‘It is not odd – it is a miracle,’ declared Simon, glaring at him. ‘And you can think what you like, but as far as I am concerned the only thing that matters is that this holy thing will soon be in the cathedral, where it belongs.’
‘You do not have a mark on your shoulder, do you?’ asked Bartholomew incautiously. ‘Of a cup.’
Simon regarded him with narrowed eyes. ‘A mark? What are you talking about?’
‘A self-inflicted sign. A scar picked out with ink. One that depicts a chalice.’
Simon regarded him with distaste. ‘I know the sort of self-mutilations to which you refer, and they are favoured by men of lesser intelligence. I am offended that you should ask me such a question, but I am also curious. Why do you think I should let myself be so scarred?’
Bartholomew shrugged. It had been a stupid thing to ask. Simon was a priest, and had no reason to associate himself with Aylmer, Nicholas Herl or Flaxfleete. ‘I have seen others adorned with chalices recently, and your obvious devotion to-’
Simon smiled unexpectedly. ‘You are right about my dedication to St Hugh, but any marks I bear are on my soul, not my skin. Do you want to inspect me?’
‘No, thank you,’ said Michael hastily, when the priest’s robe started to come up, revealing a pair of scaly legs. ‘Your word is good enough for me, and we do not want you to take a chill when you are about to entertain the Gilbertines with your fine voice. Is this relic-seller still in Lincoln?’
‘No,’ replied Simon, adjusting his habit. ‘He left the city as soon as he sold me the chalice.’
‘Why did he approach you to make his sale?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Why not the cathedral, which might have given him more money?’
‘The cathedral has no spare funds, and everyone knows it,’ said Simon scornfully. ‘Do you have any idea how much it costs to maintain a building like that? The relic-seller knew he would get a better price from an individual. He chose me because I have always made my veneration of the saint public, and because it is common knowledge that I am wealthier than most parish priests.’
‘Brother Michael!’ called a cheerful voice behind them. It was Hamo, licking his moist lips. ‘You must attend nones with me, and afterwards, you shall have more Lombard slices. I said we would look after you, and we mean to do it well. You will enjoy your sojourn at our priory, I promise you.’
‘I am sure of it,’ said Michael politely. ‘But I am a man of modest appetite, and I have already eaten seven cakes this morning. That is perfectly sufficient for now. But we were talking about Aylmer’s murder. The bishop asked me to investigate, although you already know this, of course.’
Hamo had the grace to blush. ‘I did hear Gynewell murmur something when I was polishing the door to Prior Roger’s solar.’
Bartholomew was thinking about what Simon – and Sabina – had said about Aylmer’s character. He turned to the priest. ‘Aylmer was a known thief, yet the cathedral said nothing when Suttone made him his Vicar Choral. Why were there no objections?’
‘The appointment of deputies is left to the individual canon,’ explained Simon. ‘Brother Michael will tell you that. The cathedral has no say in the matter.’
‘That is true,’ said Michael, ‘although someone could have mentioned to Suttone that he had appointed a felon, nonetheless. It would have been polite.’
It was Hamo who answered. ‘No one said anything because folk are loath to offend a Suttone by telling him he has made a bad decision. Complaints were certainly aired in Chapter meetings, though, especially by Dean Bresley. Aylmer was disliked, not just because he was a thief, but because he was a member of the Commonalty. That rabble think they can win the town’s heart with their Miller’s Market, but it will take more than free cakes to alleviate the wrongs they have perpetrated.’
‘What wrongs?’ asked Michael.
‘Think carefully before you cast aspersions, Hamo,’ said Simon sharply. ‘It is because of spiteful chatter that this feud has escalated. Remember how God struck down your predecessor, Fat William, for his venal sins? Well, gossip is just as great a transgression. Watch your tongue.’
Michael sighed. ‘I applaud your lofty principles, Father Simon, but if either of you know anything that may help me locate Aylmer’s killer, then you must tell me.’
Simon rolled his eyes; he thought Michael was putting too much store in idle talk. ‘There are rumours that Miller’s import-export business is helping to undermine the local cloth trade, but I do not believe them. These are lies invented by the Guild, because they want to set the weavers against the Commonalty.’
‘That is one interpretation,’ said Hamo. ‘But even you cannot deny that Miller associates with some particularly nasty people – Thoresby, Nicholas Herl, Langar, Chapman, to name but a few.’
Simon’s expression was icy. ‘Those are no nastier than Kelby and Dalderby of the Guild.’
‘I do not care whether Miller and his friends are servants of Satan,’ said Michael, exasperated. ‘I just want to know what is said about them.’
