‘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. ‘A
nd 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 fe
w 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.’
Bartholomew 12 - The Tarnished Chalice Page 16
