Irony was lost on Cynric, whose eyes gleamed in eager anticipation. ‘I will stay here and watch, then. I have never seen a devil consumed by flames, and it would make a good tale to tell of a winter night – along with my accounts of Poitiers. Perhaps there will be another earthquake, too, like the one that brought down the old cathedral. It probably happened when Gynewell first arrived. It is common knowledge that the denizens of Hell are hundreds of years old.’
Bartholomew looked through the screen and saw that Michael and de Wetherset were virtually the only ones paying any attention to Gynewell’s mass. The Vicars Choral were clustered around Tetford, who was relating some anecdote about the alb he held; they sniggered loudly enough to attract a stern glare from the dean. The Poor Clerks were sitting against a wall, half asleep, while the choristers – young Hugh among them – darted about in some complex, but relatively soundless, game of their own. They did not even stop when it was time to sing, trilling the notes as they ducked this way and that. Bartholomew could not imagine such antics permitted at Michaelhouse, and suddenly experienced a sharp desire to be back there again, among familiar things and faces.
Eventually, the rite was over, and Bartholomew waited for Michael to emerge. He watched the monk shake his head when Gynewell skipped towards him and asked a question, but then the bishop’s attention was caught by the dean, who was in the process of removing something from the altar. Gynewell took Bresley by the arm and hauled him away to one side. Tetford passed unnecessarily close to them, and made some remark that had the dean blushing furiously. Bartholomew looked away. Lincoln was as bad as Cambridge with its petty quarrels, rivalries and feuds.
‘You should forget you saw that,’ said Tetford, when he reached the physician. He leered slyly, as he stooped to ensure a lock was secure on an oblations box. ‘The dean, I mean.’
‘Saw what?’ asked Bartholomew.
Tetford grinned. ‘With an attitude like that, you would make a good canon yourself. I intend to be one soon. Perhaps I shall be given Brother Michael’s Stall of South Scarle.’
Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. ‘Canons are installed for life, so I doubt it.’
‘Maybe he will resign,’ said Tetford with a careless and unconvincing shrug. ‘But now I am a Vicar Choral, there is no reason why I should not aspire to be a prebendary. And, once I am a full member of the cathedral Chapter, I shall do something about that dean.’
‘Something like what?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether it was a threat on Bresley’s life – and on Michael’s.
‘That is in God’s hands,’ said Tetford, striding away.
* * *
As soon as the mass had ended, and the streets were beginning to fill with the dim, grey light of pre-dawn, Bartholomew and Michael went to Spayne’s home. While the monk tapped on the door, then fidgeted impatiently for his knock to be answered – he disliked being kept waiting – Bartholomew stood back and inspected the house. It was a fine building, larger but not as tall as Kelby’s home next door. The window shutters looked new, and were brightly painted.
By contrast, Kelby’s abode was suffering from the same air of neglect that afflicted the rest of the city, and lacked the care that had been lavished on its neighbour. Loose tiles hung from its roof, and its chimney leaned in a way that suggested it might not survive the winter. The whole shabby edifice told a story of a merchant in financial decline – that while the wool trade might have allowed men to secure fat fortunes in the past, it was more difficult to make profits in the present economic climate. Thus Kelby could not afford to have his façade replastered, or even apply a coat of paint to conceal his rotting timbers. Would encroaching poverty among the mercantile classes intensify the feud between Guild and Commonalty? Bartholomew imagined it would, and that jealousy might well induce resentful guildsmen to burn down the storehouses of their wealthier rivals.
And Spayne? Bartholomew examined the mayor’s house more closely, and on reflection decided the gleaming paint-work and new shutters were more indicative of urgent repair than meticulous maintenance. There were scorch marks on the beams at the left side of the building, suggesting a recent conflagration. When he took a few steps to look down the narrow alley that separated the two houses, he saw Spayne’s walls were dark with soot, and the yard at the end of the house contained a burned-out shell. He had assumed the storehouses Flaxfleete had ignited were in some distant place, perhaps near the river, and it was with a shock that he realised they were actually at the back of Spayne’s home. It put the crime in an entirely different category – one that suggested Spayne’s goods might not have been all Flaxfleete had intended to incinerate.
