Bartholomew 12 - The Tarnished Chalice

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘It can be used as a medicine,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘I suspect the killer collected black rye grains in the summer, though. These can be crushed and added to wine or ale. With alcohol, they combine to deadly effect, which is why both Herl and Flaxfleete died so quickly.’

  ‘Then anyone might have done it?’ asked Miller. ‘Anyone who knew which grains to use?’ When Bartholomew nodded, he grimaced his disappointment. Then he blew his nose in a piece of linen, and shoved it up his sleeve to use again later. The physician looked away, revolted.

  ‘Tetford had some in his possession when he died,’ said Michael casually. ‘But he is dead, so we have no way of knowing whether he was aware of the fact.’

  ‘Tetford,’ mused Miller softly. ‘He was an unpredictable devil. He told me he planned to close his tavern and buy no more of Lora’s ale, but would not say why. Then Ravenser renewed the Close’s order for ale, so all is well again.’

  Langar walked to the window, flung open the shutter and stared out, gazing thoughtfully into the yard below. Michael started to ask something else, but Miller raised an authoritative hand, and the monk faltered into silence. Sabina watched Bartholomew bathe Chapman’s arm without a word, and it seemed the Commonalty was used to being quiet when Langar was deliberating. The tension was stifling, and just when Bartholomew felt he could stand it no longer, the lawyer spoke.

  ‘You seem to think Tetford killed Flaxfleete and Nicholas, because you found poison among his belongings, but you are wrong. First, he was not brave enough. Secondly, he liked Flaxfleete, because Flaxfleete donated wine to his brothel. Thirdly, Nicholas once gave him a shilling when he was destitute, and he never forgot the kindness. Fourthly, he seldom read, so I doubt he knew what the physician has just told us about the poison. And fifthly, he was in holy orders, which moderated his behaviour to a degree: he would never have committed murder and damned his immortal soul.’

  ‘The cathedral,’ said Miller bitterly. ‘That is the cause of this trouble. Aylmer was perfectly normal until he began frequenting the minster. Then he started to repent his sins, and other such nonsense.’

  ‘You probably think we killed Flaxfleete to avenge Aylmer,’ said Langar, ‘but we did not. We have allowed his murder and Nicholas’s to go unpunished, because we do not want a bloodbath.’

  ‘We debated it for hours,’ elaborated Miller, ‘but Langar said that if we kill a guildsman, the situation would spin out of control, and he says we cannot be sure of winning an all-out war yet. I think we can, but he does not.’

  ‘There is no point in risking all on a battle with an uncertain outcome,’ said Langar irritably. ‘Besides, I do not want random guildsmen dispatched. I want the real killer.’

  ‘What about Dalderby?’ asked Michael. ‘Did someone in the Commonalty kill him?’

  Langar pursed his lips. ‘I have just explained why it is unwise to engage in unfocused violence, and you immediately ask that question. Of course we did not kill him, although Kelby thinks we did.’

  Miller was becoming restless. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Chapman is on the road to recovery?’

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘As long as he is not plied with salves from anonymous donors again.’

  ‘We do not know who did that, either,’ said Miller. ‘Langar says the “crone” I saw was wearing a disguise, so it could have been anyone. Even a man.’

  The comment sparked a three-way debate between Langar, Miller and Sabina as to which guildsman or cathedral official might have delivered henbane to an ailing man, and Michael inflamed the discussion by suggesting several names. He moved away, drawing the others with him and shooting Bartholomew a glance that said he was to question Chapman while his friends were preoccupied. Bartholomew hastened to oblige, leaning close to the relic-seller so his voice would not carry.

  ‘This chalice you sold Father Simon,’ he said, trying to keep the urgency from his voice. ‘We found another five last night, virtually identical to it.’

  Chapman gaped at him. ‘That is impossible! The cup I sold Simon is unique.’

  ‘You lied when you said you bought it in Huntingdon, though. It was one of the items stolen by Shirlok. So how did it come to be in your possession?’

  Chapman was not well enough to prevaricate. His expression was resigned. ‘All right, I admit the Hugh Chalice was part of Shirlok’s hoard – although he did not know it – but it surfaced later, as stolen goods always do. I sold it to Simon, because it is sacred, and I knew he could be trusted to donate it to the cathedral.’

