The Lost Abbot

Chapter 8

When the Bishop’s Commissioners and their unofficial entourage of monastics and townsfolk were eventually admitted to the hospital, it was to find it spotlessly clean. Freshly cut rushes had been scattered on the floor, the furniture had been dusted and little pots of fragrant summer flowers sat on the windowsills. The residents had also benefited from an overhaul. Hair had been brushed, beards trimmed and robes sponged. Even Simon the cowherd had been groomed; he sat in a corner whispering to himself.

‘Welcome to our domain,’ said Inges, haughty and proud in his finery. ‘We have done as you asked: the chapel has been shut ever since we made our terrible discovery.’

‘Good,’ said Lullington, sailing inside on a wave of expensive perfume that made the older man sneeze. ‘Will you show us the body?’

‘I thought he had an aversion to corpses,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew.

‘Just his wife’s, it would seem,’ Bartholomew muttered back.

‘You had better tell us what happened, Inges,’ said Michael, stepping into the hall and closing the door before anyone other than Bartholomew, Yvo and Ramseye could follow. There was a collective sigh of disappointment from the excluded spectators.

‘It was me who found him,’ said Botilbrig excitedly. ‘I came to fetch a flask of holy water for Kirwell just after compline last night, and there was Welbyrn floating in the well. I raised the alarm, and Prior Inges sent word to the abbey–’

‘And I locked the chapel when a messenger arrived to say that we should leave everything as it was discovered,’ finished Inges. ‘However, I want that corpse out of our spring, Father Prior, and then I want St Leonard’s resanctified, like you did for the bedeswomen.’

‘Today, if possible,’ added Botilbrig. ‘Kirwell is still waiting for his drink, and we have had to turn three pilgrims away already this morning – folk who would have left donations.’

‘That depends on Brother Michael,’ replied Yvo. ‘But he is a practical man who understands the importance of revenue. He will not waste time.’

‘You consider investigating Welbyrn’s death wasting time?’ asked Michael coolly.

‘Of course not,’ sighed Yvo irritably. ‘But running a large abbey is expensive, and we cannot afford to lose money, as Welbyrn himself would have said had he not been … Besides, you have less than two days before you must leave, so you are not in a position to dawdle.’

Michael turned his back on him, not bothering to mask his distaste. ‘I have been told that Welbyrn was in the habit of coming here late at night. Is it true?’

‘I suppose I can be honest with you now that he is not in a position to punch my teeth out,’ replied the bedesman. ‘Which he threatened to do if I ever mentioned his visits to anyone else. You see, he had an affliction, and claimed our healing waters eased his discomfort.’

‘What kind of affliction?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

‘I think it had something to do with his intellectuals.’ Inges sniggered unpleasantly. ‘Maybe he feared he was losing them – and he did not have many to start with, no matter how much he liked to pretend otherwise.’

There was a chorus of wry agreement from the other bedesmen.

‘You may be right, Inges,’ said Ramseye thoughtfully. ‘About a month ago, he mentioned that he was struggling to remember certain things. Perhaps his mind was beginning to fail.’

‘Matt will identify the problem when he examines him,’ stated Michael.

Bartholomew blinked. ‘How am I supposed to deduce such a thing from a corpse? Even the dissectors at Salerno and Padua failed to–’

‘Dissectors?’ pounced Ramseye. ‘I thought you said you were not an anatomist.’

‘I am not,’ said Bartholomew, wishing his wits were sharper, because he would never have made such a slip had he been himself. ‘However, I have seen them at work, and there are no obvious changes in the brain that can be associated with–’

‘You watched a coven of ghouls chop up someone’s head?’ asked Ramseye in horror. ‘But that is the Devil’s work!’

There was a murmur of consternation from the bedesmen and monks, who promptly began to ease away. So did Lullington, his face pale. Bartholomew looked at Ramseye and saw malice behind the façade of disquiet.

