The Lost Abbot

Chapter 2

Everyone was eager to see the body of a woman who had been killed by one of St Thomas’s relics, and pilgrims, bedesmen and passers-by had flowed into the chapel on the scholars’ heels. There was a collective sigh of disappointment when Bartholomew covered Joan with his cloak, followed by much resentful muttering. Michael sent the fittest-looking bedesman to fetch someone in authority from the abbey, but the fellow kept stopping to share the news with people he knew, and it was clear that it would be some time before help arrived.

‘What happened to her, Matt?’ Michael asked in a low voice. ‘Was she murdered?’

As well as being a physician and teacher of medicine, Bartholomew was the University’s Corpse Examiner, the man who gave an official cause of death for any scholar who died. As violence was distressingly frequent in a community that included a lot of feisty young men, he had gained considerable experience in identifying murder victims. However, while Cambridge was used to his grisly work, Peterborough was not, and conducting the necessary examination on Joan was unlikely to be well received. He said so.

‘There is nothing to see here,’ Michael announced, hoping to get rid of the crowd so the physician could work unobserved. ‘You can all go home.’

‘You have no authority to make us leave,’ declared a burly fellow in fine clothes and expensive jewellery. There were several well-armed henchmen at his back. ‘I am Ralph Aurifabro, goldsmith of this town, and I decide where I go and when.’

‘I also determine my own movements,’ added a man with broken teeth and a straggly beard whose clothes were of good quality but food-stained and rumpled. There was an unhealthy redness in his face that made Bartholomew suspect his humours were awry. ‘I am Reginald the cutler, and it is not every day that St Thomas kills sinners with his relics, so I demand to see his handiwork.’

Reginald had tried to imitate the goldsmith’s haughty arrogance, but his slovenly mien worked against him, along with the fact that he did not possess the required gravitas. Bartholomew had heard the cutler mentioned before, but it took a moment to remember where: Botilbrig had described him as the ‘foul villain’ who had a shop under the chapel.

‘You will not demand anything, Reginald.’ A powerful voice made everyone look around. It was another bedeswoman, smaller than Joan, but her bristly chin and fierce eyes indicated that she would be just as redoubtable. ‘None of you will. So go away.’

‘That is Hagar Balfowre,’ murmured Botilbrig to the scholars. ‘Joan’s henchwoman. Not that Joan needed one very often, being an old dragon in her own right.’

‘I most certainly shall not,’ Reginald was declaring angrily. ‘Not until I–’

‘Do as you are told,’ snapped Hagar. She turned to the goldsmith. ‘Put your louts to some use, Aurifabro, and get rid of these oglers. It is not seemly for them to be here.’

Neither Aurifabro nor his men moved to comply, but the threat of forcible eviction by them was enough to cause a concerted surge towards the door. The bedeswomen lingered, careful to stay in the shadows, while Botilbrig took refuge behind a pillar. Aurifabro watched them go, then turned back to the scholars.

‘I suppose you are the Bishop’s Commissioners, come to investigate what happened to that greedy scoundrel Robert. Well, I had nothing to do with his disappearance, and if you claim otherwise, you will be sorry. I am not afraid of corrupt Benedictines.’

Michael inclined his head, unperturbed by the man’s hostility. ‘Your remarks are noted. However, if you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear. I am not easily misled, and I always uncover the truth.’

‘Good,’ said Aurifabro, although his eyes were wary and Bartholomew wished Michael had held his tongue. If something untoward had befallen the Abbot, the culprit would not appreciate a Commissioner who promised to expose him. And the boast would be common knowledge by the end of the day in a small place like Peterborough.

‘The Bishop told me that Robert was visiting a goldsmith when he disappeared,’ Michael went on, all polite affability. ‘Am I to assume it was you?’

Aurifabro’s expression became closed and sullen. ‘Yes, but he never arrived. And I have better things to do than be interrogated by monks. Good day to you.’

He spun on his heel and stalked out. Only when he and his henchmen had gone did Botilbrig and the bedeswomen emerge from their hiding places.

‘Now that Joan is dead, I am head of St Thomas’s Hospital,’ Hagar announced to the other ladies. ‘Because I am next in seniority. You may call me Sister Hagar. Or better yet, Prioress Hagar.’ She grinned. ‘Yes! I like the sound of that.’

Bartholomew exchanged a glance with Michael; both wondered whether she liked the sound of it well enough to dispatch her predecessor.

‘You might wait until Joan is cold before stepping into her shoes,’ said Botilbrig, his voice full of distaste. ‘I had no love for her, but what you are doing is not right.’

‘Of course it is right,’ snapped Hagar. ‘Would you have our hospital without a leader? But of course you would! It would make us weak, and St Leonard’s could take advantage of it. You and your cronies would do anything to see us–’

‘Enough,’ ordered Michael sharply. ‘Tell me about the fellow who just left.’

‘Aurifabro?’ asked Botilbrig, pointedly turning away from Hagar. ‘He is the richest man in Peterborough, and the mortal enemy of Spalling and Abbot Robert – who are enemies themselves, of course. However, no one in the town likes Aurifabro.’

Hagar nodded, although it was clear she disliked having to agree with him. ‘He is loathed for his surly manners – almost as much as that villainous Reginald. I cannot imagine why Abbot Robert deigned to spend time with him. Or with Sir John Lullington, for that matter, because he is not very nice, either. In fact, the only decent friend Robert had was Master Pyk.’

Bartholomew frowned at the contradiction in their diatribes. ‘But if Aurifabro is Robert’s “mortal enemy”, why was Robert visiting him?’

‘Because the abbey has commissioned a special paten from him,’ explained Hagar. ‘And Robert wanted to see how it was coming along. Obviously, he would have preferred someone else to make it, but Aurifabro is the only goldsmith in town, so he had no choice.’

‘I do not envy you, Brother,’ said Botilbrig rather smugly. ‘I would not want the task of proving that Aurifabro murdered the Abbot.’

‘Murder?’ echoed Michael sharply. ‘You think Robert is dead?’

