‘How is your wife, Sir John?’ asked Bartholomew, purely to silence Michael before he went any further. He was not sure Peterborough would be such a plum appointment, given the bitter disputes that were bubbling, and he wanted to tell his friend so before remarks were made that might later be difficult to retract.
‘What?’ asked Lullington, blinking. ‘What about her?’
Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly. ‘She is unwell.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Lullington. He waved his hand rather carelessly. ‘But she will be with God soon, which is good, because the abbey resents the extra mouth to feed.’
‘Her death will ease our financial burden,’ agreed Welbyrn, overhearing and coming to voice an opinion. Bartholomew regarded them in disbelief, sure the frail figure did not eat much, and probably had not done for weeks. Before he could say so, Yvo clapped his hands.
‘Take your seats, please, gentleman. Time is passing.’
Once everyone was sitting around a large table, Yvo began to make introductions. He began with the Unholy Trinity. ‘You have met our almoner, treasurer and cellarer.’
Ramseye nodded a polite greeting, but Welbyrn and Nonton did not. Nonton was refilling his goblet again, while Welbyrn, presumably to show the Bishop’s Commissioners that he was an important man with heavy responsibilities, was scanning some documents.
‘My God!’ Ramseye exclaimed suddenly, gaping at Bartholomew. ‘I thought there was something familiar about you earlier, but I could not place it. Yet I recognise you now you are in the light and have dressed in marginally more respectable clothes. Welbyrn, look!’
‘It is Matt Bartholomew!’ breathed Welbyrn, parchments forgotten. ‘The lad who declined to learn his theology. I see from his attire that he has not amounted to much.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Michael, while a number of responses were on the tip of Bartholomew’s tongue, none of them polite. ‘He is the University’s most distinguished medicus and has the favour of the Prince of Wales.’
This was misleading. First, there were only two medici in the University, and being more distinguished than Doctor Rougham was no great accomplishment. And second, the Prince of Wales had noticed Bartholomew once, after the Battle of Poitiers, when he had ministered to the wounded. The physician was sure he had long since been forgotten.
‘I am pleased you realised your ambition to become a healer,’ said Ramseye with a sly smile, although Welbyrn’s dark, heavy features were full of disbelief at Michael’s claims. ‘I cannot imagine a better profession for someone like you.’
Bartholomew was not sure what he meant, but was certain it was nothing complimentary. He declined to reply, so Prior Yvo began to introduce the other obedientiaries. As Peterborough was a large foundation, a vast number of monks held official appointments, although Bartholomew was disappointed to note that Henry was not among them. He and Michael nodded politely as sacrist, precentor, cook, succentor, novice-master, pittancer, chamberlain and brewer were presented, along with their various assistants and deputies. The long list of names and faces soon merged into a blur.
‘Now, Brother Michael,’ said Yvo, when he had finished. ‘What do you need to make an end to your investigation? It would be good to have the matter resolved tonight.’
‘I think I may need a little longer than that,’ said Michael, taken aback. ‘But we can certainly make a start. When was the last time you saw Abbot Robert?’
‘A month ago,’ supplied Yvo. ‘On St Swithin’s Day. He went to visit Aurifabro, who owns a manor in the nearby village of Torpe. He never arrived.’
Not revealing that he already knew this, Michael merely remarked, ‘I thought he and Aurifabro hated each other.’
‘They did, but Aurifabro is the town’s only goldsmith, and we wanted a new ceremonial paten,’ explained Ramseye. ‘We had no choice but to use him. My uncle took Pyk to ensure his safety on that fateful journey, but unfortunately it did not work.’
‘Pyk?’ probed Michael guilelessly.
‘The town’s physician, who is probably the most popular man in Peterborough,’ provided Yvo. ‘He disappeared at the same time.’
‘A medicus seems an odd choice of protector,’ said Michael. ‘Or was Pyk a warrior?’
There was a general chuckle at this notion. ‘Pyk was not a fighting man,’ said an apple-cheeked, chubby man, whom Bartholomew thought was the precentor. ‘Far from it.’
‘Why did Robert not take his defensores?’ pressed Michael.
‘Presumably, because he did not want to insult Aurifabro with a show of force,’ replied Ramseye with a shrug. ‘But we cannot answer for certain, because my uncle rarely took anyone into his confidence.’
He sounded bitter. Bartholomew looked at him sharply, but could read nothing in the bland face.
‘I told him to take a few defensores,’ put in Welbyrn. ‘But he said he would not be in danger, and I am inclined to agree. When he returns–’
‘He will not return,’ growled Nonton. ‘Aurifabro is a murderous bastard, and violence is part of his nature. Robert should have known better.’
‘He is not dead,’ snapped Welbyrn. ‘Why must you persist in saying he is?’
‘What time did Robert leave the abbey?’ asked Michael loudly, cutting into the burgeoning spat.
‘After the midday meal,’ replied Yvo. ‘We had ox kidneys that day, and he was a glutton for those. He ate a large dish of them, and rode off shortly afterwards.’
‘And his purpose was to inspect a paten?’ asked Michael. ‘Did he not delegate that sort of task? To the sacrist, for example, whose duty it is to manage such affairs?’
‘As Ramseye has pointed out, Robert did not discuss his decisions with us,’ replied Yvo. ‘However, the paten was a costly venture, so it is not unreasonable that he was keen to assess its progress himself.’
‘Is it finished now?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘No,’ replied Yvo. ‘When Robert failed to return, I told Aurifabro that we no longer wanted it. He is livid, but our Abbot died on a visit to his lair, so what does he expect?’
‘What about Pyk?’ asked Michael. ‘Did his family search for him?’
‘His patients did,’ nodded Yvo. ‘As I said, he was popular, and he is sorely missed. Much more than Robert, although it grieves me to say it.’
He did not look particularly grieved, and neither did his colleagues.
‘Tell me about Robert as a man,’ instructed Michael. ‘What was he like?’
Immediately, most of the monks stared at the table, unwilling to catch his eye. Welbyrn scowled and twisted one of the documents in his big hands, while Nonton poured himself another drink. Ramseye looked faintly amused, as if he found his colleagues’ behaviour entertaining. It was Prior Yvo who broke the uncomfortable silence.
‘He was ambitious, greedy and ruthless. I am not in the habit of speaking ill of the dead, but false eulogies will not help your investigation, Brother.’
‘My uncle could be cruel,’ acknowledged Ramseye. ‘And spiteful, on occasion.’
‘He was my friend,’ said Lullington. ‘But even I am forced to admit that he was difficult.’
Their remarks opened the floodgates, and all the monks began to bombard him with examples of the Abbot’s shortcomings. Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a glance: how were they to isolate a single suspect when it seemed that the entire monastery had disliked him?
‘So to summarise,’ said Michael, when the gush had slowed to a trickle, ‘this bullying, greedy, cruel man set out to inspect a paten with Pyk, and neither man has been seen since.’
‘Yes,’ nodded Yvo. ‘However, remember that both were well-dressed and rode fine horses, which was reckless with so many outlaws about. And Robert carried his official seals, which are solid gold.’