‘We did not come here to listen to your views on dissection,’ snapped Michael, intervening quickly before the situation became any worse. ‘We came to investigate what happened to Welbyrn, which, as I am sure you will agree, is a far more pressing matter. Now, who let him in last night?’

‘No one – he had his own key,’ replied Inges, although his wary glance was fixed on Bartholomew. ‘He liked to visit at night, you see, when the place was empty. I refused to let him have one at first, but he threatened to raise our taxes, so I gave in. That was about two months ago. Since then, he has come several times a week.’

‘I saw him once, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He left the door ajar, and Simon escaped. He was oddly furtive the whole time, and threatened to thrash me if I suggested to anyone that he might be ill.’

‘So he arrived unannounced and began … doing what?’ asked Michael of the bedesmen. ‘Bathing in the well? Drinking the water? Praying?’

‘He usually got down on his knees and scooped a few handfuls of water over his head,’ supplied Botilbrig. He shrugged when Inges regarded him in surprise. ‘I was interested, and decided to find out what was wrong, but I never did manage to overhear his prayers.’ He sounded indignant, as if he thought Welbyrn had made spying difficult on purpose.

‘Did any of you hear him arrive last night?’ asked Michael.

There were a lot of shaken heads.

‘He only came when he was sure he would have the place to himself,’ said Inges. ‘He might have gone undiscovered until this morning had Kirwell not asked for some water.’

‘Poor Welbyrn,’ said Ramseye flatly. ‘Whatever did he think he was doing?’

Michael was keen for Bartholomew to examine the body so that they could leave, but the young priest Trentham appeared from upstairs and said that Kirwell needed a physician. With an irritable sigh, Michael indicated that Bartholomew should see what the old man wanted. Bartholomew obliged, disconcerted when everyone followed him up the stairs and crowded into the old man’s bedchamber on his heels, jostling him and each other as they vied for a place inside.

‘He may dispense a blessing, you see,’ explained Inges. ‘And he has been rather niggardly with those since Abbot Robert went missing. We cannot afford to miss out – it is his saintly benedictions that keep us all hale and hearty, after all.’

‘Be careful, Kirwell,’ called Ramseye from the back of the room. ‘This physician has watched anatomists chop off other people’s heads.’

‘We will not let him have yours, Kirwell, do not worry,’ said Inges comfortingly. Then he lowered his voice and gripped Bartholomew’s arm with surprising strength. ‘If you harm him, I will see you burned alive in the marketplace.’

Bartholomew could see he was serious, and was half tempted to leave, just in case Kirwell chose that particular day to give up the ghost. But he had sworn oaths to help those in need, and was unwilling to break them. He stepped forward, and so did everyone else.

‘I am not blessing anyone, so you can all go away,’ snapped Kirwell. ‘Trentham may stay, but the rest can clear out. Go on! You, too, Inges.’

There were resentful mutters, but the onlookers did as they were told, and it was not long before Bartholomew, Trentham and Kirwell were alone. At a gesture from the old man, Trentham closed the door, which was followed by the distinct sound of Botilbrig hissing his annoyance that he was to be deprived of an opportunity to eavesdrop.

‘How much longer?’ whispered Kirwell, when Bartholomew went to stand next to his bed. ‘How much longer must I live?’

‘I do not know,’ replied Bartholomew shortly. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’

‘You could prescribe a remedy for his knee,’ suggested Trentham. ‘It pains him badly.’

Bartholomew inspected the inflamed joint, then began to rub a cooling salve into it. Trentham held Kirwell’s hand while he worked, a liberty Bartholomew would never have taken with such a curmudgeonly fellow. It was clear that the priest possessed a rare way with his elderly charges, and had won their irascible hearts with his gentle compassion.

‘I wish I had never seen that light over Oxforde’s grave,’ said Kirwell bitterly, his expression distant as he reflected on events from long ago.

