‘And you,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘Come on, Brother. What is it?’
‘My lips are sealed,’ said Michael smugly. ‘You will just have to fathom it out for yourself, as I have done. Suffice to say you will be very surprised. But let us return to the relic. There is something very appealing about sending the King something called the “Hand of Justice”, after what his dubious pardons did to our town. Of course, no one seems to know what Quenhyth did with the real Hand. You do not, do you?’
‘I have no idea where it is now,’ said Bartholomew, not inclined to confide in Michael when the monk would not share Tynkell’s secret with him.
‘I thought you might say something like that,’ said Michael with another grin, which led Bartholomew to wonder whether Dame Pelagia had found out anyway, and had told her grandson. She seemed to know everything else. ‘But it does not matter. I have told Tynkell to let Morice do the talking until the King is satisfied the relic is genuine. Only then should he step forward and accept credit on the University’s behalf.’
‘And what happens if the King is able to tell his chickens from his saints?’
Michael’s grin widened. ‘Then our corrupt and dishonest Mayor will have some explaining to do.’