‘Summer Madness is caused by poison?’ she said doubtfully. ‘How can that be true, when we all know the Devil is responsible? And even if you are right, how could more of this poison have got inside him? No one else has suffered from the Madness for months now.’
Bartholomew shrugged, not looking at Michael, who was drawing his own conclusions about the substance that had now killed two men. ‘I have no idea. However, Nicholas’s initial dose seems to have been a large one – as evidenced by your description of his illness, the swelling still remaining in his feet, and his continued dizziness. In addition, I suspect he had a natural weakness in his blood that would have made him especially susceptible to the ravages of Holy Fire.’
She was confused. ‘I do not understand what you are saying. He drowned and he was poisoned?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘The substance was strong on his breath, so he swallowed it shortly before he died. Then, faint and weak, he probably toppled into the water and drowned.’
‘But this does not help,’ she objected. ‘We still do not know where I can bury him.’
‘Then think about Nicholas himself,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘If he had wanted to commit suicide, would he have known where to obtain this poison? And would he have been aware what its effects might be on a body already weakened by its last encounter with Holy Fire?’
Slowly, her face broke into a smile. ‘No. He was a simple man, sometimes stupid, and would never have invented such a complex way of doing away with himself.’
‘Then you are left with accident or murder, but he can go into hallowed ground, regardless.’
She seemed relieved. ‘I shall go to my priest this morning, and order him to bury Nicholas in the churchyard. I think he only made a fuss in the first place because I refuse to lie with him.’
‘I hope this is not the same vicar who ordered you to work here, as penance for kissing Aylmer,’ said Michael. ‘That would make him a hypocrite.’
She grimaced. ‘He has never bothered to hide his failings. But I should not be telling you this, Brother, because he is John Tetford. Your Vicar Choral.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Michael, as she flounced from the chapel and Suttone regarded him rather smugly. ‘Just when I think matters cannot slide any further into the mire, I learn unpleasant details about my deputy. It seems we both made poor choices, Suttone.’
‘Indeed we did,’ said Suttone. ‘However, there is something about Sabina Herl that makes me feel she is not telling you the whole truth about her husband’s death. It would not surprise me to learn that she slipped him poison, then was sorry when she learned he was to be buried in unhallowed ground.’
‘What shall we do, Brother?’ asked Bartholomew, once Suttone had gone. ‘Tell the sheriff that Nicholas and Flaxfleete both died from ingesting the same substance? Flaxfleete’s wine came from the Swan tavern, and that was where Nicholas went drinking on the night of his death.’
Michael shook his head. ‘From what we have been told of Sheriff Lungspee, it is better to keep out of his way. He is corrupt and everyone knows it. Folk even admire him for taking bribes with commendable even-handedness. Lord, Matt! What a place!’
‘Poison is not the only association between Nicholas and Flaxfleete – and Aylmer, too. There is a drawing of a cup on Aylmer’s shoulder, which is identical to the one I saw on Flaxfleete.’
‘A cup?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘And there is a scar in exactly the same place on Nicholas. The wound was made recently, but dark lines are still visible underneath it. You can see for yourself. It looks as though there was a mark, but someone – presumably Nicholas himself – attempted to scratch it off.’
Michael leaned down to inspect it. ‘It might be a chalice.’
‘When I tried to loosen Flaxfleete’s clothes to help him breathe, he asked me not to. I am under the impression that he wanted his mark to stay hidden – that keeping it concealed was important to him.’
Michael straightened slowly. ‘And you say his drawing and Aylmer’s are identical?’
‘More or less. I have seen soldiers disfigure themselves with signs like these, as a declaration of fraternity. But Aylmer and Nicholas were members of the Commonalty, and Flaxfleete was a member of the Guild, which means they were rivals, not friends. It makes no sense.’
‘And it is odd that three men with a cup on their arms should die in mysterious circumstances just when the Hugh Chalice miraculously reappears after two decades, too.’ Michael rubbed his chin, fingers rasping on the bristles. ‘Did you believe Sabina when she said she could not recall how Nicholas came by his injury? They were husband and wife.’
‘She also said theirs was an odd marriage, with no affection. Perhaps she was telling the truth, and they never enjoyed each other’s body.’
Michael shook his head. ‘There is a lot we are not being told here. And I do not like it.’
CHAPTER 4
Daylight did not last long in December, and Bartholomew felt time was slipping away far too fast that morning. The bells were already chiming for the next office, and the Gilbertines were preparing themselves by humming and clearing their throats. He begged hot water from one of the cooks, and washed his hands, trying to rinse away the odour of death that clung to them. He did not want to visit Mayor Spayne smelling like a cadaver.
‘There is Father Simon,’ said Michael, pointing to where the arrogant priest was hurrying towards St Katherine’s Chapel. ‘I shall have a few words with him while you change.’
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew.
Michael indicated a stain that had not been on Bartholomew’s tunic before he had examined the two bodies. ‘When you resume your duties as Corpse Examiner in Cambridge, we shall have to invest in some kind of apron. Now you own decent clothes, you need to take better care of them.’
‘I meant why do you want to speak to Simon?’
‘Because he was the one who found Aylmer’s body, and we know from experience that those who discover a corpse sometimes have additional information to impart.’
Cynric had anticipated his master’s need to exchange a soiled tunic for a clean one, and was waiting with a spare. Bartholomew removed the dirty garment and donned the replacement as he walked with Michael to intercept Simon. The priest was not pleased to be waylaid in the yard, claiming he had been warming up his voice in the refectory, and that standing in the cold might reduce its effectiveness.
‘A cup of claret usually works for me,’ said Michael, who was also proud of his musical talents. ‘It combats chilly weather very nicely. But tell me what happened when you found Aylmer.’
‘Now?’ Simon’s eyes strayed towards the chapel. ‘I might be late.’
‘It will not take long, and I am sure you are eager to co-operate with the bishop’s investigation.’
Simon sighed. ‘Very well, if you put it like that. It happened yesterday morning, as you know. We were quartered in the guest-hall’s main chamber – Aylmer, de Wetherset, I and a dozen others. The bells rang for prime, and we either went to the chapel or left the convent for business in the city. Aylmer walked with me to the chapel. When the service was over, everyone else went straight to the refectory for breakfast, but I was cold and wanted a thicker shift. When I arrived, there was Aylmer, slumped across his bed with a knife in his back. There was blood… ’
‘You did not see him leave the chapel before you?’
‘I was praying, Brother. I did not notice anything at all, except Whatton singing flat all through the Magnificat. When I saw Aylmer’s body, I observed two things: he had died counting the gold that was in his purse, and he was holding my chalice – the one I intend to donate to the cathedral.’
‘His gold and your chalice were on the bed with his corpse?’ asked Michael. Simon nodded. ‘Then robbery is unlikely to have been the motive: the thief would not have left such riches behind. What do you think Aylmer was doing with your goblet?’