  ‘I thought you did not like the cathedral.’

  Chapman’s voice dropped further still, so Bartholomew had to strain to hear him. ‘I do not like the men who infest the minster, but I revere St Hugh with all my heart. I wanted his chalice where it belongs – at his tomb. I did it for the benefit of future generations.’

  Bartholomew was not sure whether to believe him. ‘And the mark of the cup on your shoulder?’

  ‘That is part of it,’ said Chapman. ‘I—’

  ‘What are you whispering about?’ demanded Miller, breaking away from Michael when he became aware of what was happening. ‘It had better not be anything about my import–export business. I do not want to go on trial for theft again, just because I happen to give you the occasional—’

  ‘The occasional drink in the Angel,’ interrupted Langar sharply.

  Michael drew his own conclusions from what was not quite said. ‘Because you give him the occasional item to sell for you? Does this largess extend to objects from a hoard that disappeared twenty years ago? One that contained white pearls, like the two you gave Matt?’

  ‘No,’ said Miller coldly, while Bartholomew came to his feet fast. Michael’s question had been too blunt, and trouble was inevitable. ‘We do not mean those objects.’

  Langar was gazing at Michael with eyes that were hard slits. ‘Those pearls came from an old woman who needed ready money to repair her roof. They are most certainly not part of any hoard that went missing twenty years ago.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Miller, but unconvincingly. He began paring his nails with his dagger, but his hands were unsteady and Bartholomew saw blood. ‘And neither did the Hugh Chalice. It is not the same cup that Shirlok agreed to steal from Geddynge.’

  ‘Agreed to steal?’ pounced Michael.

  ‘He means arranged to steal,’ said Langar, stepping in quickly to minimise the damage, while Bartholomew thought that manoeuvring Miller into a position of power in the Commonalty must have been a daunting task. He decided Langar was either a genius or blessed with the patience of a saint.

  ‘It should be in Lincoln,’ said Chapman softly. ‘Not Geddynge. It belongs with St Hugh.’

  ‘Does St Hugh really want it?’ asked Michael. ‘It has been handled by some very devious folk.’

  Miller led the way down the stairs and opened the door to usher the scholars out, while Sabina remained with Chapman, who said he felt weak and needed a woman’s soothing touch. Trailing at the end of the procession, Bartholomew was about to step into the yard, when he happened to glance along the hallway to his left and notice the cellar door ajar. He wondered whether it was the same one that Cynric had complained about not being able to open. Then his stomach clenched in alarm when he noticed a familiar – and far from pleasant – odour.

  Michael and Langar were engaged in a sniping, dangerous debate about Shirlok’s hoard. They were intent on worming information out of each other, and the confrontation looked set to continue for a few moments more, so Bartholomew told Miller that he had left the knife he used for cutting bandages with Chapman. Miller indicated, with an impatient flick of his head, that he should go and fetch it. Heart thudding, Bartholomew stamped up the stairs, then tiptoed down them again and approached the cellar door. The smell verged on the overpowering.

  He listened hard, hearing Michael’s voice raised imperiously and Langar clamouring to make a point. He glanced down the steps and saw a lamp burning in the room at the bottom. There were
soft, scraping sounds, too. Someone was there. He began to descend, aware that he would have no excuse if he were caught. He moved as quickly and quietly as he could, then almost ruined his efforts by skidding on ice near the bottom. It was cold in the cellar, and a damp patch had frozen hard.

  At the foot of the stairs, there was a second door, also ajar. He peered around it into a long room. Someone was at the far end, masked against the stench. It was Lora Boyner, her back towards him as she laboured over a still figure that lay on a table in front of her. Bartholomew took a step closer, determined to know what she was doing. A sliver of ice cracked under his boot.

  ‘Who is there?’ Lora called, looking up immediately. She squinted, because the light at the table was bright, but the stairs were in darkness, and while the physician could see her, she could not see him. As she started to walk towards him, he saw the face of the person on the table for the first time. She strode closer, so he turned and bolted up the steps as fast as he could. He was walking towards the front door, feeling sweat trickling down his back, when Miller spotted him. At the same time, Lora emerged from the dungeon steps, dragging a scarf away from her nose and mouth.

