‘Now?’ Simon’s eyes strayed towards the chapel. ‘I might be late.’
‘It will not take long, and I am sure you are eager to co-operate with the bishop’s investigation.’
Simon sighed. ‘Very well, if you put it like that. It happened yesterday morning, as you know. We were quartered in the guest-hall’s main chamber – Aylmer, de Wetherset, I and a dozen others. The bells rang for prime, and we either went to the chapel or left the convent for business in the city. Aylmer walked with me to the chapel. When the service was over, everyone else went straight to the refectory for breakfast, but I was cold and wanted a thicker shift. When I arrived, there was Aylmer, slumped across his bed with a knife in his back. There was blood… ’
‘You did not see him leave the chapel before you?’
‘I was praying, Brother. I did not notice anything at all, except Whatton singing flat all through the Magnificat. When I saw Aylmer’s body, I observed two things: he had died counting the gold that was in his purse, and he was holding my chalice – the one I intend to donate to the cathedral.’
‘His gold and your chalice were on the bed with his corpse?’ asked Michael. Simon nodded. ‘Then robbery is unlikely to have been the motive: the thief would not have left such riches behind. What do you think Aylmer was doing with your goblet?’
‘Admiring it,’ replied Simon. ‘Possibly as a prelude to stealing it. Anyone in Lincoln will tell you he had sticky fingers, and it would not be the first time he made off with another man’s property. But we cannot ask him now he is dead, and I dislike maligning a man who cannot defend himself. I refuse to condemn him out of hand.’
‘Where is it now?’ asked Michael.
‘I put it on St Katherine’s altar for safekeeping. Even the most hardened of thieves will think twice about taking it now – it would earn him eternal damnation. You probably noticed it when you were in the chapel. It does not look like much, and is showing its age, but holiness still shines through it.’
‘How did you come by it?’ asked Bartholomew, straightening his clean tunic.
‘I bought it from a relic-seller. Do you know its history? How it was in St Hugh’s hand when he died in London? Many years later, it was decided that it should be at his shrine in Lincoln, and two friars were given the task of carrying it north. But it was stolen from them in a wicked act of theft.’
‘Was it stolen before they left London?’ asked Michael. ‘Or when they arrived in Lincoln?’
‘Neither. It went missing on the journey between the two places. In fact, the crime took place near Cambridge, a town they were obliged to pass en route. I cannot remember the exact details – this happened twenty years ago, so my memory is excusably hazy – but I recall hearing that these two hapless priests fell asleep under a tree, wearied from the distance they had walked that day, when the chalice was removed from their possession.’
‘They travelled on foot?’ asked Bartholomew incredulously. ‘Carrying a sacred relic?’
‘I imagine they did not want to draw attention to themselves with a cavalcade. Anyway, the chalice was stolen, and the thief sold it to a priest in the village of Geddynge – a place that is just a few miles from Cambridge. But Geddynge did not keep it long, because it was stolen again within a few days.’
‘By the same thief?’ asked Michael dubiously.
‘Very possibly. If he knew he could get twenty shillings for it once, then why not retrieve it and sell it for twenty shillings a second time? And a third and a fourth? But no one knows for certain what happened. Eventually, it appeared in the hands of a relic-seller, here in Lincoln.’
‘That was very convenient.’ Bartholomew tried not to sound sceptical of its timely arrival, just when Simon was about to accept a prebendal stall in the cathedral and was of a mind to make a suitable donation. He did not succeed, and the priest regarded him coldly.
‘It is the same chalice. I have never been more certain of anything in my life. And if you do not believe me, then ask Bishop Gynewell. He also senses its sanctity.’
‘He did say he believed it to be genuine,’ acknowledged Michael.
‘Of course he did, because it is true. But if you need more proof, then inspect its markings. As even you will know, there are two icons associated with St Hugh: a pet swan and a chalice engraved with an image of the Baby Jesus. If you look on my chalice, you will see the carving quite clearly.’
‘And you bought it from a relic-seller,’ said Michael. ‘Had you met this man before?’
‘No, he hails from Rome. But I recognised the Hugh Chalice at once, and I am delighted to play a role in putting it where it belongs. The translation will be made on St Thomas’s Day, where the cup will take pride of place in my installation ceremony, in front of a thousand grateful pilgrims.’
Bartholomew remained unconvinced. ‘But it is odd that it should appear now, Father, just when you happen to be in a position to make this spectacular benefaction.’
