‘Poor Robert,’ sighed Henry. ‘He and Pyk went to visit Aurifabro, but I did not know they had failed to return until Prior Yvo made the announcement the following morning.’
‘The following morning?’ echoed Michael. ‘Robert was not missed before then?’
‘The obedientiaries became alarmed that night, but as it was dark, they decided to wait for daylight before sending out a search party. The defensores set out at dawn, but came back empty-handed. I was with a group of monks who visited Aurifabro that afternoon, but he said Robert never arrived. He was worried about Pyk, though.’
‘He was not worried about Robert?’
‘No, he did not like Robert, but he admired Pyk, and sent his own mercenaries to hunt for them both. They had no more luck than our defensores.’
‘What else was done to find them?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘The defensores searched other roads, and we still waylay travellers in the hope of news.’
‘I find this odd,’ mused Michael. ‘If a high-ranking scholar went missing, I would organise a hunt immediately. And I would continue that hunt until we found him.’
‘It is not for me to question the obedientiaries’ decisions, Brother.’
‘No,’ said Michael. ‘But there is a difference between questioning decisions and making your concerns known.’
‘Appletre the precentor tried,’ said Henry, rather defensively. ‘He offered to take the defensores out again, but Ramseye said he would be wasting his time and that his uncle would come home when he was ready. But he never has.’
‘Do you think Robert is dead?’
‘Yes, I do. Ramseye and Yvo itch to take his place, and I doubt he would have left his throne unattended for so long, knowing that they circle like vultures.’
‘Then who might have killed him? Ramseye or Yvo? One of the monks?’
‘No,’ said Henry firmly. ‘We have all been praying for his safe return. You must look to the town for a culprit.’
‘Why? What did he do to Peterborough’s citizens to warrant being murdered?’
Henry hesitated, but then replied, although it clearly pained him to do so. ‘He set high rents for those who live in our houses and farms, and he was miserly with alms. But that is all I can tell you, Brother. You will have to interrogate someone else if you want to know more.’
The moment Henry had gone, William joined Michael in an assassination of his character. Michael had disliked him on sight, while William had detected an innate slyness that he said would make Henry a prime candidate for murderous behaviour. Bartholomew gaped at them.
‘Henry would never harm anyone,’ he objected. ‘He is a gentle, kindly—’
‘You have not met him in years,’ interrupted Michael. ‘He might have changed.’
‘The kitchen mouse does not like him, either,’ added Clippesby. ‘She said last night that she is unsure of his sincerity.’
‘There!’ pounced William, who only ever listened to Clippesby when the Dominican said something with which he agreed. ‘We all know that mice are never wrong.’
Bartholomew regarded them unhappily. Clippesby was astute, and his assessments were often shrewder than those of his saner colleagues. But then he cast his mind back to when he and Henry had been young, and he was sure they were wrong. Henry had never shown the slightest inclination to hurt anyone, verbally or physically. His lame leg had made him a natural target for bullies, but he had accepted the abuse with a quiet dignity that had eventually won their respect. Welbyrn’s hounding had persisted longer than the others’, and it had been that which had prompted Bartholomew to fight him.
‘Welbyrn is a villain, too,’ said Michael. ‘You will have to watch yourself around him, Matt, because he bears you a grudge. I could see it in his face last night.’
‘Because I broke his nose.’ Bartholomew shrugged at his companions’ astonishment. ‘At least, that is what he will tell you. The truth is that he was trying to hit me, but he lost his balance and fell over.’
‘You fought your schoolmasters, as well as exposing their intellectual shortcomings?’ asked Michael, wide eyed. ‘Lord! I am glad you were never a student of mine.’
The bells were ringing for prime, so the scholars walked to the church. Michael joined his Benedictine brethren in the chancel, while Bartholomew, William and Clippesby stood in the nave. As when he had been young, the physician’s eyes were drawn upwards, to the splendour of the painted ceiling, which was a riot of geometrical designs in gold, red and green. It soared above three tiers of sturdy Norman arches, all alive with carvings, statues and murals.
