The Lost Abbot

Chapter 11

Bartholomew pulled the vegetation away, and it was not long before he had exposed the body hidden beneath. It was almost completely underwater, and might have lain undiscovered for ever if the dead sheep had not alerted him to the fact that something was wrong.

It was not pleasant inspecting what remained, because the water had caused the soft tissues to rot and swell – Pyk would be unrecognisable to anyone who had known him. Bartholomew did what he could, causing Michael to gaze studiously in the opposite direction and Cynric to move away under the pretext of hunting for Robert. The defensores huddled inside their cloaks against the rain, and also kept their distance.

‘I am fairly sure it is him,’ said Bartholomew eventually, sitting back on his heels. ‘Henry mentioned his domed head, and so did Aurifabro. Then there is his distinctive cloak…’

‘How did he die?’ asked Michael.

‘Probably bludgeoned, but I will look more closely when we get him back to Peterborough.’

‘Is there any sign of Robert? If so, it is almost an anti-climax. I was sure some terrible plot was brewing, but here we are with two men set upon on a deserted stretch of road, murdered and rolled into a ditch. It is rather banal.’

‘The ditch is clear in both directions,’ reported Cynric, coming back when he saw Bartholomew’s grisly examination was over. ‘Does it mean Robert is still alive?’

‘Pyk’s fate makes that unlikely,’ replied Michael soberly. ‘He is dead, and it is just a case of locating his body. We shall return to Peterborough, and order a thorough search in the morning. It is too late to start now – it will be dark soon.’

Bartholomew started to roll Pyk in his cloak, but then had second thoughts. The body was in such a poor state that they could not toss it over the back of a horse, or they would lose bits of it en route. However, if it was left unattended by the pool while they fetched a bier it would attract scavengers, and he doubted the defensores would agree to guard it. Gently, he eased it back into the ditch, supposing it could rest there for a little longer.

He was just climbing back into the saddle when the attack came. Suddenly, the air was full of screaming voices and an arrow narrowly missed his face. He heard Cynric yelling for him to mount up fast, while Michael brandished the stave he had looped into his saddle. The defensores were a distant cluster of thundering hoofs as they galloped away from the danger. Terrified, Bartholomew’s horse ripped away from him and joined them.

Bartholomew had no weapons with which to defend himself, so he grabbed a stick from the ground. He managed to score a swipe that sent one ambusher reeling away, but a second man came, and a third, and he was forced to give ground until he was backed up against the bole of the dead oak. He ducked as a cudgel swung at his head, and it smacked into the mat of ivy behind him. Immediately, a wrenching groan made him and his assailants glance upwards in alarm. The wood was rotten, and the weight of the ivy had rendered it unstable. The hefty swipe was enough to make one of the dragon’s ‘arms’ begin to fall.

Udela’s words filled Bartholomew’s mind – of a monster whose left hand was more deadly than its right. Reacting instinctively, he flung himself towards the weaker one. His opponents howled in horror as the branch crashed among them, and one went silent when it caught him on the top of the head.

Then Cynric was among them, wielding his sword like a demon and howling in Welsh. The surviving attackers turned and fled.

It felt like an age before Bartholomew, riding pillion behind Cynric, saw the lights of Peterborough twinkling in the distance. They arrived to find a huge crowd had gathered at the Abbey Gate, where the defensores were telling their story. Voices were raised in shock and recrimination, but Prior Yvo was wholly incapable of imposing order. Ramseye stood to one side, arms folded, as he watched his rival struggle for some semblance of control.

The safe arrival of the Bishop’s Commissioners was met with a variety of reactions. Clippesby, William and the common monks surged forward with a delighted cheer; Appletre sang a hymn of thanksgiving; Lullington shrugged; Ramseye’s face wore its usual mask of inscrutability; and Nonton raised a flask and took a gulp from it. Henry and Yvo exchanged a brief glance, then joined those who were clamouring their relief.

‘The defensores claimed you were dead,’ said Henry, crossing himself. ‘That they narrowly escaped after their efforts to protect you had failed.’

Bartholomew gave the soldiers a hard stare. They glowered back defiantly, making it clear that they would vigorously deny any accusations of cowardice.

‘I am glad to see you unscathed,’ said Yvo, although he spoke without warmth. ‘I was just arranging for Nonton to collect your corpses. And Pyk’s.’ He turned to the cellarer, who was in the process of draining whatever was in his flask. ‘Are you ready? The sooner you set out, the sooner you can return.’

Nonton frowned his bemusement. ‘You still want me to go?’

‘Of course! It would be improper to leave Pyk in a ditch another night.’

