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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘It is more likely to have been suicide,’ stated Botilbrig. ‘He tossed himself in the well deliberately, because he was alarmed by the fact that he was losing his intellectuals.’

  ‘Oh, I imagine he was pushed,’ said Inges. ‘No one liked him, and this is the kind of thing that happens to unpopular people.’

  ‘Lord!’ exclaimed Michael suddenly, recoiling in distaste. He was examining the dead man’s clothes, which Bartholomew had removed and passed to him, and he had just reached Welbyrn’s scrip.

  What spilled out when he had upended it was a sticky bundle wrapped in cloth, to which adhered an assortment of coins, some illegible documents and the hospital key. Michael wiped his fingers fastidiously on a piece of linen, and indicated that Bartholomew was to separate the mess. The physician obliged only because refusing would have prolonged their stay – and he was oppressed by the shadowy chapel and was eager to leave. He poked at the goo with one of his surgical blades, uninterestedly at first, but with increasing urgency when he realised its significance. He looked up at Michael.

  ‘It is a packet of Lombard slices.’

  Ducking his head in cold water had not only expunged the lingering effects of the soporific, it had imbued Bartholomew with new energy. Matilde was a sharply gnawing pain in his heart, but although it was more acute than usual, it was one that had been with him ever since she had left Cambridge and he was used to it. And as he was disinclined to examine his feelings about her, the best way to avoid this was to turn his mind to other matters.

  ‘Where first?’ he asked briskly, after he and Michael had pushed through the inquisitive throng that still clustered around the hospital door and were walking back to the town.

  ‘To see Pyk’s wife. I have tried several times, but she is always out.’ Michael shot him a sidelong glance. ‘Perhaps Inges is right to claim his well has healing properties: you seem much happier now than you were an hour ago. Or has mauling the corpse of an old adversary put you in a better mood?’

  Bartholomew winced, and hoped no one else would think so. ‘The water was unusually cold – like ice – so a dousing will always be invigorating. However, I am not sure it has healing properties as such and—’

  ‘I am having second thoughts about being Abbot here,’ interrupted Michael, sensing a lecture on medicine in the offing and hastening to avert it. ‘The monastery is wealthy, attractive and influential, but there are too many disagreeable residents. Of course, unless we find answers soon, we might lose a few more to mysterious circumstances. So tell me what you discovered back there: what really happened to Welbyrn?’

  As it transpired, the germ of a solution had started to form at the back of Bartholomew’s mind. He was silent for a moment, struggling to piece it together from what he had observed and learned during his encounters with his old tutor.

  ‘Welbyrn was unwell. He grew angry when it was mentioned and denied it vigorously, but the fact that he availed himself of St Leonard’s curative waters indicates that he knew something was wrong.’

  ‘He did not look healthy. What ailed him? Did your examination reveal it?’

  ‘No. I would need to look inside him for—’

  ‘Then we shall never know, because I am not condoning that sort of activity. At least, not here, where our every move is being carefully monitored.’

  ‘I was not suggesting it as an option; I was pointing out that I cannot give you answers with the kind of examination I am allowed to conduct. However, there were no obvious external symptoms, no disturbance to his appetite and no indication that he was in pain.’

  ‘So what are you saying? That he was not ill?’

  ‘It is possible. However, he certainly thought he was.’

  Michael regarded him balefully. ‘I have no idea what you are trying to tell me.’

  ‘He was ashamed of whatever he believed was wrong with him – he visited the hospital at night, when the place was empty, and he threatened violence to anyone he feared might reveal his secret. Inges said he had taken to asking after Simon the cowherd recently, demanding to know whether there was any improvement in his condition.’

  ‘And?’ Michael was growing exasperated. ‘What of it?’

  ‘I suspect he was terrified that he might be going the same way.’

  ‘So what Inges said in jest was right – Welbyrn was losing his intellectuals?’

  ‘He told Ramseye that he kept forgetting things, but although Ramseye does not seem to have paid it much heed, I think Welbyrn actually disclosed something that was a genuine cause of concern to him.’

  ‘So was he going mad?’

