‘His brother,’ said Cynric softly. ‘His brother, Adam Molendinarius.’
‘The miller,’ translated Bartholomew. ‘Adam the miller.’
‘Adam Miller,’ repeated Cynric. ‘Simon is Adam Miller’s brother.’
‘It is a common name, Cynric, and a common occupation. Although … ’
‘Although Miller had a brother who stood accused with him at the Cambridge court,’ finished Cynric. ‘He was acquitted with the others. Michael told me. I am sure his name was Simon.’
‘Coincidence,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They look nothing alike, and how can you believe a priest and a fellow like Miller are related? Besides, Miller told us himself that his brother is dead – died in prison.’
‘Probably a lie,’ said Cynric, happy to dismiss facts that did not fit his theory. ‘Simon told you he came to Lincoln two decades ago. That means he and Miller fled Cambridge together and came here to rebuild their lives. And Simon – oddly for a religious man – elects to side against the cathedral and with Miller, whom he says is misunderstood and the subject of unkind rumours. I am right here, boy.’
‘What if you are?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What difference does it make?’
‘A lot,’ declared Cynric. ‘Or they would not have gone to such pains to conceal it.’
Bartholomew and Cynric argued about Simon’s possible family ties and past lovers until they reached the room that housed the cathedral’s books, when Cynric fell sullenly silent. The library was open, but neither Ravenser nor John were in it. Bartholomew was tempted to leave scroll and book on one of the desks, but he was bound by his promise to deliver the Hildegard into their hands and no on else’s. Claypole occupied the large table in the centre of the room, in earnest conversation with several friends. He stopped talking when Bartholomew tapped on the door, annoyed by the interruption. The physician noticed he had exchanged his sword for a dagger, and supposed Tetford’s death must have reduced the need for a larger weapons.
‘Try their houses,’ he replied curtly, when Bartholomew asked politely for the duty-librarians’ whereabouts. He looked as though he had taken a leaf out of Ravenser’s book, because he was pale and heavy-eyed, as though he had had one too many cups of wine the previous night. ‘They live in Vicars’ Court.’
‘I am sorry Tetford is dead,’ said Bartholomew, somewhat provocatively. It had occurred to him that Claypole’s obviously delicate health might have been a result of him celebrating the event. Claypole made a moue of impatience when a burly canon called John de Stretle stood to speak. ‘Thank you,’ Stretle said. ‘We are sorry, too.’
‘Very,’ said Claypole insincerely. He lowered his head and pointedly started to whisper again. Bartholomew heard the name ‘Bautre’, and when ‘inept’ followed it, he supposed he was plotting against the man who had been promoted to the post that had been his.
‘We shall miss his running of the Tavern in the Close,’ added Stretle, ignoring Claypole and continuing to address Bartholomew. ‘Although he did inform us yesterday that he planned to shut it. His uncle, Bishop de Lisle, offered some sort of financial incentive for a year of seemly behaviour, but Tetford would eventually have found a way to have the reward and live his life as he pleased. He was a clever fellow, and liked his fun. It is a damned shame he is dead.’
Another fat canon grimaced. ‘I was shocked when he announced his resignation. I felt like shoving a knife in him myself! Life in the Close will not be the same without his genius for entertainment.’
Others nodded heartfelt agreement, and Bartholomew saw it was the loss of lively evenings they mourned, not the man who had provided them.
‘I doubt Ravenser will be a worthy successor,’ predicted Stretle gloomily. ‘John Suttone would have been better, and it is a pity he declined our offer. I thought I made a convincing case, too.’
‘You did,’ said the fat canon. ‘However, while he would have managed the books with consummate skill, he would have imposed too many restrictions for our liking, especially concerning women–’
His words were lost amid a sudden hammering. Claypole had an inkwell, and was banging it on a wall to regain their attention. ‘We came to talk about Bautre, not the damned alehouse. Now, where were we?’
Bartholomew left, trying to mask his distaste for the men and their plotting. He started to feel sorry for Michael, having connections to such a place, before he realised the monk would revel in the intrigues and double-dealing, and might even make them worse. He and Cynric walked around the outside of the cathedral, then followed a paved lane south until they reached the quiet yard known as Vicars’ Court. Ravenser and John were standing in the middle of it, yelling at each other. They stopped when Bartholomew approached. John was stiff and angry, but Ravenser shot the physician a grin that suggested he was glad of the interruption.
‘Dame Eleanor would like to return this,’ said Bartholomew, handing over the book.
‘Good,’ said John, taking it. ‘Father Simon has requested it from tomorrow, as material for his inaugural sermon on the Choirs of Angels.’
‘God’s blood!’ muttered Ravenser. He reeked of wine, despite the early hour. ‘That promises to be tedious. I have read some of Hildegard’s ramblings myself, and they are all but incomprehensible.’
‘It is not worth perusing, then?’ asked John, turning it over in his hands. ‘I thought I might look at it tonight, since the Aristotle is out with the dean, and Gynewell has Dante’s Inferno.’
‘You let the dean have a book?’ asked Ravenser, horrified. ‘Are you mad?’
‘He asked for it,’ said John defensively. ‘And I did tell Gynewell.’
‘Well, if Gynewell knows … ’ Ravenser turned to Bartholomew. ‘We were sorry about Tetford.’
‘Were you?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought you did not like him.’
‘True, but I did not want him dead.’
‘He had closed his tavern and sold his stock,’ said John. ‘I think he was serious about wanting to be a decent Vicar Choral, although the others were sceptical.’
‘Who will benefit from his death?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You, John? It means Michael is now looking for a replacement deputy, as well as Suttone.’
John grimaced. ‘I would like to be promoted, but not at the cost of my life. And the deputies appointed by you Michaelhouse men seem to meet untimely ends.’
‘And I will not benefit, because I am an archdeacon, so senior to a Vicar Choral already,’ added Ravenser. ‘Obviously, neither of us killed Tetford.’
‘I hear you plan to take over his tavern, though,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that was an extremely good motive for murder. By all accounts, it was a lucrative and popular enterprise.
The archdeacon nodded, pleased. ‘The canons asked John to do it, but when he declined, I put myself forward. If Tetford were alive, he would want me to take up where he had left off.’
‘He would not,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘He was frightened of you.’
‘We had a recent – and temporary – misunderstanding over a lady called Rosanna,’ said Ravenser stiffly. ‘But we were friends before she booked us both on the same night and he refused to bow to my seniority, and we would have been friends again, once our tempers had cooled.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew.
‘Anyway, I have laid in a stock of the Gilbertines’ famous rabbit pies and rehired our favourite serving wenches,’ Ravenser went on. ‘I shall open tonight.’
‘You should experience the Tavern in the Close for yourself,’ said John, although there was a gleam of spite in his eye as he spoke – he had not extended the invitation because he was being nice. ‘Bring your friend the monk. You will have an interesting evening, I promise.’
‘Do come,’ said Ravenser, graciously including Cynric in the invitation, too. ‘The ale arrived an hour ago. It is from Lora Boyner, who produces the sweetest brew in the city. And Kelby has donated three kegs of good claret for the occasion.’