‘Of course he is dead,’ said Botilbrig scornfully. ‘He would have come home otherwise.’

‘I have a bad feeling about what the Bishop has asked you to do here, Brother,’ murmured Bartholomew, when Botilbrig, Hagar and their cronies began a spirited debate in a local dialect that made their discussion difficult to follow. ‘Aurifabro is obviously an aggressive man, and he is your chief suspect.’

‘Suspect?’ echoed Michael. ‘Now you are assuming that Robert is dead.’

‘Yes, because Botilbrig is right: no head of house would leave his domain without word for a month. He probably is dead. And Aurifabro will not be easy to interrogate.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘But we shall face that problem when – if – it arises. However, I hope we can resolve the matter quickly. I must be home to draw up Winwick Hall’s charter, or God only knows what liberties its founder might try to sneak into it.’

‘I promised my patients that I would be home by Saturday week, too.’ And Julitta was waiting, Bartholomew thought but did not say. He wondered if she missed him as much as he missed her, and whether her despicable husband was behaving himself.

‘I would go to the abbey and make a start,’ said Michael, ‘but we had better wait until the officials arrive. To keep the ghouls away, if nothing else.’

‘Hagar is more than capable of doing that. She may be old, but she is far from weak.’

Michael grinned. ‘I would not have liked to cross her when she was younger. Indeed, I would not like to cross her now, and I am used to dealing with villains.’

‘You think she is a villain?’

‘Well, she and her bedeswomen are fleecing pilgrims for the right to pray at the grave of an executed criminal. That hardly makes them angels.’

They both turned as William and Clippesby approached.

‘Are you talking about Oxforde?’ asked the Franciscan. ‘That grimy cutler Reginald just told me that Bishop Gynewell came in person to suppress that particular cult, but the abbey looked the other way when it started up again.’

Michael smothered a smile at the thought that William should remark on someone else’s cleanliness. ‘Then the Abbot is a fool. Gynewell may be kindly, but he will not tolerate open disobedience.’

‘The shrine makes a lot of money and the monks share the revenue,’ William went on. ‘So of course they want it to thrive. But such greed is to be expected of Benedictines–’

‘What happened to Joan, Matt?’ interrupted Michael, unwilling to listen to more of the Franciscan’s vitriol.

Bartholomew crouched to lift the cloak that covered the body. Blood stained the flagstones, and he wondered whether they would become relics in time. It was not every day that murders were committed in holy places, and if the abbey was the kind of foundation to take advantage of such incidents, then Joan might well be declared a martyr.

‘She was struck from behind,’ he said, after a brief examination. ‘Almost certainly by the smaller of those two pieces of stone from Canterbury Cathedral. The position of the wound eliminates suicide and accident.’

‘Murder, then,’ surmised Michael. ‘So let us review what we know. Joan ousted all the pilgrims and Botilbrig so that she could show William her relics. She was alone when we left the chapel, and she refused to let anyone back in afterwards, as she wanted to pore over her donations. The pilgrims were vexed, and milled around outside…’

‘She kept them waiting for so long that I think some had started to creep back in,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But it will be difficult, if not impossible, to find out who.’

‘The bedeswomen were in here for some time before the alarm was raised, too,’ added Clippesby. ‘Yet perhaps they did not notice the body – it is dark, and they might not have approached the altar immediately.’

‘Yes, they are certainly suspects,’ agreed Michael. ‘Especially Hagar, who assumed command with indecent haste.’

‘If she is the killer, it means the other ladies stood by and watched,’ mused William. ‘I saw them all go in at the same time. But perhaps they did turn a blind eye as the formidable Joan was felled.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Michael. ‘As Clippesby pointed out, the chapel is dark after the brightness of the sun. Hagar – or anyone else – could have brained Joan by the altar while those in the nave remained blissfully unaware.’

‘Well, my favourite suspect is Botilbrig,’ said William. ‘On account of his unseemly sparring with the victim. He claimed he was outside at the time, but I did not see him.’

‘Is he not too frail to brain anyone?’ asked Michael doubtfully.

‘It does not require much strength to bring down a stone on someone’s head,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Especially if he was fuelled by rage.’

‘But Botilbrig may have been outside,’ said Clippesby. ‘Just because we did not notice him does not mean he was not there.’

‘The other bedesmen are suspects, too,’ William went on. ‘I did not see any of them sneaking into the chapel, but I was watching that escaped pig, and I suspect other folk were, too. It was a perfect diversion.’

‘There are other ways into the chapel besides the marketplace,’ Bartholomew reminded them. ‘There are doors leading from the hospital, the abbey and the graveyard – although that was empty. Of course, its walls are not very high, and someone could easily have climbed over them. In other words, virtually anyone might have come in and killed Joan.’

William sighed. ‘Well, let us hope the townsfolk do not decide to blame strangers. It would be easy to point fingers at us.’

‘At the Bishop’s Commissioners?’ asked Michael archly. ‘They would not dare.’

‘True,’ acknowledged William, then added ruefully, ‘So let us hope they never find out that you are the only one who actually holds that particular title.’

‘They will not,’ said Michael grimly. ‘Because I am appointing you all as my deputies. It seems I shall be investigating an abbot’s death, not his disappearance, so I shall need all the help I can get.’

While they waited for the abbey officials, Michael took the opportunity to question the bedesfolk. The men claimed the women had killed Joan, while the women declared the men responsible, but neither side could prove it. Each asserted that the first he or she had known about the murder was when Marion had raised the alarm. He fared no better with the pilgrims, all of whom denied entering the chapel before Marion’s screech, although shifty eyes and shuffling feet told him that some were lying.

‘It will be a tough case to solve,’ he told his colleagues. ‘I am glad it is not my responsibility.’

The abbey dignitaries arrived at that point, a collection of sleek, well-fed men with proud expressions and haughty manners. Bartholomew looked for old classmates among them, but the faces above the elegant habits were unfamiliar.