‘Hush,’ said Trentham softly. ‘You were honoured to witness such a miracle, and–’

‘It was not a miracle,’ interrupted Kirwell harshly. ‘Although I have let everyone think it was. It was just sunlight, as Doctor Bartholomew said when he first came to see me. And now I am being punished for my deception with this terrible, lingering life.’

‘No,’ said Trentham kindly. ‘I do not believe you would–’

‘Even then, I was almost blind,’ Kirwell went on. ‘And I was frightened for my future. I lied about what had happened because I wanted a place in this hospital.’

‘But there were other miracles afterwards,’ argued Trentham. ‘It was not just the shaft of brilliance on an otherwise gloomy day. It was the first wondrous event of many.’

‘All of which can be explained by wishful thinking or happenstance,’ countered Kirwell. ‘Headaches cured, a lost purse found, a long-absent soldier returned, a promotion granted. There is nothing holy about Oxforde, and there never was.’

‘Then tell the Bishop,’ suggested Bartholomew. He had encountered other shrines that had grown out of lies or misunderstandings, and so was not surprised to learn that Oxforde’s was no different, although he was aware of Trentham’s growing dismay at the revelations. ‘He does not want the cult to thrive, and if you denounce it, his task will be made easier.’

‘Yes,’ said Kirwell softly. ‘I think I must. Oxforde was the most evil man who ever lived, and it is a travesty that he should be venerated.’

‘But this happened forty-five years ago,’ Trentham pointed out, stunned. ‘Why wait until now to tell the truth?’

Kirwell scowled. ‘I did not wait until now – I have been saying it for the last decade, but no one has listened. Bring your writing equipment the next time you come, lad, and I shall dictate a letter to Gynewell – it would be a burden lifted. However, you cannot send it until I die. I cannot afford to be thrown out of St Leonard’s at this stage of my life.’

Trentham nodded, although Bartholomew thought the old man could not be very sorry for his years of deceit if he was unwilling to accept the consequences. But Bartholomew was not a priest, and it was Trentham’s duty to lecture him about contrition. Trentham, however, was more interested in hearing about Oxforde, pressing the old man for details with a guileless curiosity that reminded them both that he was still very young.

‘You accompanied him right to the scaffold?’ he asked, eyes alight with interest.

Kirwell nodded. ‘Yes, and he showed not a whit of remorse. He thought he would be reprieved right up until the noose tightened around his neck. I have never known such arrogance before or since. Did you hear how he came to be caught?’

‘No.’ Trentham was spellbound.

‘A wealthy silversmith had died a few weeks earlier, and there were rumours that the fellow had bought the plot next to his grave for some of his favourite jewels. Oxforde was in the process of digging for them when the Sheriff himself happened across him.’

‘Was there a fight?’

‘Not really. Oxforde was so convinced that the King would pardon him, that he saw no need to risk himself with the Sheriff’s blade. Anyway, I decided that he should be buried in the hole he himself had dug, because there was a fear that the Devil would raise him up if he was put in unconsecrated soil like other executed felons.’

‘I had forgotten that,’ said Bartholomew. The threat that Oxforde would come for them if they misbehaved was one that had been used to keep the abbey schoolboys in check.

‘He would have been furious if he could have seen how the abbey has benefited from his death,’ Kirwell went on with a distinctly impious smirk. ‘Making money hand over fist from donations to his shrine. He hated the Church.’

‘Are any of his victims still alive?’ Trentham’s eyes were like saucers.

‘He usually killed witnesses to his crimes, which is why he remained free for so long. God alone knows how many lives he took. I have long been amazed that those who lived through his reign of terror should have forgotten his true character.’

‘You mean bedeswomen like Hagar, who tell pilgrims that he was holy?’ asked Trentham. ‘The bedesmen say he was wicked, though, and I have always wondered who was right.’

Kirwell waved a dismissive hand. ‘The men denounce Oxforde solely to annoy the women, and if his tomb was moved to St Leonard’s they would be delighted to exploit him there. But never mind this. I am so tired, Doctor. Surely there is something you can do for me? It is not right that a man should live for so long.’

