‘Very well,’ said Morden, ignoring Thomas’s furious protestations as he retreated with Michael to the other end of the room. The monk watched sullenly, resentful that he had been excluded. His irritation did not focus on Bartholomew for long, however. Tomas had been distracted from his text by his namesake’s yells, and the monk homed in on him, to ask more questions about his movements during the time that Urban met with his unpleasant death.
‘You are not ill,’ said Bartholomew to the ugly friar. ‘And that is why you say no one can help you–they cannot, because you do not need a cure. Prior Morden is right: you feigned sickness because you want to remain indoors today. Why?’
Thomas rubbed calloused hands over his face. ‘Damn Prior Morden! Why did he have to fetch me a physician, when I told him all I needed was rest and good food? It is not fair! He does not foist physicians on other friars, when they decide to take a day off from their labours.’
‘You are malingering because you do not want to work?’
‘Gate duty,’ explained Thomas bitterly. ‘I hate it. Why can they not use me as a thatcher, which is where my skills lie? Have you seen the state of the roof here? It is in desperate need of repair.’ He sighed. ‘Now you will tell him I am shamming, and I will be forced to do gate duty for the next month, as penance.’
‘I will not tell him–but only if you answer my questions,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Kip Roughe brought you a box recently.’
‘He said it contained a relic–a gift from a Carmelite,’ replied Big Thomas, transparently keen to be helpful. He frowned. ‘It was odd, actually, because I do not know this Carmelite. No one ever brings me presents, and to be frank, I did not like the look of this one.’
‘Did you open it? To see what was inside?’
‘I was going to, but I have been talking to Tomas, and he mentioned a blood relic that kills anyone who touches it. He said it was missing, so I decided to be cautious, and let someone else open it instead.’
‘Who?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘Did Tomas look on your behalf?’
‘I did not trust him not to steal it, so I took it to Kip Roughe instead. Do you promise not to tell Prior Morden any of this? He will be angry if he finds out–and that would not be fair, because I gained nothing from it.’
‘I promise,’ said Bartholomew reluctantly. ‘But what have you done?’
‘When Kip heard what the box held, he suggested I sell it to an abbey. He looked inside–he said we needed to be sure what it contained before we acted–and there was a small glass bottle. It was the relic right enough: we were going to be rich! I hid the box under my bed, but then Urban came to see me and repeated everything Little Tomas said–only he told me what had happened in Devonshire thirty years ago, when his master was witness. He said the relic had come to me by mistake, and offered to risk his life by returning it to its rightful carrier.’
‘And you handed it over?’
‘I did–the boy was very persuasive, and I am not ready to die yet. Kip was furious, of course, but that is too bad. I know my Order claims Holy Blood relics have no divinity, but I am not so sure. Urban’s master died from being around this one, and so did that Oxford man who tried to steal it from him–Witney. Urban told me he would die, too, as soon as he had delivered it to Norwich. These things are beyond the ken of us mortals, and I am inclined to leave such matters to those who think they know what they are doing.’
‘Very wise,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Where is Kip now?’
‘I have not seen him since we argued. Perhaps he is dead–he did touch the relic, after all. Do you think the curse can pass through wood, Doctor? Will I die, because I held that damned box?’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew, as firmly as he could. ‘You will not die. However, your prior may have other ideas if you malinger. You do not look ill, so I would not try to fool him, if I were you.’
Thomas grinned in a conspiratorial manner that made Bartholomew feel guilty. He took his leave and went to where Michael was standing over Little Tomas. Immediately, he sensed something was wrong. Several friars had gathered in a quiet block behind their prior, and Tomas was kneeling on the floor, an expression of shock on his dark features.
‘You are just in time, Matt,’ said Michael grimly, as Bartholomew approached. ‘I want you to see this.’
‘I do not know how that came to be here,’ said Tomas in the kind of voice that suggested he had said as much before and had not been believed. ‘I have no use for poppy syrup.’
‘I have witnessed one use of late,’ said Michael. He held several pots in his hand, all labelled as containing a powerful soporific. ‘It can be fed to elderly friars, so they drown when they are pushed in the river.’
