The Lost Abbot (8 page)

‘I hardly think that is necessary,’ said Bartholomew, loath to be thrust into the company of Ramseye and Welbyrn again. ‘These are men of his own Order.’

‘Yes, but I shall still need help if we are to leave in a week,’ countered Michael. ‘So don some tidier clothes, and let us make a start on this wretched business.’

Suspecting it would be futile to argue – and he had worked often enough with the monk to know that his assistance would definitely expedite matters – Bartholomew rummaged in his saddlebag for a clean tunic. Unfortunately, it had suffered from being scrunched into a ball to make room for his medicines, and was sadly creased. There was also a stain down the front, where one of the phials had leaked.

‘Wear your academic gown over the top,’ advised Michael, when the physician declared himself ready. ‘That will conceal some of the … deficiencies.’

‘That is a polite way of saying you are scruffy, Matthew,’ supplied William helpfully. ‘You might want to consider grooming yourself a little more carefully in future.’

Feeling that if the likes of William felt compelled to comment on his appearance, it was time he did something about it, Bartholomew followed Michael outside. Before he closed the door, he heard Clippesby telling William what the hen had just confided.

‘She says the reason for the antagonism between Peterborough’s two hospitals is money – St Thomas’s earns far more with its relics and Oxforde’s grave than St Leonard’s does with its healing well. It is all rather sad. They should learn to get along.’

‘Yes, they should,’ murmured William drowsily. ‘Shame on them.’

As Bartholomew and Michael left the guest house, they were intercepted by a monk who reeked of wine. The yellowness of his eyes and the broken veins in his cheeks and nose suggested an habitual drinker.

‘You were taking so long that I was sent to fetch you,’ he said curtly.

Michael and Bartholomew exchanged a glance. No one had told them that they were supposed to hurry.

‘Are you the cellarer?’ asked Bartholomew. It was not easy for monks to drink themselves into ill health in an abbey, where wines and ales were locked away, so there had to be some reason why this man seemed to have managed it.

‘Richard de Nonton.’ The man bowed. ‘Abbot Robert made me cellarer five years ago – he took his claret seriously, and knew that I am of like mind.’

‘He drank?’ asked Michael.

‘Only if the wine reached his exacting standards.’ The last member of the Unholy Trinity reflected for a moment. ‘I would not mind being Abbot myself, but Ramseye is running, and he stands a better chance of winning than me. He will see me right, though.’

‘Have you known Ramseye long?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Ten years, although he and Welbyrn were here long before that. Peterborough is a lovely place, you see, and no one leaves once he is here. We often joke that the only way we will depart will be in a coffin.’

‘I doubt Robert would find that particular jest amusing,’ murmured Michael.

Nonton led them to a pretty house next to the refectory, which had a tiled roof, real glass in the windows, and smoke wafting from its chimney. As it was high summer, a fire to ward off the slight chill of evening was an almost unimaginable extravagance.

‘Abbot Robert’s home,’ explained Nonton. ‘He liked to be near the victuals, so he had this place built specially. Prior Yvo lives here now, although he will have to move when he loses the election.’

‘You think Ramseye will win, then?’ asked Michael.

Nonton flexed his fists, an unpleasant gleam in his eye. ‘My brethren will vote for him if they know what is good for them.’

‘Tell me about Robert,’ invited Michael. ‘Was he popular?’

‘Not really. I liked him well enough, but most of the other monks did not. Why?’

‘Because it might have a bearing on what happened to him.’ Michael stopped walking and looked Nonton in the eye. ‘If the rumours are true, and Robert and Physician Pyk are found murdered, who are your favourite suspects for the crime?’

‘I only have one: Aurifabro,’ replied the cellarer promptly. ‘He and Robert were always squabbling, and we should not have ordered that gold paten from him.’

‘Yet you have just told us that Robert was unpopular,’ probed Michael. ‘Perhaps one of your brethren has dispatched him.’

‘They are all too lily-livered,’ said Nonton with a sneer, as if a disinclination to commit murder was something to be despised. ‘Besides, not everyone found him objectionable. I thought he was all right, and so did Welbyrn, Ramseye and Precentor Appletre. And that pathetic Henry de Overton, although
he
has a tendency to like everyone.’

‘Henry de Overton?’ asked Bartholomew, his spirits rising. ‘He is still here?’

