Susanna GREGORY - The Lost Abbot

Angry tears glittered in Trentham’s eyes. ‘No, I do not, and a deathbed is hardly the place to raise such a subject.’

‘On the contrary, there is nowhere better,’ countered Welbyrn. He seemed genuinely bemused by Trentham’s emotional response, and Bartholomew recalled that he had been insensitive as a youth, too.

Trentham addressed Bartholomew, pointedly ignoring the treasurer. ‘She is sleeping very deeply, and her pain seems less. Thank you.’

Yvo smiled in a way that was probably meant to be benign but only served to make him seem vaguely sinister. ‘To take your mind off her, Trentham, you can find Joan’s killer.’

Trentham went wide-eyed with horror. ‘Me? But I would not know where to start!’

‘He does not want to accuse his beloved charges,’ surmised Welbyrn nastily. ‘But we all know who is responsible for this vicious crime: a bedesman. Or a bedeswoman.’

‘No,’ cried Trentham. ‘My old people would never harm Joan.’

‘Lord!’ exclaimed Yvo suddenly. ‘Does it mean Hagar will be in charge now? That is a daunting prospect! Perhaps I shall not run for the abbacy after all, because dealing with her will not be easy.’

There was a fervent murmur of agreement from his brethren.

‘So you have your first clue, Trentham.’ Ramseye’s smile was sardonic. ‘No monk would murder Joan, as none of us are equal to managing Hagar. Perhaps the same can be said for the bedesfolk. Ergo , the culprit must be a townsman.’

‘Or a stranger,’ added Welbyrn, looking pointedly at the Michaelhouse men.

‘I told you,’ muttered William in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘We are about to be accused.’

‘Not these strangers,’ countered Yvo, glancing at Clippesby, who had abandoned the spider and had cornered a cat. ‘A saint would not keep company with killers.’

‘True,’ acknowledged Ramseye. ‘However, the town is full of possibilities. Spalling–’

‘Yes!’ interrupted Yvo eagerly. ‘Spalling is certainly the kind of man who would invade our most lucrative … I mean our holiest chapel and strike an old lady with a relic.’

‘He spent the morning accusing us of robbing travellers on the King’s highways,’ said Ramseye resentfully. ‘So the murder of one of our bedesfolk would just be one more instance of the malice he bears us.’

‘Accusing the abbey’s defensores , you mean,’ corrected Yvo sourly. ‘The band of louts that Robert hired. I wish the Abbot had listened to my advice and refrained from doing that – it does our reputation no good at all to have rough fellows like those on our payroll.’

‘They are not louts,’ countered Welbyrn irritably. ‘They are lay brothers. And we need them, given our unpopularity in the town.’

‘I certainly feel safer with the defensores to hand,’ agreed Ramseye. ‘However, Spalling has no right to blame us for those robberies when they are his fault. His followers comprise a lot of discontented peasants, all convinced that they have a God-given right to other people’s property.’

‘We must not forget that Aurifabro’s soldiers are hardened mercenaries,’ said Welbyrn. ‘Personally, I suspect that he is responsible for these nasty incidents on the south road.’

‘Mercenaries?’ echoed Bartholomew, bemused to learn that Peterborough seemed to be home to three separate private armies.

‘Foreigners mostly,’ explained Yvo. ‘He refused to recruit locals, on the grounds that he is at war with us and Spalling’s followers, and he was afraid he might hire spies who are actually in the pay of one of his enemies.’

‘The south road,’ mused William. ‘Do you mean the track that runs towards Cambridge? We were ambushed five times on that – it is why we have taken so long to get here. And our attackers spoke French. I heard them.’

‘It is disgraceful that honest men cannot travel in safety any longer,’ said Yvo, shaking his head sympathetically. ‘But I prefer Spalling as a suspect to Aurifabro – for Joan’s murder, as well as the robberies. That man has been a thorn in our side for far too long. We should arrest him, and bring an end to his villainy.’

‘Unfortunately, if we do, he will tell the Bishop that we are persecuting him on account of our past differences,’ said Ramseye, raising a cautionary hand. ‘And Gynewell will probably believe him. We need evidence before we clap him in irons.’

Yvo turned to Trentham. ‘Then you had better find us some by looking into how he dispatched poor Joan.’

‘No,’ said Trentham, taking his career in his hands by refusing the order of a senior cleric. ‘I do not have the ability to investigate murder. Or the time. With two hospitals and a parish to run, I am far too busy.’

‘Two hospitals and a parish?’ asked Michael. ‘That is a heavy burden.’

‘Too heavy,’ agreed Yvo, although he was scowling at the young priest. ‘I have been trying to appoint a second vicar, but Welbyrn says we cannot afford it.’

As the abbey was obviously wealthy, Bartholomew thought Welbyrn was lying, and that the hapless Trentham was paying the price for the treasurer’s parsimony.

‘Brother Michael can do it, then,’ said Ramseye slyly. ‘He will be looking into our dead Abbot, and two enquiries are as easy as one.’

‘No, they are not,’ countered Michael indignantly. ‘And I did not come here to solve local crimes. They should be explored by someone familiar with you and your idiosyncrasies.’

‘What idiosyncrasies?’ demanded Welbyrn.

‘I agree with Ramseye,’ said Yvo. ‘Michael will be impartial, because he has no axe to grind. So you are relieved of the responsibility, Trentham. Go and pray for Joan instead.’

‘I cannot oblige you,’ said Michael irritably, as the young priest scurried away before the Prior could change his mind. ‘I will not be here long enough to–’

‘You aim to prove Robert dead before our election next week?’ pounced Yvo eagerly. ‘Good. We can proceed as we intended, then.’

‘No, Father Prior,’ snapped Welbyrn immediately. ‘He is alive, and you cannot say otherwise just because you itch to step into his shoes. Indeed, Bishop Gynewell had no right to invite monks from Cambridge to pry into our business in the first place.’

‘Yet we shall cooperate, because we should like to know what happened to him,’ added Ramseye with a gracious smile. ‘But this is no place to discuss it. We shall do it in the abbey, while the saint takes his ease.’

The sun was beginning to set as the monks filtered out of the chapel. Bartholomew hung back – neither Welbyrn nor Ramseye seemed to have improved with age, and he had no desire to renew the acquaintance. William hovered at his side, because some of the brethren were making a fuss of Clippesby and he could not bear to watch a Dominican so fawningly feted.

‘The witches are putting on an act for Trentham’s benefit,’ whispered Botilbrig, making them jump by speaking behind them. He nodded to where the young priest was kneeling by the body with the bedeswomen clustered around him. ‘Some are pretending to cry, but the truth is that none of them liked her.’

‘Why not?’ asked William. ‘I thought she was very nice.’

‘She was a tyrant,’ explained Botilbrig. He seemed more spry than he had been, and Bartholomew regarded him suspiciously. Was he buoyed up by the success of his crime? Reinvigorated by the death of an enemy? Or simply revitalised now the heat of the day had passed? ‘Mind you, Hagar will be worse. She looks kinder, on account of being more petite, but she will be a despot, too. And then it will be her brained with a relic.’

‘Are you saying that one of the bedeswomen murdered Joan?’ asked William.