The Lost Abbot

Chapter 6

‘We still have no idea what happened to Robert,’ said Michael gloomily as he and Bartholomew sat in the Swan Inn that evening. Outside, day was fading to dusk earlier than usual, because it was raining. ‘Moreover, we now have two murders to complicate matters.’

‘Hagar’s reactions to our questions made me wonder again whether she might have killed Joan,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So she could be Prioress herself.’

Michael agreed. ‘And if Joan, then why not Lady Lullington, whose nursing would have been a drain on her foundation’s resources?’

But Bartholomew shook his head at that suggestion. ‘There is a big difference between knocking someone on the head and choking the life out of her with such vigour that bones were crushed. One suggests opportunism, the other a furious rage. Lady Lullington’s husband is my prime suspect for the strangling. He ignored her for weeks, but the one time he deigned to visit is the day she was killed.’

‘But why bother? She was no trouble, dying quietly with the bedeswomen to take care of her. It is not as if he was obliged to tend her himself.’

‘People disapproved of the way he treated her. Perhaps he wanted an early end to it.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Michael, although with scant conviction. He turned to another suspect. ‘We should not overlook Trentham either – he spends a lot of time in the chapel where the murders were committed. I like the boy, but something dark and nasty is unfolding, and until we discover what it is, I am unwilling to exclude anyone from our list of suspects.’

‘I doubt he killed Lady Lullington. He was fond of her and I think his distress is genuine. And as for Joan, he was very vocal in his certainty that her murderer is destined for Hell. I cannot see him making that sort of remark if he were the culprit.’

‘He might,’ countered Michael. ‘To throw us off the scent. It depends how clever he is, which is something I do not feel sufficiently qualified to determine.’

‘Regardless, we should speak to Reginald tomorrow, because he was the one who caused the trouble during which Lady Lullington was killed.’

Michael regarded him sharply. ‘Are you saying it was a deliberate diversion?’

‘Yes – and if we can persuade him to reveal who told him to make the fuss, we shall have our villain. Is there any wine left, Brother?’

‘It was heavily watered,’ said Michael defensively. ‘And I was parched.’

‘You said you would try again to see Pyk’s wife while I was busy with the bedeswomen this afternoon,’ said Bartholomew, once his cup had been filled. He thought the brew rather powerful, and was sure water had been nowhere near it. ‘Did you?’

‘I tried, but she was still out.’ Michael sighed. ‘It is a pity the taint of murder will hang over Peterborough because of a disagreeable character like Robert. This is a good place, and I would enjoy being Abbot here. The food alone would make it worthwhile – I have not eaten so well since we visited my brethren at Ely four years ago.’

‘Matilde was still in Cambridge then,’ sighed Bartholomew, for whom the episode of two nights before was still vivid. ‘I should have been married by now.’

‘Then by now you would have been living in a hovel, surrounded by squalling brats, and burdened with a wife who resents the fact that you have dragged her into poverty. Paupers would be demanding free medicine, and you would have to choose between providing it or letting your family starve.’

Bartholomew blinked, startled by the bleak image the monk had painted. Michael had never said anything like it before. ‘Matilde is a wealthy woman–’

‘Not wealthy enough to support numerous offspring and a husband with an unprofitable practice,’ countered Michael. ‘Besides, I imagine she lost anything of value to highway thieves – a lone woman would have presented an attractive target to outlaws. She would have been poor, and you would both have been miserable.’

‘But if she had not left Cambridge, there would have been no highway thieves,’ Bartholomew pointed out, bemused by the monk’s remarks. ‘We would have–’

‘She has gone, Matt,’ said Michael shortly. ‘So put her from your mind and set your sights on some other lady. And I do not mean Julitta Holm. Her husband may not love her, but that still does not make her available to you.’

‘I am not sure there are any women for me, other than them,’ said Bartholomew, wondering why they were discussing it. The monk had not so much as mentioned Matilde in months, while he usually maintained a tactful silence about Julitta.

‘There is something wrong with these leeks.’ Michael abruptly changed the subject. ‘They taste disgusting. You have them, while I concentrate on the meat.’

‘That is considerate, Brother.’

‘You are used to greenery. Your constitution copes with it better than mine.’

‘They are very salty,’ said Bartholomew, wincing.

‘Salt is good for you,’ declared Michael, grabbing the platter of chicken before Bartholomew could take any. ‘It keeps the blood healthy.’

‘Does it indeed?’ Bartholomew began to eat. He was not hungry, but the leeks were there, and it was something to do. ‘And on whose authority do you make this claim?’

‘My own. I have a lot of experience where victuals are concerned, and you should listen to me because you would learn a great deal.’

Bartholomew did not doubt it, and was equally sure that most of it would be total nonsense. He reached for the wine jug, and shot the monk an irritable glance when he saw it had been drained a second time.

‘The chicken is salty, too,’ said Michael, unrepentant.

They were about to leave the Swan when Langelee arrived with Cynric and Spalling, the latter still wearing his farmer’s smock and hat. The Master slid on to the bench next to Michael, his face sombre, although Cynric remained with his new friend, pausing only to give the briefest of smiles to his old ones. The book-bearer and Spalling joined a group of carpenters at a table by the fire.

