‘He had trouble with a sheriff a few years back,’ Suttone went on, ignoring the slight to his chosen profession. ‘He said it was a misunderstanding, and I believe him. I invited him to be my deputy, because he already lived in Lincoln, and I wanted to make good on my promise at last. How did he die, Matthew? I would like to know it was not my patronage that brought it about.’
‘Your kindness to an old friend had nothing to do with his demise, Father,’ said Sabina, before the physician could answer. ‘You can rest easy on that account.’
‘You sound very sure,’ said Michael, regarding her appraisingly.
‘I am sure,’ she replied. ‘I may not have known him for as long as Master Suttone, but I suspect I knew him rather better. The promotion made him happier than I had ever seen him, and had nothing to do with his death. You can blame the dubious business he embroiled himself in for that.’
‘What kind of dubious business?’ asked Michael.
She shrugged. ‘I dare not say much, but bear in mind that he was a member of the Commonalty and a friend of Adam Miller – and Miller’s dealings are not always legal or ethical.’ She raised her hand in protest when the monk started to ask something else. ‘I am sorry, I can say no more.’
Bartholomew ordered the others away before he removed Aylmer’s clothes. It was not right to let Sabina watch what he was doing, and Michael was becoming restless – he did not want the monk’s impatience to rush him. He opened Aylmer’s mouth and shone the lamp down his throat, then moved the neck to test for signs of strangulation. Then he turned the body over and inspected the wound in its back. Making sure no one was watching, he took a surgical knife and inserted it into the hole, moving it gently to assess the depth to which the killing blow had penetrated. When the blade disappeared to the hilt, he pulled it out in distaste. Whoever had stabbed Aylmer had delivered a powerful stroke.
He was setting all to rights again when he became aware of a blemish on the point of Aylmer’s shoulder. He moved the lamp to inspect it more clearly, and saw the kind of mark soldiers sometimes scratched on to themselves with needles and ink. It had clearly been made years ago, and Aylmer’s physique had changed, so the original cup had probably been taller and thinner than the squat bowl depicted now. Bartholomew rubbed his chin thoughtfully. A cup – and it was identical to the mark he had seen the day before, when he had loosened Flaxfleete’s clothes in a futile attempt to save his life.
* * *
‘Aylmer died of a single wound from a sharp implement,’ Bartholomew said, after calling Michael, Suttone and Sabina back. ‘The blade was long, so I suspect it was a dagger, rather than something a man might use at the table.’
‘His own knife,’ said Sabina. ‘As I told you.’
Suttone was sceptical. ‘He had just been made a Vicar Choral, so why would he carry such a weapon? The Church frowns on priests bearing arms.’
Sabina issued a derisive snort. ‘First, Aylmer’s association with the Commonalty meant he was not popular with men like Kelby and Flaxfleete, and he would have been a fool not to take steps to protect himself. And secondly, the cathedral can be dangerous. Ask any of its priests.’
‘Archdeacon Ravenser was wearing a sword when we met him earlier today,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘Are you sure you should accept a stall here?’
‘No,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘Lord! This was meant to be a pleasant, relaxing diversion, and it transpires that Lincoln is even more turbulent than Cambridge. And your examination has told me nothing I did not know already, Matt. Is there nothing new?’
Bartholomew shook his head, reluctant to discuss the curious drawing in front of the others. The convent was a hotbed of gossip, and he did not want people to know the cup depicted on Aylmer’s shoulder was the same as the one on Flaxfleete’s – at least, not until he and Michael had considered the significance themselves.
‘Now look at Nicholas,’ said Sabina in a low voice. ‘If you please.’
Bartholomew removed the blanket, and saw Nicholas had been older than Aylmer by about a decade. He had been well built, with soft white hair and old burns on his hands and arms that suggested he had worked habitually with hot materials. He had been dead longer than Aylmer, and there were signs of corruption around his mouth.
‘Tell me what happened to him, Mistress,’ said Bartholomew, while he inspected the man’s hands.
‘I thought that was what I was paying you to do.’
‘I mean tell me about the last time you saw him, or what you know of his final movements.’
‘He went out for a drink four nights ago, and he never came home. The next day, he was found floating in the Braytheford Pool. He was my husband, and I would like to know whether he flung himself into the water or whether someone pushed him.’
Bartholomew stopped raking his fingers through the corpse’s hair and stepped away. ‘Your husband? Then I cannot do this while you are watching.’
