‘What is your name?’ asked Michael, watching him parry and thrust with an imaginary weapon.
‘Hugh Suttone.’ He pointed to the High Altar, where John Suttone – the cleric they had seen at Kelby’s celebration – was sweeping the floor. ‘That is my brother. He is the Clerk who Rouses the People, and this week he is in charge of the High Altar.’ There was pride in his voice.
‘We are friends of your cousin,’ said Michael. ‘The one who is to be installed as a canon.’
‘Thomas,’ said Hugh, with clear disdain. ‘My brother was offended when Thomas picked Aylmer to be his Vicar Choral. He said it should have been him. Do you think Thomas will choose John now Aylmer is dead? We were talking about it this morning, and John said the situation was looking a bit more hopeful.’
Michael tapped him gently under the chin. ‘Possibly, but you should not say this to anyone else. You may make people think John killed Aylmer, just to get his appointment.’
‘He did not, though,’ said Hugh. ‘I thought the same thing, you see, so I asked him, but he said he has killed no one. He never lies, so he is definitely innocent. Excuse me, Brother. The dean is coming, and I do not want him to lecture me about running in church when I am supposed to be singing.’
He was gone in a flash, leaving Michael quaking with astonished laughter. ‘I should hire him to help me with my investigation. There is something to be said for blunt questions.’
‘Yes, but perhaps not that blunt, Brother.’
Deans were the men who headed a cathedral’s hierarchy, and the office was thus an important one. Lincoln’s was a short man with a perfectly round head, which was bald with the exception of a thin fringe around the sides and back. His eyes were oddly small for the size of his face, which made him appear furtive. A strange clanking sound emanated from his robes as he walked, and Bartholomew saw Hugh dart from the shadows to grab a coin that appeared to have rolled from the dean’s person. He expected the boy to keep it, and was surprised when he trotted to the Head Shrine and dropped it through the railings. Dame Eleanor saw the gesture, too, and patted his shoulder encouragingly.
Three waddling canons intercepted the dean before he could reach Michael and Bartholomew, and the intense, whispered discussion that followed looked as though it might continue for some time, so the two scholars took the opportunity to visit the High Altar while they waited for it to finish, admiring the glitter of gold from a vantage point near Little Hugh’s shrine. When he spotted them, John Suttone came to pass the time of day.
‘I saw you with my young brother,’ he said, with a humourless smile that made him look very like Michaelhouse’s Suttone. ‘He is a rascal, so I hope he was not insolent.’
‘Not today,’ replied Michael. ‘Although the last time we met, he sent us to Kelby’s house when I had actually asked him for directions to Spayne’s.’
John grimaced. ‘He cannot help himself where mischief is concerned. I am sorry I did not make myself known when you tended Flaxfleete on Wednesday, but I had no idea who you were. Bishop Gynewell tells us you have been asked to find Aylmer’s killer – hopefully before the installation ceremony. Is it true?’
Michael nodded. ‘And young Hugh tells me you are not the guilty party, despite the fact that you have a powerful motive – you might benefit from Aylmer’s untimely death.’
John looked alarmed. ‘I have killed no one! And you are wrong to think I have a motive. Cousin Thomas overlooked me once, and there is no reason to suppose he will not do so again.’
‘What about your cathedral colleagues? Do any of them have a reason to kill Aylmer?’
John was surprised by the question. ‘Of course! Most of us prefer the Guild to the Commonalty – an honoured few have even been invited to join its ranks. Conversely, Aylmer was a fully fledged member of the Commonalty, and so naturally people here distrusted him.’
‘Was their “distrust” enough to see him killed?’
‘I imagine so.’ John’s expression became a little spiteful. ‘Will you talk to them all? There are thirty Vicars Choral, ten Poor Clerks, twelve choristers, and a dozen chantry priests. Oh, and there are eight archdeacons, too. You will be busy, Brother.’
‘I have faced greater challenges in the past,’ said Michael, unperturbed. ‘But the dean has finished talking to those three fat canons now. We have not met, so will you introduce us?’
John made a choking sound that Bartholomew assumed was a smothered gulp of laughter at the monk’s description of his new colleagues – or perhaps it was a gasp of disbelief that such a portly fellow should so describe men who were, after all, considerably slimmer than him.
‘His name is Simon Bresley,’ said John, controlling himself. ‘He and the bishop are the only cathedral men who do not stand against the Commonalty. Gynewell refuses to be drawn to either side, while Bresley often accepts invitations to dine with Miller and his cronies.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘Ask him – the rest of us do not understand it at all. Dean Bresley, may I present Brother Michael? And this is his friend Doctor Bartholomew, who tried to save Flaxfleete two nights ago.’
Bresley nodded a polite greeting, but his attention was clearly elsewhere. ‘The music,’ he explained, when Michael asked if anything was amiss. ‘It is so beautiful this morning that one might be forgiven for forgetting that it emanates from the throats of devils.’
John gave another of his grim smiles, as if anticipating what was coming next, then turned to Michael. ‘Some of my High Altar candles were stolen this morning, and I need to replace them. Please excuse me.’
‘Devils,’ repeated the dean when he had gone. ‘And by “devils” I mean Poor Clerks, choristers and Vicars Choral. They may sing like angels, but they swear, fight, spit, talk through the divine offices, and carry swords under their robes. They are more like pirates than men of God.’
‘These are serious charges,’ said Michael. ‘As a canon, I shall speak out against such practices.’
Bresley gazed at him with burning hope. ‘Will you? It would be nice to have someone on my side in the war against sin. Just last week, I was obliged to fine Ravenser and Claypole for rape and being absent from their duties – both very serious matters.’
Bartholomew gazed warily at him. ‘Especially the rape. Who was she?’
‘One of the ladies who lives in the Close,’ explained the dean. ‘There are several of them, and they save the Vicars Choral the bother of going into the city after dark for their vices. Listen!’
Michael cocked his head, although the music was insufficient to distract Bartholomew from his horror at the dean’s revelations. ‘Simon Tunstede’s Gloria,’ said the monk. ‘My favourite setting.’
‘How is it possible that such a heavenly sound can come from such wicked creatures?’ asked the dean. He led them to the Angel Choir, and pointed to the pier above the Head Shrine. ‘One such fiend was turned to stone many years ago.’
Bartholomew started in shock when he saw the carved imp. ‘That is Bishop Gynewell!’
‘Hush!’ breathed Bresley, looking around uneasily. ‘You are not the first to have noticed the similarity, but he does not like it. It is coincidence obviously, since the imp lived many years before Gynewell was born. However, no prelate appreciates being told that he bears an uncanny resemblance to a demon, so watch what you say.’
‘It is a rather unsettling likeness,’ said Michael. ‘No wonder he is sensitive about it.’
‘Cynric will feel vindicated,’ murmured Bartholomew, still gazing up at the statue. ‘He will see it as proof, right down to the horns.’
‘It is a pity you plan to be a non-residentiary canon, Brother,’ said Bresley. ‘You look like the kind of man who knows how to keep order among unruly clerics. I understand you are a proctor.’
Michael nodded. ‘And if my University is ever suppressed, or I despair of scholarship, I shall come here and teach you how to control spirited young men.’