The Lost Abbot (34 page)

‘It might,’ said Michael, nodding. ‘Thank you. What have you found out, Clippesby?’

‘Something about Welbyrn. I spent some time with the granary mice today, and they overheard Henry and Ramseye reminiscing about their schooldays – specifically the time when Matt and Welbyrn fought, and Welbyrn fell over and broke his nose.’

Bartholomew groaned. ‘Is it not time that incident was forgotten?’

Clippesby ignored him. ‘Apparently, Welbyrn was not himself when he provoked that brawl. He had just received some terrible news: that his father had drowned himself.’

‘Really?’ Bartholomew closed his eyes. ‘Damn!’

Clippesby patted his hand. ‘I am not trying to make you feel guilty, Matt, but to explain something about his character. Henry remembered the older Welbyrn telling his wife that he was made of lead, and that if he ever fell in water, he would sink like a stone.
Ergo
, he knew he would die when he jumped in the river – there was no clearer case of suicide.’

‘So he was a lunatic,’ surmised William. ‘No wonder our Welbyrn was frightened when he thought he might be losing his wits. He believed he would end like his sire.’

‘Henry and Ramseye were discussing how the death had influenced our Welbyrn’s views on self-murder,’ Clippesby continued. ‘He considered it the gravest of all sins, and would never have contemplated it, no matter how terrified he was of going mad.’

‘So they believe someone else killed him?’ asked Michael. Clippesby nodded. ‘But why were they talking about it in a granary? Surely that is odd?’

‘I thought so,’ said Clippesby. ‘As did the mice.’

A few moments later, there was a knock on the door. It was Ramseye, who shot inside the moment William answered it and indicated with an urgent gesture that it was to be closed behind him. Then he went to the window and cracked open the shutter to peer outside.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Michael, watching the almoner’s antics suspiciously.

‘Being careful,’ replied Ramseye. ‘Men and women have been dying far too frequently since you arrived, and I do not intend to join them. I came to bring you this.’

He handed the monk a purse. It was little more than rags, and had clearly belonged to someone poor. Its greasy sheen suggested it was ancient, too.

Michael held it between thumb and forefinger in distaste. ‘What is it?’

‘A purse,’ replied Ramseye impatiently. ‘It was found in Reginald’s workshop and brought here, along with everything else that was considered valuable or curious.’

‘I thought the place was supposed to be sealed until his will is proved.’

Ramseye nodded. ‘Yes, but before the door was locked, Yvo sent Lullington to bring anything readily portable to the Abbot’s House. I argued against it, but he overruled me.’

‘I imagine he thought it would be safer,’ said Bartholomew, suspecting that Ramseye would have done the same had he been Acting Abbot. ‘Empty properties attract thieves.’

‘Perhaps.’ Ramseye cast a disdainful glance at Bartholomew before turning back to Michael. ‘Yvo has been pawing through everything all day, ostensibly to find out why Reginald died, but in reality to assess how much it might be worth.’

Michael held up the purse. ‘And why do you think I might be interested in this nasty thing?’

‘Because Reginald said that a purse would tell you all you needed to know.’

Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘How do you know? Reginald was whispering, and no one else was close enough to hear.’

‘You told your colleagues,’ explained Ramseye, ‘who mentioned it when they were questioning our servants today. It is now common knowledge.’

‘I was trying to help,’ said William, flushing a deep red. ‘Time is short, and we are due to leave tomorrow.’

‘Are you?’ asked Ramseye hopefully.

‘It depends on the state of my investigation,’ lied Michael. He stared at the tatty item in his hand. ‘But Reginald was a cutler. Surely he owned a better purse than this?’

‘Yes, he did, and it is in Yvo’s solar, full of silver.’ Ramseye nodded to the other. ‘But that was also among his belongings, and it struck me as odd. So I decided to bring it to you.’

‘Why?’ asked Michael charily.

‘Because I was horrified when William’s questions implied that Lady Lullington was murdered, and that Reginald might have been complicit in the crime. And because I have a terrible feeling that the culprit is one of us – a Benedictine. In fact, I think it may be Henry, because he has been on his knees constantly since she died.’

‘He cares for her soul,’ said Bartholomew coldly. ‘And if you were any kind of monk, you would understand that prayers are acts of compassion, not signs of a guilty conscience.’

