The Lost Abbot (35 page)

Trentham nodded, and his eyes filled with tears again. ‘He said a brief but powerful squeeze would see it all over in an instant. He was right: something snapped in her neck immediately, and I do not believe she experienced more than a momentary flash of pain. Nothing compared to what she had borne already.’

‘It is still murder,’ said Michael.

‘I know,’ sobbed Trentham. ‘God help me.’

‘Make your confession to Clippesby,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘The Bishop will decide what happens to you.’

He beckoned Bartholomew outside, where the sky was clear and splattered with stars, all sparkling in the black velvet of night. They stood in silence for a while.

‘What a horrible business,’ Michael said eventually. ‘I cannot find it in my heart to condemn the lad, yet what he did … Of course, it was unkind of Lady Lullington to ask it of him.’

‘People often beg the same of me, and I understand why he yielded. What do you think Gynewell will do with him?’

‘He has benefit of clergy, so he will not hang. A life of atonement, perhaps?’

‘Then it might be a good idea to suggest that he does not do it in another hospital, lest he feels inclined to meddle with nature a second time.’

‘I doubt that will happen; he has learned his lesson. However, now we have another killer to confront, one who is a lot more ruthless than Trentham.’

‘It will not be easy,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘Lullington is not the sort of man who will confess willingly, and our only “evidence” is Trentham’s suspicions. The opinion of a self-confessed strangler will not count for much, and Lullington will know it.’

‘And he will doubtless use the fact that his wife would not have wanted him charged with her death,’ sighed Michael. ‘Trentham’s testimony suggests she knew exactly what he had done to her, but she elected to say silent about it.’

‘Yes, and I suspect Lullington knew that, too, because of something he said at Entertainment Night – about her “loyalty” to him. I thought at the time that it was an odd thing to say, and I have been mulling over the possibility that he had harmed her ever since. But why would she let him get away with such a monstrous thing?’

‘Because of her sons, lest the shame of murder blight their careers – they are attached to the King’s court, where that sort of thing matters. I suggest we tackle him now, Matt, when he will be befuddled with sleep and may let something slip. We will not have time tomorrow, and I should like to present the Bishop with one killer before we leave.’

‘Perhaps we should stay another day, Brother – at least until a proper search has been made for Robert’s body. After all, Gynewell is unlikely to make you Abbot if you leave before exposing the culprit.’

‘A difficult choice,’ mused Michael. ‘My present responsibilities to the University or my future ones to the abbey.’

Despite the late hour, the knight was not in his quarters when Michael stormed in without knocking. A brief glance around showed that Lullington had secured himself some of the best lodgings in the monastery. There was a little pantry at one end of his elegant solar, which was well stocked with exotic treats – all recently purchased, suggesting that his wife’s jewels had been put to good use. Its top shelf was invisible from ground level, and as Lullington was a stupid, unimaginative man, Bartholomew was willing to wager that the knight considered it a cunning hiding place. He stood on a stool and groped around.

The phial was hidden behind some pots of preserved fruit. It was not easy to reach, for it had been shoved as far back as possible, but he managed to hook it forward eventually. He opened it and took a cautious sniff.

‘Well?’ asked Michael.

‘It will have to be tested, of course, but it smells like a substance I encountered in Padua. An anatomist fed some to a dog, and when the body was opened, it was full of lesions. There is no reason – no
legitimate
reason – for Lullington to have this in his possession.’

‘Is it the same as the toxin in the Lombard slices?’ asked Michael.

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I would not have recovered from a dose of this. But I have been thinking about the stuff that was used on me. It made me sleep for hours, which means I swallowed a significant measure. But how could it have all gone into a single cake without me tasting something amiss? It—’

‘Give the phial to me,’ interrupted Michael, unwilling to listen to a lecture on the subject. ‘We shall confront Lullington with it later.’

‘There is something else up here, too,’ said Bartholomew, standing on tiptoe and supposing his conclusions about what had happened to him would have to wait until a more opportune moment. ‘Hand me the candle, Brother. I cannot see.’

