‘I have just spoken to Urban. He tells me Andrew was ill last night, and was beginning to accept that he might not have the strength to carry his True Cross to Norwich. He said he went out this morning, and when he returned, he no longer had the relic.’
‘He lost it?’ asked Bartholomew, slow to understand.
‘He gave it to someone,’ explained Michael. ‘Someone who would take it north. Then he told Urban that he would die today, and, sure enough…’
‘I thought his plan was to pass the thing to Urban,’ interrupted Bartholomew, refusing to accept that some ancient curse was the cause of the old man’s death.
‘So did Urban.’
‘I saw them earlier today,’ said Bartholomew, struggling to recall whether the pouch had been around Andrew’s neck at the time. He decided it was not, and concluded that Andrew must have just returned from passing it to his elected carrier. The old man had been tired, and the physician recalled his relief as he had sat on the churchyard wall. Urban, perching next to him, had been weeping–perhaps because he had just been told that he was not to be trusted with his master’s quest. Had the novice been sufficiently hurt by the lack of trust to kill his master?
Bartholomew stared at Andrew’s pale, water-logged features and wondered whether he had believed so strongly that he would die once the True Cross was out of his possession that he had jumped into the river of his own accord. The mind exerted a powerful force on the body, and it would not be the first time a man had willed himself to death.
Because Andrew was a visitor to Cambridge, and Urban seemed incapable of dealing with his master’s body, it was Michael who arranged for it to be taken to St Botolph’s Church. Bartholomew, Tomas and Urban carried the sad burden, and when they arrived Tomas took Urban to pray in the chancel, while Bartholomew manhandled Andrew into the parish coffin and Michael hunted for candles. When they had completed their sorry duties, Bartholomew studied Urban. His face was tear-streaked, and his shoulders slumped, as though he had been deprived of something very dear to him. The physician could not decide whether the loss related to his teacher, or to the fact that the relic was gone and he was no longer obliged to play a part in its journey.
‘Tomas is interrogating him,’ said Michael, watching. ‘Except his enquiries sound rather more desperate and meaningful than did mine.’
Bartholomew watched the Dominican, and conceded that Michael was right. The expression on Tomas’s face was more agonized than an informal discussion warranted, and it was clear that Andrew’s death–or perhaps the disappearance of the relic–had grieved him as deeply as it had Urban. He walked over to them, wanting to hear what was said for himself. While Tomas’s reaction to Andrew’s sudden demise was odd, he still liked the man, and did not want Michael to draw all the conclusions regarding his behaviour.
‘I thought he trusted me,’ Urban was saying, scrubbing his face with his sleeve. ‘I could not believe it when he said he had asked someone else to take it. I promised I would do it. I even offered to touch it, to prove my sincerity.’
‘You did?’ asked Tomas uneasily. ‘When?’
‘The day we arrived.’ Urban sniffed. ‘I would have done anything he asked!’
‘I am sure he knew,’ said Tomas kindly. ‘I imagine he had grown fond of you, and did not want to load you with such a heavy burden.’
‘Barzak’s curse,’ said Urban numbly. ‘He was right–he said he would die the day the relic left his care. When he handed it to me, I hesitated. Perhaps that gave him second thoughts. I was a coward, when I should have been bold.’
‘Being wary of handling holy relics shows good common sense, lad,’ said Michael. ‘Only a fool seizes them up as one might grab marchpanes at a feast. I doubt your caution reduced your standing in his eyes. But before we explore his death further, there is something I would like to ask. Have you ever been on the roof of St Bernard’s Hostel?’
‘No,’ replied Urban miserably. ‘Yes.’
Michael, who had joined them, regarded him with raised eyebrows. ‘Well, which is it?’
‘I did not go as far as the roof, only to the gables on the upper floor. There was a pigeon’s nest outside Witney’s window, and he said the noise was driving him to distraction. I found him trying to climb a ladder one day, but he was a danger to himself, even on the lower rungs, so I went up instead. He gave me a penny, which I considered insulting.’
‘Because you wanted more?’ asked Michael.
Urban glared at him. ‘Because I am a friar, and helping other people is part of my vocation. I do not require to be paid for acts of kindness, and I was offended that he thought I did.’
‘Andrew,’ prompted Tomas, more interested in the Carmelite than in Urban’s sensitivities. ‘What happened to bring him to this vile end today?’
Urban took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘After he told me he had given the relic to someone else, he asked me to walk with him by the river. I was angry and distressed–refused to listen to him–and he wandered alone to the end of that pier, probably to avoid my stupid, prideful sulks. Then, before I could do anything to stop it, the boards snapped and he plunged into the river, feet first.’
‘Feet first?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He did not crumple or flail as he fell?’
‘He went in as straight as an arrow. It was almost as if he knew the planks would break and he was ready for them. I tried to reach him, but I cannot swim and was afraid to venture too far from the bank.’
‘The water is shallow at the moment, and the currents are weak,’ said Michael. ‘You could have reached him by wading, just as Tomas did.’