‘Peterborough is full of rebels,’ Langelee whispered. ‘Word that Spalling is fomenting unrest has reached the surrounding villages and farms, and people are flocking to join his little army. They are not soldiers, of course, but they already vastly outnumber Aurifabro’s mercenaries and the abbey’s defensores.’

‘Is this the beginning of the country-wide uprising that Cynric has been talking about ever since the plague?’ asked Michael. ‘And if so, does it pose a danger to my University?’

‘Possibly, although Spalling is concentrating his ire on the merchants at the moment. Specifically Aurifabro, who is sitting in the corner: look.’

Bartholomew had not noticed the goldsmith while they had been talking, although Aurifabro had evidently noticed them, because he was scowling in their direction.

‘He has been glaring at us ever since we arrived,’ said Michael loudly. ‘I ignored him, as I do not allow other patrons’ bad manners to interfere with the important business of eating.’

‘Yes, I have been watching you,’ Aurifabro called back. Two mercenaries sat with him, while more lurked in the shadows leading to the kitchen. ‘You intend to blame me for Robert’s murder, and I will not have it.’

The buzz of conversation in the tavern faded as people turned to see what was happening.

‘If you are innocent, you have nothing to fear,’ said Michael coolly.

‘I am innocent,’ growled Aurifabro. ‘Forget it at your peril.’

He stood up and stalked towards the door, his henchmen at his heels. Unfortunately, the path he chose took him past Spalling, who stretched out a burly arm to stop him.

‘My home is full of hungry men, women and children,’ the rebel declared in a voice like a trumpet. ‘The food has been taken from their mouths by the rich.’

The mercenaries surged forward to push him away, and Cynric leapt to his feet with a dagger in his hand. Instinctively, Bartholomew started to go to the book-bearer’s aid, but Michael grabbed his shoulder and jerked him back. Then Landlord Piel arrived to interpose himself between the two factions.

‘Enjoy a quiet drink, if you will, Spalling,’ he said angrily, ‘but I will not have you haranguing my other customers. So either shut up or get out.’

‘I shall harangue whoever I like,’ declared Spalling indignantly. ‘It is not for you to still the voice of the oppressed. And if you try, I shall order your tavern burned to the ground when the time comes to redress this wicked imbalance between the classes–’

He got no further, for the mercenaries seized his arms and marched him towards the door. He was a large man, but they were used to dealing with people who did not like where they were being taken, and his struggles, while determined, were futile. Bartholomew twisted away from Michael and hurried to prevent Cynric from going to Spalling’s rescue, but Cynric was no fool – he knew his chances of defeating so many professional soldiers were slim and he made no attempt to intervene.

‘You see, Brother?’ asked Langelee. ‘Spalling makes remarks like that wherever he goes – churches, taverns, the market. I hope to God he never learns that our University has more wealth than is decent. Cynric has said nothing so far, but he is so enamoured of the fellow that I fear trouble in the future.’

‘How dangerous is Spalling, exactly?’ asked Michael uneasily.

Langelee shrugged. ‘Well, my Archbishop would not have liked him operating in his domain, and would have sent me to take care of the matter.’

Michael winced. None of the Fellows were comfortable with what the Master had done for a living before he had decided that an academic career would be more rewarding. ‘I shall warn Gynewell. He must have the wherewithal to deal with this sort of situation.’

He spoke just as Bartholomew returned to the table with Cynric, who frowned when he heard the last remark.

‘Spalling is a great leader,’ the book-bearer declared. ‘With vision. The Bishop will not want him silenced, because Gynewell is a decent man, too.’

‘As far as I can tell, most of Spalling’s “vision” revolves around how to transfer other people’s money to the poor – with him as their banker,’ countered Langelee acidly.

Cynric shook his head earnestly. ‘You misunderstand him, Master. He sees the injustice of a situation where most of us work for a pittance while a minority grows fat from our labours, and he has solutions.’

‘What are they?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘To remove excess wealth from those with too much, and give it to those who have nothing,’ explained Cynric. ‘It is simple, but fair.’

‘Do you want a pay rise, then?’ asked Langelee tiredly. ‘I suppose we can manage one, although it will put the College in–’

‘No, you have always been generous.’ Cynric smiled, and continued. ‘But Spalling predicts great changes, ones that will result in a more equitable world. I am inclined to help him in his struggle.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘Is this your way of telling us that you want to leave Michaelhouse? But what about your wife?’

‘She will understand, and it will not be for ever – just until this revolution has come to pass. Spalling needs men like me, who are handy with a sword.’

‘You mean he plans to fight for this paradise?’ Bartholomew was dismayed.

‘Only if the wealthy resist,’ replied Cynric. ‘But they will not, because they will see that surrendering their riches is the proper thing to do.’

‘You know better than that, Cynric,’ said Bartholomew, wondering whether Spalling had dosed the book-bearer with some substance that had addled his wits. ‘No one parts with money willingly. Especially people who have a lot of it.’

‘They will when they see how many people are on our side. Please do not try to stop me, boy. You know I have felt strongly about this for a very long time.’

‘I will not stand by while you do something so manifestly reckless,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You are my friend. I will not see you hanged as an insurgent when–’

‘I am doing what I think is right.’ Cynric gripped the physician’s arm in a rare and shy gesture of affection. ‘Just as you have always encouraged me to do. But I should take Spalling home now. We have had enough speeches for tonight.’

