The Lost Abbot

Chapter 9

Had Reginald been poisoned? As Bartholomew had come close to suffering a similar fate himself, he gave his undivided attention to finding out what had happened to the cutler. Still in the doorway to the fishmonger’s shop, he inspected the dead man’s hands and lips. He saw nothing amiss, so he opened the mouth and tipped back the head to look down the throat. Only when there was a collective exclamation of disgust did it occur to him that he should have insisted on working somewhere less public.

‘Perhaps being examined so pitilessly serves him right,’ said Botilbrig. ‘He was a very evil villain, and I have not forgotten how his wife disappeared so suddenly.’

‘Yes, within days of Abbot Robert’s arrival,’ recalled Spalling, still with the fish under his arm. ‘Maybe he seduced her and encouraged her to leave, just as he seduced Joan. I would not put such unsavoury antics past a Benedictine, especially that one.’

‘Well, Matt?’ Michael moved closer to the physician, so they could speak without being overheard. Fortunately, the spectators were more interested in discussing whether Mistress Cutler had been Robert’s kind of woman.

‘There is no evidence of poison that I can see, although that proves nothing, given that most are undetectable. However, if Reginald really did drink melted butter every night and had suffered similar attacks in the past…’

Michael was silent for a moment. ‘He refused the sacrament of confession, saying that he preferred pagan deities, so I suppose I can tell you what he confided. He admitted to creating a diversion when Lady Lullington was killed – he was paid for it, apparently. Unfortunately, he died before I could ask by whom. His last words were that the purse would tell us all we need to know.’

‘What did he mean by that?’

‘I have no idea, but we should look in his shop for it. A clue that tells us “all we need to know” would be very useful.’

Bartholomew agreed, so they left the body in the fishmonger’s reluctant care, and walked to Reginald’s domain beneath the Chapel of St Thomas – a workshop at the front and living quarters behind. Bartholomew looked around in distaste, wondering if the cutler had grown so slovenly after he had no wife to care for him. The workshop was a chaotic mess, broken tools vying for space with scraps of discarded metal and sticky pools of grease, but the living room was worse. The table was thick with dirt, the blankets filthy and the plates stained with the remnants of past meals. Bartholomew retreated to the shop, leaving Michael to tackle the rest.

‘This is odd,’ he called, when they had been searching for a while. He went to the adjoining door, weighing something in his hand. ‘It looks like a–’

‘Matt, please,’ Michael was trying to summon the courage to peer beneath Reginald’s flea-infested mattress. ‘Just look for the purse.’ Bartholomew stared down at what he had found, and was not surprised the monk was uninterested – it was just a metal cylinder in two parts, one fitting inside the other. But it looked like a coining die – a press for making money – although he supposed that was unlikely. Such items were very carefully guarded, and all old ones were destroyed to prevent counterfeiting. He put it back where he had found it, then opened a dirty wooden box that contained pewter spoons. A few had been daubed with gold leaf in a sly attempt to make them appear as though they were made from solid gold.

‘Look,’ Batholomew went to the door a second time, to show them to Michael.

The monk grimaced. ‘I imagine Reginald was up to no good in here, given that he declined to open the door, but those spoons can have no bearing on Robert’s fate – or on who hired him to make a fuss so that Lady Lullington could be murdered. So find the purse, because I shall be sick if I am obliged to stay in here much longer.’

Bartholomew did as he was told, listening with half an ear to the discussion taking place outside the door, as people gathered there to cluck and gossip about the dead man. Predictably, Spalling was denouncing him for having money that should have been shared with the poor; Botilbrig recited a list of the crimes he was known to have committed; and Lullington had arrived to assert that Reginald had dabbled in witchery.

‘How do you know?’ asked Hagar. She sounded uneasy: his shop was under her chapel.

‘My wife told me,’ replied Lullington. ‘She knew about that kind of thing.’

‘She never did!’ snapped Hagar angrily. ‘She was a saintly soul. Will she be going in our cemetery, by the way? Trentham is digging a pit for Joan, so I am sure he would not mind excavating one for her as well. We can put her on Oxforde’s other side.’