Tomas’s face was white. ‘You think I brought about Andrew’s death? I was not even there, as Urban will tell you. I was with you–you watched me try to save him.’
‘We cannot ask Urban, as you well know,’ said Michael coolly. ‘He is dead–murdered attempting to give you the missing relic.’
‘That had nothing to do with me,’ protested Tomas. ‘Many friars saw me—’
‘You are clever,’ interrupted Michael. ‘It is not beyond your talents to arrange witnesses to “prove” your innocence. However, no one else has strong soporifics in his possession, and a substance like this contributed to Andrew’s death.’
Tomas’s shoulders sagged in defeat. ‘Is there nothing I can say to make you believe me?’
Michael’s expression was harsh. ‘You had an ancient quarrel with Andrew, while Urban had something you wanted. You did not have to kill the boy–he was going to give you the relic anyway.’
Meanwhile, Morden had been searching the rest of the friar’s possessions. He held something up for the monk to see. ‘What is this? It looks like a diagram, but I cannot tell of what.’
Michael took it from him, and when he looked at Tomas, his eyes were accusing. ‘It is a picture of the chimney at Bernard’s Hostel, and a map showing the safest way across the roof towards it. Now I see why you were prepared to risk your life to climb up there with Matt. We thought you were trying to help, but your intention was to make sure he interpreted the harness and the pile of missiles in a way that suited you. So, you killed Witney, too.’
‘No!’ cried Tomas, appalled. ‘I have killed no one!’
‘The evidence is too strong to ignore,’ said Michael gravely, gazing at the stunned faces that surrounded him. ‘I have always been suspicious of you, Tomas, and now I see I was right. You have lied to us from the start–about the fact that you were once Andrew’s student, and about your true purpose here.’
‘To study angels,’ began Morden, appalled at what was happening.
‘To spy for your Master-General,’ said Michael harshly. ‘To find out what honest Dominican friars think of the Holy Blood debate, and to report these findings to powerful men.’ He pointed a finger at Tomas. ‘You are our killer–and I am arresting you on three counts of murder.’
Tomas was led from the Dominican priory and marched through the town to be placed in a cell near the church of St Mary the Great. He said nothing more in his defence, but declined to provide Michael with details of his various crimes. Bartholomew walked behind him, feeling angry and rather guilty. He had liked Tomas, and had defended him against Michael’s accusations, but he had been wrong, and he was unsettled to think he may have influenced the monk in a way that had seen a murderer left free to take another two victims–Andrew and Urban.
‘I cannot make you speak to me,’ said Michael as he prepared to abandon the Dominican in the proctors’ prison. ‘But it would be helpful if you would tell me where you have hidden the relic. Holy Blood is potent, and should be treated with respect. I would like it put somewhere safe, where it will do no more harm.’
‘Against the teachings of my Order, I am inclined to agree with your assessment,’ replied Tomas. ‘Holy Blood is powerful and divine. But I cannot tell you where it is, because I do not know.’
‘Urban
gave it to you before he died,’ pressed Michael.
Tomas sighed softly. ‘The only words we exchanged pertained to his absolution. I knew he did not have many moments to live, and I thought the fate of his immortal soul was of greater importance than this tainted relic. He tried to talk about it–he said it dropped from his hand when he fell on the shoe-scraper–but I urged him to make his final confession instead.’
‘I will find it,’ vowed Michael. ‘I will dig up the churchyard if I have to, but I will recover it.’
‘Good,’ said Tomas with a smile that lacked humour. ‘It is a comfort to know that it will soon be in your able hands.’
Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. His comment sounded like a threat. He decided to go with the monk when he began his search, and ensure he was very careful before he laid hands on anything that looked like a splinter in an ancient glass vial. He rubbed a hand through his hair, realizing that he, too, was becoming certain there was something sinister about the relic–beginning to accept that it could do great harm to those unfortunate enough to come into contact with it.
‘It will go better for you if you tell me where it is,’ said Michael, trying for the last time.
