‘Make reparation, Brother,’ suggested Bartholomew facetiously. ‘Take some of this new income and offer a gift to the cathedral, or to one of the city charities.’
Michael regarded him coolly. ‘So, your advice is for me to buy myself a clean conscience? Very well. I shall see what the silversmiths have to offer tomorrow – assuming it is safe to go out.’
‘Do you have a kinsman called John?’ asked Bartholomew of Suttone, thinking of the dark-haired priest they had met at Kelby’s house and his resemblance to the burly Carmelite.
Suttone nodded. ‘A first cousin, once removed. His father was a tanner, but he perished in the Death, God rest his soul. John Suttone is a Poor Clerk.’
‘Why poor clerk?’ asked Cynric curiously. ‘Does it mean he earns even less than I get from Michaelhouse?’
‘It is a rank in the cathedral hierarchy,’ explained Suttone impatiently. ‘At the top, there is the dean. He has a Chapter, which comprises the canons, like Michael and me–’
‘Not until Sunday,’ interrupted Bartholomew.
Suttone ignored him. ‘Under us, there are the Vicars Choral, some of whom are in priest’s orders and include men like my deputy, Aylmer–’
‘But he is dead,’ said Cynric gloomily, crossing himself. ‘Stabbed in this very room. Right there, in fact, and you can still see his blood to prove it.’
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.’