Bartholomew nodded briefly. He did not want to think about it, knowing that if he did, it would play on his mind for the rest of the day – and worse, long into the night. ‘Who is the dead man you want me to inspect?’
She was startled by his abrupt acquiescence. ‘You will help me?’
He nodded again, ready to do almost anything to change the subject. ‘If you like.’
Sabina and Michael followed him inside the dark chapel, this time with the lamp lighting their way. Suttone started to return to the guest-hall, but saw his path would intercept that of Prior Roger, who waved in the kind of way that suggested he might be invited to take part in the next daily office. Abruptly, the Carmelite scuttled inside the mortuary, preferring the company of the dead to spending more time in the company of a man he considered odd. He found his colleagues at the far end of the building, where there was a makeshift altar. Two bodies lay under clean blankets in front of it. ‘That is Aylmer.’ Sabina pointed at the one on the left. ‘The other is Nicholas.’
‘Aylmer first,’ said Michael, when the physician started to move towards the other. ‘You may decide you have had enough after one, and I need all the help I can get.’
Bartholomew peeled back Aylmer’s sheet and began. As he did so, he realised he had not examined a body for signs of suspicious death in eighteen months, although he had seen hundreds of corpses in France. Briefly, he wondered whether he might have forgotten some of the skills he had so painstakingly acquired, but it was not many moments before he found his hands working automatically, repeating what they had done so many times before.
First, he assessed Aylmer from a distance, looking at his clothes, hands and footwear. Aylmer had been a beefy, redhaired man in his late forties, which surprised him – he had supposed Vicars Choral were younger. He was clean-shaven, but there were bristles on his jowls that gave him a disreputable appearance. There was a curious crease in the tip of his nose, essentially dividing it in half, and Bartholomew regarded it thoughtfully, aware of a distant memory stirring. When nothing came to him, he resumed his survey. Aylmer’s hands were smooth and soft, suggesting he performed no manual chores, although the additional absence of calluses caused by writing implements made him wonder what the man had done to earn his keep.
‘How old are most Vicars Choral?’ he asked, while he ran his fingers through Aylmer’s hair, assessing the skull for tell-tale dents or bumps.
‘It varies,’ replied Michael. ‘Tetford is twenty-three, which is about average for a secular cathedral like this. Aylmer does seem old to be offered such a post, because the pay tends to be low, and most clerks act as Vicars Choral while they are waiting for something better to come along. However, sometimes nothing ever does, and they are doomed to perpetual poverty.’
‘Aylmer was the son of my father’s bailiff,’ supplied Suttone, trying to be helpful. ‘He was a bright lad, and I promised to advance his cause. Unfortunately, I have not been in a position to do much until now. I invited him to study with me a few years back, but he would not hear of it.’
‘He was not interested in scholarship,’ said Sabina. ‘Most men consider it a waste of time, and most women agree. After all, you cannot eat a book, can you?’
‘He had trouble with a sheriff a few years back,’ Suttone went on, ignoring the slight to his chosen profession. ‘He said it was a misunderstanding, and I believe him. I invited him to be my deputy, because he already lived in Lincoln, and I wanted to make good on my promise at last. How did he die, Matthew? I would like to know it was not my patronage that brought it about.’
‘Your kindness to an old friend had nothing to do with his demise, Father,’ said Sabina, before the physician could answer. ‘You can rest easy on that account.’
‘You sound very sure,’ said Michael, regarding her appraisingly.
‘I am sure,’ she replied. ‘I may not have known him for as long as Master Suttone, but I suspect I knew him rather better. The promotion made him happier than I had ever seen him, and had nothing to do with his death. You can blame the dubious business he embroiled himself in for that.’
‘What kind of dubious business?’ asked Michael.
She shrugged. ‘I dare not say much, but bear in mind that he was a member of the Commonalty and a friend of Adam Miller – and Miller’s dealings are not always legal or ethical.’ She raised her hand in protest when the monk started to ask something else. ‘I am sorry, I can say no more.’
Bartholomew ordered the others away before he removed Aylmer’s clothes. It was not right to let Sabina watch what he was doing, and Michael was becoming restless – he did not want the monk’s impatience to rush him. He opened Aylmer’s mouth and shone the lamp down his throat, then moved the neck to test for signs of strangulation. Then he turned the body over and inspected the wound in its back. Making sure no one was watching, he took a surgical knife and inserted it into the hole, moving it gently to assess the depth to which the killing blow had penetrated. When the blade disappeared to the hilt, he pulled it out in distaste. Whoever had stabbed Aylmer had delivered a powerful stroke.
He was setting all to rights again when he became aware of a blemish on the point of Aylmer’s shoulder. He moved the lamp to inspect it more clearly, and saw the kind of mark soldiers sometimes scratched on to themselves with needles and ink. It had clearly been made years ago, and Aylmer’s physique had changed, so the original cup had probably been taller and thinner than the squat bowl depicted now. Bartholomew rubbed his chin thoughtfully. A cup – and it was identical to the mark he had seen the day before, when he had loosened Flaxfleete’s clothes in a futile attempt to save his life.
‘Aylmer died of a single wound from a sharp implement,’ Bartholomew said, after calling Michael, Suttone and Sabina back. ‘The blade was long, so I suspect it was a dagger, rather than something a man might use at the table.’
‘His own knife,’ said Sabina. ‘As I told you.’
Suttone was sceptical. ‘He had just been made a Vicar Choral, so why would he carry such a weapon? The Church frowns on priests bearing arms.’
Sabina issued a derisive snort. ‘First, Aylmer’s association with the Commonalty meant he was not popular with men like Kelby and Flaxfleete, and he would have been a fool not to take steps to protect himself. And secondly, the cathedral can be dangerous. Ask any of its priests.’
‘Archdeacon Ravenser was wearing a sword when we met him earlier today,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘Are you sure you should accept a stall here?’
‘No,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘Lord! This was meant to be a pleasant, relaxing diversion, and it transpires that Lincoln is even more turbulent than Cambridge. And your examination has told me nothing I did not know already, Matt. Is there nothing new?’
Bartholomew shook his head, reluctant to discuss the curious drawing in front of the others. The convent was a hotbed of gossip, and he did not want people to know the cup depicted on Aylmer’s shoulder was the same as the one on Flaxfleete’s – at least, not until he and Michael had considered the significance themselves.
‘Now look at Nicholas,’ said Sabina in a low voice. ‘If you please.’
Bartholomew removed the blanket, and saw Nicholas had been older than Aylmer by about a decade. He had been well built, with soft white hair and old burns on his hands and arms that suggested he had worked habitually with hot materials. He had been dead longer than Aylmer, and there were signs of corruption around his mouth.
‘Tell me what happened to him, Mistress,’ said Bartholomew, while he inspected the man’s hands.
‘I thought that was what I was paying you to do.’
‘I mean tell me about the last time you saw him, or what you know of his final movements.’
‘He went out for a drink four nights ago, and he never came home. The next day, he was found floating in the Braytheford Pool. He was my husband, and I would like to know whether he flung himself into the water or whether someone pushed him.’