The novice regarded him with an agonized expression. ‘You mean I could have saved him, if I had had the courage to wade into the water?’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew before the monk could make matters worse. ‘Even if you had reached him, you could not have prevented his death–for three reasons. First, it is obvious the pier’s planks are rotten, especially at the far end, and I suspect Andrew knew exactly what he was doing when he trod on them. Second, your description of his fall sounds as though he intended to force himself deep into the water–to drown; his feet were certainly very firmly embedded in the mud. And third, he could have held his face above the surface of the water had he been so inclined. But he did not.’
‘He is right,’ agreed Tomas. ‘Andrew believed he was going to die, and he willingly embraced his fate. There was nothing you could have done to save him. But did he tell you why he had elected to choose another man in your stead?’
‘He said I was too young.’
‘Did he tell you to whom he gave the relic?’ asked Bartholomew.
Urban nodded. ‘But he made me promise, on peril of my immortal soul, that I would never reveal the information. And I shall not, no matter what you do to me.’ He thrust out his chin defiantly.
‘Do not worry, lad; no one will force you to break your oath,’ said Michael gently. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Are you certain his death was a combination of accident and self-murder? You do not think someone encouraged him out on to the pier, knowing it would collapse?’
‘I did at first,’ said Tomas, speaking before Bartholomew could reply. ‘But not any more. I saw from Bartholomew’s examination that there was nothing to suggest a struggle. Andrew allowed himself to die. I thought he would fight it.’
‘How would you know what he might do?’ demanded Urban. ‘You do not know him. He was with me the whole time we have been in Cambridge–except this morning–and he never met you. How would a stranger know what he was like?’
‘Is that so?’ asked Michael mildly, eyeing Tomas’s neck to see whether he wore a purple pouch. ‘And where were you this morning, Tomas?’
‘Andrew did not give me the relic,’ said Tomas, understanding exactly what the monk was asking. ‘I only wish he had.’
‘He would never give it to a Dominican,’ said Urban bitterly and rather accusingly. ‘They would destroy it, claiming it heretical.’
‘Many would,’ admitted Tomas.
‘Would you?’ demanded Michael. ‘You have been very coy about where you stand in the debate. Do you follow the teachings of your order, or are you of a more independent mind?’
‘What I think is irrelevant…’
‘You did know Andrew,’ said Bartholomew, regarding the Dominican intently as certain facts became clear in his mind. ‘Your reaction to his death has been one of distress. An ex-proctor, used to violence, would not have shown grief for a stranger–or for a man of brief and recent acquaintance. Ergo, you knew each other at some point in the past.’
Tomas bowed his head, and when he spoke his voice was so soft as to be almost inaudible. ‘I knew Andrew, although I took care not to let him see me here. I was once under his tuition.’
‘You cannot have been,’ said Urban unsteadily. ‘You are a Dominican, and he is a Carmelite. He would have nothing to do with a Black Friar.’
‘Andrew travelled when he was younger,’ said Bartholomew. ‘His prior sent him to Hungary, which is where Pécs is located. You met him there.’
Tomas nodded. ‘I studied with him, but we disagreed on too many issues.’
‘I do not believe you,’ said Urban unhappily. ‘We are Carmelites, and he would not have studied with a Dominican. Or did you come with the express intention of killing him and taking his relic?’
‘A good question,’ said Michael.
‘It is coincidence that brought us to Cambridge at the same time,’ replied Tomas. ‘I never expected to see him again, and I did not make myself known when I spotted him in the street. I did not want my presence here to distress him.’
‘But he knew you were here regardless,’ said Bartholomew, thinking about what he had reasoned. ‘He thought you did not see him, just as you thought he did not see you. But he did. He told me about you in a roundabout way–twice.’
Tomas stared at him. ‘He did?’
‘He said there was a student to whom he had hoped to entrust the relic, but the fellow proved unacceptable. He also said he had once held a post similar to that of proctor. So did you.’
‘Yes,’ admitted Tomas. ‘I learned my skills from him.’
‘He warned me about letting my own students have too much freedom of thought. He gave you too much, and you turned against him.’
Tomas hung his head. ‘We grew apart as I read more, and he disliked me for it. We parted, and I never expected to see him again. I knew he had returned to England–to his beloved Devonshire–but that was all. It was a shock to see him here, so far from his home. But I loved him, and I would have taken his relic to Norwich, no matter what the cost.’
‘He did not give it to you?’ pressed Michael. ‘It would make sense if he had. He would probably far rather send you–the traitor–to your death, than the boy of whom he was fond.’
Tomas winced. ‘I wish now that I had made myself known to him, and that he had asked me to take the relic. But he did not.’
‘You have far too many secrets, Tomas,’ said Michael gravely. ‘Is there anything else about you that I should know? If so, then tell me now. If I learn it from other sources, I shall arrest you and charge you with murder.’
‘Whose murder?’ demanded Tomas. ‘Not Andrew’s, because you have just concluded that his death was a suicide. And not Witney’s, because I was with you when he died.’
‘I shall make up my own mind about Andrew, and I will not allow your or Matt’s interpretation of the “facts” to confuse me. So, I ask you again: is there anything else I should know?’
‘No,’ said Tomas. ‘Not about me.’ He looked at Urban, who glowered at him in the kind of way that suggested he intended the Dominican serious harm.