The physician could not recall if he had ever received a blacker look than the one directed at him by the almoner. Michael saw it, and stepped between them.

‘If you suspect Henry of such a terrible crime, why were you discussing Welbyrn with him in the granary?’

Ramseye gaped. ‘How do you— no, it does not matter. Bishops’ Commissioners have spies, we all know that. But to answer your question, Henry said it was somewhere that he and I could talk undisturbed.’

‘That does not explain why you were discussing Welbyrn,’ Michael pointed out.

‘When I first heard what had happened in St Leonard’s, I believed Yvo’s contention that it was an accident. Henry thought it was suicide, and took me to the granary to say so. But as we debated, we began to realise that we were both wrong. The truth is that he was murdered.’

‘By whom?’

‘We do not know. We spent an age discussing possible candidates, as your informant no doubt told you, but no one stood out above the others. Please do not glower at me, Brother. I did not come here to be interrogated like a common criminal. I came to help.’

‘Thank you,’ said Michael. ‘Although you will forgive me for being cautious.’

Ramseye gave one of his unreadable smiles. ‘Why, when my motive is obvious? I want you gone. You are a disruptive influence on my … on the abbey, and if helping you with your enquiries expedites your departure, then nothing is too much trouble.’

‘You may be seeing more of me in future,’ warned Michael. ‘The Bishop is a great admirer of my talents, and I like it here. The abbacy would suit me very well.’

The blood drained from Ramseye’s face, and he turned and left without a word. Bartholomew went to the window, and watched him break into a run the moment he was outside. There was no pretence at stealth this time – he did not care who saw him. The physician experienced a surge of unease, and wished Michael had held his tongue.

‘There is no money in this purse,’ said William. Michael had set it on the table and was wiping his fingers on a piece of scented linen, but the friar had no qualms about touching it, being used to grimy things. ‘Just a scrap of parchment.’

Bartholomew took it from him, but the writing was so tiny that he could only make out some of the words. William and Michael declared it illegible, and even Clippesby, who had the keenest eyesight, struggled.

‘It is a pardon for sins committed this year,’ said the Dominican eventually. ‘And there is a cross drawn at the bottom. How curious!’

‘I rarely dispense pardons these days,’ said William, blithely ignoring the fact that the Church frowned on such practices. ‘Well, not unless the petitioner is willing to pay a hefty fee.’

Bartholomew stared at him, then snatched the little document from Clippesby. The cross indicated that a cleric had written it, and suddenly the answer to the mystery surrounding Lady Lullington was as clear as day.

‘It is Reginald’s reward – his payment – for creating the diversion when she was strangled!’ he exclaimed. ‘He was right: the purse
has
told us all we need to know. Well, all we need to know about Lady Lullington’s death, at least.’

‘It is not much of a clue,’ grumbled Michael. ‘Because I do not understand it. Moreover, sin can only be pardoned through proper penitence, not because someone scrawls a few words on a bit of parchment.’

‘Theology is irrelevant here,’ said Bartholomew im-patiently. ‘The point is that it comes from a man who could not pay coins for the favour he wanted, so another commodity was provided instead. And as Reginald was involved in something unsavoury, the offer was accepted.’

‘But Reginald was not a Christian,’ argued Michael. ‘He refused absolution. Why should he want a pardon from the Church?’

‘Perhaps he was persuaded that it would ease his troubled conscience,’ suggested Bartholomew with a shrug. ‘We will probably never know why he accepted it. However, the more I think about this, the more I am sure I am right.’

‘I agree – you are,’ said Clippesby. ‘And the fact that Reginald mentioned the purse – with the clue it contained – as he lay dying suggests that he wanted to expose the culprit. I suspect it was because he had not known
why
he was ordered to make a fuss in the chapel, and when he found out, he was horrified and angry that he had been tricked into helping a killer.’

‘A monk?’ asked William, frowning as he sifted through likely suspects.

‘Monks cannot grant pardons,’ said Bartholomew impatiently. ‘Only priests can.’

‘Trentham?’ asked Michael, wide-eyed with shock. ‘A poor cleric who has no money of his own?
He
is the killer? I do not believe it! He is a good, decent lad, and his grief for Lady Lullington has been profound.’

