Bartholomew 12 - The Tarnished Chalice

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘Perhaps it is not the real cup,’ suggested Michael. ‘That is the most rational explanation. You must have come across forgeries in the past.’

  ‘It is no forgery,’ declared Gynewell with startling conviction. ‘I am absolutely convinced of its authenticity. My dean disagrees, though. He held it in his hands, and said it did not instil in him a proper sense of reverence. I asked him to explain further, but he is not very good with words.’

  ‘I understand him,’ said Michael. ‘We had some bones in Cambridge a few years ago, which were said to belong to a saint. Only the more perceptive of us saw they were not holy.’

  ‘The more “perceptive” of us also knew they had been hacked from a pauper,’ added Bartholomew.

  ‘So, Dean Bresley thinks our Hugh Chalice is not the real one,’ said Gynewell, off in a world of his own. ‘However, I feel with every fibre of my being that he is wrong.’

  ‘Why mention your dean’s scepticism if you disagree with him?’ asked Michael.

  ‘You cannot investigate the matter properly unless you are fully informed,’ replied Gynewell. ‘And you should be aware that the chalice has provoked conflict among your future colleagues – the dean doubts its sanctity, but most of the Vicars Choral do not.’

  ‘Thank you for being candid, My Lord,’ said Michael. ‘But I thought you wanted me to find Aylmer’s killer. What has the Hugh Chalice to do with him?’

  ‘It is very simple,’ said Gynewell. ‘Aylmer was holding it when he was stabbed.’

  It was not long before the door opened and Roger entered with a plate of Lombard slices. Bartholomew was keen to go in search of Spayne, but did not want to offend the prior by racing away the moment he arrived with his victuals. He lingered awhile, then made his escape when Michael announced that he was going to begin his investigation into Aylmer’s murder. Suttone volunteered to help, but the offer was a half-hearted one, and he was visibly relieved when the monk said the best thing he could do was act as Michaelhouse’s ambassador by charming their hosts. Gravely, Suttone agreed to sample the Gilbertines’ pastries, all in the interests of establishing friendly relations between the Cambridge College and the Lincoln convent.

  ‘I do not want to stay here,’ said Michael resentfully, as they left Suttone to his arduous duties. ‘And nor do I want to investigate a suspicious death.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ said Bartholomew. ‘If Spayne tells me where Matilde might be, I would like to leave as soon as possible. I will not abandon you to investigate this stabbing alone, but I do not want to wait weeks before going after her. The delay might see her slip through my fingers again.’

  ‘We had better get on with it, then,’ said Michael. He sighed. ‘I did not think accepting a prebendal stall would see me inconveniently beholden to a second bishop.’

  ‘I suppose you can still decline the honour,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I do not think de Lisle will be very pleased if you do, though. He said he had sacrificed a good deal to secure it for you.’

  Michael nodded. ‘He was obliged to promote three of Gynewell’s archdeacons to posts in his own See in return.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘But to return to the murder, I am under the impression that it is not Aylmer’s death that worries Gynewell. What bothers him is the prospect of accepting the Hugh Chalice if it is implicated in a crime.’

  ‘How will you begin your work?’

  ‘By looking at Aylmer’s corpse. It lies in the mortuary chapel, and I was hoping you might spare a few moments to help me. I know you are eager to visit Spayne, but I will come with you to interview him, if you oblige me with Aylmer now.’

  ‘I do not need you with me when I talk to Spayne.’ Bartholomew was surprised the monk should think he might, given that he had spent the last year and a half making enquiries on his own.

  ‘Do not be so sure,’ said Michael. ‘He may not want to help you – a man determined to marry the woman who rejected him – but he may be more forthcoming with a monk.’

  Bartholomew supposed he had a point. ‘Can we see Spayne first, then inspect Aylmer?’

  Michael tapped him on the arm with a plump forefinger. ‘You dallied weeks in Cambridge after hearing about Spayne from Matilde’s friend – waiting for term to end so Suttone and I could travel to Lincoln for our installation. Why the sudden hurry?’

  ‘Because people here knew Matilde, and they have made the search real again.’

