‘It can be used as a medicine,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘I suspect the killer collected black rye grains in the summer, though. These can be crushed and added to wine or ale. With alcohol, they combine to deadly effect, which is why both Herl and Flaxfleete died so quickly.’
‘Then anyone might have done it?’ asked Miller. ‘Anyone who knew which grains to use?’ When Bartholomew nodded, he grimaced his disappointment. Then he blew his nose in a piece of linen, and shoved it up his sleeve to use again later. The physician looked away, revolted.
‘Tetford had some in his possession when he died,’ said Michael casually. ‘But he is dead, so we have no way of knowing whether he was aware of the fact.’
‘Tetford,’ mused Miller softly. ‘He was an unpredictable devil. He told me he planned to close his tavern and buy no more of Lora’s ale, but would not say why. Then Ravenser renewed the Close’s order for ale, so all is well again.’
Langar walked to the window, flung open the shutter and stared out, gazing thoughtfully into the yard below. Michael started to ask something else, but Miller raised an authoritative hand, and the monk faltered into silence. Sabina watched Bartholomew bathe Chapman’s arm without a word, and it seemed the Commonalty was used to being quiet when Langar was deliberating. The tension was stifling, and just when Bartholomew felt he could stand it no longer, the lawyer spoke.
‘You seem to think Tetford killed Flaxfleete and Nicholas, because you found poison among his belongings, but you are wrong. First, he was not brave enough. Secondly, he liked Flaxfleete, because Flaxfleete donated wine to his brothel. Thirdly, Nicholas once gave him a shilling when he was destitute, and he never forgot the kindness. Fourthly, he seldom read, so I doubt he knew what the physician has just told us about the poison. And fifthly, he was in holy orders, which moderated his behaviour to a degree: he would never have committed murder and damned his immortal soul.’
‘The cathedral,’ said Miller bitterly. ‘That is the cause of this trouble. Aylmer was perfectly normal until he began frequenting the minster. Then he started to repent his sins, and other such nonsense.’
‘You probably think we killed Flaxfleete to avenge Aylmer,’ said Langar, ‘but we did not. We have allowed his murder and Nicholas’s to go unpunished, because we do not want a bloodbath.’
‘We debated it for hours,’ elaborated Miller, ‘but Langar said that if we kill a guildsman, the situation would spin out of control, and he says we cannot be sure of winning an all-out war yet. I think we can, but he does not.’
‘There is no point in risking all on a battle with an uncertain outcome,’ said Langar irritably. ‘Besides, I do not want random guildsmen dispatched. I want the real killer.’
‘What about Dalderby?’ asked Michael. ‘Did someone in the Commonalty kill him?’
Langar pursed his lips. ‘I have just explained why it is unwise to engage in unfocused violence, and you immediately ask that question. Of course we did not kill him, although Kelby thinks we did.’
Miller was becoming restless. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Chapman is on the road to recovery?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘As long as he is not plied with salves from anonymous donors again.’
‘We do not know who did that, either,’ said Miller. ‘Langar says the “crone” I saw was wearing a disguise, so it could have been anyone. Even a man.’
The comment sparked a three-way debate between Langar, Miller and Sabina as to which guildsman or cathedral official might have delivered henbane to an ailing man, and Michael inflamed the discussion by suggesting several names. He moved away, drawing the others with him and shooting Bartholomew a glance that said he was to question Chapman while his friends were preoccupied. Bartholomew hastened to oblige, leaning close to the relic-seller so his voice would not carry.
‘This chalice you sold Father Simon,’ he said, trying to keep the urgency from his voice. ‘We found another five last night, virtually identical to it.’
Chapman gaped at him. ‘That is impossible! The cup I sold Simon is unique.’
‘You lied when you said you bought it in Huntingdon, though. It was one of the items stolen by Shirlok. So how did it come to be in your possession?’
Chapman was not well enough to prevaricate. His expression was resigned. ‘All right, I admit the Hugh Chalice was part of Shirlok’s hoard – although he did not know it – but it surfaced later, as stolen goods always do. I sold it to Simon, because it is sacred, and I knew he could be trusted to donate it to the cathedral.’
‘I thought you did not like the cathedral.’
Chapman’s voice dropped further still, so Bartholomew had to strain to hear him. ‘I do not like the men who infest the minster, but I revere St Hugh with all my heart. I wanted his chalice where it belongs – at his tomb. I did it for the benefit of future generations.’
Bartholomew was not sure whether to believe him. ‘And the mark of the cup on your shoulder?’