‘Do you know him? That is not surprising: the man has friends everywhere.’ Nonton scowled, giving Bartholomew the impression that the same could not be said for him.

‘Was Henry friends with Robert?’

‘He was not,’ replied Nonton curtly. ‘Our Abbot had three confidants: Physician Pyk, Sir John Lullington and Reginald the cutler. And that was all.’

‘Reginald?’ asked Bartholomew. Hagar had also mentioned the association, yet a grimy merchant seemed an odd choice of companion for anyone, but especially a wealthy and influential monastic.

Nonton nodded. ‘A sly wretch, who would cheat his own mother. I cannot imagine why Robert tolerated him. The same goes for Lullington, who is an empty-headed ass. Pyk was decent, though. I liked him.’

‘It sounds to me as though virtually anyone in Peterborough might have killed Robert,’ whispered Bartholomew to Michael, as the cellarer began walking again. ‘This will not be an easy case to solve, because I doubt the culprit will confess, and if it happened a month ago, there will be scant physical evidence to find.’

‘I was charged to discover where Robert went,’ Michael whispered back. ‘Gynewell said nothing about solving a murder.’

‘Sophistry, Brother. If Robert is dead by unlawful means, Gynewell will order you to catch the killer. He will not want his senior clergy dispatched without recourse to justice, as it might open the floodgates to more “removals”.’

‘What was Robert like?’ asked Michael, addressing the cellarer just in time to see him take a furtive gulp from a flask.

‘Medicine,’ explained Nonton hastily. ‘For my chilblains.’

‘Chilblains are not treated with—’ began Bartholomew.

‘Robert was a fellow who knew what he wanted and how to get it,’ interrupted Nonton briskly. ‘I admire that in a man – I cannot abide indecision. But we had better go inside, or Prior Yvo will wonder what we are doing out here.’

The Abbot’s solar was a beautiful room with tapestries on the wall and a wealth of attractive furniture. An array of treats had been left on a table near the window, along with a jug of wine. Nonton headed straight for it, joining Welbyrn who was already there. The cellarer downed his first cup quickly, and poured himself another.

‘I summoned all the obedientiaries,’ said Yvo, coming to greet his visitors. ‘Along with Sir John Lullington, who is our corrodian and always attends important gatherings.’

‘Is he any relation to Lady Lullington?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Her husband,’ replied Yvo, as an elegant man stepped forward wearing the dress of a knight at ease – an embroidered gipon, fastened with a jewelled girdle. He was considerably younger than the woman in the hospital, suggesting the marriage had probably been one of convenience. Lullington bowed gracefully, producing a distinct waft of perfume.

‘
Bonsoir
,’ he said, fluttering his hand. ‘I am delighted to meet you.’

Yvo had been speaking French, as was the custom among the country’s aristocratic elite, but he suddenly switched to Latin, leaving Lullington frowning in incomprehension.

‘The King has it in his gift to foist members of his household on us when they are no longer of use to him – Peterborough is a royal foundation, you see, so His Majesty has a say in its running. The right is called a corrody, and the recipient is a corrodian.’

‘I know,’ said Michael, irritated by the assumption that he was a bumpkin with no understanding of how his Order’s grander foundations worked.

‘So we are obliged to house Lullington and his wife in considerable splendour.’ Yvo either did not hear or chose to ignore Michael’s response. ‘He is also entitled to dine at my … at the
Abbot’s
table whenever he pleases, and to attend occasions like these.’

‘Please use French,’ snapped Lullington. ‘You know my Latin is poor.’

‘Then perhaps you should apply yourself a little more rigorously to learning it.’ Yvo gave a smile that might have taken the sting from his words had there been any kindness in it, but it was challenging, and Lullington bristled.

‘I shall report you to the King,’ threatened the knight. ‘I thought you wanted my backing when you stand for Abbot. You will not get it with that attitude.’

Yvo raised his eyebrows. ‘Would you prefer Ramseye to be Abbot, then?’

Lullington promptly became oily. ‘Let us not quarrel, Father Prior. You know I consider you by far the best choice. I support you without reservation.’

‘Of course he does,’ said Yvo in Latin. ‘He knows Ramseye will manoeuvre him out of the comfortable niche he has carved for himself here, whereas I shall let sleeping dogs lie. As did Robert. Ramseye might be bold enough to challenge the King’s right to appoint corrodians, but I am no fool.’

