‘Find the real killer,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And then hope Kelby and Miller will listen to reason.’
‘How?’ cried Michael, frustrated. ‘I thought we had our answer when Hugh said he delivered Simon’s letter to Langar, but all we have is another attempt on Chapman’s life.’
‘I think I know who it is,’ said Bartholomew quietly.
Michael whipped around to face him. ‘You do? I suppose we may have enough clues to allow a logical deduction now. Who is it? It must be someone from the cathedral, since we have eliminated the Gilbertines, and I do not think Miller and his people would try to kill Chapman, because he is one of their own. Well, Sabina might have done, I suppose. Is it her?’
‘I do not know how to say it,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘You will not be pleased.’
‘Gynewell!’ said Cynric in satisfaction. ‘I always said there was something odd about him.’
‘Not Gynewell,’ said Bartholomew.
‘The dean, then,’ said Michael. ‘Yes, that makes sense. The night we were attacked, it was Bresley who said we did not need an escort, and that we would be safe walking to the Gilbertine Priory alone. He had henchmen waiting, and he intended us to be murdered.’
‘The dean has no reason to want us dead,’ said Bartholomew. ‘On the contrary, he wants you to stay in Lincoln and help him keep order among his unruly clerics. I imagine he was more worried about the bishop’s safety when he told Gynewell not to accompany us – there will not be another prelate so understanding about his stealing. I am afraid the culprit is someone clever enough to stay one step ahead of us today. It is someone who deliberately sent us to Miller’s house in pursuit of the letter Simon sent Chapman – the missive Langar never received.’
Michael regarded him with round eyes. ‘You think young Hugh is the killer?’ He started to laugh. ‘Really, Matt! He might have lied about giving it to Langar – God knows, he has fibbed before – but his motive would have been mischief, not malice. Besides, he is a child.’
‘Of course I do not think it is Hugh,’ snapped Bartholomew impatiently. ‘But our culprit learned that we wanted to speak to Hugh this morning, and managed to reach him first. I think Hugh was ordered to lead us astray by saying Langar accepted the letter.’
‘It may have been Langar doing the lying,’ Cynric pointed out. ‘He is a law-clerk.’
‘I believe he was telling the truth. The note was intercepted by someone who then killed Simon and tried to do the same to us. Ineptly.’
‘Spayne,’ said Michael with great delight. ‘He enticed us away from Hugh with tales of an ailing sister, and sent a crony to tell the boy what to say.’
‘Not Spayne,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We did not tell him our plans, so he could not have known them. However, there was one person who knew exactly what we intended to do, and who encouraged us both to visit Spayne before interviewing Hugh. She did it so she could speak to him first.’
Michael narrowed his eyes. ‘I sincerely hope you are not referring to Lady Christiana.’
Bartholomew saw it was not going to be easy to convince him. ‘She insisted we visit Ursula. Then she asked Hugh to lie about delivering the note to Langar, because the truth is that Hugh gave the note to her – the woman who buys him wooden soldiers.’
‘This is rambling from a deranged mind,’ said Michael, beginning to walk away. ‘I will not listen.’
‘It is true,’ said Cynric gently to Bartholomew. ‘You cannot be right.’
‘I am right,’ said Bartholomew, gripping the monk’s sleeve to prevent him from leaving. ‘You saw what Hugh did when he had finished speaking to us: he darted straight to Christiana. And she asked to accompany us to the cathedral when she heard what we were going to do.’
‘She went to pray,’ said Michael coldly, freeing himself. ‘As she does every Tuesday.’
‘And she has others who do her bidding, too,’ continued Bartholomew, ‘such as the “priest” who delivered the poisoned wine to Chapman. Only an hour ago, we saw Ravenser, Claypole, Bautre and John follow her about like lovesick calves. They do anything she asks.’
‘Christiana has no reason to kill Chapman,’ said Michael. ‘You are deluded.’
‘The poison is unusual,’ said Bartholomew, thinking aloud. ‘Yet it features in the deaths of Herl, Flaxfleete and Tetford – and now the attempts on Ursula and Chapman. And there was the man who died during the plague … ’
‘Canon Hodelston,’ supplied Cynric. ‘Rapist, thief and extortionist.’
‘And I think Fat William had some sort of toxin-induced seizure, too. Perhaps this poisoning has been going on for years – ever since she arrived in Lincoln – and we shall never know how many have really died.’
‘Then what about the possibility that Ursula may have given herself a non-fatal dose because she knows we are coming close to the truth?’ demanded Michael archly. ‘She certainly has a knowledge of poisons, because she dispatched Christiana’s mother with some.’
‘There is Christiana’s motive for trying to kill Ursula,’ pounced Bartholomew.
‘Christiana thinks her mother killed herself,’ said Cynric doubtfully. ‘She does not hold Ursula responsible.’
‘She is lying,’ said Bartholomew, ‘so she will not be a suspect when Ursula dies.’
‘That is ludicrous!’ exclaimed Michael. ‘I suppose she took her bow with her when she killed Simon and Tetford, did she? Or do you think Dame Eleanor is the archer? I would not put it past her: the elderly are known to be very deadly.’
‘She does not need Dame Eleanor. She has willing priests from the cathedral to help her. Claypole is tall, so perhaps he is the swordsman. And John and Ravenser were the others.’
Michael was so disgusted, he could find no words to express himself. Cynric spoke for him. ‘The cold must have addled your head,’ he said, concerned. ‘We should return to the Gilbertines, and–’
Bartholomew ignored him. ‘Christiana spends a lot of time at the tomb of Little Hugh, where we discovered that poison. Now I see why it was in Tetford’s flask. It was not to harm you, but was intended to kill him.’
‘Why should she want to do that?’ demanded Michael, finding his voice again. ‘You just said she recruits men like him to go around ambushing people for her.’
Bartholomew could think of no good reason. ‘Perhaps he refused,’ he suggested lamely.
Michael pulled a face to indicate he did not consider the theory worthy of further discussion. ‘Hundreds of people visit that shrine, and the poison could belong to any one of them. Everything you say about Christiana is arrant nonsense.’
‘Miller is innocent in all this,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Well, as innocent as such a man can ever be. He did not poison Flaxfleete, he did not kill Aylmer or Herl, and he did not send tainted milk to Ursula.’
‘He and his cronies just hanged Shirlok, shot Sabina and are planning to plunge a city into civil war,’ said Michael tartly. ‘Aside from that, Miller is as pure as the driven snow. And now you must excuse me, Matt, because I have a killer to catch.’
Bartholomew ordered Cynric to stay with Michael, overriding the book-bearer’s objections that he preferred to be with the man who had lost his wits. He believed the monk had allowed passion to interfere with his reason, and was convinced he needed protection from a very ruthless criminal. Michael flounced down the hill, indignation in his every step, with Cynric trailing reluctantly behind him. Bartholomew watched them go and wondered what to do. Should he confront Christiana, since it was clear Michael would not do so? Or should he try to gather more evidence first? What he had was flimsy, and he did not see her giving herself up when presented with it.
He started to follow Michael, glancing up when something brushed his face; snow was falling again. He shivered. It was bitterly cold, and he would have preferred to return to the convent, to sit in front of the fire and discuss Blood Relics with Suttone. He had had very few intellectual debates over the past year, and was surprised how much he had missed them. A cold winter’s day, with a blizzard in the offing, meant the best place for any scholar was by a hearth with like-minded company. But he was unsettled and troubled, and felt compelled to discover more about the killer.