The Lost Abbot

Chapter 5

Bartholomew could not go with Michael to question Pernel Pyk, because people kept waylaying him to report how they were faring after their consultations with him in St Leonard’s Hospital. The monk went alone, but the mistress of the house was out. Eventually, both returned to the chapel, which was now full of people – it was not every day that a sacred building was purified after a murder, and the citizens of Peterborough were keen to see how it was done.

‘The whole town is here,’ whispered Michael. ‘Even Spalling, and he hates the abbey.’

He nodded to where the rebel was standing with a huge contingent of the town’s poor. Most were farm labourers, sun-bronzed, sturdy people in smocks and straw hats. None looked particularly downtrodden, and they were healthier and better fed than the ones who worked around Cambridge. Spalling had changed his clothes to match theirs, although his tunic was made from finer wool and his hat was worn at a rakish angle.

‘Aurifabro has deigned to appear, too,’ murmured Michael, seeing the goldsmith near the altar. ‘And he is not even a Christian. We had better keep our distance – we do not want to be singed if he is struck by a thunderbolt.’

‘It is a good thing Cynric did not hear you say that,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘He tends to believe those kind of statements.’

‘Just as he believes everything that falls from Spalling’s lips. No good will come from that association, Matt. Perhaps you should order him home before it lands him in trouble.’

‘I will talk to him, but he is a free man and must decide for himself what is right.’

The bedesmen had also turned out. They had brought Kirwell on a litter, although he was fast asleep and seemed oblivious to the hands that reached out to touch him – and to the clink of coins that were collected from those who wanted to avail themselves of the privilege.

‘Some of those ancients are suspects for killing Joan,’ mused Bartholomew, watching the spectacle. ‘Yet none of them look guilty, not even Botilbrig, who is the obvious candidate.’

Michael gestured to the other side of the chapel. ‘Nor do the bedeswomen, who also had reason to want Joan dead. But Reginald is standing by the cemetery door. Shall we go to see whether he will answer our questions now?’

‘We might as well, I suppose. There is no sign that the ceremony is about to begin.’

They eased their way through the throng towards the cutler, who whipped around in alarm when Michael tapped him on the shoulder.

‘I am not talking to you,’ he declared, eyes furtive as he glanced around. ‘I have nothing to say, and what I do in my workshop is my own affair.’

The last words were delivered in a hissing snarl that turned his face scarlet and caused the veins to stand out on his neck. Bartholomew was concerned.

‘Take some deep breaths,’ he advised. ‘And try to relax your–’

‘Leave me alone,’ snapped Reginald, redder than ever. ‘I cannot help it if I am obliged to do things that … But I am not saying more. You will trap me into admitting … And Abbot Robert is not here to protect me.’

‘To protect you from what?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused by the tirade.

‘Trouble,’ replied Reginald shortly. He tugged at his tunic, as though the material was too tight around his throat.

‘You really should sit down. You will feel better if–’

‘I am not staying here to be interrogated.’ Reginald began to back away. ‘You will pretend to befriend me, but all the time you will be trying to trip me up. Robert warned me about men like you.’

Before either scholar could ask what he meant, Reginald had fled, leaving them staring after him in astonishment.

‘Now that is a guilty conscience,’ said Michael. ‘We shall have to tackle him again later, and find out exactly what he has done.’

It was not long before there was a flurry of activity and the Benedictines arrived. The obedientiaries were first, grand in their ceremonial finery, although the monks wore their working clothes; many had muddy hands or sleeves rolled up, having come directly from their labours. When they saw Michael and Bartholomew among the onlookers, Nonton scowled, Welbyrn ignored them, Ramseye’s grin was wholly unreadable, and Prior Yvo shot them a glance that was full of panic.

‘Poor Yvo,’ said Henry, coming to talk to the scholars. Appletre was at his side, and so was Lullington until he saw who Henry was talking to, at which point he muttered an obscenity in French and left. ‘It is his first public ceremony as Acting Abbot, so he is under pressure to make a good impression.’

‘He will not do it if he looks frightened,’ remarked Appletre. ‘He will only succeed in unnerving people. But that is a good thing – it will give Ramseye an edge.’

