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

by Gregory, Susanna

  Michael was silent for a moment. ‘He refused the sacrament of confession, saying that he preferred pagan deities, so I suppose I can tell you what he confided. He admitted to creating a diversion when Lady Lullington was killed – he was paid for it, apparently. Unfortunately, he died before I could ask by whom. His last words were that the purse would tell us all we need to know.’

  ‘What did he mean by that?’

  ‘I have no idea, but we should look in his shop for it. A clue that tells us “all we need to know” would be very useful.’

  Bartholomew agreed, so they left the body in the fishmonger’s reluctant care, and walked to Reginald’s domain beneath the Chapel of St Thomas – a workshop at the front and living quarters behind. Bartholomew looked around in distaste, wondering if the cutler had grown so slovenly after he had no wife to care for him. The workshop was a chaotic mess, broken tools vying for space with scraps of discarded metal and sticky pools of grease, but the living room was worse. The table was thick with dirt, the blankets filthy and the plates stained with the remnants of past meals. Bartholomew retreated to the shop, leaving Michael to tackle the rest.

  ‘This is odd,’ he called, when they had been searching for a while. He went to the adjoining door, weighing something in his hand. ‘It looks like a—’

  ‘Matt, please,’ Michael was trying to summon the courage to peer beneath Reginald’s flea-infested mattress. ‘Just look for the purse.’ Bartholomew stared down at what he had found, and was not surprised the monk was uninterested – it was just a metal cylinder in two parts, one fitting inside the other. But it looked like a coining die – a press for making money – although he supposed that was unlikely. Such items were very carefully guarded, and all old ones were destroyed to prevent counterfeiting. He put it back where he had found it, then opened a dirty wooden box that contained pewter spoons. A few had been daubed with gold leaf in a sly attempt to make them appear as though they were made from solid gold.

  ‘Look,’ Batholomew went to the door a second time, to show them to Michael.

  The monk grimaced. ‘I imagine Reginald was up to no good in here, given that he declined to open the door, but those spoons can have no bearing on Robert’s fate – or on who hired him to make a fuss so that Lady Lullington could be murdered. So find the purse, because I shall be sick if I am obliged to stay in here much longer.’

  Bartholomew did as he was told, listening with half an ear to the discussion taking place outside the door, as people gathered there to cluck and gossip about the dead man. Predictably, Spalling was denouncing him for having money that should have been shared with the poor; Botilbrig recited a list of the crimes he was known to have committed; and Lullington had arrived to assert that Reginald had dabbled in witchery.

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Hagar. She sounded uneasy: his shop was under her chapel.

  ‘My wife told me,’ replied Lullington. ‘She knew about that kind of thing.’

  ‘She never did!’ snapped Hagar angrily. ‘She was a saintly soul. Will she be going in our cemetery, by the way? Trentham is digging a pit for Joan, so I am sure he would not mind excavating one for her as well. We can put her on Oxforde’s other side.’

  ‘She can go in the parish churchyard,’ came the callous reply. ‘I am not paying for anything special.’

  ‘It would not cost much,’ insisted Hagar. ‘Indeed, Trentham would probably waive his fee, because he liked her. Shall we ask him now? He is digging at this very moment, and I am sure he will be grateful for a respite while we negotiate.’

  ‘No.’ Lullington’s next words came from a distance. ‘I do not want my wife anywhere near where I plan to be buried myself.’

  ‘He is a heartless pig,’ declared Hagar to whoever was listening. ‘And if anyone is worthy of a special grave, it is Lady Lullington. She deserves one even more than Joan.’

  ‘Joan does not deserve it,’ countered Botilbrig. His voice became wistful. ‘Although she was a lovely lass when she was young. It is a pity she turned out the way she did.’

  ‘She always said the same about you,’ said Hagar.

  Back in Reginald’s home, Bartholomew and Michael were having no luck. The monk had moved to the cooking pots, screwing up his face in revulsion as he peered inside each one. Bartholomew had finished rummaging through the cutler’s tools, and had just dropped to his knees to look under a bench when the door opened to reveal Henry.

  ‘I am afraid you must leave,’ the monk said. ‘At once.’

  ‘Why?’ demanded Michael, bemused.

  ‘Because now Reginald is dead, these premises belong to the abbey.’

