The Lost Abbot (21 page)

‘We are,’ said Welbyrn. It was impossible to tell whether he was sincere. ‘Especially as he mentioned that you thought the culprits might hail from the abbey.’

‘I hope you do not think our
defensores
are to blame,’ said Nonton, going to the table for wine. ‘Did we not lend you some when you went to Torpe the other day? If they had meant you harm, they would have assaulted you then – on a lonely road, miles from help.’

‘Those
defensores
could not have assaulted anyone,’ William murmured to his colleagues. ‘Nonton detailed the most feeble ones to protect you, and kept the best ones back for himself. He spent the day putting them through various training exercises.’

‘Of course, tonight’s affair was your own fault,’ said Welbyrn, frowning as he tried to hear what the Franciscan was muttering. ‘You should not have been out after dark.’

‘We were on official business,’ retorted Michael. ‘For the Bishop.’

‘In a tavern?’ smirked Ramseye. ‘I shall have to remember that one!’

‘We shall discuss it in the morning,’ said Clippesby, as Michael drew breath to make a scathing rejoinder. ‘It is late, and we are all tired.’

‘There speaks the saint,’ jeered Welbyrn. ‘We had better do as he suggests, Brothers, because we do not want to be struck down. He might—’

‘Leave him alone,’ warned Bartholomew, seeing Clippesby’s confusion. He was loath for the Dominican to discover that night what had been claimed about him, as he did not feel equal to soothing the dismay that would certainly follow.

‘Or what?’ challenged Welbyrn. ‘You have no authority here. You are nothing but a physician with a sinister interest in corpses.’

‘You might find yourself the object of his attentions if you do not shut up,’ snarled William. ‘And Clippesby is right: we shall discuss this matter tomorrow, when you have regained your wits and accept that it is not politic to insult the Bishop’s—’

‘Who are you calling witless?’ shrieked Welbyrn with such sudden fury that even the other two members of the Unholy Trinity reacted with shock; Ramseye jerked away from him, and Nonton’s hand went to the knife he carried in his belt. ‘How dare you! It—’

‘Come, Welbyrn,’ ordered Ramseye sharply, stepping forward to lay a wary hand on the treasurer’s arm. When Welbyrn resisted, Nonton came to help, and together, almoner and cellarer bundled him out of the guest house and into the darkness beyond.

Bartholomew watched William bar the door behind them, thinking that Welbyrn’s face had been abnormally flushed. Was something wrong with him? But he did not feel like pondering medical matters that night. He lay on the bed, but the moment he was comfortable, he realised that he was still very thirsty. Wearily, he started to rise, but William waved him back down and went to pour him some watered wine.

‘I heard and saw nothing out there, Brother,’ Bartholomew said, watching the friar fiddle with jugs and goblets and wondering what was taking so long. He felt his eyes begin to close: the Benedictine’s beds really were extremely luxurious, and he wished the ones at Michaelhouse were half as soft. ‘Are you sure you—’

‘Of course I did,’ snapped Michael. ‘And so would you, if you had not been drunk. It is fortunate that I remained sober, or we both might be dead.’

‘Right.’ Bartholomew was disinclined to argue, although it occurred to him that since Michael had downed a lot more wine than he had, the monk was probably not a reliable witness either. William finally presented him with a brimming beaker, and he was thirsty enough to drain the lot in a single draught. ‘Is there any more?’

‘Yes, but you cannot have any,’ said William, regarding the empty goblet in alarm. ‘It is unwise to gulp claret – even watered – after a serious injury, especially for a man who is usually abstemious.’

Michael began to hold forth again before Bartholomew could inform William that a graze did not constitute a serious injury. Piqued by the friar’s presumptions, Bartholomew considered going to get a drink himself but was not sure he could manage it without reeling, and he was reluctant to let the others see him totter – he would never hear the end of it. He closed his eyes again.

‘It might have been anyone,’ the monk was fuming. ‘Aurifabro’s mercenaries, Spalling and his rabble, the obedientiaries and their
defensores
, the bedesfolk, Reginald…’

‘Lullington,’ added William. ‘The abbey servants say he only pretended to be Robert’s friend, in order to accumulate privileges as corrodian. And I saw armour under his gipon tonight.’

‘What did you mean when you said the
defensores
Nonton lent us were feeble, Father?’ asked Michael, reining in his temper with difficulty. ‘How do you know?’

