‘Christiana thinks her mother killed herself,’ said Cynric doubtfully. ‘She does not hold Ursula responsible.’
‘She is lying,’ said Bartholomew, ‘so she will not be a suspect when Ursula dies.’
‘That is ludicrous!’ exclaimed Michael. ‘I suppose she took her bow with her when she killed Simon and Tetford, did she? Or do you think Dame Eleanor is the archer? I would not put it past her: the elderly are known to be very deadly.’
‘She does not need Dame Eleanor. She has willing priests from the cathedral to help her. Claypole is tall, so perhaps he is the swordsman. And John and Ravenser were the others.’
Michael was so disgusted, he could find no words to express himself. Cynric spoke for him. ‘The cold must have addled your head,’ he said, concerned. ‘We should return to the Gilbertines, and-’
Bartholomew ignored him. ‘Christiana spends a lot of time at the tomb of Little Hugh, where we discovered that poison. Now I see why it was in Tetford’s flask. It was not to harm you, but was intended to kill him.’
‘Why should she want to do that?’ demanded Michael, finding his voice again. ‘You just said she recruits men like him to go around ambushing people for her.’
Bartholomew could think of no good reason. ‘Perhaps he refused,’ he suggested lamely.
Michael pulled a face to indicate he did not consider the theory worthy of further discussion. ‘Hundreds of people visit that shrine, and the poison could belong to any one of them. Everything you say about Christiana is arrant nonsense.’
‘Miller is innocent in all this,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Well, as innocent as such a man can ever be. He did not poison Flaxfleete, he did not kill Aylmer or Herl, and he did not send tainted milk to Ursula.’
‘He and his cronies just hanged Shirlok, shot Sabina and are planning to plunge a city into civil war,’ said Michael tartly. ‘Aside from that, Miller is as pure as the driven snow. And now you must excuse me, Matt, because I have a killer to catch.’
Bartholomew ordered Cynric to stay with Michael, overriding the book-bearer’s objections that he preferred to be with the man who had lost his wits. He believed the monk had allowed passion to interfere with his reason, and was convinced he needed protection from a very ruthless criminal. Michael flounced down the hill, indignation in his every step, with Cynric trailing reluctantly behind him. Bartholomew watched them go and wondered what to do. Should he confront Christiana, since it was clear Michael would not do so? Or should he try to gather more evidence first? What he had was flimsy, and he did not see her giving herself up when presented with it.
He started to follow Michael, glancing up when something brushed his face; snow was falling again. He shivered. It was bitterly cold, and he would have preferred to return to the convent, to sit in front of the fire and discuss Blood Relics with Suttone. He had had very few intellectual debates over the past year, and was surprised how much he had missed them. A cold winter’s day, with a blizzard in the offing, meant the best place for any scholar was by a hearth with like-minded company. But he was unsettled and troubled, and felt compelled to discover more about the killer.
It was a dull morning, so lamps were burning in some houses, and the air was thick with wood-smoke as people lit fires to ward off the chill. The snow began to fall in earnest, which meant it was difficult to see Michael and Cynric, even though they were not far ahead. Through a whirl of white, he watched the monk skid and Cynric jump forward to catch him. Roughly, the monk shoved him away, and Bartholomew saw his theory about the identity of the killer had genuinely enraged him.
The streets were curiously empty of people, and Bartholomew’s immediate assumption was that the blizzard had driven them indoors, and that snow might accomplish what peacemakers could not. Then gradually he became aware of furtive movements in the shadows of the darker alleys, and the few people who were out were heavily armed. He was about to hurry forward and suggest he, Cynric and Michael return to the Gilbertines while they could – to sit out the storm caused by Miller and the weather at the same time – when a figure loomed out of the swirling whiteness. It was John.
‘Have you seen my brother?’ he demanded. ‘Bautre wants him to learn the solos for the installation ceremony on Sunday, but he has slunk off on business of his own. I cannot find him anywhere.’
‘I last saw him with Christiana at the Head Shrine.’
John’s harsh expression softened at the lady’s name. ‘She is good with him, and he is much better behaved when she is around. You owe me your thanks, by the way. I delivered that flask to Chapman, to aid his recovery, just as you asked. However, there is a rumour that it did not work, and that Chapman is dying. I am sorry.’
‘That claret was not from me. And it was tainted. Who told you I wanted it delivered to Chapman?’
John’s jaw dropped, and he started to back away. ‘No! There must be some mistake … ’
