Although Michael was assiduous in scouring the Gilbertine Priory for a man in red leggings, it was clear the fellow was long gone, so he abandoned the search in order to walk to the cathedral and be fitted for his ceremonial vestments. Bartholomew accompanied him, hoping they would meet some canons who might be prepared to talk about Aylmer. Michael complained bitterly about the distance between convent and minster – more than a mile, and some of it up a hill. Then, to take his mind off the exercise, he talked about which Lincoln saints were most likely to answer prayers, confiding that Bishop Hugh was not one of them, because there had been so few miracles at his tomb.
‘There have been more at the Shrine of Little Hugh,’ he said. ‘But I am not sure I believe the story of his crucifixion. Neither does the Pope, because the cult remains unofficial. Of course, the cathedral is unlikely to tell pilgrims that, since Little Hugh is a great source of income.’
‘It is a pity there is not a saint who is kindly disposed to investigators,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You need all the help you can get with this case. You are only supposed to be solving Aylmer’s murder, but he is linked to Flaxfleete and Nicholas by the marks on their shoulders, and he died while holding the Hugh Chalice. I have a feeling this might be more complex than it appears.’
‘And it has been made more so by the fact that this city is uneasy, and everyone has taken sides. I thought at first that someone had killed Aylmer because he was unpopular, but now I suspect his personality might have nothing to do with it.’
They walked along Wigford’s high street, where Michael admired the large houses and dozen or so churches that clustered along it. Many had gardens that ran down to the banks of the River Witham, and, between them, grey-brown water fringed with reeds could be seen. Small boats bobbed on the wind-ruffled surface, carrying goods to the city wharves. Scattered among them were the white flecks of gulls and swans, while ducks dabbled in the shallows.
‘I wish Gynewell had not asked you to do this,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘Hamo was right: you are in danger from two sources – from a killer desperate to avoid detection, and from the Commonalty, who will want to catch him before you do.’
‘So Hamo says, but perhaps Miller will be content to see the wheels of justice work.’
Bartholomew thought about his encounter with Sheriff Lungspee. ‘The wheels of justice here are rather too dependent on how well they are greased. However, it is always possible that the killer is in holy orders, and will claim benefit of clergy. Then your “wheels of justice” will see him sent to some remote convent to live out his life, and I do not think that will satisfy Miller.’
‘What makes you think the killer is a priest?’ Michael was startled.
‘Aylmer died in a convent, which is not a place where anyone can wander as he pleases. And we have been told that the cathedral’s vicars never leave home without arming themselves. Of course, we have also been told Aylmer was a criminal, so perhaps he was killed by an associate – a falling-out among thieves.’
Michael rubbed his chin. ‘I am acutely uncomfortable with the connections that are beginning to emerge. Not only did Aylmer, Nicholas and Flaxfleete share similar scars, but Nicholas and Flaxfleete were both poisoned after swallowing drinks from the Swan tavern. However, Flaxfleete was a guildsman and Aylmer and Nicholas favoured Miller and the Commonality. They were not friends.’
‘Roger said the marks might have been made twenty years ago, so perhaps they owned different allegiances then. However, these three murders are certainly connected to each other. People have made reference to other odd deaths, too – the wicked Canon Hodelston and Fat William. You must be on your guard, Brother. I shall ask Cynric to stay with you, if I am obliged to leave Lincoln before you are ready.’
Michael glanced at him. ‘Do not be too hopeful about Matilde. Folk here remember her, but no one has the faintest idea where she might have gone. Spayne may be the same.’
Bartholomew rubbed his eyes, unwilling to entertain the possibility that his last chance might fizzle into nothing. ‘She may have shared secrets with him that are not common knowledge.’
‘She confided matters to you that she never shared with others, and you do not know where she went. Personally, I am inclined to think that if you cannot find her, then no one else will, either. Remember what she told Yolande? That once she had made up her mind to disappear, no one would ever locate her. She is not given to idle boasts.’ He sighed when the physician made no reply. ‘Are you listening, or are your thoughts so choked with love that you cannot see the logic in what I am saying?’
Bartholomew squinted up at the bright white sky. ‘I know all this; I have thought of little else for more than a year. However, I was not thinking about Matilde just now, but Sabina.’
