in the Priory of St Katherine. He told them he had attended one rowdy office when he had first taken up residence in the Gilbertines’ guest-hall, and had made the decision to subject himself to no more of them.

‘Father Simon enjoys that sort of worship,’ he went on archly. ‘But I do not clap when I sing.’

‘I thought you liked Simon,’ said Bartholomew, surprised to hear the condemnation in the ex-Chancellor’s voice. ‘You shared his house before it burned down.’

‘It was an economic arrangement that suited us both,’ said de Wetherset. ‘I would not say we were friends, although I admire him as a man of singular piety. You can see it in his devotion to St Hugh.’

Michael nodded. ‘He has spent his own money on a very expensive relic for the cathedral. But what do you think of the Hugh Chalice, de Wetherset? Bishop Gynewell believes it is genuine, although his dean is said to be sceptical.’

De Wetherset thought it only natural that he should be asked for an expert opinion. ‘Ever since you exposed those false bones in Cambridge, I have discovered a rare talent in myself: I possess the ability to sense an object’s holiness. In short, I can identify a fake at ten paces.’

‘Can you indeed?’ murmured Michael. ‘And what do you make of Simon’s cup?’

‘I have not looked at it. Relics are ten a penny in Lincoln, and I am too busy to inspect them all.’

‘We were just talking about the Cambridge trial of John Shirlok,’ said Bartholomew, aware that it was something of a non sequitur, but unable to think of another way to broach the subject. ‘Michael remembers it creating a stir across the whole shire.’

De Wetherset lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘One of the accused was Adam Miller, and he is still sensitive about the matter, so keep your voice down. But you are right; the case did cause an uproar, and I had the misfortune to be a juror, along with your kinsman, Bartholomew. I wondered how long it would take you to make the connection. I was going to prompt you if you had not seen it by this evening, but I need not have worried. You always were a sharp pair.’

‘What connection?’ asked Michael, bemused. ‘Do you mean the fact that some of the people accused by Shirlok are now living happily in Lincoln?’

‘No, that is obvious, and I imagine you have known it since you arrived. Miller and his friends came to live here shortly after their acquittal, and never made any secret about the fact that they had been wrongfully accused by a man who was then hanged. The Guild made hay with the information at the time, but not even they dare mention it these days. As I said, Miller is touchy about it.’

Michael’s green eyes were hard. ‘Actually, we have only just made this particular association, and it would have been helpful to know it sooner. You should have told me that the man whose murder I have been charged to solve was once accused of burglary with Adam Miller.’

‘I thought you knew,’ said de Wetherset, unrepentant. ‘You are an experienced Senior Proctor, and I did not think you needed me to teach you your business.’

‘It cannot have been easy for you,’ said Bartholomew, cutting across Michael’s tart response, ‘arriving here to find yourself face to face with people you had judged.’

‘It was a shock,’ admitted de Wetherset. ‘But the trial was years ago, and they bear me no malice – as is right, since we declared them innocent. They invited me to dine with them once, and we had a relatively pleasant evening – if one overlooks Miller’s repulsive table manners.’

‘Was it an honest verdict?’ asked Bartholomew bluntly. ‘No bribes exchanged hands?’

De Wetherset was outraged. ‘How dare you! No wonder you have not risen very high in the University if you go around putting those sorts of questions! However, since you ask, most of the jury believed Shirlok was making unfounded accusations just to save his neck.’

‘Perhaps he was, but even I could see the appellees were no innocents,’ pressed Bartholomew, unmoved by the man’s indignation. ‘Sabina Godeknave had already stood trial for a theft that had seen her husband hanged, and we have been told that Miller’s business in Lincoln is openly shady.’

‘That is irrelevant,’ said de Wetherset coldly. ‘We were not told what the appellees had done in the past, and obviously we could not predict what they would do in the future. We made a good, fair decision based on the evidence available to us at the time. Now, if you will excuse me, my presence is required at the cathedral. I am due to be fitted with my silken cope today.’