‘Things usually seem smaller as an adult than a child,’ he remarked. ‘But this church is even bigger than I remember it.’
‘The mouse said much the same thing,’ said Clippesby, nodding.
‘We had better keep him away from the Benedictines,’ muttered William. ‘They might relegate us to meaner quarters if they discover that our “saint” is just a plain old lunatic.’
‘Be kind to him, Father,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘He was upset by Joan’s death.’
‘So was I,’ declared William. ‘Therefore, I have decided to catch her killer myself. I shall do it when I am not deciding who murdered Abbot Robert.’
‘No!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, not liking to imagine what would happen if the grubby Franciscan started throwing his weight around in the abbey. ‘Leave it to Michael.’
William looked angry. ‘He wants my help. Why do you think he made me a deputy Commissioner yesterday?’
Bartholomew suspected the ‘appointment’ would be withdrawn if the monk knew that William intended to act on it. He flailed around for a way to deter him, feeling Michael’s task was going to be difficult enough without William meddling.
‘It might be dangerous,’ was all he could manage on the spur of the moment.
William waved a dismissive hand. ‘I shall question the abbey’s servants – ask what they thought of Joan and Robert. And about some of our suspects, too – Aurifabro, Spalling and the obedientiaries. There can be no danger in that, and I imagine they will be more willing to confide in me – a lowly mendicant – than a lofty and ambitious Benedictine like Michael.’
Bartholomew nodded cautiously, supposing it would keep him occupied – and safely away from anyone Michael would not want offended.
‘And I shall interview the abbey’s animals,’ offered Clippesby. Bartholomew started: he had not known the Dominican was listening. ‘I saw a number of geese last night, and the horses will almost certainly have something to say.’
‘I am sure they will,’ muttered William, eyeing him disparagingly. He turned back to Bartholomew. ‘Do you want to know who I believe murdered Joan?’
Bartholomew was not surprised that William had already formed an opinion; the friar had always been a man for snap judgements. ‘Go on then,’ he said warily.
‘A Benedictine.’ William lowered his voice. ‘I do not like the Order, and as you pointed out yesterday, any of them could have gained access to the chapel via the back door. Ergo, a Black Monk slipped in and brained her.’
‘And his motive?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘I shall find out from the servants,’ vowed William. ‘This morning.’
‘Then do it discreetly, or you may find yourself relegated to the stables tonight, exchanging confidences with Clippesby’s horses.’
A flash of alarm crossed William’s face, and Bartholomew hoped self-interest would be enough to keep the questions conciliatory.
‘What about Abbot Robert?’ the friar asked, after a moment. ‘Do you have a theory about him? If not, I do.’
‘Yes?’ Bartholomew braced himself for more hare-brained speculation.
‘Robert became ill on the journey, so Physician Pyk gave him medicine. But Pyk dispensed the wrong kind, and rather than face the consequences, he hid the body and fled. That is why both are missing.’
‘But the robin told me that Pyk was very good at his trade,’ argued Cli
ppesby. ‘I doubt he made a mistake. But even if he did, he could just have claimed that Robert had a fatal seizure. No one would have challenged him.’
‘Rubbish,’ claimed William, although he wore a crestfallen expression. ‘But prime is starting, and I am not in the habit of chatting during sacred offices. Please be quiet now.’
Tactfully refraining from pointing out that it had been William doing most of the talking, Bartholomew and Clippesby bowed their heads.
Prime was a beautiful ceremony in Peterborough. The precentor was an innovative musician, and the monks had been taught to sing in parts rather than traditional plainsong. Bartholomew closed his eyes to listen to the exquisite harmonies, but opened them again when someone joined in who should not have done – a discordant yowl that clashed with the tenors. William was smirking, delighted at this example that not everything the Benedictines did was perfect; Clippesby did not seem to have noticed.
When the service was over, Michael was waiting to say that they had been invited to breakfast in the refectory. He began walking there briskly, as though afraid there might not be anything left if he dawdled.
‘Did you hear Prior Yvo caterwauling?’ he asked, slightly breathless from the rapid pace he was setting. ‘He ruined the Gloria.’