He nodded a farewell and left, stopping only to mutter a few soft words to the carpenters at whose table he had been sitting. As one, they stood and followed him out. Bartholomew stared after them unhappily.

‘I will keep trying to talk sense into him,’ promised Langelee, although his grim expression suggested that he did not think he would succeed. ‘How much longer will you be here, Brother? In other words, how long do I have?’

‘Three full days,’ said Michael soberly. ‘Plus a little of Wednesday. After which we shall leave whether we have Robert’s killer or not. Oh, look – Lombard slices! When did they arrive? I thought the landlord said he did not have any.’

‘Perhaps he ordered them because you declared them your favourites the last time you were here,’ said Langelee. ‘Word has spread that you might be the next Abbot, so he doubtless aims to win your favour. But I had better go and try again to reason with Cynric.’

‘I will come with you,’ said Bartholomew. He stood, but was obliged to rest a hand on the wall to steady himself: the salty leeks had encouraged him to drink too much of Piel’s powerful wine. Michael, who had imbibed twice as much, was perfectly sober, of course.

‘The best thing you can do is help find the Abbot,’ said Langelee. ‘But do not worry about Cynric – he will come home with us, even if I have to tie him in a sack and carry him there.’

It was a measure of Michael’s concern for the book-bearer that he did not even look at the Lombard slices as he left the tavern. Bartholomew took one and ate it as he followed, hoping it would mop up some of the wine sloshing around in his stomach.

Outside, it was a cloudy night with no moon, which made walking difficult, especially along unfamiliar streets and – for Bartholomew – on legs that were embarrassingly wobbly. At one point, he reeled into a wall, scraping his elbow painfully. Then Michael gave a sharp hiss of alarm before grabbing the physician’s arm and hauling him towards the abbey.

‘What are you doing?’ slurred Bartholomew, trying to free himself.

‘Someone is muttering in French,’ replied the monk, hammering urgently on the door to be let in. ‘Just like the robbers who ambushed us on our way here.’

Bartholomew had heard no muttering in French, but even so, he was relieved when they were inside the monastery with the gate closed behind them. He jumped when a figure materialised suddenly out of the gloom. It was Yvo, with Lullington and Henry behind him. He peered at them warily, wondering why they should be so far from their beds at such an hour of the night, particularly as they seemed unlikely companions.

‘Is anything wrong, Brother Michael?’ asked the Prior.

‘Yes – someone was about to attack us,’ declared Michael, fear turning to anger now he was safe. ‘I saw shadows milling about, and I heard them speaking French.’

Yvo regarded him askance. ‘Peterborough is a busy place, Brother, and shadows “mill about” all the time. Moreover, many folk speak French. Indeed, we are using it now.’

‘So we are,’ said Michael pointedly. ‘And there would have been enough time for you to reach the monastery before us – just.’

‘I assure you, no one from the abbey–’ Yvo’s angry denial was interrupted by a rap on the door. The guard opened it, and the Unholy Trinity walked in, four defensores at their heels. All were armed.

‘I have been looking for you three all evening,’ snapped the Prior, promptly turning his back on the two scholars. ‘I did not give you permission to go out.’

Welbyrn shrugged with calculated insolence. ‘We went to visit the town’s merchants, to discuss the problem that Spalling has become. It was Ramseye’s idea – and a good one, too.’

‘I know how I would deal with the man, left to my own devices,’ muttered Nonton darkly.

‘Why did you want us, Father Prior?’ asked Ramseye. He smiled unpleasantly. ‘To help you prepare for your next public appearance, given that the last one was less than impressive?’

‘No, he wanted Welbyrn to unlock the treasury for me.’ Lullington spoke before the Prior could defend himself. ‘My wife kept her jewellery there, and I intend to sell it tomorrow.’

‘But not before I have selected a piece for the abbey, as stipulated in her will,’ interposed Yvo sharply, treating him to a scowl. ‘Henry is going to choose it, given that he has the best eye for such things.’

‘Does he?’ Bartholomew was astonished that his principled friend should possess such a worldly talent.

‘You are thinking of hawking your wife’s possessions already, Sir John?’ asked Ramseye in distaste, sparing Henry the need to reply. ‘She is barely cold.’

‘I need the money,’ said Lullington stiffly. ‘Her jewels should have been mine years ago, rightfully speaking, but her sly father slipped a clause into our marriage contract, which kept them in her hands all these years. Well, that changes now.’

‘He has been making purchases since her death,’ explained Yvo. ‘And we do not want it said that abbey residents decline to pay their bills.’ He addressed Welbyrn. ‘So are you going to open the treasury, or do we stand here all night?’

Still sniping at each other, the monastics and Lullington moved away, although Henry paused long enough to shoot Bartholomew an amiable smile. The physician watched them go, aware of two things: that Yvo had avoided returning to Michael’s accusation, and that the Unholy Trinity had been very heavily armed for a meeting with merchants. Meanwhile, Michael was angrily indignant that his claim of ambushers had been so summarily dismissed. He stalked to the guest house, where he told Clippesby and William what had happened.

‘But no one actually assaulted you?’ asked William. ‘You just saw people lurking and heard them speak French?’

‘I could read their intentions,’ snapped Michael, annoyed that even his own colleagues seemed to be doubting his word. ‘They would have been on us had we not fled. And look at Matt’s arm – we did not escape unscathed from the affair.’

‘Does it hurt?’ asked Clippesby sympathetically.

