The Lost Abbot (17 page)

‘We have assumed the target was Robert,’ he said. ‘And Pyk just happened to be with him. But what if it was the other way around? I know from personal experience that people are often angry when physicians cannot cure their loved ones.’

‘No one would have taken against Pyk,’ said Aurifabro firmly. ‘He was not like other
medici
– he was a good man. Even his wife will have to concede that.’

‘Pyk was married?’ asked Michael.

Aurifabro nodded. ‘To a woman named Pernel, although not happily, unfortunately. Of course, there is a fourth possibility: that Robert and Pyk have been kidnapped.’

‘Then the culprits would have sent word to the abbey,’ said Bartholomew, ‘demanding payment and giving details of how to make it.’

‘Perhaps they did,’ said Aurifabro, ‘and the abbey refused to pay. However, if that happened, you will never find out, because it is not the sort of thing they will admit.’

‘May we visit you in Torpe tomorrow?’ asked Michael. ‘I want to retrace their journey.’ He did not say that he was also keen to confirm the goldsmith’s story with his servants.

‘No,’ said Aurifabro shortly. ‘No Benedictine is welcome on my land, not even one who has been hired by the Bishop.’

Bartholomew could not go with Michael to question Pernel Pyk, because people kept waylaying him to report how they were faring after their consultations with him in St Leonard’s Hospital. The monk went alone, but the mistress of the house was out. Eventually, both returned to the chapel, which was now full of people – it was not every day that a sacred building was purified after a murder, and the citizens of Peterborough were keen to see how it was done.

‘The whole town is here,’ whispered Michael. ‘Even Spalling, and he hates the abbey.’

He nodded to where the rebel was standing with a huge contingent of the town’s poor. Most were farm labourers, sun-bronzed, sturdy people in smocks and straw hats. None looked particularly downtrodden, and they were healthier and better fed than the ones who worked around Cambridge. Spalling had changed his clothes to match theirs, although his tunic was made from finer wool and his hat was worn at a rakish angle.

‘Aurifabro has deigned to appear, too,’ murmured Michael, seeing the goldsmith near the altar. ‘And he is not even a Christian. We had better keep our distance – we do not want to be singed if he is struck by a thunderbolt.’

‘It is a good thing Cynric did not hear you say that,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘He tends to believe those kind of statements.’

‘Just as he believes everything that falls from Spalling’s lips. No good will come from that association, Matt. Perhaps you should order him home before it lands him in trouble.’

‘I will talk to him, but he is a free man and must decide for himself what is right.’

The bedesmen had also turned out. They had brought Kirwell on a litter, although he was fast asleep and seemed oblivious to the hands that reached out to touch him – and to the clink of coins that were collected from those who wanted to avail themselves of the privilege.

‘Some of those ancients are suspects for killing Joan,’ mused Bartholomew, watching the spectacle. ‘Yet none of them look guilty, not even Botilbrig, who is the obvious candidate.’

Michael gestured to the other side of the chapel. ‘Nor do the bedeswomen, who also had reason to want Joan dead. But Reginald is standing by the cemetery door. Shall we go to see whether he will answer our questions now?’

‘We might as well, I suppose. There is no sign that the ceremony is about to begin.’

They eased their way through the throng towards the cutler, who whipped around in alarm when Michael tapped him on the shoulder.

‘I am not talking to you,’ he declared, eyes furtive as he glanced around. ‘I have nothing to say, and what I do in my workshop is my own affair.’

The last words were delivered in a hissing snarl that turned his face scarlet and caused the veins to stand out on his neck. Bartholomew was concerned.

‘Take some deep breaths,’ he advised. ‘And try to relax your—’

‘Leave me alone,’ snapped Reginald, redder than ever. ‘I cannot help it if I am obliged to do things that … But I am not saying more. You will trap me into admitting … And Abbot Robert is not here to protect me.’

‘To protect you from what?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused by the tirade.

‘Trouble,’ replied Reginald shortly. He tugged at his tunic, as though the material was too tight around his throat.

‘You really should sit down. You will feel better if—’

‘I am not staying here to be interrogated.’ Reginald began to back away. ‘You will pretend to befriend me, but all the time you will be trying to trip me up. Robert warned me about men like you.’

Before either scholar could ask what he meant, Reginald had fled, leaving them staring after him in astonishment.

