It was not long before the door opened and Roger entered with a plate of Lombard slices. Bartholomew was keen to go in search of Spayne, but did not want to offend the prior by racing away the moment he arrived with his victuals. He lingered awhile, then made his escape when Michael announced that he was going to begin his investigation into Aylmer’s murder. Suttone volunteered to help, but the offer was a half-hearted one, and he was visibly relieved when the monk said the best thing he could do was act as Michaelhouse’s ambassador by charming their hosts. Gravely, Suttone agreed to sample the Gilbertines’ pastries, all in the interests of establishing friendly relations between the Cambridge College and the Lincoln convent.
‘I do not want to stay here,’ said Michael resentfully, as they left Suttone to his arduous duties. ‘And nor do I want to investigate a suspicious death.’
‘Neither do I,’ said Bartholomew. ‘If Spayne tells me where Matilde might be, I would like to leave as soon as possible. I will not abandon you to investigate this stabbing alone, but I do not want to wait weeks before going after her. The delay might see her slip through my fingers again.’
‘We had better get on with it, then,’ said Michael. He sighed. ‘I did not think accepting a prebendal stall would see me inconveniently beholden to a second bishop.’
‘I suppose you can still decline the honour,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I do not think de Lisle will be very pleased if you do, though. He said he had sacrificed a good deal to secure it for you.’
Michael nodded. ‘He was obliged to promote three of Gynewell’s archdeacons to posts in his own See in return.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘But to return to the murder, I am under the impression that it is not Aylmer’s death that worries Gynewell. What bothers him is the prospect of accepting the Hugh Chalice if it is implicated in a crime.’
‘How will you begin your work?’
‘By looking at Aylmer’s corpse. It lies in the mortuary chapel, and I was hoping you might spare a few moments to help me. I know you are eager to visit Spayne, but I will come with you to interview him, if you oblige me with Aylmer now.’
‘I do not need you with me when I talk to Spayne.’ Bartholomew was surprised the monk should think he might, given that he had spent the last year and a half making enquiries on his own.
‘Do not be so sure,’ said Michael. ‘He may not want to help you – a man determined to marry the woman who rejected him – but he may be more forthcoming with a monk.’
Bartholomew supposed he had a point. ‘Can we see Spayne first, then inspect Aylmer?’
Michael tapped him on the arm with a plump forefinger. ‘You dallied weeks in Cambridge after hearing about Spayne from Matilde’s friend – waiting for term to end so Suttone and I could travel to Lincoln for our installation. Why the sudden hurry?’
‘Because people here knew Matilde, and they have made the search real again.’
‘The trail is still six years old, Matt. Be patient, and do not allow your expectations to rise too high. I do not want you crushed with disappointment again – like that time you heard she had gone to Stamford, only to learn she had not been there in a decade.’
Bartholomew nodded. The monk was right, and he tried to put Matilde out of his mind. He was about to follow him inside a low, dismal building, when he spotted Father Simon’s pockmarked face. The priest was leaning against a disused stable, in earnest conversation with a fellow wearing crimson hose. When a group of lay-brothers clattered towards them, carrying pails of milk and sharing some ribald joke, Simon started in alarm and shoved his companion out of sight, placing a hand over the fellow’s mouth to stop him from speaking. The man put up a token struggle at the rough treatment, but desisted when Simon whispered something urgent. Simon scanned the yard quickly when the cowherds had gone, although he failed to notice Bartholomew watching him. Then he and his companion finished their discussion and parted quickly. Bartholomew was puzzled, wondering why the priest should act so furtively, but then dismissed the incident as none of his business.
‘I was about to start without you,’ grumbled Michael when the physician entered the chapel, as if the delay had been hours rather than moments. The mortuary was small, dark and smelled of mould. Cobwebs swayed on the ceiling, and the floor was slick with slime. ‘Still, you should enjoy this. It will remind you of how you anatomised cadavers with the French all last year.’
‘I did no such thing,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Well, I suppose there was the occasion when-’
‘You can keep that sort of information to yourself,’ interrupted Michael tartly. ‘I do not want to lose you to an accusation of witchcraft now I finally have you back again. It would be a wretched nuisance. Besides, chopping up human bodies is not a normal thing to which to aspire.’
‘Neither is examining them for your investigations.’ ‘That is different,’ said Michael loftily. ‘As I have told you before.’
