‘An arrangement?’ echoed Suttone distastefully. ‘Marriage is a sacred union blessed by God, not something you organise in the marketplace.’
‘Oh, really, Father!’ she exclaimed. ‘Whoever told you that? Look at poor Lady Christiana, waiting for the King to find her a match she hopes will not be too abhorrent. And she is just one of many.’
‘Continue your tale, madam,’ said Michael, before Suttone could defend himself. ‘You and Nicholas arranged to marry. Why? Were you short of funds?’
‘Yes. I was a seamstress to Master Dalderby, but he dismissed me when he found out I had friends in the Commonalty – Dalderby is a member of the Guild, you see. I needed a home, and Nicholas wanted a wife prepared to turn a blind eye to his eccentricities, so a liaison between us was the perfect solution. We enjoyed a comfortable, if separate, existence for years.’
‘What kind of eccentricities?’ asked Michael.
She grimaced. ‘It is not right to speak ill of the dead, especially when they lie in front of us. Suffice to say that if Nicholas had been a better silversmith, and if the cathedral artisans had not contrived to take his best customers, then things might have been different. He was a good man, but the city’s dispute turned him resentful and sour. He let it spoil his health.’
‘Has the feud damaged other men, too?’ asked Michael. ‘Or just Nicholas?’
‘Oh, it has damaged others all right,’ said Sabina. ‘Some have died in odd circumstances, some have felt compelled to commit wicked crimes against rivals, some are moved to make false promises to God – offering to be upright souls when it is obvious they will fall at the first hurdle. Like Aylmer.’
‘I do not understand,’ said Michael. ‘Aylmer did what? Died in odd circumstances, committed wicked crimes or made false promises.’
‘All three, Brother. I was fond of him – and might have taken him in preference to Nicholas, had he not been in holy orders and loath to break his vows with marriage – but I was not blind to his faults. He engaged in more than his share of dishonest activities, but claimed he had a change of heart in the last month – when he was offered the post of Vicar Choral – and was going to make amends. However, he had said such things before, and we all knew it was only a matter of time before he reneged. He was a weak man, at heart.’
Bartholomew was becoming impatient, eager to be on his way to meet Spayne. ‘So, Nicholas was found in this lake,’ he said. ‘Was he floating in the middle, or washed up on the banks?’
‘Floating. He had been drinking in the Swan tavern – not somewhere he should have been.’
‘Why not?’ asked Suttone.
‘Because the Swan tends to be frequented by guildsmen, while the Commonalty favours the Angel. He probably went to torture himself by watching the cathedral silversmiths spend their ill-gotten gains. Perhaps someone took against him being there, and decided he should not do it again.’
‘You think he was murdered?’ asked Michael uneasily.
She raised her hands, palms upwards. ‘I do not know. Kelby, who was also in the Swan that evening, told Bishop Gynewell that Nicholas had been maudlin, and talked about tossing himself in the river. And now the priests will not bury him unless they know for certain that he did not commit suicide. So I asked for a few days’ grace to find out, which is why Nicholas is here. I do not want him in unhallowed ground without good reason.’
‘What do you think happened to him?’ asked Michael. ‘What are your suspicions?’
She shook her head. ‘I do not have any: I just want the truth. Was it suicide, because he was low; murder, because he had annoyed someone while in his cups; or accident, because he had swallowed too much ale and staggered off the path? I just want to do the right thing.’
Bartholomew sent them away again before restarting his examination, which met with relief from Suttone and annoyance from Sabina, who wanted to see how her money was being spent. Michael said nothing, and the physician supposed he intended to use the time to assess what they had learned regarding Aylmer. He watched them step outside, then turned his attention to Nicholas.
