‘I doubt it, Brother,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘It is too risky. Besides, he was in St Andrew’s Church with independent alibis at the time of Witney’s murder. I was right in my original assumption: the Carmelites are the villains. I doubt Andrew is agile enough to scale roofs, so we must look to Urban.’
But Michael shook his head. ‘You are wrong; they are not killers. A powerful relic, like the one they carry, would not allow itself to be toted by evil hands.’
Bartholomew regarded him askance, thinking about the many acts of wickedness they had witnessed in the past, when sacred objects had suffered all manner of indignities in the hands of wicked men. ‘Do you really believe that?’
Michael rubbed his eyes. ‘I do not know what to think. However, there is something about that particular relic…but my thoughts are irrelevant. Our duty is to assess the evidence you found and draw rational conclusions from it. Are you sure about this chimney? Is it possible Tomas put the harness and stones there, to confound us for some reason? There is something about him I do not trust–and now he admits to expertise in murder investigations.’
Bartholomew smiled. ‘And this “something about him I do not trust” is a dispassionate analysis of the evidence, is it? But I suppose it is possible he placed the rope and masonry by the chimney for us to find, although I cannot imagine why. He was very helpful when we were up there–he saved me from falling.’
Michael grimaced. ‘We are destined to agree about nothing in this case, Matt. You believe the Carmelites are our best suspects, while I remain suspicious of Seton. You consider the relic nothing special, while I feel there is something unique about it. And you admire Tomas, while all my senses clamour at me to be wary of him. I do not like the way he seems to feature in the various strands of our investigation–and just chances to stroll by when you need help on the roof. But tell me again about what you found. What do the harness and stones mean?’
‘That someone really did kill Witney, and made it appear as though the stone fell on him by accident. It is an unusual way to kill, and not one without difficulties: what if the perpetrator killed the wrong man; how could he be sure his victim would obligingly stick his head up the chimney at the right time…?’
‘Perhaps he did not kill the right man,’ suggested Michael. ‘Witney is dead, but that does not mean he was the intended victim. All you would see from the top of a chimney would be a head-shaped silhouette. Perhaps our killer failed in his objective, and even now is stalking his real victim. I should tell Andrew as soon as possible, and ensure he takes proper precautions.’
He broke off the discussion when Tomas returned. The Dominican made straight for the harness they had retrieved and began to inspect it. Michael assumed an expression of friendly interest as he walked towards him, and Bartholomew knew from experience that an interrogation was about to take place.
‘I understand you and I have shared similar experiences,’ said Michael. ‘I did not know you were a proctor.’
Tomas returned his smile. He had a pleasant face, and dark eyes that twinkled when he laughed. ‘Keeping law and order in Pécs took so much time that my studies suffered, and I was obliged to resign. It was an interesting life, but not nearly as fascinating as angels.’
‘But you are intrigued by this particular case,’ said Michael, and the smile turned cold. ‘It was not safe to climb on that roof, yet you did so willingly. Why?’
‘To help your colleague,’ said Tomas, sounding surprised the monk should ask. ‘You are right: it was dangerous, and it was unfair to send him up there alone. You should have gone with him yourself.’
Michael glared, although Bartholomew thought he had a point. It was not the first time the monk had merrily ordered his friend to do something risky because he did not fancy doing it himself.
‘What conclusion have you drawn from your discoveries?’ asked the monk icily.
‘That you have a murderer to catch. It is clear someone wanted to kill someone else–whether Witney or another man. Also, your villain tried to conceal the unlawful killing–he used the chimney in the hope that you would see Witney’s death as an unfortunate accident. Perhaps he wanted you to believe the cursed relic was responsible.’
Michael looked superior. ‘We have already reasoned this ourselves.’
‘Not about the relic,’ said Bartholomew, earning himself a weary glower.
‘I suspect the killer wanted you to see Witney’s death as divine intervention, an angry saint, or Barzac’s malediction,’ Tomas went on. ‘He will be angry when he learns his ruse did not work.’