‘She can go in the parish churchyard,’ came the callous reply. ‘I am not paying for anything special.’

‘It would not cost much,’ insisted Hagar. ‘Indeed, Trentham would probably waive his fee, because he liked her. Shall we ask him now? He is digging at this very moment, and I am sure he will be grateful for a respite while we negotiate.’

‘No.’ Lullington’s next words came from a distance. ‘I do not want my wife anywhere near where I plan to be buried myself.’

‘He is a heartless pig,’ declared Hagar to whoever was listening. ‘And if anyone is worthy of a special grave, it is Lady Lullington. She deserves one even more than Joan.’

‘Joan does not deserve it,’ countered Botilbrig. His voice became wistful. ‘Although she was a lovely lass when she was young. It is a pity she turned out the way she did.’

‘She always said the same about you,’ said Hagar.

Back in Reginald’s home, Bartholomew and Michael were having no luck. The monk had moved to the cooking pots, screwing up his face in revulsion as he peered inside each one. Bartholomew had finished rummaging through the cutler’s tools, and had just dropped to his knees to look under a bench when the door opened to reveal Henry.

‘I am afraid you must leave,’ the monk said. ‘At once.’

‘Why?’ demanded Michael, bemused.

‘Because now Reginald is dead, these premises belong to the abbey.’

‘I imagine they belong to his family,’ countered Michael. ‘The abbey is–’

‘There is a will,’ interrupted Henry. ‘The obedientiaries are studying it as I speak, and it says the abbey inherits everything.’

‘They wasted no time,’ said Bartholomew, disgusted.

Henry grimaced. ‘Reginald could not read, and while Robert should have been trusted to write what his friend dictated … well, suffice to say that the will is likely to be contested by Reginald’s sons. Thus the property must be sealed, and you must leave. I am sorry – I am only carrying out orders.’

‘Whose orders?’ demanded Michael. ‘Yvo’s?’

‘Yes, I suppose so. Now please do as I ask. I do not want trouble.’

‘But we are looking for information that may throw light on your Abbot’s disappearance,’ objected Michael. ‘Do you not want him found?’

‘Yes, of course. However, I doubt Reginald had anything to do with Robert’s murder.’

‘His murder?’ pounced Michael.

‘A slip of the tongue,’ said Henry, crossing himself. ‘Pray God it is not true. But you will find no clues to Robert’s whereabouts here, I am quite sure of that.’

‘Are you indeed?’ muttered Michael, shoving past him to the street.

Yvo was bemused when Michael stormed into the Abbot’s House, and he claimed to know nothing about an order to seal it up. The other obedientiaries said likewise, so Henry was summoned. The monk raised his hands in a shrug, and said the instruction had been given to him by a lay brother named Raundes.

‘Raundes?’ Yvo turned to Nonton. ‘He is a defensor, is he not?’

The cellarer nodded. ‘But he has gone to Lincoln. Welbyrn was supposed to travel there tomorrow, so I thought I had better notify Gynewell that he would not be coming.’

‘Raundes spoke to me before he left,’ explained Henry.

‘Convenient,’ murmured Yvo. He spoke a little more loudly. ‘However, whoever issued these instructions was right: we cannot let anyone paw through Reginald’s belongings until the issue of ownership has been decided.’

‘I was not pawing, I was looking for clues that might explain what had happened to your Abbot,’ said Michael coldly. ‘And I insist that I be allowed to continue.’

‘What manner of clues?’ asked Yvo. He sighed in sudden irritation. ‘For God’s sake, Appletre! Must you blubber every time someone dies? It is not as if Reginald was a good man.’

‘He was a fine bass,’ sobbed Appletre. ‘And he made lovely forks.’

‘You have something nice to say about everyone,’ accused Ramseye. ‘And it is an aggravating habit. Take him to the kitchens for wine, Henry. He is as white as a sheet.’

Bartholomew seized the opportunity to leave with them, preferring their company to that of the remaining obedientiaries and Michael in a temper. Once outside, Henry began to apologise again for ousting him from Reginald’s lair, pointing out that it was not for a mere monk to question orders that were alleged to have come from obedientiaries. Bartholomew was more concerned with Appletre, who was indeed pale.

