They met Bishop Gynewell near the market called the Pultria. He was hopping up the hill like a mountain goat, Dean Bresley labouring at his side. He carried the equipment needed for Extreme Unction, and Bresley said they had been summoned to Robert Dalderby, who had suffered a grave wound at the butts. Surgeon Bunoun professed himself in fear for his patient’s life.
‘Did he?’ asked Bartholomew, astonished. ‘Does he lose many victims with minor wounds, then?’
‘No more than any other leech,’ replied Gynewell. ‘He often recommends last rites to his patients, and when they recover, he demands a higher fee for snatching them from the jaws of death.’
‘His tactics have made him extremely rich,’ said Bresley. His expression was wistful. ‘He owns some lovely gold spoons. I have had them in my hands on several occasions. I often meet him when Miller invites me to dine, although he has an unpleasant habit of talking about diseases while we eat.’
‘I know someone else who does that,’ said Michael, glancing at Bartholomew. ‘It is probably a ploy to put us off our food, so there will be more for themselves.’
Gynewell frowned uneasily. ‘I hope you are not planning to walk to the Gilbertine Priory alone.’
‘It is only just four o’clock,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Hardly late. And it is not even dark.’
‘It will be soon,’ said Gynewell, passing his sacred vessels to Bresley. ‘I shall escort you.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew hastily, not wanting the bishop’s company once night had fallen. The visit to the palace had unsettled him, and although he knew he should not allow Cynric’s suspicions to interfere with his reason, he felt the prelate had too many odd habits to be ignored.
‘They do not need such cosseting, My Lord,’ said Bresley impatiently. ‘No one will harm them. They are friends of the Suttone clan.’
‘Why are the Suttones so revered?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘They do not live in Lincoln, and nor have they taken sides in the city’s quarrels.’
‘And there you have your answer,’ replied Gynewell. ‘If they did reside in the city, people would see their faults, and the veneration would fade. But they are far enough distant that they can do no wrong. Also, the fact that they stand aloof from the dispute is important: both sides hope they might be recruited, which would tip the balance permanently. However, the family know what will happen if they declare an allegiance, and they have no wish for bloodshed.’
‘They are good men,’ said Bresley. He shifted the bishop’s accoutrements in his arms, and a silver brooch dropped from somewhere inside his robes to clatter to the ground. Gynewell pounced on it, and Bartholomew was bemused when he slipped it in his own purse. Bresley did not seem to notice.
‘I think I will come with you, Brother,’ determined the bishop. ‘Just to be on the safe side.’
‘People know he is a friend of the Suttones,’ insisted Bresley. ‘He will be quite safe. And what happens when you reach the convent. Will he walk back with you, so you are not alone?’
‘Cynric is waiting near the High Bridge,’ lied Michael. ‘We do not need any other guard.’
‘I wish that were true,’ said Bartholomew, when Gynewell and Bresley had gone. ‘There was a good deal of ill-feeling at the butts, and folk see you as an addition to the cathedral’s ranks.’
‘They would not have noticed me at all, if Gynewell had not ordered me to investigate a murder. I would have been with Suttone, being feted as the friend of a man who hails from such a well-loved family. He is not obliged to interview criminals who call themselves Vicars Choral, and nor is he obliged to sit with a demon and eat cakes that sear the inside of his mouth. It still hurts.’
‘Gynewell unnerves me,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He sounds sensible and decent, but his appearance and habits are hard to overlook.’
‘I would have taken issue with you this morning, but the cake incident has made me reconsider. I found I did not want him with us on that long, lonely road to the Gilbertine Priory.’ Michael chuckled ruefully. ‘We are worse than Cynric! What do we expect him to do? Rip out our innards with his claws? Spear us with his pitchfork?’
Bartholomew laughed. ‘We will be ashamed of ourselves in the morning, when we are not surrounded by shadows. Poor Gynewell!’
‘We should not discuss him now, or we will be nervous wrecks by the time we reach the convent. We shall talk about the Hugh Chalice instead. Are Gynewell and Chapman right, and it is making its own way to where it thinks it belongs?’
‘It will only be able to do that if it is genuinely holy,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And you said it is not.’
‘But I cannot be sure,’ said Michael, exasperated. ‘I cannot be sure about anything in this case. I do not recall ever being so confused.’
Bartholomew considered what they knew. ‘Aylmer may have stolen the thing from Flaxfleete, although we can hardly ask either of them now, but we do know that he died with it in his hands. It was clearly important to him, which means it may hold the key to his murder.’
‘True. I will talk to Lady Christiana again, and ask whether she has heard any rumours about it. It is lodging with the Gilbertines, after all, and that is where she lives.’
‘No, I will ask her,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘You can talk to the gossiping Hamo instead.’
Michael gazed at him with round green eyes. ‘That is not fair.’
‘But it is wise. I have seen the way you look at her.’
Michael gave a sudden leer. ‘All right, I admit to admiring her. She is a splendid woman, and it does no harm to enjoy the beauty of God’s creations.’
‘Then enjoy them a little more discreetly. I am not the only one who has noticed you think God has done a rather good job with this particular part of His handiwork.’
Michael was dismissive of the advice. ‘She will be perfectly safe with me.’
‘But will you be safe with her?’ mused Bartholomew. He stopped walking and turned suddenly. They were by the High Bridge, and dark alleys full of hovels radiated off to the left and right. It was not a respectable part of the city. ‘What was that?’
‘Rats,’ said Michael, after a few moments. ‘This city is full of them, especially near the river.’
They crossed the bridge, and strode through Wigford, Michael for once making no complaint about the rapid pace the physician set. Lights gleamed inside houses, and in several churches evening prayers were in progress. They caught snatches of Latin as they walked. Bartholomew glanced behind him frequently, although it was now too dark to see whether anything was amiss.
‘There is the Gilbertine Priory at last,’ breathed Michael in relief, when he spotted the familiar gate looming in the blackness. ‘I wish you had chosen us lodgings nearer the city. If you had, I might not have been ordered to look into the murder of this one’s guests.’
‘Do not be so sure. When I was in the library, John Suttone told me the Gilbertines are not the only ones with problems on that front. There was a stabbing at the Dominican Friary last night, and two men brained each other with kitchen pots at the Carmelite convent.’
Michael regarded him with troubled eyes. ‘Yet more murders for me to investigate?’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Sheriff Lungspee caught the Dominicans’ knifeman, while the two who fought with pans are in the Gilbertines’ hospital. They–’ He stopped a second time.
‘You are making me uneasy, Matt,’ complained Michael, walking faster. ‘Here is the door. Hammer with the pommel of your dagger, while I make sure no one creeps up behind us.’
Bartholomew did as he was told, but there was no reply. Then he thought he saw a shadow next to the Church of Holy Innocents opposite. He peered into the darkness, but nothing moved and he supposed he had imagined it. He turned to the gate and knocked again.
‘No one is going to answer,’ he said, when a third pounding met with no response. ‘They must be singing, so cannot hear us.’
‘What shall we do?’ asked Michael. ‘Shout?’