Before Bartholomew could demur, a man with long greasy hair and a shabby leather jerkin started to walk towards them. The physician swore under his breath, knowing it was unwise to draw the attention of city officials after what had transpired at Kelby’s house the night before. He started to back away, hoping to avoid the encounter, but Lungspee was too close, and it would have looked suspicious to make a dash for it.
‘Look at this,’ said the sheriff, proffering a hand adorned with a large emerald ring. ‘Have you ever seen a more magnificent object?’
‘No, sir,’ said Bartholomew, thinking it rather gaudy. He could not imagine wearing such a thing himself. It would be in the way when he examined his patients and he would almost certainly lose it. However, many of his medical colleagues believed that emeralds controlled unruly passions, and he wondered whether he should invest in one for Michael. ‘Can I buy one like it in Lincoln?’
‘Not these days, unfortunately,’ replied Lungspee sadly. ‘Flaxfleete gave it to me, although it had nothing to do with his acquittal, you understand. It is even better than the three white pearls I had from Miller, around the time I released Thoresby following the Dalderby affair. What do you think?’ He hauled a purse from under his jerkin and showed off a trio of milky gems.
‘Very nice. What Dalderby affair?’
Lungspee pursed his lips as he put the jewels away. ‘You must be a stranger, or you would know about our town and its troubles. Thoresby threatened to chop off Dalderby’s head – he would have done it, too, if I had not stopped him. Then Miller gave me these pearls, and I decided Thoresby had learned his lesson, so I let him out of prison. Dalderby was not very pleased, but I made up for it by looking kindly on his friend Flaxfleete yesterday. It is a delicate business, being sheriff.’
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew weakly. ‘I imagine it is.’
Lungspee looked him up and down. ‘Do you have any items of value you would like to share with me? Your clothes are of decent quality, and a man of good standing always has a few baubles to pass to the sheriffs he meets, especially if he wants a favourable verdict at some point in the future.’
Bartholomew was acutely uncomfortable. Should he oblige, lest he and Michael were accused of foul play over the business with Flaxfleete, or would the fact that they were innocent be enough to see any spiteful accusations dismissed? He glanced at Cynric, who winked and nodded, indicating he thought coins should change hands. But Bartholomew had never bribed an official in the past, and was loath to start now.
‘Actually, I am looking for Mayor Spayne,’ he said, aware of Cynric rolling his eyes in disgust at the lost opportunity. ‘Do you know where I might find him?’
‘No, I am sorry,’ said Lungspee. ‘Pleasant man, Spayne. There is only one flaw in his character: his failure to impress his local sheriff with small gifts that demonstrate his affection. Is that all you wanted? You did not come here to tell me your side in a legal matter?’
‘No!’ said Bartholomew, trying not to sound shocked. He did not think he had ever encountered such brazen corruption. ‘I just wanted to speak to Spayne.’
‘He left hours ago, and might be anywhere by now. He often journeys to distant villages on business, but since the Guild would dearly love to place an arrow in his back, he seldom confides his travel plans. All I know is that he told me he intends to sleep elsewhere tonight, but that he hopes to be back in Lincoln by tomorrow evening. Of course, if he were to die in mysterious circumstances, then a guildsman would not be long in following him to his grave. That is the way of this city, and has been ever since Canon Hodelston died during the plague. That was what started it all.’
‘Someone mentioned Hodelston to us before,’ said Bartholomew, trying to recall why.
‘He was a dreadful fellow, even after he became a priest,’ explained Lungspee obligingly. ‘Charges of theft, rape and even murder followed him around like flies, and his minster friends were hard-pressed to find something nice to say about him at his funeral.’
‘And him a canon, too,’ muttered Cynric, shaking his head censoriously.
‘Well, someone has to be. But he did do one good thing: he founded the Tavern in the Close. And that place is a boon to us all, because it keeps the clerics inside the cathedral precincts at night, and stops them from rampaging through the city.’
‘We were told Canon Hodelston was poisoned,’ said Cynric, rather salaciously.
‘That was the rumour,’ acknowledged Lungspee. ‘I thought we were better off without him, but his fellow canons took umbrage at his murder and made a terrible fuss. Personally, I think we should all concentrate on more important issues, like draining the Fossedike.’
‘Lincoln’s link to the sea,’ said Bartholomew.