‘You seem very familiar with Andrew’s relic,’ said Michael, his voice dripping with suspicion. ‘I was under the impression that he tells very few people about it.’
Bartholomew did not agree. He had not noticed much reluctance on the elderly friar’s part to discuss the ‘burden’ he carried. And if he had willingly shared the information with Michael, then in whom else had he confided?
‘Father Andrew did not tell me about it,’ replied Tomas. ‘Indeed, I have never spoken to the man. It was Witney who obliged. He was intrigued by it, and asked me to go with him to various libraries, to help research the validity of the accompanying letters of authentication. He had learned that a bishop of Durham’s seal was used, but that the man who signed it was no bishop.’
‘Why did he ask you to help him?’ asked Michael. ‘And why did you agree?’
‘He asked because I am a Dominican and he was a Franciscan. Our Orders disagree about blood relics, as you know: you expounded on the matter only yesterday. Witney said he wanted a man from the opposing side of the argument to be with him as he investigated, in case Andrew’s relic transpired to be important–I would be an independent witness who would substantiate his findings without prejudice. I agreed, because I have an interest in the Holy Blood debate myself.’
Michael narrowed his eyes. ‘And where did Witney stand in the polemic? Did he follow his Order’s teachings, and declare blood relics worthy of veneration? Or was he swayed by the arguments of the Dominicans, and believed such items to be anathema, to be destroyed as heretical idols of veneration?’
‘I imagine he was an adherent of his own Order’s theology,’ replied Tomas, unperturbed by the monk’s hostility. ‘We discussed the issue at length, but neither of us injected personal opinions into the discourse–we argued purely along theosophical lines. To do otherwise would have been highly unprofessional.’
Bartholomew grinned. The previous day, Michael had been unable to resist adding his own views–some of them emotive and unsupported by logical deduction–to the thesis he had outlined.
Michael pursed his lips. ‘So, you cannot tell me whether Witney’s obsession with Andrew’s relic was because he wanted it revered or wanted it destroyed?’
‘No,’ replied Tomas. ‘He never told me, and I did not know him well enough to ask. It is easy for a Benedictine, like you, to state his mind freely, because your Order has not taken a dogmatic stance on the matter. However, to enquire of a Dominican or a Franciscan whether he accepts his Order’s teaching is a different matter entirely. You are asking him whether he is loyal or perfidious.’
Michael rubbed his chin. ‘Now we have issues of fidelity to consider when we explore the circumstances of Witney’s death. Was our victim true to his Order’s beliefs, or did he think them erroneous? And, since you do not know the answer, we must ask his friend Seton.’
Michael was to be disappointed when he went to interview Seton, because the Oxford academic was not at home. Bartholomew refused to wait until he returned, on the grounds that the man could be gone all day, listening to lectures or reading in one of the college libraries, and opted to visit the Dominican priory instead: he wanted to see the injured Bulmer, and examine his swollen jaw. Michael offered to accompany him. His investigation was at a standstill until he could interview Seton, but there were other proctorial duties awaiting, one of which was determining whether the Dominican novice had been ogling pro
stitutes when Kip Roughe had fought him. If that were true, then Michael would impose a hefty fine as a way of warning him–and his friends–not to do it again.
He and Bartholomew left the High Street and made their way through the maze of alleys to the marshes on which the Dominican priory stood. The sun was blazing in another clear blue sky, and Bartholomew felt sweat trickling between his shoulder blades. He wiped his face with his sleeve, and stepped over a dog that lay panting in the road, too hot to move away from trampling feet. Another lapped greedily at a bowl of water placed for strays by some thoughtful person. By the time they reached the friary, Bartholomew was sticky and uncomfortable, and Michael’s flabby face was flushed red. The gate was opened by Big Thomas, who demanded to know their business.
‘I want to speak to Prior Morden,’ said Michael, starting to push his way inside.
Big Thomas barred it. ‘What about?’
Michael gazed at him in disbelief. ‘Nothing I am prepared to share with a gatekeeper. Tell Morden immediately that I am here to see him.’
