‘Then the soporific was added later,’ surmised Michael. ‘Sprinkled on, perhaps, as a coating.’
‘Do you think Welbyrn tried to kill you, then tossed himself in the well when he failed?’ asked William.
‘It is possible,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But leaving the cakes in his scrip was tantamount to an admission of guilt, and I am not sure he would have risked embarrassing his monastery so. Even if he had been losing his mind, I think he still would have known he should dispose of the incriminating evidence before killing himself.’
‘Then perhaps this “admission of guilt” was intended for his brethren’s eyes only,’ suggested William. ‘He was not to know his corpse would be examined by you.’
‘He was not a total fool,’ averred Michael. ‘Even in lunacy, he would have anticipated that his death would interest the Bishop’s Commissioners. And I do not believe it was suicide anyway. He was murdered – I feel it in my bones.’
They were silent for a while, straining for answers that would not come.
‘I also found out that Robert had some sort of hold over Reginald,’ William went on eventually. ‘The servants did not know what, but they said that Reginald did everything Robert asked, not out of friendship, but because he had no choice.’
‘And I have been regaled with tale after tale about Oxforde’s treasure,’ added Clippesby. ‘Some folk say it was never found; others claim he gave it all to the poor, or that it is funding Spalling’s rebellion; and the rest believe that Reginald dug it up and spent it all on himself. Regardless of the truth, the foxes say it is worth a fortune.’
William patted his hand patronisingly. ‘Well, if these foxes ever learn where it is, make sure you come to me first. Michaelhouse’s coffers are always empty.’
While his colleagues debated how much gold would be needed to solve the College’s ongoing financial problems, Bartholomew sat in the window. He tried to review what he had discovered about Robert, Pyk, Joan, Lady Lullington and Welbyrn, but tiredness meant he was less effective at locking Matilde from his thoughts than he had been earlier, and it was not long before he gave up and let her fill his mind.
What would he do if she appeared in Cambridge one day? Had too much time passed for them to be happy together? How much had she changed? And he knew she had, because the old Matilde would not have been afraid to speak to him. Of course, he had changed, too – he was more sober and reflective now, and it was possible that she might not like it.
And what about Julitta? Would he forget about her if Matilde appeared laden down with riches and offered to be his wife? Yet how could he abandon Julitta to a man who did not love her, and who might even do her harm? He thought about her silky brown hair and mischievous smile, and his stomach lurched.
He yelped in alarm when there was a soft tap on the window, and he saw a face staring in at him. They were on the upper floor, so no one should have been outside.
‘Sorry, boy,’ said Cynric, climbing in off the ivy that grew up the wall. ‘I did not want anyone to see me visiting. The men who support Spalling are nervous about spies, see.’
‘I imagine they are,’ muttered Michael. ‘So what have you got for me?’
‘Nothing,’ replied Cynric in disgust. ‘I walked very slowly along the Torpe road today, but it has been too long since Robert and Pyk were there. If they were killed by robbers, then there are no clues to tell us the identity of the culprits.’
‘How did you manage to escape from Spalling?’ asked William curiously.
‘I told him I was going out. He is too busy to object.’
‘So, let us summarise what we know of Robert’s final journey,’ said Michael with a weary sigh. ‘He went to inspect the paten that Aurifabro was making, Pyk at his side. Aurifabro claims they never arrived. So, the first possibility is that they did arrive and Aurifabro killed them. It is common knowledge that they disliked each other, and we know they argued over the paten.’
‘But Aurifabro did not dislike Pyk,’ Bartholomew pointed out.
‘Yes, but if Pyk saw Robert murdered, Aurifabro would have had no choice but to kill him, too,’ put in William. ‘From what I have heard, Pyk was not a man to turn a blind eye.’
‘The second possibility is that they fell foul of outlaws,’ Michael went on.
‘For which there is no evidence,’ Cynric reminded him.
‘And the third possibility is that they were dispatched by someone they knew,’ Michael finished. ‘God knows, Robert had enough enemies.’