A portly fellow with enormous eyebrows stepped forward. ‘I am Prior Yvo, Abbot Robert’s deputy. You must be Brother Michael and his Commissioners. I am sorry your arrival has been tainted by bloodshed. It is hardly the welcome we had hoped to extend.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘We would rather have had dinner.’

Yvo regarded him uncertainly, unsure whether he was making a joke.

‘You have missed it,’ said a tall, burly monk with a crooked nose. ‘What a pity for you.’

The sneering arrogance gave a sudden jolt to Bartholomew’s memory, of his final few weeks at school when two monks, not much older than he, had arrived to teach theology. He had not been interested in the subject, which had caused trouble, the only unpleasantness during an otherwise happy phase of his life. Their names had been Welbyrn and Ramseye, and he had all but forgotten the friction his antipathy had created. Was the bulky monk Welbyrn? If so, the intervening years had not treated him kindly, for he had been a handsome lad with an athletic figure. The monk who stood by the Prior had coarse features, oily hair and a sullenness that was unappealing.

‘This is our treasurer, John de Welbyrn,’ said Yvo. He flapped his hand in a way that was vaguely insulting, causing anger to flare in Welbyrn’s eyes. The flash of temper made Bartholomew wary of stepping forward to introduce himself – for all he knew, Welbyrn would object to being hailed by a rebellious former pupil. Or would Bartholomew even be remembered? Welbyrn must have taught hundreds of boys since then.

‘If there is no food here, we shall find a tavern,’ said Michael coolly. ‘Our journey has been long and difficult, and we need victuals to restore our vigour.’

‘The Swan is reputed to be the best,’ said Welbyrn, obviously pleased to be spared the expense of a meal. ‘It is not far.’

‘Our treasurer is always looking for ways to cut costs,’ said Yvo, treating Welbyrn to a smile that was wholly devoid of affection or approval.

‘Yes, and it is not easy,’ muttered Welbyrn. He turned to glare at a tall, aloof man with perfectly groomed hair and an immaculate habit. ‘Especially when some brethren dispense alms instead of saving for the uncertainties of the future.’

‘Of course I dispense alms,’ retorted the suave monk irritably. ‘I am the almoner.’

‘If people are hungry, they should work,’ said Welbyrn sourly. ‘And that includes those lazy devils who claim to be ill. A little hard labour would make them forget their afflictions. You know I am right, Ramseye.’

Bartholomew regarded the almoner in surprise. He would never have recognised his second teacher, who had been a spotty youth with buck teeth and gangly limbs.

‘Ramseye?’ asked Michael. ‘Are you kin to Robert Ramseye, the Abbot?’

‘My uncle.’ Ramseye assumed an expression of sadness that was patently insincere. ‘We were very close, and I miss him terribly. It is a great pity he is dead.’

‘Dead?’ asked Michael blandly. ‘I understood he was only missing.’

‘Of course he is dead,’ said Yvo. ‘Why else would he fail to come home?’

‘He is alive,’ said Welbyrn between gritted teeth, his weary tone suggesting this was a debate that had been aired before. ‘He will return in his own time.’

‘He has been gone a month,’ Ramseye pointed out. ‘So it seems unlikely that this particular episode will have a happy ending. I wish it were otherwise, but …’ He held out his hands in a gesture of resigned helplessness.

‘We are holding an election to replace him next week,’ Yvo told Michael. ‘And–’

‘I still think that is a bad idea,’ interrupted Welbyrn. ‘He will be livid when he returns to find a usurper on his throne.’

‘Welbyrn is fond of Robert,’ Yvo explained to the visitors, while Ramseye patted the treasurer’s shoulder with artificial sympathy. ‘And he believes there is still room for hope, although those of us who are realists know when it is time to move on. I have put myself forward as a contender for the abbacy, and so has his nephew.’

‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘However, my understanding of the rules is that you cannot hold an election until the current incumbent has definitely vacated the post. Ergo, you will have to wait for the results of my enquiry before you can legally appoint a successor.’

‘Hah!’ exclaimed Welbyrn victoriously, while Yvo and Ramseye exchanged a glance that was difficult to interpret. ‘That means there will never be an election, because he is still alive.’

‘We should not be discussing this when Joan’s corpse lies before us,’ said Yvo, abruptly changing the subject, presumably to mask his annoyance. ‘Where is young Trentham? Did no one summon him? As chaplain, he must be the one to investigate her death.’

‘Find him,’ ordered Ramseye, snapping imperious fingers at a hovering novice. ‘But while we wait, perhaps our visitors will tell us what happened.’

‘She was brained by a relic,’ supplied William. ‘But we had nothing to do with it.’

Yvo’s princely eyebrows shot up in surprise at this remark, while startled glances were traded between the other Benedictines.

‘We did not imagine that you had,’ drawled Ramseye. He turned to Michael. ‘I am astonished to find you in company with friars and seculars. Could you not find any Benedictines to act as fellow Commissioners? The death of an abbot is hardly something we should share with other Orders.’

‘They are colleagues from Michaelhouse,’ explained Michael shortly, resenting being told what to do. ‘I trust them implicitly.’

‘Of course he does,’ said William, preening. ‘He often seeks my opinion, especially about theology. There is little I do not know about the King of Sciences.’

‘Except its name, apparently,’ said Ramseye scathingly. ‘It is more usually known as the Queen of Sciences.’

‘A king is higher than a queen,’ retorted William, flushing. ‘So I elevated it.’

‘I see,’ said Ramseye, and Bartholomew’s heart sank. It would not take long for the almoner to expose William’s intellectual shortcomings, after which the Commission was unlikely to be taken seriously. ‘However, it originates from … what is he doing?’

Everyone looked towards the altar, where Clippesby was muttering to a spider. Worse, he was cocking his head, as if he could hear what it was saying in reply. His face was pale, and his eyes wilder than they had been earlier, indicating that bloody murder committed in a holy place had upset him. Bartholomew’s heart sank further still: Clippesby distressed was likely to be odder than usual until the shock wore off.

‘He is a saint in the making,’ whispered Michael, so the Dominican would not hear and deny it. ‘I brought him with me, so that his holiness can touch your foundation, too.’

