Michael regarded him thoughtfully. ‘You seem to think the verdict was unfair, and I remember being shocked to hear about the acquittals myself. But your brother-in-law was one of the jurors. Oswald’s morals are pliant on occasion, but they are not that flexible.’
‘He was only one of the twelve “good men and true”. Another was Stephen Morice.’
Michael grimaced. ‘The man whom every Cambridge resident knows to be the most dishonest fellow in Christendom, and who is so brazenly corrupt that he makes Lungspee look like an angel?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘And then there was Thomas Deschalers, the grocer whose death we investigated not long ago.’
Michael frowned. ‘He was a sly fellow, too, but the jury was not all bad, because de Wetherset served on it, too. He once confided to me – at a College feast, when he was drunk – that being obliged to pass verdict on Shirlok upset him so much that it was a major factor in him taking holy orders; clerics cannot serve on secular juries. He and Oswald would have seen justice done, though.’
‘I am not so sure about de Wetherset: he has always struck me as a man who would do anything to advance his own interests. In essence, though, the whole thing reeked of corruption, and I have often wondered why the appellees were never investigated. Their homes might have been stuffed to the ceilings with stolen goods, but we would never have known, because no one looked.’
‘When a man is about to be hanged, he will say all manner of things to save himself, including trying to indict innocent people.’ Michael was trying to be fair, by looking at both sides of the story. ‘It happens all the time, and Justices must be used to it. So, just because Shirlok’s accusations were dismissed does not necessarily mean there was a miscarriage of justice. Right?’
Bartholomew said nothing until they were across the High Bridge. ‘When Shirlok was hanged, something odd happened. He was a small man, and kicked for some time before the executioner declared him dead. He was cut down, and his body displayed in the castle bailey, as a deterrent to other would-be thieves. Eventually, the hangman went to a tavern, and I was able to look at Shirlok alone.’
Michael regarded him in distaste. ‘You had a ghoulish fascination for corpses even then?’
Bartholomew hesitated. ‘I once told Cynric this, but never anyone else.’
Michael was concerned. ‘Do not confide in me, if my knowing whatever it is will impede the investigation. Aylmer’s murder will be difficult enough to solve, without having restrictions put on it.’
‘This has nothing to do with Aylmer. As I stared down at Shirlok’s body, he opened his eyes. You see, because he was light, it had taken longer for him to choke than most men, and the hangman was too drunk to notice the signs of life. When I reached out to touch him, he leapt up and ran away.’
The monk could see it was a troubled memory, so tried not to laugh. ‘What happened then?’
‘Nothing. The executioner told everyone he had buried the body, and I decided not to contradict him, mostly because of an enduring sense that there was something rotten about the whole affair.’
‘There is de Wetherset,’ said Michael, nodding to where the portly ex-Chancellor was plodding towards them. ‘Perhaps we should ask him what he recalls about his duties as a juror that day.’
De Wetherset had attended prime in the Franciscan Friary, and smugly informed the scholars that it was considerably more uplifting than what usually transpired in the Priory of St Katherine. He told them he had attended one rowdy office when he had first taken up residence in the Gilbertines’ guest-hall, and had made the decision to subject himself to no more of them.
‘Father Simon enjoys that sort of worship,’ he went on archly. ‘But I do not clap when I sing.’
‘I thought you liked Simon,’ said Bartholomew, surprised to hear the condemnation in the ex-Chancellor’s voice. ‘You shared his house before it burned down.’
‘It was an economic arrangement that suited us both,’ said de Wetherset. ‘I would not say we were friends, although I admire him as a man of singular piety. You can see it in his devotion to St Hugh.’
Michael nodded. ‘He has spent his own money on a very expensive relic for the cathedral. But what do you think of the Hugh Chalice, de Wetherset? Bishop Gynewell believes it is genuine, although his dean is said to be sceptical.’
De Wetherset thought it only natural that he should be asked for an expert opinion. ‘Ever since you exposed those false bones in Cambridge, I have discovered a rare talent in myself: I possess the ability to sense an object’s holiness. In short, I can identify a fake at ten paces.’
‘Can you indeed?’ murmured Michael. ‘And what do you make of Simon’s cup?’
‘I have not looked at it. Relics are ten a penny in Lincoln, and I am too busy to inspect them all.’