‘It is beyond my control,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘And you are not in serious discomfort. Not like poor Lady Lullington.’

‘No,’ acknowledged Kirwell. ‘She used to visit me, and tell me stories about her clever sons. She was a good woman, and I was sorry when I heard she was ill. Pyk never did discover what was wrong with her. She was struck down very suddenly.’

‘Illnesses often do that.’

‘Not like this, according to Pyk.’

‘It is true.’ Trentham’s boyish enthusiasm for Kirwell’s tales had gone, replaced by sadness as he contemplated his dead friend. ‘She became ill shortly after Robert went missing, and I always wondered if her husband did something to her. I told Yvo, but he said nothing could be proved one way or the other.’

‘She is at peace now, poor soul,’ said Kirwell. ‘As I should be. Are you sure you–’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew firmly.

When Bartholomew returned to the hall he found Michael engaged in a futile effort to reduce the number of people who intended to watch a Corpse Examiner at work.

‘We bedesmen have a right to be here,’ Inges was declaring indignantly. ‘It is our chapel, and we should be allowed to watch what happens in it.’

‘Actually, it is the abbey’s chapel,’ countered Yvo. ‘And Welbyrn was our treasurer, so I should be here to ensure that justice is done for him.’

‘No, that honour should fall to me,’ argued Nonton. He had availed himself of the bedesmen’s wine, and was unsteady on his feet. ‘Welbyrn was my friend.’

‘We shall all watch,’ determined Ramseye. ‘Although Lullington claims he has an aversion to corpses, so perhaps he should wait outside.’

Lullington adopted a martyred expression. ‘It cannot be worse than seeing my poor wife. I shall stay. It is the least I can do to repay my debt of gratitude to the abbey for its care of me.’

‘So you are stuck with us all, Brother,’ said Ramseye with a victorious smile. ‘But we shall stand well back – for our own safety as much as the Corpse Examiner’s convenience.’

‘Too right,’ muttered Botilbrig. ‘This robe was clean on this morning.’

Bartholomew wondered what they were expecting him to do. ‘It will only–’

‘Do not try to explain, Matt,’ advised Michael in a low voice. ‘You will make matters worse, and it is easier just to let them observe. Unless you plan on doing something macabre, in which case I had better use the Bishop’s authority to oust them.’

‘Of course not,’ said Bartholomew irritably.

‘You cannot blame me for asking.’ Michael raised his hands defensively. ‘You have done some perfectly dreadful things to corpses in the past, things that have shocked me.’

Without further ado, Inges led the way to the well. No one spoke and the chapel was eerily silent, the only sounds being the lap of water and the scrape of feet on flagstones.

The treasurer lay face down, arms floating out to his sides. The angle of his head made it appear that he was looking for something he had lost on the bottom. Bartholomew set about fishing him out. Unfortunately, the stones at the pool’s edge were slick, and the listlessness that had afflicted him since dawn made him careless. He was on his knees, leaning forward to grab Welbyrn’s sleeve, when he lost his balance.

Michael reacted with commendable speed and caught him before more than his head had dipped below the surface. The water was shockingly cold, yet if it was unpleasant, it did dispel the sluggishness that still lingered from the soporific.

‘I could have told you it was slippery,’ said Ramseye, exchanging a smirk with Nonton, while Lullington brayed his mirth out loud, a jeering, mocking, inappropriate sound that echoed harshly around the chapel’s ancient stone arches.

‘So could Welbyrn,’ muttered Yvo.

Wordlessly, Botilbrig handed Bartholomew a frayed piece of sacking. As there was a pile of similar scraps on a nearby bench, the physician could only assume that such accidents occurred on a fairly regular basis. He wiped his face, then watched as Nonton helped Michael to retrieve Welbyrn and lay him by the side of the pool.

When they stepped away, he knelt and pressed on Welbyrn’s chest. Foam emerged from the nose and mouth, which meant that water had mixed with air in the lungs – in other words, the treasurer had been alive when he had gone into the water, and the cause of death was almost certainly drowning.