It was often difficult to determine a cause of death, but he had discovered that drowned men often foamed at the mouth when he pressed on their chests. He pushed now, and watched bubbles emerge from between bluish lips. Nicholas had certainly drowned, although it was not possible to say whether by design or accident. He pushed again, trying to detect the scent of ale. It was not there, but something else was: a pungent, fishy smell. With a start, he suddenly remembered something that had been said at Kelby’s celebration, by the priest John Suttone. John had mentioned how he had detected a rank odour on the body of a man who had died in the Braytheford Pool – a man called Nicholas Herl. Simon had mentioned the death of a man called Herl, too, saying he had expected it to shift the balance of power between Guild and Commonalty, and result in bloodshed.
Bartholomew removed the corpse’s clothes, noting an unnatural swelling of the feet and a hint of rot – Nicholas had endured a severe bout of Holy Fire, and its symptoms were still evident. The condition was a painful one, so it was small wonder the man had been morose and unhappy. As he was replacing the garments a few moments later, Bartholomew spotted a scar on the point of the shoulder. It was not like the drawings on Flaxfleete and Aylmer, although it was in the same place. He bent to inspect it more closely.
‘I doubt his arm will tell you anything useful, Doctor.’ Sabina’s voice was so close behind him that he jumped in alarm and almost dropped the lamp.
‘I am sorry, Matt,’ said Michael. Suttone was with him. ‘I told her to stay outside, but she wants to make sure she is getting her money’s worth. She slipped past me when Hamo distracted us with some Lombard slices.’
‘What made this mark?’ asked Bartholomew, pointing at it.
She frowned. ‘I have never noticed it before, but then we never saw each other naked. It is recent, though, because it is still raw. However, during the last month, Nicholas was busier than he had been over the past five years combined, labouring in his workshop all hours of the day and night. It will be a burn, caused by spitting metal, like the ones on his hands. So? How did he die?’
‘He drowned,’ said Bartholomew, handing Michael the lamp and straightening Nicholas’s limbs.
‘I know,’ said Sabina. ‘What I need you to tell me is whether it was accident, murder or suicide.’
‘I have some questions first. Did he suffer from Summer Madness?’
She regarded him in surprise. ‘How did you know that?’
‘How badly?’
‘He needed to be tied up, to stop him from biting himself, and the only place he became calm was the church. We prayed to St Anthony and he recovered, although he was never fully well after. Why?’
‘Did he have trouble breathing? Dizzy spells? Pains in his chest and arms?’
‘All those.’ She gazed at him. ‘But how do you know? He never told anyone but me and his friend Will Langar. And what does it have to do with his death, anyway? The Madness was months ago.’
‘There is a theory that Holy Fire – Summer Madness – is caused by a toxin, which accumulates in the body and eventually causes a fatal imbalance of the humours. I suspect your husband ingested a large quantity of this substance in August, and it has remained inside him – his swollen feet tell us he was still suffering from its effects. When he swallowed more of the poison, it killed him.’
‘Summer Madness is caused by poison?’ she said doubtfully. ‘How can that be true, when we all know the Devil is responsible? And even if you are right, how could more of this poison have got inside him? No one else has suffered from the Madness for months now.’
Bartholomew shrugged, not looking at Michael, who was drawing his own conclusions about the substance that had now killed two men. ‘I have no idea. However, Nicholas’s initial dose seems to have been a large one – as evidenced by your description of his illness, the swelling still remaining in his feet, and his continued dizziness. In addit
ion, I suspect he had a natural weakness in his blood that would have made him especially susceptible to the ravages of Holy Fire.’
She was confused. ‘I do not understand what you are saying. He drowned and he was poisoned?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘The substance was strong on his breath, so he swallowed it shortly before he died. Then, faint and weak, he probably toppled into the water and drowned.’
‘But this does not help,’ she objected. ‘We still do not know where I can bury him.’
‘Then think about Nicholas himself,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘If he had wanted to commit suicide, would he have known where to obtain this poison? And would he have been aware what its effects might be on a body already weakened by its last encounter with Holy Fire?’
Slowly, her face broke into a smile. ‘No. He was a simple man, sometimes stupid, and would never have invented such a complex way of doing away with himself.’
‘Then you are left with accident or murder, but he can go into hallowed ground, regardless.’
She seemed relieved. ‘I shall go to my priest this morning, and order him to bury Nicholas in the churchyard. I think he only made a fuss in the first place because I refuse to lie with him.’