  ‘I imagine they belong to his family,’ countered Michael. ‘The abbey is—’

  ‘There is a will,’ interrupted Henry. ‘The obedientiaries are studying it as I speak, and it says the abbey inherits everything.’

  ‘They wasted no time,’ said Bartholomew, disgusted.

  Henry grimaced. ‘Reginald could not read, and while Robert should have been trusted to write what his friend dictated … well, suffice to say that the will is likely to be contested by Reginald’s sons. Thus the property must be sealed, and you must leave. I am sorry – I am only carrying out orders.’

  ‘Whose orders?’ demanded Michael. ‘Yvo’s?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. Now please do as I ask. I do not want trouble.’

  ‘But we are looking for information that may throw light on your Abbot’s disappearance,’ objected Michael. ‘Do you not want him found?’

  ‘Yes, of course. However, I doubt Reginald had anything to do with Robert’s murder.’

  ‘His murder?’ pounced Michael.

  ‘A slip of the tongue,’ said Henry, crossing himself. ‘Pray God it is not true. But you will find no clues to Robert’s whereabouts here, I am quite sure of that.’

  ‘Are you indeed?’ muttered Michael, shoving past him to the street.

  Yvo was bemused when Michael stormed into the Abbot’s House, and he claimed to know nothing about an order to seal it up. The other obedientiaries said likewise, so Henry was summoned. The monk raised his hands in a shrug, and said the instruction had been given to him by a lay brother named Raundes.

  ‘Raundes?’ Yvo turned to Nonton. ‘He is a defensor, is he not?’

  The cellarer nodded. ‘But he has gone to Lincoln. Welbyrn was supposed to travel there tomorrow, so I thought I had better notify Gynewell that he would not be coming.’

  ‘Raundes spoke to me before he left,’ explained Henry.

  ‘Convenient,’ murmured Yvo. He spoke a little more loudly. ‘However, whoever issued these instructions was right: we cannot let anyone paw through Reginald’s belongings until the issue of ownership has been decided.’

  ‘I was not pawing, I was looking for clues that might explain what had happened to your Abbot,’ said Michael coldly. ‘And I insist that I be allowed to continue.’

  ‘What manner of clues?’ asked Yvo. He sighed in sudden irritation. ‘For God’s sake, Appletre! Must you blubber every time someone dies? It is not as if Reginald was a good man.’

  ‘He was a fine bass,’ sobbed Appletre. ‘And he made lovely forks.’

  ‘You have something nice to say about everyone,’ accused Ramseye. ‘And it is an aggravating habit. Take him to the kitchens for wine, Henry. He is as white as a sheet.’

  Bartholomew seized the opportunity to leave with them, preferring their company to that of the remaining obedientiaries and Michael in a temper. Once outside, Henry began to apologise again for ousting him from Reginald’s lair, pointing out that it was not for a mere monk to question orders that were alleged to have come from obedientiaries. Bartholomew was more concerned with Appletre, who was indeed pale.

  ‘It is the thought of Welbyrn and Reginald in Purgatory,’ explained the precentor tearfully. ‘Welbyrn will rise to Heaven eventually, I suppose, but Reginald will not – not only was he a heathen, but he committed many terrible sins.’

  ‘Then we shall he
lp by praying for their souls,’ said Henry kindly. ‘You are as bad as young Trentham with your soft heart! Did you see him as he dug Joan’s grave? He was sobbing fit to break his heart. You are both too sensitive for your own good.’

  The pair went to the kitchen before beginning their vigil. Bartholomew accompanied them, but although he was hungry, he declined the cook’s offer of some apple pie. Appletre sipped a cup of wine, and the colour gradually seeped back into his cheeks, while the cook, a portly, smiling man named Walter, chatted amiably.

  ‘Raundes galloped away in a great rush. I suppose he is keen to put himself out of range of Aurifabro’s robbers before nightfall. Or are they Spalling’s, do you think?’

  ‘Aurifabro’s, probably,’ replied Appletre. ‘Those mercenaries are very rough men.’

  ‘Yet Spalling has been inciting violence of late,’ said Henry thoughtfully. ‘He always did hold controversial opinions, but he has been much more vocal recently. Much more active, too, with his rallies and meetings.’

