‘Good morning, Brother,’ said Christiana with a smile that made her appear vaguely wanton. She plumped herself down in the place Bartholomew had vacated for the old lady. ‘I thought you had eaten breakfast with the Gilbertines.’
‘I came for ale to slake my thirst,’ replied Michael with the air of a martyr. ‘I shall touch no food; I am not a greedy man.’
‘I am sure of it,’ Christiana replied. Her tone was grave, but her eyes sparkled with mischief. ‘Do you like this tavern? I inherited the building from my mother, and Master Quarrel has rented it from my family for the past thirty years. It is said to be one of the finest inns in the county.’
‘In England,’ said Eleanor, perching on the end of the bench, where there was not really room for her. To avoid being crushed, Christiana shifted closer to Michael than was decent.
‘We have excellent taverns in Cambridge, too,’ said Michael, making no attempt to move away. ‘You must come and sample a few.’
Old Dame Eleanor frowned her puzzlement. ‘How do you know, Brother? I thought our universities forbade alehouses to its scholars – to keep hot-blooded youths away from sober townsfolk.’
‘I am no hot-blooded youth,’ said Michael, aware that Christiana was looking at him with amused eyes. ‘Well, no youth, at least, and–’
‘He is obliged to visit them, to make sure students do not break the rules,’ Bartholomew explained hastily, before the monk could confide something he might later regret. ‘He is our Senior Proctor.’
‘I sensed, the first time I met you, that you were more than a mere monk,’ said Christiana with an expression that was distinctly flirtatious. ‘You are also a man of power, which explains why Bishop Gynewell is so eager to honour you with a prebendal stall.’
‘I do own a certain influence in the University,’ admitted Michael in a modest understatement. ‘Although I am a humble man.’
‘Then we shall leave you to your humble duties,’ said Dame Eleanor, hoisting Christiana to her feet with surprising strength for an elderly woman. ‘Whatever they might be. But St Hugh will wonder what has happened to me if I do not tend his shrine soon. I have prayed there every day for the past sixty years, except when I was stricken with the plague and he cured me.’
‘Were you healed by Bishop Hugh or Little Hugh?’ asked Michael in a transparent attempt to delay their departure. ‘Only I have heard there are more miracles at the tomb of one than the other.’
‘It is not for me to compare them, Brother,’ said Eleanor gently. She turned to her friend. ‘It looks like snow, so you should not tarry here long, Christiana. Go to the market while the weather holds, and then return to the Gilbertines without delay. My old bones sense we are in for a blizzard, and I will worry if I think you are out.’
Christiana smiled fondly as Eleanor hobbled out. ‘She is a very dear lady, although I suspect I am better equipped to deal with a little snow than she is. I am younger and fitter, after all.’
‘Yes, but she is a saint, My Lady,’ said Quarrel seriously. ‘And blizzards mean nothing to them. I imagine she could quell one with a mere wave of her hand, if she were so inclined. Would you like Joseph to accompany you? With Miller’s Market so close, there are far too many rough types descending on our city.’
‘I will escort you,’ offered Michael chivalrously, standing and proffering a sturdy arm. ‘Matt needs a bit of ribbon for his spare tunic, and I always like exploring new markets.’
Christiana smiled and stretched out an elegant finger to touch his arm. ‘No, Brother. You must repair to the cathedral and be fitted with your canonical vestments. Who knows, perhaps St Hugh will touch your heart and order you to remain in Lincoln, as he did with Dame Eleanor all those years ago. Then we might have many outings together.’
She left, with Joseph carrying her basket. Only when her graceful figure could no longer be seen did Michael turn his attention back to the landlord. ‘So, you have no idea how Nicholas Herl or Flaxfleete came to be poisoned?’
‘None at all,’ said Quarrel firmly. ‘And I assure you it was nothing to do with my beverages. I am heartily sorry for both deaths, but my wine and ale are innocent of harming any man.’
CHAPTER 5
Michael and Bartholomew left the Swan and walked up the hill towards the cathedral. Bartholomew gazed at it, admiring the way it loomed above the city, dominating its steep, narrow streets. Then he skidded on some rotten vegetable parings, and focussed his attention on the road instead, noting that there seemed to be more unemployed men in the upper reaches of the city than there were lower down. They clamoured at the scholars as they passed, offering labour in exchange for food.
As they ascended, Michael began to pant like a man twice his age, and even Bartholomew was forced to admit that the climb was a stiff one. They passed a group of pilgrims attempting to make the journey on their knees, and Michael remarked tartly that reaching the summit on foot was penance enough. Several took him at his word and stood in relief.
‘I think Quarrel was telling the truth,’ said Bartholomew, waiting while the monk caught his breath. ‘You could see his was a respectable tavern, and he would not risk what must be a good living to dispatch someone like Nicholas. If Nicholas had been stabbed in an alley, I might say Quarrel had rid himself of an unwanted customer, but he would never do it by poisoning a man’s ale. And I do not think he tampered with Kelby’s wine for the same reason.’
‘I am inclined to agree. So, someone else must have taken advantage of the unattended barrel. Kelby was drunk, and probably did not order the third keg discreetly, so the killer would have known exactly where it was going. I can only assume that one of the Commonalty did it, intending to strike a fatal blow at the Guild. Or should we assess Ursula de Spayne’s possible role a little more carefully?’
‘Did she have time? She was answering the door to us when the barrel would have been poisoned.’
‘Actually, she was not. First, Quarrel said the wine sat by the door for an hour before Joseph delivered it, so she may have already done her worst by the time she spoke to us. Secondly, she took ages to reply to your knock, so perhaps she was still out – in the process of slipping through her back door – when you were trying to summon her to the front.’
‘So, she saw the keg, guessed it was destined for Kelby, and slipped the poison – which she just happened to have with her – inside? Then she re-stoppered the barrel so no one would notice it had been broached, and dashed home to talk to us about noisy neighbours?’
‘Well, someone must have had poison to hand.’
‘She was not breathless,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘And she would have been, had she been racing up and down these hills. I do not think it was her.’
‘Then perhaps it was her brother,’ said Michael. ‘I met a fellow Benedictine yesterday, and he maintains very strongly that Spayne was at his priory from about two o’clock on Wednesday afternoon. But when I pushed him, he admitted that they were busy with sacred offices all day. In essence, Spayne could have slipped out, doctored the barrel and returned with no one the wiser. Thus Spayne has no real alibi, and he and his sister are the obvious suspects for Flaxfleete’s murder.’
‘How could Spayne have known that Kelby would want more wine, and that the keg would be left in a place where tampering was possible?’
‘He lives here, Matt. He probably knew exactly what Kelby had ordered – Kelby may even have told him, just to gloat. And Quarrel strikes me as a man of habit, so it would not take a fortune-teller to know that he would haul his keg from his cellar and leave it for his lad to deliver.’