Sabina smiled, suggesting she thought Tetford would not be much of an improvement on the man Suttone had picked. ‘And now you are going to discover who killed poor Aylmer. Well, it will not be easy.’
‘Do you have any ideas?’ asked Michael.
She shrugged. ‘The killer could be anyone. Aylmer was found dead on his bed in the guest-hall. I expect you noticed the dark patch underneath it. I scrubbed as hard as I could, but the stain proved impossible to remove. Hamo says the blood of a murdered man never comes out easily. It taints wood and stone, just as it does the hands of a killer.’
‘I wish that were true,’ said Michael wistfully. ‘It would make my work so much easier. However, I suspect that particular mark would come off, with a little effort on your part.’
She shrugged carelessly. ‘Perhaps, but it does no harm to let folk know a man died under unusual circumstances there. Were you aware that he was stabbed in the back with his own knife, Brother?’
Michael narrowed his eyes. ‘How do you know that?’
‘Because I recognised it. Most priests carry weapons in Lincoln, partly because of this feud that is pulling the city in half, and partly because some of the Vicars Choral do not like each other.’
‘Stabbed in the back,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘That means he was either taken by surprise or he did not think he had anything to fear from his killer. Either way, it does not sound as though there was a struggle, especially if he was left holding this chalice.’
Sabina regarded him appraisingly. ‘De Wetherset says you have examined the bodies of murdered men in the past, and that you are good at ascertaining what happened to them – as is clear from the conclusions you have drawn without even looking at Aylmer. Do you hire out your services?’
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously.
‘Because Aylmer’s is not the only corpse currently residing in this mortuary chapel,’ she replied unhappily. ‘There is another, and I would very much like to know how he died.’
Bartholomew regarded Sabina uneasily, not liking the notion that there had been other suspicious deaths in the place where they were obliged to stay, or that de Wetherset had been telling strangers about his expertise with cadavers. ‘Another man has died in this convent?’
‘No, he was found in the Braytheford Pool. That is the expanse of water where the River Witham meets the Fossedike,’ she added, when the physician looked blank. ‘It is not far from here.’
‘The Fossedike is Lincoln’s route to the sea,’ elaborated Suttone, proud of the local knowledge he had gleaned from talking to the Gilbertines. ‘But Hamo told me it is silting up. Money has been raised to clear it, but the Guild and the Commonalty cannot agree about how it should be done, so the work is never started.’
Sabina was disgusted. ‘And meanwhile, the city grows ever more poor. Have you seen how many weavers cannot find work? We will all starve if we have no access to foreign markets.’
‘Lincoln is a Staple town,’ Suttone went on, boasting now. ‘That means imported staple goods – like wool, grain and timber – must come here, so Lincoln can claim certain taxes. However, they cannot come if the canal is blocked, and there is now fierce competition from better-sited ports like Boston.’
‘Our mayor, William de Spayne, is a Boston man,’ added Sabina, ‘which gives that horrible Guild another reason to hate him. They say he is pleased Lincoln is suffering, because it means more wealth for his Boston kin. But we are moving away from the point here. If you inspect the second body in the mortuary chapel, Doctor, and tell me exactly how he died, I will give you a penny.’
‘You will have to offer him more than that,’ said Suttone disdainfully. ‘He has been with the Black Prince in France and was rewarded with some plunder. He returned relatively wealthy, and no longer needs mere pennies.’
‘Hamo said you are a University physician, so why were you in France?’ asked Sabina. ‘Was it anything to do with a lady called Matilde? Hamo told me you were asking after her whereabouts, and she once told me she had French kin. Were you there looking for her?’
‘He was not, madam,’ said Suttone, startled by the assertion. ‘He is a scholar, and such men do not hare off to foreign countries in search of women. He went to learn the art of dissection, because it is forbidden in our own universities.’
‘Have you seen Matilde?’ asked Bartholomew of Sabina, before Suttone could make him sound any more sinister.
Her expression softened. ‘Not in six years. She left after she declined Spayne’s offer of marriage, although she was a fool to reject him. He is handsome, rich and will make an excellent husband.’
‘He has never wed?’ asked Michael.
She shook her head. ‘Many ladies have tried to snare him, but he is not interested – Matilde broke his heart for ever. But we were talking about France. Did you know Lady Christiana’s husband was killed in France? And that is not the worst of it.’