  ‘The fact that he thought he was is probably an indication that he was not – the genuinely deranged do not see anything amiss with their behaviour, which is part of the problem. But Welbyrn, being proud and stubborn, refused to seek help. His fear gnawed at him, making him more aggressive.’

  ‘Yes – we have been told that his belligerence had escalated recently.’

  ‘We will never be able to prove any of this now he is dead. However, if it is true, then I am sorry. No one deserves to think that he is losing his mind.’

  ‘No,’ conceded Michael. ‘However, he was sane enough to leave the Bishop’s Commissioners a plate of toxic Lombard slices, and then retrieve the evidence. He was not completely witless.’

  ‘I am surprised he was the culprit,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘I would not have predicted that he would resort to a sly weapon like poison.’

  ‘Perhaps he had help,’ suggested Michael. ‘From the other members of the Unholy Trinity, for example, who may then have decided to shove him in the well before he gave them away. Men on the verge of insanity do not make for reliable accomplices.’

  ‘We do not know he was murdered. It may have been an accident. Or suicide.’

  ‘He was murdered all right,’ stated Michael grimly. ‘Of that I am certain.’

  Pyk had occupied an attractive house on the marketplace. Its window shutters were freshly painted, its timbers scrubbed, and it had a clean, wholesome look about it. Bartholomew felt instinctively that he would have been at home there, and wished he had known his fellow medicus.

  The door was opened by a maid, who recognised Michael from his previous attempts to interview her mistress. She smiled, said Pernel was in at last, and led them to a solar. Lying on a couch like an indolent Roman emperor was a very fat woman in middle years, whose jaws worked furiously as she finished what appeared to have been a sizeable plate of cakes.

  ‘You are here about my husband Hugh,’ she said, indicating that they should sit. ‘Aurifabro sent soldiers to hunt for him, but they had no more luck than the abbey’s men.’

  ‘What about you?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did you search, too?’

  ‘Me?’ Pernel regarded him askance. ‘How could I succeed where mercenaries and defensores had failed? I am not some bloodhound, trained to sniff out prey.’

  ‘I meant did you hire people to look on your behalf?’ explained Bartholomew.

  ‘No, it would have been a waste of money. Besides, these things happen, and there is no point crying over spilt milk.’

  Bartholomew frowned. ‘You do not seem very concerned.’

  Her eyes were small and hard in her doughy face. ‘Is that a crime? I never wanted to marry a medicus. They are an unpleasant breed, with their urine flasks and astrological charts and boring lectures about diet.’

  ‘But he was your—’ began Bartholomew.

  ‘My eating is none of his business. It is my body, and I shall put what I please inside it.’

  ‘Quite right, too,’ interjected Michael.

  ‘But he thought that a healer’s wife should set a good example, and he ordered me to lose weight. It was entirely unreasonable.’

  ‘Indeed it was,’ agreed Michael sincerely. ‘Completely unfair.’

  ‘You would take his side.’ Pernel rounded angrily on Bartholomew, even though he had not spoken. ‘You are one of them – a physician!’ She spat
the last word, as if she wanted it out of her mouth. ‘Of course, he did not interfere with cadavers, which is a point in his favour.’

  ‘I do not—’ began Bartholomew, not liking the connotations of ‘interfere’.

  ‘But my dietary regimen is my affair, and none of his,’ Pernel concluded firmly. She glared at Bartholomew. ‘And none of yours, either.’

  Bartholomew was beginning to feel considerable sympathy for Pyk.

  ‘I quite understand,’ said Michael. ‘I suffer similar intrusions myself. But that is not why we are here. We wanted to ask about your husband’s—’

  ‘The poor will miss him,’ said Pernel rather spitefully. ‘He saw a number of them free of charge, although I did my best to put an end to such nonsense.’

  ‘What do you think happened to him and Robert?’ Michael was forced to speak quickly, to get the question out before he was interrupted again.

  ‘Thieves killed them, of course. He and the Abbot would have made an attractive target, because it threatened rain that day and they were both wearing nice cloaks. Hugh’s was scarlet, shot through with gold thread, while Robert’s was trimmed with ermine.’

