‘I would certainly keep Appletre as precentor. He is an excellent musician.’
‘He is the only obedientiary the monks seem to like.’
Michael nodded. ‘Robert made some bad choices, with Welbyrn and Ramseye being the worst. Incidentally, I had a letter from Gynewell today. Most of it was a rant about these counterfeit coins that hail from his Mint. Do you remember me telling you that they are the reason why he could not come to look into what happened to Robert himself?’
‘You said forged pennies are a serious matter, more serious than missing churchmen.’
‘The King is furious – no monarch wants his realm flooded with debased coins. I would not like the King angry with me over money, and poor Gynewell is frantic with worry.’
‘Why did he write, other than to rail about his fiscal crisis?’
‘To say that if we find out that Robert has been murdered, he wants a culprit. Moreover, the aide who brought the letter heard about Joan’s death, and ordered me to investigate that, too. I shall do my best, but we are leaving on Wednesday regardless. I cannot put my University at risk just to solve Peterborough’s troubles.’
Bartholomew and Michael were almost at the guest house when they became aware of a rumpus near St Thomas’s Hospital. Someone was attempting to force his way inside, and Prioress Hagar was trying to stop him. The troublemaker was Reginald.
‘I demand access to Oxforde’s tomb!’ the scruffy cutler was bellowing. ‘I want to pray.’
‘Well, you cannot,’ said Hagar, giving him a vigorous shove. ‘So go away.’
‘You cannot exclude me,’ yelled Reginald. ‘I have every right to be here.’
‘No, you do not,’ snapped Hagar. ‘The chapel needs to be made holy again after Joan’s murder, and we are not letting anyone in at the moment.’
‘What is happening?’ It was Appletre, his rosy face anxious. Henry was at his heels with a number of singers. Apparently, the fuss had interrupted choir practice.
‘This woman is keeping me from my devotions,’ snarled Reginald. ‘Tell her to desist, so that decent folk can go about their prayers.’
‘Decent?’ spat Hagar. ‘You are not decent! You are the most hated man in Peterborough, and you are a pagan into the bargain!’
‘And you are the most hated woman,’ Reginald flashed back. ‘Even Spalling will not give you the time of day, and he talks to any low villain.’
‘Stop!’ cried Appletre, as Hagar drew breath to respond. ‘Remember where you are.’
‘The Brother Precentor is right,’ said Henry quietly. ‘And you cannot pray here tonight, Reginald, because the chapel needs to be reconsecrated. Come back tomorrow afternoon when it is holy again, and I shall accompany you.’ He turned to Hagar. ‘You will not object to his presence if I stand surety to his good behaviour, Sister?’
‘Prioress,’ corrected Hagar. She thought for a moment. ‘I suppose that would be acceptable, although it will cost him. I want threepence, or he cannot come in.’
Reginald looked set to argue, but Henry raised his hand warningly and the cutler nodded reluctant agreement. Then Henry regaled Hagar with calming platitudes, while Appletre led Reginald towards the Abbey Gate. The skill with which they separated the combatants suggested it was not the first time they had intervened in spats.
‘We need to speak to Reginald,’ said Michael, setting off after the cutler and dragging Bartholomew with him. ‘I want to know what he and Robert discussed the day Robert vanished. Henry seemed to think it might be significant, so we had better see where it takes us. We shall tackle him in his home – where I will distract him while you have a discreet prowl.’
It sounded distinctly unappealing, but the monk’s grip was powerful and Bartholomew did not have the energy to fight free. They watched Appletre usher the cutler through the gate and then return to his waiting choristers. Once outside, Reginald scuttled towards his shop, and by the time the two scholars reached it, a rhythmic tapping could be heard from within.
‘What?’ Reginald shouted in reply to Michael’s knock.
‘We want to talk to you,’ called Michael. ‘About Abbot Robert.’
‘Well, I do not want to talk to you,’ Reginald hollered back, and there was another thud as a hammer came into contact with something. ‘Now go away. I am busy.’
‘You can spare a few moments for the Bishop’s Commissioners. Or do you have something to hide?’
‘Of course not, but it is late and I have work to do. Come back another time.’