‘Besides, we do not want to lose him again,’ added Ramseye with a look that was impossible to interpret.

‘True,’ nodded Henry. ‘Obviously, the rogues who attacked Matt and Michael are the same as the ones who killed Pyk. They may try to dispose of the evidence.’

‘Are you sure Nonton and his men will be safe out there with outlaws lurking?’ asked Appletre worriedly. ‘Perhaps we should wait until tomorrow. I am sure Pyk would not–’

‘Our brave defensores will not be defeated a second time,’ said Yvo. It was difficult to tell whether he was being ironic. ‘This is the sort of thing we hired them for, after all.’

‘To collect murder victims in the middle of the night?’ asked Michael.

Lullington stepped forward, all bristling self-importance. ‘You cannot be sure that Pyk was murdered. He probably died of natural causes.’

‘And then hid himself in a ditch?’ retorted Michael. ‘Besides, my Corpse Examiner says he was murdered, and that is good enough for me.’

‘The Corpse Examiner,’ muttered Lullington, giving Bartholomew a glance that was far from friendly. ‘I might have known.’

Appletre addressed Yvo, his face sombre. ‘I want it on record that I do not believe this is a good idea. The living are more important than retrieving a man who has been dead for a month. Nonton may be marching into danger.’

‘Appletre is right,’ agreed Henry. ‘These villains will be vengeful and angry after their failure to kill the Bishop’s Commissioners, and–’

‘All the more reason to collect Pyk tonight, then,’ interrupted Yvo, waving away their concerns with an impatient flick of his hand. ‘Lest they vent their spleen on his body. And while Nonton is out, he can look for Robert. It is high time we proved him dead.’

‘In the dark?’ Nonton’s voice dripped contempt. ‘Pyk was so well concealed that he evaded all our previous daylight searches, so how can we expect to find Robert when we cannot see?’

‘Well, try,’ snapped Yvo. ‘That is an order, and I am in charge here. You and your louts will take no more orders from Ramseye until after the election. Is that clear?’

Nonton’s dark, angry expression said it was, although Ramseye’s only reaction was a small and rather secretive smile. Bartholomew noticed that the defensores who had been detailed to accompany the cellarer were more of the burly ones, said to be lesser warriors than their smaller counterparts, and he could only suppose that Nonton favoured brawn over military competence for this particular mission as well.

‘Nonton can collect the robber who died, too,’ said Michael. ‘Then we shall–’

‘You killed one?’ cried Henry in horror. ‘But you are a monk!’

‘I am aware of that,’ snapped Michael, treating him to a look that had subdued many a recalcitrant student. Henry, however, only stared back with accusing eyes. ‘But it was an accident – part of a tree fell on him.’

‘Who was he?’ asked Ramseye. ‘Did you recognise him?’

‘No,’ replied Michael shortly. ‘We removed his face-scarf, but he was unfamiliar. Of course, that means nothing – we do not know many people in Peterborough.’

‘I shall ride with Nonton,’ announced Appletre suddenly. He swallowed so hard that it sounded like a gulp. ‘I am better at negotiating than him.’

‘Negotiating?’ asked Nonton in confusion. ‘Why would we want to do that?’

‘To avoid violence,’ explained Appletre, his usually rosy cheeks devoid of colour in the flickering torchlight. ‘I have a better chance of persuading these villains to stand down than a man who looks ready for a spat.’

‘But I am ready for a spat,’ declared Nonton belligerently. ‘And how will you negotiate, exactly? By singing to them?’

‘Better that than knocking them senseless with wine fumes,’ muttered Walter the cook. Lullington sniggered, and Yvo’s eyes flashed briefly with amusement.

‘You cannot go, Appletre,’ whispered Henry, appalled. ‘You will be … let me do it.’

‘No,’ said Appletre with quiet dignity. ‘I appreciate the dangers, believe me – I am not a brave man. But I am treasurer now, not just a precentor, and I know my duty.’

‘Good,’ said Yvo, with a speed that made Bartholomew wonder whether the Prior wanted to be rid of the man he had so recently promoted. Could it be because Appletre intended to vote for Ramseye in the looming election? ‘Off you go then.’

‘Perhaps you should accompany them as well, Sir John,’ suggested Ramseye slyly. ‘I am sure our men would appreciate having a knight among their number.’

‘No,’ said Lullington quickly, while the expressions of the defensores also suggested they would be happier without whatever the corrodian could provide. ‘It is better that I stay here, and coordinate the operation.’