‘Adam Miller,’ said Michael, as de Wetherset started to leave. ‘It seems he was the leader of this felonious Cambridge coven. And we know about Nicholas Herl, Aylmer, Sabina and Miller’s brother. Who are the other five?’

‘You have not learned that yet?’ asked de Wetherset contemptuously. Michael glared at him: the ex-Chancellor was beginning to be annoying. ‘They are Lora Boyner and Walter Chapman.’

‘Of course!’ said Bartholomew. ‘I remember Lora – a large woman who shouted a lot. She was a brewer and could lift heavy kegs of ale that were too weighty for even strong men.’

‘And the remaining three?’ asked Michael coolly.

‘All dead. Simon Miller and one other man died in prison, and the last two died of a falling pox. However, bear in mind that Adam Miller has made other friends since the trial, and Lincoln’s Commonalty comprises more than six members. For example, there is Langar, his legal adviser, who left a post as castle clerk to follow him to a new life.’

Michael continued to glare. ‘When we first started to talk, you mentioned another connection you think I should have made. I suspect you are overestimating how helpful people have been to me in this godforsaken place, so you had better tell me what it is.’

‘Stolen property, Brother,’ said de Wetherset with an impatient sigh that indicated he thought the monk a simpleton. ‘One of the crimes for which Shirlok was hanged was the theft of a silver goblet from the church at Geddynge. It was presented at his trial as evidence.’

‘I remember,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was old, small and tarnished.’

‘Quite,’ said de Wetherset. His tone became even more patronising. ‘And where else have you recently encountered a cup that is “old, small and tarnished”?’

‘The Hugh Chalice?’ asked Bartholomew, his thoughts whirling in confusion.

De Wetherset clapped slowly and sarcastically. ‘At last! I am almost certain that Shirlok’s vessel is the same as the one Simon bought for the cathedral, although there was no talk at the trial about it belonging to St Hugh or being stolen from the friars who were transporting it to Lincoln.’

Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘Simon says he bought it from a relic-seller. Prior Roger thinks there was something familiar about this man and his red hose, but Simon claims he is from Rome.’

De Wetherset smiled in his annoying manner. ‘Good. And now think about a fellow called Walter Chapman, as you remember him from the trial. What was he wearing?’

‘I have not the faintest idea,’ said Bartholomew, regarding him as though he were insane. ‘And I am astonished you think I should. I cannot possibly be expected to remember a man’s clothes after two decades. I cannot even recall what I wore then.’

‘I can,’ said de Wetherset. ‘A black tabard with yellow stockings. You looked like a moorhen. But I see I shall have to help your analysis. Chapman wore scarlet hose at the trial, and he still favours the fashion now. Ergo, this “Roman” relic-seller, whom Roger thinks is vaguely familiar, is Chapman.’

‘There are a lot of questions with that solution,’ said Bartholomew, unconvinced. ‘First, how did Chapman come by the chalice, since it would have been returned to its owners at Geddynge after Shirlok’s trial? Secondly, even if Chapman did manage to acquire it, why wait twenty years before selling it to Simon? And thirdly, why would Chapman peddle it to Simon, knowing Simon intends to put it somewhere where it will be open to public scrutiny? If it is not the original Hugh Chalice – and it does not sound as though it can be – then Chapman is asking to be exposed as a deceiver.’

‘Yes,’ said de Wetherset patronisingly. ‘So, ignore Chapman for now, and concentrate on the man originally charged with its theft: Shirlok. What can you deduce from his involvement?’

Bartholomew scratched his head, too interested in the connections he was beginning to see to be offended by de Wetherset’s condescension. ‘We have been told that the Hugh Chalice was stolen en route from London to Lincoln twenty years ago. Shirlok was definitely operating then.’

‘Right,’ said Michael. ‘And Father Simon told us how it was pilfered from the two friar-couriers when they rested their weary bones at Cambridge. Shirlok must have found them asleep and taken advantage of the situation. At the trial, it was claimed that Shirlok passed the chalice to Lora Boyner, but she denied knowing it was stolen.’

‘You have missed a bit out, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Shirlok must have sold it to Geddynge before giving it to Lora, because it was Geddynge’s priest who claimed he was the owner.’