‘That was him, was it?’ asked William, amused. ‘Why did no one tell him to desist?’
‘We did, but he informed us that there was nothing wrong with his warbling, and that it was our ears that were out of tune.’
‘You are talking about Prior Yvo,’ came a voice from behind them. They turned to see a plump, round-faced, smiling little man who had been at the gathering of obedientiaries the previous evening. ‘He made himself heard this morning, even though I had begged him to stay silent. I had dedicated this morning’s music to poor Joan, you see. I was fond of her.’
‘This is Thomas Appletre,’ said Michael to his colleagues. ‘The precentor.’
The monk smiled a welcome. ‘Any friends of Bishop Gynewell are friends of mine; I admire him greatly. However, I hope he will appoint a new Abbot for Peterborough and not leave us to elect one of our own. I think an outsider would be a good idea.’
‘I am considering taking the post myself,’ confided Michael. ‘And—’
‘Oh, please do!’ cried Appletre in delight. ‘It would be wonderful to have a man who cares for music – and who might be persuaded to sing the responses on occasion.’
‘Well,’ said Michael, flattered. He was a talented musician, and it was unfortunate that Michaelhouse had one of the worst choirs in the country. ‘That would be pleasant. But there is more to an abbacy than a bit of chanting, you know.’
‘Not necessarily. You can do what Robert did – delegate all the tedious business to your obedientiaries and keep the enjoyable duties for yourself.’
‘What does being Peterborough’s precentor entail?’ asked William, while Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a meaningful glance at this latest revelation of the Abbot’s shortcomings.
‘Organising the music and setting the mortuary roll,’ replied Appletre. When the friar frowned his bemusement, he explained, ‘Arranging prayers for the dead. Of course, that has put me in an invidious position of late.’
‘Has it?’ asked William, puzzled. ‘Why?’
Appletre looked pained. ‘Because I should like to arrange some for Abbot Robert, but Welbyrn refuses to let me, on the grounds that he thinks he is still in the world of the living.’
‘But you believe Robert is dead?’ asked Michael.
‘Yes, I am afraid I do. He loved his food, you see, and I cannot see him staying away from the abbey’s table for a month without good cause. He took his victuals seriously.’
‘Tell me what you thought of him as Abbot,’ ordered Michael.
Appletre considered carefully before replying. ‘He was a strong man. Well, he had to be, because a weak one could not have controlled us obedientiaries – we are opinionated fellows, as you may have noticed. But I think he meant well, on the whole.’
‘Hardly resounding praise,’ murmured Michael, as they followed the precentor to the refectory. ‘But kinder than anything anyone else has said. Unfortunately, I suspect Appletre is one of those who looks for the good in everyone, so I am disinclined to believe him. Abbot Robert was an ugly customer, and that is all there is to it.’
The refectory was a long building near the cloister. There was a high table on a dais for the obedientiaries, and Prior Yvo took the Abbot’s chair at its head. Welbyrn and Nonton formed a sullen, formidable presence on his left, while Ramseye sat smiling enigmatically on his right with Appletre. The scent of expensive perfume preceded the arrival of Lullington, who informed the precentor in braying French that he would have to move, as Lullington himself intended to sit near Yvo that morning. Appletre joined the lesser officials at the far end of the table, openly relieved to be away from the centre of power and the tense politics that surged around it.
Like the rest of the abbey, the refectory was well designed and clean, with religious murals placed to inspire the brethren to holy thoughts as they ate. It did not take long for the visitors to see that the artist had wasted his time. The meal was sumptuous, and the monks’ attention was fixed entirely on the platters that were starting to arrive.
Bartholomew had never been very interested in fine food, mostly because he was unused to it – a life spent in universities had seen to that – and he had never really understood Michael’s devotion to his stomach. He began to appreciate it that day, though, and knew he needed to pace himself, or the rich fare would make him ill. Michael and William showed no such compunction, and fell to with undisguised relish. Bartholomew exchanged a wry smile with Clippesby, who was also inclined to be abstemious.
