The Tarnished Chalice (7 page)

Bartholomew looked to where the book-bearer was pointing and saw a sinister stain beneath one of the beds. He went to inspect it, noting that although an attempt had been made to scrub it away, not much effort had been put into the task. He wondered whether it had been left for a reason – perhaps as a warning to others, or because whoever had been detailed to clean the mess had had an aversion to the blood of a murdered man. People could be superstitious that way.

Suttone continued his lecture on cathedral government. ‘And under Vicars Choral are Poor Clerks, who serve the altars, act as recorders for Chapter meetings, bring the dove and so on.’

‘Bring the dove?’ echoed Bartholomew, bemused.

Suttone shrugged. ‘I am not sure what it means, either, but it is an official post, just like my cousin John’s proper title is Clerk to Rouse the People.’

‘I suppose that means stopping folk from falling asleep
during services,’ surmised Cynric. His expression was one of sympathy. ‘It sounds an onerous duty.’

‘Why did you appoint Aylmer as your Vicar Choral, and not your cousin?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘I imagine a kinsman would expect to be promoted under such circumstances.’

‘I did not want to be accused of nepotism,’ explained Suttone. ‘However, Aylmer is just a family friend, which is slightly different.’

‘He seemed a decent fellow,’ said Michael, not pointing out that it was only very slightly different. ‘Your cousin John.’

Suttone raised his shoulders in a shrug. ‘I barely know him. However, he belongs to a city guild, and I do not approve of those. They tend to condone debauchery.’

‘The Guild of Corpus Christi certainly does,’ said Michael. ‘When we were looking at Flaxfleete’s body, I saw at least three men slumped unconscious across the table.’

‘Dead?’ asked Suttone uneasily.

‘Drunk. I could hear them snoring – and Flaxfleete was the only one who imbibed from the toxic barrel, anyway. They were lucky he was a selfish fellow who declined to serve his friends before drinking himself. And they are fortunate that John took his time filling the jug. Had he been quicker, there would have been more casualties than just Flaxfleete.’

‘You said they accused Ursula de Spayne of tampering with the keg,’ said Suttone. ‘Do you think they were right?’

Michael finished the tonic with a grimace. ‘It is possible, but it would have been a very stupid thing to have done on her part. The dispute between the Spaynes and the Guild seems very bitter, and Flaxfleete’s acquittal has done nothing to soothe the antagonism. Ursula and her brother will be the first suspects any sheriff will explore.’

‘Anger often drives people to do foolish things,’ said
Bartholomew. ‘However, I can tell you that being afflicted with Holy Fire does not make people dash off and burn their enemies’ storerooms – and I am astonished Sheriff Lungspee thinks it did.’

‘So is Spayne, I imagine,’ said Michael. ‘We shall have to be careful when we go to see him tomorrow, and—’ He stopped speaking as someone came to hover near them, as if uncertain of his welcome. ‘God and all His saints preserve us! Is that Richard de Wetherset?’

A heavyset man with iron-grey hair stood in the shadows. He was dressed in a habit that indicated he had taken major orders with the Cistercians, although the robe was of excellent quality and suggested he did not take too seriously his Order’s love-affair with poverty. He was also portly, indicating he did not practise much in the way of abstinence, either. Because it was not a face he had expected to see in Lincoln, it took Bartholomew a moment to place it. De Wetherset had been the University’s Chancellor before he found the duties too onerous and had fled to a quieter life in the Fens. However, he had held sway in Cambridge for several years, and Michael had served as his Junior Proctor before the monk’s meteoric rise to power under de Wetherset’s meeker successor.

Behind de Wetherset was a second man. Like the ex-Chancellor, he was heavily built, and his face was the kind of florid red that suggested too much good living. The skin on his face was puckered, as if marred by some childhood pox, and even in the gloom, Bartholomew detected a pair of unusually pale eyes. He, too, wore a priest’s habit, although his haughty demeanour suggested he regarded himself as something rather more important.

‘
I
intend to be Chancellor of our University one day,’
said Suttone conversationally, when the monk introduced him to de Wetherset.

Michael gazed at him in astonishment. ‘Do you? You have never mentioned this particular ambition before.’

