Seton saw that his barb had hit its mark and smiled nastily. Then he gestured to a corner, where two packs had been carelessly stuffed with various items of clothing. ‘Since there was no one else to do it, I gathered up what belonged to them. Perhaps you could arrange for it to be collected?’
Bartholomew inspected the scruffy bags. ‘This is everything?’
‘They did not own much.’
‘What is this?’ asked Bartholomew, prising a glass container from a pouch that had been sewn inside the older of the two packs. ‘Medicine?’
‘Andrew told me it was poppy syrup, which eased the pain of an old wound and allowed him to sleep. I saw him swallow most of what he had left the morning he died.’
Bartholomew raised the phial to his nose and smelled the dregs: poppy syrup. ‘You have a problem, Brother. This phial is virtually identical to the one I found with Andrew’s body. However, it is considerably smaller than the ones you discovered under Tomas’s bed.’
‘So what?’ demanded Michael.
‘I only ever saw Andrew drink from that kind of container,’ said Seton. ‘They all have a strange pinkish colour; I remember them well.’
‘I suspect we were right about Andrew’s death in the first place,’ said Bartholomew, sitting on a bench with the bottle in his hand. ‘Andrew was in pain, and regularly swallowed poppy syrup as a palliative. Now we have Seton telling us he imbibed a hefty dose–all his remaining supply–before he died, which explains the contracted pupils. I think Andrew took his own life, just as we thought. He jumped into the river–hard and straight, as Urban described–and he drowned because he was unable to raise his head. But Tomas had nothing to do with it.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Michael, reluctantly. ‘But he still killed Witney and Urban.’
Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘Do you still have that diagram?’
Michael rummaged in his scrip, and produced it with a flourish.
‘Where did you get that?’ demanded Seton, trying to snatch it away from him. His eyes narrowed. ‘Big Thomas!’
Several facts came together in Bartholomew’s mind. ‘Unless I am very much mistaken, this picture belonged to Witney.’
‘What if it did?’ demanded Seton angrily. ‘What business is it of yours?’
‘It is very much our business,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘It proves Witney had more than a passing interest in that chimney. The picture was among Tomas’s possessions, but he was astonished when you found it, Brother. I think someone else put it there–just as someone else left the wrongly sized, wrongly coloured medicine phials for you to discover.’
Michael narrowed his eyes. ‘Are you saying someone placed evidence in a way that was deliberately intended to mislead me?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘Tomas is an easy target, because he is a foreigner, and everyone is suspicious of outsiders. No one was surprised when he was revealed to be the killer–shocked, but not surprised. However, he is innocent.’
‘I do not see how you can claim all this from a drawing,’ said Michael. ‘It—’
‘I see exactly what happened now. Witney was planning to do something untoward on the roof. The harness and the pile of missiles were his, not Tomas’s–just as this diagram was his. And his interest in the chimney explains why he was found dead with his head sticking up it.’
‘You are wrong,’ said Seton, although his voice lacked conviction. ‘Witney was not interested in the chimney because he wanted to kill someone, but because a savage draught whistled down it. He told me so when I found him poking about up it once.’
‘Then you are not the only one who caught him doing something odd involving the roof,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘So did Urban, although he did not understand its significance. He found Witney with a ladder, and Witney fabricated some tale about a pigeon’s nest. But the reality was that he was about to ascend to the roof to set his lethal trap with stones. He pretended to be inept at climbing when Urban saw him–the boy ended up knocking down the nest himself. But do you remember what Kip Roughe said about the people who had recently borrowed Bene’t’s long ladder, Brother?’
‘That Witney had done so once or twice,’ said Michael. ‘If his purpose had been just to rid himself of a noisy pigeon, once would have sufficed.’ He turned to Seton with considerable anger. ‘Why did you not tell us about his interest in the chimney before? Surely, you must have seen it was pertinent to my enquiries?’
‘It was irrelevant,’ snapped Seton. ‘The poor man was murdered!’