‘Lombard slices!’ whooped Michael in delight, making a grab for the plate that was being carried past by a servant. ‘My favourite. How very civilised to serve them for breakfast.’
As it was a Lenten day, meat was forbidden, but there were plenty of alternatives in the form of eggs, cheese, and fish. Bartholomew was somewhat startled to note that there were also kidneys, small balls of spiced minced liver and roasted chicken.
‘Those are not meat,’ explained Michael, his words almost indecipherable through his bulging cheeks. Meals were usually taken in silence, but an exception had been made that day in deference to the presence of the Bishop’s Commissioners.
‘No?’ asked Bartholomew archly. ‘What are they then? Vegetables?’
‘Of course not. What I meant was they are not meat for the purposes of our diet. The Rule of St Benedict prohibits eating the flesh-meat of quadrupeds on Lenten days. Well, chickens are not quadrupeds, and liver and kidneys are not flesh-meat.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, thinking this a rather liberal interpretation. Offal and chicken were meat as far as he was concerned, and the medical authorities he respected would agree. He watched the brethren tuck in. ‘Regardless, it is not healthy to consume so much at breakfast. The Greek physician Galen says—’
‘Galen was a miserable old ascetic who probably lived a long but very unhappy life,’ interrupted Michael, snatching up an egg and inserting it whole into his mouth, as an act of defiance. ‘I would rather die young and happy.’
‘Then you are going the right way about it. You will never be an abbot or a bishop if—’
‘What are you two discussing down there?’ called Prior Yvo affably. The scholars had been allocated places at a table in the body of the hall, but near the dais, a ploy which meant that the obedientiaries loomed over them, symbolically asserting their superiority over mere Bishop’s Commissioners.
‘Spalling has put about a tale that the executed criminal Oxforde gave all his stolen money to the poor,’ replied Clippesby, assuming the remark was addressed to him. He held an enormous grass snake in the air. ‘This gentleman has just told me. It explains why none of his hoard has ever been found. Yet I am sceptical: felons are not usually generous.’
; There was immediate consternation as the monks, not unreasonably, objected to the presence of a serpent at their breakfast table. Some thought it was an adder and flew into a panic, while others simply did not like creatures that slithered. Clippesby was bewildered by the fuss, as his Michaelhouse colleagues had grown used to him producing animals when the fancy took him, and no longer reacted. Bartholomew watched the commotion thoughtfully, finding the various responses revealing.
Welbyrn and Nonton surged forward with daggers, proclaiming their intention to kill the creature; as monks were supposed to forswear violence, Bartholomew wondered why they had armed themselves, particularly in a refectory. Yvo climbed on the table wailing about the snake crawling up his habit, while Lullington grabbed the sacrist and forcibly placed the man between himself and the source of danger. Appletre and the lesser officials struggled to restore calm, and Henry’s head was bowed in prayer. Meanwhile, Ramseye looked on with an expression that was difficult to gauge.
When Nonton seized Clippesby roughly in his determination to reach the snake, Bartholomew intervened. He helped the Dominican carry the now-agitated reptile outside, aware that Welbyrn and Nonton were watching its release with eagle eyes, no doubt with a view to dispatching it later.
‘It is a good thing he is holy,’ said Yvo, when everyone was back in his place and peace reigned once more. ‘Because otherwise I would have to ask you to find other lodgings.’
‘He is holy,’ asserted William, loath to lose the Benedictines’ luxurious hospitality quite so soon. ‘And his eccentricity is proof of it.’
‘I am not—’ began Clippesby in alarm.
‘There is a barn owl looking for you,’ interrupted William quickly. ‘Outside. You had better go and see what it wants. Hurry now.’
Clippesby regarded him askance. ‘Are you sun-touched, Father? A barn owl would not be looking for me. What a peculiar notion!’
‘Oh,’ said William, painfully aware that he was now the one who looked addled.
‘Not at this time of year and in daylight,’ Clippesby went on, to William’s profound relief. ‘It must have been some other bird. A hawk, perhaps. They often have things to say about excessive gluttony at the breakfast table.’
The Lost Abbot: 19 (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 8