Ignoring the exclamations of disgust from his audience, he inspected Welbyrn’s body for other marks or abrasions. Ramseye was particularly vocal, although Bartholomew was only looking and feeling – nothing that should have horrified anyone. He hesitated before opening Welbyrn’s mouth, but then did it anyway, feeling it would be wrong to perform an incomplete examination just because the onlookers were squeamish.

At last, he sat back. ‘There is only one unusual mark,’ he said, pointing to a faint bruise on Welbyrn’s forehead. It was long and straight. ‘This suggests that he may have hit his head on the side of the well. I have just demonstrated how easy it is to fall, and he came at night, when it was dark.’

‘An accident,’ declared Yvo with satisfaction. ‘Just as I told you.’

Ramseye peered over Bartholomew’s shoulder. ‘Do you mean that tiny blemish? But it is almost invisible! I seriously doubt that had any bearing on his demise.’

‘On the contrary, it would have been enough to stun him,’ said Bartholomew shortly, disliking the almoner contradicting him on a matter that lay well outside the fellow’s area of expertise. ‘And remember, it does not take long to drown. However, he may also have been pushed.’

‘It is more likely to have been suicide,’ stated Botilbrig. ‘He tossed himself in the well deliberately, because he was alarmed by the fact that he was losing his intellectuals.’

‘Oh, I imagine he was pushed,’ said Inges. ‘No one liked him, and this is the kind of thing that happens to unpopular people.’

‘Lord!’ exclaimed Michael suddenly, recoiling in distaste. He was examining the dead man’s clothes, which Bartholomew had removed and passed to him, and he had just reached Welbyrn’s scrip.

What spilled out when he had upended it was a sticky bundle wrapped in cloth, to which adhered an assortment of coins, some illegible documents and the hospital key. Michael wiped his fingers fastidiously on a piece of linen, and indicated that Bartholomew was to separate the mess. The physician obliged only because refusing would have prolonged their stay – and he was oppressed by the shadowy chapel and was eager to leave. He poked at the goo with one of his surgical blades, uninterestedly at first, but with increasing urgency when he realised its significance. He looked up at Michael.

‘It is a packet of Lombard slices.’

Ducking his head in cold water had not only expunged the lingering effects of the soporific, it had imbued Bartholomew with new energy. Matilde was a sharply gnawing pain in his heart, but although it was more acute than usual, it was one that had been with him ever since she had left Cambridge and he was used to it. And as he was disinclined to examine his feelings about her, the best way to avoid this was to turn his mind to other matters.

‘Where first?’ he asked briskly, after he and Michael had pushed through the inquisitive throng that still clustered around the hospital door and were walking back to the town.

‘To see Pyk’s wife. I have tried several times, but she is always out.’ Michael shot him a sidelong glance. ‘Perhaps Inges is right to claim his well has healing properties: you seem much happier now than you were an hour ago. Or has mauling the corpse of an old adversary put you in a better mood?’

Bartholomew winced, and hoped no one else would think so. ‘The water was unusually cold – like ice – so a dousing will always be invigorating. However, I am not sure it has healing properties as such and–’

‘I am having second thoughts about being Abbot here,’ interrupted Michael, sensing a lecture on medicine in the offing and hastening to avert it. ‘The monastery is wealthy, attractive and influential, but there are too many disagreeable residents. Of course, unless we find answers soon, we might lose a few more to mysterious circumstances. So tell me what you discovered back there: what really happened to Welbyrn?’

As it transpired, the germ of a solution had started to form at the back of Bartholomew’s mind. He was silent for a moment, struggling to piece it together from what he had observed and learned during his encounters with his old tutor.

‘Welbyrn was unwell. He grew angry when it was mentioned and denied it vigorously, but the fact that he availed himself of St Leonard’s curative waters indicates that he knew something was wrong.’

‘He did not look healthy. What ailed him? Did your examination reveal it?’