‘You want Ramseye to become Abbot?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise. ‘I thought you hoped that an outsider would be appointed instead.’

‘I did – I do – but I still have to vote in Thursday’s election, and the choice is Ramseye or Yvo,’ explained Appletre. ‘So I shall support Ramseye, because he promised to let me stay on as precentor. But if Yvo wins, he will take over those duties himself, and his voice is…’

‘Like a rusty saw,’ supplied Michael, when the precentor flailed around for the right words. ‘But Ramseye and Yvo cannot be the only candidates from the abbey. What about you, Henry? Do you have no ambitions in that direction?’

Henry seemed shocked. ‘Good gracious, no! I would not be a good Abbot. Indeed, I have declined promotion several times, lest it interfere with my service to God.’

He raised his eyes heavenward, and Michael was girding himself up for a tart rejoinder when Inges arrived, asking Bartholomew to sedate Simon. The cowherd had been odder than usual that day and Inges was afraid he would disrupt the ceremony. Bartholomew declined, on the grounds that it was unethical to dose lunatics with soporifics for the convenience of others, and recommended a walk in the water meadows instead.

‘Why?’ asked Inges, bemused.

‘Because taking him to a familiar place might soothe him,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘Those with disturbed minds often find comfort in places they have known well.’

‘Do they?’ asked Inges. ‘Pyk never said so.’

‘So this paragon of the medical profession was fallible after all,’ mused Michael. ‘Even I knew that. Well, I suppose I learned it because of Clippesby. He likes familiar places when he is deranged.’

‘You mean deranged in his sainthood,’ said Inges.

‘Yes,’ agreed Michael hastily. ‘That is exactly what I meant.’

‘Speaking of troubled minds, Kirwell is upset about Lady Lullington,’ Inges went on. ‘He feels it is not fair that she should precede him to Heaven when she was only a third of his age. It is Oxforde’s doing that he has lived so long, of course – him and his prayer.’

‘What prayer?’ asked Michael.

‘Oxforde composed one the night before he was hanged,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘And told Kirwell that as long as he kept it secret, he would enjoy a long and comfortable life.’

‘But recently, Kirwell has expressed a desire to die.’ Inges took up the tale. ‘So he gave the prayer to Abbot Robert, expecting to perish immediately. It did not work, and now he fears that he might be cursed with immortality. I hope he is, as the revenues would be–’

‘Cursed with immortality?’ interrupted Michael. ‘Most people would relish it.’

‘Not if they do not have eternal youth to go with it,’ replied Inges. ‘And poor Kirwell can do nothing but sleep and eat. Now he wishes that God had never bathed him in that miraculous glow at Oxforde’s tomb all those years ago.’

‘The glow that sounds like a shaft of sunlight?’ asked Bartholomew pointedly.

Inges glared. ‘It was the Lord pointing at the Earth. Of course, I doubt He meant that particular grave to become a shrine, which is what those greedy bedeswomen made it into. Oxforde was a very nasty criminal, and should not be revered.’

‘I heard that Gynewell came here specifically to suppress the cult,’ said Michael.

‘He did,’ nodded Inges. ‘But it earns a fortune, so Abbot Robert let it start up again. The monastery is fond of money.’

‘So we are beginning to understand,’ murmured Michael.

As the monks were still fiddling with their purifying accoutrements, Bartholomew went to ensure that being rousted from his bed had not been too great a strain for Kirwell. It did not take him long to ascertain that the old man was so deeply asleep that he probably did not know that he had been moved. Meanwhile, Michael sidled through the spectators, listening to scraps of conversation and noting who was standing with whom.

‘We wanted to wait for the Bishop,’ Marion was telling Henry and Appletre. ‘But Prioress Hagar said we have a duty to get the chapel back to normal as quickly as possible.’

‘Too right,’ declared Hagar, overhearing and going to join them. ‘Joan caused a lot of disruption by getting herself killed in here. Of course, she did have it coming to her.’

‘You think she deserved to be murdered?’ asked Henry, shocked. ‘Why?’

‘Because of her sordid “friendship” with Robert,’ explained Hagar, pursing her lips. ‘There will be none of that sort of thing now I am Prioress.’