Bartholomew felt his jaw drop, while William looked set to contradict, outraged that beatification should be bestowed on a member of an Order that was not his own.

‘Then we had better make sure he has the best available quarters,’ said Welbyrn, gazing at Clippesby with awe. ‘We do not want saints vexed with us because of their shabby treatment.’

‘As you wish,’ said Michael smoothly. ‘However, you must ensure his guardians are treated well, too. Quite aside from the fact that we are the Bishop’s Commissioners.’

When the abbey officials eventually turned their attention to Joan, the scholars were unimpressed, as none of them did or said anything useful. Michael was on the verge of suggesting that the Sheriff be summoned, on the grounds that someone was needed who would do more than tut and sigh, when Trentham arrived.

‘I was upstairs with Lady Lullington,’ the young priest explained breathlessly. ‘I did not know what had happened until the novice told me. Poor Sister Joan! I can scarcely believe it.’

‘Is Lady Lullington dead yet?’ asked Welbyrn with distasteful eagerness. ‘Do you know what she has left the abbey in her will?’

Angry tears glittered in Trentham’s eyes. ‘No, I do not, and a deathbed is hardly the place to raise such a subject.’

‘On the contrary, there is nowhere better,’ countered Welbyrn. He seemed genuinely bemused by Trentham’s emotional response, and Bartholomew recalled that he had been insensitive as a youth, too.

Trentham addressed Bartholomew, pointedly ignoring the treasurer. ‘She is sleeping very deeply, and her pain seems less. Thank you.’

Yvo smiled in a way that was probably meant to be benign but only served to make him seem vaguely sinister. ‘To take your mind off her, Trentham, you can find Joan’s killer.’

Trentham went wide-eyed with horror. ‘Me? But I would not know where to start!’

‘He does not want to accuse his beloved charges,’ surmised Welbyrn nastily. ‘But we all know who is responsible for this vicious crime: a bedesman. Or a bedeswoman.’

‘No,’ cried Trentham. ‘My old people would never harm Joan.’

‘Lord!’ exclaimed Yvo suddenly. ‘Does it mean Hagar will be in charge now? That is a daunting prospect! Perhaps I shall not run for the abbacy after all, because dealing with her will not be easy.’

There was a fervent murmur of agreement from his brethren.

‘So you have your first clue, Trentham.’ Ramseye’s smile was sardonic. ‘No monk would murder Joan, as none of us are equal to managing Hagar. Perhaps the same can be said for the bedesfolk. Ergo, the culprit must be a townsman.’

‘Or a stranger,’ added Welbyrn, looking pointedly at the Michaelhouse men.

‘I told you,’ muttered William in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘We are about to be accused.’

‘Not these strangers,’ countered Yvo, glancing at Clippesby, who had abandoned the spider and had cornered a cat. ‘A saint would not keep company with killers.’

‘True,’ acknowledged Ramseye. ‘However, the town is full of possibilities. Spalling–’

‘Yes!’ interrupted Yvo eagerly. ‘Spalling is certainly the kind of man who would invade our most lucrative … I mean our holiest chapel and strike an old lady with a relic.’

‘He spent the morning accusing us of robbing travellers on the King’s highways,’ said Ramseye resentfully. ‘So the murder of one of our bedesfolk would just be one more instance of the malice he bears us.’

‘Accusing the abbey’s defensores, you mean,’ corrected Yvo sourly. ‘The band of louts that Robert hired. I wish the Abbot had listened to my advice and refrained from doing that – it does our reputation no good at all to have rough fellows like those on our payroll.’

‘They are not louts,’ countered Welbyrn irritably. ‘They are lay brothers. And we need them, given our unpopularity in the town.’

‘I certainly feel safer with the defensores to hand,’ agreed Ramseye. ‘However, Spalling has no right to blame us for those robberies when they are his fault. His followers comprise a lot of discontented peasants, all convinced that they have a God-given right to other people’s property.’

‘We must not forget that Aurifabro’s soldiers are hardened mercenaries,’ said Welbyrn. ‘Personally, I suspect that he is responsible for these nasty incidents on the south road.’

‘Mercenaries?’ echoed Bartholomew, bemused to learn that Peterborough seemed to be home to three separate private armies.

‘Foreigners mostly,’ explained Yvo. ‘He refused to recruit locals, on the grounds that he is at war with us and Spalling’s followers, and he was afraid he might hire spies who are actually in the pay of one of his enemies.’

‘The south road,’ mused William. ‘Do you mean the track that runs towards Cambridge? We were ambushed five times on that – it is why we have taken so long to get here. And our attackers spoke French. I heard them.’

‘It is disgraceful that honest men cannot travel in safety any longer,’ said Yvo, shaking his head sympathetically. ‘But I prefer Spalling as a suspect to Aurifabro – for Joan’s murder, as well as the robberies. That man has been a thorn in our side for far too long. We should arrest him, and bring an end to his villainy.’

‘Unfortunately, if we do, he will tell the Bishop that we are persecuting him on account of our past differences,’ said Ramseye, raising a cautionary hand. ‘And Gynewell will probably believe him. We need evidence before we clap him in irons.’

Yvo turned to Trentham. ‘Then you had better find us some by looking into how he dispatched poor Joan.’

‘No,’ said Trentham, taking his career in his hands by refusing the order of a senior cleric. ‘I do not have the ability to investigate murder. Or the time. With two hospitals and a parish to run, I am far too busy.’

‘Two hospitals and a parish?’ asked Michael. ‘That is a heavy burden.’

‘Too heavy,’ agreed Yvo, although he was scowling at the young priest. ‘I have been trying to appoint a second vicar, but Welbyrn says we cannot afford it.’

As the abbey was obviously wealthy, Bartholomew thought Welbyrn was lying, and that the hapless Trentham was paying the price for the treasurer’s parsimony.

‘Brother Michael can do it, then,’ said Ramseye slyly. ‘He will be looking into our dead Abbot, and two enquiries are as easy as one.’

