‘De Wetherset is on my list,’ said Bartholomew. He raised his hand when Michael started to object. ‘He lies, Brother. He told you he saw Simon in the chapel that morning, but he could not have done, because he later let slip that he never attends prime with the Gilbertines. And if he cannot vouch for Simon, then Simon cannot vouch for him. What is not to say that he did not catch Aylmer stealing his friend’s cup, and stabbed him?’
Michael was thoughtful. ‘I suppose he may have learned a few secrets by watching us investigate murder in Cambridge, and he is certainly wily enough to know how not to leave clues.’
‘How will you eliminate some of these suspects?’ asked Bartholomew. He did not like the notion of Michael meddling with such folk. It was different in Cambridge, when there was an army of beadles under the monk’s command and a friendly, understanding sheriff always ready to help. But in Lincoln, they were alone, with only Cynric to protect them.
‘Ask questions, I suppose, although it is difficult to know where to start. I will talk to Simon again, and try to get some proper answers about this chalice. Perhaps that is where the solution lies.’
‘Especially when you consider that drawing on Aylmer’s shoulder. I am certain it is significant.’
‘Aylmer, Nicholas and Flaxfleete. All murdered. Two with poison and one with a dagger. Perhaps if I find the killer of one, I will know who did away with them all.’
* * *
Lincoln was swathed in a thick pall of fog the following day, so dense that Bartholomew could not see the Chapel of St Katherine from the refectory next door. He had intended to accompany Michael to prime in the cathedral, but one of the hospital inmates was suffering from a lethargy, and by the time he had finished the consultation, Michael was nowhere to be found and the physician was obliged to endure the Gilbertines’ high mass instead. With gritted teeth, he listened to them howl and clap their way through several psalms, and was shocked when Prior Roger suggested singing in the vernacular.
‘Come on, Doctor!’ he shouted, leaving his place at the altar and coming to mingle with his joyous flock. ‘It is a lovely Sunday, and you are blessed with the ability to raise your voice to the Lord! Sing His praise with all your heart. Alleluia!’
Bartholomew took several steps away when Roger waved his rattle, making a deafening racket that served to make his brethren shriek all the louder. Hamo was yelling so loudly that his voice was cracking, while even Simon seemed slightly taken aback at the fervour exploding around him.
‘I think I would rather-’ began Bartholomew.
‘Is there a particular psalm you would like us to trill?’ asked Roger, almost screaming to make himself heard. ‘Hamo has translated some into English, so the lay-brothers can join in.’
Bartholomew looked longingly at the door. ‘The patient in the hospital will need-’
‘Praise the Lord!’ yelled Roger, almost delirious in ecstasy. He raised his hands in the air, and closed his eyes. As soon as Bartholomew was sure it would be a moment before he would open them again, he made his bid for escape, racing up the nave and flinging open the gate to freedom.
‘Steady!’ exclaimed Dame Eleanor, who was passing by outside. ‘You almost had me over.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, slamming the door behind him and leaning on it, in the hope that it would prevent Roger from coming after him.
She cackled her amusement when she understood what was happening. ‘You are not the first man to rush screaming from one of the priory’s Sunday masses. Roger is a very dear man, but his style of worship is not to all tastes.’
‘Would you like me to escort you to the cathedral?’ asked Bartholomew, keen to leave the convent.
She patted his arm. ‘You are kind, but I usually go later on a Sunday, and Christiana has already agreed to walk with me. Do not be afraid that Roger will hunt you out. He will be so engrossed in his ceremony that he will have forgotten about you by now. It is almost time for the organ – yes, I can hear it starting up now – and he always becomes rather animated once that is going.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, not liking to imagine what Roger might be like, when ‘rather animated’. ‘If ever I do take the cowl, I will never choose the Gilbertine Order.’
‘As far as I am aware, this is the only Gilbertine house that enjoys such passionate worship. There is Michael, about to visit the cathedral for his Sunday devotions. You should go with him, since he is investigating a nasty murder and this can be a dangerous city. He is a good man, so please look after him.’
‘I will try,’ said Bartholomew, watching the monk and Christiana emerge from a building he thought was a disused brewery. Michael was laughing at something she had said, and the physician thought it was no wonder they had been impossible to locate earlier – a defunct brew-house was not an obvious place to look. ‘But I do not think he wants my company at the moment.’