‘No. I would need to look inside him for–’

‘Then we shall never know, because I am not condoning that sort of activity. At least, not here, where our every move is being carefully monitored.’

‘I was not suggesting it as an option; I was pointing out that I cannot give you answers with the kind of examination I am allowed to conduct. However, there were no obvious external symptoms, no disturbance to his appetite and no indication that he was in pain.’

‘So what are you saying? That he was not ill?’

‘It is possible. However, he certainly thought he was.’

Michael regarded him balefully. ‘I have no idea what you are trying to tell me.’

‘He was ashamed of whatever he believed was wrong with him – he visited the hospital at night, when the place was empty, and he threatened violence to anyone he feared might reveal his secret. Inges said he had taken to asking after Simon the cowherd recently, demanding to know whether there was any improvement in his condition.’

‘And?’ Michael was growing exasperated. ‘What of it?’

‘I suspect he was terrified that he might be going the same way.’

‘So what Inges said in jest was right – Welbyrn was losing his intellectuals?’

‘He told Ramseye that he kept forgetting things, but although Ramseye does not seem to have paid it much heed, I think Welbyrn actually disclosed something that was a genuine cause of concern to him.’

‘So was he going mad?’

‘The fact that he thought he was is probably an indication that he was not – the genuinely deranged do not see anything amiss with their behaviour, which is part of the problem. But Welbyrn, being proud and stubborn, refused to seek help. His fear gnawed at him, making him more aggressive.’

‘Yes – we have been told that his belligerence had escalated recently.’

‘We will never be able to prove any of this now he is dead. However, if it is true, then I am sorry. No one deserves to think that he is losing his mind.’

‘No,’ conceded Michael. ‘However, he was sane enough to leave the Bishop’s Commissioners a plate of toxic Lombard slices, and then retrieve the evidence. He was not completely witless.’

‘I am surprised he was the culprit,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘I would not have predicted that he would resort to a sly weapon like poison.’

‘Perhaps he had help,’ suggested Michael. ‘From the other members of the Unholy Trinity, for example, who may then have decided to shove him in the well before he gave them away. Men on the verge of insanity do not make for reliable accomplices.’

‘We do not know he was murdered. It may have been an accident. Or suicide.’

‘He was murdered all right,’ stated Michael grimly. ‘Of that I am certain.’

Pyk had occupied an attractive house on the marketplace. Its window shutters were freshly painted, its timbers scrubbed, and it had a clean, wholesome look about it. Bartholomew felt instinctively that he would have been at home there, and wished he had known his fellow medicus.

The door was opened by a maid, who recognised Michael from his previous attempts to interview her mistress. She smiled, said Pernel was in at last, and led them to a solar. Lying on a couch like an indolent Roman emperor was a very fat woman in middle years, whose jaws worked furiously as she finished what appeared to have been a sizeable plate of cakes.

‘You are here about my husband Hugh,’ she said, indicating that they should sit. ‘Aurifabro sent soldiers to hunt for him, but they had no more luck than the abbey’s men.’

‘What about you?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did you search, too?’

‘Me?’ Pernel regarded him askance. ‘How could I succeed where mercenaries and defensores had failed? I am not some bloodhound, trained to sniff out prey.’

‘I meant did you hire people to look on your behalf?’ explained Bartholomew.

‘No, it would have been a waste of money. Besides, these things happen, and there is no point crying over spilt milk.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘You do not seem very concerned.’

Her eyes were small and hard in her doughy face. ‘Is that a crime? I never wanted to marry a medicus. They are an unpleasant breed, with their urine flasks and astrological charts and boring lectures about diet.’

‘But he was your–’ began Bartholomew.

‘My eating is none of his business. It is my body, and I shall put what I please inside it.’

‘Quite right, too,’ interjected Michael.

‘But he thought that a healer’s wife should set a good example, and he ordered me to lose weight. It was entirely unreasonable.’