‘It is the thought of Welbyrn and Reginald in Purgatory,’ explained the precentor tearfully. ‘Welbyrn will rise to Heaven eventually, I suppose, but Reginald will not – not only was he a heathen, but he committed many terrible sins.’

‘Then we shall help by praying for their souls,’ said Henry kindly. ‘You are as bad as young Trentham with your soft heart! Did you see him as he dug Joan’s grave? He was sobbing fit to break his heart. You are both too sensitive for your own good.’

The pair went to the kitchen before beginning their vigil. Bartholomew accompanied them, but although he was hungry, he declined the cook’s offer of some apple pie. Appletre sipped a cup of wine, and the colour gradually seeped back into his cheeks, while the cook, a portly, smiling man named Walter, chatted amiably.

‘Raundes galloped away in a great rush. I suppose he is keen to put himself out of range of Aurifabro’s robbers before nightfall. Or are they Spalling’s, do you think?’

‘Aurifabro’s, probably,’ replied Appletre. ‘Those mercenaries are very rough men.’

‘Yet Spalling has been inciting violence of late,’ said Henry thoughtfully. ‘He always did hold controversial opinions, but he has been much more vocal recently. Much more active, too, with his rallies and meetings.’

‘He only developed those ideas to annoy his rich father,’ said Walter. ‘If they had been genuine, he would not have accepted a princely inheritance when the old man died. Aurifabro told me that Spalling is spending none of his own money on this revolution.’

‘You have been talking to Aurifabro?’ asked Henry, startled. ‘The abbey’s enemy?’

‘Just in passing,’ replied Walter, a little cagily. He hastened on with his gossip before Henry could question him further. ‘He says that Spalling’s riches are safely invested with the town’s jewellers, and thinks that someone is paying him to foment discontent.’

‘Come now, Brother Cook,’ chided Henry. ‘I do not believe that and nor should you.’

‘Do you think Bishop Gynewell will come when he hears there has been a second death in the abbey?’ asked Walter, ignoring the admonition and ranging off on another subject. ‘First our Abbot and now our treasurer.’

Appletre shook his head. ‘He has his hands too full with his own troubles. Doubtless he will order Brother Michael to look into Welbyrn’s death, too.’

‘I do not envy Michael his duties,’ said the cook soberly. ‘I doubt he will find answers, and he has been wasting his time from the start.’

Bartholomew felt the need to defend his friend. ‘He is very good at what he does.’

‘Maybe so,’ said Walter. ‘But Peterborough excels at keeping its secrets, and it will take a much sharper mind than his to make it yield them.’

The cook’s smug prediction made Bartholomew want to prove him wrong, so he spent the rest of the day in a determined effort to discover what Peterborough might be hiding. He questioned Cynric about Spalling’s finances, interviewed a lot of monks about Welbyrn, and visited taverns to ask about Reginald, Pyk, Joan, Robert and Lady Lullington.

He learned nothing, and was dispirited when he returned to the abbey, the energy that had surged through him after his icy dip in the well at St Leonard’s gone. Moreover, despite his resolve not to dwell on Matilde, she kept entering his thoughts, and his stomach lurched several times when he thought he saw her. He was still recovering from one such start when his arm was grabbed and he was spun around roughly.

‘I was talking to you,’ snapped Aurifabro. ‘Or is a Bishop’s Commissioner too grand to pass the time of day with a lowly goldsmith?’

‘Of course not,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘How may I help you?’

The phrase was one he used on patients, and had emerged instinctively rather than from any desire to be polite, but Aurifabro softened when he heard it.

‘I want to know who will be the next Abbot, and I thought you might give me a more honest answer than those damned Benedictines.’

‘Why are you curious about that?’

‘I am tired of sparring with the Church, and hiring mercenaries is expensive. I should like to make my peace with Robert’s successor. With luck, he might even buy that wretched paten. It is the best piece I have ever crafted, and it would be a pity to melt it down – and my own religion has no use for that sort of thing.’

