The Lost Abbot: 19 (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Gregory, Susanna

  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.’

  CHAPTER 12

  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 to
ld 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.’

  ‘So he did the same for you? He thought you were in pain because you had scraped your elbow on the wall, so he decided to dose you with something to make you feel better?’

  ‘Precisely. Unfortunately, he failed to appreciate that I keep this particular potion for the terminally ill; I would never give it to anyone who might live.’

  ‘To help them towards the grave?’ asked Michael, round eyed. ‘Like Trentham—’

  ‘No, of course not! I mean it contains a potentially toxic combination of ingredients that should only be used in extreme cases, when relief of pain is the only recourse. I would never give it to someone for a graze.’

  ‘I remember William passing you a large beaker of watered wine,’ said Michael. ‘And I also recall you gulping it down quickly enough to alarm him.’

  Bartholomew smiled ruefully. ‘I was thirsty because I had eaten those salty leeks.’

  ‘But Lady Lullington did not sleep for two nights and a day.’

  ‘She would have developed a tolerance for strong medicines during the weeks she was ill, and I suspect William dosed me with rather more than I gave her, on the grounds that she was small and frail and I am not. Moreover, I was drunk from the claret in the Swan, and combining wine and poppy syrup is never a good idea.’

  ‘Could he have killed you?’ asked Michael uneasily.

  ‘Yes, quite possibly.’

  ‘So the Lombard slices were harmless?’

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘I have been thinking about those, too. We know Welbyrn provided them, but I think they were meant to be a peace offering. He was terrified of what he thought was happening to him, and I believe he may have been sufficiently desperate to solicit my help.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ asked Michael doubtfully. ‘I would have said you were the last person he would have turned to.’

  ‘What choice did he have? Pyk was not here, and there is no other medicus in Peterborough. And he must have been aware that his visits to St Leonard’s were not helping.’

  ‘Very well,’ conceded Michael. ‘But then what? I know you are too honourable to allow personal animosity to interfere with your dealings with patients, but he probably judged people by his own shabby standards…’

  ‘Quite, so he decided to see if a gift would make us regard him in a more favourable light. He asked the cook to bake him some Lombard slices, because you had declared a liking for them. Unfortunately, William fed me the soporific, and you declared me poisoned…’

  ‘So he retrieved them from the Swan, lest the anonymously donated Lombard slices were blamed for your condition, which explains why they were in his scrip when he died.’

  ‘He was innocent of any wrongdoing, but it would have been a difficult charge to disprove, given his very public hostility towards us. And he would not have wanted to tell the truth, because that would have meant revealing that he might be losing his wits.’

  ‘When did you reason all this out?’

  ‘Earlier – I started to tell you in Lullington’s quarters, but you interrupted.’

  ‘It was hardly the right place.’ Michael shook his head. ‘But William! How could he?’

  ‘He is not a clever man, Brother. He will have no idea what he has done.’

  Michael rubbed his hand across his eyes. ‘So where does this leave us? I am so tired that I can barely think straight and—’

  He stopped speaking when a torch flashed across the street. Moments later, there was another, and when one started to bob towards them, Bartholomew grabbed Michael’s sleeve and pulled him into a doorway. Both scholars held their breath as a number of people trotted past, their footsteps beating an urgent tattoo on the cobbles. At the very end of what was a sizeable mob was a familiar figure. Bartholomew stepped forward to intercept it.

  ‘What are you doing out at this time of night?’ demanded Langelee. He wore his boiled leather jerkin under his academic tabard, and his sword was at his waist.

  ‘Breaking into houses,’ replied Michael shortly. ‘What is happening? I can tell just by looking that these folk are up to no good.’

  ‘I told you earlier, Brother – Spalling aims to attack Aurifabro’s house.’

  ‘I did not realise it would be tonight,’ said Michael in alarm.

  ‘Nor did I,’ said Langelee grimly. ‘He just made a speech in a tavern, and suddenly his army was on the move.’

  ‘Then Aurifabro’s mercenaries will earn their keep today.’ Michael nodded at the eclectic array of hoes, scythes and kitchen knives that were being carried.

  ‘These people are no match for professional warriors.’ Bartholomew was horrified. ‘Moreover, they will run into Nonton and his defensores, who are still on the Torpe road looking for Robert’s body.’

  ‘I tried to dissuade them, so did Cynric,’ said Langelee, but their blood is up and we were lucky not to have been lynched. You must go to the abbey at once, and tell Prior Yvo to stop them.’

  ‘He will not help,’ predicted Michael. ‘Why would he, when a battle between Aurifabro and Spalling will injure two of the abbey’s enemies? And do not say he will want to save the defensores, because he would not mind being rid of them, either – Nonton intends to use them to intimidate the monks into voting for Ramse
ye in the election.’

  ‘So what do we do?’ asked Bartholomew, appalled. ‘We cannot stand by while people are slaughtered. There are children in Spalling’s throng!’

  ‘We had better follow them and see what opportunities arise.’ Langelee’s expression hardened as he fingered his sword. ‘And if not, then we had better be ready to fight.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Michael soberly. ‘But on whose side?’

  The night was not as black as it had been, and the eastern sky was streaked with silver, although it would be another hour before the sun made its appearance. It was not easy to see where they were going, and Bartholomew, Michael and Langelee stumbled over ruts and potholes as they hurried through the market and along the Torpe road.

  They heard Spalling’s raiders before they saw them: they were singing a revolutionary song that allowed them to march in time with the music. The result was a little disjointed, as the scholars were not the only ones who could not see where they were putting their feet, and the bobbing torches allocated to a chosen few were insufficient to light everyone’s way.

  Bartholomew was horrified by the number of people who had rallied to Spalling’s call. Some were feisty young men fuelled by ale and a belief that the world owed them something, but most were folk who should not have allowed themselves to be cajoled into such reckless foolery – grandmothers, men with young families, pregnant women and youngsters who should have been in bed.

  It was not long before the scholars reached the stragglers, which comprised old folk who could not walk fast enough to keep up with the main column and those who had imbibed their leader’s ale too liberally. The elderly insurgents hobbled along gamely, exchanging tales about the inconvenience of ageing bladders.