Bartholomew nodded cautiously, supposing it would keep him occupied – and safely away from anyone Michael would not want offended.
‘And I shall interview the abbey’s animals,’ offered Clippesby. Bartholomew started: he had not known the Dominican was listening. ‘I saw a number of geese last night, and the horses will almost certainly have something to say.’
‘I am sure they will,’ muttered William, eyeing him disparagingly. He turned back to Bartholomew. ‘Do you want to know who I believe murdered Joan?’
Bartholomew was not surprised that William had already formed an opinion; the friar had always been a man for snap judgements. ‘Go on then,’ he said warily.
‘A Benedictine.’ William lowered his voice. ‘I do not like the Order, and as you pointed out yesterday, any of them could have gained access to the chapel via the back door. Ergo, a Black Monk slipped in and brained her.’
‘And his motive?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘I shall find out from the servants,’ vowed William. ‘This morning.’
‘Then do it discreetly, or you may find yourself relegated to the stables tonight, exchanging confidences with Clippesby’s horses.’
A flash of alarm crossed William’s face, and Bartholomew hoped self-interest would be enough to keep the questions conciliatory.
‘What about Abbot Robert?’ the friar asked, after a moment. ‘Do you have a theory about him? If not, I do.’
‘Yes?’ Bartholomew braced himself for more hare-brained speculation.
‘Robert became ill on the journey, so Physician Pyk gave him medicine. But Pyk dispensed the wrong kind, and rather than face the consequences, he hid the body and fled. That is why both are missing.’
‘But the robin told me that Pyk was very good at his trade,’ argued Clippesby. ‘I doubt he made a mistake. But even if he did, he could just have claimed that Robert had a fatal seizure. No one would have challenged him.’
‘Rubbish,’ claimed William, although he wore a crestfallen expression. ‘But prime is starting, and I am not in the habit of chatting during sacred offices. Please be quiet now.’
Tactfully refraining from pointing out that it had been William doing most of the talking, Bartholomew and Clippesby bowed their heads.
Prime was a beautiful ceremony in Peterborough. The precentor was an innovative musician, and the monks had been taught to sing in parts rather than traditional plainsong. Bartholomew closed his eyes to listen to the exquisite harmonies, but opened them again when someone joined in who should not have done – a discordant yowl that clashed with the tenors. William was smirking, delighted at this example that not everything the Benedictines did was perfect; Clippesby did not seem to have noticed.
When the service was over, Michael was waiting to say that they had been invited to breakfast in the refectory. He began walking there briskly, as though afraid there might not be anything left if he dawdled.
‘Did you hear Prior Yvo caterwauling?’ he asked, slightly breathless from the rapid pace he was setting. ‘He ruined the Gloria.’
‘That was him, was it?’ asked William, amused. ‘Why did no one tell him to desist?’
‘We did, but he informed us that there was nothing wrong with his warbling, and that it was our ears that were out of tune.’
‘You are talking about Prior Yvo,’ came a voice from behind them. They turned to see a plump, round-faced, smiling little man who had been at the gathering of obedientiaries the previous evening. ‘He made himself heard this morning, even though I had begged him to stay silent. I had dedicated this morning’s music to poor Joan, you see. I was fond of her.’
‘This is Thomas Appletre,’ said Michael to his colleagues. ‘The precentor.’
The monk smiled a welcome. ‘Any friends of Bishop Gynewell are friends of mine; I admire him greatly. However, I hope he will appoint a new Abbot for Peterborough and not leave us to elect one of our own. I think an outsider would be a good idea.’
‘I am considering taking the post myself,’ confided Michael. ‘And–’
‘Oh, please do!’ cried Appletre in delight. ‘It would be wonderful to have a man who cares for music – and who might be persuaded to sing the responses on occasion.’
‘Well,’ said Michael, flattered. He was a talented musician, and it was unfortunate that Michaelhouse had one of the worst choirs in the country. ‘That would be pleasant. But there is more to an abbacy than a bit of chanting, you know.’
‘Not necessarily. You can do what Robert did – delegate all the tedious business to your obedientiaries and keep the enjoyable duties for yourself.’
‘What does being Peterborough’s precentor entail?’ asked William, while Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a meaningful glance at this latest revelation of the Abbot’s shortcomings.
‘Organising the music and setting the mortuary roll,’ replied Appletre. When the friar frowned his bemusement, he explained, ‘Arranging prayers for the dead. Of course, that has put me in an invidious position of late.’
‘Has it?’ asked William, puzzled. ‘Why?’
Appletre looked pained. ‘Because I should like to arrange some for Abbot Robert, but Welbyrn refuses to let me, on the grounds that he thinks he is still in the world of the living.’
‘But you believe Robert is dead?’ asked Michael.
‘Yes, I am afraid I do. He loved his food, you see, and I cannot see him staying away from the abbey’s table for a month without good cause. He took his victuals seriously.’
‘Tell me what you thought of him as Abbot,’ ordered Michael.
Appletre considered carefully before replying. ‘He was a strong man. Well, he had to be, because a weak one could not have controlled us obedientiaries – we are opinionated fellows, as you may have noticed. But I think he meant well, on the whole.’
‘Hardly resounding praise,’ murmured Michael, as they followed the precentor to the refectory. ‘But kinder than anything anyone else has said. Unfortunately, I suspect Appletre is one of those who looks for the good in everyone, so I am disinclined to believe him. Abbot Robert was an ugly customer, and that is all there is to it.’
The refectory was a long building near the cloister. There was a high table on a dais for the obedientiaries, and Prior Yvo took the Abbot’s chair at its head. Welbyrn and Nonton formed a sullen, formidable presence on his left, while Ramseye sat smiling enigmatically on his right with Appletre. The scent of expensive perfume preceded the arrival of Lullington, who informed the precentor in braying French that he would have to move, as Lullington himself intended to sit near Yvo that morning. Appletre joined the lesser officials at the far end of the table, openly relieved to be away from the centre of power and the tense politics that surged around it.
Like the rest of the abbey, the refectory was well designed and clean, with religious murals placed to inspire the brethren to holy thoughts as they ate. It did not take long for the visitors to see that the artist had wasted his time. The meal was sumptuous, and the monks’ attention was fixed entirely on the platters that were starting to arrive.
Bartholomew had never been very interested in fine food, mostly because he was unused to it – a life spent in universities had seen to that – and he had never really understood Michael’s devotion to his stomach. He began to appreciate it that day, though, and knew he needed to pace himself, or the rich fare would make him ill. Michael and William showed no such compunction, and fell to with undisguised relish. Bartholomew exchanged a wry smile with Clippesby, who was also inclined to be abstemious.