‘It was inappropriate,’ agreed Henry sanctimoniously, although Appletre’s round face showed more understanding. ‘But I liked Joan, regardless.’

Hagar shrugged. ‘She was all right, I suppose. But St Thomas’s Hospital will be happier and better run under me.’

‘It is nicer already in some ways,’ acknowledged Marion. ‘We are free to carry out our duties without interference – Joan was constantly watching us, to make sure we were not shirking.’

‘I plan on doing very little supervision,’ said Hagar airily. ‘I shall have more important matters to occupy my time.’

‘Yet I wish we could wait for the Bishop,’ said Marion unhappily. ‘Yvo says he is ecclesiastically equipped to perform this sort of ceremony, too, but we only have his word for it.’

‘He does possess the necessary authority,’ Appletre assured her. ‘And–’

‘Well, our pilgrims will be glad when we are open for business again.’ Hagar cut across him rudely. ‘They all love Oxforde. They love St Thomas’s relics, too, but not as much.’

‘Speaking of relics, where is the stone that killed Joan?’ asked Appletre, his blue eyes wide in his chubby, red-cheeked face. He crossed himself.

‘Back on the altar,’ replied Hagar. ‘I wiped some of the blood off it, but the rest we shall leave. People will assume it is St Thomas’s.’

‘That would be dishonest,’ said Henry sternly.

‘Only if they find out,’ interrupted Hagar with a predatory grin. ‘But I cannot stand here chattering. As Prioress, I have a great deal to do.’

She sailed off, head held high, and Michael followed. When Bartholomew came to stand next to him, the monk was watching her berate Lullington for prising a crucifix off the wall when he had come to collect his wife’s personal effects. It belonged to the hospital, and she wanted it back.

‘She might have murdered Joan,’ Michael said in a low voice, watching her poke the knight in the chest when he started to argue. ‘There is a chilling ruthlessness in her.’

‘The same can be said about a lot of the people we have met since arriving here,’ replied Bartholomew soberly.

As the ceremony still showed no signs of beginning, Bartholomew and Michael went to find out why. The reason soon became clear: Ramseye was asking questions that had Yvo reaching anxiously for his prayer book to assure himself that he knew what he was doing. Welbyrn was with them, smirking at the Prior’s increasing discomfiture.

‘Ramseye is undermining his confidence,’ murmured Michael. ‘So he will appear the better candidate when the election comes. A sly tactic, but an effective one.’

Yvo’s voice was shrill with agitation as he responded to Ramseye’s latest query. ‘But I cannot stamp my Writ of Cleansing with the abbey’s seal, because I do not have it. Robert took it with him, if you recall.’

‘So he did,’ sighed Ramseye. ‘Never mind. People will probably accept the writ without it. Just state that you do hold the Bishop’s authority, and I am sure they will believe you.’

The tone of his voice made it abundantly clear that he thought they would not.

‘Are you sure there is not another purple cope in the vestments chest?’ asked Welbyrn before Yvo could respond. ‘I thought we had one that fitted you.’

‘This one will suffice,’ said Ramseye with a patently false smile, as the Prior looked down at himself in dismay. ‘Just remember not to turn your back on the congregation.’

Bartholomew had no particular liking for the Prior, but he thought that what Ramseye and Welbyrn were doing was cruel. He was about to say so to Michael when Welbyrn spotted him. The treasurer’s thick features creased into an ugly scowl.

‘Bartholomew! You will leave before the ceremony begins. I do not want you here.’

Ramseye started at his crony’s outburst. ‘He can stay if he likes.’

‘No! He will criticise our theology, just as he did years ago.’

‘Nonsense! We are obedientiaries now, while he is just a physician.’

‘A physician with opinions about me,’ spat Welbyrn angrily. ‘He–’

‘We should make sure there are enough candles,’ interrupted Ramseye briskly. ‘I do not trust Trentham to do it, as his distress over Lady Lullington means he is not very reliable at the moment. Come, Brother.’

He hustled Welbyrn away before the treasurer could say anything else, leaving Bartholomew perplexed by the depth of his old tutor’s dislike.