‘The servants again,’ replied William. ‘Apparently, Nonton has recruited two kinds of soldier: ones who know how to fight, and ones who look fierce but who actually possess no martial skills whatsoever and who are probably cowards. He supplied you with the latter kind.’

Bartholomew began to drowse. Then he supposed he should pay at least some attention to the conversation, so he forced himself to open his eyes. It was not easy, and when he finally managed it the room undulated alarmingly. He wanted to rub his damaged elbow, but his hand was suddenly too heavy to move. What was wrong with him? He tried to speak, but no words came, and when his eyes closed again, a crushing sense of darkness rushed in to meet him.

‘Matt?’ came Clippesby’s anxious voice. ‘Are you ill?’

He sensed his colleagues clustering around him, but it was as if they were speaking from a great distance. He felt himself drift further away, and the last thing he heard before he gave himself to the blackness was Michael’s horrified declaration.

‘The leeks. They were poisoned!’

Bartholomew knew it was Sunday, because he could hear the jubilant jangle of bells, and he also knew he should rouse himself and go to church. Someone else thought so, too, because he could feel his shoulder being shaken with irritating persistence. But he was still tired, and the bed was very comfortable. He closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

‘I am right: the leeks
were
poisoned,’ said Michael worriedly, when increasingly strenuous efforts on his part did nothing to jostle the physician awake.

‘It was not the leeks, Brother.’ William’s face was sober. ‘It was the Lombard slices. Clippesby and I visited the Swan as soon as we woke up this morning, and we quizzed Landlord Piel. He denied providing you with any – he has not sold cakes since his wife died.
Ergo
, someone else left them for you.’

‘You said you were too anxious about your investigation to eat any,’ Clippesby reminded Michael. ‘But that Matt took one on his way out.’

Michael was horrified. ‘They are my favourites, and I said so in both the Swan and the abbey. Anyone might have heard me…’

‘Quite,’ nodded William. ‘I searched the place thoroughly while I was there, but the cakes had disappeared. In other words, the culprit has slyly reclaimed the evidence.’

‘Or someone ate them after we left,’ Michael pointed out.

‘It is not that kind of establishment,’ said William. ‘Its wares are expensive, and the folk who patronise it are wealthy – they do not need to scavenge leftovers from other tables.’

Michael scrubbed at his face. ‘Matt ate one Lombard slice and it has sent him into a stupor. What would have happened to me had I sampled the entire plate?’

‘You would be dead,’ replied William baldly. ‘So we had better ensure we do not touch any food that does not come from a communal pot from now on. Pity – I was growing used to being properly fed; it makes a pleasant change from Michaelhouse.’

Michael’s expression was bleak. ‘Are you
sure
the Lombard slices were to blame? I tried one of those leeks, and it tasted very odd.’

‘Yes, because while William was looking for the cakes, I interviewed the tavern’s pig,’ said Clippesby. ‘She told me that Piel had over-salted his vegetables by mistake – she overheard him laughing about it with his potboys. The leftovers were in her slops, which did not please her, but she ate them anyway with no ill effects.’

‘So there you are, Brother,’ concluded William. ‘The leeks tasted nasty because there was too much salt, and the poison was in the Lombard slices – the pastries that Piel denies providing, and that have now mysteriously vanished.’

‘Do you think that whoever provided the cakes also ordered you ambushed when you did not eat them?’ asked Clippesby.

‘I hope so,’ said Michael softly. ‘Because I should not like to think there are two lots of people eager to kill me.’

Aware that the stakes had now been raised, and that the time was fast approaching when they would have to return to Cambridge, Michael became businesslike. He sent Clippesby to tell Langelee all they had reasoned, with orders to warn the Master to be on his guard, and told William to watch over Bartholomew.

‘What will you be doing?’ asked the Franciscan.

‘Visiting suspects,’ replied Michael harshly. ‘For trying to dispatch me
and
for murdering Robert, Pyk, Joan and Lady Lullington.’

‘Perhaps we should leave today,’ said William anxiously. ‘Gynewell cannot expect us to stay when we are in fear of our lives, and we can hire a cart to carry Matthew – he would be safer in one than on horseback, anyway.’

‘I am not in the habit of fleeing from villains,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘And Peterborough deserves answers. We will catch this killer and then we shall see him hang.’

