The Tarnished Chalice (13 page)

‘Do you have any ideas?’ asked Michael.

She shrugged. ‘The killer could be anyone. Aylmer was found dead on his bed in the guest-hall. I expect you noticed the dark patch underneath it. I scrubbed as hard as I could, but the stain proved impossible to remove. Hamo says the blood of a murdered man never comes out easily. It taints wood and stone, just as it does the hands of a killer.’

‘I wish that were true,’ said Michael wistfully. ‘It would make my work so much easier. However, I suspect that particular mark would come off, with a little effort on your part.’

She shrugged carelessly. ‘Perhaps, but it does no harm to let folk know a man died under unusual circumstances there. Were you aware that he was stabbed in the back with his own knife, Brother?’

Michael narrowed his eyes. ‘How do you know that?’

‘Because I recognised it. Most priests carry weapons in Lincoln, partly because of this feud that is pulling the city in half, and partly because some of the Vicars Choral do not like each other.’

‘Stabbed in the back,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘That means he was either taken by surprise or he did not think he had anything to fear from his killer. Either way, it does not sound as though there was a struggle, especially if he was left holding this chalice.’

Sabina regarded him appraisingly. ‘De Wetherset says you have examined the bodies of murdered men in the past, and that you are good at ascertaining what happened to them – as is clear from the conclusions you have drawn without even looking at Aylmer. Do you hire out your services?’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously.

‘Because Aylmer’s is not the only corpse currently
residing in this mortuary chapel,’ she replied unhappily. ‘There is another, and I would very much like to know how he died.’

Bartholomew regarded Sabina uneasily, not liking the notion that there had been other suspicious deaths in the place where they were obliged to stay, or that de Wetherset had been telling strangers about his expertise with cadavers. ‘Another man has died in this convent?’

‘No, he was found in the Braytheford Pool. That is the expanse of water where the River Witham meets the Fossedike,’ she added, when the physician looked blank. ‘It is not far from here.’

‘The Fossedike is Lincoln’s route to the sea,’ elaborated Suttone, proud of the local knowledge he had gleaned from talking to the Gilbertines. ‘But Hamo told me it is silting up. Money has been raised to clear it, but the Guild and the Commonalty cannot agree about how it should be done, so the work is never started.’

Sabina was disgusted. ‘And meanwhile, the city grows ever more poor. Have you seen how many weavers cannot find work? We will all starve if we have no access to foreign markets.’

‘Lincoln is a Staple town,’ Suttone went on, boasting now. ‘That means imported staple goods – like wool, grain and timber – must come here, so Lincoln can claim certain taxes. However, they cannot come if the canal is blocked, and there is now fierce competition from better-sited ports like Boston.’

‘Our mayor, William de Spayne, is a Boston man,’ added Sabina, ‘which gives that horrible Guild another reason to hate him. They say he is pleased Lincoln is suffering, because it means more wealth for his Boston kin. But we are moving away from the point here. If you inspect the second body
in the mortuary chapel, Doctor, and tell me exactly how he died, I will give you a penny.’

‘You will have to offer him more than that,’ said Suttone disdainfully. ‘He has been with the Black Prince in France and was rewarded with some plunder. He returned relatively wealthy, and no longer needs mere pennies.’

‘Hamo said you are a University physician, so why were you in France?’ asked Sabina. ‘Was it anything to do with a lady called Matilde? Hamo told me you were asking after her whereabouts, and she once told me she had French kin. Were you there looking for her?’

‘He was not, madam,’ said Suttone, startled by the assertion. ‘He is a scholar, and such men do not hare off to foreign countries in search of women. He went to learn the art of dissection, because it is forbidden in our own universities.’

‘Have you seen Matilde?’ asked Bartholomew of Sabina, before Suttone could make him sound any more sinister.

Her expression softened. ‘Not in six years. She left after she declined Spayne’s offer of marriage, although she was a fool to reject him. He is handsome, rich and will make an excellent husband.’

‘He has never wed?’ asked Michael.

She shook her head. ‘Many ladies have tried to snare him, but he is not interested – Matilde broke his heart for ever. But we were talking about France. Did you know Lady Christiana’s husband was killed in France? And that is not the worst of it.’