‘He is bellicose with everyone these days, so do not take him amiss,’ said Yvo, watching them go with a sullen expression. ‘I suspect he finds the post of treasurer too onerous. I shall relieve him of it when I am Abbot, so that he can become a simple monk again. But never mind him. Help me with this cope.’

It was a fine vestment, and its exquisite quality was another indication of the abbey’s wealth. Unfortunately, Welbyrn had been right to remark that it did not fit: it was far too big, and trailed rather ridiculously on the floor. From its ample size, Bartholomew assumed it had been made for Robert.

‘I wish I had not consented to do this,’ said Yvo wretchedly, clearly aware that he did not cut as majestic a figure as his predecessor. ‘I know we are losing pilgrim-money while the chapel is out of action, but I would sooner have waited for the Bishop.’

‘So why did you agree?’ asked Michael.

Yvo’s misery intensified. ‘Prioress Hagar is a very persuasive woman.’

He shuffled away despondently, and Bartholomew wondered whether it would be the absurdly oversized cope or his painful nervousness that would underline the fact that Yvo was wholly incapable of filling Robert’s shoes.

‘Hagar has her arm around Trentham,’ remarked Michael, ‘but whatever she is whispering in his ear is of no comfort, because he has started to cry again. We had better intervene. He has important duties to perform in a moment.’

‘I have just informed him that Joan’s will stipulates she is to be buried next to Oxforde,’ explained Hagar. ‘Indeed, it says we cannot have any of her belongings unless this wish is carried out. However, we cannot have common workmen rooting about near our shrine, so I have just told Trentham that he must dig her grave. He is our chaplain, after all.’

‘But I do not know how,’ sobbed Trentham. ‘I am a priest, not a sexton.’

‘We shall bury her on Thursday,’ said Hagar breezily, ‘so you have five days to master the skill. I am sure you will not let us down.’

And with that she bustled off to her next prey, leaving Trentham staring after her tearfully. Gratefully, he accepted the scrap of clean linen that Bartholomew offered, to wipe his face and blow his nose.

‘I am sorry for what I said,’ he snuffled. ‘About you failing to help Lady Lullington. I know it was not your fault, but I was upset. She was my friend, you see.’

‘You can make up for your unkind words by answering a few questions,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could say he understood. ‘Start by telling us what you thought of Robert.’

‘He was not very nice,’ obliged Trentham, dabbing at his eyes. ‘Lady Lullington asked him to visit shortly after she was taken ill, but he never bothered. And he was horrible to Henry – he taunted him about being lame and the amount of time he likes to pray.’

‘What had Henry done to attract his ire?’ asked Michael, while Bartholomew groaned, suspecting this ‘evidence’ would be used to promote his old classmate as a suspect for murder.

‘He is pious, which made Robert look irreligious,’ explained Trentham. ‘But I miss Pyk much more than the Abbot. He was kind to my old people, and he often “forgot” to charge the paupers in my parish for his services. He was a wonderful man.’

‘He was not friends with Spalling, was he?’ asked Michael wryly.

‘Spalling is right to draw attention to the plight of the poor,’ said Trentham with youthful intensity. ‘A family of beggars live near my church, and they suffered horribly last winter. It should not have happened when the abbey drips with riches.’

‘Then why did you not make Robert aware of their plight?’

‘I did, several times, and he said he would arrange for alms, but they never came. I do not know whether it slipped his mind or if he instructed Ramseye not to pay. Regardless, his heartlessness did not endear him to me or to my parishioners.’

‘Are these beggars the kind to bear a grudge?’ asked Michael keenly. ‘Or can you name anyone else who might have wanted to make an end of Robert?’

Trentham shook his head. ‘None of my flock are killers. Personally, I think the culprit was the enormous meal Robert devoured before he left. Pyk could not save him, so he rolled him in a ditch and fled before he could be accused of malpractice.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Physicians are not–’

‘I do not blame him,’ interrupted Trentham. ‘Indeed, if you are ever in a similar situation, I recommend you do it yourself. The abbey can be viciously vengeful.’