  ‘An attractive target indeed,’ murmured Michael.

  ‘Many townsfolk believe these so-called outlaws are actually Aurifabro’s mercenaries, but I do not. He would not have sent them to look for Hugh if that had been the case.’

  ‘He might,’ countered Michael. ‘To forestall accusations.’

  Pernel shook her head, making her chins swing from side to side. ‘Hugh was one of the few people Aurifabro liked. I think my husband’s disappearance can be laid at Spalling’s door. Spalling encourages the poor to think they have a right to the property of the rich, so is it any surprise that they then go out and put this philosophy into action?’

  ‘Do you have proof that Spalling’s followers are responsible?’ asked Bartholomew.

  Pernel shot him a haughty glance. ‘I do not need proof. It is what I think.’

  ‘What I do not understand is why Pyk agreed to accompany Robert in the first place,’ said Michael. ‘I know they were friends, but it seems an unlikely association – a popular physician and a universally despised Abbot.’

  ‘Oh, that is easily explained. I encouraged the relationship, on the grounds that a high-ranking churchman was better company than his vile paupers – we have our social standing to consider, you know. Hugh liked everyone, so he had no trouble tolerating Robert.’

  ‘They arranged to ride to Torpe together on the day they disappeared?’

  Pernel nodded. ‘Hugh had patients to see there, and Robert thought Hugh’s popularity with low-born villains would prevent him from being robbed. So much for that notion!’

  ‘I do not suppose you have received a ransom note, have you?’ asked Michael, more in desperation than hope – the interview had told them nothing new.

  Pernel shook her head. ‘And I would not pay if I had. I do not believe in negotiating with extortionists. It only encourages them to try again.’

  ‘Surely you would have made an exception for your husband?’ Bartholomew did not try to mask his distaste for her icy pragmatism.

  ‘I would not,’ she said firmly. ‘But I am famished! Would you care to join me in a—’

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew curtly, eager to be away from her objectionable company. ‘We have taken enough of your time.’

  ‘Poor Pyk,’ he said, as they walked towards Reginald’s shop. Michael had decided that it was time to force the cutler to tell them what he knew, and had already devised a list of threats that would compel him to open his door. ‘Perhaps he disappeared in order to escape from her.’

  ‘Taking Robert with him?’ asked Michael. ‘I doubt that.’

  ‘Did you believe her when she said she had forced Pyk to make friends with Robert? I cannot imagine following that sort of order – not for anyone.’

  ‘Fortunately for you, neither Matilde nor Julitta are the kind of women to demand that sort of obedience. But perhaps we have not been told the whole truth about Pyk – maybe he was not the saintly healer we have been led to believe.’

  Bartholomew disagreed. ‘People have had no compunction about denigrating the Abbot, and if Pyk had had faults, they would have been listed, too. However, despite what Pernel claimed, I still think that Robert and Pyk were unlikely friends.’

  ‘People probably say the same about us: the man who will be the next prelate of Peterborough, and his sinister, anatomy-loving companion.’

  Bartholomew regarded him sharply. ‘You said not an hour ago that you had decided not to try for the abbacy, on the grounds that there are too many disagreeable residents.’

  ‘There are, but I shall have the authority to oust most of them once I am invested. Yvo, Nonton, Ramseye and Henry can be exiled to distant outposts, while the threat of excommunication will keep Spalling in check.’

  ‘Do you think you will win an election?’

  ‘I would not demean myself by becoming involved in one of those! I shall tell Gynewell to appoint me, and he will oblige because he will be grateful to have me in his See. And who can blame him? I will be an excellent Abbot.’

  But Bartholomew’s attention had wandered. ‘Something is happening near the fishmonger’s shop. A crowd has gathered outside it.’

  They hurried forward, and Michael released a cry of dismay when he saw the cutler on the ground in the throes of an apoplectic attack. Bartholomew thrust his way through the onlookers and dropped to his knees next to the stricken man. Abruptly, Reginald went limp. Bartholomew put his ear to the cutler’s chest, then began compressing it.

