The Lost Abbot: 19 (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘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,’ s
aid 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 stran
gers,’ 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.’