The reconsecration ceremony did not last long. Yvo gabbled through it so fast that even William was impressed – and he was famous for the brevity of his offices. Bartholomew could only assume that Yvo thought a speedy service would not give his critics time to pick holes in his performance. All the while, he sprayed holy water around with such unrestrained generosity that those standing at the front were dripping by the time he had finished.

The rite ended with a procession around the chapel, but when Yvo reached the door that led to the abbey, he kept on going, leaving the congregation to stand uncertainly, sure there must be more to come. Once they realised there was not, Hagar announced that applications could now be made for visiting Oxforde’s shrine. The bedeswomen were on hand to collect donations, and those who did not offer enough were invited to return another day.

Some of the monks, including Henry and the Unholy Trinity, lingered to exchange polite greetings with the townsfolk, while Bartholomew and Michael listened to Langelee carping about Spalling’s rabble-rousing. Then Appletre joined them, babbling amiably about how he was torn between disappointment that the ceremony had been devoid of music and relief that Yvo had not tried to sing. Langelee waited impatiently for him to finish so he could resume his diatribe, gazing absently at the other obedientiaries as he did so. Then he frowned and his finger came up to point.

‘I know you! You lived in York once.’

The remark was aimed at Nonton the cellarer, whose bleary eyes and red face suggested that he had been assiduous in checking the quality of his supplies that day.

‘Rubbish,’ retorted Nonton loudly, his brusque reply causing a number of people to turn and look at him. ‘I have never been there.’

‘Yes, you have, Brother Cellarer,’ countered Henry. ‘You went for a year, because we had to send an envoy to the Archbishop’s court, and Robert said you were the most easily spared.’

‘I knew it!’ cried Langelee, pleased with himself, although Nonton scowled furiously, and Bartholomew suspected that Henry would have been wiser to hold his tongue. ‘We met when the Archbishop’s new Mint opened, and there was a party afterwards. It was you who drank that whole jug of fermented honey and then did an impression of–’

‘Not me,’ interrupted Nonton, flushing crimson. ‘As cellarer, I am obliged to be abstemious, so it must have been someone else.’

Bartholomew and Michael were not the only ones to exchange amused glances at this claim. Nonton’s anger deepened when he saw people were laughing at him.

‘It is true!’ he declared. ‘Any wine I consume is purely medicinal, for my chilblains. And I dislike being away from Peterborough, so I always expunge such journeys from my mind. If I was ever in York, I will have forgotten about it, so please do not attempt to discuss it with me again. You will be wasting your breath.’

‘If you hate leaving us so much, why do you always volunteer to go with Welbyrn when he visits Lincoln?’ asked Henry. His smile was innocently curious.

‘Because it is good for the soul to undertake unpleasant duties occasionally,’ snapped Nonton, ice in his voice. He turned away, to indicate the discussion was over.

‘It was him in York,’ whispered Langelee to Bartholomew and Michael. ‘I could never forget such entertainment as he provided that night. However, I understand why he is reluctant to confess – half the town is listening.’

Clippesby and William came to join them, Cynric at their heels, and together they watched the chapel begin to empty of spectators. Lullington was among those who lingered. He stood at the altar, and stared so long and hard at the stone that had been used to kill Joan that the scholars’ interest was piqued. They moved towards him, and Michael sneezed when they were met by a potent waft of perfume.

‘He smells like a whore,’ muttered William in disgust.

‘A costly whore,’ whispered Langelee. ‘The Deputy Sheriff’s lady uses that scent, and a pot of it would keep Michaelhouse in victuals for a month. Lullington has expensive tastes. That tunic is new, too. I wonder if he has been spending his wife’s money.’

‘Our condolences, Sir John,’ said Michael to the knight. ‘We were sorry to hear of your loss.’

‘What loss?’ demanded Lullington, whipping around to glower at him.

‘Your wife,’ replied Michael, taken aback by the peculiar response. ‘She died.’

‘Oh,’ replied Lullington. ‘Yes. I shall miss her.’

Trentham was trimming the altar candles, but he turned when he heard the knight’s remark. ‘In that case, you should pay your last respects. You were not with her when she passed away, so saying a prayer over her body is the least you can do now.’