‘I do not trust any of them,’ Michael stormed on before Bartholomew could say that his stumble against a wall could hardly be blamed on someone else. ‘Welbyrn, Nonton, Ramseye, Lullington, Yvo and Henry. All six are on my list of suspects for dispatching Robert.’

‘Not Henry,’ said Bartholomew doggedly. ‘Besides, his lame leg means he is unlikely to have reached the abbey before us.’

Michael ignored him. ‘Then we must remember that the incident took place near St Thomas’s Chapel, where the bedeswomen live and where Reginald has his shop. Meanwhile, Aurifabro and Spalling cannot have gone far.’

He continued in this vein while Bartholomew, still queasy from the wine and salty leeks, went to lie down. The physician sat on the bed and was about to sink back and close his eyes when there was a knock on the door. He stood hastily when the Unholy Trinity trooped in.

‘Yvo has just told us what happened to you,’ declared Ramseye, all righteous indignation. ‘And while he may not be interested in attacks on the Bishop’s Commissioners, we are appalled.’

‘We are,’ said Welbyrn. It was impossible to tell whether he was sincere. ‘Especially as he mentioned that you thought the culprits might hail from the abbey.’

‘I hope you do not think our defensores are to blame,’ said Nonton, going to the table for wine. ‘Did we not lend you some when you went to Torpe the other day? If they had meant you harm, they would have assaulted you then – on a lonely road, miles from help.’

‘Those defensores could not have assaulted anyone,’ William murmured to his colleagues. ‘Nonton detailed the most feeble ones to protect you, and kept the best ones back for himself. He spent the day putting them through various training exercises.’

‘Of course, tonight’s affair was your own fault,’ said Welbyrn, frowning as he tried to hear what the Franciscan was muttering. ‘You should not have been out after dark.’

‘We were on official business,’ retorted Michael. ‘For the Bishop.’

‘In a tavern?’ smirked Ramseye. ‘I shall have to remember that one!’

‘We shall discuss it in the morning,’ said Clippesby, as Michael drew breath to make a scathing rejoinder. ‘It is late, and we are all tired.’

‘There speaks the saint,’ jeered Welbyrn. ‘We had better do as he suggests, Brothers, because we do not want to be struck down. He might–’

‘Leave him alone,’ warned Bartholomew, seeing Clippesby’s confusion. He was loath for the Dominican to discover that night what had been claimed about him, as he did not feel equal to soothing the dismay that would certainly follow.

‘Or what?’ challenged Welbyrn. ‘You have no authority here. You are nothing but a physician with a sinister interest in corpses.’

‘You might find yourself the object of his attentions if you do not shut up,’ snarled William. ‘And Clippesby is right: we shall discuss this matter tomorrow, when you have regained your wits and accept that it is not politic to insult the Bishop’s–’

‘Who are you calling witless?’ shrieked Welbyrn with such sudden fury that even the other two members of the Unholy Trinity reacted with shock; Ramseye jerked away from him, and Nonton’s hand went to the knife he carried in his belt. ‘How dare you! It–’

‘Come, Welbyrn,’ ordered Ramseye sharply, stepping forward to lay a wary hand on the treasurer’s arm. When Welbyrn resisted, Nonton came to help, and together, almoner and cellarer bundled him out of the guest house and into the darkness beyond.

Bartholomew watched William bar the door behind them, thinking that Welbyrn’s face had been abnormally flushed. Was something wrong with him? But he did not feel like pondering medical matters that night. He lay on the bed, but the moment he was comfortable, he realised that he was still very thirsty. Wearily, he started to rise, but William waved him back down and went to pour him some watered wine.

‘I heard and saw nothing out there, Brother,’ Bartholomew said, watching the friar fiddle with jugs and goblets and wondering what was taking so long. He felt his eyes begin to close: the Benedictine’s beds really were extremely luxurious, and he wished the ones at Michaelhouse were half as soft. ‘Are you sure you–’

‘Of course I did,’ snapped Michael. ‘And so would you, if you had not been drunk. It is fortunate that I remained sober, or we both might be dead.’

‘Right.’ Bartholomew was disinclined to argue, although it occurred to him that since Michael had downed a lot more wine than he had, the monk was probably not a reliable witness either. William finally presented him with a brimming beaker, and he was thirsty enough to drain the lot in a single draught. ‘Is there any more?’

‘Yes, but you cannot have any,’ said William, regarding the empty goblet in alarm. ‘It is unwise to gulp claret – even watered – after a serious injury, especially for a man who is usually abstemious.’

Michael began to hold forth again before Bartholomew could inform William that a graze did not constitute a serious injury. Piqued by the friar’s presumptions, Bartholomew considered going to get a drink himself but was not sure he could manage it without reeling, and he was reluctant to let the others see him totter – he would never hear the end of it. He closed his eyes again.

‘It might have been anyone,’ the monk was fuming. ‘Aurifabro’s mercenaries, Spalling and his rabble, the obedientiaries and their defensores, the bedesfolk, Reginald…’

‘Lullington,’ added William. ‘The abbey servants say he only pretended to be Robert’s friend, in order to accumulate privileges as corrodian. And I saw armour under his gipon tonight.’

‘What did you mean when you said the defensores Nonton lent us were feeble, Father?’ asked Michael, reining in his temper with difficulty. ‘How do you know?’