There came the sound of a heavy bar being placed across the door, which gave the discussion a distinct note of finality. Irritated, Michael rapped again, but all he did was skin his knuckles and eventually Bartholomew pulled him away.
‘He is unlikely to be helpful if you force your way in. It is better to wait until he is in a more cooperative frame of mind.’
Michael nodded reluctantly, and they walked back to the abbey. As they approached the gate, Trentham stumbled out, sobbing almost uncontrollably.
‘Easy,’ said Bartholomew, catching him as he reeled. ‘Whatever is the matter?’
‘Lady Lullington is dead,’ wept the young priest. ‘I know it is a blessed release after all her suffering, but she was my friend. Abbot Robert rebuked me for growing too fond of my charges, but I cannot help it. I liked her.’
Bartholomew knew how he felt, as he had a tendency to form attachments to patients himself. ‘When did she die?’ he asked gently.
‘I left her when I went to soothe Prioress Hagar after the set-to with Reginald, and she was dead by the time I returned.’ Suddenly the young priest pulled away from him, and his face turned dark with bitter anger. ‘You could have cured her, but you let her die. You physicians are all the same – useless!’
Trentham’s hot words had struck Bartholomew where he had always been vulnerable, and it took him an age to fall asleep that night. He awoke the following morning feeling tired and out of sorts, and was unimpressed when he found himself between Ramseye and Welbyrn again for breakfast. The occasion was no more pleasant than it had been the previous day, although the victuals were still impressively plentiful.
‘There is an inn nearby,’ he said, when he and his colleagues were back in the guest house. ‘I think I shall stay there until you have finished your enquiries.’
‘Do not worry – we will not dine in the refectory again,’ said Michael. ‘We shall be too busy from now on. This is our third day here – our fourth if we count the one we arrived – and we have little to show for our efforts, mostly because you have been too busy to help me. Well, that changes today.’
‘Clippesby and I have worked very hard on your behalf,’ objected William indignantly. ‘We are not more interested in medicine than in learning who murdered Robert and Joan.’
‘No,’ conceded Michael. ‘And I appreciate your efforts. You have saved me hours of work by speaking to the servants.’
‘And the animals,’ added Clippesby. ‘I only wish they had more to report. But we shall soldier on again today, as I have not interviewed the sheep yet.’
‘Right,’ said Michael. ‘Matt and I will visit St Thomas’s Chapel again, to see whether we can glean any new evidence pertaining to Joan’s murder.’
‘And then we had better go to Torpe,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Aurifabro claims that Robert never arrived, but we should make an effort to see whether he is telling the truth by speaking to his household. We will have to find a way past the mercenaries, of course.’
‘Not today,’ said Michael. ‘Cynric has offered to go with us tomorrow, and he is a better spy than you or me. His sharp eyes will be useful.’
‘Why can he not go this afternoon?’
‘Because there is an important meeting he wants to attend with Spalling.’ Michael frowned worriedly. ‘He has always entertained seditious opinions, but until now it has been nothing but talk. Yet here is Spalling, prepared to act on these beliefs, and Cynric sees a kindred spirit. I hope Spalling does not lea
d him into trouble.’
Bartholomew hoped so, too. ‘Langelee will keep his feet on the ground.’
‘Langelee has his hands full with Spalling, especially now I have asked him to assess whether the man might be involved in Robert and Pyk’s disappearance.’
‘It is a good idea to concentrate on the Abbot.’ William nodded approvingly. ‘He is more urgent than Joan, given that we cannot leave until we discover what happened to him.’
‘Unfortunately, I think his fate and hers are connected.’ Michael hastened to explain when William opened his mouth to disagree. ‘Yesterday, several monks told me that they were lovers – so her death may well have a bearing on his.’
‘Joan and Robert?’ asked Bartholomew dubiously, trying to imagine what could have drawn the formidable bedeswoman to the unlovable Abbot, and vice versa.
Michael shrugged. ‘It seems they were close for years, which is why we must go to St Thomas’s Chapel today, where you will examine her body.’
‘But we have no jurisdiction here,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘I will be arrested. Or worse.’