She pursed her lips, waiting for them to invite her to elaborate. Bartholomew did not, because he felt Michael was already too interested in Christiana de Hauville, while Michael demurred, despite his burning desire to hear what Sabina had to say, because he did not want to give his friend the satisfaction of seeing him ask. Thus there
was a long pause, until Suttone, shooting his colleagues a puzzled glance for their lack of curiosity, put the necessary question.

‘Her mother – another Lady Christiana – was in almost exactly the same position as she is in now,’ said Sabina. ‘Her husband was killed in a fight with Scots, leaving her without protectors. She spent a decade in this very convent before a suitable match was found, although the King’s idea of “suitable” was that vile Kelby. Now it seems her daughter is destined to follow the same path.’

‘Such is the lot of women who marry soldiers,’ said Suttone preachily. ‘Personally, I think this war with the French has gone quite far enough, although it is probably treason to say so. I cannot even remember what started it now, or why it has continued for so many years.’

‘Neither can most of the men who are fighting,’ said Bartholomew, not without bitterness.

‘So, you made a fortune with the Black Prince,’ said Sabina, eyeing his warm winter cloak and sturdy boots. Her eyes lingered on the hem that was unravelling on his tunic. Fine his clothes might be, but he wore them carelessly, and it was clear they would not remain in pristine condition for long. ‘I heard Poitiers was very fierce.’

Bartholomew nodded briefly. He did not want to think about it, knowing that if he did, it would play on his mind for the rest of the day – and worse, long into the night. ‘Who is the dead man you want me to inspect?’

She was startled by his abrupt acquiescence. ‘You will help me?’

He nodded again, ready to do almost anything to change the subject. ‘If you like.’

Sabina and Michael followed him inside the dark chapel, this time with the lamp lighting their way. Suttone started to return to the guest-hall, but saw his path would intercept
that of Prior Roger, who waved in the kind of way that suggested he might be invited to take part in the next daily office. Abruptly, the Carmelite scuttled inside the mortuary, preferring the company of the dead to spending more time in the company of a man he considered odd. He found his colleagues at the far end of the building, where there was a makeshift altar. Two bodies lay under clean blankets in front of it. ‘That is Aylmer.’ Sabina pointed at the one on the left. ‘The other is Nicholas.’

‘Aylmer first,’ said Michael, when the physician started to move towards the other. ‘You may decide you have had enough after one, and I need all the help I can get.’

Bartholomew peeled back Aylmer’s sheet and began. As he did so, he realised he had not examined a body for signs of suspicious death in eighteen months, although he had seen hundreds of corpses in France. Briefly, he wondered whether he might have forgotten some of the skills he had so painstakingly acquired, but it was not many moments before he found his hands working automatically, repeating what they had done so many times before.

First, he assessed Aylmer from a distance, looking at his clothes, hands and footwear. Aylmer had been a beefy, redhaired man in his late forties, which surprised him – he had supposed Vicars Choral were younger. He was clean-shaven, but there were bristles on his jowls that gave him a disreputable appearance. There was a curious crease in the tip of his nose, essentially dividing it in half, and Bartholomew regarded it thoughtfully, aware of a distant memory stirring. When nothing came to him, he resumed his survey. Aylmer’s hands were smooth and soft, suggesting he performed no manual chores, although the additional absence of calluses caused by writing implements made him wonder what the man had done to earn his keep.

‘How old are most Vicars Choral?’ he asked, while he ran his fingers through Aylmer’s hair, assessing the skull for tell-tale dents or bumps.

‘It varies,’ replied Michael. ‘Tetford is twenty-three, which is about average for a secular cathedral like this. Aylmer does seem old to be offered such a post, because the pay tends to be low, and most clerks act as Vicars Choral while they are waiting for something better to come along. However, sometimes nothing ever does, and they are doomed to perpetual poverty.’

‘Aylmer was the son of my father’s bailiff,’ supplied Suttone, trying to be helpful. ‘He was a bright lad, and I promised to advance his cause. Unfortunately, I have not been in a position to do much until now. I invited him to study with me a few years back, but he would not hear of it.’

‘He was not interested in scholarship,’ said Sabina. ‘Most men consider it a waste of time, and most women agree. After all, you cannot eat a book, can you?’