De Wetherset smiled. ‘Exactly! The Geddynge priest bought the cup from a “relic-seller” for twenty shillings. At that price, obviously neither he nor Shirlok had any idea of its holiness. It was removed from Geddynge church within a few days of its purchase, because Shirlok knew that what could be sold once could be stolen and hawked again.’

‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But then what? You have established that it was stolen from the friars, stolen from Geddynge, and recovered from Lora Boyner to appear at Shirlok’s trial. But how did it get here? After Shirlok had been convicted, it would have been returned to its rightful owner.’

‘And who is that?’ demanded de Wetherset imperiously. ‘Not the Geddynge priest, because he had the misfortune to buy purloined property. And not Lora Boyner, either. So, is the “rightful owner” the cathedral in Lincoln? The Old Temple in London?’

‘The two friars?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I do not recall them being at the trial.’

‘Once the cup was lost to them, they returned to London with their tails between their legs,’ said de Wetherset. ‘I heard a rumour that they never arrived – God struck them down for their carelessness.’

‘Or they were killed by whoever stole the chalice,’ suggested Michael. ‘Shirlok.’

‘So what did happen to Shirlok’s chalice?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘Was it returned to Geddynge, because it was Geddynge’s priest who reported it missing? I am sure it was recorded as his property at the trial, regardless of who has real legal title to the thing now.’

Michael snapped his fingers. ‘I remember! Everything Shirlok was alleged to have stolen disappeared into thin air when it was in the process of being returned to its proper owners. Shirlok’s treasure vanished, and no one ever found out what happened to it.’

De Wetherset was smug. ‘Precisely, Brother! So, now do you see now why I have not wasted my time examining Simon’s cup? With that sort of history, how can it be a genuine relic?’

‘Will you come to the cathedral with me, Matt?’ asked Michael, as the ex-Chancellor swaggered away up the hill. ‘De Wetherset is not the only man due to try on his silken cope today, and I do not trust anyone else to give an honest opinion about my appearance. Strangers might have me processing up the nave in a garment that makes me look fat.’

‘Another time,’ said Bartholomew, knowing from experience that fittings tended to take a long time with Michael. The monk was particular about such matters, and Bartholomew wanted to spend the day browsing the minster’s library. He glanced wistfully at Spayne’s house as they approached it. Because the mayor and his sister were away, the window shutters had been left closed, although smoke still billowed from the chimney. The servants were assiduously following Ursula’s instructions to keep a fire burning, to melt the snow on the damaged roof.

‘There is the Swan tavern,’ said Michael, pointing to a large building that stood slightly downhill from Spayne’s abode. Above its door was a sign on which a black bird had been painted. It was not an attractive specimen, and the artist had furnished it with a set of teeth that made it look deformed. ‘Where Flaxfleete bought his tainted wine, and where Nicholas drank ale before he died. Shall we go inside?’

‘We shall not,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘I do not want to be poisoned.’

‘No one will harm us,’ said Michael, with far more confidence than Bartholomew felt was warranted. ‘My throat is parched, and a cup of ale would solve that problem and put me in a sober frame of mind for trying on priestly garments.’

Bartholomew followed him with serious misgivings. Inside, the inn was warm and surprisingly respectable. The floor was clean, the main room was fragrant with freshly brewed ale, and the benches and tables were of decent quality. There were even a few women present, indicating it was not some rough city tavern, but an establishment that was rather more genteel. Nevertheless, Bartholomew was still startled to see Lady Christiana and Dame Eleanor there, drinking watered wine from delicately wrought goblets and eating honey-bread from a silver platter. He moved quickly to block them from Michael’s line of vision, sure someone would notice if the monk leered at Christiana in such a public place.

The taverner bustled up to them, eyes disappearing into the fat of his face as he smiled a welcome. ‘I am glad you came,’ he said, ushering them to seats near the fire. ‘You are Brother Michael and Doctor Bartholomew, friends of Master Suttone of Michaelhouse. We are honoured to have another Suttone in our fine city. My name is Robert Quarrel, landlord, and I am delighted to make your acquaintance. What will you have?’