Big Thomas scowled. ‘I hate gate duty! If I ask too many questions, visitors accuse me of being nosy; and if I ask too few, I am berated for letting just anyone inside. I never get it right. I should never have abandoned thatching to take the cowl–there is too much thinking involved.’
Michael sniggered as the man went to fetch his master. ‘He is lucky he chose the Dominicans, then. They think less than any Order in Cambridge.’
‘What is this about thinking?’ asked tiny Prior Morden, hurrying to greet them. ‘Too much of that goes on in this town, and no good will come of it. A prime example is this aggravation pertaining to Holy Blood, which you were holding forth about yesterday, Brother. I did not understand a word–I still do not, even though Little Tomas spent hours explaining it to me last night.’
‘I do not suppose you discussed blood relics with Seton and Witney from St Bernard’s Hostel, did you? They had views on just this issue.’
‘I most certainly did not,’ replied Morden indignantly. ‘They are Franciscans.’
‘Are you sure you never spoke to them?’ probed Michael. ‘You did not cross swords, even briefly?’
Morden pursed his lips. ‘Well, there was an occasion a couple of days ago, when Witney sidled up to me and asked whether I had been to Hailes or Ashridge. But I am not stupid, Brother, and I know perfectly well what those two places are famous for: blood relics. I told him I had not and left without further ado.’
‘And your friars?’ pressed Michael. ‘Are they equally astute when it comes to dealing with sly Franciscans, who try to make them discuss contentious subjects against their will?’
‘They are,’ declared Morden. ‘None would hold forth on such a dangerous topic with Grey Friars, especially ones who hail from that pit of devils, Oxford.’
‘Is that so?’ asked Michael mildly. ‘Then perhaps you will explain why Little Tomas has just admitted to helping Witney investigate the validity of one particular Holy Blood relic.’
‘Did he?’ asked Morden unhappily. ‘I know nothing about that, but he is a guest, not one of my own friars. I tend to leave visitors to their own devices, especially ones who come here to study: if I try to regulate them, they become testy and claim I interfere with the progress of their education. I have learned to let them get on with it. So, Little Tomas has benefited from my leniency, although I cannot imagine what a decent man like him would find to say to Franciscans, especially that pair: Seton is arrogant and Witney is–was–a fanatic.’
‘A fanatic?’ echoed Michael.
‘About blood relics.’ Morden sighed. ‘He spoke in confidence, but I suppose it does not matter now he is dead. When he asked me about Hailes and Ashridge–before I walked away–he told me that all such relics must be destroyed, because otherwise ignorant people will venerate them and stain their souls. However, as long as prayers are headed in the right direction, I do not think it matters whether they are directed through Holy Blood, the mass, the saints or anything else.’
‘Be careful, Father Prior,’ warned Michael, amused to hear such a tolerant attitude from a member of so vehement an Order. ‘That is close to heresy, and your Master-General is very particular about that sort of thing.’
Morden grimaced. ‘Yes, you told me yesterday that, as a Dominican, I am supposed to denounce blood relics. I imagine that was why Witney approached me: as the highest-ranking Black Friar, he expected me to concur with his views.’
‘Views which run contrary to those of his own Order,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘So, now we know where he stood–we do not need to ask Seton about him.’
‘Do you know what Little Tomas thinks?’ asked Michael. ‘Does he follow your Order’s guidelines, or is he, like Witney, the kind of man to take against them?’
‘I have no idea,’ replied Morden. ‘We have discussed the polemic, but he has never honoured me with his own opinions. Do you think he might have been sent by the Master-General, to ferret out heretics and rebels among us?’ His elfin features creased into an expression of alarm.
‘It is possible,’ said Michael spitefully.
‘No,’ said Bartholomew at the same time.
Morden looked unhappier still as he snapped his fingers at a passing servant. It was John Roughe, who was ordered to convey the visitors to the dormitory Bulmer shared with the other novices. On the way, Roughe did his best to engage them in conversation and find out what they wanted to ask Bulmer. He was clearly unconvinced by Bartholomew’s claim that he was there in a professional capacity, and looked meaningfully at the bulky presence of the Senior Proctor.