The item transpired to be a pouch, pushed so far into the shadows that the physician had to use Lullington’s spare sword to reach it and drag it towards him. It was heavy for its size.

‘It has not been there long,’ said Michael. ‘Or it would be dustier. And the leather is new.’

He shook its contents out on to the table. There were two seals, several large jewels and a bar of gold that was the size of a small book and considerably weightier.

‘The gold alone must be worth a fortune,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘Not to mention the diamonds. Or are they sapphires? Regardless, it tells us that Lullington is a rich man in his own right, and he had no need to plunder his dead wife’s possessions.’

‘These do not belong to him. The seals are an abbot’s – his personal one, with an image of him reading his bible; and the monastery’s, with St Peter holding the keys to Heaven.’

‘I thought Robert took them with him when he went to visit Aurifabro.’

Michael nodded. ‘And as I doubt he surrendered them willingly, we must conclude that they were acquired by force. Or after he was dead. No wonder Lullington showed a marked lack of concern for his missing “friend”. The villain is involved in whatever happened to him!’

‘What about the precious stones and the gold?’

‘I suspect they represent a large chunk of the monastery’s portable wealth.’

‘Shall I put them back?’

‘No! When he learns his game is up, Lullington might manage to sneak back and make off with them, leaving the monastery penniless.’

Outside, a bell chimed for nocturns, which meant it was roughly two o’clock. After a moment, monks began to process from their dormitory to the church, a silent line of men in hoods and swinging habits, sandals whispering on the flagstones.

‘Should we ask them to help us find Lullington?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘We cannot do it alone – the abbey is too big.’

‘If we do, we shall have to tell them why, and the tale will be all over Peterborough tomorrow. It is better to deal with the matter quietly and discreetly.’

Bartholomew was not sure he agreed, but he deferred to his friend’s judgement. However, he wished he had objected when a search of the refectory, chapter house, kitchens and various other buildings met with no success. Lullington was not there.

‘Perhaps he fled because he knew we were closing in on him,’ suggested Michael.

‘How? We have not spoken to anyone except Trentham, and he is hardly in a position to gossip. Besides, I do not see Lullington abandoning his comfortable existence without a fight.’

‘True,’ agreed Michael. Then he regarded the physician in alarm. ‘Lord! I hope
he
is not dead, because we cannot investigate another murder.’

It was not long before Michael decided they were wasting their time hunting for Lullington: the abbey had far too many hiding places, and they had no idea where to look for him outside. Moreover, the opportunity to search Reginald’s home might not arise again – it had to be done that night. When he had hidden the poison, seals, gold and jewels in the guest house, the monk took a deep breath and indicated that Bartholomew was to follow him to the Abbey Gate.

They arrived to find it patrolled by a
defensor
, but the little Bolhithe Gate in the south wall was secured by no more than a bar; it was a simple matter to remove it and walk to the marketplace. The streets were very dark, although lights gleamed here and there. A baby was awake in one house, wailing insistently, while from another came the sound of laughter as friends whiled away the small hours together. A dog’s claws clicked as it trotted purposefully across the cobbles, and an owl hooted in the distance.

‘Are you sure we should be doing this?’ whispered Michael anxiously. ‘What if we are seen? It will not look good for the Bishop’s Commissioners to be caught raiding the homes of wealthy townsfolk.’

‘Then we shall have to be careful,’ said Bartholomew with more confidence than he felt. ‘Although if you have an idea that does not involve us breaking in, I am all ears.’

‘I do not,’ said Michael, after a moment during which Bartholomew could almost hear the monk’s mind working. ‘But I am not climbing through any windows. I am not built for that sort of thing. You do it, while I stand guard.’

‘I had a feeling that might be the plan.’

When they reached the cutler’s shop, Bartholomew led the way to the back, knowing it was what Cynric would do – the book-bearer possessed an unsavoury but useful talent for entering places uninvited. He looked at the house rather helplessly at first, but then saw that one of the windows had a defective shutter. He tugged on it, but nothing happened, so he pulled harder. Michael squawked in alarm when it dropped to the ground with a clatter.

‘It came off in my hand,’ whispered Bartholomew.