‘Now
that
is a guilty conscience,’ said Michael. ‘We shall have to tackle him again later, and find out exactly what he has done.’

It was not long before there was a flurry of activity and the Benedictines arrived. The obedientiaries were first, grand in their ceremonial finery, although the monks wore their working clothes; many had muddy hands or sleeves rolled up, having come directly from their labours. When they saw Michael and Bartholomew among the onlookers, Nonton scowled, Welbyrn ignored them, Ramseye’s grin was wholly unreadable, and Prior Yvo shot them a glance that was full of panic.

‘Poor Yvo,’ said Henry, coming to talk to the scholars. Appletre was at his side, and so was Lullington until he saw who Henry was talking to, at which point he muttered an obscenity in French and left. ‘It is his first public ceremony as Acting Abbot, so he is under pressure to make a good impression.’

‘He will not do it if he looks frightened,’ remarked Appletre. ‘He will only succeed in unnerving people. But that is a good thing – it will give Ramseye an edge.’

‘You want Ramseye to become Abbot?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise. ‘I thought you hoped that an outsider would be appointed instead.’

‘I did – I
do
– but I still have to vote in Thursday’s election, and the choice is Ramseye or Yvo,’ explained Appletre. ‘So I shall support Ramseye, because he promised to let me stay on as precentor. But if Yvo wins, he will take over those duties himself, and his voice is…’

‘Like a rusty saw,’ supplied Michael, when the precentor flailed around for the right words. ‘But Ramseye and Yvo cannot be the only candidates from the abbey. What about you, Henry? Do you have no ambitions in that direction?’

Henry seemed shocked. ‘Good gracious, no! I would not be a good Abbot. Indeed, I have declined promotion several times, lest it interfere with my service to God.’

He raised his eyes heavenward, and Michael was girding himself up for a tart rejoinder when Inges arrived, asking Bartholomew to sedate Simon. The cowherd had been odder than usual that day and Inges was afraid he would disrupt the ceremony. Bartholomew declined, on the grounds that it was unethical to dose lunatics with soporifics for the convenience of others, and recommended a walk in the water meadows instead.

‘Why?’ asked Inges, bemused.

‘Because taking him to a familiar place might soothe him,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘Those with disturbed minds often find comfort in places they have known well.’

‘Do they?’ asked Inges. ‘Pyk never said so.’

‘So this paragon of the medical profession was fallible after all,’ mused Michael. ‘Even I knew that. Well, I suppose I learned it because of Clippesby. He likes familiar places when he is deranged.’

‘You mean deranged in his sainthood,’ said Inges.

‘Yes,’ agreed Michael hastily. ‘That is exactly what I meant.’

‘Speaking of troubled minds, Kirwell is upset about Lady Lullington,’ Inges went on. ‘He feels it is not fair that she should precede him to Heaven when she was only a third of his age. It is Oxforde’s doing that he has lived so long, of course – him and his prayer.’

‘What prayer?’ asked Michael.

‘Oxforde composed one the night before he was hanged,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘And told Kirwell that as long as he kept it secret, he would enjoy a long and comfortable life.’

‘But recently, Kirwell has expressed a desire to die.’ Inges took up the tale. ‘So he gave the prayer to Abbot Robert, expecting to perish immediately. It did not work, and now he fears that he might be cursed with immortality. I hope he is, as the revenues would be—’

‘
Cursed
with immortality?’ interrupted Michael. ‘Most people would relish it.’

‘Not if they do not have eternal youth to go with it,’ replied Inges. ‘And poor Kirwell can do nothing but sleep and eat. Now he wishes that God had never bathed him in that miraculous glow at Oxforde’s tomb all those years ago.’

‘The glow that sounds like a shaft of sunlight?’ asked Bartholomew pointedly.

Inges glared. ‘It was the Lord pointing at the Earth. Of course, I doubt He meant that particular grave to become a shrine, which is what those greedy bedeswomen made it into. Oxforde was a very nasty criminal, and should not be revered.’

‘I heard that Gynewell came here specifically to suppress the cult,’ said Michael.

‘He did,’ nodded Inges. ‘But it earns a fortune, so Abbot Robert let it start up again. The monastery is fond of money.’

‘So we are beginning to understand,’ murmured Michael.