Lullington pulled a face. ‘I have seen more than my share of corpses in the battles I have fought. Must I be subjected to more of them in the evening of my life?’

‘What battles?’ asked Langelee keenly, while Bartholomew thought the knight’s life was more mid-afternoon than evening, and wondered how he had persuaded the King to let him retire so early. ‘I was a soldier myself before I took to scholarship and know a thing or two about warfare. And Cynric and Bartholomew were at Poitiers.’

‘I cannot recall,’ hedged Lullington. ‘I played significant roles in so many that they merge together in my mind.’

‘Well, never mind, because you can oblige me in another way,’ said Langelee, rubbing his hands together in happy anticipation. ‘I have not had the opportunity to hone my swordplay since arriving here, so we shall spar together. I can promise you a very good–’

‘No!’ cried Lullington in alarm. ‘I am too old.’

‘Nonsense! You are in your prime.’

‘Perhaps he will challenge you to a game of chess instead, Master,’ said Cynric acidly. ‘I imagine that is his preferred form of combat.’

‘Yes,’ said Lullington, missing the sarcasm in the suggestion. ‘I shall be happy to defeat you at chess, Langelee. I am rather good at that.’

‘Your wife, Sir John,’ said Trentham impatiently. ‘If you really have seen so many corpses, then one more will make no difference. And it is not as if you were close. You could not even recall her name when I asked you for it last night, to put in my register.’

‘You do not know your own wife’s name?’ echoed Langelee in disbelief.

‘I always called her Lady Lullington,’ said the knight stiffly. ‘Besides, I was away fighting for most of our married life, so we rarely met.’

‘You were wed to her for thirty years.’ Trentham was obviously unimpressed. ‘And you met her often enough to sire six children.’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Lullington. ‘All fine, healthy lads who are favourites with the King.’

‘Will you see her?’ pressed Trentham, becoming exasperated. ‘She is upstairs, keeping company with poor Joan. I will come with you if you cannot bear to go alone.’

‘So will I,’ said Michael, seeing a way to gain access to Joan without waiting for Marion and Elene. ‘And Matt will be on hand to answer any medical questions you might have.’

‘Very well,’ said Lullington with a resigned sigh, seeing he was trapped. ‘Lead on.’

Lady Lullington lay in the chamber where she had died, and an involuntary sob caught in Trentham’s throat when he saw her. Bartholomew laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

‘I know it is hard,’ he said gently. ‘But Abbot Robert was right when he said you must learn to keep your distance. You will make yourself ill if you become distressed over every parishioner you lose.’

‘Lady Lullington was different,’ gulped Trentham. ‘She listened to me. How many people listen to priests? They expect us to help them when they suffer, but they never appreciate that we might need patience and understanding, too.’

‘Wait outside,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘I will stay with Lullington.’

The priest disappeared with alacrity, leaving Bartholomew to lift the gauzy sheet that had been placed across Lady Lullington’s face. Her husband approached tentatively, then released a yell that made Bartholomew leap in alarm.

‘She is so pale!’ he gasped, the colour draining from his own face. ‘And thin.’

Bartholomew could only suppose it had been some time since he had seen her. The knight turned away quickly, and indicated with an agitatedly flapping hand that she should be covered again. Bartholomew obliged, then escorted him outside, where Trentham was waiting. When he saw Lullington’s distress, the priest immediately hastened towards him, leading him away to be calmed with quiet words.

‘Trentham is a good man,’ Bartholomew remarked. ‘He deplores the way Lullington has neglected his wife, yet he is prepared to set aside his personal feelings to offer him comfort.’

Michael nodded. ‘I shall reduce his duties when I am Abbot. It is unreasonable to give him two hospitals and a parish. It is too much, especially for someone so young.’

‘Lullington’s reaction to his wife’s body was odd,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully.

‘Not really. He was clearly lying about his military expertise, and hers may be the first corpse he has ever seen. And if she looks very different from when she was hale and hearty, then his shock is understandable.’

‘Perhaps. Or there could be another reason.’ Bartholomew led the way back to the body and pointed to the bruises on the dead woman’s throat. ‘She has been strangled, Brother.’