‘The servants again,’ replied William. ‘Apparently, Nonton has recruited two kinds of soldier: ones who know how to fight, and ones who look fierce but who actually possess no martial skills whatsoever and who are probably cowards. He supplied you with the latter kind.’

Bartholomew began to drowse. Then he supposed he should pay at least some attention to the conversation, so he forced himself to open his eyes. It was not easy, and when he finally managed it the room undulated alarmingly. He wanted to rub his damaged elbow, but his hand was suddenly too heavy to move. What was wrong with him? He tried to speak, but no words came, and when his eyes closed again, a crushing sense of darkness rushed in to meet him.

‘Matt?’ came Clippesby’s anxious voice. ‘Are you ill?’

He sensed his colleagues clustering around him, but it was as if they were speaking from a great distance. He felt himself drift further away, and the last thing he heard before he gave himself to the blackness was Michael’s horrified declaration.

‘The leeks. They were poisoned!’

Bartholomew knew it was Sunday, because he could hear the jubilant jangle of bells, and he also knew he should rouse himself and go to church. Someone else thought so, too, because he could feel his shoulder being shaken with irritating persistence. But he was still tired, and the bed was very comfortable. He closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

‘I am right: the leeks were poisoned,’ said Michael worriedly, when increasingly strenuous efforts on his part did nothing to jostle the physician awake.

‘It was not the leeks, Brother.’ William’s face was sober. ‘It was the Lombard slices. Clippesby and I visited the Swan as soon as we woke up this morning, and we quizzed Landlord Piel. He denied providing you with any – he has not sold cakes since his wife died. Ergo, someone else left them for you.’

‘You said you were too anxious about your investigation to eat any,’ Clippesby reminded Michael. ‘But that Matt took one on his way out.’

Michael was horrified. ‘They are my favourites, and I said so in both the Swan and the abbey. Anyone might have heard me…’

‘Quite,’ nodded William. ‘I searched the place thoroughly while I was there, but the cakes had disappeared. In other words, the culprit has slyly reclaimed the evidence.’

‘Or someone ate them after we left,’ Michael pointed out.

‘It is not that kind of establishment,’ said William. ‘Its wares are expensive, and the folk who patronise it are wealthy – they do not need to scavenge leftovers from other tables.’

Michael scrubbed at his face. ‘Matt ate one Lombard slice and it has sent him into a stupor. What would have happened to me had I sampled the entire plate?’

‘You would be dead,’ replied William baldly. ‘So we had better ensure we do not touch any food that does not come from a communal pot from now on. Pity – I was growing used to being properly fed; it makes a pleasant change from Michaelhouse.’

Michael’s expression was bleak. ‘Are you sure the Lombard slices were to blame? I tried one of those leeks, and it tasted very odd.’

‘Yes, because while William was looking for the cakes, I interviewed the tavern’s pig,’ said Clippesby. ‘She told me that Piel had over-salted his vegetables by mistake – she overheard him laughing about it with his potboys. The leftovers were in her slops, which did not please her, but she ate them anyway with no ill effects.’

‘So there you are, Brother,’ concluded William. ‘The leeks tasted nasty because there was too much salt, and the poison was in the Lombard slices – the pastries that Piel denies providing, and that have now mysteriously vanished.’

‘Do you think that whoever provided the cakes also ordered you ambushed when you did not eat them?’ asked Clippesby.

‘I hope so,’ said Michael softly. ‘Because I should not like to think there are two lots of people eager to kill me.’

Aware that the stakes had now been raised, and that the time was fast approaching when they would have to return to Cambridge, Michael became businesslike. He sent Clippesby to tell Langelee all they had reasoned, with orders to warn the Master to be on his guard, and told William to watch over Bartholomew.

‘What will you be doing?’ asked the Franciscan.

‘Visiting suspects,’ replied Michael harshly. ‘For trying to dispatch me and for murdering Robert, Pyk, Joan and Lady Lullington.’

‘Perhaps we should leave today,’ said William anxiously. ‘Gynewell cannot expect us to stay when we are in fear of our lives, and we can hire a cart to carry Matthew – he would be safer in one than on horseback, anyway.’

‘I am not in the habit of fleeing from villains,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘And Peterborough deserves answers. We will catch this killer and then we shall see him hang.’

Inspired by his own defiant words, Michael stalked out of the abbey, stopping only to inform a waiting Henry that visitors to the guest house would not be welcome that day. His first port of call was Reginald’s workshop, where a rhythmic hammering told him that the cutler was in. He tried to open the door but it was barred, so he knocked, courteously at first, and then with increasing irritation when there was no answer. Eventually, a grille was snapped open.

‘What do you want?’ barked Reginald.

‘To buy a knife,’ lied Michael. ‘You sell them, do you not?’

‘Yes, but not today. I am busy.’

Michael frowned suspiciously. ‘I am a customer. You cannot be too busy for those.’

‘Well, I am,’ declared Reginald. ‘And I do not do business with bishops’ commissioners, anyway. You have no right to poke your nose into Abbot Robert’s affairs.’

‘I am trying to learn what happened to him,’ replied Michael indignantly, aware that their hollered discussion was attracting amused glances from passers-by. ‘I am told he is probably dead, but there is also a possibility that he is in trouble and requires help. And as one of his friends, you should be doing all you can to assist me.’