‘No, they are not,’ countered Michael indignantly. ‘And I did not come here to solve local crimes. They should be explored by someone familiar with you and your idiosyncrasies.’

‘What idiosyncrasies?’ demanded Welbyrn.

‘I agree with Ramseye,’ said Yvo. ‘Michael will be impartial, because he has no axe to grind. So you are relieved of the responsibility, Trentham. Go and pray for Joan instead.’

‘I cannot oblige you,’ said Michael irritably, as the young priest scurried away before the Prior could change his mind. ‘I will not be here long enough to–’

‘You aim to prove Robert dead before our election next week?’ pounced Yvo eagerly. ‘Good. We can proceed as we intended, then.’

‘No, Father Prior,’ snapped Welbyrn immediately. ‘He is alive, and you cannot say otherwise just because you itch to step into his shoes. Indeed, Bishop Gynewell had no right to invite monks from Cambridge to pry into our business in the first place.’

‘Yet we shall cooperate, because we should like to know what happened to him,’ added Ramseye with a gracious smile. ‘But this is no place to discuss it. We shall do it in the abbey, while the saint takes his ease.’

The sun was beginning to set as the monks filtered out of the chapel. Bartholomew hung back – neither Welbyrn nor Ramseye seemed to have improved with age, and he had no desire to renew the acquaintance. William hovered at his side, because some of the brethren were making a fuss of Clippesby and he could not bear to watch a Dominican so fawningly feted.

‘The witches are putting on an act for Trentham’s benefit,’ whispered Botilbrig, making them jump by speaking behind them. He nodded to where the young priest was kneeling by the body with the bedeswomen clustered around him. ‘Some are pretending to cry, but the truth is that none of them liked her.’

‘Why not?’ asked William. ‘I thought she was very nice.’

‘She was a tyrant,’ explained Botilbrig. He seemed more spry than he had been, and Bartholomew regarded him suspiciously. Was he buoyed up by the success of his crime? Reinvigorated by the death of an enemy? Or simply revitalised now the heat of the day had passed? ‘Mind you, Hagar will be worse. She looks kinder, on account of being more petite, but she will be a despot, too. And then it will be her brained with a relic.’

‘Are you saying that one of the bedeswomen murdered Joan?’ asked William.

Botilbrig considered the question carefully, then sighed his regret. ‘Actually, no, to tell you the truth. Not because they loved her, but because they would not have used a relic to do it. I know it is a fake, of course, but they honestly believe it is genuine.’

‘Then who is the culprit?’ pressed William.

Botilbrig lowered his voice. ‘Most of the monks are decent men, but the Unholy Trinity is another matter. I would not put murder past any of them.’

‘What is the Unholy Trinity?’ William’s expression was dangerous, anticipating heresy.

‘The popular name for three of the obedientiaries – men the Abbot appoints to be responsible for a specific aspect of the monastery’s functioning, which puts them in authority over the rest of their brethren and confers all sorts of benefits.’

‘I know what an obedientiary is,’ said William indignantly.

Botilbrig ignored him. ‘The Unholy Trinity is Ramseye, Welbyrn and Nonton the cellarer. Ramseye tells the other two what to do, and they are all vile men. He will order them to get him elected Abbot now.’

‘Welbyrn will not oblige,’ predicted Bartholomew. ‘He does not believe the previous incumbent has finished with the post.’

Botilbrig grimaced. ‘Welbyrn feels he owes Robert his loyalty, because he made him treasurer, whereas all the other abbots refused him promotion on account of his dim wits. But Ramseye will win him round – he always does. They were ordained together.’

Bartholomew did not say that he already knew. ‘Why would this Unholy Trinity want Joan dead?’

‘Who knows the workings of their nasty minds?’ replied Botilbrig airily. ‘I hope Ramseye is not elected Abbot, though. He will be better at it than Yvo, because he is shrewd. But he is not as agreeable.’

‘Yvo is agreeable?’ asked William doubtfully.

The abbey was beautiful in the red-gold light of the fading day. It was dominated by the vast mass of its church, and Bartholomew stopped for a moment to admire its mighty west front, just as he had done when he had been a child. It soared upwards in a breathtaking array of spires and arches, every niche filled with a carving of a saint, so that it seemed as if the entire population of Heaven was looking down at him. Then William grabbed his arm, and they hurried to catch up with Yvo, who had skirted around the cloisters to a small building with sturdy Norman features.

‘This is the guest house,’ the Prior was telling Michael and Clippesby. ‘I shall leave you to refresh yourselves, and then you must join me and the other obedientiaries for a discussion. Afterwards, the cook will prepare you a small collation.’

‘It had better be more than a small one,’ grumbled Michael when they were alone. ‘After all the travails we have suffered today.’

When Clippesby slumped into a chair, Bartholomew knelt in front of him and peered into his face. The Dominican was definitely less lucid than he had been earlier, and his hair stuck up in clumps where he had clawed at it. Clippesby ignored him, another sign that he was not himself, and all his attention was fixed on a hen that he had managed to snag.

‘How will you go about solving Joan’s murder, Brother?’ asked William, going to the best bed and tossing his cloak on it, to stake his claim.

‘I will not,’ replied Michael firmly. ‘I shall ask enough questions about Robert to fulfil my obligations to Gynewell, and then we are leaving.’

‘Good,’ said William. ‘I do not like it here.’

‘Neither do I,’ said Michael, slipping behind a screen to change. He was always prudish about anyone seeing him in his nether garments. ‘Yvo has offered to lend us a few defensores for our return journey. He says it should take no more than three days to get home, because robbers will not attack us if we are well protected, and we will make better time.’

‘You need to be back by Saturday week, which means leaving by next Wednesday at the latest,’ said William, calculating on his fingers. ‘That gives us seven days. Will it be enough?’

‘It will have to be, because I am not risking a riot at my University over this.’

‘I had misgivings about this venture the moment Langelee ordered me to pack,’ said William sourly. ‘And now I know why: Peterborough is not a happy place.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael, ‘which is a pity, because it is lovely. Wealthy, too.’

