Bartholomew left, trying to mask his distaste for the men and their plotting. He started to feel sorry for Michael, having connections to such a place, before he realised the monk would revel in the intrigues and double-dealing, and might even make them worse. He and Cynric walked around the outside of the cathedral, then followed a paved lane south until they reached the quiet yard known as Vicars’ Court. Ravenser and John were standing in the middle of it, yelling at each other. They stopped when Bartholomew approached. John was stiff and angry, but Ravenser shot the physician a grin that suggested he was glad of the interruption.
‘Dame Eleanor would like to return this,’ said Bartholomew, handing over the book.
‘Good,’ said John, taking it. ‘Father Simon has requested it from tomorrow, as material for his inaugural sermon on the Choirs of Angels.’
‘God’s blood!’ muttered Ravenser. He reeked of wine, despite the early hour. ‘That promises to be tedious. I have read some of Hildegard’s ramblings myself, and they are all but incomprehensible.’
‘It is not worth perusing, then?’ asked John, turning it over in his hands. ‘I thought I might look at it tonight, since the Aristotle is out with the dean, and Gynewell has Dante’s Inferno.’
‘You let the dean have a book?’ asked Ravenser, horrified. ‘Are you mad?’
‘He asked for it,’ said John defensively. ‘And I did tell Gynewell.’
‘Well, if Gynewell knows … ’ Ravenser turned to Bartholomew. ‘We were sorry about Tetford.’
‘Were you?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought you did not like him.’
‘True, but I did not want him dead.’
‘He had closed his tavern and sold his stock,’ said John. ‘I think he was serious about wanting to be a decent Vicar Choral, although the others were sceptical.’
‘Who will benefit from his death?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You, John? It means Michael is now looking for a replacement deputy, as well as Suttone.’
John grimaced. ‘I would like to be promoted, but not at the cost of my life. And the deputies appointed by you Michaelhouse men seem to meet untimely ends.’
‘And I will not benefit, because I am an archdeacon, so senior to a Vicar Choral already,’ added Ravenser. ‘Obviously, neither of us killed Tetford.’
‘I hear you plan to take over his tavern, though,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that was an extremely good motive for murder. By all accounts, it was a lucrative and popular enterprise.
The archdeacon nodded, pleased. ‘The canons asked John to do it, but when he declined, I put myself forward. If Tetford were alive, he would want me to take up where he had left off.’
‘He would not,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘He was frightened of you.’
‘We had a recent – and temporary – misunderstanding over a lady called Rosanna,’ said Ravenser stiffly. ‘But we were friends before she booked us both on the same night and he refused to bow to my seniority, and we would have been friends again, once our tempers had cooled.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew.
‘Anyway, I have laid in a stock of the Gilbertines’ famous rabbit pies and rehired our favourite serving wenches,’ Ravenser went on. ‘I shall open tonight.’
‘You should experience the Tavern in the Close for yourself,’ said John, although there was a gleam of spite in his eye as he spoke – he had not extended the invitation because he was being nice. ‘Bring your friend the monk. You will have an interesting evening, I promise.’
‘Do come,’ said Ravenser, graciously including Cynric in the invitation, too. ‘The ale arrived an hour ago. It is from Lora Boyner, who produces the sweetest brew in the city. And Kelby has donated three kegs of good claret for the occasion.’
‘The last time I saw someone drink wine provided by Kelby, it was poisoned,’ said Bartholomew.
‘Poor Flaxfleete,’ said Ravenser insincerely. ‘Come at five o’clock tonight. You will have to knock, since the Close is locked at dusk, but John will wait for you, and let you in.’
‘I will take you up on your offer,’ said Cynric keenly. ‘I like good ale as much as the next man.’
Bartholomew did not reply, but he was tempted to go, just to see what happened when the prudish Welshman learned he had agreed to spend an evening in a brothel.
The market area called the Pultria was always busy on Mondays, and the steep street was a stark contrast to its silence of the previous day. It was full of people, despite the snow that was now falling in earnest, and traders used bells, rattles and voices to attract customers to buy their wares. Bakers’ boys with trays of pastries weaved among the crowds, although the fragrant scent of their goods was lost among the more powerful reek of chickens and geese. Women from the outlying villages sat in huddled heaps on the ground with winter-brown vegetables displayed in front of them, and carts vied for space with the animals that were being taken to the slaughterhouses.