‘Nonsense. We are the Bishop’s Commissioners, with authority to do whatever we deem necessary. Do not worry. Gynewell will support you if anyone makes trouble.’
Bartholomew was about to point out that Gynewell was in Lincoln and thus too far away to help if matters turned ugly, but a messenger arrived with a letter before he could speak. Michael’s jaw dropped in horror as he read it.
‘It is from my Junior Proctor. He says I shall not be needed when Winwick Hall’s charter is drawn up, because he plans to do it himself. Is he insane to think that he can oversee such a complex matter? Lord! I must be home by Saturday, or the results will be disastrous.’
‘Perhaps we should leave now,’ said William worriedly.
‘I wish we could,’ gulped Michael. ‘But the Bishop’s orders are quite clear: he wants the riddle of Robert’s disappearance solved, and we are to stay here until we have answers.’
‘Then we had better get on with it,’ said William grimly.
The scholars parted outside the guest house. William headed for the kitchens to interview more servants, Clippesby went off towards the water meadows, and Bartholomew followed Michael across the precinct to the Abbey Gate. The area had once been grassed, but hundreds of wheels, feet, claws, hoofs and paws had trampled it bald. They met Henry on the way.
‘How are your enquiries coming along?’ the monk asked amiably.
‘Why?’ demanded Michael, making Bartholomew wince at his curt tone.
Henry seemed taken aback by the question. ‘Because I should like to know what has befallen poor Abbot Robert. And Physician Pyk, of course.’
‘Pyk,’ said Michael. ‘I am glad you mentioned him. What did you think of the fellow?’
‘That he was a saint,’ replied Henry sincerely. ‘He was kind, patient, gentle and understanding. You would have liked him, Matt.’
‘What did he look like?’ asked Michael.
Henry smiled fondly. ‘He had a great domed head that was too big for his body, and it was bereft of hair except for a curious fringe at the back. He always wore a scarlet cloak, so that people would recognise him. Why?’
‘For no reason other than that we might have walked past him and Robert a dozen times and not known it,’ replied Michael.
‘You would know if you had walked past Robert,’ said Henry wryly. ‘He was enormous. And unlike you, I do not think he could claim heavy bones.’
Michael scowled as Henry walked away. ‘Did he just insult me?’
Bartholomew was disinclined to say, and they resumed their journey to the chapel. When they arrived, Michael opened the door and stepped inside, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. Nothing happened to him, but two bedeswomen materialised out of nowhere and laid hold of Bartholomew. He could have broken their grip with ease, but he was not in the habit of doing battle with elderly ladies, so he stood still, waiting for an explanation.
‘This place is more secure than I thought,’ murmured Michael, amused. ‘My habit protected me from a mauling, but you did not get far.’
‘No one slips past us.’ The speaker was Marion, who had raised the alarm when Joan had been killed. She was tall, spindly and possessed unusually long teeth. ‘Although we leave the monks alone, because they dislike being manhandled. However, everyone else can expect to be stopped and questioned most vigorously.’
‘Most people who enter are blinded for a moment,’ added the other, a small, dumpy woman. ‘Which gives us time to act. Marion and I take our duties seriously, and we never let anyone in who should not be here.’
Marion peered at Bartholomew before giving a strangled cry and releasing him abruptly, hastening to smooth down his rumpled clothes. ‘It is the physician, Elene! Let him go, or he may refuse to tend your veins.’
And then there were two sets of hands brushing Bartholomew down. He tried to escape, objecting to the liberty, but they were insistent.
‘When will you see us?’ asked Elene, tutting at a frayed hem on his tunic. ‘You have physicked the old rascals at St Leonard’s and the monks, so it must be our turn now.’
‘What is wrong with your veins, Sister Marion?’ asked Bartholomew, still trying to evade their fussing fingers.
‘Elene is the veins,’ said Marion. ‘I am the impostumes.’
‘Her impostumes are famous,’ added Elene with pride. ‘Master Pyk said he had never seen anything like them, and he often bemoaned the fact that he had no medical colleague here, to share the excitement.’
‘No, Matt,’ warned Michael, seeing his friend’s curiosity piqued. ‘There is no time.’
