‘That is part of it,’ said Chapman. ‘I-’
‘What are you whispering about?’ demanded Miller, breaking away from Michael when he became aware of what was happening. ‘It had better not be anything about my import-export business. I do not want to go on trial for theft again, just because I happen to give you the occasional-’
‘The occasional drink in the Angel,’ interrupted Langar sharply.
Michael drew his own conclusions from what was not quite said. ‘Because you give him the occasional item to sell for you? Does this largess extend to objects from a hoard that disappeared twenty years ago? One that contained white pearls, like the two you gave Matt?’
‘No,’ said Miller coldly, while Bartholomew came to his feet fast. Michael’s question had been too blunt, and trouble was inevitable. ‘We do not mean those objects.’
Langar was gazing at Michael with eyes that were hard slits. ‘Those pearls came from an old woman who needed ready money to repair her roof. They are most certainly not part of any hoard that went missing twenty years ago.’
‘No,’ agreed Miller, but unconvincingly. He began paring his nails with his dagger, but his hands were unsteady and Bartholomew saw blood. ‘And neither did the Hugh Chalice. It is not the same cup that Shirlok agreed to steal from Geddynge.’
‘Agreed to steal?’ pounced Michael.
‘He means arranged to steal,’ said Langar, stepping in quickly to minimise the damage, while Bartholomew thought that manoeuvring Miller into a position of power in the Commonalty must have been a daunting task. He decided Langar was either a genius or blessed with the patience of a saint.
‘It should be in Lincoln,’ said Chapman softly. ‘Not Geddynge. It belongs with St Hugh.’
‘Does St Hugh really want it?’ asked Michael. ‘It has been handled by some very devious folk.’
Miller led the way down the stairs and opened the door to usher the scholars out, while Sabina remained with Chapman, who said he felt weak and needed a woman’s soothing touch. Trailing at the end of the procession, Bartholomew was about to step into the yard, when he happened to glance along the hallway to his left and notice the cellar door ajar. He wondered whether it was the same one that Cynric had complained about not being able to open. Then his stomach clenched in alarm when he noticed a familiar – and far from pleasant – odour.
Michael and Langar were engaged in a sniping, dangerous debate about Shirlok’s hoard. They were intent on worming information out of each other, and the confrontation looked set to continue for a few moments more, so Bartholomew told Miller that he had left the knife he used for cutting bandages with Chapman. Miller indicated, with an impatient flick of his head, that he should go and fetch it. Heart thudding, Bartholomew stamped up the stairs, then tiptoed down them again and approached the cellar door. The smell verged on the overpowering.
He listened hard, hearing Michael’s voice raised imperiously and Langar clamouring to make a point. He glanced down the steps and saw a lamp burning in the room at the bottom. There were soft, scraping sounds, too. Someone was there. He began to descend, aware that he would have no excuse if he were caught. He moved as quickly and quietly as he could, then almost ruined his efforts by skidding on ice near the bottom. It was cold in the cellar, and a damp patch had frozen hard.
At the foot of the stairs, there was a second door, also ajar. He peered around it into a long room. Someone was at the far end, masked against the stench. It was Lora Boyner, her back towards him as she laboured over a still figure that lay on a table in front of her. Bartholomew took a step closer, determined to know what she was doing. A sliver of ice cracked under his boot.
‘Who is there?’ Lora called, looking up immediately. She squinted, because the light at the table was bright, but the stairs were in darkness, and while the physician could see her, she could not see him. As she started to walk towards him, he saw the face of the person on the table for the first time. She strode closer, so he turned and bolted up the steps as fast as he could. He was walking towards the front door, feeling sweat trickling down his back, when Miller spotted him. At the same time, Lora emerged from the dungeon steps, dragging a scarf away from her nose and mouth.
‘I dropped it outside Chapman’s room,’ said Bartholomew, waving his knife and hoping the smile he gave did not reveal the depth of his shock at what he had witnessed.
Lora narrowed her eyes. ‘Have you just come from upstairs?’
Bartholomew’s heart was pounding. ‘Where else would I have been?’
‘There is ice on your boot.’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘It is cold today, so there is frost everywhere. Look.’ He touched his toe to a place where water had frozen in a corner of the corridor. However, there was no earthly way it could have transferred itself to anyone’s foot – at least, not someone walking normally.
