‘Perhaps Ursula knows it was Dalderby who stabbed Chapman last night,’ said Miller flatly. ‘And and the outrage was too much for her. It is certainly too much for me.’
Bartholomew could see Cynric lounging safely against the house across the street, and was desperate to be away from Miller. His thoughts churned in confusion. Who and what had killed Dalderby? Should he inspect the body, and try to find out? It might be pertinent if he had died from ingesting the same poison that had killed Flaxfleete and Herl, and that had been offered to Michael.
‘I am needed back at the cathedral,’ said Simon importantly. ‘And we should let Master Miller be about his business. What will it be, Suttone? Teeth or paten?’
‘Teeth,’ said Suttone, ignoring de Wetherset’s sigh that his opinion had been disregarded.
They took their leave of Miller. The dean disappeared on an errand of his own, and Suttone, de Wetherset and Simon followed the physician back towards the city.
‘Thank you for speaking up for me,’ said Bartholomew to de Wetherset as they went.
De Wetherset clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You are welcome. I am sure you will remember my loyalty when I resume my duties as Chancellor at Cambridge.’
‘When might that be?’ asked Suttone in alarm. ‘I intend to hold that post myself.’
‘I have not decided,’ said de Wetherset comfortably. ‘So, the field is yours until I do. I may even vote for you – on the understanding that you vote for me when I make my bid for power, of course.’
They began to discuss strategies, all of which acknowledged the possibility that Michael might stand himself. Bartholomew suspected neither would succeed if the clever monk was a contender.
‘Lord!’ he muttered, when Cynric came to walk next to him. ‘That was unpleasant. I was afraid for you, worried what these garrulous scholars might be saying to Langar, and nervous of harming Chapman. You should have heard him scream.’
‘I did,’ said Cynric dryly. ‘And so did every other soul in Lincoln, I imagine.’
‘Did you discover anything useful?’ asked Bartholomew. Now the ordeal was over, his legs felt rubbery, and he hoped it had not all been in vain.
Cynric grimaced. ‘There was a cellar, but it had a lock I could not pick. It is an odd room to secure, because most folk keep their valuables under the floorboards in their bedchambers. Burglaries tend to occur at night, see, and folk like to have their goods with them when they are asleep.’
Bartholomew recalled Miller’s unconvincing claim that his basement was empty, and supposed he really did keep ‘goods of dubious origin’ in them. ‘It is probably just as well you did not search it. You would almost certainly have found it stuffed to the gills with illegal imports, and perhaps even stolen property. We do not want to carry that sort of knowledge around with us.’
Cynric shrugged. ‘Perhaps. It was galling to meet a door and not be able to get past it, though.’
‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, not entirely comfortable with this particular skill of Cynric’s. ‘Was there anything else?’
Cynric shrugged. ‘Just this.’
He pulled something from under his cloak, and held it so only Bartholomew could see. It was a silver chalice, battered and dented, and identical to the one in the Gilbertines’ chapel.
When Bartholomew, Cynric and the others reached the Pultria, the city felt unusually subdued for a weekday. The snow had stopped, but the sky was a dirty yellow-grey, suggesting there was more to come. Dusk would settle early, and Bartholomew was determined to be back inside the Gilbertine Priory before more would-be assassins could use the cover of darkness to strike at him.
‘Miller denied being kin to Simon when I asked,’ he said to his book-bearer. ‘I am inclined to believe him, because there is no reason for either of them to lie.’
‘There is,’ argued Cynric. ‘If you were a priest, would you admit that your brother is the biggest scoundrel in the city? And Simon has been a humble vicar for two decades, yet he can afford to buy relics and give them away. The reason he can do this is because his brother gives him money.’
Bartholomew was not sure what to think. ‘Possibly, but-’
‘There is a funeral procession,’ interrupted Cynric. ‘That explains why the Pultria is so quiet.’
‘Flaxfleete’s,’ said Bartholomew, seeing Kelby carry the candle at the head of the cortege. Behind him, two guildsmen tolled hand-bells, and there were several cathedral dignitaries among the mourners. On top of the coffin was a large jewel-studded box.
‘Do you see Kelby’s candle?’ whispered Cynric, pinching Bartholomew’s arm. ‘It is not lit!’
‘It has blown out,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘It is windy this afternoon.’
‘No, it is because he had a hand in his friend’s murder and God extinguished it,’ averred Cynric. ‘God does not like hypocrisy at funerals. I heard Langar tell Miller what happened to Flaxfleete yesterday: Kelby is so scared that Miller might kill him to even the score for Herl and Aylmer that he killed Flaxfleete himself, to make amends. A sacrifice.’