But Bartholomew was not a man to deprive people of his services. ‘I will see you after we have …’ He faltered, aware that ‘examined Joan’s corpse’ was not the best thing to say.
‘Paid our respects to your dear departed sister,’ supplied Michael. ‘Alone, if possible. We have prayers to recite for her soul.’
‘That is kind, Brother,’ said Marion. ‘But you had better wait until the chapel is reconsecrated. Her murder has soiled it, you see, so it must be cleansed. Hagar has asked Prior Yvo to conduct the ceremony, but I do not trust him. I would rather have the Bishop.’
‘Why?’ asked Michael.
‘Because Gynewell is a lovely man,’ replied Marion fondly. ‘The best prelate in the country.’
‘I meant why do you distrust Yvo?’
‘Because he is only thinking about himself,’ explained Marion. ‘Our chapel is a source of revenue for the abbey, but we have refused to let pilgrims in until it is holy again. It means folk cannot leave donations, and Yvo dislikes losing money.’
‘So does Welbyrn,’ added Elene. ‘Even more than the Prior.’
‘Anyway, suffice to say that we think Yvo is rushing the reconsecration out of selfishness,’ confided Marion. ‘So that the shrines can start earning for him again.’
‘But as soon as we are cleansed, we shall take you to Joan,’ promised Elene. ‘It will not be long, because Yvo promised to do it straight after sext.’
‘Come to the ceremony, Brother,’ begged Marion. ‘Yvo would not dare do a half-baked job with the Bishop’s Commissioner watching.’
‘Very well – if you answer a question,’ said Michael. ‘Were Joan and the Abbot close?’
‘Yes, they were a lovely couple,’ smiled Marion fondly. ‘And were happy together for years. She always said that she was glad she accepted him as a lover, rather than Botilbrig.’
‘Of course, it meant trouble,’ confided Elene. ‘Botilbrig was insanely jealous, and we have been at war with the bedesmen ever since.’
There was no more to be said, so Bartholomew and Michael left the chapel, declining both the offer of wine while they waited for Yvo and a sneak preview of the impostumes.
‘Perhaps Botilbrig is the killer after all,’ mused Michael. ‘Unrequited love is a good motive for murder, and both Robert and Joan are now dead.’
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‘It sounded to me as though Joan had made her selection a long time ago,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I cannot see a crime of passion simmering for quite so many years.’
‘I beg to differ. Affairs of the heart can remain painful for a very long time, as you will know from your experiences with Matilde. Even now, three years on, you see her in places where she cannot possibly be – Clippesby told me what happened in the marketplace on Thursday evening.’
‘How do you know it was not her?’ As it happened, Bartholomew thought Michael was right, but there was something in the monk’s remark that was oddly suspicious.
‘Because I do,’ replied Michael firmly. ‘Matilde would not be in Peterborough.’
As soon as they left the chapel, Michael aimed for a nearby tavern named the Swan. The place had changed since Bartholomew had last been in it. Then, it had been insalubrious, with a reputation for catering to drunks and criminals. Now it was smart, with gleaming white walls and pristine woodwork.
‘I hope you are not intending to eat again, Brother,’ he said, noting the energetic way the monk was signalling to the landlord. ‘Not after that gargantuan breakfast.’
‘Of course not,’ replied Michael blandly. ‘I just thought it would be a good place to sit and discuss our investigation until it is time to monitor Yvo’s reconsecrating skills.’
The tavern was alive with the buzz of genteel conversation. There were ladies present, which underlined the fact that it had grown respectable – decent women did not venture into rough inns. A group of master masons sat at one table, identifiable by their thick leather aprons and dusty leggings, and Aurifabro was at another, talking animatedly to several men who were almost as richly clad as he.
‘Peterborough is a nice town,’ said Michael, looking around approvingly. ‘It is a pity our ancestors did not found a university here. I could come to like it very much.’
‘Are you seriously considering putting yourself forward as Abbot?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And if so, is there anything I can do to help?’
‘Do you want to be rid of me then? So you can be Senior Proctor and run the University in my stead?’
The Lost Abbot: 19 (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 12