Suttone shrugged. ‘It is a notion I have been mulling over for some time. The present incumbent cannot remain in office for ever, and when he resigns, I shall put myself forward. It will make you my Senior Proctor, Brother, but as we are in the same College, I am sure we will rub along nicely.’

Michael was thoughtful. It was common knowledge that Chancellor Tynkell made no decision without the blessing of his Senior Proctor, and that it was Michael who really ran the University. Tynkell was malleable, and seldom argued with the monk; Suttone was more stubborn, and it would require greater skill to manipulate him. Michael’s eyes gleamed in anticipation. He enjoyed a challenge, and the last year – with no suspicious deaths to investigate – had been dull.

‘Are you still examining corpses on the University’s behalf?’ asked de Wetherset of Bartholomew, while the monk’s clever mind assessed the implications of serving under a different master.

‘Not recently,’ replied Bartholomew. He was not sure whether the question was de Wetherset’s way of initiating a fresh topic of conversation, or whether he was trying to be annoying: when Michael had first asked Bartholomew to inspect bodies, the physician had objected strenuously, and had had to be browbeaten, cajoled or bribed into doing what was necessary. Since then, he had grown used to it, and even enjoyed the work, because there was a good deal to be learned from cadavers. Unfortunately, his medical colleagues considered his discoveries anathema, which meant he was in the frustrating position of not being able to discuss them with anyone who might know what he was talking about.

De Wetherset raised his eyebrows. ‘I see. You are not wearing academic garb. Have you resigned your Fellowship at Michaelhouse and become a secular physician? I am surprised: I was always under the impression that you liked teaching.’

‘On our journey here, we found his scholarly tabard kept attracting the attention of men desperate for an argument,’ replied Suttone, before Bartholomew could reply for himself. ‘I suggested he remove it, and we have not been bothered by unwelcome company since.’

De Wetherset gazed at him, not sure whether there was an insult inherent in the Carmelite’s explanation. ‘Is that so?’

‘Matt returned from an extended leave of absence in October,’ said Michael pleasantly, before Suttone could add any more. ‘He was gone for sixteen months, which meant I was without a decent Corpse Examiner all that time. Do you remember Doctor Rougham of Gonville Hall? I had to make do with him instead, and I am sure innumerable killers went free on his account.’

‘They must have done,’ said Suttone. ‘You investigated several suspicious deaths a year when Matthew was with you, but not one from the moment he left. I cannot believe all Cambridge’s killers decided to behave themselves simply because your regular Corpse Examiner was unavailable.’

‘A sabbatical?’ asked de Wetherset, while Michael frowned unhappily. Suttone was not the first to remark on the abrupt cessation of murders after Rougham had been hired to determine whether or not a death was due to natural causes. ‘I hope you did not visit Paris – I recall you studied there before you accepted the post at Cambridge – but we are at war with the French now.’

‘We have been at war with the French for as long as I can remember,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘And that includes when I did my postgraduate training in Paris. But no one
cares about the quarrel – in France or England – except nobles, kings and mercenaries.’

‘You sail remarkably close to treason, Bartholomew,’ said de Wetherset with an expression that was impossible to interpret. Bartholomew recalled that he was a dangerous man, who had not been elected to the exalted rank of Chancellor for nothing, and supposed he had better watch his tongue. ‘And I think you are wrong. A few months ago, you might have been right, but everything changed after the Battle of Poitiers. The French are angry in defeat and the English gloat in victory, even here, in a place where most people have barely heard of a place called France.’

‘That is true,’ agreed Suttone. ‘The battle has certainly given new life to the conflict.’

‘Which foreign universities did you visit?’ asked de Wetherset. He held up an imperious hand. ‘No, do not tell me – I shall guess. Padua, Montpellier and Bologna, because they are the schools that are most lax about what constitutes heresy. I have been told by more than one Italian medicus that anatomy is an intellectually profitable pursuit, and you always did chafe at the boundaries we set you.’

‘You were cutting up corpses with your foreign colleagues?’ asked Suttone in horror. ‘Anatomy is forbidden, Matthew – by the Lateran Council itself. You are a fool to dabble in the dark arts!’

‘I did not anatomise anyone,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Well, I may have witnessed an examination or two, but I was only one of a dozen physicians and surgeons present. And what I learned allowed me to devise a way to alleviate the pain you suffered with the stone last week.’

