‘Fear has its advantages,’ said Langar in a sibilant hiss that was infinitely more sinister than his friend’s gravely tones. ‘It means people are willing to do whatever we ask. However, it also means that sometimes they are so nervous, they make mistakes. And that is a nuisance. I suggested the Market as a good way to alleviate the problem.’
‘It is working,’ said Chapman. ‘The unemployed weavers love us now. Unfortunately our largess has had unforeseen consequences: other folk have flocked to the city to take advantage of our generosity, and it is proving difficult to exclude villains.’
‘I am sure it is,’ murmured Michael, thinking that Chapman was probably in a good position to recognise them, since he was so clearly one himself. It occurred to him to ask how he had come by the Hugh Chalice, but decided Chapman was more likely to be persuaded to tell the truth when his friends were not looming protectively around him. ‘Why are people so afraid of you?’
‘Because those who displease me have accidents,’ replied Miller darkly.
‘And he is very easily displeased,’ added Lora in a voice that was even deeper than Miller’s.
‘If you take our meaning,’ said Chapman, fingering his dagger.
‘But I did not come here to make threats,’ said Miller. Langar stared at his shoes and the physician was under the impression that he was trying not to laugh at his friends’ crude tactics. ‘I came to ask if you know who murdered Aylmer. He was my friend, and I was vexed when I heard he had been stabbed. I want the culprit.’
‘I have not identified the killer,’ replied Michael. ‘But then I have barely started my investigation.’
‘You sound confident, though,’ said Langar thoughtfully. ‘Are you?’
Michael shrugged. ‘I shall do my best.’
Miller spat again, and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘When you find the rogue, I shall expect you to tell me his name immediately. Before you tell the bishop.’
‘Why would I do that?’ asked Michael, startled.
Miller sighed in a way that suggested he thought the monk was stupid. ‘Because if the culprit is a clerk – and Aylmer had plenty of enemies in holy orders – the rogue will claim benefit of clergy. I do not want to traipse to some remote monastery to stick my dagger in his gizzard. I want to do it here.’
Michael raised his eyebrows in astonishment. ‘You want me to confide in you, so you can murder him if he is a priest? And you are asking me to do this in a cathedral? A sacred House of God?’
‘Yes,’ said Miller, bemused in his turn. ‘What part do you not understand?’
‘Nothing,’ said Michael, defeated. ‘I shall bear your request in mind.’
‘Thank you,’ said Miller. ‘I appreciate your co-operation and will do something nice for you in return. I learned from Sheriff Lungspee that a favour deserves a favour, and it is a lesson that has served me well. Or would you prefer money? It is your choice.’
‘Neither,’ said Michael, affronted. ‘Canons-elect do not accept bribes.’
Miller was as offended by the response as Michael was by the offer. ‘No canon – elect or otherwise – has refused them in the past, and I do not like my generosity rejected.’
‘We shall give you time to reconsider,’ said Langar, keen to avoid a confrontation that would serve no purpose. ‘And while you investigate Aylmer’s death, I shall look into Nicholas Herl’s. Both were members of the Commonalty, and we are determined to know what happened to them.’
‘His wife told us what you found when you inspected Herl’s body,’ said Miller to Bartholomew. ‘We are grateful for your help. Are you fastidious, like the monk, or will you accept a reward?’
Bartholomew heartily wished he had declined Sabina’s request. ‘There is no clear evidence of foul play,’ he said, avoiding the question. ‘Herl’s death may have been an accident.’
‘I concluded the same, in the light of your findings,’ said Langar. He gave a humourless smile at Bartholomew’s surprise. ‘Your monk is not the only one with the wits to unravel mysteries.’
Chapman grinned at the scholars. ‘Langar was a law-clerk, and knows many cunning tricks. It was his cleverness that made us what we are today – combined with Miller’s talents, of course.’
Bartholomew suddenly became aware that Langar was studying him rather intently. ‘You look familiar,’ said the lawyer. ‘I know you hail from Cambridge, but have you been there long? John Suttone told us his cousin was a fairly recent arrival, and I know from Tetford that Brother Michael has only been there a decade. But what about you?’
