‘The two friars?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I do not recall them being at the trial.’
‘Once the cup was lost to them, they returned to London with their tails between their legs,’ said de Wetherset. ‘I heard a rumour that they never arrived – God struck them down for their carelessness.’
‘Or they were killed by whoever stole the chalice,’ suggested Michael. ‘Shirlok.’
‘So what did happen to Shirlok’s chalice?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘Was it returned to Geddynge, because it was Geddynge’s priest who reported it missing? I am sure it was recorded as his property at the trial, regardless of who has real legal title to the thing now.’
Michael snapped his fingers. ‘I remember! Everything Shirlok was alleged to have stolen disappeared into thin air when it was in the process of being returned to its proper owners. Shirlok’s treasure vanished, and no one ever found out what happened to it.’
De Wetherset was smug. ‘Precisely, Brother! So, now do you see now why I have not wasted my time examining Simon’s cup? With that sort of history, how can it be a genuine relic?’
‘Will you come to the cathedral with me, Matt?’ asked Michael, as the ex-Chancellor swaggered away up the hill. ‘De Wetherset is not the only man due to try on his silken cope today, and I do not trust anyone else to give an honest opinion about my appearance. Strangers might have me processing up the nave in a garment that makes me look fat.’
‘Another time,’ said Bartholomew, knowing from experience that fittings tended to take a long time with Michael. The monk was particular about such matters, and Bartholomew wanted to spend the day browsing the minster’s library. He glanced wistfully at Spayne’s house as they approached it. Because the mayor and his sister were away, the window shutters had been left closed, although smoke still billowed from the chimney. The servants were assiduously following Ursula’s instructions to keep a fire burning, to melt the snow on the damaged roof.
‘There is the Swan tavern,’ said Michael, pointing to a large building that stood slightly downhill from Spayne’s abode. Above its door was a sign on which a black bird had been painted. It was not an attractive specimen, and the artist had furnished it with a set of teeth that made it look deformed. ‘Where Flaxfleete bought his tainted wine, and where Nicholas drank ale before he died. Shall we go inside?’
‘We shall not,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘I do not want to be poisoned.’
‘No one will harm us,’ said Michael, with far more confidence than Bartholomew felt was warranted. ‘My throat is parched, and a cup of ale would solve that problem and put me in a sober frame of mind for trying on priestly garments.’
Bartholomew followed him with serious misgivings. Inside, the inn was warm and surprisingly respectable. The floor was clean, the main room was fragrant with freshly brewed ale, and the benches and tables were of decent quality. There were even a few women present, indicating it was not some rough city tavern, but an establishment that was rather more genteel. Nevertheless, Bartholomew was still startled to see Lady Christiana and Dame Eleanor there, drinking watered wine from delicately wrought goblets and eating honey-bread from a silver platter. He moved quickly to block them from Michael’s line of vision, sure someone would notice if the monk leered at Christiana in such a public place.
The taverner bustled up to them, eyes disappearing into the fat of his face as he smiled a welcome. ‘I am glad you came,’ he said, ushering them to seats near the fire. ‘You are Brother Michael and Doctor Bartholomew, friends of Master Suttone of Michaelhouse. We are honoured to have another Suttone in our fine city. My name is Robert Quarrel, landlord, and I am delighted to make your acquaintance. What will you have?’
‘Ale and bread,’ said Michael. ‘No cheese, though – we slender men tend to avoid cheese.’
Quarrel beamed uncomfortably, not sure how to respond. In the end, he settled for clapping his hands and repeating the order to a pot-boy.
Michael raised a hand to prevent the lad from leaving. ‘I saw you on Wednesday night.’
The boy smiled uneasily. ‘I saw you, too, sir. I carried a keg of claret to Master Kelby’s house, and you were talking to him at his door. Later, someone started a rumour that Flaxfleete was poisoned and that our wine was the culprit.’
‘Do not say such things!’ cried Quarrel, anxiety stamped across his chubby features. ‘I am a respectable man – I have served as Lincoln’s mayor and its bailiff. I supply wine to many wealthy patrons and have never had any trouble before. The poison must have come from somewhere else.’
‘It was definitely in the keg before it arrived at Kelby’s house,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Drips on his floor attested to the fact that someone had tampered with the seal and it was leaking. Where do you store your barrels?’
‘In the cellar,’ said Quarrel. ‘And no one goes down there except me. I fetched the cask myself, and put it by the door, ready. However, I was enjoying dinner with de Wetherset, and left it for Joseph to deliver instead of seeing to it myself, as I should have done. Perhaps someone did something to it then.’
‘You left it unattended?’ asked Michael. ‘Were you not afraid someone might make off with it?’
‘It was not unattended, exactly,’ objected Quarrel. ‘It was by the door, and Joseph would have noticed someone stealing it.’
Joseph looked sheepish. ‘I did not watch it constantly, though. Ned went to take Dame Eleanor back to the Gilbertine Priory and left me in charge. I am afraid I was distracted by patrons wanting to talk.’
‘Why did Ned escort Dame Eleanor home?’ asked Bartholomew, glancing to where she sat. ‘Is it usual for pot-boys to abandon their duties to help old ladies?’
Joseph looked defensive. ‘It was cold that night, and we were afraid she might slip on ice, so Ned offered to go with her. She is a saint, you see, and it is always wise to curry favour from such folk. She is old and will die soon, and you never know when you might need to petition the saints for a miracle in this world.’
‘We watch her because she is dear to us,’ corrected Quarrel, slightly shiftily. Bartholomew wondered whether it had been the landlord’s own convictions that the boy had so guilelessly repeated. ‘And I always encourage my lads to do their Christian duty by helping others.’
‘How much wine did Kelby buy from you?’ asked Michael, smothering a smile.
‘Three kegs,’ replied Quarrel. ‘I had delivered two earlier in the day, and he told me he would send for the last one if it was required – he did not want to pay for three if he only used two. But they were celebrating Flaxfleete’s acquittal, so more was imbibed than was anticipated. The keg was not waiting by the porch for long, Brother – an hour at the most.’
‘What can you tell me about Nicholas Herl?’ asked Michael, changing the subject.
Quarrel seemed surprised. ‘He was a bitter man, but he became oddly gleeful in the month before he died. He usually drank in the Angel, which suited us – we would rather not have belligerent patrons if we can help it – but he chose to come here the night he died. He was sullen and angry over something. He drank too much, and was found the next morning in the Braytheford Pool. The priests said it was self-murder, although his wife does not believe them.’
‘He was also poisoned,’ said Bartholomew baldly, seeing no reason to keep it quiet.
‘Sweet Jesus, no!’ Quarrel was clearly appalled, and glanced around furtively before lowering his voice. ‘I hope you will not make this public, because it could ruin me. You can see for yourself that this is a respectable place. We do not murder our customers!’
‘It does seem pleasant,’ agreed Michael, looking around appreciatively. He suddenly became aware that Christiana was there. ‘Very pleasant.’
Bartholomew watched with a sinking heart as Christiana sensed she was being admired, and turned around. She raised her eyebrows when she saw Michael, and whispered something in her companion’s ear. Then she stood and came towards them, Dame Eleanor in her wake. She glided, rather than walked, and Bartholomew was left with the feeling that she knew the eyes of every man present were on her, and that she expected nothing less. Pointedly, he fixed his own attention on her friend. Dame Eleanor had a kind, brown face and eyes that twinkled. He stood, to offer her his seat.