‘He had trouble with a sheriff a few years back,’ Suttone went on, ignoring the slight to his chosen profession. ‘He said it was a misunderstanding, and I believe him. I invited him to be my deputy, because he already lived in Lincoln, and I wanted to make good on my promise at last. How did he die, Matthew? I would like to know it was not my patronage that brought it about.’

‘Your kindness to an old friend had nothing to do with his demise, Father,’ said Sabina, before the physician could answer. ‘You can rest easy on that account.’

‘You sound very sure,’ said Michael, regarding her appraisingly.

‘I am sure,’ she replied. ‘I may not have known him for as long as Master Suttone, but I suspect I knew him rather better. The promotion made him happier than I had
ever seen him, and had nothing to do with his death. You can blame the dubious business he embroiled himself in for that.’

‘What kind of dubious business?’ asked Michael.

She shrugged. ‘I dare not say much, but bear in mind that he was a member of the Commonalty and a friend of Adam Miller – and Miller’s dealings are not always legal or ethical.’ She raised her hand in protest when the monk started to ask something else. ‘I am sorry, I can say no more.’

Bartholomew ordered the others away before he removed Aylmer’s clothes. It was not right to let Sabina watch what he was doing, and Michael was becoming restless – he did not want the monk’s impatience to rush him. He opened Aylmer’s mouth and shone the lamp down his throat, then moved the neck to test for signs of strangulation. Then he turned the body over and inspected the wound in its back. Making sure no one was watching, he took a surgical knife and inserted it into the hole, moving it gently to assess the depth to which the killing blow had penetrated. When the blade disappeared to the hilt, he pulled it out in distaste. Whoever had stabbed Aylmer had delivered a powerful stroke.

He was setting all to rights again when he became aware of a blemish on the point of Aylmer’s shoulder. He moved the lamp to inspect it more clearly, and saw the kind of mark soldiers sometimes scratched on to themselves with needles and ink. It had clearly been made years ago, and Aylmer’s physique had changed, so the original cup had probably been taller and thinner than the squat bowl depicted now. Bartholomew rubbed his chin thoughtfully. A cup – and it was identical to the mark he had seen the day before, when he had loosened Flaxfleete’s clothes in a futile attempt to save his life.

* * *

‘Aylmer died of a single wound from a sharp implement,’ Bartholomew said, after calling Michael, Suttone and Sabina back. ‘The blade was long, so I suspect it was a dagger, rather than something a man might use at the table.’

‘His own knife,’ said Sabina. ‘As I told you.’

Suttone was sceptical. ‘He had just been made a Vicar Choral, so why would he carry such a weapon? The Church frowns on priests bearing arms.’

Sabina issued a derisive snort. ‘First, Aylmer’s association with the Commonalty meant he was not popular with men like Kelby and Flaxfleete, and he would have been a fool not to take steps to protect himself. And secondly, the cathedral can be dangerous. Ask any of its priests.’

‘Archdeacon Ravenser was wearing a sword when we met him earlier today,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘Are you sure you should accept a stall here?’

‘No,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘Lord! This was meant to be a pleasant, relaxing diversion, and it transpires that Lincoln is even more turbulent than Cambridge. And your examination has told me nothing I did not know already, Matt. Is there nothing new?’

Bartholomew shook his head, reluctant to discuss the curious drawing in front of the others. The convent was a hotbed of gossip, and he did not want people to know the cup depicted on Aylmer’s shoulder was the same as the one on Flaxfleete’s – at least, not until he and Michael had considered the significance themselves.

‘Now look at Nicholas,’ said Sabina in a low voice. ‘If you please.’

Bartholomew removed the blanket, and saw Nicholas had been older than Aylmer by about a decade. He had been well built, with soft white hair and old burns on his hands and arms that suggested he had worked habitually with hot materials. He had been dead longer than
Aylmer, and there were signs of corruption around his mouth.

‘Tell me what happened to him, Mistress,’ said Bartholomew, while he inspected the man’s hands.

‘I thought that was what I was paying you to do.’

‘I mean tell me about the last time you saw him, or what you know of his final movements.’

‘He went out for a drink four nights ago, and he never came home. The next day, he was found floating in the Braytheford Pool. He was my husband, and I would like to know whether he flung himself into the water or whether someone pushed him.’