Before anyone could ask him what was to be coordinated, Nonton slurred a command and his men set off, one or two riding, but most on foot. Cynric offered to go with them, to guide them to the body, but was curtly informed that they knew where the Dragon Tree was and did not need a visitor to tell them.

‘It is a pity the abbey was not so assiduous when Robert went missing,’ remarked Michael. ‘Because then the Bishop would never have needed to appoint Commissioners.’

Once Nonton, Appletre and the defensores had gone, Yvo ordered his monks to bed. They went reluctantly, giving the impression that they would rather have waited for their people to return. Henry was one of the last to go, gazing anxiously at the gate, as if he thought he might conjure them back through it if he stared long enough. He asked Yvo for permission to keep a vigil, and his expression became piously exultant as he aimed for the church.

Meanwhile, Lullington was muttering to Yvo, although he slunk away when he saw the scholars watching. Ramseye had also lingered, and Yvo issued a curt order for him to retire to the dormitory immediately. An expression of such dark fury flashed across the almoner’s face that Bartholomew recoiled, but the look disappeared so fast that he wondered if it had been his imagination or the torches casting strange shadows.

‘I recommend you rest now,’ said Yvo, coming to address the scholars. It was more command than suggestion. ‘We shall talk in the morning. Goodnight.’

Given no choice, Michael led the way to the guest house, where lamps shed a welcoming glow into the night. Bread, cheese and wine had been left, but none of the scholars took any, although Michael shot them a longing glance. Lest the monk allowed hunger to triumph over common sense, Bartholomew tipped the wine out of the window and Cynric parcelled up the food in a cloth, ready to discard on his way to Spalling’s house.

‘Yvo was right, you know,’ said William. ‘Pyk’s body is evidence that he was murdered, and by the time Nonton reaches that Dragon Tree the outlaws may have spirited it away.’

‘What would be the point?’ asked Michael. ‘We have seen it now, and reported it.’

‘Yes, but people do not believe or trust us.’ William glanced at Bartholomew. ‘Especially now they know one of us holds the disturbing title of Corpse Examiner.’

Michael winced. ‘Perhaps we should devise a more innocuous one when we go home, because it does have a sinister ring. Lord! My legs are like jelly. We were lucky the branch chose that particular moment to fall, or we might have joined Pyk in the ditch.’

‘There would not have been room,’ said Cynric absently. ‘Especially for you.’

‘Meaning what, pray?’ asked Michael, a little dangerously.

‘Someone with heavy bones,’ supplied Bartholomew. ‘But Cynric makes a valid point, Brother: Robert was large, whereas Pyk was small. Perhaps Robert would not fit in the ditch, which explains why he is not there – he had to be taken elsewhere.’

‘Almost certainly,’ agreed Cynric. ‘Shall I look tomorrow?’

‘No, let the abbey do it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is too dangerous for you.’

Cynric gave him a look that expressed his disdain for that sentiment, then stood, the parcel of food under his arm. ‘I had better go. Spalling is making a speech tonight in one of the taverns, and I would hate to miss it. Would you like to come?’

‘No, thank you,’ replied Michael in distaste. ‘But it was good of you to break off your campaign to help us today. There is no question that we would have been killed without you.’

‘And without Udela’s warning,’ added Cynric. He smiled at Bartholomew. ‘She told me what she had seen when she rolled her stones for you – the monster with the left-handed claw. It was the Dragon Tree, and the south-pointing branch fell down.’

Bartholomew was unwilling to discuss such matters with the fanatical William in the room. However, although he was trying to ignore it, a voice in his head kept whispering that if Udela had been right about the oak, then perhaps she would also be right about him finding love. He shook himself impatiently. What was he thinking? The old woman had no more idea of what the future held than he did.

‘Lord!’ he breathed, as something occurred to him. He stared at Cynric. ‘Could it mean Udela knew, rather than predicted, that ambushers were waiting there? That people from Aurifabro’s household were responsible? The assault did occur after the mercenaries had left us – perhaps they donned disguises and doubled back.’

‘If they had been the culprits, we would be dead,’ replied Cynric soberly. ‘They are professionals.’

‘Then who?’ asked Michael. ‘Spalling’s rabble? They might have been fended off by a monk, a physician, a book-bearer and a tree.’

‘It was not them, either,’ said Cynric sharply. ‘They will be in the tavern, waiting for Spalling’s address and the free ale that will follow.’

‘You are right to doubt Spalling’s efficacy as a warrior, though, Brother,’ said Clippesby. ‘The man is a coward, who will flee at the first sign of trouble. I am surprised his followers cannot see through his wordy bluster.’