‘It was Bulmer who started that fight,’ John asserted, abandoning his ingratiating manner when he saw it would not work. ‘Not my brother Kip. If Bulmer tells you otherwise, then he is a liar. He was at the church, after whores.’
‘Is that so?’ replied Bartholomew, not much caring what the novice was doing. It was not his affair.
‘Yes,’ stated Roughe angrily. They were in a narrow corridor, and he stepped forward smartly to block their way. ‘And he does not need the services of a physician, so you might as well save your time and go home.’
Bartholomew was unmoved. ‘I am a better judge of that than you. Stand aside.’
‘I will not—’ But Michael’s bulk loomed, and Roughe’s words died in his throat. With a silent and infinitely resentful gesture, he indicated that the room they wanted was straight ahead.
‘He does not like us being here,’ mused Michael, watching him slouch away. ‘We are personae non gratae wherever we go these days.’
‘You have the power to fine his brother for attacking Bulmer–and from what I saw of Kip earlier today, I would not be surprised to learn that he was the aggressor. It is an odd tale anyway. Why should a lout like Kip take exception to Bulmer eyeing prostitutes? Is it because he has a favourite lady, and he does not want to share her with members of the university?’
He opened the dormitory door and entered the long chamber. Bulmer was sitting in the end bed with a cooling poultice pushed to his swollen face. He looked a good deal worse than he had the day before, because the swelling had come out, although he was no longer reeling and stupid. He scowled as they approached.
‘I told you yesterday,’ he began without preamble. ‘Kip Roughe punched me.’
‘It is a strange wound to be caused by a punch,’ said Bartholomew, inspecting the bruising closely. ‘He must have caught you at an odd angle.’
‘It hurt, I know that,’ said Bulmer ruefully. ‘But, being a peace-loving man, I have no knowledge about what constitutes the right or wrong angles for blows.’
Bartholomew raised his eyebrows, knowing perfectly well that Bulmer was an accomplished and experienced brawler, and that he knew exactly how to hit people.
‘It is difficult to find the truth when there are no independent witnesses and both protagonists claim the other is at fault,’ said Michael, watching Bartholomew sit on the bed and gently probe the swelling.
‘I have told you what happened,’ objected Bulmer, pushing the physician away. ‘I will take final vows soon, and I am not given to lying. The Roughe brothers are, though; they steal, too.’
‘Can you prove dishonesty?’ asked Michael. ‘I will prosecute them, if so.’
Bulmer looked sheepish. ‘I am repeating what others have told me. They may be too timid to take on the Roughes, but I am not.’
‘Where did the altercation happen?’ asked Michael.
‘Outside St Andrew’s.’
‘What were you doing there?’
Bulmer was surprised by the question. ‘It is the nearest church to the friary, and I often go there to pray. Many Dominicans do. Our own chapel can be noisy in the daytime, and some of us crave a quieter place for our devotions.’
Bartholomew struggled to keep the incredulity from his face, although Michael had no such qualms, and his expression was openly sceptical. ‘You are not a pious lad, Bulmer, so do not pretend you are. Your skills and merits lie in other areas–equally valuable to your Order, I am sure–but do not try to deceive me.’
‘Very well,’ said Bulmer stiffly. ‘I was watching someone.’
‘I see. Does Prior Morden know you spend your time ogling whores?’
‘That is not what I was doing!’ cried Bulmer, shocked. ‘I only ever watch them at night, and the incident with Roughe happened in daylight.’
‘Who were you watching?’ asked Michael curiously.
Bulmer was uneasy. ‘I would rather not say.’
Michael followed his nervous glance towards the door. ‘Do not worry about being overheard. Matt will stand guard and make sure no one is eavesdropping.’
Bartholomew obliged, and the novice began to speak. ‘I was watching Little Tomas. I do not like him.’
The Tainted Relic Page 30