‘What happened to Dalderby?’ asked Bartholomew, before she could quiz him further. Squeamishly, he did not want to see what would happen when the saintly old lady learned of the sheriff’s fondness for having the wheels of justice oiled.
‘He suffered a hard blow to the head,’ replied Lungspee, raking dirty fingers through his long hair. ‘It occurred outside Spayne’s house. He managed to stagger to Kelby, but said nothing before he died. It is a pity, since his death and Flaxfleete’s mean a shift in the balance of power.’
‘This horrible feud!’ said Dame Eleanor with considerable feeling. ‘I am heartily sick of it!’
‘I shall do my best to avert a crisis,’ said Lungspee, although he did not sound very keen. ‘However, my sergeants have not been paid for two months, and they are becoming slow to follow orders.’
‘I assume you intend to investigate Dalderby’s murder, Sheriff,’ said Dame Eleanor coolly. ‘Or do you intend to pretend it did not happen?’
Lungspee grimaced. ‘He almost certainly stabbed Chapman, so the culprit will be a member of the Commonalty or their supporters. I will ask a few questions, but I doubt I will ever learn the truth.’
‘Were there any other wounds on him?’ asked Bartholomew. If the fellow had been sufficiently recovered from his shooting to bribe sheriffs and ambush relic-sellers, then he was fit enough to stand in a dark garden and loose arrows at monks and physicians.
‘I did not look,’ said Lungspee. ‘There was no need, not having seen the crack in his skull. Why?’
‘He is a physician,’ explained Eleanor. ‘They are trained to ask odd questions. But it is nearing dusk, and I should return to my shrines for vespers. Will you escort me, Christiana?’
Before she left, Christiana showed Bartholomew and Cynric a small wooden carving of a soldier. ‘I bought this for young Hugh today, and I cannot wait to give it to him. He will adore it, and it always gives me pleasure to see gifts so happily accepted.’
‘Father Simon wrote some loving words to your mother today, lady,’ said Cynric before Bartholomew could stop him. ‘In a prayer.’
Christiana was surprised and touched. ‘How kind. He always was fond of her.’
‘I am sure of it,’ said Cynric blandly. ‘Very fond, I should think.’
It was dark by the time Bartholomew left the Pultria. He could have forced his way through the crowds that had gathered to watch Flaxfleete’s cortege, but the news of Dalderby’s murder had unsettled him, and he did not want to draw attention to himself. He decided it was safer to maintain a low profile.
‘Quite right,’ said de Wetherset, when he voiced his concern. ‘The city is often uneasy, but I detect something especially nasty in the air today. The deaths of Flaxfleete, Aylmer, Herl and now Dalderby have caused ripples that force men to take sides, even those who would prefer to remain neutral.’
Suttone agreed. ‘And it would not do for us to make a bid for escape in the middle of a funeral, anyway. It will look as though we do not care about the soul of the deceased.’
‘The crowds will be gone in an hour, and we can walk back to the convent together,’ said de Wetherset. ‘I doubt anyone will attack five of us, especially if one is a Suttone.’
‘You are making the situation sound worse than it is,’ objected Simon. ‘It is uneasy, not perilous.’
‘Matthew and Cynric would not agree,’ said Suttone. ‘Look what happened to them.’
So, it was well past four o’clock before de Wetherset declared the throng thin enough to allow them to leave. A spiteful wind brought heavy clouds from the north; they blocked out the moon and any light there might have been from the stars. There was a metallic scent in the air, and Bartholomew knew it would snow again that night. It was bitterly cold, and his thick winter cloak was doing little to keep him warm. He felt sorry for the beggars, who were gathering in doorways and the shelter of walls, certain some would freeze to death before dawn.
‘There is Michael,’ said Suttone, pointing down the hill. The monk had hired a boy to light his way with a lantern, although the lad was moving rather too quickly, and had to be called back every few moments. Bartholomew saw it was Hugh, making money after dark with what appeared to be one of the minster’s ceremonial lamps.
‘Gynewell came to see me this afternoon,’ said Michael breathlessly, when their paths converged. ‘I have been ordered to look into Tetford’s death now, as well as Aylmer’s. He could have saved himself the journey: I feel honour-bound to look into it, anyway, as Tetford was my deputy. Furthermore, Bishop de Lisle is sure to want to know who killed his nephew, especially since Tetford came to me last night and claimed he was about to turn over a new leaf.’
Simon laughed derisively. ‘And you believed him? Really, Brother!’
‘I did believe him,’ said Michael. ‘I questioned his colleagues today, and he did close his tavern and sell his wine. His good intentions may not have lasted, but he was in earnest yesterday.’
‘Did you ever visit his alehouse?’ asked Simon. ‘If so, you will know it was a lucrative business. He would have had to be very serious about reforming to give that up. I doubt he had it in him.’
‘I shall not argue,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘However, I will make sure Bishop de Lisle knows that his nephew’s last moments were full of noble sentiments.’
‘However, these noble sentiments were expressed while he was giving you a poison-filled wineskin,’ said Bartholomew, so only the monk could hear.
‘And it is equally possible that the contents were intended for him,’ Michael muttered back. ‘Whatever the truth, I intend to find it, no matter where it leads.’
‘Archdeacon Ravenser has the tavern now,’ said Cynric. ‘He invited us to visit it tonight, Brother. Perhaps we should go, so you can see it for yourself. We should be safe enough. After all, what harm can befall us in the Cathedral Close?’
‘I shall accompany you,’ said de Wetherset, while Bartholomew regarded the book-bearer askance: some of their best suspects for the previous night’s attack were officers in the minster. ‘I have never been in the Tavern in the Close, and I do not want my future colleagues to consider me aloof.’
‘You have lived in Lincoln for years,’ said Michael, surprised. ‘Surely you have been to this alehouse before? It is very … well known.’
‘I have not,’ declared de Wetherset. ‘Such places nearly always smell of wet dog, an odour I find inordinately distasteful. However, I shall put up with the unpleasantness this evening, just so I can say I have been, should anyone ever ask.’
‘Then I will come, too,’ announced Suttone. ‘What is good enough for an ex-Chancellor is good enough for one of his successors.’
‘They have no idea what they are letting themselves in for,’ said Simon, watching Suttone and de Wetherset began to retrace their steps. ‘Shall we tell them?’
‘Wild, is it?’ asked Cynric keenly. ‘I like a tavern where a man can tell whatever tales he pleases.’
‘You could say it was wild,’ said Simon, regarding him wryly. ‘I do not want to be caught there by Gynewell, though. He does not approve of it. I am going home.’
‘You will walk to the Gilbertine convent alone?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘In the dark?’
‘Yes, and the sooner the better. I can feel snow in the air already.’
‘Be careful, then,’ warned Michael. ‘Do not forget what happened to us last night. We still have no idea who was responsible.’
‘My chief suspect is Spayne,’ murmured Cynric softly to Bartholomew.
Simon had sharper ears than the book-bearer had expected, and he heard the comment. ‘I sincerely doubt it. He has never done that sort of thing before, and he has had plenty of provocation.’
‘From whom?’ asked Michael.
‘Langar is not always a reasonable or pleasant ally, and their rival Kelby can be nasty. I would be astonished if Spayne would attack you two after a few days, but has put up with them for years.’