Susanna GREGORY - The Lost Abbot

Bartholomew frowned at the contradiction in their diatribes. ‘But if Aurifabro is Robert’s “mortal enemy”, why was Robert visiting him?’

‘Because the abbey has commissioned a special paten from him,’ explained Hagar. ‘And Robert wanted to see how it was coming along. Obviously, he would have preferred someone else to make it, but Aurifabro is the only goldsmith in town, so he had no choice.’

‘I do not envy you, Brother,’ said Botilbrig rather smugly. ‘ I would not want the task of proving that Aurifabro murdered the Abbot.’

‘Murder?’ echoed Michael sharply. ‘You think Robert is dead?’

‘Of course he is dead,’ said Botilbrig scornfully. ‘He would have come home otherwise.’

‘I have a bad feeling about what the Bishop has asked you to do here, Brother,’ murmured Bartholomew, when Botilbrig, Hagar and their cronies began a spirited debate in a local dialect that made their discussion difficult to follow. ‘Aurifabro is obviously an aggressive man, and he is your chief suspect.’

‘Suspect?’ echoed Michael. ‘Now you are assuming that Robert is dead.’

‘Yes, because Botilbrig is right: no head of house would leave his domain without word for a month. He probably is dead. And Aurifabro will not be easy to interrogate.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘But we shall face that problem when – if – it arises. However, I hope we can resolve the matter quickly. I must be home to draw up Winwick Hall’s charter, or God only knows what liberties its founder might try to sneak into it.’

‘I promised my patients that I would be home by Saturday week, too.’ And Julitta was waiting, Bartholomew thought but did not say. He wondered if she missed him as much as he missed her, and whether her despicable husband was behaving himself.

‘I would go to the abbey and make a start,’ said Michael, ‘but we had better wait until the officials arrive. To keep the ghouls away, if nothing else.’

‘Hagar is more than capable of doing that. She may be old, but she is far from weak.’

Michael grinned. ‘I would not have liked to cross her when she was younger. Indeed, I would not like to cross her now, and I am used to dealing with villains.’

‘You think she is a villain?’

‘Well, she and her bedeswomen are fleecing pilgrims for the right to pray at the grave of an executed criminal. That hardly makes them angels.’

They both turned as William and Clippesby approached.

‘Are you talking about Oxforde?’ asked the Franciscan. ‘That grimy cutler Reginald just told me that Bishop Gynewell came in person to suppress that particular cult, but the abbey looked the other way when it started up again.’

Michael smothered a smile at the thought that William should remark on someone else’s cleanliness. ‘Then the Abbot is a fool. Gynewell may be kindly, but he will not tolerate open disobedience.’

‘The shrine makes a lot of money and the monks share the revenue,’ William went on. ‘So of course they want it to thrive. But such greed is to be expected of Benedictines–’

‘What happened to Joan, Matt?’ interrupted Michael, unwilling to listen to more of the Franciscan’s vitriol.

Bartholomew crouched to lift the cloak that covered the body. Blood stained the flagstones, and he wondered whether they would become relics in time. It was not every day that murders were committed in holy places, and if the abbey was the kind of foundation to take advantage of such incidents, then Joan might well be declared a martyr.

‘She was struck from behind,’ he said, after a brief examination. ‘Almost certainly by the smaller of those two pieces of stone from Canterbury Cathedral. The position of the wound eliminates suicide and accident.’

‘Murder, then,’ surmised Michael. ‘So let us review what we know. Joan ousted all the pilgrims and Botilbrig so that she could show William her relics. She was alone when we left the chapel, and she refused to let anyone back in afterwards, as she wanted to pore over her donations. The pilgrims were vexed, and milled around outside…’

‘She kept them waiting for so long that I think some had started to creep back in,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But it will be difficult, if not impossible, to find out who.’

‘The bedeswomen were in here for some time before the alarm was raised, too,’ added Clippesby. ‘Yet perhaps they did not notice the body – it is dark, and they might not have approached the altar immediately.’

‘Yes, they are certainly suspects,’ agreed Michael. ‘Especially Hagar, who assumed command with indecent haste.’

‘If she is the killer, it means the other ladies stood by and watched,’ mused William. ‘I saw them all go in at the same time. But perhaps they did turn a blind eye as the formidable Joan was felled.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Michael. ‘As Clippesby pointed out, the chapel is dark after the brightness of the sun. Hagar – or anyone else – could have brained Joan by the altar while those in the nave remained blissfully unaware.’

‘Well, my favourite suspect is Botilbrig,’ said William. ‘On account of his unseemly sparring with the victim. He claimed he was outside at the time, but I did not see him.’

‘Is he not too frail to brain anyone?’ asked Michael doubtfully.

‘It does not require much strength to bring down a stone on someone’s head,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Especially if he was fuelled by rage.’

‘But Botilbrig may have been outside,’ said Clippesby. ‘Just because we did not notice him does not mean he was not there.’

‘The other bedesmen are suspects, too,’ William went on. ‘I did not see any of them sneaking into the chapel, but I was watching that escaped pig, and I suspect other folk were, too. It was a perfect diversion.’

‘There are other ways into the chapel besides the marketplace,’ Bartholomew reminded them. ‘There are doors leading from the hospital, the abbey and the graveyard – although that was empty. Of course, its walls are not very high, and someone could easily have climbed over them. In other words, virtually anyone might have come in and killed Joan.’

William sighed. ‘Well, let us hope the townsfolk do not decide to blame strangers. It would be easy to point fingers at us.’

‘At the Bishop’s Commissioners?’ asked Michael archly. ‘They would not dare.’

‘True,’ acknowledged William, then added ruefully, ‘So let us hope they never find out that you are the only one who actually holds that particular title.’

‘They will not,’ said Michael grimly. ‘Because I am appointing you all as my deputies. It seems I shall be investigating an abbot’s death, not his disappearance, so I shall need all the help I can get.’

While they waited for the abbey officials, Michael took the opportunity to question the bedesfolk. The men claimed the women had killed Joan, while the women declared the men responsible, but neither side could prove it. Each asserted that the first he or she had known about the murder was when Marion had raised the alarm. He fared no better with the pilgrims, all of whom denied entering the chapel before Marion’s screech, although shifty eyes and shuffling feet told him that some were lying.

‘It will be a tough case to solve,’ he told his colleagues. ‘I am glad it is not my responsibility.’

The abbey dignitaries arrived at that point, a collection of sleek, well-fed men with proud expressions and haughty manners. Bartholomew looked for old classmates among them, but the faces above the elegant habits were unfamiliar.

A portly fellow with enormous eyebrows stepped forward. ‘I am Prior Yvo, Abbot Robert’s deputy. You must be Brother Michael and his Commissioners. I am sorry your arrival has been tainted by bloodshed. It is hardly the welcome we had hoped to extend.’