‘This bed is certainly costly,’ said William, flopping on to it and sighing his appreciation.

Michael emerged from behind the screen and inspected his reflection in the tiny mirror he used for travelling. He evidently liked what he saw, for he smiled. ‘Will you stay here and mind our budding saint while I address the obedientiaries, Father?’ he asked, carefully adjusting a stray hair.

‘What saint?’ asked Clippesby, snapping out of his reverie.

‘Of course,’ replied William, kicking off his boots and closing his eyes. ‘I do not feel like dealing with more Benedictines today anyway. But you should not go alone, Brother. Take Matthew with you.’

‘I hardly think that is necessary,’ said Bartholomew, loath to be thrust into the company of Ramseye and Welbyrn again. ‘These are men of his own Order.’

‘Yes, but I shall still need help if we are to leave in a week,’ countered Michael. ‘So don some tidier clothes, and let us make a start on this wretched business.’

Suspecting it would be futile to argue – and he had worked often enough with the monk to know that his assistance would definitely expedite matters – Bartholomew rummaged in his saddlebag for a clean tunic. Unfortunately, it had suffered from being scrunched into a ball to make room for his medicines, and was sadly creased. There was also a stain down the front, where one of the phials had leaked.

‘Wear your academic gown over the top,’ advised Michael, when the physician declared himself ready. ‘That will conceal some of the … deficiencies.’

‘That is a polite way of saying you are scruffy, Matthew,’ supplied William helpfully. ‘You might want to consider grooming yourself a little more carefully in future.’

Feeling that if the likes of William felt compelled to comment on his appearance, it was time he did something about it, Bartholomew followed Michael outside. Before he closed the door, he heard Clippesby telling William what the hen had just confided.

‘She says the reason for the antagonism between Peterborough’s two hospitals is money – St Thomas’s earns far more with its relics and Oxforde’s grave than St Leonard’s does with its healing well. It is all rather sad. They should learn to get along.’

‘Yes, they should,’ murmured William drowsily. ‘Shame on them.’

As Bartholomew and Michael left the guest house, they were intercepted by a monk who reeked of wine. The yellowness of his eyes and the broken veins in his cheeks and nose suggested an habitual drinker.

‘You were taking so long that I was sent to fetch you,’ he said curtly.

Michael and Bartholomew exchanged a glance. No one had told them that they were supposed to hurry.

‘Are you the cellarer?’ asked Bartholomew. It was not easy for monks to drink themselves into ill health in an abbey, where wines and ales were locked away, so there had to be some reason why this man seemed to have managed it.

‘Richard de Nonton.’ The man bowed. ‘Abbot Robert made me cellarer five years ago – he took his claret seriously, and knew that I am of like mind.’

‘He drank?’ asked Michael.

‘Only if the wine reached his exacting standards.’ The last member of the Unholy Trinity reflected for a moment. ‘I would not mind being Abbot myself, but Ramseye is running, and he stands a better chance of winning than me. He will see me right, though.’

‘Have you known Ramseye long?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Ten years, although he and Welbyrn were here long before that. Peterborough is a lovely place, you see, and no one leaves once he is here. We often joke that the only way we will depart will be in a coffin.’

‘I doubt Robert would find that particular jest amusing,’ murmured Michael.

Nonton led them to a pretty house next to the refectory, which had a tiled roof, real glass in the windows, and smoke wafting from its chimney. As it was high summer, a fire to ward off the slight chill of evening was an almost unimaginable extravagance.

‘Abbot Robert’s home,’ explained Nonton. ‘He liked to be near the victuals, so he had this place built specially. Prior Yvo lives here now, although he will have to move when he loses the election.’

‘You think Ramseye will win, then?’ asked Michael.

Nonton flexed his fists, an unpleasant gleam in his eye. ‘My brethren will vote for him if they know what is good for them.’

‘Tell me about Robert,’ invited Michael. ‘Was he popular?’

‘Not really. I liked him well enough, but most of the other monks did not. Why?’

‘Because it might have a bearing on what happened to him.’ Michael stopped walking and looked Nonton in the eye. ‘If the rumours are true, and Robert and Physician Pyk are found murdered, who are your favourite suspects for the crime?’

‘I only have one: Aurifabro,’ replied the cellarer promptly. ‘He and Robert were always squabbling, and we should not have ordered that gold paten from him.’

‘Yet you have just told us that Robert was unpopular,’ probed Michael. ‘Perhaps one of your brethren has dispatched him.’

‘They are all too lily-livered,’ said Nonton with a sneer, as if a disinclination to commit murder was something to be despised. ‘Besides, not everyone found him objectionable. I thought he was all right, and so did Welbyrn, Ramseye and Precentor Appletre. And that pathetic Henry de Overton, although he has a tendency to like everyone.’

‘Henry de Overton?’ asked Bartholomew, his spirits rising. ‘He is still here?’

‘Do you know him? That is not surprising: the man has friends everywhere.’ Nonton scowled, giving Bartholomew the impression that the same could not be said for him.

‘Was Henry friends with Robert?’

‘He was not,’ replied Nonton curtly. ‘Our Abbot had three confidants: Physician Pyk, Sir John Lullington and Reginald the cutler. And that was all.’

‘Reginald?’ asked Bartholomew. Hagar had also mentioned the association, yet a grimy merchant seemed an odd choice of companion for anyone, but especially a wealthy and influential monastic.

Nonton nodded. ‘A sly wretch, who would cheat his own mother. I cannot imagine why Robert tolerated him. The same goes for Lullington, who is an empty-headed ass. Pyk was decent, though. I liked him.’

‘It sounds to me as though virtually anyone in Peterborough might have killed Robert,’ whispered Bartholomew to Michael, as the cellarer began walking again. ‘This will not be an easy case to solve, because I doubt the culprit will confess, and if it happened a month ago, there will be scant physical evidence to find.’

‘I was charged to discover where Robert went,’ Michael whispered back. ‘Gynewell said nothing about solving a murder.’