‘I am not so sure about that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You and Urban both noticed his fascination with the roof–and with the relic. Andrew said he had tried to take it by force, and I think he was telling the truth. Witney was a fanatic, passionate about the Holy Blood debate and, contrary to his Order’s teachings, believed blood relics should be destroyed. He took it upon himself to oblige, but first, he had to dispatch its owner.’
Seton rubbed his eyes tiredly. ‘I did see him covered in thatching once. He told me he had been looking for pigeon eggs as a surprise for my supper. But then he was murdered, and…’
‘He was not murdered,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He set his trap with loose masonry in the chimney, and then came to see if it would work. Perhaps it was a freak gust of wind, or perhaps it really was Barzac’s curse, but a stone fell just as he happened to look up it. The rock did not kill him, but the soot that tumbled down with it did. It was an accident and Tomas had nothing to do with it. Someone else hid the diagram among his possessions, to mislead Michael.’
‘Big Thomas,’ said Seton heavily. ‘Witney gave the diagram to Big Thomas before he died.’
‘Big Thomas was a thatcher,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He knows about roofs, and I heard Witney arguing with him about thatching in the High Street. I imagine the picture was central to that row?’
Seton looked as though he would continue to deny the allegations, but a glance at Michael’s stern, forbidding expression convinced him to prevaricate no longer. ‘Witney was rash enough to show it to Big Thomas–he told him he was going to pay for St Bernard’s roof to be replaced, but that he needed the opinion of a professional thatcher before he parted with money. However, Big Thomas claimed the scale was wrong or some such stupid thing. He would not listen when Witney said scale was unimportant, and was determined to have his say. We might still be there, forced to listen to his deranged ranting about angles and pitch, if Tomas of Pécs had not rescued us.’
‘Poor Tomas,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Witney’s death was an accident, Andrew killed himself and Tomas has an alibi for Urban’s demise. You should let him go, Brother: he had nothing to do with any of it.’
‘But there are still loose ends,’ complained Michael, as they walked towards the proctors’ prison to release the hapless Dominican.
‘You said that did not matter when we arrested Tomas,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So, logic dictates that it should not matter now he is innocent.’
Michael shot him a black look. ‘You can show that no one killed Andrew and Witney, but Urban is another matter. He told us on his deathbed that someone tripped him with the sole intention of forcing him on to the shoe-scraper.’
‘Someone tripped him,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But I think his ending up pierced was an accident, too. It must be Barzak’s malediction. He did touch that damned relic, after all.’
‘You believe that?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘I thought you had dismissed it as superstition, and I was the one convinced of its power. Now, you claim that these horrible deaths were brought about by this wicked curse, and it is me telling you that there may be a human hand involved.’
Bartholomew shrugged sheepishly. ‘Two days ago, I would have insisted that the relic was irrelevant to all that has happened, but Witney’s death is unusual, and Andrew could have saved himself when he jumped into the water. And then there is Urban. All three touched the thing. Perhaps I was wrong to be dismissive of matters I did not–do not–understand.’
‘Kip Roughe
touched it, too,’ Michael pointed out. ‘But he is still alive.’
‘He said he only touched it briefly,’ said Bartholomew.
‘I do not think the length of time matters to the heavenly hosts. You either die when you handle it, or you do not. If you believe in Barzak’s spell, then you must expect Kip to meet with a grisly end, too. We had better warn him.’
Bartholomew hesitated. ‘The mind has considerable power over the body. If you tell him he will die, it is possible he may will himself to do so. I think you should say nothing.’
Michael smiled. ‘You are not completely convinced about the curse, or you would not believe Kip has a chance of life. However, I would not mind another word with him, anyway. I am not sure that he and his brother were telling the truth when they said they did not know what happened to the relic.’
Tomas said nothing when Michael unlocked the door and indicated he was free. He stepped out of the cell and spent a few moments gazing up at the deep blue sky, as if he had not expected to see it again. He gave Bartholomew a shy smile.
‘Brother Michael says I owe my release to you–that you were the one who reassessed the evidence and found it lacking. Thank you.’