  ‘The trail is still six years old, Matt. Be patient, and do not allow your expectations to rise too high. I do not want you crushed with disappointment again – like that time you heard she had gone to Stamford, only to learn she had not been there in a decade.’

  Bartholomew nodded. The monk was right, and he tried to put Matilde out of his mind. He was about to follow him inside a low, dismal building, when he spotted Father Simon’s pockmarked face. The priest was leaning against a disused stable, in earnest conversation with a fellow wearing crimson hose. When a group of lay-brothers clattered towards them, carrying pails of milk and sharing some ribald joke, Simon started in alarm and shoved his companion out of sight, placing a hand over the fellow’s mouth to stop him from speaking. The man put up a token struggle at the rough treatment, but desisted when Simon whispered something urgent. Simon scanned the yard quickly when the cowherds had gone, although he failed to notice Bartholomew watching him. Then he and his companion finished their discussion and parted quickly. Bartholomew was puzzled, wondering why the priest should act so furtively, but then dismissed the incident as none of his business.

  ‘I was about to start without you,’ grumbled Michael when the physician entered the chapel, as if the delay had been hours rather than moments. The mortuary was small, dark and smelled of mould. Cobwebs swayed on the ceiling, and the floor was slick with slime. ‘Still, you should enjoy this. It will remind you of how you anatomised cadavers with the French all last year.’

  ‘I did no such thing,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Well, I suppose there was the occasion when—’

  ‘You can keep that sort of information to yourself,’ interrupted Michael tartly. ‘I do not want to lose you to an accusation of witchcraft now I finally have you back again. It would be a wretched nuisance. Besides, chopping up human bodies is not a normal thing to which to aspire.’

  ‘Neither is examining them for your investigations.’ ‘That is different,’ said Michael loftily. ‘As I have told you before.’

  ‘I cannot see in here,’ complained Bartholomew, beginning to resent the wasted time. ‘It is too dark and there are no windows to open.’

  ‘We will be poring over bodies until sunset at this rate,’ said Michael with an impatient sigh. ‘First you dawdle outside, then the room is too dim.’

  ‘Well, it is dim,’ Bartholomew pointed out, irritable in his turn.

  ‘Lord, Matt!’ snapped Michael, as he stamped outside. He continued to rail as he stalked towards the kitchens, oblivious of the fact that the physician could no longer hear him. ‘You are all complaints this morning. Make a start, then, while I fetch a lamp. You should have remembered to bring one yourself. You know perfectly well these places are always gloomy, and I cannot be expected to do everything. You are worse than Doctor Rougham—’

  ‘Who is Doctor Rougham?’ asked a low, sultry voice behind him. ‘And who is the intended recipient of this bitter diatribe? I hope you will not blame it on Summer Madness. We have not seen a case of that in months.’

  Michael spun around and was horrified to see Christiana de Hauville there, a faint smile etched into features that were even more perfect up close than they had been at a distance. Being caught muttering to himself was not how the monk had envisaged their first meeting.

  ‘I was talking to my colleague,’ he said, trying to repair his dented dignity. ‘He is always slinking off in the middle of conversations, though, and I expect he has gone to the mortuary chapel.’

  ‘Really?’ she asked, amusement tugging the corners of her mouth; Michael berated himself for gabbling and providi
ng more information than was necessary – information that made him sound slightly strange. ‘What an odd thing to do.’

  ‘He is a physician and they are apt to be odd, as you will know if you have ever met any,’ elaborated Michael. He was surprised to find himself determined that she should not know he dabbled in such sordid activities as inspecting corpses; he was even more surprised to realise how keen he was to make a good impression. He smiled at her, noting that she was almost as tall as he, which was unusual for a woman. ‘Do you know where I might find a lamp? Matt needs one for … for reading.’

  ‘I shall arrange for one to be fetched,’ she replied. There was laughter in her voice, although her face was politely grave. ‘I cannot get it myself, obviously.’

  ‘Why not? Do you not know where they are kept?’

  ‘Of course. But I do not perform menial tasks, or so the good brothers keep telling me. Were I to go to the kitchens myself, they would chase me out, like a pig among the cabbages.’

