‘Admiring it,’ replied Simon. ‘Possibly as a prelude to stealing it. Anyone in Lincoln will tell you he had sticky fingers, and it would not be the first time he made off with another man’s property. But we cannot ask him now he is dead, and I dislike maligning a man who cannot defend himself. I refuse to condemn him out of hand.’
‘Where is it now?’ asked Michael.
‘I put it on St Katherine’s altar for safekeeping. Even the most hardened of thieves will think twice about taking it now – it would earn him eternal damnation. You probably noticed it when you were in the chapel. It does not look like much, and is showing its age, but holiness still shines through it.’
‘How did you come by it?’ asked Bartholomew, straightening his clean tunic.
‘I bought it from a relic-seller. Do you know its history? How it was in St Hugh’s hand when he died in London? Many years later, it was decided that it should be at his shrine in Lincoln, and two friars were given the task of carrying it north. But it was stolen from them in a wicked act of theft.’
‘Was it stolen before they left London?’ asked Michael. ‘Or when they arrived in Lincoln?’
‘Neither. It went missing on the journey between the two places. In fact, the crime took place near Cambridge, a town they were obliged to pass en route. I cannot remember the exact details – this happened twenty years ago, so my memory is excusably hazy – but I recall hearing that these two hapless priests fell asleep under a tree, wearied from the distance they had walked that day, when the chalice was removed from their possession.’
‘They travelled on foot?’ asked Bartholomew incredulously. ‘Carrying a sacred relic?’
‘I imagine they did not want to draw attention to themselves with a cavalcade. Anyway, the chalice was stolen, and the thief sold it to a priest in the village of Geddynge – a place that is just a few miles from Cambridge. But Geddynge did not keep it long, because it was stolen again within a few days.’
‘By the same thief?’ asked Michael dubiously.
‘Very possibly. If he knew he could get twenty shillings for it once, then why not retrieve it and sell it for twenty shillings a second time? And a third and a fourth? But no one knows for certain what happened. Eventually, it appeared in the hands of a relic-seller, here in Lincoln.’
‘That was very convenient.’ Bartholomew tried not to sound sceptical of its timely arrival, just when Simon was about to accept a prebendal stall in the cathedral and was of a mind to make a suitable donation. He did not succeed, and the priest regarded him coldly.
‘It is the same chalice. I have never been more certain of anything in my life. And if you do not believe me, then ask Bishop Gynewell. He also senses its sanctity.’
‘He did say he believed it to be genuine,’ acknowledged Michael.
‘Of course he did, because it is true. But if you need more proof, then inspect its markings. As even you will know, there are two icons associated with St Hugh: a pet swan and a chalice engraved with an image of the Baby Jesus. If you look on my chalice, you will see the carving quite clearly.’
‘And you bought it from a relic-seller,’ said Michael. ‘Had you met this man before?’
‘No, he hails from Rome. But I recognised the Hugh Chalice at once, and I am delighted to play a role in putting it where it belongs. The translation will be made on St Thomas’s Day, where the cup will take pride of place in my installation ceremony, in front of a thousand grateful pilgrims.’
Bartholomew remained unconvinced. ‘But it is odd that it should appear now, Father, just when you happen to be in a position to make this spectacular benefaction.’
‘It is not odd – it is a miracle,’ declared Simon, glaring at him. ‘And you can think what you like, but as far as I am concerned the only thing that matters is that this holy thing will soon be in the cathedral, where it belongs.’
‘You do not have a mark on your shoulder, do you?’ asked Bartholomew incautiously. ‘Of a cup.’
Simon regarded him with narrowed eyes. ‘A mark? What are you talking about?’
‘A self-inflicted sign. A scar picked out with ink. One that depicts a chalice.’
Simon regarded him with distaste. ‘I know the sort of self-mutilations to which you refer, and they are favoured by men of lesser intelligence. I am offended that you should ask me such a question, but I am also curious. Why do you think I should let myself be so scarred?’
Bartholomew shrugged. It had been a stupid thing to ask. Simon was a priest, and had no reason to associate himself with Aylmer, Nicholas Herl or Flaxfleete. ‘I have seen others adorned with chalices recently, and your obvious devotion to–’
Simon smiled unexpectedly. ‘You are right about my dedication to St Hugh, but any marks I bear are on my soul, not my skin. Do you want to inspect me?’
‘No, thank you,’ said Michael hastily, when the priest’s robe started to come up, revealing a pair of scaly legs. ‘Your word is good enough for me, and we do not want you to take a chill when you are about to entertain the Gilbertines with your fine voice. Is this relic-seller still in Lincoln?’
‘No,’ replied Simon, adjusting his habit. ‘He left the city as soon as he sold me the chalice.’
‘Why did he approach you to make his sale?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Why not the cathedral, which might have given him more money?’
‘The cathedral has no spare funds, and everyone knows it,’ said Simon scornfully. ‘Do you have any idea how much it costs to maintain a building like that? The relic-seller knew he would get a better price from an individual. He chose me because I have always made my veneration of the saint public, and because it is common knowledge that I am wealthier than most parish priests.’
‘Brother Michael!’ called a cheerful voice behind them. It was Hamo, licking his moist lips. ‘You must attend nones with me, and afterwards, you shall have more Lombard slices. I said we would look after you, and we mean to do it well. You will enjoy your sojourn at our priory, I promise you.’
‘I am sure of it,’ said Michael politely. ‘But I am a man of modest appetite, and I have already eaten seven cakes this morning. That is perfectly sufficient for now. But we were talking about Aylmer’s murder. The bishop asked me to investigate, although you already know this, of course.’
Hamo had the grace to blush. ‘I did hear Gynewell murmur something when I was polishing the door to Prior Roger’s solar.’
Bartholomew was thinking about what Simon – and Sabina – had said about Aylmer’s character. He turned to the priest. ‘Aylmer was a known thief, yet the cathedral said nothing when Suttone made him his Vicar Choral. Why were there no objections?’
‘The appointment of deputies is left to the individual canon,’ explained Simon. ‘Brother Michael will tell you that. The cathedral has no say in the matter.’
‘That is true,’ said Michael, ‘although someone could have mentioned to Suttone that he had appointed a felon, nonetheless. It would have been polite.’
It was Hamo who answered. ‘No one said anything because folk are loath to offend a Suttone by telling him he has made a bad decision. Complaints were certainly aired in Chapter meetings, though, especially by Dean Bresley. Aylmer was disliked, not just because he was a thief, but because he was a member of the Commonalty. That rabble think they can win the town’s heart with their Miller’s Market, but it will take more than free cakes to alleviate the wrongs they have perpetrated.’
‘What wrongs?’ asked Michael.
‘Think carefully before you cast aspersions, Hamo,’ said Simon sharply. ‘It is because of spiteful chatter that this feud has escalated. Remember how God struck down your predecessor, Fat William, for his venal sins? Well, gossip is just as great a transgression. Watch your tongue.’
Michael sighed. ‘I applaud your lofty principles, Father Simon, but if either of you know anything that may help me locate Aylmer’s killer, then you must tell me.’