‘Ale and bread,’ said Michael. ‘No cheese, though – we slender men tend to avoid cheese.’

Quarrel beamed uncomfortably, not sure how to respond. In the end, he settled for clapping his hands and repeating the order to a pot-boy.

Michael raised a hand to prevent the lad from leaving. ‘I saw you on Wednesday night.’

The boy smiled uneasily. ‘I saw you, too, sir. I carried a keg of claret to Master Kelby’s house, and you were talking to him at his door. Later, someone started a rumour that Flaxfleete was poisoned and that our wine was the culprit.’

‘Do not say such things!’ cried Quarrel, anxiety stamped across his chubby features. ‘I am a respectable man – I have served as Lincoln’s mayor and its bailiff. I supply wine to many wealthy patrons and have never had any trouble before. The poison must have come from somewhere else.’

‘It was definitely in the keg before it arrived at Kelby’s house,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Drips on his floor attested to the fact that someone had tampered with the seal and it was leaking. Where do you store your barrels?’

‘In the cellar,’ said Quarrel. ‘And no one goes down there except me. I fetched the cask myself, and put it by the door, ready. However, I was enjoying dinner with de Wetherset, and left it for Joseph to deliver instead of seeing to it myself, as I should have done. Perhaps someone did something to it then.’

‘You left it unattended?’ asked Michael. ‘Were you not afraid someone might make off with it?’

‘It was not unattended, exactly,’ objected Quarrel. ‘It was by the door, and Joseph would have noticed someone stealing it.’

Joseph looked sheepish. ‘I did not watch it constantly, though. Ned went to take Dame Eleanor back to the Gilbertine Priory and left me in charge. I am afraid I was distracted by patrons wanting to talk.’

‘Why did Ned escort Dame Eleanor home?’ asked Bartholomew, glancing to where she sat. ‘Is it usual for pot-boys to abandon their duties to help old ladies?’

Joseph looked defensive. ‘It was cold that night, and we were afraid she might slip on ice, so Ned offered to go with her. She is a saint, you see, and it is always wise to curry favour from such folk. She is old and will die soon, and you never know when you might need to petition the saints for a miracle in this world.’

‘We watch her because she is dear to us,’ corrected Quarrel, slightly shiftily. Bartholomew wondered whether it had been the landlord’s own convictions that the boy had so guilelessly repeated. ‘And I always encourage my lads to do their Christian duty by helping others.’

‘How much wine did Kelby buy from you?’ asked Michael, smothering a smile.

‘Three kegs,’ replied Quarrel. ‘I had delivered two earlier in the day, and he told me he would send for the last one if it was required – he did not want to pay for three if he only used two. But they were celebrating Flaxfleete’s acquittal, so more was imbibed than was anticipated. The keg was not waiting by the porch for long, Brother – an hour at the most.’

‘What can you tell me about Nicholas Herl?’ asked Michael, changing the subject.

Quarrel seemed surprised. ‘He was a bitter man, but he became oddly gleeful in the month before he died. He usually drank in the Angel, which suited us – we would rather not have belligerent patrons if we can help it – but he chose to come here the night he died. He was sullen and angry over something. He drank too much, and was found the next morning in the Braytheford Pool. The priests said it was self-murder, although his wife does not believe them.’

‘He was also poisoned,’ said Bartholomew baldly, seeing no reason to keep it quiet.

‘Sweet Jesus, no!’ Quarrel was clearly appalled, and glanced around furtively before lowering his voice. ‘I hope you will not make this public, because it could ruin me. You can see for yourself that this is a respectable place. We do not murder our customers!’

‘It does seem pleasant,’ agreed Michael, looking around appreciatively. He suddenly became aware that Christiana was there. ‘Very pleasant.’

Bartholomew watched with a sinking heart as Christiana sensed she was being admired, and turned around. She raised her eyebrows when she saw Michael, and whispered something in her companion’s ear. Then she stood and came towards them, Dame Eleanor in her wake. She glided, rather than walked, and Bartholomew was left with the feeling that she knew the eyes of every man present were on her, and that she expected nothing less. Pointedly, he fixed his own attention on her friend. Dame Eleanor had a kind, brown face and eyes that twinkled. He stood, to offer her his seat.