Michael gaped at him, then started to ask some of the questions that clamoured in his mind, but he stopped himself and went to the door instead.

‘We do not have much time. Inspect her quickly, then look at Joan. I will stand guard, and if I cough, it means that someone is coming, so drop to your knees and pretend to pray.’

It was sordid and Bartholomew did not like it, but he did as he was told. The marks on Lady Lullington’s throat were livid, but although they were obvious to him, he understood why they had been missed by others. The victim had been afflicted with blotchy skin – a side effect of whatever ailment had killed her – which meant they were fairly well disguised.

He touched the bruises lightly. It was impossible to tell whether they had been made by a man or a woman, but he was sure of one thing: whoever had committed the crime had used a massive degree of force. The killer had gripped her throat so hard that Bartholomew could feel damage to the bones underneath. He stared at her with quiet compassion, wondering what sort of monster would strangle a dying lady.

At a sharp hiss from Michael, he pulled himself from his reverie and inspected Joan, but there was nothing to learn from her, except for the fact that the murder weapon was definitely the broken piece of flagstone – he could see that its corner would match precisely the dent in her skull. He put all to rights and escaped from the room with relief.

‘Perhaps she viewed the arrival of the Bishop’s Commissioners as the final chapter in Robert’s life,’ suggested Michael, watching Bartholomew close the door. ‘That us being here meant he was dead for certain. Grief may have directed her hand – she brained herself.’

‘Impossible,’ said Bartholomew, watching the hope of an easy solution fade from the monk’s eyes. ‘I am afraid you are looking for a murderer. Probably more than one, because we cannot assume that whoever struck her also strangled Lady Lullington and … did whatever happened to Robert and Pyk.’

‘I am inclined to keep Lady Lullington’s fate to ourselves, lest the Bishop orders us to solve that crime, too. What do you think?’

‘I agree – we should confide in our Michaelhouse colleagues, but no one else. Not for the reason you suggest, but because anyone ruthless enough to throttle a sick woman is not someone we want annoyed with us.’

‘True,’ acknowledged Michael soberly.

Lullington had gone by the time Bartholomew and Michael returned to the chapel, although Trentham was on his knees at the altar, his head bent in prayer. He jumped when Michael tapped his shoulder, but made the sign of the cross and stood to lead them to the back of the building, where they could talk in private. Hagar came to join them uninvited.

‘It is good to have our shrines back,’ she said, beaming at the penitents who clustered around the relics. Most were staring at the stone that had killed Joan, and Bartholomew suspected it was ghoulish curiosity, not reverence, that had brought them there. Hagar brandished a heavy purse. ‘I have collected all this since we opened our doors.’

Trentham looked pained. ‘I do not condone this obsession with wealth, Prioress. It is unseemly.’

Hagar shrugged. ‘I will confess this evening and you can absolve me. You usually do.’

‘Yes, but it would be better if you were genuinely contrite,’ argued Trentham. ‘I have told you this before.’

‘I will be contrite this evening,’ offered Hagar blithely. ‘Genuinely, if you demand it.’

Michael brought the subject around to the one he wanted to discuss before Trentham could take issue with Hagar’s breezy attitude towards sin. ‘Poor Lady Lullington. Matt says she had been ill for some time.’

‘With a wasting sickness,’ nodded Hagar. ‘It came on her one night about a month ago, and she had been going steadily downhill ever since. Death was a tremendous relief.’

‘It happened suddenly?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. ‘That is odd. Did she–’

‘I would rather not discuss it,’ interrupted Hagar sharply, casting a meaningful look towards Trentham, whose eyes had filled with tears again. ‘Her illness was a terrible thing, distressing for all concerned. We should not dwell on its details.’

‘Very well,’ said Michael before Bartholomew could argue. ‘We shall talk about her life instead then. Did she have any particular friends? I think we can discount her husband as a caring companion.’

‘He never visited her when she was ill,’ said Trentham bitterly. ‘They were married for thirty years, so you would think he would have shown some concern.’

‘Actually, he came yesterday,’ said Hagar. ‘Just for a few moments.’

Bartholomew glanced at Michael, and saw the monk was asking himself the same questions. Had Lullington stayed long enough to dispatch the spouse he had never loved? But why bother when she would have been dead soon anyway?

