‘Will you come to the cathedral with me, Matt?’ asked Michael, as the ex-Chancellor swaggered away up the hill. ‘De Wetherset is not the only man due to try on his silken cope today, and I do not trust anyone else to give an honest opinion about my appearance. Strangers might have me processing up the nave in a garment that makes me look fat.’
‘Another time,’ said Bartholomew, knowing from experience that fittings tended to take a long time with Michael. The monk was particular about such matters, and Bartholomew wanted to spend the day browsing the minster’s library. He glanced wistfully at Spayne’s house as they approached it. Because the mayor and his sister were away, the window shutters had been left closed, although smoke still billowed from the chimney. The servants were assiduously following Ursula’s instructions to keep a fire burning, to melt the snow on the damaged roof.
‘There is the Swan tavern,’ said Michael, pointing to a large building that stood slightly downhill from Spayne’s abode. Above its door was a sign on which a black bird had been painted. It was not an attractive specimen, and the artist had furnished it with a set of teeth that made it look deformed. ‘Where Flaxfleete bought his tainted wine, and where Nicholas drank ale before he died. Shall we go inside?’
‘We shall not,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘I do not want to be poisoned.’
‘No one will harm us,’ said Michael, with far more confidence than Bartholomew felt was warranted. ‘My throat is parched, and a cup of ale would solve that problem and put me in a sober frame of mind for trying on priestly garments.’
Bartholomew followed him with serious misgivings. Inside, the inn was warm and surprisingly respectable. The floor was clean, the main room was fragrant with freshly brewed ale, and the benches and tables were of decent quality. There were even a few women present, indicating it was not some rough city tavern, but an establishment that was rather more genteel. Nevertheless, Bartholomew was still startled to see Lady Christiana and Dame Eleanor there, drinking watered wine from delicately wrought goblets and eating honey-bread from a silver platter. He moved quickly to block them from Michael’s line of vision, sure someone would notice if the monk leered at Christiana in such a public place.
The taverner bustled up to them, eyes disappearing into the fat of his face as he smiled a welcome. ‘I am glad you came,’ he said, ushering them to seats near the fire. ‘You are Brother Michael and Doctor Bartholomew, friends of Master Suttone of Michaelhouse. We are honoured to have another Suttone in our fine city. My name is Robert Quarrel, landlord, and I am delighted to make your acquaintance. What will you have?’
‘Ale and bread,’ said Michael. ‘No cheese, though – we slender men tend to avoid cheese.’
Quarrel beamed uncomfortably, not sure how to respond. In the end, he settled for clapping his hands and repeating the order to a pot-boy.
Michael raised a hand to prevent the lad from leaving. ‘I saw you on Wednesday night.’
The boy smiled uneasily. ‘I saw you, too, sir. I carried a keg of claret to Master Kelby’s house, and you were talking to him at his door. Later, someone started a rumour that Flaxfleete was poisoned and that our wine was the culprit.’
‘Do not say such things!’ cried Quarrel, anxiety stamped across his chubby features. ‘I am a respectable man – I have served as Lincoln’s mayor and its bailiff. I supply wine to many wealthy patrons and have never had any trouble before. The poison must have come from somewhere else.’
‘It was definitely in the keg before it arrived at Kelby’s house,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Drips on his floor attested to the fact that someone had tampered with the seal and it was leaking. Where do you store your barrels?’
‘In the cellar,’ said Quarrel. ‘And no one goes down there except me. I fetched the cask myself, and put it by the door, ready. However, I was enjoying dinner with de Wetherset, and left it for Joseph to deliver instead of seeing to it myself, as I should have done. Perhaps someone did something to it then.’
‘You left it unattended?’ asked Michael. ‘Were you not afraid someone might make off with it?’
‘It was not unattended, exactly,’ objected Quarrel. ‘It was by the door, and Joseph would have noticed someone stealing it.’
Joseph looked sheepish. ‘I did not watch it constantly, though. Ned went to take Dame Eleanor back to the Gilbertine Priory and left me in charge. I am afraid I was distracted by patrons wanting to talk.’
‘Why did Ned escort Dame Eleanor home?’ asked Bartholomew, glancing to where she sat. ‘Is it usual for pot-boys to abandon their duties to help old ladies?’
Joseph looked defensive. ‘It was cold that night, and we were afraid she might slip on ice, so Ned offered to go with her. She is a saint, you see, and it is always wise to curry favour from such folk. She is old and will die soon, and you never know when you might need to petition the saints for a miracle in this world.’
