‘Then who is the culprit?’ pressed William.
Botilbrig lowered his voice. ‘Most of the monks are decent men, but the Unholy Trinity is another matter. I would not put murder past any of them.’
‘What is the Unholy Trinity?’ William’s expression was dangerous, anticipating heresy.
‘The popular name for three of the obedientiaries – men the Abbot appoints to be responsible for a specific aspect of the monastery’s functioning, which puts them in authority over the rest of their brethren and confers all sorts of benefits.’
‘I know what an obedientiary is,’ said William indignantly.
Botilbrig ignored him. ‘The Unholy Trinity is Ramseye, Welbyrn and Nonton the cellarer. Ramseye tells the other two what to do, and they are all vile men. He will order them to get him elected Abbot now.’
‘Welbyrn will not oblige,’ predicted Bartholomew. ‘He does not believe the previous incumbent has finished with the post.’
Botilbrig grimaced. ‘Welbyrn feels he owes Robert his loyalty, because he made him treasurer, whereas all the other abbots refused him promotion on account of his dim wits. But Ramseye will win him round – he always does. They were ordained together.’
Bartholomew did not say that he already knew. ‘Why would this Unholy Trinity want Joan dead?’
‘Who knows the workings of their nasty minds?’ replied Botilbrig airily. ‘I hope Ramseye is not elected Abbot, though. He will be better at it than Yvo, because he is shrewd. But he is not as agreeable.’
‘Yvo is agreeable?’ asked William doubtfully.
The abbey was beautiful in the red-gold light of the fading day. It was dominated by the vast mass of its church, and Bartholomew stopped for a moment to admire its mighty west front, just as he had done when he had been a child. It soared upwards in a breathtaking array of spires and arches, every niche filled with a carving of a saint, so that it seemed as if the entire population of Heaven was looking down at him. Then William grabbed his arm, and they hurried to catch up with Yvo, who had skirted around the cloisters to a small building with sturdy Norman features.
‘This is the guest house,’ the Prior was telling Michael and Clippesby. ‘I shall leave you to refresh yourselves, and then you must join me and the other obedientiaries for a discussion. Afterwards, the cook will prepare you a small collation.’
‘It had better be more than a small one,’ grumbled Michael when they were alone. ‘After all the travails we have suffered today.’
When Clippesby slumped into a chair, Bartholomew knelt in front of him and peered into his face. The Dominican was definitely less lucid than he had been earlier, and his hair stuck up in clumps where he had clawed at it. Clippesby ignored him, another sign that he was not himself, and all his attention was fixed on a hen that he had managed to snag.
‘How will you go about solving Joan’s murder, Brother?’ asked William, going to the best bed and tossing his cloak on it, to stake his claim.
‘I will not,’ replied Michael firmly. ‘I shall ask enough questions about Robert to fulfil my obligations to Gynewell, and then we are leaving.’
‘Good,’ said William. ‘I do not like it here.’
‘Neither do I,’ said Michael, slipping behind a screen to change. He was always prudish about anyone seeing him in his nether garments. ‘Yvo has offered to lend us a few defensores for our return journey. He says it should take no more than three days to get home, because robbers will not attack us if we are well protected, and we will make better time.’
‘You need to be back by Saturday week, which means leaving by next Wednesday at the latest,’ said William, calculating on his fingers. ‘That gives us seven days. Will it be enough?’
‘It will have to be, because I am not risking a riot at my University over this.’
‘I had misgivings about this venture the moment Langelee ordered me to pack,’ said William sourly. ‘And now I know why: Peterborough is not a happy place.’
‘No,’ agreed Michael, ‘which is a pity, because it is lovely. Wealthy, too.’
‘This bed is certainly costly,’ said William, flopping on to it and sighing his appreciation.
Michael emerged from behind the screen and inspected his reflection in the tiny mirror he used for travelling. He evidently liked what he saw, for he smiled. ‘Will you stay here and mind our budding saint while I address the obedientiaries, Father?’ he asked, carefully adjusting a stray hair.
‘What saint?’ asked Clippesby, snapping out of his reverie.
‘Of course,’ replied William, kicking off his boots and closing his eyes. ‘I do not feel like dealing with more Benedictines today anyway. But you should not go alone, Brother. Take Matthew with you.’
‘I hardly think that is necessary,’ said Bartholomew, loath to be thrust into the company of Ramseye and Welbyrn again. ‘These are men of his own Order.’
‘Yes, but I shall still need help if we are to leave in a week,’ countered Michael. ‘So don some tidier clothes, and let us make a start on this wretched business.’
Suspecting it would be futile to argue – and he had worked often enough with the monk to know that his assistance would definitely expedite matters – Bartholomew rummaged in his saddlebag for a clean tunic. Unfortunately, it had suffered from being scrunched into a ball to make room for his medicines, and was sadly creased. There was also a stain down the front, where one of the phials had leaked.
‘Wear your academic gown over the top,’ advised Michael, when the physician declared himself ready. ‘That will conceal some of the … deficiencies.’
‘That is a polite way of saying you are scruffy, Matthew,’ supplied William helpfully. ‘You might want to consider grooming yourself a little more carefully in future.’
Feeling that if the likes of William felt compelled to comment on his appearance, it was time he did something about it, Bartholomew followed Michael outside. Before he closed the door, he heard Clippesby telling William what the hen had just confided.
‘She says the reason for the antagonism between Peterborough’s two hospitals is money – St Thomas’s earns far more with its relics and Oxforde’s grave than St Leonard’s does with its healing well. It is all rather sad. They should learn to get along.’
‘Yes, they should,’ murmured William drowsily. ‘Shame on them.’
As Bartholomew and Michael left the guest house, they were intercepted by a monk who reeked of wine. The yellowness of his eyes and the broken veins in his cheeks and nose suggested an habitual drinker.
‘You were taking so long that I was sent to fetch you,’ he said curtly.
Michael and Bartholomew exchanged a glance. No one had told them that they were supposed to hurry.
‘Are you the cellarer?’ asked Bartholomew. It was not easy for monks to drink themselves into ill health in an abbey, where wines and ales were locked away, so there had to be some reason why this man seemed to have managed it.
‘Richard de Nonton.’ The man bowed. ‘Abbot Robert made me cellarer five years ago – he took his claret seriously, and knew that I am of like mind.’
‘He drank?’ asked Michael.
‘Only if the wine reached his exacting standards.’ The last member of the Unholy Trinity reflected for a moment. ‘I would not mind being Abbot myself, but Ramseye is running, and he stands a better chance of winning than me. He will see me right, though.’
‘Have you known Ramseye long?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Ten years, although he and Welbyrn were here long before that. Peterborough is a lovely place, you see, and no one leaves once he is here. We often joke that the only way we will depart will be in a coffin.’