  ‘I would never associate you with pigs,’ said Michael chivalrously. ‘Or cabbages. But we all need to perform menial tasks occasionally, because they keep us from the sin of pride.’

  ‘Is pride a sin?’ asked Christiana. ‘I am a noblewoman, and it is considered a virtue in my family.’

  ‘I am the son of a knight myself,’ said Michael, unwilling to be thought of as common. ‘But I forswore my earthly family when I took holy orders. Perhaps that is why the vows are in place – to ensure we do not confuse filial obligation with something deadly to the soul. Do you have any intention of taking the veil?’

  She smiled and he saw white, perfect teeth in a face that might have belonged to an angel. ‘I have not decided, Brother. It depends on what the future holds.’

  She adopted a helpless pose that indicated she needed assistance, and suddenly there were three brothers and a lay-sister hurrying to see what she wanted. She asked for a lantern and all four scurried towards the kitchens, one sprinting so fast that he missed his footing and took a tumble. When the remaining three reached the door, there was almost an exchange of blows as each fought to enter first.

  ‘Bless them,’ she said, watching with a fond smile. ‘They are so good to me. Perhaps I will take the veil, since I love this place so much; the people are far kinder here than they are in the world outside. Thank you, Hamo. It was very kind of you to do so much running on my behalf.’

  Hamo backed away with a silly grin on his face, panting and bowing furiously, while Michael lit the lamp. Then Bartholomew emerged, wondering what was taking the monk so long. He stopped short when he saw the monk cupping his hands over Christiana’s as they struggled with the flame together.

  ‘My colleague,’ said Michael, making no attempt to move his fingers from Christiana’s silky skin. ‘The one who sneaks off in the middle of conversations, leaving his friends talking to themselves.’

  Christiana inclined her head in response to Bartholomew’s bow. ‘And the one who likes to linger in mortuary chapels. Reading, apparently.’

  ‘Only if I have a lamp,’ said Bartholomew tartly, elbowing Michael out of the way so he could light it himself; the monk was taking far too long over the operation.

  Bartholomew studied Christiana covertly, taking in the fact that her eyelashes were darkened with charcoal, which had the effect of making her skin appear fashionably pale, and the tendrils of gold hair that curled attractively from under her veil were not random escapees, but ones that had been carefully tailored for maximum effect. He could tell from her posture that she fully expected to be the centre of attention. But, he reflected wryly as he glanced around him, people were looking at her, and he was among them. He gave his complete attention to the wick, oblivious to the fact that she then used the opportunity to return the scrutiny.

  ‘Have you been here long?’ asked Michael, aware that Christiana’s interest had moved to a man who was slimmer and far better-looking than himself. Not that it would do her much good – for the physician, there was only one woman.

  ‘Since my husband was killed,’ she replied. A tremor in her voice suggested it still pained her. ‘I am here until either the King finds another suitable match or I become a nun. I am torn between wishing His Majesty would hurry up, and hoping he never finds a replacement, lest he imposes on me a man I do not like.’

  ‘That is why I took holy orders,’ confided Michael, making Bartholomew glance at him in surprise. He had never asked Michael’s reasons for taking the cowl, and had always assumed a sense of vocation had led him to do it. ‘My family had in mind a match that would have made me unhappy. I have never regretted my decision.’

  She regarded him curiously. ‘You do not find the life a lonely one?’

  ‘Not at all. I have many friends, and there are ways to alleviate loneliness.’

  ‘The lamp is lit,’ said Bartholomew, suddenly seized with the awful premonition that the monk was about to tell her how to break vows of chastity without being caught. ‘Come on, Brother. There is not much oil, and we do not have long before it burns out.’

  ‘Would you like me to hold it for you?’ asked Christiana, looking from one to the other with wide blue eyes. ‘It would be no trouble, and I have never seen anyone read in the mortuary chapel before. I lead a dull life, so I am always eager for new experiences. Even peculiar ones.’

  ‘We can manage, thank you,’ said Bartholomew, grabbing Michael’s sleeve and trying to guide him away from her.