‘Did he know she was nearing the end?’ he asked.

Hagar nodded. ‘But his visit was so fleeting that I cannot be certain that he even entered her room. Perhaps he reached the door and his courage failed him.’

‘Why would he need courage to face someone he did not care about?’ asked Michael, his harsh tone telling Bartholomew that he had a suspect for the crime.

‘Perhaps it was guilt,’ suggested Trentham. ‘He treated her with rank disdain even before she was unwell, although she never gave him cause, poor soul. She did not want to come to Peterborough. She was happy in London, where she could visit her sons.’

‘Who was with her when she died?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘She passed away shortly after Reginald tried to force his way in here,’ replied Trentham. ‘God forgive me, but I went to offer calming words to Hagar instead of staying at my post. Lady Lullington was alive when I left and dead when I returned.’ His face contorted with remorse. ‘She died alone.’

‘Alone?’ probed Michael. ‘Surely bedeswomen were on hand to see to the patients’ needs?’

‘Unfortunately, Reginald caused such a kerfuffle that he claimed every ounce of my attention,’ replied Hagar. ‘I cannot be sure who was where. Marion! Elene! Come here!’

The last was delivered in a stentorian bellow that had the named sisters dashing forward in alarm. Hagar repeated Michael’s question.

‘We both hurried downstairs when Reginald started yelling,’ explained Marion; Elene nodded at her side. ‘We were worried that he might damage the chapel. I think all the other sisters were here as well, but I cannot be sure.’

‘Who has access to the infirmary, other than you bedeswomen?’ asked Michael.

‘Why?’ demanded Hagar, regarding him suspiciously.

‘The Bishop’s Commissioner is nothing if not thorough,’ replied Michael, smoothly reminding her of his authority.

Hagar sighed. ‘Very well. Most of our patients have friends and family in the town, and those folk have leave to visit whenever they please.’

‘In other words, anyone could have slipped into Lady Lullington’s room to sit with her,’ said Trentham. ‘However, I imagine they would have said something to me if they had – no one sees a good woman breathe her last and forgets to mention it to her priest.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘But let us move on to Joan.’

‘I would not like to be in her killer’s shoes come Judgement Day,’ said Trentham bleakly. ‘The saints do not look kindly on sacred relics being used to kill people. Whoever committed that atrocity will be damned for eternity.’

‘Oh, come, Father,’ said Hagar. She had turned pale, while Marion and Elene crossed themselves vigorously. ‘Surely it depends on whether there were extenuating circumstances?’

Trentham frowned. ‘Extenuating circumstances?’

‘Joan could be fierce,’ explained Hagar. ‘She might have darted at someone, who snatched up the stone to protect herself. Or the culprit might have been inspecting it and swiped accidentally when Joan startled her.’

‘Do you encourage people to touch the relics, then?’ asked Michael, catching Bartholomew’s eye again. Neither of them had missed Hagar’s choice of pronoun.

‘Not as a rule,’ replied Hagar. ‘But they cannot always be dissuaded.’

‘If you had to point a finger at a suspect, who would it be?’ asked the monk.

‘One of the men from St Leonard’s, of course,’ replied Hagar. ‘They are all villains. You should arrest the lot of them and close down their nasty chapel.’

‘What about you, Trentham?’

‘I did not kill Joan!’ exclaimed Trentham, shocked.

‘I meant who are your suspects,’ said Michael irritably.

Trentham calmed himself. ‘I doubt it was anyone she knew – they would not have dared. Of course, she was as gentle as a lamb really, or Robert would not have stayed with her all those years. Ergo, it must have been a stranger, someone who did not know her.’

‘Yes,’ said Hagar eagerly. ‘A stranger – one of the many pilgrims who visit. Of course, he will be long gone now, so I would not waste time looking if I were you. But we have wasted enough time today, and we have sick bedeswomen waiting. Are you ready to tend us, Doctor?’

‘Which would you like first?’ asked Elene sweetly. ‘My veins or Marion’s impostumes?’

‘What a decision!’ muttered Michael. ‘I am glad it is not incumbent on me to choose.’