‘Langar must have been listening to Ursula,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That is what she thinks.’
‘See that nice box on the coffin?’ asked Cynric. ‘That is the new reliquary for the Hugh Chalice. Flaxfleete was going to present it at the installation on Sunday. Quarrel at the Swan told me. It is being displayed now, so folk will know who donated it when Simon makes his presentation of the cup. It is the Guild’s way of making sure they get credit, see.’
A number of people had gathered to watch the sombre ceremony. Among them were Dame Eleanor and Lady Christiana, who were in the unlikely company of Sheriff Lungspee. Bartholomew went to stand with them, Cynric at his heels, looking around for Michael as he did so. The monk was nowhere to be seen and, uncharitably, Bartholomew wondered whether he was sleeping off his exertions.
‘A sorry business,’ said Dame Eleanor quietly. ‘Flaxfleete was too young to be taken to God.’
‘We worked on your list today,’ said Christiana, more interested in talking to the physician than watching the dismal spectacle of a casket borne through the wintry streets. ‘Michael asked us to.’
Dame Eleanor smiled fondly, while Bartholomew pondered the familiar use of the monk’s name. ‘When you find her, you can tell her she will always be welcome to live in Lincoln.’
‘And us helping you will show Spayne that not everyone is mean,’ said Christiana. She tossed her head in a way that showed her long neck to its best advantage. Lungspee leered his admiration, and so did several men in the funeral procession. Christiana noticed, and a smile of satisfaction flitted across her lovely face.
‘Look at this silver bracelet,’ said Lungspee, tearing his eyes away from her as he proffered the bauble for everyone to see. ‘Dalderby gave it to me last night, because he said he might need my help over accusations pertaining to the stabbing of Chapman. It probably means he did it. It is a good thing he passed it to me when he did, because he died this morning.’
Eleanor was shocked. ‘Are you saying you accepted a bribe? Or did I misunderstand?’
‘You misunderstood,’ said Lungspee glibly. ‘I never accept bribes. That would be illegal. This is not an inducement: it is a token of brotherly esteem.’
‘What happened to Dalderby?’ asked Bartholomew, before she could quiz him further. Squeamishly, he did not want to see what would happen when the saintly old lady learned of the sheriff’s fondness for having the wheels of justice oiled.
‘He suffered a hard blow to the head,’ replied Lungspee, raking dirty fingers through his long hair. ‘It occurred outside Spayne’s house. He managed to stagger to Kelby, but said nothing before he died. It is a pity, since his death and Flaxfleete’s mean a shift in the balance of power.’
‘This horrible feud!’ said Dame Eleanor with considerable feeling. ‘I am heartily sick of it!’
‘I shall do my best to avert a crisis,’ said Lungspee, although he did not sound very keen. ‘However, my sergeants have not been paid for two months, and they are becoming slow to follow orders.’
‘I assume you intend to investigate Dalderby’s murder, Sheriff,’ said Dame Eleanor coolly. ‘Or do you intend to pretend it did not happen?’
Lungspee grimaced. ‘He almost certainly stabbed Chapman, so the culprit will be a member of the Commonalty or their supporters. I will ask a few questions, but I doubt I will ever learn the truth.’
‘Were there any other wounds on him?’ asked Bartholomew. If the fellow had been sufficiently recovered from his shooting to bribe sheriffs and ambush relic-sellers, then he was fit enough to stand in a dark garden and loose arrows at monks and physicians.
‘I did not look,’ said Lungspee. ‘There was no need, not having seen the crack in his skull. Why?’
‘He is a physician,’ explained Eleanor. ‘They are trained to ask odd questions. But it is nearing dusk, and I should return to my shrines for vespers. Will you escort me, Christiana?’
Before she left, Christiana showed Bartholomew and Cynric a small wooden carving of a soldier. ‘I bought this for young Hugh today, and I cannot wait to give it to him. He will adore it, and it always gives me pleasure to see gifts so happily accepted.’
‘Father Simon wrote some loving words to your mother today, lady,’ said Cynric before Bartholomew could stop him. ‘In a prayer.’
Christiana was surprised and touched. ‘How kind. He always was fond of her.’
‘I am sure of it,’ said Cynric blandly. ‘Very fond, I should think.’
It was dark by the time Bartholomew left the Pultria. He could have forced his way through the crowds that had gathered to watch Flaxfleete’s cortege, but the news of Dalderby’s murder had unsettled him, and he did not want to draw attention to himself. He decided it was safer to maintain a low profile.
