‘I doubt Robert would find that particular jest amusing,’ murmured Michael.
Nonton led them to a pretty house next to the refectory, which had a tiled roof, real glass in the windows, and smoke wafting from its chimney. As it was high summer, a fire to ward off the slight chill of evening was an almost unimaginable extravagance.
‘Abbot Robert’s home,’ explained Nonton. ‘He liked to be near the victuals, so he had this place built specially. Prior Yvo lives here now, although he will have to move when he loses the election.’
‘You think Ramseye will win, then?’ asked Michael.
Nonton flexed his fists, an unpleasant gleam in his eye. ‘My brethren will vote for him if they know what is good for them.’
‘Tell me about Robert,’ invited Michael. ‘Was he popular?’
‘Not really. I liked him well enough, but most of the other monks did not. Why?’
‘Because it might have a bearing on what happened to him.’ Michael stopped walking and looked Nonton in the eye. ‘If the rumours are true, and Robert and Physician Pyk are found murdered, who are your favourite suspects for the crime?’
‘I only have one: Aurifabro,’ replied the cellarer promptly. ‘He and Robert were always squabbling, and we should not have ordered that gold paten from him.’
‘Yet you have just told us that Robert was unpopular,’ probed Michael. ‘Perhaps one of your brethren has dispatched him.’
‘They are all too lily-livered,’ said Nonton with a sneer, as if a disinclination to commit murder was something to be despised. ‘Besides, not everyone found him objectionable. I thought he was all right, and so did Welbyrn, Ramseye and Precentor Appletre. And that pathetic Henry de Overton, although he has a tendency to like everyone.’
‘Henry de Overton?’ asked Bartholomew, his spirits rising. ‘He is still here?’
‘Do you know him? That is not surprising: the man has friends everywhere.’ Nonton scowled, giving Bartholomew the impression that the same could not be said for him.
‘Was Henry friends with Robert?’
‘He was not,’ replied Nonton curtly. ‘Our Abbot had three confidants: Physician Pyk, Sir John Lullington and Reginald the cutler. And that was all.’
‘Reginald?’ asked Bartholomew. Hagar had also mentioned the association, yet a grimy merchant seemed an odd choice of companion for anyone, but especially a wealthy and influential monastic.
Nonton nodded. ‘A sly wretch, who would cheat his own mother. I cannot imagine why Robert tolerated him. The same goes for Lullington, who is an empty-headed ass. Pyk was decent, though. I liked him.’
‘It sounds to me as though virtually anyone in Peterborough might have killed Robert,’ whispered Bartholomew to Michael, as the cellarer began walking again. ‘This will not be an easy case to solve, because I doubt the culprit will confess, and if it happened a month ago, there will be scant physical evidence to find.’
‘I was charged to discover where Robert went,’ Michael whispered back. ‘Gynewell said nothing about solving a murder.’
‘Sophistry, Brother. If Robert is dead by unlawful means, Gynewell will order you to catch the killer. He will not want his senior clergy dispatched without recourse to justice, as it might open the floodgates to more “removals”.’
‘What was Robert like?’ asked Michael, addressing the cellarer just in time to see him take a furtive gulp from a flask.
‘Medicine,’ explained Nonton hastily. ‘For my chilblains.’
‘Chilblains are not treated with–’ began Bartholomew.
‘Robert was a fellow who knew what he wanted and how to get it,’ interrupted Nonton briskly. ‘I admire that in a man – I cannot abide indecision. But we had better go inside, or Prior Yvo will wonder what we are doing out here.’
The Abbot’s solar was a beautiful room with tapestries on the wall and a wealth of attractive furniture. An array of treats had been left on a table near the window, along with a jug of wine. Nonton headed straight for it, joining Welbyrn who was already there. The cellarer downed his first cup quickly, and poured himself another.
‘I summoned all the obedientiaries,’ said Yvo, coming to greet his visitors. ‘Along with Sir John Lullington, who is our corrodian and always attends important gatherings.’
‘Is he any relation to Lady Lullington?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Her husband,’ replied Yvo, as an elegant man stepped forward wearing the dress of a knight at ease – an embroidered gipon, fastened with a jewelled girdle. He was considerably younger than the woman in the hospital, suggesting the marriage had probably been one of convenience. Lullington bowed gracefully, producing a distinct waft of perfume.
‘Bonsoir,’ he said, fluttering his hand. ‘I am delighted to meet you.’
Yvo had been speaking French, as was the custom among the country’s aristocratic elite, but he suddenly switched to Latin, leaving Lullington frowning in incomprehension.
‘The King has it in his gift to foist members of his household on us when they are no longer of use to him – Peterborough is a royal foundation, you see, so His Majesty has a say in its running. The right is called a corrody, and the recipient is a corrodian.’
‘I know,’ said Michael, irritated by the assumption that he was a bumpkin with no understanding of how his Order’s grander foundations worked.
‘So we are obliged to house Lullington and his wife in considerable splendour.’ Yvo either did not hear or chose to ignore Michael’s response. ‘He is also entitled to dine at my … at the Abbot’s table whenever he pleases, and to attend occasions like these.’
‘Please use French,’ snapped Lullington. ‘You know my Latin is poor.’
‘Then perhaps you should apply yourself a little more rigorously to learning it.’ Yvo gave a smile that might have taken the sting from his words had there been any kindness in it, but it was challenging, and Lullington bristled.
‘I shall report you to the King,’ threatened the knight. ‘I thought you wanted my backing when you stand for Abbot. You will not get it with that attitude.’
Yvo raised his eyebrows. ‘Would you prefer Ramseye to be Abbot, then?’
Lullington promptly became oily. ‘Let us not quarrel, Father Prior. You know I consider you by far the best choice. I support you without reservation.’
‘Of course he does,’ said Yvo in Latin. ‘He knows Ramseye will manoeuvre him out of the comfortable niche he has carved for himself here, whereas I shall let sleeping dogs lie. As did Robert. Ramseye might be bold enough to challenge the King’s right to appoint corrodians, but I am no fool.’
‘French, Yvo,’ said Lullington crossly. ‘Or English, if you must. I do not understand why you insist on Latin. Bishop Gynewell, who is a personal friend, speaks French to me.’
‘Bishop Gynewell is a personal friend of mine, too,’ said Michael. ‘And he will not be impressed when he hears that Peterborough’s officials are constantly at each other’s throats. He will appoint an outsider as Abbot. Indeed, I might put myself forward for the post, and he will certainly choose me, should I express an interest.’
Yvo gaped at him, and so did Bartholomew, while Lullington looked the monk up and down appraisingly, as if deciding whether to shift his allegiance.
‘You cannot,’ said Bartholomew, eventually finding his voice. ‘The University–’
‘Will flounder without me,’ finished Michael comfortably. ‘Yes, I know. But I cannot devote myself to it for ever, and I have always said that my next post will be either an abbacy or a bishopric. Peterborough is not Ely, but it has potential.’