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

by Gregory, Susanna

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘True,’ acknowledged Michael soberly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Why?’ demanded Hagar, regarding him suspiciously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Trentham frowned. ‘Extenuating circumstances?’

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘What about you, Trentham?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

  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.