‘Yvo plans to hold an election on Thursday. You will find out then whether the monks have chosen him or Ramseye.’ Bartholomew was disinclined to add that the result might be irrelevant if Michael persuaded Gynewell to appoint him instead.

Aurifabro grimaced. ‘Neither is likely to agree to a truce.’ He was silent for a moment, reflecting gloomily, then seemed to pull himself together. ‘The other thing I want to know is whether you have caught the villain who murdered the villainous Robert.’

‘Not yet.’

‘Pity, but I am not surprised. The only people who cared about him were Pyk, Reginald and Welbyrn, and now they are all dead, too.’

‘Lullington liked him,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

Aurifabro spat. ‘Lullington is incapable of liking anyone but himself.’

Bartholomew suspected that was true. He studied the goldsmith thoughtfully, and decided it was time he also spoke his mind. ‘If you really want the culprit found, you would not have told your mercenaries to prevent us from asking questions in Torpe.’

Aurifabro regarded him with an expression that was difficult to read. ‘Then come again, and I shall order them to admit you. However, think very carefully before you do. It would be wiser and safer simply to tell Bishop Gynewell that the case will never be solved.’

And with those enigmatic words, he strode away.

When Bartholomew arrived at the guest house, he found that Michael, William and Clippesby had been entertaining Langelee.

‘I had better go,’ said the Master, setting his goblet on the table. ‘Spalling is holding another of his revolutionary rallies tonight.’

‘So?’ asked Michael waspishly. ‘Surely you cannot enjoy that sort of nonsense?’

‘No, but it is an opportunity to learn his plans, so I can pass them to the Sheriff. Spalling must be stopped. I will keep Cynric’s name out of my dispatches if I can.’

‘And if you cannot?’ asked Bartholomew, alarmed. ‘He might hang!’

‘Yes, but the alternative is to stand by while England erupts into open rebellion. The situation is bigger than any of us, and I am morally obliged to do whatever is necessary to nip it in the bud before it spreads.’

‘But–’ objected Bartholomew.

‘I have told Cynric what I plan to do,’ Langelee went on. ‘Which shows a good deal of trust on my part, because Spalling would certainly kill me if he thought I was a spy.’

‘Spalling is all wind,’ said William dismissively. ‘The abbey servants tell me that he does not give his own money to his cause, and that he will run away if there are signs that his fiery words are working.’

‘They may be right.’ Langelee turned to Michael. ‘However, the reason I came here tonight was to tell you something I overheard – a discussion between Spalling and some of his rabble. They plan to attack Aurifabro soon, in the hope that he can be driven off his lands. Unfortunately, Aurifabro has enough mercenaries to fight back.’

‘But Aurifabro’s mercenaries are skilled warriors,’ said Bartholomew in horror. ‘Spalling’s peasants will be cut to pieces. Can you do nothing to stop them?’

Langelee shook his head. ‘Spalling believes that Aurifabro is responsible for the Abbot’s disappearance, and thinks an invasion of his manor will force the matter into the open.’

‘What do you think?’ asked Michael. ‘Is Aurifabro the culprit?’

Langelee considered the question carefully. ‘Well, I am suspicious of the fact that Robert and Pyk were riding to his home when they vanished. Moreover, two days before, Spalling heard Robert yell at Aurifabro over the paten he was making.’

‘Walter the cook also heard a fierce argument,’ agreed William, ‘in which the Abbot accused Aurifabro of using substandard gold. Needless to say Aurifabro was offended, because he takes pride in his craft.’

Langelee stood. ‘I had better go before I am missed. I have offered to distribute fish stew to Spalling’s audience before his speech – which will take a while because a veritable horde is massing outside his house. If they all join his cause, he will command a significant army.’

‘Something the abbey already has, and so does Aurifabro,’ said Michael gloomily. ‘We are the only ones on our own.’

Once Langelee had gone, Clippesby and William began to tell Michael what they had learned during the course of the day.