‘There is no evidence for that, either,’ said Cynric.
Michael thumped the table in frustration. ‘We are no further forward than we were when we first arrived. Meanwhile, we have four more suspicious deaths to solve, and we must leave the day after tomorrow.’
‘It is odd that Reginald should die just as we were going to talk to him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Then there is his peculiar guilty behaviour, and the fact that we were removed from his shop before we could search it properly – via a message from a defensor who is conveniently unavailable to tell us who issued the order.’
‘It is odd,’ agreed William. ‘But I think Lullington paid Reginald to create the diversion that allowed his wife to be strangled. It explains why he could not bear to look at her corpse.’
‘But she would have been dead soon anyway,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘And Lullington is not the kind of man to squander money. Your conclusion is illogical.’
‘Do you have a better one, then?’ demanded William.
Bartholomew did not.
It had been an exhausting day, and Bartholomew was beginning to pay the price for his earlier vigour. He wanted to go to bed, but Prior Yvo had other ideas.
‘We always have a little fun on the second Monday of every month,’ he said. ‘I was tempted to cancel, but that would have been the last thing Welbyrn would have wanted. He loved Entertainment Night.’
‘Entertainment Night?’ asked Michael warily.
‘When members of our community show off their talents,’ replied Yvo, eyes blazing rather fanatically. ‘I shall sing, and you will see others with equally impressive skills. And at the end, we vote for the best performance. You will attend.’
‘Not me,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I am too tired for—’
‘Nonsense,’ declared Yvo. ‘Entertainment Night will make you feel like a new man. Even Kirwell rouses himself for the occasion, and he always enjoys himself.’
It sounded distinctly unappealing, but the four scholars trailed obediently across the yard to the refectory, where there was a buzz of excited anticipation as the monks and lay brothers converged. They were joined not only by the men of St Leonard’s Hospital, but by their female counterparts from St Thomas’s. Lullington and Trentham had also been invited, and stood with Nonton, whose red face suggested he had been sampling the wines that were to be served later. The scholars entered the crush, and Bartholomew found himself next to Lullington. The knight began to make polite conversation in his aristocratic French.
‘I saw you talking to Aurifabro earlier. I hope he was not denigrating dear Abbot Robert.’
‘We discussed the paten,’ said Bartholomew, not entirely truthfully.
‘A paltry piece that would have been a waste of money.’ Lullington grimaced. ‘Burying my wife next to Oxforde would have been a waste of money as well, because if anyone is going to claim that hallowed spot, it will be me. But not for many years, of course.’
‘Of course. Why did you never visit her when she was ill?’
‘I was busy,’ replied Lullington stiffly. ‘Not that it is any of your business. Besides, I started to walk into her room the day she died, but my courage failed when I smelled sickness and urine. However, I am shattered by her death – my grief knows no bounds.’
‘Yes, you seem heartbroken.’
Lullington scowled as he brushed invisible specks from another handsome new gipon. ‘I am a knight – we do not display unmanly emotions in public. She loved me for it, of course. I
know, because she was loyal.’
Bartholomew was bemused by the last remark and started to ask what it meant, but Lullington had spotted Yvo and hurried away to corner him, making no effort to disguise the fact that he considered the Prior a more worthy recipient of his attentions. Bartholomew was about to go after him when Trentham approached. The priest had donned a clean robe, brushed his hair and shaved. His cheeks were pink and very youthful, but there was a sadness in his eyes that was older than his years.
‘I buried Lady Lullington this afternoon,’ he began miserably. ‘In the parish churchyard, beneath my favourite tree. I did not want her near Oxforde, not after what Kirwell said.’
‘Unlike poor Joan,’ said Michael, overhearing as he came to join them, ‘who will keep the villain company for eternity. Have you finished digging her hole yet?’
Trentham shook his head. ‘I am not very good at it, so it is taking an age.’
‘Perhaps one of the monks will help you,’ suggested Bartholomew.