  ‘What is he doing?’ whispered Hagar, watching in fascinated horror.

  ‘Perhaps it is anatomy,’ suggested long-toothed Marion.

  Bartholomew would have reassured them that it was not, but he was concentrating on the task in hand and had no breath for explanations.

  ‘It is Corpse Examining,’ declared Botilbrig with great authority. ‘I just saw him doing similar things to Welbyrn.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said someone, trying to push Bartholomew out of the way. The physician glanced up to see Spalling, clad in the simple attire of a fisherman, although the apron was conspicuously devoid of blood and scales. ‘Would you mind moving aside?’

  ‘I am busy,’ snapped Bartholomew, still trying to restart Reginald’s heart.

  ‘So I see,’ said Spalling. ‘But I need some fish. I am holding another meeting tonight, and people expect to be fed.’

  He shoved hard enough to knock Bartholomew off balance and disappeared into the shop. Bartholomew gaped, astonished that anyone should consider shopping more important than a man’s life, but then his attention was taken by a faint thud beneath his fingers: Reginald’s heart was beating again. The cutler opened his eyes, but his lips were blue, and Bartholomew could see he had only delayed the inevitable.

  ‘He needs last rites, Brother,’ he said urgently. ‘Hurry!’

  Although monks were not priests, Michael had been granted dispensation to hear confessions during the plague and had continued the practice since. He crouched down obligingly, fumbling for the chrism he carried for such occasions, while Bartholomew stepped back to give them privacy. Everyone else craned forward, then shuffled back sheepishly when Michael favoured them with a black glare. Reginald grasped the monk’s hand and started to whisper, but it was not long before he went limp again.

  ‘You could not save him then?’ asked Spalling conversationally, emerging from the shop with a parcel under his arm. Silvery heads poked from one end, tails from another.

  ‘No,’ replied Bartholomew shortly.

  ‘What happened?’ Spalling regarded the body dispassionately. ‘Apoplexy?’

  ‘Possibly,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Why?’

  ‘He had two attacks last year, and Master Pyk warned him that he would have another unless he stopped drinking a pint of melted butter with his custard every night. It is a pity Pyk is not here to see Reginald
dead. He liked being right.’

  ‘Did he?’ pounced Michael. ‘Was he arrogant, then?’

  ‘No, he just took pride in his art. We shall have to ask the new Abbot to arrange for a replacement, because Peterborough should not be without a medicus. Of course, we will be lucky to get another man like Pyk. Not many physicians tend the poor free of charge.’

  ‘Did you tell Spalling the truth, Matt?’ asked Michael in a low voice, when the rebel had moved away to nod friendly greetings to the more disreputable members of the crowd. ‘Did Reginald really die of apoplexy?’

  ‘It seems the most likely explanation. Why?’

  ‘Because he just told me he was poisoned.’

  CHAPTER 9

  Had Reginald been poisoned? As Bartholomew had come close to suffering a similar fate himself, he gave his undivided attention to finding out what had happened to the cutler. Still in the doorway to the fishmonger’s shop, he inspected the dead man’s hands and lips. He saw nothing amiss, so he opened the mouth and tipped back the head to look down the throat. Only when there was a collective exclamation of disgust did it occur to him that he should have insisted on working somewhere less public.

  ‘Perhaps being examined so pitilessly serves him right,’ said Botilbrig. ‘He was a very evil villain, and I have not forgotten how his wife disappeared so suddenly.’

  ‘Yes, within days of Abbot Robert’s arrival,’ recalled Spalling, still with the fish under his arm. ‘Maybe he seduced her and encouraged her to leave, just as he seduced Joan. I would not put such unsavoury antics past a Benedictine, especially that one.’

  ‘Well, Matt?’ Michael moved closer to the physician, so they could speak without being overheard. Fortunately, the spectators were more interested in discussing whether Mistress Cutler had been Robert’s kind of woman.

  ‘There is no evidence of poison that I can see, although that proves nothing, given that most are undetectable. However, if Reginald really did drink melted butter every night and had suffered similar attacks in the past…’