‘Indeed it was,’ agreed Michael sincerely. ‘Completely unfair.’

‘You would take his side.’ Pernel rounded angrily on Bartholomew, even though he had not spoken. ‘You are one of them – a physician!’ She spat the last word, as if she wanted it out of her mouth. ‘Of course, he did not interfere with cadavers, which is a point in his favour.’

‘I do not–’ began Bartholomew, not liking the connotations of ‘interfere’.

‘But my dietary regimen is my affair, and none of his,’ Pernel concluded firmly. She glared at Bartholomew. ‘And none of yours, either.’

Bartholomew was beginning to feel considerable sympathy for Pyk.

‘I quite understand,’ said Michael. ‘I suffer similar intrusions myself. But that is not why we are here. We wanted to ask about your husband’s–’

‘The poor will miss him,’ said Pernel rather spitefully. ‘He saw a number of them free of charge, although I did my best to put an end to such nonsense.’

‘What do you think happened to him and Robert?’ Michael was forced to speak quickly, to get the question out before he was interrupted again.

‘Thieves killed them, of course. He and the Abbot would have made an attractive target, because it threatened rain that day and they were both wearing nice cloaks. Hugh’s was scarlet, shot through with gold thread, while Robert’s was trimmed with ermine.’

‘An attractive target indeed,’ murmured Michael.

‘Many townsfolk believe these so-called outlaws are actually Aurifabro’s mercenaries, but I do not. He would not have sent them to look for Hugh if that had been the case.’

‘He might,’ countered Michael. ‘To forestall accusations.’

Pernel shook her head, making her chins swing from side to side. ‘Hugh was one of the few people Aurifabro liked. I think my husband’s disappearance can be laid at Spalling’s door. Spalling encourages the poor to think they have a right to the property of the rich, so is it any surprise that they then go out and put this philosophy into action?’

‘Do you have proof that Spalling’s followers are responsible?’ asked Bartholomew.

Pernel shot him a haughty glance. ‘I do not need proof. It is what I think.’

‘What I do not understand is why Pyk agreed to accompany Robert in the first place,’ said Michael. ‘I know they were friends, but it seems an unlikely association – a popular physician and a universally despised Abbot.’

‘Oh, that is easily explained. I encouraged the relationship, on the grounds that a high-ranking churchman was better company than his vile paupers – we have our social standing to consider, you know. Hugh liked everyone, so he had no trouble tolerating Robert.’

‘They arranged to ride to Torpe together on the day they disappeared?’

Pernel nodded. ‘Hugh had patients to see there, and Robert thought Hugh’s popularity with low-born villains would prevent him from being robbed. So much for that notion!’

‘I do not suppose you have received a ransom note, have you?’ asked Michael, more in desperation than hope – the interview had told them nothing new.

Pernel shook her head. ‘And I would not pay if I had. I do not believe in negotiating with extortionists. It only encourages them to try again.’

‘Surely you would have made an exception for your husband?’ Bartholomew did not try to mask his distaste for her icy pragmatism.

‘I would not,’ she said firmly. ‘But I am famished! Would you care to join me in a–’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew curtly, eager to be away from her objectionable company. ‘We have taken enough of your time.’

‘Poor Pyk,’ he said, as they walked towards Reginald’s shop. Michael had decided that it was time to force the cutler to tell them what he knew, and had already devised a list of threats that would compel him to open his door. ‘Perhaps he disappeared in order to escape from her.’

‘Taking Robert with him?’ asked Michael. ‘I doubt that.’

‘Did you believe her when she said she had forced Pyk to make friends with Robert? I cannot imagine following that sort of order – not for anyone.’

‘Fortunately for you, neither Matilde nor Julitta are the kind of women to demand that sort of obedience. But perhaps we have not been told the whole truth about Pyk – maybe he was not the saintly healer we have been led to believe.’

Bartholomew disagreed. ‘People have had no compunction about denigrating the Abbot, and if Pyk had had faults, they would have been listed, too. However, despite what Pernel claimed, I still think that Robert and Pyk were unlikely friends.’

