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

by Gregory, Susanna

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘What idiosyncrasies?’ demanded Welbyrn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Then who is the culprit?’ pressed William.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Yvo is agreeable?’ asked William doubtfully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘He drank?’ asked Michael.

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

  ‘Have you known Ramseye long?’ asked Bartholomew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Was Henry friends with Robert?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Chilblains are not treated with—’ began Bartholomew.

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

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

  ‘I summoned all the obedientiaries,’ said Yvo, coming to greet his visitors. ‘Along with Sir John Lullington, who is our corrodian and always attends importan
t gatherings.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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