‘He and I became Fellows at almost the same time,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could reply for himself. ‘He studied at Oxford first, then Paris.’
Langar was too clever to be misled, and regarded the physician thoughtfully. ‘No, I never forget a face, and you were in Cambridge when ten good people were accused of wicked crimes by a rogue called Shirlok. I was a clerk at the time, employed to keep records for the Justice. But Miller, Aylmer, Lora, Chapman and dear Nicholas suffered from Shirlok’s mean tongue.’
‘You forgot to mention Sabina,’ said Chapman, while Miller’s face creased into a bleak scowl. Bartholomew saw Tetford had been right to warn them against discussing the trial: it was still a sore point with the man. ‘Shirlok tried to indict her, too.’
‘I did not forget,’ said Langar coldly. ‘I just choose not to utter her name. Hateful woman!’
‘Shirlok named my poor brother, Simon, too – God rest his sainted soul,’ said Miller angrily. ‘And three others, also now dead. It was a wicked business, but right prevailed, and we were released. Thank God for English justice.’
‘Amen,’ said Bartholomew, drawing on his recent experience with the Gilbertines and ignoring the startled look Michael shot him. He intended to follow Tetford’s advice and stay well away from discussing the case with Miller, especially given his own suspicions about the ‘English justice’ that had been meted out that day.
Langar continued to stare. ‘It was a painful incident for Master Miller, so I am sure you can be trusted not to mention it to any guildsmen. They know what happened, of course, but there is no point in giving them cause to resurrect the matter.’
‘There is nothing to mention,’ said Michael soothingly. ‘It was a long time ago, and we are more interested in what happened to Aylmer this week. Do you have any idea who might have killed him?’
It was Miller who replied. ‘Dean Bresley might have done it, to prevent him from becoming a Vicar Choral. Aylmer was a bit of a thief, you see, and holy men take against thieves, which is unkind. After all, Jesus was crucified with two of them, and they all went to Heaven. Then there is Bishop Gynewell, who also objected to Aylmer on moral grounds.’
‘Gynewell would hardly have asked me to investigate, if he was the culprit,’ said Michael, deciding not to comment on Miller’s singular interpretation of the scriptures.
Langar gave a sly smile. ‘Or he might have asked you to investigate specifically to conceal his guilt. Do not take everything at face value, Brother.’
‘It was Hamo,’ said Lora with malicious satisfaction. ‘He disliked Aylmer being in his convent, and asked Prior Roger to eject him. Roger was going to do it, too, until we passed him a few coins.’
‘And there is another possibility,’ said Langar. ‘Prior Roger, killing an unwanted guest after Aylmer’s nonrefundable rent had been paid. Roger needs money desperately, but he also has a duty to preserve his convent’s integrity. And even Aylmer’s best friends cannot tell you he was a saint.’
‘Then there is the sanctimonious John Suttone,’ added Miller. ‘There is no way he can be as ethical as he would have everyone believe. It would be unnatural. And his fellow priests would kill their own grandmothers for a penny. Although I understand that position, because my grandam—’
‘We have other suspects, too, beside clerics,’ interrupted Langar, before Miller could incriminate himself. ‘Dalderby is angry with us, because Thoresby w
as acquitted of threatening to behead him.’
‘And Kelby would do anything to hurt me,’ said Miller. He spat again. ‘He once called me a pugilist. I had to ask Langar what it meant, and was offended when he told me.’
‘Of course,’ said Chapman helpfully, ‘if the killer manages to confound you, Brother, you can always eavesdrop at the General Pardon, and see if anyone confesses to the murder.’
‘The killer will never confess here,’ said Miller scornfully. ‘No felon wants the cathedral priests to know about his most intimate crimes. I certainly do not.’
‘God’s teeth,’ breathed Bartholomew when they had gone. ‘That was unpleasant! Miller, Chapman and Lora are bullies in positions of power, and I am not surprised they are obliged to hold fairs to win people’s favour. But Langar seems dangerous. I imagine Chapman was right when he said Miller’s coterie rose on the back of his cunning. Miller might be the man who appears to be in charge, but I will wager anything that the real master is Langar.’