  ‘He only developed those ideas to annoy his rich father,’ said Walter. ‘If they had been genuine, he would not have accepted a princely inheritance when the old man died. Aurifabro told me that Spalling is spending none of his own money on this revolution.’

  ‘You have been talking to Aurifabro?’ asked Henry, startled. ‘The abbey’s enemy?’

  ‘Just in passing,’ replied Walter, a little cagily. He hastened on with his gossip before Henry could question him further. ‘He says that Spalling’s riches are safely invested with the town’s jewellers, and thinks that someone is paying him to foment discontent.’

  ‘Come now, Brother Cook,’ chided Henry. ‘I do not believe that and nor should you.’

  ‘Do you think Bishop Gynewell will come when he hears there has been a second death in the abbey?’ asked Walter, ignoring the admonition and ranging off on another subject. ‘First our Abbot and now our treasurer.’

  Appletre shook his head. ‘He has his hands too full with his own troubles. Doubtless he will order Brother Michael to look into Welbyrn’s death, too.’

  ‘I do not envy Michael his duties,’ said the cook soberly. ‘I doubt he will find answers, and he has been wasting his time from the start.’

  Bartholomew felt the need to defend his friend. ‘He is very good at what he does.’

  ‘Maybe so,’ said Walter. ‘But Peterborough excels at keeping its secrets, and it will take a much sharper mind than his to make it yield them.’

  The cook’s smug prediction made Bartholomew want to prove him wrong, so he spent the rest of the day in a determined effort to discover what Peterborough might be hiding. He questioned Cynric about Spalling’s finances, interviewed a lot of monks about Welbyrn, and visited taverns to ask about Reginald, Pyk, Joan, Robert and Lady Lullington.

  He learned nothing, and was dispirited when he returned to the abbey, the energy that had surged through him after his icy dip in the well at St Leonard’s gone. Moreover, despite his resolve not to dwell on Matilde, she kept entering his thoughts, and his stomach lurched several times when he thought he saw her. He was still recovering from one such start when his arm was grabbed and he was spun around roughly.

  ‘I was talking to you,’ snapped Aurifabro. ‘Or is a Bishop’s Commissioner too grand to pass the time of day with a lowly goldsmith?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘How may I help you?’

  The phrase was one he used on patients, and had emerged instinctively rather than from any desire to be polite, but Aurifabro softened when he heard it.

  ‘I want to know who will be the next Abbot, and I thought you might give me a more honest answer than those damned Benedictines.’

  ‘Why are you curious about that?’

  ‘I am tired of sparring with the Church, and hiring mercenaries is expensive. I should like to make my peace with Robert’s successor. With luck, he might even buy that wretched paten. It is the best piece I have ever crafted, and it would be a pity to melt it down – and my own religion has no use for that sort of thing.’

  ‘Yvo plans to hold an election on Thursday. You will find out then whether the monks have chosen him or Ramseye.’ Bartholomew was disinclined to add that the result might be irrelevant if Michael persuaded Gynewell to appoint him instead.

  Aurifabro grimaced. ‘Neither is likely to agree to a truce.’ He was silent for a moment, reflecting gloomily, then seemed to pull himself together. ‘The other thing I want to know is whether you have caught the villain who murdered the villainous Robert.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Pity, but I am not surprised. The only people who cared about him were Pyk, Reginald and Welbyrn, and now they are all dead, too.’

  ‘Lullington liked him,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

  Aurifabro spat. ‘Lullington is incapable of liking anyone but himself.’

  Bartholomew suspected that was true. He studied the goldsmith thoughtfully, and decided it was time he also spoke his mind. ‘If you really want the culprit found, you would not have told your mercenaries to prevent us from asking questions in Torpe.’

  Aurifabro regarded him with an expression that was difficult to read. ‘Then come again, and I shall order them to admit you. However, think very carefully before you do. It would be wiser and safer simply to tell Bishop Gynewell that the case will never be solved.’

  And with those enigmatic words, he strode away.

  When Bartholomew arrived at the guest house, he found that Michael, William and Clippesby had been entertaining Langelee.

  ‘I had better go,’ said the Master, setting his goblet on the table. ‘Spalling is holding another of his revolutionary rallies tonight.’

  ‘So?’ asked Michael waspishly. ‘Surely you cannot enjoy that sort of nonsense?’