‘People probably say the same about us: the man who will be the next prelate of Peterborough, and his sinister, anatomy-loving companion.’

Bartholomew regarded him sharply. ‘You said not an hour ago that you had decided not to try for the abbacy, on the grounds that there are too many disagreeable residents.’

‘There are, but I shall have the authority to oust most of them once I am invested. Yvo, Nonton, Ramseye and Henry can be exiled to distant outposts, while the threat of excommunication will keep Spalling in check.’

‘Do you think you will win an election?’

‘I would not demean myself by becoming involved in one of those! I shall tell Gynewell to appoint me, and he will oblige because he will be grateful to have me in his See. And who can blame him? I will be an excellent Abbot.’

But Bartholomew’s attention had wandered. ‘Something is happening near the fishmonger’s shop. A crowd has gathered outside it.’

They hurried forward, and Michael released a cry of dismay when he saw the cutler on the ground in the throes of an apoplectic attack. Bartholomew thrust his way through the onlookers and dropped to his knees next to the stricken man. Abruptly, Reginald went limp. Bartholomew put his ear to the cutler’s chest, then began compressing it.

‘What is he doing?’ whispered Hagar, watching in fascinated horror.

‘Perhaps it is anatomy,’ suggested long-toothed Marion.

Bartholomew would have reassured them that it was not, but he was concentrating on the task in hand and had no breath for explanations.

‘It is Corpse Examining,’ declared Botilbrig with great authority. ‘I just saw him doing similar things to Welbyrn.’

‘Excuse me,’ said someone, trying to push Bartholomew out of the way. The physician glanced up to see Spalling, clad in the simple attire of a fisherman, although the apron was conspicuously devoid of blood and scales. ‘Would you mind moving aside?’

‘I am busy,’ snapped Bartholomew, still trying to restart Reginald’s heart.

‘So I see,’ said Spalling. ‘But I need some fish. I am holding another meeting tonight, and people expect to be fed.’

He shoved hard enough to knock Bartholomew off balance and disappeared into the shop. Bartholomew gaped, astonished that anyone should consider shopping more important than a man’s life, but then his attention was taken by a faint thud beneath his fingers: Reginald’s heart was beating again. The cutler opened his eyes, but his lips were blue, and Bartholomew could see he had only delayed the inevitable.

‘He needs last rites, Brother,’ he said urgently. ‘Hurry!’

Although monks were not priests, Michael had been granted dispensation to hear confessions during the plague and had continued the practice since. He crouched down obligingly, fumbling for the chrism he carried for such occasions, while Bartholomew stepped back to give them privacy. Everyone else craned forward, then shuffled back sheepishly when Michael favoured them with a black glare. Reginald grasped the monk’s hand and started to whisper, but it was not long before he went limp again.

‘You could not save him then?’ asked Spalling conversationally, emerging from the shop with a parcel under his arm. Silvery heads poked from one end, tails from another.

‘No,’ replied Bartholomew shortly.

‘What happened?’ Spalling regarded the body dispassionately. ‘Apoplexy?’

‘Possibly,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Why?’

‘He had two attacks last year, and Master Pyk warned him that he would have another unless he stopped drinking a pint of melted butter with his custard every night. It is a pity Pyk is not here to see Reginald dead. He liked being right.’

‘Did he?’ pounced Michael. ‘Was he arrogant, then?’

‘No, he just took pride in his art. We shall have to ask the new Abbot to arrange for a replacement, because Peterborough should not be without a medicus. Of course, we will be lucky to get another man like Pyk. Not many physicians tend the poor free of charge.’

‘Did you tell Spalling the truth, Matt?’ asked Michael in a low voice, when the rebel had moved away to nod friendly greetings to the more disreputable members of the crowd. ‘Did Reginald really die of apoplexy?’

‘It seems the most likely explanation. Why?’

‘Because he just told me he was poisoned.’