‘I saw you with my young brother,’ he said, with a humourless smile that made him look very like Michaelhouse’s Suttone. ‘He is a rascal, so I hope he was not insolent.’
‘Not today,’ replied Michael. ‘Although the last time we met, he sent us to Kelby’s house when I had actually asked him for directions to Spayne’s.’
John grimaced. ‘He cannot help himself where mischief is concerned. I am sorry I did not make myself known when you tended Flaxfleete on Wednesday, but I had no idea who you were. Bishop Gynewell tells us you have been asked to find Aylmer’s killer – hopefully before the installation ceremony. Is it true?’
Michael nodded. ‘And young Hugh tells me you are not the guilty party, despite the fact that you have a powerful motive – you might benefit from Aylmer’s untimely death.’
John looked alarmed. ‘I have killed no one! And you are wrong to think I have a motive. Cousin Thomas overlooked me once, and there is no reason to suppose he will not do so again.’
‘What about your cathedral colleagues? Do any of them have a reason to kill Aylmer?’
John was surprised by the question. ‘Of course! Most of us prefer the Guild to the Commonalty – an honoured few have even been invited to join its ranks. Conversely, Aylmer was a fully fledged member of the Commonalty, and so naturally people here distrusted him.’
‘Was their “distrust” enough to see him killed?’
‘I imagine so.’ John’s expression became a little spiteful. ‘Will you talk to them all? There are thirty Vicars Choral, ten Poor Clerks, twelve choristers, and a dozen chantry priests. Oh, and there are eight archdeacons, too. You will be busy, Brother.’
‘I have faced greater challenges in the past,’ said Michael, unperturbed. ‘But the dean has finished talking to those three fat canons now. We have not met, so will you introduce us?’
John made a choking sound that Bartholomew assumed was a smothered gulp of laughter at the monk’s description of his new colleagues – or perhaps it was a gasp of disbelief that such a portly fellow should so describe men who were, after all, considerably slimmer than him.
‘His name is Simon Bresley,’ said John, controlling himself. ‘He and the bishop are the only cathedral men who do not stand against the Commonalty. Gynewell refuses to be drawn to either side, while Bresley often accepts invitations to dine with Miller and his cronies.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘Ask him – the rest of us do not understand it at all. Dean Bresley, may I present Brother Michael? And this is his friend Doctor Bartholomew, who tried to save Flaxfleete two nights ago.’
Bresley nodded a polite greeting, but his attention was clearly elsewhere. ‘The music,’ he explained, when Michael asked if anything was amiss. ‘It is so beautiful this morning that one might be forgiven for forgetting that it emanates from the throats of devils.’
John gave another of his grim smiles, as if anticipating what was coming next, then turned to Michael. ‘Some of my High Altar candles were stolen this morning, and I need to replace them. Please excuse me.’
‘Devils,’ repeated the dean when he had gone. ‘And by “devils” I mean Poor Clerks, choristers and Vicars Choral. They may sing like angels, but they swear, fight, spit, talk through the divine offices, and carry swords under their robes. They are more like pirates than men of God.’
‘These are serious charges,’ said Michael. ‘As a canon, I shall speak out against such practices.’
Bresley gazed at him with burning hope. ‘Will you? It would be nice to have someone on my side in the war against sin. Just last week, I was obliged to fine Ravenser and Claypole for rape and being absent from their duties – both very serious matters.’
Bartholomew gazed warily at him. ‘Especially the rape. Who was she?’
‘One of the ladies who lives in the Close,’ explained the dean. ‘There are several of them, and they save the Vicars Choral the bother of going into the city after dark for their vices. Listen!’
Michael cocked his head, although the music was insufficient to distract Bartholomew from his horror at the dean’s revelations. ‘Simon Tunstede’s Gloria,’ said the monk. ‘My favourite setting.’
‘How is it possible that such a heavenly sound can come from such wicked creatures?’ asked the dean. He led them to the Angel Choir, and pointed to the pier above the Head Shrine. ‘One such fiend was turned to stone many years ago.’
Bartholomew started in shock when he saw the carved imp. ‘That is Bishop Gynewell!’
‘Hush!’ breathed Bresley, looking around uneasily. ‘You are not the first to have noticed the similarity, but he does not like it. It is coincidence obviously, since the imp lived many years before Gynewell was born. However, no prelate appreciates being told that he bears an uncanny resemblance to a demon, so watch what you say.’
‘It is a rather unsettling likeness,’ said Michael. ‘No wonder he is sensitive about it.’
‘Cynric will feel vindicated,’ murmured Bartholomew, still gazing up at the statue. ‘He will see it as proof, right down to the horns.’