‘I hope this is not the same vicar who ordered you to work here, as penance for kissing Aylmer,’ said Michael. ‘That would make him a hypocrite.’
She grimaced. ‘He has never bothered to hide his failings. But I should not be telling you this, Brother, because he is John Tetford. Your Vicar Choral.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Michael, as she flounced from the chapel and Suttone regarded him rather smugly. ‘Just when I think matters cannot slide any further into the mire, I learn unpleasant details about my deputy. It seems we both made poor choices, Suttone.’
‘Indeed we did,’ said Suttone. ‘However, there is something about Sabina Herl that makes me feel she is not telling you the whole truth about her husband’s death. It would not surprise me to learn that she slipped him poison, then was sorry when she learned he was to be buried in unhallowed ground.’
‘What shall we do, Brother?’ asked Bartholomew, once Suttone had gone. ‘Tell the sheriff that Nicholas and Flaxfleete both died from ingesting the same substance? Flaxfleete’s wine came from the Swan tavern, and that was where Nicholas went drinking on the night of his death.’
Michael shook his head. ‘From what we have been told of Sheriff Lungspee, it is better to keep out of his way. He is corrupt and everyone knows it. Folk even admire him for taking bribes with commendable even-handedness. Lord, Matt! What a place!’
‘Poison is not the only association between Nicholas and Flaxfleete – and Aylmer, too. There is a drawing of a cup on Aylmer’s shoulder, which is identical to the one I saw on Flaxfleete.’
‘A cup?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘And there is a scar in exactly the same place on Nicholas. The wound was made recently, but dark lines are still visible underneath it. You can see for yourself. It looks as though there was a mark, but someone – presumably Nicholas himself – attempted to scratch it off.’
Michael leaned down to inspect it. ‘It might be a chalice.’
‘When I tried to loosen Flaxfleete’s clothes to help him breathe, he asked me not to. I am under the impression that he wanted his mark to stay hidden – that keeping it concealed was important to him.’
Michael straightened slowly. ‘And you say his drawing and Aylmer’s are identical?’
‘More or less. I have seen soldiers disfigure themselves with signs like these, as a declaration of fraternity. But Aylmer and Nicholas were members of the Commonalty, and Flaxfleete was a member of the Guild, which means they were rivals, not friends. It makes no sense.’
‘And it is odd that three men with a cup on their arms should die in mysterious circumstances just when the Hugh Chalice miraculously reappears after two decades, too.’ Michael rubbed his chin, fingers rasping on the bristles. ‘Did you believe Sabina when she said she could not recall how Nicholas came by his injury? They were husband and wife.’
‘She also said theirs was an odd marriage, with no affection. Perhaps she was telling the truth, and they never enjoyed each other’s body.’
Michael shook his head. ‘There is a lot we are not being told here. And I do not like it.’
CHAPTER 4
Daylight did not last long in December, and Bartholomew felt time was slipping away far too fast that morning. The bells were already chiming for the next office, and the Gilbertines were preparing themselves by humming and clearing their throats. He begged hot water from one of the cooks, and washed his hands, trying to rinse away the odour of death that clung to them. He did not want to visit Mayor Spayne smelling like a cadaver.
‘There is Father Simon,’ said Michael, pointing to where the arrogant priest was hurrying towards St Katherine’s Chapel. ‘I shall have a few words with him while you change.’
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew.
Michael indicated a stain that had not been on Bartholomew’s tunic before he had examined the two bodies. ‘When you resume your duties as Corpse Examiner in Cambridge, we shall have to invest in some kind of apron. Now you own decent clothes, you need to take better care of them.’
‘I meant why do you want to speak to Simon?’
‘Because he was the one who found Aylmer’s body, and we know from experience that those who discover a corpse sometimes have additional information to impart.’