As the monks were still fiddling with their purifying accoutrements, Bartholomew went to ensure that being rousted from his bed had not been too great a strain for Kirwell. It did not take him long to ascertain that the old man was so deeply asleep that he probably did not know that he had been moved. Meanwhile, Michael sidled through the spectators, listening to scraps of conversation and noting who was standing with whom.

‘We wanted to wait for the Bishop,’ Marion was telling Henry and Appletre. ‘But Prioress Hagar said we have a duty to get the chapel back to normal as quickly as possible.’

‘Too right,’ declared Hagar, overhearing and going to join them. ‘Joan caused a lot of disruption by getting herself killed in here. Of course, she did have it coming to her.’

‘You think she deserved to be murdered?’ asked Henry, shocked. ‘Why?’

‘Because of her sordid “friendship” with Robert,’ explained Hagar, pursing her lips. ‘There will be none of that sort of thing now I am Prioress.’

‘It was inappropriate,’ agreed Henry sanctimoniously, although Appletre’s round face showed more understanding. ‘But I liked Joan, regardless.’

Hagar shrugged. ‘She was all right, I suppose. But St Thomas’s Hospital will be happier and better run under me.’

‘It is nicer already in some ways,’ acknowledged Marion. ‘We are free to carry out our duties without interference – Joan was constantly watching us, to make sure we were not shirking.’

‘I plan on doing very little supervision,’ said Hagar airily. ‘I shall have more important matters to occupy my time.’

‘Yet I wish we could wait for the Bishop,’ said Marion unhappily. ‘Yvo says
he
is ecclesiastically equipped to perform this sort of ceremony, too, but we only have his word for it.’

‘He does possess the necessary authority,’ Appletre assured her. ‘And—’

‘Well, our pilgrims will be glad when we are open for business again.’ Hagar cut across him rudely. ‘They all love Oxforde. They love St Thomas’s relics, too, but not as much.’

‘Speaking of relics, where is the stone that killed Joan?’ asked Appletre, his blue eyes wide in his chubby, red-cheeked face. He crossed himself.

‘Back on the altar,’ replied Hagar. ‘I wiped some of the blood off it, but the rest we shall leave. People will assume it is St Thomas’s.’

‘That would be dishonest,’ said Henry sternly.

‘Only if they find out,’ interrupted Hagar with a predatory grin. ‘But I cannot stand here chattering. As Prioress, I have a great deal to do.’

She sailed off, head held high, and Michael followed. When Bartholomew came to stand next to him, the monk was watching her berate Lullington for prising a crucifix off the wall when he had come to collect his wife’s personal effects. It belonged to the hospital, and she wanted it back.

‘She might have murdered Joan,’ Michael said in a low voice, watching her poke the knight in the chest when he started to argue. ‘There is a chilling ruthlessness in her.’

‘The same can be said about a lot of the people we have met since arriving here,’ replied Bartholomew soberly.

As the ceremony still showed no signs of beginning, Bartholomew and Michael went to find out why. The reason soon became clear: Ramseye was asking questions that had Yvo reaching anxiously for his prayer book to assure himself that he knew what he was doing. Welbyrn was with them, smirking at the Prior’s increasing discomfiture.

‘Ramseye is undermining his confidence,’ murmured Michael. ‘So
he
will appear the better candidate when the election comes. A sly tactic, but an effective one.’

Yvo’s voice was shrill with agitation as he responded to Ramseye’s latest query. ‘But I
cannot
stamp my Writ of Cleansing with the abbey’s seal, because I do not have it. Robert took it with him, if you recall.’

‘So he did,’ sighed Ramseye. ‘Never mind. People will probably accept the writ without it. Just state that you
do
hold the Bishop’s authority, and I am sure they will believe you.’

The tone of his voice made it abundantly clear that he thought they would not.

‘Are you sure there is not another purple cope in the vestments chest?’ asked Welbyrn before Yvo could respond. ‘I thought we had one that fitted you.’

‘This one will suffice,’ said Ramseye with a patently false smile, as the Prior looked down at himself in dismay. ‘Just remember not to turn your back on the congregation.’

Bartholomew had no particular liking for the Prior, but he thought that what Ramseye and Welbyrn were doing was cruel. He was about to say so to Michael when Welbyrn spotted him. The treasurer’s thick features creased into an ugly scowl.

‘Bartholomew! You will leave before the ceremony begins. I do not want you here.’

Ramseye started at his crony’s outburst. ‘He can stay if he likes.’