‘Adam is not a member,’ said Bartholomew, not mentioning that Miller had probably known for the best part of two decades that his brother’s holy grail was not lost at all. ‘Why not?’
‘Because that would have put us too much in each other’s company, and I did not want him to reveal our relationship in a moment of carelessness. You may have noticed that his wits are not the sharpest in the town. Poor Aylmer. He died trying to protect the chalice … ’
‘You said he was trying to steal it,’ said Michael.
‘No, I did not. Others did, but I said we should give him the benefit of the doubt. I never believed he was acting dishonestly. I have no idea who killed him, though. Did Chapman shoot me? He must have done, because no one else knew I would be here. I paid young Hugh a silver penny to deliver him a letter, asking him to come.’
‘Can we be sure Hugh delivered it to the right house?’ asked Michael, troubled.
By the time Bunoun declared himself ready to apply his salve, the priest was sinking towards death. Unwilling to see Simon subjected to painful treatment that would make no difference to the outcome, Bartholomew told the surgeon his chances of success were slim and suggested he abstain from spoiling his good record. Bunoun was experienced enough to know he spoke the truth, and packed up his equipment before going outside to declare that he had been summoned too late to effect one of his miraculous cures. Since there was no more to be done at Holy Cross, Bartholomew and Michael left Simon in the care of the parishioners he had served so long, and returned to the Gilbertine Priory.
‘I think he was telling the truth about the Hugh Chalice – at least, the truth as he knows it,’ said Bartholomew, as they walked. ‘It is obvious to us that Aylmer sold it to Geddynge, and Shirlok was asked to get it back again, but Simon harboured no such suspicions. He founded his fraternity to hunt it down and bring it to where he thinks it belongs.’
Michael nodded. ‘I am sure you are right.’
‘Aylmer was too cautious to sell it as the Hugh Chalice, but was quite happy to collect twenty shillings for a silver cup. He may have had redeeming thoughts towards the end of his life, but he was a despicable man.’
Michael sighed. ‘Simon confided a few other things while you were consulting with Bunoun. I asked why folk had joined his group, and it sounded as if he had applied a good deal of moral pressure. I suspect that is why they fell away so readily – their allegiance was not willingly given. Still, at least we know what the mark means. I assumed it was sinister, but it was not. He also denied impregnating Christiana’s mother, but admitted to setting his house alight – for the Hugh Chalice.’
‘How did he think that would help?’
‘As we suspected, Gynewell had intimated he might be in line for the Stall of Sanctae Crucis, so he burned down his home to draw attention to himself. It worked: he was offered the post in a matter of days. It meant full-time duties in the cathedral where the cup was to be displayed, and would have allowed him to guard it.’
‘Where is the chalice now?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Simon’s, I mean, not the others.’
Michael removed something from under his cloak, and Bartholomew saw the familiar, dented vessel with its worn carving. ‘He asked me to make sure it is presented to the cathedral on Sunday.’
‘It looks just like the others,’ said Bartholomew warily. ‘And I thought he was uncertain about it.’
‘He claims it is the real one, because St Hugh would not let him die without seeing it after his years of devotion. So, I shall put it in St Katherine’s Chapel with the others, and de Wetherset can decide.’
Prior Roger was full of questions when Michael presented a sixth cup for his growing collection, and it was some time before he allowed the monk to go. Wearily, Michael returned to the guest-hall, where he found Bartholomew already asleep. The monk had often envied his friend’s ability to doze through all manner of commotion, and in this case, the chamber in which he rested contained de Wetherset and Suttone, who had lit several candles and were making no effort to lower their voices. Cynric was honing his sword on a whetting stone, and Whatton and a few friends had just started to bellow psalms in the building next door.
‘He refused to tell us anything,’ said de Wetherset, indicating Bartholomew with an angry flick of his thumb. ‘He said he was tired, and that we would have to wait until tomorrow. Then Whatton came to tell us Simon is dead, and invited us to sing songs for his soul. Is it true?’
Michael nodded. ‘And I do not want to talk tonight, either. However, here comes Hamo. As he was outside his prior’s door when I gave my account of what happened, you can ask him about it.’
Suttone regarded Hamo in surprise. ‘I thought you would have abandoned eavesdropping, considering you had an accident the last time you did it. How is your arm, by the way?’
‘You hurt yourself listening to private conversations?’ asked Michael disapprovingly.