Trentham grinned suddenly, an expression that made him look more boyish than ever. ‘A monk! Why did I not think of that? Perhaps Henry will oblige; he is a good man. So is Appletre, although I doubt the other obedientiaries will offer. They are too grand.’
‘Entertainment Night should have been cancelled.’ It was Henry speaking, his expression troubled. ‘We should not be making merry when we have an abbot missing and a treasurer dead.’
‘I disagree,’ said Appletre, who was with him. ‘Music will make everyone feel better, and Robert and Welbyrn would have agreed.’
‘Poor Welbyrn,’ said Trentham with a sorrowful sigh. ‘Still, I suppose we should not be surprised. His father was the same.’
‘The same as what?’ asked Michael.
‘He also lost his wits,’ explained Trentham. ‘In the end, he tossed himself in the river, a tormented and lost soul. My grandfather told me about it. Perhaps it was terror of insanity that made the younger Welbyrn such an angry, unhappy man.’
‘It is certainly what drove him to take his own life,’ said Henry. ‘Because we all know that is what really happened, despite Yvo’s efforts to make us believe it was an accident. It is a pity, but these things happen, and all we can do is pray for his soul.’
Michael watched him, Appletre and Trentham walk away together. ‘Henry is very eager for everyone to view Welbyrn’s death as suicide. Does he want his old teacher to roast in the fires of Hell for committing a mortal sin? Or is there another reason for his insistence?’
‘Henry is not a killer,’ said Bartholomew, tired of Michael’s irrational dislike of his old classmate.
‘So you keep saying.’
Yvo cut through the babble of conversation in the refectory by clapping his hands. There was immediate silence, although Bartholomew sensed it was more from eager anticipation than obedience. The Prior stood on the dais and beamed, eyebrows waving genially.
‘Welcome to Entertainment Night. We shall dedicate tonight’s proceedings to Welbyrn, who will certainly be looking down on us from Heaven.’
A number of monks glanced upwards at this claim, their uncomfortable expressions suggesting that their enjoyment of the occasion had just been curtailed.
‘Most of you know what to expect,’ Yvo went on. ‘But for the benefit of our guests, the evening works as follows: there will be ten different acts, after which the audience will vote for the one it liked best. The winner will receive a carp.’
‘A carp,’ murmured Michael, green eyes dancing with amusement. ‘The stakes are high, then.’
‘We shall dispense with the serious stuff first,’ Yvo proclaimed. ‘So let us have your poem, Henry.’
Henry’s piece was a prayer, beautiful in its simplicity, and the gathering was more sober after hearing it. Appletre was in tears again, and when he was asked for his own contribution, it took three false starts and a lot of throat-clearing before he was able to sing. But when he did, his poignant Lacrimosa had more than one listener dabbing at his eyes.
Hagar was next. She marched towards the dais with Marion and Elene at her heels, and announced defiantly that their act was for Joan, not Welbyrn. They each produced three coloured wooden balls, and began to juggle. The performance started simply enough, but worked up to a finale that was an impressive blur of flying orbs. The other bedeswomen whooped and applauded when it was finished, as did many monks, although the gentlemen of St Leonard’s Hospital remained pointedly silent.
Lullington recited a lively French poem about fighting a dragon, accompanied by cuts and thrusts from an imaginary sword, which revealed that he would have no idea how to use a real one. Bartholomew glanced around for Cynric, knowing he would be laughing, before realising with a pang that the book-bearer was off fomenting rebellion with Spalling. The knight made no reference to dedicating his performance to his wife, although he nodded testy agreement when Trentham surged to his feet and did it for him.
The cellarer was next, with some tediously uninspired strumming on a rebec. When he announced that he was only halfway through his repertoire, and had plenty more with which to thrill his audience, Yvo strode on to the dais and confiscated the instrument. Everyone roared their approval, but Nonton shot the Prior a look of such glowering hatred that the cheering trailed away to an uncomfortable murmur.
Ramseye’s contribution was an impression of the Pope, complete with thick French accent and a bizarre interpretation of his monastic reforms that had the brothers howling appreciative laughter, although most of the allusions passed over Bartholomew’s head.