‘Could the other defensores have attacked us?’ asked Bartholomew, after a short pause during which everyone stared at the Dominican in astonishment. He rarely disparaged anyone, and it was odd to hear such a bald denouncement coming from him – so odd that Cynric was too startled to defend his hero. ‘It would explain why ours vanished with such indecent speed.’

‘But we rode hard after the attack,’ said the book-bearer, belatedly shooting Clippesby a cross glance. ‘We would have caught up with them.’

‘Not necessarily,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘We spent some time inspecting the man who was killed. Perhaps there is a good reason why so many of them went out on foot just now – their horses are winded from what would have been a furious gallop.’

‘That is certainly possible,’ agreed Clippesby. ‘Some of them were wearing armour before Yvo issued the order to go and collect Pyk. Of course, they are soldiers, so perhaps they dress like that all the time.’

They exchanged an uneasy glance at the notion that they were about to spend the night in a place where other residents might want them dead. Cynric offered to stay and stand guard, and Bartholomew was inclined to accept – to keep him away from Spalling, but William offered to do it instead. When the book-bearer started to argue, a coin was tossed to decide the matter.

‘What now?’ sighed Michael, when Cynric had gone. ‘I do not feel like sleeping, but there is nothing we can do tonight.’

‘We can return to Reginald’s shop,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I am sure the answers to some of our mysteries lie there.’

‘Perhaps, but the place has been sealed, and I doubt if Yvo will agree to let us in.’

‘I am not suggesting we ask permission.’

Michael was shocked. ‘You mean burgle it? Break in like common thieves?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Unless you have a better idea.’

‘Very well.’ Michael’s abrupt capitulation revealed the depth of his desperation. ‘We shall go after nocturns. It is the darkest part of the night, when all innocent folk should be abed. Hopefully, we can commit our crime with no one any the wiser.’

‘Then let us pray that you find answers,’ said William grimly. ‘Because it is Wednesday tomorrow, when we must leave. And do not suggest staying another day, Brother, because the University will riot if you are not back in time to write Winwick Hall’s charter. We cannot risk Michaelhouse’s safety to save Peterborough.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael determinedly. ‘We cannot.’

Bartholomew estimated that they had roughly four hours before embarking on their nocturnal expedition, but was too tense even to think about sleeping. Not only was he nervous about doing something that would land them in trouble if they were caught, but his thoughts were a bewildering jumble of questions – about their mysteries, Udela’s unnerving predictions, and Matilde and Julitta. He was glad when William announced that he and Clippesby had information to impart, as it represented a distraction.

‘Me first,’ the Franciscan said, giving Clippesby a shove. He addressed Michael. ‘Trentham is still struggling to dig Joan’s grave – people keep coming to talk to him, so his progress is slow. To help, I offered to save him some time by hearing the bedeswomen’s confessions. And I learned something about Joan.’

‘Then you cannot tell us,’ said Michael sharply. ‘The Seal of Confession is sacred.’

‘I was not going to repeat anything from those,’ said William indignantly. ‘Although you would be bored senseless if I did – I have never encountered such a dull catalogue of sins. What I learned was in their hall afterwards, when they were thanking me with ale and cakes.’

‘Well?’ asked Michael, when the Franciscan paused.

‘You will recall that Joan was acting as a guard on the day she was murdered, minding Becket’s relics and Oxforde’s tomb. Well, that was highly unusual, because she never undertook such lowly duties as a rule – it is Marion and Elene’s responsibility. But she did it that day to impress us, the Bishop’s Commissioners.’

‘What are you saying?’ asked Michael, bemused. ‘That her sudden change in behaviour afforded someone the opportunity to dispatch her?’

‘No, I am just reporting a fact – it is for you to interpret its significance.’ William dropped his haranguing manner and grimaced. ‘Actually, I do not know what it means, Brother, but I thought it might be important.’

‘It might,’ said Michael, nodding. ‘Thank you. What have you found out, Clippesby?’

‘Something about Welbyrn. I spent some time with the granary mice today, and they overheard Henry and Ramseye reminiscing about their schooldays – specifically the time when Matt and Welbyrn fought, and Welbyrn fell over and broke his nose.’

Bartholomew groaned. ‘Is it not time that incident was forgotten?’

Clippesby ignored him. ‘Apparently, Welbyrn was not himself when he provoked that brawl. He had just received some terrible news: that his father had drowned himself.’

‘Really?’ Bartholomew closed his eyes. ‘Damn!’