‘We are going to visit the Roughe brothers,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Bulmer told us they are inveterate liars and we have caught them in at least two untruths–about you trying to kill them, and about it being Big Thomas’s idea to sell the relic to an abbey. Thomas is not clever enough to invent such a plan–but they are.’
‘If they lie about one thing, they will lie about another,’ said Michael. ‘And someone placed that “evidence” among your possessions for me to find. They have access to all parts of the friary, and they had the opportunity–and the wits–to leave phials and diagrams to mislead a lowly proctor.’
‘You are not lowly, Brother,’ said Tomas charitably. ‘Cambridge is lucky to have you.’
‘Generally, you are right,’ agreed Michael immodestly. ‘But in this case, I have been wrong at every turn. Will you come to see the Roughes? The sight of you may encourage them to say something they might otherwise keep to themselves.’
Tomas gave a rather wolfish grin, obviously keen to avenge himself on two men who might have seen him hanged. He led the way to the Dominican priory, where the door was opened by a sullen Big Thomas, back at his duties on the gate. Bartholomew paused.
‘Witney and Seton asked you about St Bernard’s roof,’ he said.
Big Thomas nodded. ‘Witney said he was going to pay for it to be replaced, but I suggested he give his money to Prior Morden for the one here instead. I told him that I expect to see a tragedy every time a brother bends to poke the hearth, what with loose stones tumbling down our chimneys from want of repair.’
‘You said that?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking that inspiration could come from the least likely of sources.
Big Thomas nodded a second time. ‘And then, in a strange coincidence, Witney himself died exactly that way just days later! He had drawn a plan of Bernard’s roof, which he asked me to look over–he valued my opinion as a thatcher, you see. It was terrible, and he got angry with me when I told him how wrong it was.’
‘In the end, I suggested you take it home and redraw it,’ said Tomas, frowning as he recalled the incident. ‘He was becoming overly aggressive, and I did not want a squabble to end in a fight–and you to be blamed for starting it.’
‘I spent ages making it right, but he never did see it,’ said Big Thomas in disgust, as though Witney had died specifically to inconvenience him. ‘I was complaining about the waste to Kip, and he kindly gave me a penny for it. He said such a picture might come in useful, although he did not say for what.’
Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘I doubt he was motivated by kindness. Do you know that he is telling everyone that it was your idea to sell the relic to an abbey?’
Thomas was affronted. ‘It was not! Besides, I have come to think my Order is right about this Holy Blood debate. These blood-soaked relics should be destroyed–not because they are unworthy of veneration, but because some of them are evil, and capable of causing great harm.’
‘Where are John and Kip?’ asked Michael, thinking about more harm that might be waiting to happen.
‘In the kitchens.’ Thomas grimaced. ‘And you can tell them that I do not take kindly to lies spread about me. It was their idea to sell that relic, and I am glad I had nothing to do with their nasty plans.’
The Dominicans’ kitchen was a large room in a separate block, to reduce the risk of fire. It was dominated by a massive hearth, over which hung an extensive rack of knives and ladles. The rack was worked by a pulley, which could be raised or lowered, depending on whether the utensils were needed at hand or stowed out of the way. John was chopping onions on the table, while Kip was stirring something in a pot over the fire, tasting it every few moments. It was obvious he was fishing out the best bits as he did so.
‘You have some explaining to do,’ said Michael, as he entered, Bartholomew and Tomas at his heels. ‘You placed pots of strong medicine and a drawing among Tomas’s possessions for me–or perhaps Morden–to find, but you made two mistakes. First, the phials were the wrong kind. And second, Big Thomas has just confided that he gave Witney’s diagram to you.’
‘Tomas took it from us,’ replied Kip coolly, eyeing the friar with dislike. ‘We warned you about him, but he has already convinced you to let him out of gaol.’
‘Why do you want him hanged for murder?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What is it about him that you do not like?’