‘Sophistry, Brother. If Robert is dead by unlawful means, Gynewell will order you to catch the killer. He will not want his senior clergy dispatched without recourse to justice, as it might open the floodgates to more “removals”.’

‘What was Robert like?’ asked Michael, addressing the cellarer just in time to see him take a furtive gulp from a flask.

‘Medicine,’ explained Nonton hastily. ‘For my chilblains.’

‘Chilblains are not treated with–’ began Bartholomew.

‘Robert was a fellow who knew what he wanted and how to get it,’ interrupted Nonton briskly. ‘I admire that in a man – I cannot abide indecision. But we had better go inside, or Prior Yvo will wonder what we are doing out here.’

The Abbot’s solar was a beautiful room with tapestries on the wall and a wealth of attractive furniture. An array of treats had been left on a table near the window, along with a jug of wine. Nonton headed straight for it, joining Welbyrn who was already there. The cellarer downed his first cup quickly, and poured himself another.

‘I summoned all the obedientiaries,’ said Yvo, coming to greet his visitors. ‘Along with Sir John Lullington, who is our corrodian and always attends important gatherings.’

‘Is he any relation to Lady Lullington?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Her husband,’ replied Yvo, as an elegant man stepped forward wearing the dress of a knight at ease – an embroidered gipon, fastened with a jewelled girdle. He was considerably younger than the woman in the hospital, suggesting the marriage had probably been one of convenience. Lullington bowed gracefully, producing a distinct waft of perfume.

‘Bonsoir,’ he said, fluttering his hand. ‘I am delighted to meet you.’

Yvo had been speaking French, as was the custom among the country’s aristocratic elite, but he suddenly switched to Latin, leaving Lullington frowning in incomprehension.

‘The King has it in his gift to foist members of his household on us when they are no longer of use to him – Peterborough is a royal foundation, you see, so His Majesty has a say in its running. The right is called a corrody, and the recipient is a corrodian.’

‘I know,’ said Michael, irritated by the assumption that he was a bumpkin with no understanding of how his Order’s grander foundations worked.

‘So we are obliged to house Lullington and his wife in considerable splendour.’ Yvo either did not hear or chose to ignore Michael’s response. ‘He is also entitled to dine at my … at the Abbot’s table whenever he pleases, and to attend occasions like these.’

‘Please use French,’ snapped Lullington. ‘You know my Latin is poor.’

‘Then perhaps you should apply yourself a little more rigorously to learning it.’ Yvo gave a smile that might have taken the sting from his words had there been any kindness in it, but it was challenging, and Lullington bristled.

‘I shall report you to the King,’ threatened the knight. ‘I thought you wanted my backing when you stand for Abbot. You will not get it with that attitude.’

Yvo raised his eyebrows. ‘Would you prefer Ramseye to be Abbot, then?’

Lullington promptly became oily. ‘Let us not quarrel, Father Prior. You know I consider you by far the best choice. I support you without reservation.’

‘Of course he does,’ said Yvo in Latin. ‘He knows Ramseye will manoeuvre him out of the comfortable niche he has carved for himself here, whereas I shall let sleeping dogs lie. As did Robert. Ramseye might be bold enough to challenge the King’s right to appoint corrodians, but I am no fool.’

‘French, Yvo,’ said Lullington crossly. ‘Or English, if you must. I do not understand why you insist on Latin. Bishop Gynewell, who is a personal friend, speaks French to me.’

‘Bishop Gynewell is a personal friend of mine, too,’ said Michael. ‘And he will not be impressed when he hears that Peterborough’s officials are constantly at each other’s throats. He will appoint an outsider as Abbot. Indeed, I might put myself forward for the post, and he will certainly choose me, should I express an interest.’

Yvo gaped at him, and so did Bartholomew, while Lullington looked the monk up and down appraisingly, as if deciding whether to shift his allegiance.

‘You cannot,’ said Bartholomew, eventually finding his voice. ‘The University–’

‘Will flounder without me,’ finished Michael comfortably. ‘Yes, I know. But I cannot devote myself to it for ever, and I have always said that my next post will be either an abbacy or a bishopric. Peterborough is not Ely, but it has potential.’

‘How is your wife, Sir John?’ asked Bartholomew, purely to silence Michael before he went any further. He was not sure Peterborough would be such a plum appointment, given the bitter disputes that were bubbling, and he wanted to tell his friend so before remarks were made that might later be difficult to retract.

‘What?’ asked Lullington, blinking. ‘What about her?’

Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly. ‘She is unwell.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Lullington. He waved his hand rather carelessly. ‘But she will be with God soon, which is good, because the abbey resents the extra mouth to feed.’

‘Her death will ease our financial burden,’ agreed Welbyrn, overhearing and coming to voice an opinion. Bartholomew regarded them in disbelief, sure the frail figure did not eat much, and probably had not done for weeks. Before he could say so, Yvo clapped his hands.

‘Take your seats, please, gentleman. Time is passing.’

Once everyone was sitting around a large table, Yvo began to make introductions. He began with the Unholy Trinity. ‘You have met our almoner, treasurer and cellarer.’

Ramseye nodded a polite greeting, but Welbyrn and Nonton did not. Nonton was refilling his goblet again, while Welbyrn, presumably to show the Bishop’s Commissioners that he was an important man with heavy responsibilities, was scanning some documents.

‘My God!’ Ramseye exclaimed suddenly, gaping at Bartholomew. ‘I thought there was something familiar about you earlier, but I could not place it. Yet I recognise you now you are in the light and have dressed in marginally more respectable clothes. Welbyrn, look!’

‘It is Matt Bartholomew!’ breathed Welbyrn, parchments forgotten. ‘The lad who declined to learn his theology. I see from his attire that he has not amounted to much.’

‘On the contrary,’ said Michael, while a number of responses were on the tip of Bartholomew’s tongue, none of them polite. ‘He is the University’s most distinguished medicus and has the favour of the Prince of Wales.’