  ‘I dropped it outside Chapman’s room,’ said Bartholomew, waving his knife and hoping the smile he gave did not reveal the depth of his shock at what he had witnessed.

  Lora narrowed her eyes. ‘Have you just come from upstairs?’

  Bartholomew’s heart was pounding. ‘Where else would I have been?’

  ‘There is ice on your boot.’

  Bartholomew shrugged. ‘It is cold today, so there is frost everywhere. Look.’ He touched his toe to a place where water had frozen in a corner of the corridor. However, there was no earthly way it could have transferred itself to anyone’s foot – at least, not someone walking normally.

  Miller accepted his explanation, although Lora remained suspicious. ‘So there is,’ he said, spitting at the ice and scoring a direct hit. ‘Thank you for seeing to Chapman, but he is better, so do not come back. We will bring you the other two pearls when he is on his feet.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew, hoping he did not sound as relieved as he felt. While he disliked the notion of abandoning a patient quite so early on his road to recovery, he was perfectly happy never to set foot in Miller’s lair again. He escaped from the house without another word, and walked briskly around the nearest corner. When Michael found him, he was leaning heavily against a wall, shaking violently.

  ‘Whatever is the matter?’ asked Michael, regarding him in alarm. ‘Chapman is not worse, is he? Langar just told me that Miller will kill you if he dies after enduring your ministrations.’

  ‘Shirlok,’ said Bartholomew, gulping fresh air. ‘He is in Miller’s cellar. Dead.’

  Michael took Bartholomew’s arm and strode towards the city. It was mid-afternoon, but the clouds were a sullen grey-brown, which meant some of the shops on the main street were already lit with lamps. Bartholomew tried to explain what he had seen, but Michael stopped him, claiming that it was not safe to speak on roads that teemed with weavers. One might overhear the discussion, and report to Miller that things had been seen that he might prefer to keep concealed.

  They passed through the crowds that had gathered to watch a fire-eater in the Pultria, ducking into the porch of St Cuthbert’s Church, when they saw Kelby and a sizeable contingency of guildsmen processing towards them. Behind was a coffin, and Bartholomew supposed Dalderby was about to be buried. The merchants’ faces were bleak and watchful, expressions that did not go unnoticed by the weavers. Inside the chapel, a priest told Michael that Dalderby’s murder was considered an act of war on the Guild, and that he expected revenge to follow shortly. A weaver overheard, and slipped away quickly. Bartholomew saw him talking to several of his fellows outside, and knew it would not be long before the priest’s prediction became hard fact. There was menace and fear in the air, and he sensed it would take very little to spark off the kind of riot he had experienced in Cambridge.

  When they reached the Swan, Michael pushed the physician inside and took a table near the fire, calling to the potboy to bring them wine. The tavern was warm after the chill of the December afternoon, and the braziers on the walls emitted a cosy red glow. Bartholomew found he was shivering, and wondered if it was the cold or a reaction to what he had seen in Miller’s cellar.

  ‘You are as white as a corpse,’ said Michael, when the boy had gone. He poured dark claret into two goblets as he grimaced an apology. ‘Sorry – that was an unfortunate analogy. Drink some wine; it will make you feel better. Cadavers are never very nice to behold.’

  ‘It was not the corpse,’ said Bartholomew shakily. ‘I have seen too many for them to shock me. It was the whole business of sneaking down the steps, and expecting to be trapped between Miller and Lora. I do not understand how Cynric has the nerve for that sort of thing. It was worse than a battle.’

  ‘What was Lora doing?’

  ‘Wrapping Shirlok’s body in a winding sheet. I suppose they intend to bury him somewhere, because he is beginning to reek.’

  ‘If he smells as strongly as you say, it means he has been dead for some time.’

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘Especially as cold weather tends to retard that sort of thing. No wonder Lora – along with Chapman and Miller – was able to declare Shirlok dead when Cynric overheard her discussing him in the Angel tavern. She had his body in her basement!’

  ‘But Langar thought Shirlok might still be alive,’ said Michael, rubbing his flabby cheeks. ‘Which means he may not know Shirlok is currently in need of a shroud. This suggests the other three killed him without their lawyer’s knowledge.’