Clippesby patted his hand. ‘I am not trying to make you feel guilty, Matt, but to explain something about his character. Henry remembered the older Welbyrn telling his wife that he was made of lead, and that if he ever fell in water, he would sink like a stone. Ergo, he knew he would die when he jumped in the river – there was no clearer case of suicide.’

‘So he was a lunatic,’ surmised William. ‘No wonder our Welbyrn was frightened when he thought he might be losing his wits. He believed he would end like his sire.’

‘Henry and Ramseye were discussing how the death had influenced our Welbyrn’s views on self-murder,’ Clippesby continued. ‘He considered it the gravest of all sins, and would never have contemplated it, no matter how terrified he was of going mad.’

‘So they believe someone else killed him?’ asked Michael. Clippesby nodded. ‘But why were they talking about it in a granary? Surely that is odd?’

‘I thought so,’ said Clippesby. ‘As did the mice.’

A few moments later, there was a knock on the door. It was Ramseye, who shot inside the moment William answered it and indicated with an urgent gesture that it was to be closed behind him. Then he went to the window and cracked open the shutter to peer outside.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Michael, watching the almoner’s antics suspiciously.

‘Being careful,’ replied Ramseye. ‘Men and women have been dying far too frequently since you arrived, and I do not intend to join them. I came to bring you this.’

He handed the monk a purse. It was little more than rags, and had clearly belonged to someone poor. Its greasy sheen suggested it was ancient, too.

Michael held it between thumb and forefinger in distaste. ‘What is it?’

‘A purse,’ replied Ramseye impatiently. ‘It was found in Reginald’s workshop and brought here, along with everything else that was considered valuable or curious.’

‘I thought the place was supposed to be sealed until his will is proved.’

Ramseye nodded. ‘Yes, but before the door was locked, Yvo sent Lullington to bring anything readily portable to the Abbot’s House. I argued against it, but he overruled me.’

‘I imagine he thought it would be safer,’ said Bartholomew, suspecting that Ramseye would have done the same had he been Acting Abbot. ‘Empty properties attract thieves.’

‘Perhaps.’ Ramseye cast a disdainful glance at Bartholomew before turning back to Michael. ‘Yvo has been pawing through everything all day, ostensibly to find out why Reginald died, but in reality to assess how much it might be worth.’

Michael held up the purse. ‘And why do you think I might be interested in this nasty thing?’

‘Because Reginald said that a purse would tell you all you needed to know.’

Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘How do you know? Reginald was whispering, and no one else was close enough to hear.’

‘You told your colleagues,’ explained Ramseye, ‘who mentioned it when they were questioning our servants today. It is now common knowledge.’

‘I was trying to help,’ said William, flushing a deep red. ‘Time is short, and we are due to leave tomorrow.’

‘Are you?’ asked Ramseye hopefully.

‘It depends on the state of my investigation,’ lied Michael. He stared at the tatty item in his hand. ‘But Reginald was a cutler. Surely he owned a better purse than this?’

‘Yes, he did, and it is in Yvo’s solar, full of silver.’ Ramseye nodded to the other. ‘But that was also among his belongings, and it struck me as odd. So I decided to bring it to you.’

‘Why?’ asked Michael charily.

‘Because I was horrified when William’s questions implied that Lady Lullington was murdered, and that Reginald might have been complicit in the crime. And because I have a terrible feeling that the culprit is one of us – a Benedictine. In fact, I think it may be Henry, because he has been on his knees constantly since she died.’

‘He cares for her soul,’ said Bartholomew coldly. ‘And if you were any kind of monk, you would understand that prayers are acts of compassion, not signs of a guilty conscience.’

The physician could not recall if he had ever received a blacker look than the one directed at him by the almoner. Michael saw it, and stepped between them.

‘If you suspect Henry of such a terrible crime, why were you discussing Welbyrn with him in the granary?’

Ramseye gaped. ‘How do you– no, it does not matter. Bishops’ Commissioners have spies, we all know that. But to answer your question, Henry said it was somewhere that he and I could talk undisturbed.’

‘That does not explain why you were discussing Welbyrn,’ Michael pointed out.

‘When I first heard what had happened in St Leonard’s, I believed Yvo’s contention that it was an accident. Henry thought it was suicide, and took me to the granary to say so. But as we debated, we began to realise that we were both wrong. The truth is that he was murdered.’

‘By whom?’

‘We do not know. We spent an age discussing possible candidates, as your informant no doubt told you, but no one stood out above the others. Please do not glower at me, Brother. I did not come here to be interrogated like a common criminal. I came to help.’

‘Thank you,’ said Michael. ‘Although you will forgive me for being cautious.’