  ‘No, but it is an opportunity to learn his plans, so I can pass them to the Sheriff. Spalling must be stopped. I will keep Cynric’s name out of my dispatches if I can.’

  ‘And if you cannot?’ asked Bartholomew, alarmed. ‘He might hang!’

  ‘Yes, but the alternative is to stand by while England erupts into open rebellion. The situation is bigger than any of us, and I am morally obliged to do whatever is necessary to nip it in the bud before it spreads.’

  ‘But—’ objected Bartholomew.

  ‘I have told Cynric what I plan to do,’ Langelee went on. ‘Which shows a good deal of trust on my part, because Spalling would certainly kill me if he thought I was a spy.’

  ‘Spalling is all wind,’ said William dismissively. ‘The abbey servants tell me that he does not give his own money to his cause, and that he will run away if there are signs that his fiery words are working.’

  ‘They may be right.’ Langelee turned to Michael. ‘However, the reason I came here tonight was to tell you something I overheard – a discussion between Spalling and some of his rabble. They plan to attack Aurifabro soon, in the hope that he can be driven off his lands. Unfortunately, Aurifabro has enough mercenaries to fight back.’

  ‘But Aurifabro’s mercenaries are skilled warriors,’ said Bartholomew in horror. ‘Spalling’s peasants will be cut to pieces. Can you do nothing to stop them?’

  Langelee shook his head. ‘Spalling believes that Aurifabro is responsible for the Abbot’s disappearance, and thinks an invasion of his manor will force the matter into the open.’

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Michael. ‘Is Aurifabro the culprit?’

  Langelee considered the question carefully. ‘Well, I am suspicious of the fact that Robert and Pyk were riding to his home when they vanished. Moreover, two days before, Spalling heard Robert yell at Aurifabro over the paten he was making.’

  ‘Walter the cook also heard a fierce argument,’ agreed William, ‘in which the Abbot accused Aurifabro of using substandard gold. Needless to say Aurifabro was offended, because he takes pride in his craft.’

  Langelee stood. ‘I had better go before I am missed. I have offered to distribute fish stew
to Spalling’s audience before his speech – which will take a while because a veritable horde is massing outside his house. If they all join his cause, he will command a significant army.’

  ‘Something the abbey already has, and so does Aurifabro,’ said Michael gloomily. ‘We are the only ones on our own.’

  Once Langelee had gone, Clippesby and William began to tell Michael what they had learned during the course of the day.

  ‘I spent part of it with Prior Yvo,’ said Clippesby. He frowned in consternation. ‘He seems to be labouring under the misapprehension that I am a saint. I kept assuring him that I am not, but he would not listen.’

  ‘We discussed this,’ said William irritably. ‘We agreed that you would ignore him if he mentioned that particular fantasy. The poor man is sun-touched, and the best way to deal with his sad condition is by going along with everything he says.’

  ‘He took no notice of my denials anyway. Then he told me to kneel at the prie-dieu in his solar, and petition God to appoint him as Abbot. I told him I would petition God to choose the most worthy candidate.’

  ‘Thank you, Clippesby,’ said Michael. ‘I shall remember your support.’

  Clippesby regarded him in incomprehension, then went on. ‘When I had finished, I met a chaffinch who told me that Robert had enjoyed reading Oxforde’s prayer. Apparently, Kirwell gave it to him in the expectation of immediate death. But Kirwell still lives.’

  ‘How did the chaffinch know about the prayer?’ asked Bartholomew, who had been under the impression that Kirwell had kept that particular matter close to his chest, and that while Inges and the bedesmen might know the tale, it was not general knowledge.

  ‘She overheard Robert telling Nonton the cellarer about it.’

  ‘He means a monk overheard the discussion and confided it to him,’ translated William scathingly. ‘However, what I learned is a lot more important.’

  ‘What?’ asked Michael impatiently, when the friar paused for dramatic effect.

  ‘That Welbyrn asked the cook to bake him a batch of Lombard slices the day Matthew became ill,’ replied William triumphantly. ‘Ergo, Welbyrn was the poisoner. I showed Walter the soggy ones that had been in the villain’s purse, and he recognised them at once. He also said there was nothing toxic about them when they left his kitchen.’