‘Did it?’ asked Suttone warily. He reconsidered. ‘Well, I suppose might be justifiable under certain circumstances, but please do not do it in Lincoln. Michael and I have our
reputations to consider, and they will not be enhanced if you do that sort of thing in front of the general populace.’

‘On the contrary,’ said the man in the shadows. ‘I imagine anatomy would go down rather well with the general populace. The average man has a fascination for the horrible – until one of his number declares it witchcraft, in which case he will hang you without demur, driven by his innate bigotry.’

‘Allow me to introduce Father Simon,’ said de Wetherset. Simon stepped forward with the kind of smirk that suggested he had already decided the Cambridge men were fools. ‘He has been parish priest at Holy Cross, Wigford for the past twenty years – you will have passed it, if you have been to the city – although he has just resigned those duties for something more worthy of his talents. I hear you are to be made a canon, Brother. Well, Simon and I will be joining you in the prebendal stalls.’

‘Congratulations,’ said Michael, genuinely pleased for de Wetherset. ‘Suttone and I knew there were to be five installations, but no one told us the names of the other three candidates.’

‘Lincoln wants to honour the University at Cambridge with its nominations this time,’ explained Simon. ‘Three canonical appointments will go to scholars: you two and de Wetherset.’

‘You are not a scholar,’ said Bartholomew to the ex-Chancellor. ‘You left Cambridge years ago.’

‘But not before Brother Michael inveigled me the title of Emeritus Fellow,’ replied de Wetherset comfortably. ‘So technically, I am still a scholar. And, although I spent a few months with my family in the Fens, Bishop Gynewell then offered me the freedom of his cathedral library, and I have been studying theology in Lincoln ever since. People have come to regard me as local.’

‘I suppose I can be considered local, too,’ said Suttone. ‘One branch of my family has lived in the city for years, and my grandfather was bishop. I have cousins in service at the cathedral and—’

‘But you do not live here,’ interrupted Simon coolly. ‘That is what is meant by local. Your life is in Cambridge. Mine, however, is here. I have been vicar at Holy Cross for more than two decades, and now I shall serve the cathedral. That is what constitutes a local man, not distant kin.’

Suttone bristled, and Michael hastened to change the subject. ‘You said three scholars were to be made canons, plus Father Simon. Who is the fifth and last lucky candidate?’

Simon’s expressive face darkened. ‘A merchant. He is not a particularly good choice, although at least he is in holy orders – unlike some prebendaries I could name.’

‘You refer to Canon Hodelston?’ asked de Wetherset. ‘Who held the Stall of Sleaford, and created a scandal when he announced in his first Chapter meeting that he had not been ordained?’

Bartholomew was mystified. ‘If he is not in holy orders, then how does he perform his religious duties at the cathedral? Conduct masses and the like?’

‘He appointed a Vicar Choral to do everything,’ explained Simon disapprovingly. ‘He took his vows eventually, but the appointment was a disgrace and it brought shame to the Chapter.’

‘His name was Hodelston?’ asked Suttone. He shot Simon a cool glance. ‘I may not live here, but my kinsmen keep me informed of certain people and events. I am not the stranger you imagine. However, the only Hodelston they mentioned to me was a very wicked fellow – accused of theft, rape, extortion and all manner of crimes – but the plague took him.’

Simon sniffed. ‘That is the man – as I said, his appointment was a disgrace. However, you are not right about the manner of his death. He died during the plague, not of it. He had a seizure with frothing mouth and rigid muscles. Some said it was poison. But few mourned his passing, least of all the Dean and Chapter.’

‘Hodelston is long-since dead, but the cathedral continues to make dubious appointments,’ said de Wetherset unhappily. ‘Flaxfleete will not make a good canon. He was accused of arson, and it was obvious that he only took holy orders when he thought he might be fined. The bishop refused to try him in the Church, though, which was a brave thing to do, and Flaxfleete was obliged to throw himself on Sheriff Lungspee’s mercy. I imagine bribes changed hands, because he was acquitted today.’

‘Flaxfleete?’ asked Bartholomew uncomfortably. ‘Kelby’s friend? He is the last canon?’

‘So
that
is what he meant, when he said he had a second item of good news to share with his friends,’ mused Michael. ‘He said it was something that would see more celebration. He must have been referring to his nomination as a prebendary.’