Michael shot him a reproachful glare. ‘In you go, and please hurry. If you are caught, I shall be mortified.’

Resisting the urge to point out that his capture would give them a lot more to worry about than mere mortification, Bartholomew clambered through the window. He had had the foresight to bring a tinderbox, so he lit one of the cutler’s lamps and headed for the workshop. He started by the door, and worked systematically until he arrived back where he had started, and then did the same in the filthy bedchamber. It was easier and quicker now that Lullington had removed much of the clutter, but despite his efforts, Bartholomew found nothing that might have a bearing on what had happened to Robert and Pyk.

The only unusual thing was that several silver pennies had fallen between the floorboards, and Reginald had neglected to retrieve them. As most people tended to be careful with money, Bartholomew prised one out. It was new and shiny, and came from Bishop Gynewell’s Mint in Lincoln, but that was not surprising – it was the one closest to Peterborough.

‘Nothing,’ he reported, climbing back through the window and promptly stumbling over a pile of discarded tiles. One slipped off the heap and landed with a loud crack. Michael cringed away in alarm.

‘My nerves!’ the monk complained. ‘They are not built for this kind of thing.’

‘Nor mine,’ retorted Bartholomew. His heart was pounding from tension. ‘You can burgle the Abbot’s House on your own, because I am not doing this again. Can we go now?’

‘I have something to show you first. While you were inside, I lit a candle and prodded about in that mound of grass you can see over there.’

‘The one that looks like a grave?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

Michael’s reply was to relight his candle and lead the way to the shallow hole he had excavated. Bartholomew crouched down to see a skeletal human hand. It was not very big, although the state of the joints told him it had belonged to an adult.

‘Reginald’s wife? So the rumours were right – he did kill her?’

‘It looks that way, and think of the implications. The murder of a spouse is a powerful secret, and we know she disappeared shortly after Robert’s arrival. Do you recall what the gossiping servants told William about the Abbot’s relationship with Reginald?’

‘That Robert had some kind of hold over him – they were not friends, but something less pleasant. So can we assume that Robert discovered what Reginald had done, and used it to blackmail him?’

‘It makes sense to me, and we have been told countless times that Robert was not a good man – extortion might be just another of his failings. Yet how would he have found out?’

‘Perhaps he saw this grave-shaped heap and drew his own conclusions. Or perhaps Robert was less than principled with what he heard in the confessional – which may have been why Reginald turned pagan. However, what we should be asking is: what did Robert force Reginald to do that resulted in him wanting Trentham’s pardon?’

It was a question neither could answer, so Bartholomew scraped the soil back over the sad remains and turned to leave, eager to be away. Michael fell into step at his side.

‘I did some serious thinking while you were in Reginald’s house. I
know
Welbyrn was murdered – someone shoved him so he cracked his head on the side of the pool and left him to drown – and I am sorry, Matt, but my suspicions keep returning to Henry.’

‘Why would Henry turn from devout monk to ruthless murderer?’ demanded Bartholomew, speaking loudly enough to set a dog barking in the house they were passing.

Michael made an urgent gesture for him to lower his voice. ‘Perhaps because Welbyrn tried to poison you, his old friend. You did battle with Welbyrn once to protect him, so he may have thought it incumbent on him to return the favour.’

‘Hah!’ Bartholomew stopped walking to regard Michael triumphantly. ‘Then your theory has just collapsed, because Henry did not poison me – William did.’

Michael gaped at the physician. The baby was still howling in the house they had passed earlier, and an owl glided silently along the lane, death on wings as it hunted rodents among the rubbish. The same clicking-clawed dog trotted past, this time going in the opposite direction. There was a faint hint of colour in the eastern sky; dawn would break soon.

‘William might be a bigoted old fool, but he would never harm you,’ said Michael, once he had recovered from his shock. ‘Or anyone else from Michaelhouse.’

‘Not deliberately,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘He was trying to help, but he actually did something very dangerous. You see, he was with me when I physicked Lady Lullington. She was in agony, so I gave her a huge dose of an extremely powerful medicine.’