Cynric had anticipated his master’s need to exchange a soiled tunic for a clean one, and was waiting with a spare. Bartholomew removed the dirty garment and donned the replacement as he walked with Michael to intercept Simon. The priest was not pleased to be waylaid in the yard, claiming he had been warming up his voice in the refectory, and that standing in the cold might reduce its effectiveness.
‘A cup of claret usually works for me,’ said Michael, who was also proud of his musical talents. ‘It combats chilly weather very nicely. But tell me what happened when you found Aylmer.’
‘Now?’ Simon’s eyes strayed towards the chapel. ‘I might be late.’
‘It will not take long, and I am sure you are eager to co-operate with the bishop’s investigation.’
Simon sighed. ‘Very well, if you put it like that. It happened yesterday morning, as you know. We were quartered in the guest-hall’s main chamber – Aylmer, de Wetherset, I and a dozen others. The bells rang for prime, and we either went to the chapel or left the convent for business in the city. Aylmer walked with me to the chapel. When the service was over, everyone else went straight to the refectory for breakfast, but I was cold and wanted a thicker shift. When I arrived, there was Aylmer, slumped across his bed with a knife in his back. There was blood... ’
‘You did not see him leave the chapel before you?’
‘I was praying, Brother. I did not notice anything at all, except Whatton singing flat all through the Magnificat. When I saw Aylmer’s body, I observed two things: he had died counting the gold that was in his purse, and he was holding my chalice – the one I intend to donate to the cathedral.’
‘His gold and your chalice were on the bed with his corpse?’ asked Michael. Simon nodded. ‘Then robbery is unlikely to have been the motive: the thief would not have left such riches behind. What do you think Aylmer was doing with your goblet?’
‘Admiring it,’ replied Simon. ‘Possibly as a prelude to stealing it. Anyone in Lincoln will tell you he had sticky fingers, and it would not be the first time he made off with another man’s property. But we cannot ask him now he is dead, and I dislike maligning a man who cannot defend himself. I refuse to condemn him out of hand.’
‘Where is it now?’ asked Michael.
‘I put it on St Katherine’s altar for safekeeping. Even the most hardened of thieves will think twice about taking it now – it would earn him eternal damnation. You probably noticed it when you were in the chapel. It does not look like much, and is showing its age, but holiness still shines
through it.’
‘How did you come by it?’ asked Bartholomew, straightening his clean tunic.
‘I bought it from a relic-seller. Do you know its history? How it was in St Hugh’s hand when he died in London? Many years later, it was decided that it should be at his shrine in Lincoln, and two friars were given the task of carrying it north. But it was stolen from them in a wicked act of theft.’
‘Was it stolen before they left London?’ asked Michael. ‘Or when they arrived in Lincoln?’
‘Neither. It went missing on the journey between the two places. In fact, the crime took place near Cambridge, a town they were obliged to pass en route. I cannot remember the exact details – this happened twenty years ago, so my memory is excusably hazy – but I recall hearing that these two hapless priests fell asleep under a tree, wearied from the distance they had walked that day, when the chalice was removed from their possession.’
‘They travelled on foot?’ asked Bartholomew incredulously. ‘Carrying a sacred relic?’
‘I imagine they did not want to draw attention to themselves with a cavalcade. Anyway, the chalice was stolen, and the thief sold it to a priest in the village of Geddynge – a place that is just a few miles from Cambridge. But Geddynge did not keep it long, because it was stolen again within a few days.’
‘By the same thief?’ asked Michael dubiously.
‘Very possibly. If he knew he could get twenty shillings for it once, then why not retrieve it and sell it for twenty shillings a second time? And a third and a fourth? But no one knows for certain what happened. Eventually, it appeared in the hands of a relic-seller, here in Lincoln.’
‘That was very convenient.’ Bartholomew tried not to sound sceptical of its timely arrival, just when Simon was about to accept a prebendal stall in the cathedral and was of a mind to make a suitable donation. He did not succeed, and the priest regarded him coldly.
‘It is the same chalice. I have never been more certain of anything in my life. And if you do not believe me, then ask Bishop Gynewell. He also senses its sanctity.’
Bartholomew 12 - The Tarnished Chalice Page 13