  ‘Langar is clever, Brother. He may have killed Shirlok himself, and left the body for his friends to dispose of. If we were in Cambridge, I would suggest lying in wait with your beadles, and catching them red-handed when they go to bury Shirlok, but not here. We do not know who is a friend.’

  ‘Gynewell,’ suggested Michael. ‘He stands aloof from the city’s feud.’

  ‘We think he is aloof, but we cannot be sure he will not go straight to Miller.’

  ‘Prior Roger and Hamo, then. They are not too deeply embroiled in the dispute.’

  ‘But Aylmer and Tetford were killed in their convent; Herl died in the Braytheford Pool – a stone’s throw away; and their guest Simon is missing. Also, Hamo does not approve of your liking for Christiana, and he injured his arm on the night we were attacked. We cannot trust them, either.’

  ‘Well, I do not think we should involve Sheriff Lungspee. It might be Miller’s turn to bribe him.’

  ‘You would overlook a murder?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘What is to say Shirlok was murdered? Perhaps he just died.’

  ‘There was a noose around his neck, Brother. He had been hanged.’

  Michael regarded him askance. ‘Are you saying you were mistaken twenty years ago, when you saw him run away?

  They exhumed him and brought his bones here for some odd reason?’

  ‘I am saying he was hanged in the last few weeks. He is older and greyer – like all of us – but it is him without question. His face has been etched into my mind ever since he “died” the first time.’

  ‘And you are sure he is dead? He will not leap up and run away again?’

  ‘No, Brother. He is beginning to rot.’

  Michael sipped his wine. ‘So, let us assume he stayed low after escaping from Cambridge, living the life of a travelling thief. Eventually, he arrived in Lincoln, perhaps by chance, but perhaps because he heard Miller and his cronies are now influential citizens. Once here, he demanded money for his silence about their past. You seem sure they were guilty of the charges he levelled against them, so perhaps he felt they owed him something.’

  ‘Yes, but in Cambridge, he tried to save himself by exposing their roles in his crimes. Even a stupid man will know that sort of behaviour will not see him welcomed with open arms.’

  ‘How long did y
ou say he has been dead? Exactly?’

  ‘I did not say – I cannot, not after the merest of glimpses. The smell suggests weeks, though.’

  ‘So, his death could coincide with the first appearance of the Hugh Chalice, about a month ago?’

  ‘It could.’ Bartholomew drank more wine, and his thoughts wandered to another matter. ‘Those symbols on Chapman, Herl, Aylmer and Flaxfleete are significant: you do not make permanent marks on yourself for something inconsequential. The only one of the four still alive is Chapman, and he keeps telling us how important the Hugh Chalice is. Those signs must represent that cup, Brother.’

  Michael agreed. ‘However, Miller could not dispose of it as long as Shirlok was alive and waiting to accuse him again, and its public appearance would certainly have attracted Shirlok’s attention. I think it – along with the rest of Shirlok’s goods – has been languishing somewhere, all but forgotten.’

  ‘That assumes Miller knew Shirlok’s execution was unsuccessful.’

  ‘He did. Langar had a friend who was witness to his escape, if you recall.’

  ‘But Cynric overheard him tell Langar that Shirlok was definitely executed.’

  ‘And when did Cynric hear this? Two days ago – and you have just said Shirlok has been dead weeks. Of course Miller knows Shirlok is dead now, because the corpse is in his cellar.’

  ‘All right,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘So, Shirlok arrived in Lincoln unexpectedly, Miller hanged him properly, and he and Chapman were free to sell the goods at last. Chapman has a special interest in the chalice, because I think he really does believe it is sacred. He sold it to Flaxfleete – another man who carries the mark of the cup.’

  ‘Then it was stolen, perhaps by Aylmer, although nothing was ever proved.’ Michael snapped his fingers suddenly. ‘I see what happened! The bishop found the chalice in the crypt. And who has access to the cathedral vaults and owns a penchant for the belongings of others? Besides Aylmer?’

  Bartholomew sighed. ‘The dean! I saw him steal a goblet from Miller myself, and everyone at the cathedral seems aware of his “illness”. It is obvious now: the dean took the cup from Flaxfleete, and Gynewell returned it on the understanding that the matter would be quietly forgotten.’