‘He was a good man,’ objected Suttone. ‘I have known him since he was a boy.’
She smothered a smile. ‘And when did you last see him?’
‘I suppose it was on his tenth birthday,’ admitted Suttone. ‘But he wrote to me often.’
She laughed openly. ‘Those letters were for you? He had a good deal of fun with them. He fabricated some outrageous lies, but did not imagine for a moment that anyone would believe him.’
‘We must be talking about a different man,’ said Suttone stiffly. ‘My John Aylmer was short, with red hair and a thin scar on his eyebrow, from where he fell from an apple tree as a lad.’
‘There is only one John Aylmer,’ she said indulgently. ‘People will tell you he was wicked and dissolute, but you should not believe everything you hear. He had his faults, true enough, but who does not? And I do not kiss just anyone behind the stables – not even if a man offers me a penny.’
‘How about two?’ asked Suttone.
‘We should be about our work,’ said Bartholomew, not sure whether Suttone was making her an offer or just soliciting information. Suddenly, the body in the chapel seemed like a haven of peace in a stormy sea, because at least he knew what he was doing with corpses.
Sabina turned her attention to Michael. ‘And you, Brother? Who is to be your deputy?’
‘John Tetford. He comes highly recommended by the Bishop of Ely himself. In fact, de Lisle insisted I hire him; I actually had no choice in the matter.’
Sabina smiled, suggesting she thought Tetford would not be much of an improvement on the man Suttone had picked. ‘And now you are going to discover who killed poor Aylmer. Well, it will not be easy.’
‘Do you have any ideas?’ asked Michael.
She shrugged. ‘The killer could be anyone. Aylmer was found dead on his bed in the guest-hall. I expect you noticed the dark patch underneath it. I scrubbed as hard as I could, but the stain proved impossible to remove. Hamo says the blood of a murdered man never comes out easily. It taints wood and stone, just as it does the hands of a killer.’
‘I wish that were true,’ said Michael wistfully. ‘It would make my work so much easier. However, I suspect that particular mark would come off, with a little effort on your part.’
She shrugged carelessly. ‘Perhaps, but it does no harm to let folk know a man died under unusual circumstances there. Were you aware that he was stabbed in the back with his own knife, Brother?’
Michael narrowed his eyes. ‘How do you know that?’
‘Because I recognised it. Most priests carry weapons in Lincoln, partly because of this feud that is pulling the city in half, and partly because some of the Vicars Choral do not like each other.’
‘Stabbed in the back,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘That means he was either taken by surprise or he did not think he had anything to fear from his killer. Either way, it does not sound as though there was a struggle, especially if he was left holding this chalice.’
Sabina regarded him appraisingly. ‘De Wetherset says you have examined the bodies of murdered men in the past, and that you are good at ascertaining what happened to them – as is clear from the conclusions you have drawn without even looking at Aylmer. Do you hire out your services?’
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously.
‘Because Aylmer’s is not the only corpse currently residing in this mortuary chapel,’ she replied unhappily. ‘There is another, and I would very much like to know how he died.’
Bartholomew regarded Sabina uneasily, not liking the notion that there had been other suspicious deaths in the place where they were obliged to stay, or that de Wetherset had been telling strangers about his expertise with cadavers. ‘Another man has died in this convent?’
‘No, he was found in the Braytheford Pool. That is the expanse of water where the River Witham meets the Fossedike,’ she added, when the physician looked blank. ‘It is not far from here.’
‘The Fossedike is Lincoln’s route to the sea,’ elaborated Suttone, proud of the local knowledge he had gleaned from talking to the Gilbertines. ‘But Hamo told me it is silting up. Money has been raised to clear it, but the Guild and the Commonalty cannot agree about how it should be done, so the work is never started.’
Sabina was disgusted. ‘And meanwhile, the city grows ever more poor. Have you seen how many weavers cannot find work? We will all starve if we have no access to foreign markets.’
‘Lincoln is a Staple town,’ Suttone went on, boasting now. ‘That means imported staple goods – like wool, grain and timber – must come here, so Lincoln can claim certain taxes. However, they cannot come if the canal is blocked, and there is now fierce competition from better-sited ports like Boston.’
‘Our mayor, William de Spayne, is a Boston man,’ added Sabina, ‘which gives that horrible Guild another reason to hate him. They say he is pleased Lincoln is suffering, because it means more wealth for his Boston kin. But we are moving away from the point here. If you inspect the second body in the mortuary chapel, Doctor, and tell me exactly how he died, I will give you a penny.’
‘You will have to offer him more than that,’ said Suttone disdainfully. ‘He has been with the Black Prince in France and was rewarded with some plunder. He returned relatively wealthy, and no longer needs mere pennies.’
‘Hamo said you are a University physician, so why were you in France?’ asked Sabina. ‘Was it anything to do with a lady called Matilde? Hamo told me you were asking after her whereabouts, and she once told me she had French kin. Were you there looking for her?’
‘He was not, madam,’ said Suttone, startled by the assertion. ‘He is a scholar, and such men do not hare off to foreign countries in search of women. He went to learn the art of dissection, because it is forbidden in our own universities.’
‘Have you seen Matilde?’ asked Bartholomew of Sabina, before Suttone could make him sound any more sinister.
Her expression softened. ‘Not in six years. She left after she declined Spayne’s offer of marriage, although she was a fool to reject him. He is handsome, rich and will make an excellent husband.’
‘He has never wed?’ asked Michael.
She shook her head. ‘Many ladies have tried to snare him, but he is not interested – Matilde broke his heart for ever. But we were talking about France. Did you know Lady Christiana’s husband was killed in France? And that is not the worst of it.’
She pursed her lips, waiting for them to invite her to elaborate. Bartholomew did not, because he felt Michael was already too interested in Christiana de Hauville, while Michael demurred, despite his burning desire to hear what Sabina had to say, because he did not want to give his friend the satisfaction of seeing him ask. Thus there was a long pause, until Suttone, shooting his colleagues a puzzled glance for their lack of curiosity, put the necessary question.
‘Her mother – another Lady Christiana – was in almost exactly the same position as she is in now,’ said Sabina. ‘Her husband was killed in a fight with Scots, leaving her without protectors. She spent a decade in this very convent before a suitable match was found, although the King’s idea of “suitable” was that vile Kelby. Now it seems her daughter is destined to follow the same path.’
‘Such is the lot of women who marry soldiers,’ said Suttone preachily. ‘Personally, I think this war with the French has gone quite far enough, although it is probably treason to say so. I cannot even remember what started it now, or why it has continued for so many years.’
‘Neither can most of the men who are fighting,’ said Bartholomew, not without bitterness.
‘So, you made a fortune with the Black Prince,’ said Sabina, eyeing his warm winter cloak and sturdy boots. Her eyes lingered on the hem that was unravelling on his tunic. Fine his clothes might be, but he wore them carelessly, and it was clear they would not remain in pristine condition for long. ‘I heard Poitiers was very fierce.’