‘Then anyone might have done it?’ asked Miller. ‘Anyone who knew which grains to use?’ When Bartholomew nodded, he grimaced his disappointment. Then he blew his nose in a piece of linen, and shoved it up his sleeve to use again later. The physician looked away, revolted.
‘Tetford had some in his possession when he died,’ said Michael casually. ‘But he is dead, so we have no way of knowing whether he was aware of the fact.’
‘Tetford,’ mused Miller softly. ‘He was an unpredictable devil. He told me he planned to close his tavern and buy no more of Lora’s ale, but would not say why. Then Ravenser renewed the Close’s order for ale, so all is well again.’
Langar walked to the window, flung open the shutter and stared out, gazing thoughtfully into the yard below. Michael started to ask something else, but Miller raised an authoritative hand, and the monk faltered into silence. Sabina watched Bartholomew bathe Chapman’s arm without a word, and it seemed the Commonalty was used to being quiet when Langar was deliberating. The tension was stifling, and just when Bartholomew felt he could stand it no longer, the lawyer spoke.
‘You seem to think Tetford killed Flaxfleete and Nicholas, because you found poison among his belongings, but you are wrong. First, he was not brave enough. Secondly, he liked Flaxfleete, because Flaxfleete donated wine to his brothel. Thirdly, Nicholas once gave him a shilling when he was destitute, and he never forgot the kindness. Fourthly, he seldom read, so I doubt he knew what the physician has just told us about the poison. And fifthly, he was in holy orders, which moderated his behaviour to a degree: he would never have committed murder and damned his immortal soul.’
‘The cathedral,’ said Miller bitterly. ‘That is the cause of this trouble. Aylmer was perfectly normal until he began frequenting the minster. Then he started to repent his sins, and other such nonsense.’
‘You probably think we killed Flaxfleete to avenge Aylmer,’ said Langar, ‘but we did not. We have allowed his murder and Nicholas’s to go unpunished, because we do not want a bloodbath.’
‘We debated it for hours,’ elaborated Miller, ‘but Langar said that if we kill a guildsman, the situation would spin out of control, and he says we cannot be sure of winning an all-out war yet. I think we can, but he does not.’
‘There is no point in risking all on a battle with an uncertain outcome,’ said Langar irritably. ‘Besides, I do not want random guildsmen dispatched. I want the real killer.’
‘What about Dalderby?’ asked Michael. ‘Did someone in the Commonalty kill him?’
Langar pursed his lips. ‘I have just explained why it is unwise to engage in unfocused violence, and you immediately ask that question. Of course we did not kill him, although Kelby thinks we did.’
Miller was becoming restless. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Chapman is on the road to recovery?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘As long as he is not plied with salves from anonymous donors again.’
‘We do not know who did that, either,’ said Miller. ‘Langar says the “crone” I saw was wearing a disguise, so it could have been anyone. Even a man.’
The comment sparked a three-way debate between Langar, Miller and Sabina as to which guildsman or cathedral official might have delivered henbane to an ailing man, and Michael inflamed the discussion by suggesting several names. He moved away, drawing the others with him and shooting Bartholomew a glance that said he was to question Chapman while his friends were preoccupied. Bartholomew hastened to oblige, leaning close to the relic-seller so his voice would not carry.
‘This chalice you sold Father Simon,’ he said, trying to keep the urgency from his voice. ‘We found another five last night, virtually identical to it.’
Chapman gaped at him. ‘That is impossible! The cup I sold Simon is unique.’
‘You lied when you said you bought it in Huntingdon, though. It was one of the items stolen by Shirlok. So how did it come to be in your possession?’
Chapman was not well enough to prevaricate. His expression was resigned. ‘All right, I admit the Hugh Chalice was part of Shirlok’s hoard – although he did not know it – but it surfaced later, as stolen goods always do. I sold it to Simon, because it is sacred, and I knew he could be trusted to donate it to the cathedral.’
‘I thought you did not like the cathedral.’
Chapman’s voice dropped further still, so Bartholomew had to strain to hear him. ‘I do not like the men who infest the minster, but I revere St Hugh with all my heart. I wanted his chalice where it belongs – at his tomb. I did it for the benefit of future generations.’
Bartholomew was not sure whether to believe him. ‘And the mark of the cup on your shoulder?’
‘That is part of it,’ said Chapman. ‘I–’
‘What are you whispering about?’ demanded Miller, breaking away from Michael when he became aware of what was happening. ‘It had better not be anything about my import-export business. I do not want to go on trial for theft again, just because I happen to give you the occasional–’
‘The occasional drink in the Angel,’ interrupted Langar sharply.
Michael drew his own conclusions from what was not quite said. ‘Because you give him the occasional item to sell for you? Does this largess extend to objects from a hoard that disappeared twenty years ago? One that contained white pearls, like the two you gave Matt?’
‘No,’ said Miller coldly, while Bartholomew came to his feet fast. Michael’s question had been too blunt, and trouble was inevitable. ‘We do not mean those objects.’
Langar was gazing at Michael with eyes that were hard slits. ‘Those pearls came from an old woman who needed ready money to repair her roof. They are most certainly not part of any hoard that went missing twenty years ago.’
‘No,’ agreed Miller, but unconvincingly. He began paring his nails with his dagger, but his hands were unsteady and Bartholomew saw blood. ‘And neither did the Hugh Chalice. It is not the same cup that Shirlok agreed to steal from Geddynge.’
‘Agreed to steal?’ pounced Michael.
‘He means arranged to steal,’ said Langar, stepping in quickly to minimise the damage, while Bartholomew thought that manoeuvring Miller into a position of power in the Commonalty must have been a daunting task. He decided Langar was either a genius or blessed with the patience of a saint.
‘It should be in Lincoln,’ said Chapman softly. ‘Not Geddynge. It belongs with St Hugh.’
‘Does St Hugh really want it?’ asked Michael. ‘It has been handled by some very devious folk.’
Miller led the way down the stairs and opened the door to usher the scholars out, while Sabina remained with Chapman, who said he felt weak and needed a woman’s soothing touch. Trailing at the end of the procession, Bartholomew was about to step into the yard, when he happened to glance along the hallway to his left and notice the cellar door ajar. He wondered whether it was the same one that Cynric had complained about not being able to open. Then his stomach clenched in alarm when he noticed a familiar – and far from pleasant – odour.
Michael and Langar were engaged in a sniping, dangerous debate about Shirlok’s hoard. They were intent on worming information out of each other, and the confrontation looked set to continue for a few moments more, so Bartholomew told Miller that he had left the knife he used for cutting bandages with Chapman. Miller indicated, with an impatient flick of his head, that he should go and fetch it. Heart thudding, Bartholomew stamped up the stairs, then tiptoed down them again and approached the cellar door. The smell verged on the overpowering.
He listened hard, hearing Michael’s voice raised imperiously and Langar clamouring to make a point. He glanced down the steps and saw a lamp burning in the room at the bottom. There were soft, scraping sounds, too. Someone was there. He began to descend, aware that he would have no excuse if he were caught. He moved as quickly and quietly as he could, then almost ruined his efforts by skidding on ice near the bottom. It was cold in the cellar, and a damp patch had frozen hard.