Symon opened the book, and even he could see that here was a script of considerable value. He turned the pages carefully, almost reverently, but then handed it back to Michael with clear reluctance. ‘I am afraid I have never seen it before.’
‘What about this chalice?’ asked Michael, producing the fine cup that had also been hidden in the granary.
Symon shook his head a second time, although he seemed considerably more interested in the silver than he had been in the book. ‘No, but it is very fine and should be in the Prior’s coffers.’ He took it from Michael, then held it and the book up to show the monks who stood in a curious circle around him. ‘Do any of you know these?’
There was a chorus of denials and several shaken heads, although Julian said nothing. His silence did not go unobserved. Michael immediately homed in on him.
‘Which of these is familiar to you?’ he demanded.
Julian was startled to find himself suddenly the centre of attention again. ‘Neither,’ he said, nervously raising one hand to scratch at the smattering of spots around his mouth.
‘Do not lie,’ ordered Michael coldly. ‘It is clear to me that you have seen one or more of these items before, and I want to know which one and where.’
‘It cannot be clear to you,’ blustered Julian. He had scratched one pimple enough to make it bleed. ‘I have said nothing to give you that impression.’
‘It is more a case of what you have not said,’ replied Michael, showing off a little. ‘You alone, of all these men, did not immediately claim ignorance of these items. You said nothing, and I could tell from your eyes that you know something. And now you are picking and scratching at yourself like a dog with fleas, which is a sure sign of an uneasy conscience. So, unless you want to find yourself on latrine duty for the next month, you had better be honest.’
‘I know nothing,’ said Julian in a small voice, close to tears. His continuing denials convinced no one, and here and there the monks began to murmur among themselves. Bartholomew decided that the best way to make Julian speak was to appeal to their sense of self-preservation.
‘There is a murderer in this city, who has already killed five men,’ he said, addressing them. ‘It is possible that William was so afraid that he took all his possessions and fled, while poor Robert was murdered in broad daylight in the grounds of your own priory. And the killer did not even take pity on Thomas, as he lay afflicted with a seizure that rendered him helpless. Is this the kind of man you want in your home?’
Heads were shaken fervently and there was a growing mumble of unease: Bartholomew’s speech had visibly upset some of them. They looked around, as though they imagined that a killer might stalk up and slip his knife into their necks as they stood with their friends outside the refectory. Michael took up the argument.
‘Then you will agree with us that it is imperative Julian tells us the truth, and reveals whatever secret he has learned that might have a bearing on this case?’
‘Brother Michael is right,’ said Bukton fervently, appealing to his friend. ‘I do not want my neck cut as I sleep just because you are a selfish lout who cannot distinguish between truth and lies. Tell Michael what he wants to know.’
‘Yes, or you will have me to deal with,’ added Symon, although whether from genuine concern or merely for show, Bartholomew could not tell.
‘I do not know what Brother Michael wants me to say,’ said Julian, defiant to the last.
‘Then tell him what you think he wants you to say,’ growled Symon, taking a couple of steps towards the uneasy novice. Julian tried to back away, but Welles and Bukton had closed in behind him, and he found himself surrounded. He swallowed hard and turned to face Michael.
‘Very well, but it will not help you.’
‘I will be the judge of that,’ said Michael pompously.
‘I have seen that book before,’ admitted Julian miserably.
‘Where?’ demanded Michael, when Julian faltered into silence again. ‘Did Thomas or William own it? Did you see one of them reading it, or one passing it to the other?’
‘No. I saw it in Robert’s cell the day before he died.’
Bartholomew did not feel like devouring another monstrous meal, although Michael had no objection. They ate quickly, then left to go in search of Henry. Heat radiated from the yellow-grey stones of the priory buildings. Sparrows flapped and fluttered in the dust of the path, while a cat panted in the shade, too lethargic even to chase easy targets.
As they walked, the bell chimed to announce the end of the midday meal. Bartholomew glanced behind him to see the monks emerging from the refectory – more slowly than they had entered, and with considerably less urgency. Some had their heads bent, as though in contemplation, and all had their hands tucked inside their wide sleeves. Bartholomew noted that Michael had also adopted the priory style of walking: in Cambridge, the monk’s hands were either guarding his scrip from pickpockets, or were ready to grab some student who was misbehaving. Julian walked with them, adopting a sullen slouch to register that he resented the fact that Michael had ordered him to accompany them, when it was customary for the brethren to take a period of rest in the afternoons.
‘This mystery is becoming more opaque than ever,’ Michael grumbled, careful to keep his voice low so that Julian would not hear what he was saying. ‘Every time I think I have uncovered a clue that will lead me to new avenues of investigation, I learn something that confuses me even more.’
‘You mean like the book of hours being in Robert’s possession?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘We saw Thomas receive a parcel that looked very much like the one containing the tome, but we cannot even be sure that parcel and book are one and the same.’
‘And the packet was most definitely part of the hoard belonging to William,’ said Michael. ‘We know this because Alan said the gold was clipped in a distinctive way, and he is sure it is the same money given to William for his expenditure as hosteller.’
‘But just because the book was found with William’s gold does not mean to say that William put them together. Someone may have stolen the coins from him, along with the book from Robert, and hidden them in the barn.’
‘And that someone may well have been Thomas,’ said Michael. ‘Damn the man! Why did he have to choose now to have his seizure? Had he remained healthy for a few more moments, we might have prised enough information from him to catch this killer – and Thomas himself would still be alive.’
‘I am not sure Thomas put that sack in the granary,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The ladder broke when I climbed it, and I am a good deal lighter than Thomas.’
‘Perhaps it was Thomas’s weight that rendered the rungs weak in the first place,’ suggested Michael.
Bartholomew frowned. ‘I doubt a man of Thomas’s girth could have hauled himself up those steps. I am not sure his arms would have been strong enough.’
‘You would probably say the same about me,’ said Michael, pushing back a black sleeve to reveal a meaty white arm, which he flexed proudly. ‘But my strength has saved your life on numerous occasions.’
‘But you do more than stroll between cathedral and refectory all day,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘You wrestle with students, and you ride. Thomas did nothing more strenuous than raise a spoon to his lips.’
Michael gave him an reproachful glance. ‘That is unfair. He raised goblets, too. But, although we have a good deal of confusing information about the book, we know nothing about the chalice. England is a large country, and there are churches all across it that own attractive silver, so I suppose there is no reason for us to have heard if it was stolen from some distant place, like Peterborough or Huntingdon.’