‘I suspected as much,’ said Gynewell. ‘They are clearly kin, and de Lisle is famous for his nepotism. I doubt Tetford will stay with us long, though; he will leave the moment something more lucrative is offered. That is the advantage of Vicars Choral – they can be promoted if they are a nuisance, preferably to another diocese. Do not worry, Brother. We shall send him to Ely in a few weeks and so be rid of him.’
Michael scrubbed at his eyes. ‘You are very kind – to me and to Tetford.’
Gynewell shot him a mischievous grin. ‘I was young once, Brother, and all Tetford needs is a firm hand.’
‘You will not succeed in taming the fellow,’ warned Bresley. When Bartholomew looked at him, the wooden cup was nowhere to be seen. ‘He is beyond redemption.’
‘Have you heard anything about Flaxfleete’s demise?’ asked Michael. He saw the surprise in the bishop’s face at the change of subject, and hastened to explain. ‘I believe the deaths of Flaxfleete, Aylmer and Nicholas Herl might be connected.’
Gynewell raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? Well, there are two tales circulating regarding Flaxfleete at present: the Guild maintains that Ursula de Spayne poisoned him, and the Commonalty just as firmly assert that he died from a recurrence of his Summer Madness.’
‘His affliction was unusually severe,’ added Bresley helpfully. ‘The other victims only harmed themselves, but Flaxfleete was compelled to commit arson in his delirium.’
‘What about Nicholas Herl?’ asked Michael.
Gynewell tugged thoughtfully on one of his horns. ‘Herl was probably a suicide, who drank too much, then threw himself in the Braytheford Pool. He never really recovered his health after his bout of Summer Madness, so no one was surprised when he was found dead. Langar and Sabina have been petitioning me to bury him in a churchyard. They say he was out of his wits, so not responsible for himself. I think I shall oblige. I dislike the Church’s inflexibility where self-murder is concerned.’
‘Three deaths within a few days of each other,’ said Michael. ‘And I understand there have been others, too.’
Gynewell thrust another cake on his pitchfork. ‘There have, but this is a large city and men are mortal. Not every demise is suspicious.’
‘Canon Hodelston,’ said Bresley. ‘Rapist, burglar, extortionist and liar. His was the first odd death, although no one mourned his passing. He was even more evil than my current batch of priests.’
‘That was seven years ago, Bresley,’ said Gynewell impatiently. ‘It cannot possibly have a bearing on Aylmer, and saying it does will lead Brother Michael astray.’
‘Herl, Flaxfleete and Aylmer had a mark on them,’ said Bartholomew, watching the bishop eat the smoking delicacy. ‘A cup, which looked as though it had been scratched into their skin years ago. Do you know anything about that?’
Gynewell exchanged a bemused glance with Bresley. ‘Do you mean the kind of sign that is inflicted voluntarily, or a brand that was not?’ asked the dean.
‘It was probably something they agreed to,’ replied Bartholomew, sounding more certain than he felt. ‘I suspect it symbolises membership of some secret fraternity.’
‘If these scars were confined to Herl and Aylmer, you might be right,’ said Gynewell. ‘They were certainly the kind of fellows to cut themselves in a demonstration of manly affection. The problem is Flaxfleete: he hated the Commonality, and would never have associated himself with them. If it was a cup they marked on themselves, do you think it was something to do with the Hugh Chalice?’
Bresley’s tone was wistful. ‘That went missing years ago, and has not been seen since.’
‘I told you the dean and I disagree about this,’ said Gynewell to Michael. ‘I believe the one Father Simon intends to give us is genuine. Bresley does not.’
‘I wish it was real,’ said Bresley morosely, ‘but I feel nothing when I hold it, except something that should not be there. So, it is still missing, as far as I am concerned. Simon says he bought it from a Roman relic-seller, so we have been unable to question the fellow ourselves.’
‘Actually, he had it from Walter Chapman,’ supplied Michael. ‘Miller’s red-legged friend.’
Gynewell’s jaw dropped. ‘Then the Hugh Chalice is the only genuine thing he has ever handled, because he usually deals in fakes. The Commonality would disagree, but I am afraid it is true.’
‘No wonder I have the sense that it is just a cup,’ said Bresley. ‘And not even a very nice one.’
‘This is all very perplexing,’ said Gynewell with a frown. ‘But if Simon’s chalice did come from Chapman, then I wonder if Chapman heard about it – and then somehow acquired it – because of the stink Flaxfleete made about its disappearance. That makes sense.’
‘Not to me,’ said Michael. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’