‘I spent part of it with Prior Yvo,’ said Clippesby. He frowned in consternation. ‘He seems to be labouring under the misapprehension that I am a saint. I kept assuring him that I am not, but he would not listen.’

‘We discussed this,’ said William irritably. ‘We agreed that you would ignore him if he mentioned that particular fantasy. The poor man is sun-touched, and the best way to deal with his sad condition is by going along with everything he says.’

‘He took no notice of my denials anyway. Then he told me to kneel at the prie-dieu in his solar, and petition God to appoint him as Abbot. I told him I would petition God to choose the most worthy candidate.’

‘Thank you, Clippesby,’ said Michael. ‘I shall remember your support.’

Clippesby regarded him in incomprehension, then went on. ‘When I had finished, I met a chaffinch who told me that Robert had enjoyed reading Oxforde’s prayer. Apparently, Kirwell gave it to him in the expectation of immediate death. But Kirwell still lives.’

‘How did the chaffinch know about the prayer?’ asked Bartholomew, who had been under the impression that Kirwell had kept that particular matter close to his chest, and that while Inges and the bedesmen might know the tale, it was not general knowledge.

‘She overheard Robert telling Nonton the cellarer about it.’

‘He means a monk overheard the discussion and confided it to him,’ translated William scathingly. ‘However, what I learned is a lot more important.’

‘What?’ asked Michael impatiently, when the friar paused for dramatic effect.

‘That Welbyrn asked the cook to bake him a batch of Lombard slices the day Matthew became ill,’ replied William triumphantly. ‘Ergo, Welbyrn was the poisoner. I showed Walter the soggy ones that had been in the villain’s purse, and he recognised them at once. He also said there was nothing toxic about them when they left his kitchen.’

‘Then the soporific was added later,’ surmised Michael. ‘Sprinkled on, perhaps, as a coating.’

‘Do you think Welbyrn tried to kill you, then tossed himself in the well when he failed?’ asked William.

‘It is possible,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But leaving the cakes in his scrip was tantamount to an admission of guilt, and I am not sure he would have risked embarrassing his monastery so. Even if he had been losing his mind, I think he still would have known he should dispose of the incriminating evidence before killing himself.’

‘Then perhaps this “admission of guilt” was intended for his brethren’s eyes only,’ suggested William. ‘He was not to know his corpse would be examined by you.’

‘He was not a total fool,’ averred Michael. ‘Even in lunacy, he would have anticipated that his death would interest the Bishop’s Commissioners. And I do not believe it was suicide anyway. He was murdered – I feel it in my bones.’

They were silent for a while, straining for answers that would not come.

‘I also found out that Robert had some sort of hold over Reginald,’ William went on eventually. ‘The servants did not know what, but they said that Reginald did everything Robert asked, not out of friendship, but because he had no choice.’

‘And I have been regaled with tale after tale about Oxforde’s treasure,’ added Clippesby. ‘Some folk say it was never found; others claim he gave it all to the poor, or that it is funding Spalling’s rebellion; and the rest believe that Reginald dug it up and spent it all on himself. Regardless of the truth, the foxes say it is worth a fortune.’

William patted his hand patronisingly. ‘Well, if these foxes ever learn where it is, make sure you come to me first. Michaelhouse’s coffers are always empty.’

While his colleagues debated how much gold would be needed to solve the College’s ongoing financial problems, Bartholomew sat in the window. He tried to review what he had discovered about Robert, Pyk, Joan, Lady Lullington and Welbyrn, but tiredness meant he was less effective at locking Matilde from his thoughts than he had been earlier, and it was not long before he gave up and let her fill his mind.

What would he do if she appeared in Cambridge one day? Had too much time passed for them to be happy together? How much had she changed? And he knew she had, because the old Matilde would not have been afraid to speak to him. Of course, he had changed, too – he was more sober and reflective now, and it was possible that she might not like it.

And what about Julitta? Would he forget about her if Matilde appeared laden down with riches and offered to be his wife? Yet how could he abandon Julitta to a man who did not love her, and who might even do her harm? He thought about her silky brown hair and mischievous smile, and his stomach lurched.