Inspired by his own defiant words, Michael stalked out of the abbey, stopping only to inform a waiting Henry that visitors to the guest house would not be welcome that day. His first port of call was Reginald’s workshop, where a rhythmic hammering told him that the cutler was in. He tried to open the door but it was barred, so he knocked, courteously at first, and then with increasing irritation when there was no answer. Eventually, a grille was snapped open.

‘What do you want?’ barked Reginald.

‘To buy a knife,’ lied Michael. ‘You sell them, do you not?’

‘Yes, but not today. I am busy.’

Michael frowned suspiciously. ‘I am a customer. You cannot be too busy for those.’

‘Well, I am,’ declared Reginald. ‘And I do not do business with bishops’ commissioners, anyway. You have no right to poke your nose into Abbot Robert’s affairs.’

‘I am trying to learn what happened to him,’ replied Michael indignantly, aware that their hollered discussion was attracting amused glances from passers-by. ‘I am told he is probably dead, but there is also a possibility that he is in trouble and requires help. And as one of his friends, you should be doing all you can to assist me.’

‘He will not be in trouble,’ Reginald shouted back. ‘He has probably found a hovel somewhere, and is enjoying the peace and quiet. I would not blame him. His monks are a pious crowd, and I
would not want to live among them.’

‘He is an abbot – such men
like
living among pious monks. And what about Pyk? Will he also be in this mud hut while the whole town mourns his loss?’

‘No, but he might have seized the opportunity to escape from his dreadful wife,’ Reginald shot back. ‘But I am not talking to you any more, because you will try to trick me. Now go away. I do not have any knives to sell you.’

Michael became aware of a presence behind him. It was Botilbrig, standing brazenly close to ensure he did not miss anything.

‘You should not buy one of his blades, anyway,’ he said, not at all discomfited by the monk’s annoyed glare. ‘They are all below standard, and he will cheat you.’

‘I heard that,’ yelled Reginald angrily. ‘There is nothing wrong with my cutlery.’

‘Then show me some,’ challenged Michael. ‘And at the same time, you can tell me why you think I might trick you. You should not be concerned if you have nothing to hide.’

‘He
will
have something to hide,’ whispered Botilbrig. ‘If there is anything untoward happening in Peterborough, you can be sure that Reginald will be at the heart of it. How else could a mere cutler afford a nice shop and such lovely clothes? There are rumours that he has discovered Oxforde’s treasure, you know.’

‘What treasure?’ asked Michael, forbearing to mention that the shop was squalid and the cutler’s clothes were a long way from being sartorial.

‘The things that Oxforde stole during his life of crime,’ explained Botilbrig impatiently. ‘He amassed a fortune, but he never told anyone where he hid it.’

Michael recalled what Clippesby’s grass snake was alleged to have said. ‘Spalling maintains that Oxforde gave it all to the poor.’

Botilbrig spat. ‘Spalling never met Oxforde, or he would not make such a ridiculous claim. Oxforde was ruthless and greedy, and would no more have given his ill-gotten gains away than he would have flown to the moon.’

‘Some people believe it, or Oxforde’s shrine would not be so popular.’

‘Fools,’ sneered Botilbrig. ‘All misled by the witches at St Thomas’s Hospital, who have seized on Spalling’s remarks and used them to encourage even more folk to pray at his tomb.’

‘What are you saying out there, Botilbrig?’ demanded Reginald. ‘You had better not be telling him that stupid tale about me finding Oxforde’s treasure. It is a lie – I was not even born when he was hanged. Now go away, both of you, before I come out with my sharpest knife and hack you both to pieces.’

‘We had better do as he says,’ gulped Botilbrig, pulling on the monk’s arm. ‘He went after Master Pyk with a dagger once, just for asking concerned questions about Reginald’s wife. She vanished, you see.’

‘Vanished?’

‘We all suspect he killed her, but that was five years ago, shortly after Robert became Abbot, so you will not get him to admit it now. Too much time has passed. However, it means I do not want him after me with pointed implements.’

Michael turned his attention back to Reginald. It was frustrating, knowing the man might have information to help his enquiries, and he heartily wished he had a pack of beadles at his command, as he did in Cambridge. Beadles made short work of inconvenient doors.

‘How is your friend?’

Michael had been so engrossed in his thoughts that he had not seen Lullington approach. The knight was wearing a magnificent new cloak, although a light mail tunic could be seen underneath it, which led the monk to wonder what the man had done to warrant such precautions.