‘He will not be in trouble,’ Reginald shouted back. ‘He has probably found a hovel somewhere, and is enjoying the peace and quiet. I would not blame him. His monks are a pious crowd, and I would not want to live among them.’

‘He is an abbot – such men like living among pious monks. And what about Pyk? Will he also be in this mud hut while the whole town mourns his loss?’

‘No, but he might have seized the opportunity to escape from his dreadful wife,’ Reginald shot back. ‘But I am not talking to you any more, because you will try to trick me. Now go away. I do not have any knives to sell you.’

Michael became aware of a presence behind him. It was Botilbrig, standing brazenly close to ensure he did not miss anything.

‘You should not buy one of his blades, anyway,’ he said, not at all discomfited by the monk’s annoyed glare. ‘They are all below standard, and he will cheat you.’

‘I heard that,’ yelled Reginald angrily. ‘There is nothing wrong with my cutlery.’

‘Then show me some,’ challenged Michael. ‘And at the same time, you can tell me why you think I might trick you. You should not be concerned if you have nothing to hide.’

‘He will have something to hide,’ whispered Botilbrig. ‘If there is anything untoward happening in Peterborough, you can be sure that Reginald will be at the heart of it. How else could a mere cutler afford a nice shop and such lovely clothes? There are rumours that he has discovered Oxforde’s treasure, you know.’

‘What treasure?’ asked Michael, forbearing to mention that the shop was squalid and the cutler’s clothes were a long way from being sartorial.

‘The things that Oxforde stole during his life of crime,’ explained Botilbrig impatiently. ‘He amassed a fortune, but he never told anyone where he hid it.’

Michael recalled what Clippesby’s grass snake was alleged to have said. ‘Spalling maintains that Oxforde gave it all to the poor.’

Botilbrig spat. ‘Spalling never met Oxforde, or he would not make such a ridiculous claim. Oxforde was ruthless and greedy, and would no more have given his ill-gotten gains away than he would have flown to the moon.’

‘Some people believe it, or Oxforde’s shrine would not be so popular.’

‘Fools,’ sneered Botilbrig. ‘All misled by the witches at St Thomas’s Hospital, who have seized on Spalling’s remarks and used them to encourage even more folk to pray at his tomb.’

‘What are you saying out there, Botilbrig?’ demanded Reginald. ‘You had better not be telling him that stupid tale about me finding Oxforde’s treasure. It is a lie – I was not even born when he was hanged. Now go away, both of you, before I come out with my sharpest knife and hack you both to pieces.’

‘We had better do as he says,’ gulped Botilbrig, pulling on the monk’s arm. ‘He went after Master Pyk with a dagger once, just for asking concerned questions about Reginald’s wife. She vanished, you see.’

‘Vanished?’

‘We all suspect he killed her, but that was five years ago, shortly after Robert became Abbot, so you will not get him to admit it now. Too much time has passed. However, it means I do not want him after me with pointed implements.’

Michael turned his attention back to Reginald. It was frustrating, knowing the man might have information to help his enquiries, and he heartily wished he had a pack of beadles at his command, as he did in Cambridge. Beadles made short work of inconvenient doors.

‘How is your friend?’

Michael had been so engrossed in his thoughts that he had not seen Lullington approach. The knight was wearing a magnificent new cloak, although a light mail tunic could be seen underneath it, which led the monk to wonder what the man had done to warrant such precautions.

‘Still insensible,’ Michael replied shortly. ‘And if he fails to wake, I will not leave Peterborough until I catch the villain who poisoned him.’

‘Do not take that tone with me,’ objected Lullington. ‘I had nothing to do with it.’

‘Then who do you think might have done it?’

A sly expression flitted across Lullington’s face. ‘Where to start? Aurifabro is a vicious rogue. Then there is Ramseye, who is as cunning and duplicitous a fellow as I have ever met. Yvo will be innocent, though.’

As Michael knew that Yvo represented Lullington’s best chance of continued luxury, he was inclined to dismiss the last claim.

‘Trentham is also a villain,’ the knight went on. ‘Do not let that look of innocent youth deceive you, because he is a rascal. How dare he tell me how to treat my wife!’

The abbey’s cook, sacrist and brewer were also vilified, and it quickly became apparent that Lullington’s list of suspects just comprised people who had crossed him. Unwilling to waste more time listening to it, Michael went on the offensive.

‘I find it odd that you happened to be by the gate when we returned last night. What–’

‘Yvo has already explained what we were doing,’ snapped Lullington. ‘Waiting to get my wife’s … my jewellery from the treasury. If Welbyrn had not gone out without his Prior’s permission, we would not have been obliged to hang around waiting for him to come back.’

Michael moved to another subject. ‘I understand you and Robert were friends. Yet I am told he could be … difficult.’

‘He probably should not have taken the cowl,’ acknowledged Lullington. ‘He would have done better at court, for he had the wit and cunning to best any politician.’

‘What did you do when you learned he was missing? You, Pyk and Reginald were his particular friends, but Pyk is also lost and Reginald is not a caring man. That leaves you.’

‘What could I do, Brother?’ asked Lullington, spreading his hands. ‘I am a poor corrodian with very little money. Well, that has changed now my wife is dead–’

‘You could have gone to look for him. Did you?’

Lullington was decidedly furtive. ‘No, I left the search to the defensores. It would have been impolite to launch one of my own, and I am not a man to make a nuisance of myself.’