Michael shook his head. ‘Langar is sly, but there is no great strength in him. He may be full of ideas and plans, but it is Miller’s brutality that keeps them going. Regardless, I see why de Wetherset said we would not want to dine with them: the minster is awash with spit.’
‘I wish Langar had not recognised me from Shirlok’s trial. I told you there was something corrupt about that day, and I imagine that is the reason they ordered me not to mention it to anyone here.’
‘Very likely, so take Cynric with you if you go out after dark. We do not want you stabbed to ensure your silence. I intend to leave Lincoln as soon as I can, and your murder would delay me.’
‘I am pleased you have my welfare at heart, Brother.’
‘Always, Matt. Always.’
Bartholomew was unsettled by the danger he felt they were in, and wanted to analyse logically what they had learned. It was already late afternoon, and there was not much daylight left, so they began to walk back to the Gilbertine Priory, discussing the case as they went.
‘I wonder if Gynewell knew what he was asking when he ordered me to find Aylmer’s killer,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘Or perhaps he dislikes the notion of having a canon foisted on him who is an agent for a rival bishop, and hopes the investigation might see me killed. Meanwhile, Langar’s concern over what you might have seen in Cambridge all those years ago indicates that you are probably right when you say there was something odd about the verdict.’
‘No one else seems suspicious of it, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The tales in Lincoln seem to revolve around the fact that they were accused in the first place, not about the legitimacy of the acquittal. We should ask de Wetherset what really happened that day. He must know the truth – he was a juror.’
‘No, we should not,’ said Michael firmly. ‘That might tell Miller you are asking questions about the incident. Besides, de Wetherset told us Miller invited him to dinner, and it sounds as though they had a merry old time convincing each other of their mutual harmlessness.’
‘Or money exchanged hands in return for de Wetherset’s silence. He was very indignant when I asked whether he had been bribed, and that level of outrage is often indicative of a guilty conscience.’
‘Or indicative of the fact that you had just accused him of being corrupt. He was a University Chancellor, Matt, and while you may not have liked or trusted him, there are moral boundaries across which some men will not pass.’
‘However, they may not be the same limits as those set by honest men,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘But you are right: there is no point in quizzing de Wetherset, because he will not give us truthful answers anyway. Why should he, when admitting to corruption might mean his stall is withdrawn?’
‘And more importantly, he may tell Miller about your interest, and that is something we should definitely avoid. This may come as a surprise to you, but you are my friend, and I do not want to lose you to an assassin’s dagger. You must leave de Wetherset and Miller alone.’
‘They are both connected to Aylmer, Brother. How will we solve his murder if you plan to keep clear of them? And there is the Hugh Chalice. I still do not understand how that fits into your case, although I am sure it is significant, since Aylmer was holding it when he died.’
Michael rubbed his chin. ‘I wonder why he did that. It belonged to Simon, not him.’
‘The consensus seems to be that he was going to steal it.’
‘Right. And that means the murder may have nothing to do with Miller or his shady acquittal, and more to do with the fact that someone objected to Aylmer laying sticky fingers on a sacred object.’
‘Simon is the obvious candidate. He says he has an alibi in his singing, but he does not.’
Michael agreed. ‘The Gilbertines work themselves to such a state of ecstasy that I doubt they have the faintest idea what anyone else is doing.’
‘Did you notice that de Wetherset has changed his story? What he told us initially – that he attended prime with Simon in the convent on the day of Aylmer’s murder – was not what he said this morning. Today he claimed he had joined the Gilbertines on his first day as a guest in their priory, but found it too noisy, and has opted for something quieter ever since. Ergo, he is lying about something.’
‘I wondered whether you had picked up on that. Now, why he would tell us untruths?’
Bartholomew pulled his cloak more closely around him when a snowflake spiralled down and landed on his cheek. A second followed, and he saw they were in for another cold night. Dusk was on them, and lights were already burning in the Wigford houses. They passed the Church of the Holy Cross, and he saw the blackened shell of the priest’s house in its graveyard. He recalled that de Wetherset had lived with Simon before a blaze had driven them to take refuge with the Gilbertines.