‘He must have been acting,’ said William in distaste. ‘What a scoundrel!’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I think he was driven by compassion, not malice. He was sorry when she woke after the strong medicine I gave her, and so was she. They had become close, and her suffering distressed him deeply.’

‘But you said she had been throttled with unusual ferocity,’ Michael pointed out. ‘That does not sound compassionate to me.’

Bartholomew knew the reason for that, too. ‘Inges told a tale about strangulation when I was with Kirwell, and Trentham heard it. Apparently, it is more merciful to do it vigorously. Clearly Trentham did exactly that in the hope of sparing her more pain. I imagine he will confess when you confront him, Brother. But do it gently.’

Michael sighed unhappily. ‘Come with me, Clippesby. You can grant him absolution, because I do not have the stomach for it.’

‘Leave him to me,’ said William grimly. ‘I will be far better than a Dominican at informing him that murder leads straight to the fiery pits of Hell.’

Michael was unwilling to let William loose on a grieving and conflicted young man. ‘I know, but whoever confronts Trentham will be busy for hours, and I need you here.’

‘Why?’ asked William suspiciously.

‘To prevent anyone from coming in and noticing that Matt and I are missing.’

‘Why would you be missing? There is no point in burgling Reginald’s shop now that Yvo has removed everything of value.’

‘Lullington was only ordered to collect easily portable items from Reginald’s home,’ explained Bartholomew, ‘so it
is
still worth exploring.’

‘I sincerely hope we find something,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘Because if we fail, we will have to invade the Abbot’s House instead. But I shall live there myself soon, and I would rather my enjoyment of its luxury was
not
tainted by the memory of a crime.’

Trentham lived in a small house next to the parish church, and Bartholomew, Clippesby and Michael walked there in silence. A glimmer of light under the shutters showed that the priest was awake, as did the sound of weeping, which was distinctly audible as they approached. Michael opened the door without knocking, and stepped inside.

The house comprised a single room containing a few sticks of furniture and some utensils for cooking. Other than a wooden cross that had been nailed to the wall, there were no decorations. It was clean, though, and the ancient blankets had been carefully darned. Trentham was kneeling at a prie-dieu, his youthful face wet with tears.

‘I cannot pray,’ he said brokenly. He did not seem surprised to see the Bishop’s Commissioners in his home. ‘I have not been able to pray since…’

‘Since you strangled Lady Lullington,’ finished Michael baldly.

Trentham made no attempt to deny the accusation. ‘She begged me to do it, and it seemed right at the time. She was in such agony, and had been for weeks. But now I wish I had stolen Doctor Bartholomew’s bag, and used some of his potions instead. It would have been…’

‘Tell us what happened,’ said Michael, sitting on the bed. His voice was kind, and Clippesby stepped towards the priest, to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder.

‘Abbot Robert always said that I was unsuitable for this post, and he was right – it hurts me to see people suffering. Especially Lady Lullington, who was so virtuous and good. Her husband treated her abominably, but she never once complained. She was a saint.’

‘But then she became ill,’ said Michael, encouraging him.

‘Shortly after the Abbot vanished.’ Trentham looked at Bartholomew. ‘On Saturday, you seemed surprised when you heard that her illness had occurred suddenly. I wanted to ask why, but Hagar was talking too much. Will you tell me now?’

‘I can think of any number of ailments that bring about a lingering death, but none with the symptoms I could see in Lady Lullington – including an abrupt onset. She declined to let me examine her and would not answer questions…’

‘But you suspected something odd,’ surmised Trentham bitterly. ‘Well, you are right. Her illness struck her down after a meal in the abbey.’

‘You think a monk did her harm?’ asked Michael uneasily.

‘No,’ replied Trentham shortly. ‘Not them.’

‘Lullington,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Her loving husband. What happened? Did he try to poison her but fail to do it properly?’

‘She would never accuse him, but I believe so. She became violently ill that night – purging blood and the like. I think whatever substance he fed her did irreparable harm, but instead of killing her quickly, it sentenced her to a slow and lingering death.’

‘It would explain why he never visited,’ said Clippesby softly. ‘He did not have the courage to look his victim in the eye.’

‘So you took matters into your own hands,’ said Michael, regarding the youth sternly. ‘You throttled her, using a massive degree of force because of a certain discussion you heard between Inges and others in Kirwell’s room.’