He strode away, leaving the monk staring after him thoughtfully.

Michael spent the rest of the day asking questions about Robert, Pyk, Lady Lullington and Joan, but learned nothing new. He attended vespers as the brash sun of afternoon faded to the softer tones of evening, where the exquisite harmonies of Appletre’s choir went some way to calming his troubled mind – until Yvo joined in and spoiled it with his discordant bray. When the office was over, Henry was waiting to conduct him to the chapter house, where the obedientiaries had assembled to hear a report on his progress.

The chapter house was a large building, designed to hold upwards of eighty monks. Like the church, it combined Norman strength with Gothic elegance, and the stained-glass windows were among the finest Michael had ever seen. A fire had been lit, despite the mild weather, and cushions prevented black-robed posteriors from becoming chilled on the stone seats. Michael sat on the bench that had been placed ready for him, and studied his interrogators.

Prior Yvo had claimed the Abbot’s throne-like chair, but his meagre frame did not fill it, which served to underline the fact that he was a lesser man than his predecessor. Ramseye, inscrutable as always, sat on his right, scribbling on a piece of parchment, while Welbyrn was scowling at the fire as though he might leap up and kick it. Nonton had turned away, pretending to cough while he took a gulp from the flask hidden in his sleeve, and Appletre hummed under his breath, fingers tapping out the rhythm of a new composition.

Somewhat irregularly – seculars were not normally permitted in the chapter house – Lullington was there, preening like a peacock in a handsome tunic bought with his dead wife’s jewels. He wore a sword in his belt, although he should not have been permitted to do so in an abbey, and it occurred to Michael that the obedientiaries aimed to intimidate the Bishop’s Commissioner by inviting an armed knight to the proceedings. Indignation at such tactics turned him testy and confrontational.

‘Why did you not search for Robert when he first failed to return home?’ he demanded.

‘We did,’ objected Yvo, startled by the anger in Michael’s voice. ‘I ordered the defensores to look for him, and Henry took a group of monks to speak to Aurifabro. I do not see what else could have been done.’

‘That was the following day. I want to know why you did nothing that night. For all you knew, he might have had an accident or been robbed. He might have been lying bleeding, waiting for help.’

‘He knew how to look after himself,’ said Ramseye. ‘Besides, Pyk was with him.’

‘I hardly think a physician counts as a bodyguard. They are trained to heal, not fight.’

‘But Pyk’s presence would have deterred robbers,’ explained Appletre, openly dismayed by Michael’s hostility. ‘He was popular, and soldiers are not always the best form of defence.’

He had a point, although Michael did not acknowledge it. ‘None of you went to inspect the road yourselves, to look for clues regarding his murder. Why not?’

‘Because he is not dead,’ snapped Welbyrn, while his colleagues exchanged weary glances behind his back. ‘Besides, none of us know how to do that sort of thing. We are monastics, not spies.’

‘That is why you are here, is it not?’ asked Ramseye silkily. ‘To poke around in ditches and bushes, and deduce answers from what you discover? Gynewell said you have unique talents. Of course, we have yet to see them.’

‘All you have done so far is ask impertinent questions and allow one of your number to be poisoned,’ said Nonton, taking over the attack. ‘Moreover, Joan was killed the moment after you arrived. It is damned suspicious, if you ask me.’

‘Hear, hear,’ crowed Welbyrn, eyes flashing with spite. ‘Before her, there had not been a suspicious death in Peterborough since Oxforde went on the rampage forty-five years ago.’

‘That is true,’ agreed Yvo. ‘Ours is a safe, law-abiding town.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael acidly. ‘Then what about Reginald the cutler’s wife, who disappeared five years ago?’

‘She ran away from her brutish husband,’ said Yvo. ‘There is no mystery there. Personally, I cannot imagine why our Abbot made friends with Reginald. I find him a most objectionable fellow.’

‘Perhaps Robert was trying to save Reginald’s soul,’ said Ramseye. The expression on his face was bland, although amusement flashed briefly in his eyes at the notion.

Welbyrn turned on Michael again. ‘From your questions, I assume you have discovered nothing since you arrived – not about Robert and Pyk, and not about Joan either. Moreover, I do not believe Clippesby is a saint. He seems more lunatic than holy to me – not that I am qualified to judge insanity, of course. We do not have madmen in Peterborough.’

‘Simon the cowherd is rational, is he?’ asked Michael coolly.

‘Simon is none of your damned business,’ yelled Welbyrn, so loudly and abruptly that everyone jumped. ‘How dare you pass judgement on him!’

‘He was only defending Clippesby,’ objected Appletre, hand to his chest to indicate the fright he had been given. ‘And your response is–’

He got no further, as Welbyrn surged forward and grabbed him by the front of his habit. Appletre’s rosy cheeks blanched in alarm.

‘You are a damned fool!’ raged Welbyrn, shaking the precentor like a dog with a rat. ‘Robert is not dead and Simon will be cured. You wait and see.’

He shoved Appletre away with such force that the smaller man staggered backwards and ended up in Nonton’s lap. Then Welbyrn stormed out, slamming the door behind him so hard that the sound reverberated like a thunderclap.

‘Does he often explode so?’ asked Michael, in the shocked silence that followed.