He yelped in alarm when there was a soft tap on the window, and he saw a face staring in at him. They were on the upper floor, so no one should have been outside.

‘Sorry, boy,’ said Cynric, climbing in off the ivy that grew up the wall. ‘I did not want anyone to see me visiting. The men who support Spalling are nervous about spies, see.’

‘I imagine they are,’ muttered Michael. ‘So what have you got for me?’

‘Nothing,’ replied Cynric in disgust. ‘I walked very slowly along the Torpe road today, but it has been too long since Robert and Pyk were there. If they were killed by robbers, then there are no clues to tell us the identity of the culprits.’

‘How did you manage to escape from Spalling?’ asked William curiously.

‘I told him I was going out. He is too busy to object.’

‘So, let us summarise what we know of Robert’s final journey,’ said Michael with a weary sigh. ‘He went to inspect the paten that Aurifabro was making, Pyk at his side. Aurifabro claims they never arrived. So, the first possibility is that they did arrive and Aurifabro killed them. It is common knowledge that they disliked each other, and we know they argued over the paten.’

‘But Aurifabro did not dislike Pyk,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

‘Yes, but if Pyk saw Robert murdered, Aurifabro would have had no choice but to kill him, too,’ put in William. ‘From what I have heard, Pyk was not a man to turn a blind eye.’

‘The second possibility is that they fell foul of outlaws,’ Michael went on.

‘For which there is no evidence,’ Cynric reminded him.

‘And the third possibility is that they were dispatched by someone they knew,’ Michael finished. ‘God knows, Robert had enough enemies.’

‘There is no evidence for that, either,’ said Cynric.

Michael thumped the table in frustration. ‘We are no further forward than we were when we first arrived. Meanwhile, we have four more suspicious deaths to solve, and we must leave the day after tomorrow.’

‘It is odd that Reginald should die just as we were going to talk to him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Then there is his peculiar guilty behaviour, and the fact that we were removed from his shop before we could search it properly – via a message from a defensor who is conveniently unavailable to tell us who issued the order.’

‘It is odd,’ agreed William. ‘But I think Lullington paid Reginald to create the diversion that allowed his wife to be strangled. It explains why he could not bear to look at her corpse.’

‘But she would have been dead soon anyway,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘And Lullington is not the kind of man to squander money. Your conclusion is illogical.’

‘Do you have a better one, then?’ demanded William.

Bartholomew did not.

It had been an exhausting day, and Bartholomew was beginning to pay the price for his earlier vigour. He wanted to go to bed, but Prior Yvo had other ideas.

‘We always have a little fun on the second Monday of every month,’ he said. ‘I was tempted to cancel, but that would have been the last thing Welbyrn would have wanted. He loved Entertainment Night.’

‘Entertainment Night?’ asked Michael warily.

‘When members of our community show off their talents,’ replied Yvo, eyes blazing rather fanatically. ‘I shall sing, and you will see others with equally impressive skills. And at the end, we vote for the best performance. You will attend.’

‘Not me,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I am too tired for–’

‘Nonsense,’ declared Yvo. ‘Entertainment Night will make you feel like a new man. Even Kirwell rouses himself for the occasion, and he always enjoys himself.’

It sounded distinctly unappealing, but the four scholars trailed obediently across the yard to the refectory, where there was a buzz of excited anticipation as the monks and lay brothers converged. They were joined not only by the men of St Leonard’s Hospital, but by their female counterparts from St Thomas’s. Lullington and Trentham had also been invited, and stood with Nonton, whose red face suggested he had been sampling the wines that were to be served later. The scholars entered the crush, and Bartholomew found himself next to Lullington. The knight began to make polite conversation in his aristocratic French.

‘I saw you talking to Aurifabro earlier. I hope he was not denigrating dear Abbot Robert.’

‘We discussed the paten,’ said Bartholomew, not entirely truthfully.

‘A paltry piece that would have been a waste of money.’ Lullington grimaced. ‘Burying my wife next to Oxforde would have been a waste of money as well, because if anyone is going to claim that hallowed spot, it will be me. But not for many years, of course.’

‘Of course. Why did you never visit her when she was ill?’