Ramseye gave one of his unreadable smiles. ‘Why, when my motive is obvious? I want you gone. You are a disruptive influence on my … on the abbey, and if helping you with your enquiries expedites your departure, then nothing is too much trouble.’

‘You may be seeing more of me in future,’ warned Michael. ‘The Bishop is a great admirer of my talents, and I like it here. The abbacy would suit me very well.’

The blood drained from Ramseye’s face, and he turned and left without a word. Bartholomew went to the window, and watched him break into a run the moment he was outside. There was no pretence at stealth this time – he did not care who saw him. The physician experienced a surge of unease, and wished Michael had held his tongue.

‘There is no money in this purse,’ said William. Michael had set it on the table and was wiping his fingers on a piece of scented linen, but the friar had no qualms about touching it, being used to grimy things. ‘Just a scrap of parchment.’

Bartholomew took it from him, but the writing was so tiny that he could only make out some of the words. William and Michael declared it illegible, and even Clippesby, who had the keenest eyesight, struggled.

‘It is a pardon for sins committed this year,’ said the Dominican eventually. ‘And there is a cross drawn at the bottom. How curious!’

‘I rarely dispense pardons these days,’ said William, blithely ignoring the fact that the Church frowned on such practices. ‘Well, not unless the petitioner is willing to pay a hefty fee.’

Bartholomew stared at him, then snatched the little document from Clippesby. The cross indicated that a cleric had written it, and suddenly the answer to the mystery surrounding Lady Lullington was as clear as day.

‘It is Reginald’s reward – his payment – for creating the diversion when she was strangled!’ he exclaimed. ‘He was right: the purse has told us all we need to know. Well, all we need to know about Lady Lullington’s death, at least.’

‘It is not much of a clue,’ grumbled Michael. ‘Because I do not understand it. Moreover, sin can only be pardoned through proper penitence, not because someone scrawls a few words on a bit of parchment.’

‘Theology is irrelevant here,’ said Bartholomew im-patiently. ‘The point is that it comes from a man who could not pay coins for the favour he wanted, so another commodity was provided instead. And as Reginald was involved in something unsavoury, the offer was accepted.’

‘But Reginald was not a Christian,’ argued Michael. ‘He refused absolution. Why should he want a pardon from the Church?’

‘Perhaps he was persuaded that it would ease his troubled conscience,’ suggested Bartholomew with a shrug. ‘We will probably never know why he accepted it. However, the more I think about this, the more I am sure I am right.’

‘I agree – you are,’ said Clippesby. ‘And the fact that Reginald mentioned the purse – with the clue it contained – as he lay dying suggests that he wanted to expose the culprit. I suspect it was because he had not known why he was ordered to make a fuss in the chapel, and when he found out, he was horrified and angry that he had been tricked into helping a killer.’

‘A monk?’ asked William, frowning as he sifted through likely suspects.

‘Monks cannot grant pardons,’ said Bartholomew impatiently. ‘Only priests can.’

‘Trentham?’ asked Michael, wide-eyed with shock. ‘A poor cleric who has no money of his own? He is the killer? I do not believe it! He is a good, decent lad, and his grief for Lady Lullington has been profound.’

‘He must have been acting,’ said William in distaste. ‘What a scoundrel!’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I think he was driven by compassion, not malice. He was sorry when she woke after the strong medicine I gave her, and so was she. They had become close, and her suffering distressed him deeply.’

‘But you said she had been throttled with unusual ferocity,’ Michael pointed out. ‘That does not sound compassionate to me.’

Bartholomew knew the reason for that, too. ‘Inges told a tale about strangulation when I was with Kirwell, and Trentham heard it. Apparently, it is more merciful to do it vigorously. Clearly Trentham did exactly that in the hope of sparing her more pain. I imagine he will confess when you confront him, Brother. But do it gently.’

Michael sighed unhappily. ‘Come with me, Clippesby. You can grant him absolution, because I do not have the stomach for it.’

‘Leave him to me,’ said William grimly. ‘I will be far better than a Dominican at informing him that murder leads straight to the fiery pits of Hell.’

Michael was unwilling to let William loose on a grieving and conflicted young man. ‘I know, but whoever confronts Trentham will be busy for hours, and I need you here.’

‘Why?’ asked William suspiciously.

‘To prevent anyone from coming in and noticing that Matt and I are missing.’

‘Why would you be missing? There is no point in burgling Reginald’s shop now that Yvo has removed everything of value.’

‘Lullington was only ordered to collect easily portable items from Reginald’s home,’ explained Bartholomew, ‘so it is still worth exploring.’