‘That was very clever,’ said Michael, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. ‘He caught the fellow perfectly. I am voting for him.’
Then there was a break, during which Nonton served mulled ale. He spilled some in Yvo’s lap, and his expression was gleefully vindictive when the hot liquid caused the Prior to screech. He provided a separate jug for the Michaelhouse men, murmuring that it was better quality than that provided for the rabble. Bartholomew took it outside and discreetly emptied it down the nearest drain.
He returned to find that Kirwell’s litter had been moved to the door, because the old man had expressed a desire for some fresh air.
‘How much longer?’ he whispered when he saw Bartholomew. ‘Abbot Robert promised faithfully that I would die if I gave him Oxforde’s prayer, so why am I still here?’
‘Do you remember any of this prayer?’ asked Bartholomew, more to prevent another request for a nudge towards the grave than because he was interested.
Kirwell glared peevishly at him. ‘I only heard it once, and that was forty-five years ago. So no, I cannot recall the words.’
‘Presumably, that is why he wrote them down – to remind you.’
‘Yes, but my eyes were dim, even then. You had better take your seat now, because Inges is on next and you do not want to be standing up when he starts. You might topple over with the shock of it. I did, when he treated me to a preview.’
‘What do you mean?’
The old man gave the ghost of a smile. ‘You will see.’
Inges’s contribution was a startling and very energetic pas seul in the style of a Turkish dancer. Bartholomew laughed heartily, but glares from Botilbrig and his cronies made him realise it was not meant to be funny. William gaped at the spectacle, while Clippesby closed his eyes and began whispering to the cat he had managed to smuggle in.
‘Are we permitted to vote for ingenuity?’ Michael whispered in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘Because I have never seen anything quite like that.’
Two more acts followed, culminating with Yvo, who had saved himself for last, clearly in the belief that he would win more votes by being the most recent. It was a tactical error, for his singing comprised an off-key dirge that was wholly unrecognisable as Tunsted’s Gloria; he might have done better if the audience had been given a chance to forget that a sizeable part of it had been painful to the ears.
The ballot was taken, with Nonton scowling at some monks until they
raised their hands and Yvo doing likewise. Ramseye did not resort to such tactics, although Bartholomew had noticed him moving among the audience when the wine was being served, smiling at those he considered worth wooing. However, many resisted the obedientiaries’ efforts and voted for Inges, who won by a narrow margin, much to his competitors’ disgust.
‘If this shameful bullying happens at the election on Thursday,’ said Michael, watching in distaste, ‘then Gynewell will appoint me for certain, just to restore peace and unity.’
‘That might be beyond even your abilities, Brother,’ said Bartholomew.
CHAPTER 10
Although dawn the next day was clear and blue, clouds were massing in the south-west, and a stiff wind indicated that it would not be long before rain swept across the countryside. Bartholomew regarded Michael with a distinct lack of enthusiasm when the monk suggested it was time they interviewed Aurifabro’s household in Torpe.
‘We have today and a few hours tomorrow before we must leave,’ said Michael. ‘This villain is not going to be the first killer to best me, and it would be a pity for my abbacy to begin with a sinister mystery surrounding the fate of my predecessor. Besides, Aurifabro virtually invited you.’
‘Yes, and he followed it by saying it would be safer and wiser to tell Bishop Gynewell that the case will never be solved. If it was an invitation, it was one cloaked in menace.’
‘Nonsense,’ declared Michael. Then he relented. ‘We have no choice, Matt. We have questioned everyone in the abbey, plus a huge number of townsfolk, but answers have been in frustratingly short supply. Aurifabro’s servants are our last hope.’
Bartholomew made no reply, because Michael was right.
‘If you must go, then William and I will escort you,’ offered Clippesby. ‘There is a huge discrepancy in the quality of the defensores, and the ones Nonton plans to lend you today are hefty men who look mean, but who barely know one end of a weapon from another.’
The Lost Abbot: 19 (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 23