‘Andrew’s death is your fault,’ Urban declared angrily. ‘It was seeing you here that made him decide to accept an early death. If you had not appeared, none of this would have happened.’
‘That is unfair,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘Besides, you should bear some responsibility for what has happened, because you have not been truthful, either.’
‘What do you mean?’ cried Urban.
‘I mean you are no White Friar. I have been tending William de Lincolne, the Carmelite prior, for a fever of late. He is well acquainted with his order’s foundations, and he tells me there is no Carmelite friary inside Exeter’s walls–and Andrew was very specific about the positioning of his priory, because he felt its fortified location rendered his relic safe. In fact, Lincolne says there are only two friaries which match Andrew’s description in Exeter, and they are Dominican and Franciscan. I strongly suspect you belong to one of these.’
Urban started to cry. ‘I knew we would be found out sooner or later. I knew one of us would make a mistake that would see us exposed, especially in a place like this, where there are so many well-travelled mendicants.’
‘Your real Order–the Dominicans–does not approve of blood relics,’ continued Bartholomew. ‘Your prior in Exeter–a man you called John de Burgo, although I am told there is no high-ranking Carmelite of that name–was newly elected, and you were afraid he might destroy the relic, acting boldly, as men freshly appointed often do in an attempt to make a mark.’
Urban nodded miserably. ‘There is no point in denial now, and my role in the affair is over. Andrew and I are Dominicans, but he did not agree with our Order’s stance on Holy Blood. He did not want his relic destroyed in a wave of religious bigotry, and that is why he did what he did.’
‘Very noble,’ said Michael dryly.
‘People lie to me on a regular basis,’ said Michael, as he and Bartholomew walked away from St Botolph’s Church. ‘But I do not think I have ever encountered quite so many untruths in such a short period of time as I have in this case.’
‘Most are not lies, but omissions. Tomas neglected to mention his relationship with Andrew–as did Andrew himself–and Andrew and Urban told no one they were saving the relic from their own Order. And I have lied, too, I am afraid.’
Michael laughed. ‘You? I do not think so! You are the worst dissembler I know, and I would have seen through you in an instant.’
‘You did not this time, thankfully. I lied about Andrew. I do not think he jumped into the water of his own volition, for two reasons. First, the pupils in his eyes were severely contracted, which often means some sort of medicine or poison has been ingested; and second, it is not easy to stick your head under the surface and expect to drown–the instinct to lift it up again is too strong.’
Michael stared at him. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Not completely–mine is an inexact science–but there was a tiny pink-coloured phial in Andrew’s scrip when I searched his body. The stopper was out and it was full of water, so I shall never be able to tell you what it originally contained. However, I cannot help but wonder whether he was given something to swallow–perhaps to calm him over giving up the relic–and it robbed him of the use of his limbs or made him lethargic. It would explain why he did not lift his head to breathe.’
‘And you did not say this in front of Tomas and Urban because…?’
‘Because one of them might have given it to him.’
‘Interesting. You have always been more positive towards Tomas than I, but now you hesitate when it comes to sharing information with him. Why?’
‘Because I had already suspected a prior connection between him and Andrew, and I did not know what it meant. They parted on bitter terms. Do you think he might have seen his former master and decided to avenge some ancient grievance?’
Michael nodded, pleased his friend was finally coming around to his way of thinking. ‘However, it is equally possible that Urban might have avenged a more recent one. He is furious that Andrew gave the relic to someone else. Hurt. He may have fed him this substance, then shoved him in the water. They were alone, after all. But now I have two murders to investigate.’
‘Andrew and Witney. I wonder whether they were claimed by the same hand. Whoever it is, the culprit is clever. Both
deaths could easily be seen as accidents.’
‘But not by us,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘We are clever, too. Let us consider Witney for a moment. You said he might not have been the intended victim. Perhaps Andrew was the target, because he stole a blood relic from his Order, and Witney’s head happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
‘Very wrong,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps the culprit is the current holder of the relic. However, I doubt we will ever know, because he will be long gone with the thing, if he has any sense.’
‘Where? To Norwich? Or to some Franciscan foundation that will pay handsomely for it?’
‘He will die when he parts with it, if Andrew was to be believed, although I do not believe in such nonsense.’
‘I wish Urban would tell us to whom Andrew entrusted it,’ said Michael. ‘Can we be sure it was not Tomas, his old student and a man he once loved? Urban is a solid, reliable lad, but he is not of Tomas’s mettle. Urban would be very much a second choice.’
‘Perhaps it was Seton. He is a Franciscan, who adheres to his Order’s tenet that Holy Blood relics are worthy of veneration, unlike Witney. Or perhaps it was someone from the Dominican priory–Andrew preferred the Franciscan stance to that of his own Order, and he was not alone in rebelling. Morden admitted as much, after a fashion.’
‘Morden never leaves Cambridge, and I cannot see Andrew passing such a valuable thing to a man who looks like an elf–or to one who barely knows what the Holy Blood debate entails. It will not be Morden, and it will not be his friars, either. They are all the same–likeable, but inveterately stupid.’
The Tainted Relic Page 32