‘Just over the last few weeks,’ said Yvo, watching Appletre scramble off the cellarer’s knees. ‘It must be the strain of continuing to believe that Robert is alive when it is obvious that he is dead. Appletre can sing to him later – that should soothe his ragged nerves.’

‘I suspect that might be beyond my modest skills, Father Prior,’ said Appletre, his anxious eyes suggesting he was loath to be manhandled again.

‘Well, try,’ snapped Yvo. ‘I do not like it when he is fierce. To be frank, he frightens me.’

‘Very well,’ gulped Appletre. ‘As soon as I have said a prayer for Matthew in the church. Henry is there now, and has been much of the day. He is worried about his old friend.’

Michael narrowed his eyes, pondering the possibility that guilt might have led Henry to spend so many hours on his knees. He bowed a curt farewell to his brethren and returned to the guest house, where he found that Bartholomew was not the only one fast asleep. So was William. The friar stirred when the door opened, and Michael noted with relief that Bartholomew did, too: the effects of whatever he had been fed were wearing off. As he wanted time alone, to think, the monk suggested that William attend compline.

He had not been pondering long when Clippesby arrived. He had a visitor with him, swathed in a cloak with a hood. Uninvited, the person stepped into the room and let the hood fall away, so that her face was visible in the candlelight.

‘Matilde!’ exclaimed Michael.

The love of Bartholomew’s life glided towards the bed, and Michael thought it was a pity the physician was not awake to see her. Then it occurred to him that perhaps it was for the best, given his recent fondness for Julitta Holm.

‘I heard some of the bedeswomen talking,’ whispered Matilde, her lovely face anxious. ‘They said the visiting medicus had been poisoned, so I waited outside the abbey, hoping for news. Then I saw Clippesby, who smuggled me inside.’

‘Let us hope he can smuggle you out again,’ said Michael, glaring at the Dominican. ‘Women are not allowed in here, and breaking that particular rule would see us ousted for certain. Then I would never solve the Abbot’s murder.’

Matilde waved an irritable hand to indicate her disregard for what she deemed foolish regulations. ‘What about Matt? How serious is this poison?’

‘It was delivered in Lombard slices,’ explained Michael. ‘An unpardonable sacrilege, which makes me even more determined to catch the culprit. Fortunately, Matt only ate one, and I imagine we could wake him now if we shook him hard enough.’

‘No,’ said Matilde hastily. ‘Let him rest.’

‘When he told me that he had seen you, I assumed he had imagined it.’ Michael’s expression was reproachful. ‘As used to happen several times a week when you first left.’

Matilde winced. ‘I am travelling north. It is bad luck that put us together now.’

‘He will be glad to have you back,’ said Clippesby warmly. ‘He was never the same after you left.’

‘That is not why I am here,’ said Matilde. ‘Michael understands – I explained it to him when we met in Clare last summer.’

Clippesby gaped at the monk. ‘You knew where she was, but did not tell Matt? I hope you had a good reason, because that is not the act of a friend. Indeed, not even a goat would do it, and they are notoriously unromantic.’

‘He did it because I asked him to,’ explained Matilde, when Michael made no attempt to defend himself. ‘If I had married Matt, he would have lost his University post. I have no money of my own – I lost every penny to thieves shortly after leaving Cambridge – so he would have had to give up his poorer patients, too. He would have been unhappy, and would have grown to hate his life. And perhaps hate me, too, for bringing him to it.’

‘You put me in an impossible situation,’ said Michael softly. ‘I have been obliged to pass remarks about you that must have made him think I was losing my wits.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Matilde. ‘But it was for the best.’

‘I beg to differ,’ argued Michael. ‘He does not care about money, and would be happier with you regardless.’ Then a vision of Julitta flashed into his mind. ‘Probably.’

‘On reflection, I am not so sure,’ said Clippesby, making Michael regard him sharply. ‘He would hate turning paupers away in favour of calculating horoscopes for the wealthy. He spends all his stipend on them, and I have recently learned how expensive medicines can be. He would certainly baulk at not being able to practise in what he sees as an ethical manner.’

‘You see, Brother?’ murmured Matilde. ‘I always said Clippesby was the wisest of Michaelhouse’s Fellows.’

‘But you must talk to him before you go,’ Clippesby continued. ‘Explain your reasons. You may cajole Michael into lying for you again, but you will not persuade me.’

‘Nor me, not this time,’ asserted Michael. ‘It was one of the most unpleasant things I have ever had to do, and that includes once abstaining from meat for the whole of Lent.’

Matilde shook her head. ‘That would be too painful for both of us. But I will dictate a letter, if you will write it for me.’

‘That depends on what you plan to say,’ replied Michael suspiciously.

‘I shall ask him not to come after me, because I will not be found,’ said Matilde. ‘However, I shall also say that I have decided to do something about my impoverished circumstances, and that if I succeed, I shall return to Cambridge to see whether he might be interested in … in a resumption of our friendship.’

‘How will you succeed?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘By taking up burglary?’

‘That would be one way, I suppose,’ said Matilde with the wry smile he remembered so well. ‘But I am hoping to work through more legitimate channels. An old friend has agreed to help me, and I am astute with finances. I shall do my best to acquire the fortune that will keep Matt’s paupers in salves and potions.’

Michael looked sceptical, but Clippesby grinned.

‘If anyone can do it, you can,’ the Dominican said.