‘I sincerely hope we find something,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘Because if we fail, we will have to invade the Abbot’s House instead. But I shall live there myself soon, and I would rather my enjoyment of its luxury was not tainted by the memory of a crime.’

Trentham lived in a small house next to the parish church, and Bartholomew, Clippesby and Michael walked there in silence. A glimmer of light under the shutters showed that the priest was awake, as did the sound of weeping, which was distinctly audible as they approached. Michael opened the door without knocking, and stepped inside.

The house comprised a single room containing a few sticks of furniture and some utensils for cooking. Other than a wooden cross that had been nailed to the wall, there were no decorations. It was clean, though, and the ancient blankets had been carefully darned. Trentham was kneeling at a prie-dieu, his youthful face wet with tears.

‘I cannot pray,’ he said brokenly. He did not seem surprised to see the Bishop’s Commissioners in his home. ‘I have not been able to pray since…’

‘Since you strangled Lady Lullington,’ finished Michael baldly.

Trentham made no attempt to deny the accusation. ‘She begged me to do it, and it seemed right at the time. She was in such agony, and had been for weeks. But now I wish I had stolen Doctor Bartholomew’s bag, and used some of his potions instead. It would have been…’

‘Tell us what happened,’ said Michael, sitting on the bed. His voice was kind, and Clippesby stepped towards the priest, to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder.

‘Abbot Robert always said that I was unsuitable for this post, and he was right – it hurts me to see people suffering. Especially Lady Lullington, who was so virtuous and good. Her husband treated her abominably, but she never once complained. She was a saint.’

‘But then she became ill,’ said Michael, encouraging him.

‘Shortly after the Abbot vanished.’ Trentham looked at Bartholomew. ‘On Saturday, you seemed surprised when you heard that her illness had occurred suddenly. I wanted to ask why, but Hagar was talking too much. Will you tell me now?’

‘I can think of any number of ailments that bring about a lingering death, but none with the symptoms I could see in Lady Lullington – including an abrupt onset. She declined to let me examine her and would not answer questions…’

‘But you suspected something odd,’ surmised Trentham bitterly. ‘Well, you are right. Her illness struck her down after a meal in the abbey.’

‘You think a monk did her harm?’ asked Michael uneasily.

‘No,’ replied Trentham shortly. ‘Not them.’

‘Lullington,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Her loving husband. What happened? Did he try to poison her but fail to do it properly?’

‘She would never accuse him, but I believe so. She became violently ill that night – purging blood and the like. I think whatever substance he fed her did irreparable harm, but instead of killing her quickly, it sentenced her to a slow and lingering death.’

‘It would explain why he never visited,’ said Clippesby softly. ‘He did not have the courage to look his victim in the eye.’

‘So you took matters into your own hands,’ said Michael, regarding the youth sternly. ‘You throttled her, using a massive degree of force because of a certain discussion you heard between Inges and others in Kirwell’s room.’

Trentham nodded, and his eyes filled with tears again. ‘He said a brief but powerful squeeze would see it all over in an instant. He was right: something snapped in her neck immediately, and I do not believe she experienced more than a momentary flash of pain. Nothing compared to what she had borne already.’

‘It is still murder,’ said Michael.

‘I know,’ sobbed Trentham. ‘God help me.’

‘Make your confession to Clippesby,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘The Bishop will decide what happens to you.’

He beckoned Bartholomew outside, where the sky was clear and splattered with stars, all sparkling in the black velvet of night. They stood in silence for a while.

‘What a horrible business,’ Michael said eventually. ‘I cannot find it in my heart to condemn the lad, yet what he did … Of course, it was unkind of Lady Lullington to ask it of him.’

‘People often beg the same of me, and I understand why he yielded. What do you think Gynewell will do with him?’

‘He has benefit of clergy, so he will not hang. A life of atonement, perhaps?’

‘Then it might be a good idea to suggest that he does not do it in another hospital, lest he feels inclined to meddle with nature a second time.’

‘I doubt that will happen; he has learned his lesson. However, now we have another killer to confront, one who is a lot more ruthless than Trentham.’

‘It will not be easy,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘Lullington is not the sort of man who will confess willingly, and our only “evidence” is Trentham’s suspicions. The opinion of a self-confessed strangler will not count for much, and Lullington will know it.’

‘And he will doubtless use the fact that his wife would not have wanted him charged with her death,’ sighed Michael. ‘Trentham’s testimony suggests she knew exactly what he had done to her, but she elected to say silent about it.’