‘Cynric made some enquiries about that in the taverns,’ he said, nodding towards the ruin. ‘Sheriff Lungspee was able to deduce that the cause was accidental – a brazier had been left burning by mistake. Simon and de Wetherset managed to escape with their belongings, and Simon’s successor is lodging with a relative until the house can be rebuilt.’
Michael glanced at him. ‘You sound unsure. Do you think they let the fire rage deliberately?’
Bartholomew shrugged, then nodded. ‘The inferno made everyone sorry for Simon, and he was immediately offered a prebendal stall. You have to wonder whether he had been promised such an honour, but it was taking too long to come, so he drew attention to himself with a misfortune – a misfortune that did not cost him any of his possessions, given that he still had plenty of money to buy the Hugh Chalice.’
‘And I am sure Chapman charged him a princely fee,’ mused Michael.
‘Perhaps de Wetherset is willing to lie for Simon because he was warned of the conflagration and it saved his life.
Or perhaps it was de Wetherset’s carelessness that caused the fire.’
‘Possibly, although I still cannot see him engaging in such unsavoury activities. However, none of this is relevant to Aylmer – unlike the Hugh Chalice. Shall we go to see it?’ Michael’s voice was oddly casual. ‘We are almost at the Gilbertine convent, thank the good Lord. It is cold out tonight. Can you see that frost sparkling on the Eleanor Cross?’
Bartholomew glanced at it, and remembered poking icicles off Matilde’s eaves with a broom handle – she had been afraid they might fall and hurt someone. He wondered whether she had recruited someone else to do it now, and whether she would be settled with another man when – and if – he ever found her. Suddenly, the night seemed colder and darker, and his prospects of happiness bleak.
The physician followed Michael through the Gilbertines’ main gate, where they were saluted cheerfully by Hamo, and then across the yard to the chapel. The ground was frozen hard, and dusted with new snow. Inside, candles and lamps gave the chapel a cosy feel, although the air was frigid, and his breath billowed in front of him. Then he saw why the monk had been so keen to inspect the chalice. Vespers had just ended
, and one of the congregation had lingered to say additional prayers.
That evening, Christiana de Hauville’s slender form was accentuated by a tight, front-laced kirtle, and her fret – the net that covered her hair – was of gold. Although she was kneeling, she still managed to adopt the current fashionable posture for women, with abdomen thrust forward and back curved, which was meant to reveal them as ladies of breeding and style. Because all the Gilbertines had gone to their refectory for something to drink, Bartholomew could only suppose the display of courtly deportment was for Michael’s benefit. The monk’s expression was unreadable as he made his way towards her, and Bartholomew watched uneasily.
Christiana was not alone, however. When the monk would have gone to kneel next to her, a figure stepped out of the shadows and intercepted him. It was Sabina Herl. She held a basket over her arm, and looked bored and cold.
‘I have been told to act as chaperon,’ she said, and the tone of her voice suggested she was not very happy about it. ‘Dame Eleanor is still at the cathedral, and Hamo says that Lady Christiana should not be here alone in the dark, despite the fact that this is a convent, and you would think she would be safe.’
Bartholomew saw a grimace of genuine annoyance flick across Christiana’s beautiful face, and supposed she had objected to the Brother Hospitaller’s cosseting, too.
‘I see,’ said Michael, hands folded in his wide sleeves. ‘Well, she is not alone now, because I am here.’
Sabina was amused. ‘I do not think Hamo would accept you as a suitable substitute for Dame Eleanor, Brother. But why did you come? To pray? To admire the Hugh Chalice?’
Before the monk could reply, Christiana stood, took the cup from the altar, and came to hand it to him. Their fingers touched briefly, before she returned to the cushion on which she had been kneeling. She was clearly aware that she cut a fine figure from behind, because her hips swayed provocatively and she did not need to look around to know Michael’s eyes were fixed appreciatively on them.
Bartholomew 12 - The Tarnished Chalice Page 20