‘I know,’ said Tomas tiredly. ‘But I cannot tell what I do not know.’
Michael locked the door to Tomas’s cell, and walked into the sunlight, heaving a sigh of relief. ‘The case is solved. The diagram of the hostel’s roof proves he planned mischief up there, and I imagine his intended victim was Andrew. Unfortunately, it was Witney who went to investigate odd noises coming from the chimney and he paid the ultimate price for his curiosity.’
Bartholomew nodded, feeling chilled, despite the warmth of the sun. ‘Tomas mentioned a discussion he had had with his namesake about roofs. On its own, it means nothing, but it is suspicious in the light of Witney’s peculiar death.’
Michael nodded, eyes gleaming as details of the case began to come together in a way that made sense. ‘He was taking advantage of Big Thomas’s expertise. But his cunning ploy failed. Still determined to kill Andrew, he fed him a powerful dose of poppy syrup to render him helpless, and encouraged him to walk on to the rotten jetty. And we know how he killed Urban.’
Bartholomew frowned. Michael’s explanation was too simple, and did not take into account some of the facts. ‘I am not sure about this. First, Urban did not mention Tomas giving Andrew potent medicine, or being present when the old man trod on the pier. He said they were alone. Second, I saw Andrew and Urban not long before Andrew died, and Tomas was not with them. And third, we know Urban was killed while Tomas was praying inside the church–we have independent witnesses who will attest to that.’
Michael did not seem discomfited that his carefully constructed explanation had several glaring inconsistencies. He shrugged. ‘As I keep saying, Tomas is clever. Perhaps he will answer these questions when I interview him again later, but perhaps he will not, and we will never know.’
‘Are you certain of his guilt? Sure enough to see him hang?’
Michael raised his hands, palms upward. ‘That is for a jury to decide. But the diagram and the hidden soporifics are damning, Matt. Even you must see that. And do not forget we are still missing Kip Roughe. It would not surprise me if his corpse were to appear sooner or later, too.’
‘Then you are going to be disappointed,’ said Bartholomew, pointing across the street. ‘Because there he is, and his brother John is with him.’
Michael shot across the road to apprehend the servants. The pair looked distinctly uneasy when they saw the monk bearing down on them and, for a moment, looked as though they might run. But they held their ground, and waited until he reached them.
‘You have been missing,’ said Michael without preamble. ‘We were afraid something untoward had happened to you.’
‘Something did,’ replied Kip harshly. ‘Tomas.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did he try to harm you?’
‘Several times,’ replied John. ‘He shot a crossbow at us one night, as we were leaving a tavern. It was a good thing Kip had not swallowed as much ale as me, or I would not be talking to you now–he pushed me to safety. Then Tomas rode a horse at us, aiming to crush us under its hoofs. He is a dangerous man, Brother, and I am relieved you have him under lock and key.’
‘We heard the good news a few moments ago,’ elaborated Kip. ‘We have been hiding in a cousin’s house, terrified that he might try again.’
‘Why did you not tell me this sooner?’ demanded Michael.
‘Would you have believed two servants over a friar?’ asked Kip scornfully. ‘Of course not! He would have told you that we attacked him, and then it would have been us at the gibbet. Still, we hear you have proper evidence against him now.’
‘We do,’ acknowledged Michael.
Bartholomew was not so sure. ‘Bulmer said it was you who were trying to kill Tomas, not the other way around–you shot the arrow and rode the horse. He said you and he were suspicious of Tomas, and were stalking him together.’
‘When we learned Bulmer felt the same way as us, we offered to combine forces,’ admitted John. ‘But Bulmer proved too hot headed. He intended to murder Tomas, while all we wanted was to watch him and see what he did. We were arguing about it when the horse crashed into him.’
‘Bulmer’s jaw,’ said Bartholomew, remembering. ‘I said at the time that it did not look like an injury from a punch. He was hit by a horse?’
‘A horse ridden by Tomas.’ John nodded. ‘We said Bulmer should tell Morden what had happened, but he was afraid Tomas would smother him in his sickbed.’