‘Yes, and I suspect Lullington knew that, too, because of something he said at Entertainment Night – about her “loyalty” to him. I thought at the time that it was an odd thing to say, and I have been mulling over the possibility that he had harmed her ever since. But why would she let him get away with such a monstrous thing?’

‘Because of her sons, lest the shame of murder blight their careers – they are attached to the King’s court, where that sort of thing matters. I suggest we tackle him now, Matt, when he will be befuddled with sleep and may let something slip. We will not have time tomorrow, and I should like to present the Bishop with one killer before we leave.’

‘Perhaps we should stay another day, Brother – at least until a proper search has been made for Robert’s body. After all, Gynewell is unlikely to make you Abbot if you leave before exposing the culprit.’

‘A difficult choice,’ mused Michael. ‘My present responsibilities to the University or my future ones to the abbey.’

Despite the late hour, the knight was not in his quarters when Michael stormed in without knocking. A brief glance around showed that Lullington had secured himself some of the best lodgings in the monastery. There was a little pantry at one end of his elegant solar, which was well stocked with exotic treats – all recently purchased, suggesting that his wife’s jewels had been put to good use. Its top shelf was invisible from ground level, and as Lullington was a stupid, unimaginative man, Bartholomew was willing to wager that the knight considered it a cunning hiding place. He stood on a stool and groped around.

The phial was hidden behind some pots of preserved fruit. It was not easy to reach, for it had been shoved as far back as possible, but he managed to hook it forward eventually. He opened it and took a cautious sniff.

‘Well?’ asked Michael.

‘It will have to be tested, of course, but it smells like a substance I encountered in Padua. An anatomist fed some to a dog, and when the body was opened, it was full of lesions. There is no reason – no legitimate reason – for Lullington to have this in his possession.’

‘Is it the same as the toxin in the Lombard slices?’ asked Michael.

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I would not have recovered from a dose of this. But I have been thinking about the stuff that was used on me. It made me sleep for hours, which means I swallowed a significant measure. But how could it have all gone into a single cake without me tasting something amiss? It–’

‘Give the phial to me,’ interrupted Michael, unwilling to listen to a lecture on the subject. ‘We shall confront Lullington with it later.’

‘There is something else up here, too,’ said Bartholomew, standing on tiptoe and supposing his conclusions about what had happened to him would have to wait until a more opportune moment. ‘Hand me the candle, Brother. I cannot see.’

The item transpired to be a pouch, pushed so far into the shadows that the physician had to use Lullington’s spare sword to reach it and drag it towards him. It was heavy for its size.

‘It has not been there long,’ said Michael. ‘Or it would be dustier. And the leather is new.’

He shook its contents out on to the table. There were two seals, several large jewels and a bar of gold that was the size of a small book and considerably weightier.

‘The gold alone must be worth a fortune,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘Not to mention the diamonds. Or are they sapphires? Regardless, it tells us that Lullington is a rich man in his own right, and he had no need to plunder his dead wife’s possessions.’

‘These do not belong to him. The seals are an abbot’s – his personal one, with an image of him reading his bible; and the monastery’s, with St Peter holding the keys to Heaven.’

‘I thought Robert took them with him when he went to visit Aurifabro.’

Michael nodded. ‘And as I doubt he surrendered them willingly, we must conclude that they were acquired by force. Or after he was dead. No wonder Lullington showed a marked lack of concern for his missing “friend”. The villain is involved in whatever happened to him!’

‘What about the precious stones and the gold?’

‘I suspect they represent a large chunk of the monastery’s portable wealth.’

‘Shall I put them back?’

‘No! When he learns his game is up, Lullington might manage to sneak back and make off with them, leaving the monastery penniless.’

Outside, a bell chimed for nocturns, which meant it was roughly two o’clock. After a moment, monks began to process from their dormitory to the church, a silent line of men in hoods and swinging habits, sandals whispering on the flagstones.

‘Should we ask them to help us find Lullington?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘We cannot do it alone – the abbey is too big.’

‘If we do, we shall have to tell them why, and the tale will be all over Peterborough tomorrow. It is better to deal with the matter quietly and discreetly.’

Bartholomew was not sure he agreed, but he deferred to his friend’s judgement. However, he wished he had objected when a search of the refectory, chapter house, kitchens and various other buildings met with no success. Lullington was not there.

‘Perhaps he fled because he knew we were closing in on him,’ suggested Michael.

‘How? We have not spoken to anyone except Trentham, and he is hardly in a position to gossip. Besides, I do not see Lullington abandoning his comfortable existence without a fight.’

‘True,’ agreed Michael. Then he regarded the physician in alarm. ‘Lord! I hope he is not dead, because we cannot investigate another murder.’