‘I was busy,’ replied Lullington stiffly. ‘Not that it is any of your business. Besides, I started to walk into her room the day she died, but my courage failed when I smelled sickness and urine. However, I am shattered by her death – my grief knows no bounds.’

‘Yes, you seem heartbroken.’

Lullington scowled as he brushed invisible specks from another handsome new gipon. ‘I am a knight – we do not display unmanly emotions in public. She loved me for it, of course. I know, because she was loyal.’

Bartholomew was bemused by the last remark and started to ask what it meant, but Lullington had spotted Yvo and hurried away to corner him, making no effort to disguise the fact that he considered the Prior a more worthy recipient of his attentions. Bartholomew was about to go after him when Trentham approached. The priest had donned a clean robe, brushed his hair and shaved. His cheeks were pink and very youthful, but there was a sadness in his eyes that was older than his years.

‘I buried Lady Lullington this afternoon,’ he began miserably. ‘In the parish churchyard, beneath my favourite tree. I did not want her near Oxforde, not after what Kirwell said.’

‘Unlike poor Joan,’ said Michael, overhearing as he came to join them, ‘who will keep the villain company for eternity. Have you finished digging her hole yet?’

Trentham shook his head. ‘I am not very good at it, so it is taking an age.’

‘Perhaps one of the monks will help you,’ suggested Bartholomew.

Trentham grinned suddenly, an expression that made him look more boyish than ever. ‘A monk! Why did I not think of that? Perhaps Henry will oblige; he is a good man. So is Appletre, although I doubt the other obedientiaries will offer. They are too grand.’

‘Entertainment Night should have been cancelled.’ It was Henry speaking, his expression troubled. ‘We should not be making merry when we have an abbot missing and a treasurer dead.’

‘I disagree,’ said Appletre, who was with him. ‘Music will make everyone feel better, and Robert and Welbyrn would have agreed.’

‘Poor Welbyrn,’ said Trentham with a sorrowful sigh. ‘Still, I suppose we should not be surprised. His father was the same.’

‘The same as what?’ asked Michael.

‘He also lost his wits,’ explained Trentham. ‘In the end, he tossed himself in the river, a tormented and lost soul. My grandfather told me about it. Perhaps it was terror of insanity that made the younger Welbyrn such an angry, unhappy man.’

‘It is certainly what drove him to take his own life,’ said Henry. ‘Because we all know that is what really happened, despite Yvo’s efforts to make us believe it was an accident. It is a pity, but these things happen, and all we can do is pray for his soul.’

Michael watched him, Appletre and Trentham walk away together. ‘Henry is very eager for everyone to view Welbyrn’s death as suicide. Does he want his old teacher to roast in the fires of Hell for committing a mortal sin? Or is there another reason for his insistence?’

‘Henry is not a killer,’ said Bartholomew, tired of Michael’s irrational dislike of his old classmate.

‘So you keep saying.’

Yvo cut through the babble of conversation in the refectory by clapping his hands. There was immediate silence, although Bartholomew sensed it was more from eager anticipation than obedience. The Prior stood on the dais and beamed, eyebrows waving genially.

‘Welcome to Entertainment Night. We shall dedicate tonight’s proceedings to Welbyrn, who will certainly be looking down on us from Heaven.’

A number of monks glanced upwards at this claim, their uncomfortable expressions suggesting that their enjoyment of the occasion had just been curtailed.

‘Most of you know what to expect,’ Yvo went on. ‘But for the benefit of our guests, the evening works as follows: there will be ten different acts, after which the audience will vote for the one it liked best. The winner will receive a carp.’

‘A carp,’ murmured Michael, green eyes dancing with amusement. ‘The stakes are high, then.’

‘We shall dispense with the serious stuff first,’ Yvo proclaimed. ‘So let us have your poem, Henry.’

Henry’s piece was a prayer, beautiful in its simplicity, and the gathering was more sober after hearing it. Appletre was in tears again, and when he was asked for his own contribution, it took three false starts and a lot of throat-clearing before he was able to sing. But when he did, his poignant Lacrimosa had more than one listener dabbing at his eyes.