‘He is a liar,’ said Kip, angry when he saw that his stories were not believed. ‘He is not here to study angels, but to spy on his brethren and their faithful servants. Then he will tell the Master-General that Prior Morden is prepared to revere Holy Blood, and this friary will be suppressed. We have worked here for ten years now. Where will we find other employment if he succeeds?’
‘So, you tried to kill Tomas to ensure that would not happen–first with a crossbow and then with a horse,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘The horse missed Tomas, but it almost broke Bulmer’s jaw.’
The brothers exchanged an uncertain glance as they saw the net closing around them. ‘All right,’ said John. ‘We admit we tried to dispatch a man who is evil, but we were protecting the friars whom we have served faithfully for a decade. I shook the ladder the other day, too, although you were the one who almost fell. And we left the phials and the picture for Brother Michael to find, but only because we wanted to see justice done.’
‘Hanging an innocent man is not justice,’ said Michael sharply.
‘You are still lying,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You threw a stone at me on the High Street–it injured Deynman, but it was aimed at me–because Michael and I were investigating matters that were coming too close to your activities for comfort. I imagine you would have tried to harm Michael, too, in time.’
‘For the good of our Dominican employers…’ said John in a bleat.
Michael was unmoved. ‘You are killers, thieves and liars, so do not pretend your motives are honourable.’
‘Killers?’ squawked John, appalled. ‘We are not killers!’
‘You murdered Urban,’ said Michael. ‘You knew he had reclaimed the relic from Big Thomas, because Big Thomas told you so. You were angry to be deprived of a potential fortune, and followed him to the churchyard. You hurled him on to that spike…’
‘It was an accident,’ cried John. ‘He would not listen to what I had to say, so I chased him and Kip stuck out his foot…’
‘Shut up!’ hissed Kip. ‘Tell them nothing. They have no proof.’
‘Urban said it was not our fault,’ shouted John, eyes wild in his white face. ‘As he lay there, with that point through his middle, he said it was not us who killed him. We should have stayed, but we were afraid, and we ran away. We knew Tomas would help him when he came out…’
‘Enough!’ roared Kip furiously. ‘We have done nothing wrong, except tell one or two unt
ruths for the benefit of the priory. Do not say anything else.’
But his brother was unstoppable. ‘It was the relic. The relic killed Urban, because he touched it.’
‘Rot,’ said Kip firmly. ‘I touched it, and I am perfectly healthy.’
‘Where is it?’ demanded Michael.
Then everything happened quickly. Kip made a quick, darting lunge, and all of a sudden he had snatched two knives from the rack above his head. Bartholomew ducked behind a table, but Tomas and Michael were slow to react, and only gazed in horror as Kip prepared to throw the first one.
‘No, Kip!’ cried John, horrified. ‘Do not make matters worse.’
‘I can kill two men with these,’ said Kip, calmly assessing his situation. ‘First, I will spear the monk for not believing us over Tomas, and then I will kill Tomas himself. Bartholomew is nothing–it does not matter if he lives or dies.’
He drew back his arm. Tomas shot towards the wall and Michael dived to the floor, which meant Kip was obliged to clamber on to the table in order to gain a clear view of his first victim. He raised his arm to take aim, but there was a tremendous groan as first one half of the iron rack, and then the other, descended towards the servant’s unprotected head. Bartholomew saw Kip’s mouth open in an expression of horror before he was lost among crashing utensils and the heavy thump of the rack itself. He leapt forward to haul it away, but the load had fallen in such a way as to break Kip’s back.
‘He cut the rope that held the rack with his own knife,’ explained Tomas, holding the severed twine for Michael to inspect. ‘As he lifted his hand to hurl the weapon, his blade scored through the rope. The cook keeps them very sharp.’
‘Barzak’s curse!’ cried John in horror. ‘Kip touched the relic so was doomed, just as Urban and Andrew said.’
‘I will not die,’ muttered Kip, although it was obvious to everyone that he had but moments to live.
‘Make your confession,’ Tomas urged. ‘Before it is too late.’
The Tainted Relic Page 35