Gynewell tossed the remains of the cake into the fire, where it disappeared in a flurry of sparks. ‘A month ago, Flaxfleete accused Aylmer of breaking into his house and stealing a silver cup. However, Aylmer’s dishonest history does not mean he was responsible for every theft in the town, so I went to speak to Flaxfleete, and he agreed to drop the charges.’
‘But it might have been true,’ said Michael. ‘Aylmer could have stolen the goblet from Flaxfleete, then given it to his friend Chapman to sell to Simon.’
Gynewell shook his head. ‘Aylmer did not steal the cup, because I found it in the cathedral crypt. I took it back to Flaxfleete – not realising it was the Hugh Chalice, of course – which is why he was willing to withdraw his complaint against Aylmer.’
‘But Chapman’s attention might have been drawn to the goblet because of the fuss Flaxfleete made about its loss,’ surmised Bresley. ‘He recognised it as something that could be hawked to a gullible fool who would believe it was a relic. So, he stole it from Flaxfleete after you returned it.’
‘Wait,’ said Michael, holding up his hand. ‘I am confused. Are you saying Flaxfleete had the Hugh Chalice first? It was stolen from him – possibly by Aylmer – and was found in your crypt? You returned it to Flaxfleete, on the understanding that all charges against Aylmer would be forgotten, and it next appeared when Chapman sold it to Father Simon a month ago?’
‘Yes,’ said Gynewell. ‘That is an accurate summary of its travels, as far as I understand them. However, I suspect Flaxfleete did not know it was the Hugh Chalice, either, or he would have made a far greater commotion when it went adrift.’
‘Thank God he did not,’ murmured Bresley fervently.
‘I never liked to ask Flaxfleete how the cup had gone from him to Simon,’ said Gynewell. ‘I was afraid that if I did, it might give him an excuse to harass Aylmer again, and I did not want trouble.’
‘He never made a second complaint of theft,’ said Bresley. ‘So we must assume that either he did not notice Chapman had taken it from him, or he died before he could tell anyone about it.’
‘Or he was poisoned to make sure he remained silent permanently,’ said Gynewell soberly.
‘Perhaps we can go back a little,’ said Michael, breaking into their discussion. ‘You say you found the chalice in the crypt? What was it doing there?’
‘Perhaps it wanted to be in the sacred confines of our cathedral,’ said Gynewell, in a way that made Bartholomew certain he was not telling the truth. ‘These relics have a habit of making their own way to the places where they want to be. Have you seen it yet? Did you feel the sanctity it oozes?’
‘I did not,’ said Michael shortly. ‘I think Simon has been cheated.’
‘Hear, hear,’ murmured Bresley.
‘The Hugh Chalice is genuine,’ said Gynewell in a voice that suggested further debate was futile. ‘I have never been more sure of anything in my life.’
Michael spent much of the day in the Close, questioning clerics about Aylmer. Bartholomew kicked his heels restlessly, not sure what to do. He was eager to ask questions about Matilde, but did not know who to approach. Then he recalled that the cathedral would keep records of the masses it was paid to conduct for the souls of the dead, and wondered whether Matilde had commissioned any. It was a feeble hope that she might have bought prayers for some hitherto unknown friend or relation, but he was desperate and willing to try anything. He obtained Gynewell’s permission to trawl through the minster’s accounts, and was conducted to the library, where details of the cathedral’s business arrangements were stored on great dusty scrolls.
He soon learned the task was a hopeless one, but persisted anyway. While he scoured the rolls with a growing sense that he was wasting his time, he overheard a group of canons discuss the growing bitterness of the town’s poor. The weavers were beginning to mutter more loudly against the selfishness of the Guild, and the canons were terrified that Miller’s Market might end in a riot. If that happened, then the minster and its clerics might become targets, too, because of their friendly relations with the Guild.
Bartholomew left with the sense that Michael could not have chosen a worse time to be installed, and was uneasy enough that he went to the town butts to practise his shooting. He had the awful feeling that his fighting skills might be needed, although he was relieved the monk was elsewhere, and not in a position to comment on his new-found preoccupation with martial pursuits. He was not surprised to see Hugh and his fellow choristers there – or to note that their aim was considerably better than many of the adults – but he had not imagined archery was something to be enjoyed by cathedral officials. There were so many clergy jostling for a turn that the townsfolk found it hard to break through them, and there was a good deal of bad feeling. And when Miller and his cronies arrived, it was only a matter of time before someone was shot.