‘All this is most interesting,’ said Michael. ‘And I shall ask you to repeat it in front of a jury when Tomas is brought to trial. But we are still missing the relic. Do you know where it is?’
‘Tomas must have it,’ said John. ‘Was it not among his belongings?’
‘Not that I saw.’
‘He has hidden it, then,’ declared Kip. His face dissolved into an expression of fury. ‘I detest that man and his sly ways. He came here to spy, you know. He intended to take tales to the Master-General about the Cambridge priory, and have it closed down over this Holy Blood nonsense. He says he is from Pécs, but old Father Andrew once lived in Pécs and he said Tomas was never there. I imagine that is why Tomas made an end of him.’
Bartholomew knew he was lying. ‘Andrew would have said no such thing–he had no reason to deny his former student’s existence, especially to servants. Besides, Tomas did not have the relic when he gave Urban last rites, but Urban definitely had it with him in the graveyard, because he told us so.’
‘Andrew’s relic is just a splinter,’ said Kip, eyeing him angrily. ‘Tomas could have hidden it anywhere on his person.’
‘No, he could not,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘He removed his habit to cover Urban, and he has no purse.’
‘He wears a shift, though,’ persisted John. ‘It could have been there, in some secret fold. He probably took off his habit just to “prove” he had not stolen the relic. As we said, he is cunning–he never does anything without some sinister motive.’
‘How do you know the relic is a splinter?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Have you seen it out of its vial?’
‘Oh, yes,’ replied Kit carelessly. ‘Big Thomas asked us to open the box–before Urban asked for it back again–and I took it out then. It is nothing to look at–just a bit of wood, stained black at one end.’
‘You touched it?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.
‘Only for a moment.’ Kip had the grace to look sheepish. ‘Big Thomas was going to sell it to an abbey, and share the profits with us, but Urban took it away before we could damn our souls. I expect the curse led us to be tempted by the Devil.’
‘You touched it?’ asked Bartholomew again.
Kip regarded him sombrely. ‘For the shortest of moments. But do not be concerned: Barzak’s curse will not affect me. Even Little Tomas admits it only kills the wicked.’
> ‘I have some excellent French wine in my room,’ said Michael, watching the two servants swagger away. ‘We should share it, to celebrate our success.’
‘I do not want to celebrate,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I want to think. There are too many people telling me what I should and should not believe–and nearly all of it is contradictory. None of the tales fit together. Tomas said Kip and John attacked him with a crossbow–and so did Bulmer–but now the brothers say it was the other way around.’
‘Tomas is a killer, Matt,’ said Michael patiently. ‘He will say anything to shift the blame away from himself, and it has worked admirably until now.’
‘I want to visit St Bernard’s Hostel,’ said Bartholomew. The hostel was only a few steps along High Street. ‘I need to examine the place where Witney died again.’
Michael sighed. ‘It is too hot to go on fools’ errands. I accept there are loose ends and questions that have not been answered, but we have been in this position before. It is no good looking for logical explanations when you have a clever man like Tomas as your culprit.’
‘There is, Brother,’ insisted Bartholomew, knocking at the hostel door. ‘Tomas is a theologian and a scholar–he lives by logic. Of course we should look for logic in any crimes he is accused of committing.’
The door was opened by a servant who had the heavy-eyed gaze of someone who had enjoyed too much ale with his midday meal. Bartholomew pushed past him and made his way to the chamber in which Witney had died. The servant did not seem to care, and returned to the kitchen to resume his post-prandial nap. When Bartholomew and Michael reached the hall, Seton was there, sitting in a window seat and nodding drowsily over a religious tract which lay open on his knees.
‘I hear you arrested Witney’s murderer,’ he said. ‘It is a pity you did not catch him before he claimed another two lives. I did not like Andrew and Urban, but it is unfortunate they had to die before the case was resolved.’
‘It was,’ replied Michael coldly, disliking the implication that his inefficiency had resulted in additional victims.
The Tainted Relic Page 34