Hagar was next. She marched towards the dais with Marion and Elene at her heels, and announced defiantly that their act was for Joan, not Welbyrn. They each produced three coloured wooden balls, and began to juggle. The performance started simply enough, but worked up to a finale that was an impressive blur of flying orbs. The other bedeswomen whooped and applauded when it was finished, as did many monks, although the gentlemen of St Leonard’s Hospital remained pointedly silent.

Lullington recited a lively French poem about fighting a dragon, accompanied by cuts and thrusts from an imaginary sword, which revealed that he would have no idea how to use a real one. Bartholomew glanced around for Cynric, knowing he would be laughing, before realising with a pang that the book-bearer was off fomenting rebellion with Spalling. The knight made no reference to dedicating his performance to his wife, although he nodded testy agreement when Trentham surged to his feet and did it for him.

The cellarer was next, with some tediously uninspired strumming on a rebec. When he announced that he was only halfway through his repertoire, and had plenty more with which to thrill his audience, Yvo strode on to the dais and confiscated the instrument. Everyone roared their approval, but Nonton shot the Prior a look of such glowering hatred that the cheering trailed away to an uncomfortable murmur.

Ramseye’s contribution was an impression of the Pope, complete with thick French accent and a bizarre interpretation of his monastic reforms that had the brothers howling appreciative laughter, although most of the allusions passed over Bartholomew’s head.

‘That was very clever,’ said Michael, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. ‘He caught the fellow perfectly. I am voting for him.’

Then there was a break, during which Nonton served mulled ale. He spilled some in Yvo’s lap, and his expression was gleefully vindictive when the hot liquid caused the Prior to screech. He provided a separate jug for the Michaelhouse men, murmuring that it was better quality than that provided for the rabble. Bartholomew took it outside and discreetly emptied it down the nearest drain.

He returned to find that Kirwell’s litter had been moved to the door, because the old man had expressed a desire for some fresh air.

‘How much longer?’ he whispered when he saw Bartholomew. ‘Abbot Robert promised faithfully that I would die if I gave him Oxforde’s prayer, so why am I still here?’

‘Do you remember any of this prayer?’ asked Bartholomew, more to prevent another request for a nudge towards the grave than because he was interested.

Kirwell glared peevishly at him. ‘I only heard it once, and that was forty-five years ago. So no, I cannot recall the words.’

‘Presumably, that is why he wrote them down – to remind you.’

‘Yes, but my eyes were dim, even then. You had better take your seat now, because Inges is on next and you do not want to be standing up when he starts. You might topple over with the shock of it. I did, when he treated me to a preview.’

‘What do you mean?’

The old man gave the ghost of a smile. ‘You will see.’

Inges’s contribution was a startling and very energetic pas seul in the style of a Turkish dancer. Bartholomew laughed heartily, but glares from Botilbrig and his cronies made him realise it was not meant to be funny. William gaped at the spectacle, while Clippesby closed his eyes and began whispering to the cat he had managed to smuggle in.

‘Are we permitted to vote for ingenuity?’ Michael whispered in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘Because I have never seen anything quite like that.’

Two more acts followed, culminating with Yvo, who had saved himself for last, clearly in the belief that he would win more votes by being the most recent. It was a tactical error, for his singing comprised an off-key dirge that was wholly unrecognisable as Tunsted’s Gloria; he might have done better if the audience had been given a chance to forget that a sizeable part of it had been painful to the ears.

The ballot was taken, with Nonton scowling at some monks until they raised their hands and Yvo doing likewise. Ramseye did not resort to such tactics, although Bartholomew had noticed him moving among the audience when the wine was being served, smiling at those he considered worth wooing. However, many resisted the obedientiaries’ efforts and voted for Inges, who won by a narrow margin, much to his competitors’ disgust.

‘If this shameful bullying happens at the election on Thursday,’ said Michael, watching in distaste, ‘then Gynewell will appoint me for certain, just to restore peace and unity.’

‘That might be beyond even your abilities, Brother,’ said Bartholomew.