‘Good morning, Brother,’ said Christiana with a smile that made her appear vaguely wanton. She plumped herself down in the place Bartholomew had vacated for the old lady. ‘I thought you had eaten breakfast with the Gilbertines.’

‘I came for ale to slake my thirst,’ replied Michael with the air of a martyr. ‘I shall touch no food; I am not a greedy man.’

‘I am sure of it,’ Christiana replied. Her tone was grave, but her eyes sparkled with mischief. ‘Do you like this tavern? I inherited the building from my mother, and Master Quarrel has rented it from my family for the past thirty years. It is said to be one of the finest inns in the county.’

‘In England,’ said Eleanor, perching on the end of the bench, where there was not really room for her. To avoid being crushed, Christiana shifted closer to Michael than was decent.

‘We have excellent taverns in Cambridge, too,’ said Michael, making no attempt to move away. ‘You must come and sample a few.’

Old Dame Eleanor frowned her puzzlement. ‘How do you know, Brother? I thought our universities forbade alehouses to its scholars – to keep hot-blooded youths away from sober townsfolk.’

‘I am no hot-blooded youth,’ said Michael, aware that Christiana was looking at him with amused eyes. ‘Well, no youth, at least, and–’

‘He is obliged to visit them, to make sure students do not break the rules,’ Bartholomew explained hastily, before the monk could confide something he might later regret. ‘He is our Senior Proctor.’

‘I sensed, the first time I met you, that you were more than a mere monk,’ said Christiana with an expression that was distinctly flirtatious. ‘You are also a man of power, which explains why Bishop Gynewell is so eager to honour you with a prebendal stall.’

‘I do own a certain influence in the University,’ admitted Michael in a modest understatement. ‘Although I am a humble man.’

‘Then we shall leave you to your humble duties,’ said Dame Eleanor, hoisting Christiana to her feet with surprising strength for an elderly woman. ‘Whatever they might be. But St Hugh will wonder what has happened to me if I do not tend his shrine soon. I have prayed there every day for the past sixty years, except when I was stricken with the plague and he cured me.’

‘Were you healed by Bishop Hugh or Little Hugh?’ asked Michael in a transparent attempt to delay their departure. ‘Only I have heard there are more miracles at the tomb of one than the other.’

‘It is not for me to compare them, Brother,’ said Eleanor gently. She turned to her friend. ‘It looks like snow, so you should not tarry here long, Christiana. Go to the market while the weather holds, and then return to the Gilbertines without delay. My old bones sense we are in for a blizzard, and I will worry if I think you are out.’

Christiana smiled fondly as Eleanor hobbled out. ‘She is a very dear lady, although I suspect I am better equipped to deal with a little snow than she is. I am younger and fitter, after all.’

‘Yes, but she is a saint, My Lady,’ said Quarrel seriously. ‘And blizzards mean nothing to them. I imagine she could quell one with a mere wave of her hand, if she were so inclined. Would you like Joseph to accompany you? With Miller’s Market so close, there are far too many rough types descending on our city.’

‘I will escort you,’ offered Michael chivalrously, standing and proffering a sturdy arm. ‘Matt needs a bit of ribbon for his spare tunic, and I always like exploring new markets.’

Christiana smiled and stretched out an elegant finger to touch his arm. ‘No, Brother. You must repair to the cathedral and be fitted with your canonical vestments. Who knows, perhaps St Hugh will touch your heart and order you to remain in Lincoln, as he did with Dame Eleanor all those years ago. Then we might have many outings together.’

She left, with Joseph carrying her basket. Only when her graceful figure could no longer be seen did Michael turn his attention back to the landlord. ‘So, you have no idea how Nicholas Herl or Flaxfleete came to be poisoned?’

‘None at all,’ said Quarrel firmly. ‘And I assure you it was nothing to do with my beverages. I am heartily sorry for both deaths, but my wine and ale are innocent of harming any man.’