This was misleading. First, there were only two medici in the University, and being more distinguished than Doctor Rougham was no great accomplishment. And second, the Prince of Wales had noticed Bartholomew once, after the Battle of Poitiers, when he had ministered to the wounded. The physician was sure he had long since been forgotten.

‘I am pleased you realised your ambition to become a healer,’ said Ramseye with a sly smile, although Welbyrn’s dark, heavy features were full of disbelief at Michael’s claims. ‘I cannot imagine a better profession for someone like you.’

Bartholomew was not sure what he meant, but was certain it was nothing complimentary. He declined to reply, so Prior Yvo began to introduce the other obedientiaries. As Peterborough was a large foundation, a vast number of monks held official appointments, although Bartholomew was disappointed to note that Henry was not among them. He and Michael nodded politely as sacrist, precentor, cook, succentor, novice-master, pittancer, chamberlain and brewer were presented, along with their various assistants and deputies. The long list of names and faces soon merged into a blur.

‘Now, Brother Michael,’ said Yvo, when he had finished. ‘What do you need to make an end to your investigation? It would be good to have the matter resolved tonight.’

‘I think I may need a little longer than that,’ said Michael, taken aback. ‘But we can certainly make a start. When was the last time you saw Abbot Robert?’

‘A month ago,’ supplied Yvo. ‘On St Swithin’s Day. He went to visit Aurifabro, who owns a manor in the nearby village of Torpe. He never arrived.’

Not revealing that he already knew this, Michael merely remarked, ‘I thought he and Aurifabro hated each other.’

‘They did, but Aurifabro is the town’s only goldsmith, and we wanted a new ceremonial paten,’ explained Ramseye. ‘We had no choice but to use him. My uncle took Pyk to ensure his safety on that fateful journey, but unfortunately it did not work.’

‘Pyk?’ probed Michael guilelessly.

‘The town’s physician, who is probably the most popular man in Peterborough,’ provided Yvo. ‘He disappeared at the same time.’

‘A medicus seems an odd choice of protector,’ said Michael. ‘Or was Pyk a warrior?’

There was a general chuckle at this notion. ‘Pyk was not a fighting man,’ said an apple-cheeked, chubby man, whom Bartholomew thought was the precentor. ‘Far from it.’

‘Why did Robert not take his defensores?’ pressed Michael.

‘Presumably, because he did not want to insult Aurifabro with a show of force,’ replied Ramseye with a shrug. ‘But we cannot answer for certain, because my uncle rarely took anyone into his confidence.’

He sounded bitter. Bartholomew looked at him sharply, but could read nothing in the bland face.

‘I told him to take a few defensores,’ put in Welbyrn. ‘But he said he would not be in danger, and I am inclined to agree. When he returns–’

‘He will not return,’ growled Nonton. ‘Aurifabro is a murderous bastard, and violence is part of his nature. Robert should have known better.’

‘He is not dead,’ snapped Welbyrn. ‘Why must you persist in saying he is?’

‘What time did Robert leave the abbey?’ asked Michael loudly, cutting into the burgeoning spat.

‘After the midday meal,’ replied Yvo. ‘We had ox kidneys that day, and he was a glutton for those. He ate a large dish of them, and rode off shortly afterwards.’

‘And his purpose was to inspect a paten?’ asked Michael. ‘Did he not delegate that sort of task? To the sacrist, for example, whose duty it is to manage such affairs?’

‘As Ramseye has pointed out, Robert did not discuss his decisions with us,’ replied Yvo. ‘However, the paten was a costly venture, so it is not unreasonable that he was keen to assess its progress himself.’

‘Is it finished now?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘No,’ replied Yvo. ‘When Robert failed to return, I told Aurifabro that we no longer wanted it. He is livid, but our Abbot died on a visit to his lair, so what does he expect?’

‘What about Pyk?’ asked Michael. ‘Did his family search for him?’

‘His patients did,’ nodded Yvo. ‘As I said, he was popular, and he is sorely missed. Much more than Robert, although it grieves me to say it.’

He did not look particularly grieved, and neither did his colleagues.

‘Tell me about Robert as a man,’ instructed Michael. ‘What was he like?’

Immediately, most of the monks stared at the table, unwilling to catch his eye. Welbyrn scowled and twisted one of the documents in his big hands, while Nonton poured himself another drink. Ramseye looked faintly amused, as if he found his colleagues’ behaviour entertaining. It was Prior Yvo who broke the uncomfortable silence.

‘He was ambitious, greedy and ruthless. I am not in the habit of speaking ill of the dead, but false eulogies will not help your investigation, Brother.’

‘My uncle could be cruel,’ acknowledged Ramseye. ‘And spiteful, on occasion.’

‘He was my friend,’ said Lullington. ‘But even I am forced to admit that he was difficult.’

Their remarks opened the floodgates, and all the monks began to bombard him with examples of the Abbot’s shortcomings. Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a glance: how were they to isolate a single suspect when it seemed that the entire monastery had disliked him?

‘So to summarise,’ said Michael, when the gush had slowed to a trickle, ‘this bullying, greedy, cruel man set out to inspect a paten with Pyk, and neither man has been seen since.’

‘Yes,’ nodded Yvo. ‘However, remember that both were well-dressed and rode fine horses, which was reckless with so many outlaws about. And Robert carried his official seals, which are solid gold.’

‘His seals?’ asked Michael, startled to learn that they were not safely locked in a chest, as was the custom. ‘Was he in the habit of taking them out and about with him?’

‘Yes,’ replied Yvo. ‘He never left them here, because he was afraid we might use them without his permission. And as you know, no abbey business can be transacted without them.’

‘So he did not trust you,’ stated Michael baldly.

There was another uncomfortable silence. Again it was Yvo who broke it.

‘No, but that says more about him than us. Hah! There is the bell for vespers.’

There was a collective sigh of relief that the interrogation was over, followed by an immediate scraping of benches on the floor as the monks rose and began to file towards the door.

‘Thank you for your time, Brother,’ said Yvo with a gracious nod of his head. ‘Perhaps we shall resume our discussion tomorrow.’

His tone of voice made it clear he thought it unlikely.