  But it needed a lot more than a tug to shift a man of Michael’s bulk. He resisted, and Bartholomew heard stitches snap open. Humour sparkled briefly in Christiana’s eyes, but was quickly masked.

  ‘Actually, we are going to pay our respects to Aylmer,’ confessed Michael, freeing his arm and clearly preferring Christiana’s company to his grim duties in the chapel. ‘I did not want to burden you with information about corpses, but perhaps I was being overly protective. You must forgive me.’

  She smiled, and Bartholomew was forced to admit she was lovely, although he felt it a pity that she thought so, too. He glanced at Michael, and was alarmed to note how flushed the monk’s face had become – and how it wore an oddly dreamy expression Bartholomew had never seen before.

  ‘I shall forgive you, Brother, although only if you agree to tell me no more fibs. I know exactly what you are doing: Bishop Gynewell has asked you to investigate Aylmer’s murder.’

  The monk’s jaw dropped in astonishment. ‘How do you know? Gynewell spoke in confidence.’

  ‘Hamo was listening outside the door. The news is all over the convent now, and it will be all around the city by noon.’

  ‘Damn,’ swore Michael. ‘I had hoped to carry out my commission discreetly.’

  Christiana rested an elegant hand on his arm. ‘It may not be a bad thing, because now people will know on whose authority you ask your questions. Of course, it may also serve to make the killer more dangerous. You should take special care, Brother.’

  ‘I am always careful,’ replied Michael with an unreadable smile. ‘In all I do.’

  ‘And so am I,’ she replied, while Bartholomew looked from one to the other with growing unease, sure messages were passing between them that he did not understand. ‘I shall say a prayer for you. Perhaps you might care to join me at my devotions? I am usually in the Lady Chapel after vespers – not tonight, because there is a vigil for Little Hugh at the cathedral, but I will be there tomorrow.’

  ‘I am sure we shall find plenty to pray about,’ said Michael with one of his courtliest bows.

  Bartholomew watched him leer appreciatively as Christiana walked away. ‘She is a ward of the King, Brother,’ he said uncomfortably. ‘And you are a monk. This is not a good idea.’

  ‘Are you warning me against praying?’ asked Michael archly. ‘In a chapel? Really, Matt!’

  ‘You know perfectly well what I am saying.’

  Michael regarded him coolly. ‘Your quest to find Matilde has led you to assume that every man is consumed with lus
t. I assure you that is not the case, especially in those of us who have sworn vows of chastity. If you are worried, come with me tomorrow. You will witness nothing amiss.’

  ‘I shall, then,’ said Bartholomew, equally cool. He was not astute when it came to romance – his failure to propose to Matilde before she had given up on him was testament to that – but even he had read something in the exchange between Michael and Christiana, and he disliked being considered a fool by his friend.

  Michael was not amused. ‘You had better examine this corpse, or it will be a skeleton before you provide me with any answers.’

  Bartholomew ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. ‘I would like that very much, but your lamp has just run out of oil.’

  Brother Michael was not Lady Christiana, and it took him considerably longer to locate fuel for the lantern than it would have done if she had been with him. Eventually, a woman from the kitchens offered to help, filling the device with oil and even carrying it to the mortuary chapel, claiming it had a tendency to spill if not handled with a certain expertise. By the time she and the monk reached the building, Bartholomew was stamping his feet and blowing on his hands in an attempt to keep warm in the bitter wind. Michael turned to her.

  ‘Thank you, madam. My colleague is about to conduct an examination, as you no doubt know, since everyone else seems aware of my business here, and you will not want to be a witness to that, I assure you. I have seen him do it a hundred times, yet he still possesses the ability to make me shudder.’ He glanced coolly at Bartholomew, to indicate there was a double meaning to his comment.

  ‘I do not mind.’ She was a sturdy woman in her late forties, with a lined face and a matronly wimple. ‘I doubt he will do anything I have not seen before.’

  ‘He might,’ warned Michael. ‘He has been to Padua, where they are said to practise a macabre form of scholarship called anatomy.’

  ‘I know nothing of the black arts, but I have seen my share of death. It holds no fears for me.’