‘
French
, Yvo,’ said Lullington crossly. ‘Or English, if you must. I do not understand why you insist on Latin. Bishop Gynewell, who is a personal friend, speaks French to me.’

‘Bishop Gynewell is a personal friend of mine, too,’ said Michael. ‘And he will not be impressed when he hears that Peterborough’s officials are constantly at each other’s throats. He will appoint an outsider as Abbot. Indeed, I might put myself forward for the post, and he will certainly choose me, should I express an interest.’

Yvo gaped at him, and so did Bartholomew, while Lullington looked the monk up and down appraisingly, as if deciding whether to shift his allegiance.

‘You cannot,’ said Bartholomew, eventually finding his voice. ‘The University—’

‘Will flounder without me,’ finished Michael comfortably. ‘Yes, I know. But I cannot devote myself to it for ever, and I have always said that my next post will be either an abbacy or a bishopric. Peterborough is not Ely, but it has potential.’

‘How is your wife, Sir John?’ asked Bartholomew, purely to silence Michael before he went any further. He was not sure Peterborough would be such a plum appointment, given the bitter disputes that were bubbling, and he wanted to tell his friend so before remarks were made that might later be difficult to retract.

‘What?’ asked Lullington, blinking. ‘What about her?’

Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly. ‘She is unwell.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Lullington. He waved his hand rather carelessly. ‘But she will be with God soon, which is good, because the abbey resents the extra mouth to feed.’

‘Her death will ease our financial burden,’ agreed Welbyrn, overhearing and coming to voice an opinion. Bartholomew regarded them in disbelief, sure the frail figure did not eat much, and probably had not done for weeks. Before he could say so, Yvo clapped his hands.

‘Take your seats, please, gentleman. Time is passing.’

Once everyone was sitting around a large table, Yvo began to make introductions. He began with the Unholy Trinity. ‘You have met our almoner, treasurer and cellarer.’

Ramseye nodded a polite greeting, but Welbyrn and Nonton did not. Nonton was refilling his goblet again, while Welbyrn, presumably to show the Bishop’s Commissioners that he was an important man with heavy responsibilities, was scanning some documents.

‘My God!’ Ramseye exclaimed suddenly, gaping at Bartholomew. ‘I thought there was something familiar about you earlier, but I could not place it. Yet I recognise you now you are in the light and have dressed in marginally more respectable clothes. Welbyrn, look!’

‘It is Matt Bartholomew!’ breathed Welbyrn, parchments forgotten. ‘The lad who declined to learn his theology. I see from his attire that he has not amounted to much.’

‘On the contrary,’ said Michael, while a number of responses were on the tip of Bartholomew’s tongue, none of them polite. ‘He is the University’s most distinguished
medicus
and has the favour of the Prince of Wales.’

This was misleading. First, there were only two
medici
in the University, and being more distinguished than Doctor Rougham was no great accomplishment. And second, the Prince of Wales had noticed Bartholomew once, after the Battle of Poitiers, when he had ministered to the wounded. The physician was sure he had long since been forgotten.

‘I am pleased you realised your ambition to become a healer,’ said Ramseye with a sly smile, although Welbyrn’s dark, heavy features were full of disbelief at Michael’s claims. ‘I cannot imagine a better profession for someone like you.’

Bartholomew was not sure what he meant, but was certain it was nothing complimentary. He declined to reply, so Prior Yvo began to introduce the other obedientiaries. As Peterborough was a large foundation, a vast number of monks held official appointments, although Bartholomew was disappointed to note that Henry was not among them. He and Michael nodded politely as sacrist, precentor, cook, succentor, novice-master, pittancer, chamberlain and brewer were presented, along with their various assistants and deputies. The long list of names and faces soon merged into a blur.

‘Now, Brother Michael,’ said Yvo, when he had finished. ‘What do you need to make an end to your investigation? It would be good to have the matter resolved tonight.’

‘I think I may need a little longer than that,’ said Michael, taken aback. ‘But we can certainly make a start. When was the last time you saw Abbot Robert?’

‘A month ago,’ supplied Yvo. ‘On St Swithin’s Day. He went to visit Aurifabro, who owns a manor in the nearby village of Torpe. He never arrived.’

Not revealing that he already knew this, Michael merely remarked, ‘I thought he and Aurifabro hated each other.’