‘It was the Hugh Chalice,’ said Chapman softly. ‘And it was Shirlok who stole it from the couriers. But then St Hugh intervened. He caused Shirlok to be caught, and everything he had stolen to be seized by the Cambridge sheriff. Then he caused the chalice to appear in Huntingdon when I happened to be there, knowing I would bring it home.’
Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘I see. Did you have anything to do with its disappearance from Cambridge, before it so conveniently arrived in Huntingdon?’
Chapman bristled with indignation. ‘I did not! As it happens, I was detained after Shirlok’s trial, because of a misunderstanding over some other goods, and the cup went missing when I was in still in gaol. I will swear on anything you like – even the Hugh Chalice – that I did not steal it.’
‘What about your co-accused?’ pressed Michael. ‘Or Langar? Could they have-’
‘No!’ snapped Chapman. ‘And they will be furious if I tell them the sort of questions you are asking. And now, if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have business to conduct.’
The mist seemed thicker than ever as Bartholomew and Michael left the Gilbertine Priory and began to walk to the cathedral for High Mass. It encased them in a cocoon of grey-white, so they could not even make out the churches and houses to either side of the road, and fine droplets clung to their clothes and hair. Bartholomew could taste the fog in his mouth, touched with a hint of wood-smoke, although it was missing the malodorous taint of the marshes he had grown used to in Cambridge. Michael was reviewing what they had learned about the chalice and its travels, but the physician’s mind was fixed on the various diseases and ailments that might be carried in such a miasma. It was a long time since he had lost himself in a reflection of medical matters; mostly, he thought about Matilde in his free moments.
They reached the Cathedral Close, where the bells were pealing, announcing that Bishop Gynewell had arrived and was ready to begin the sacred rite. Michael went to his place in the chancel, and Bartholomew stood in the nave to listen to the singing. That day, the music was sporadic in quality and volume, and he saw why when he noticed that a number of those supposed to be taking part in the ceremony were actually wandering about on business of their own. Tetford was with Master Quarrel of the Swan and money was changing hands – Michael’s Vicar Choral was laying in supplies for his tavern. Tetford saw the physician watching and turned away.
Young Hugh, cherubic in his gown and golden curls, was racing up and down the aisles with several friends, chased by a flustered-looking man who was evidently the choirmaster. The boys considered it fine sport until Dame Eleanor, abandoning her customary spot at the Head Shrine, beckoned them towards her. She spoke a few quiet words that had them hanging their heads in shame before traipsing obediently towards their exasperated teacher. Hugh lingered uncertainly, so she added something that made him grin, then sent him after his cronies. Bartholomew saw Claypole observing the episode with a malicious smile, hand on the hilt of his sword.
‘Nicholas Bautre was made choirmaster two years ago,’ he said when the physician approached. ‘He is worthless, and I should never have been dismissed in his favour.’
‘You were dismissed?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Why?’
Claypole looked sullen. ‘I lost my clothes and all my vestments at the gaming table. It was my own fault – I should have chosen the white stones over the black. Dean Bresley decided to make an example of me, and had Bautre appointed in my place. It has been disastrous for the cathedral, because Bautre cannot even get the boys to stay put during the mass, let alone teach them music.’
‘They have a poor example in the adults,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Not many clergy are in their places, either. They are either in the nave doing secular business, or they have not bothered to come at all.’
Claypole shrugged. ‘It is the dean’s responsibility to maintain discipline, so you can blame him. He is a sanctimonious fool! What is wrong with the odd game of chance of an evening?’
‘Presumably, he has a problem with you arriving for your duties with nothing to wear.’
Claypole pulled a disagreeable face. ‘He is in no position to preach, given what hedoes in his spare time. Perhaps he appointed Bautre because he knew the choir would run amok, and it means his own voice can be heard. He is singing now.’
Bartholomew winced as a response was issued several tones too high, creating a discordant clash that had the other choristers faltering uncertainly. ‘Lord help us!’
Claypole grinned. ‘I had better get back to St Hugh’s head before Dame Eleanor admonishes me again. The dean can ride me all he likes for insolence and irregularity, but I do not like it when she does it. She has a knack for making me feel ashamed – and she might tell Lady Christiana.’
