‘How are your enquiries coming along?’ the monk asked amiably.
‘Why?’ demanded Michael, making Bartholomew wince at his curt tone.
Henry seemed taken aback by the question. ‘Because I should like to know what has befallen poor Abbot Robert. And Physician Pyk, of course.’
‘Pyk,’ said Michael. ‘I am glad you mentioned him. What did you think of the fellow?’
‘That he was a saint,’ replied Henry sincerely. ‘He was kind, patient, gentle and understanding. You would have liked him, Matt.’
‘What did he look like?’ asked Michael.
Henry smiled fondly. ‘He had a great domed head that was too big for his body, and it was bereft of hair except for a curious fringe at the back. He always wore a scarlet cloak, so that people would recognise him. Why?’
‘For no reason other than that we might have walked past him and Robert a dozen times and not known it,’ replied Michael.
‘You would know if you had walked past Robert,’ said Henry wryly. ‘He was enormous. And unlike you, I do not think he could claim heavy bones.’
Michael scowled as Henry walked away. ‘Did he just insult me?’
Bartholomew was disinclined to say, and they resumed their journey to the chapel. When they arrived, Michael opened the door and stepped inside, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. Nothing happened to him, but two bedeswomen materialised out of nowhere and laid hold of Bartholomew. He could have broken their grip with ease, but he was not in the habit of doing battle with elderly ladies, so he stood still, waiting for an explanation.
‘This place is more secure than I thought,’ murmured Michael, amused. ‘My habit protected me from a mauling, but you did not get far.’
‘No one slips past us.’ The speaker was Marion, who had raised the alarm when Joan had been killed. She was tall, spindly and possessed unusually long teeth. ‘Although we leave the monks alone, because they dislike being manhandled. However, everyone else can expect to be stopped and questioned most vigorously.’
‘Most people who enter are blinded for a moment,’ added the other, a small, dumpy woman. ‘Which gives us time to act. Marion and I take our duties seriously, and we never let anyone in who should not be here.’
Marion peered at Bartholomew before giving a strangled cry and releasing him abruptly, hastening to smooth down his rumpled clothes. ‘It is the physician, Elene! Let him go, or he may refuse to tend your veins.’
And then there were two sets of hands brushing Bartholomew down. He tried to escape, objecting to the liberty, but they were insistent.
‘When will you see us?’ asked Elene, tutting at a frayed hem on his tunic. ‘You have physicked the old rascals at St Leonard’s and the monks, so it must be our turn now.’
‘What is wrong with your veins, Sister Marion?’ asked Bartholomew, still trying to evade their fussing fingers.
‘Elene is the veins,’ said Marion. ‘I am the impostumes.’
‘Her impostumes are famous,’ added Elene with pride. ‘Master Pyk said he had never seen anything like them, and he often bemoaned the fact that he had no medical colleague here, to share the excitement.’
‘No, Matt,’ warned Michael, seeing his friend’s curiosity piqued. ‘There is no time.’
But Bartholomew was not a man to deprive people of his services. ‘I will see you after we have …’ He faltered, aware that ‘examined Joan’s corpse’ was not the best thing to say.
‘Paid our respects to your dear departed sister,’ supplied Michael. ‘Alone, if possible. We have prayers to recite for her soul.’
‘That is kind, Brother,’ said Marion. ‘But you had better wait until the chapel is reconsecrated. Her murder has soiled it, you see, so it must be cleansed. Hagar has asked Prior Yvo to conduct the ceremony, but I do not trust him. I would rather have the Bishop.’
‘Why?’ asked Michael.
‘Because Gynewell is a lovely man,’ replied Marion fondly. ‘The best prelate in the country.’
‘I meant why do you distrust Yvo?’
‘Because he is only thinking about himself,’ explained Marion. ‘Our chapel is a source of revenue for the abbey, but we have refused to let pilgrims in until it is holy again. It means folk cannot leave donations, and Yvo dislikes losing money.’
‘So does Welbyrn,’ added Elene. ‘Even more than the Prior.’
‘Anyway, suffice to say that we think Yvo is rushing the reconsecration out of selfishness,’ confided Marion. ‘So that the shrines can start earning for him again.’
‘But as soon as we are cleansed, we shall take you to Joan,’ promised Elene. ‘It will not be long, because Yvo promised to do it straight after sext.’
‘Come to the ceremony, Brother,’ begged Marion. ‘Yvo would not dare do a half-baked job with the Bishop’s Commissioner watching.’
‘Very well – if you answer a question,’ said Michael. ‘Were Joan and the Abbot close?’
‘Yes, they were a lovely couple,’ smiled Marion fondly. ‘And were happy together for years. She always said that she was glad she accepted him as a lover, rather than Botilbrig.’
‘Of course, it meant trouble,’ confided Elene. ‘Botilbrig was insanely jealous, and we have been at war with the bedesmen ever since.’
There was no more to be said, so Bartholomew and Michael left the chapel, declining both the offer of wine while they waited for Yvo and a sneak preview of the impostumes.
‘Perhaps Botilbrig is the killer after all,’ mused Michael. ‘Unrequited love is a good motive for murder, and both Robert and Joan are now dead.’
‘It sounded to me as though Joan had made her selection a long time ago,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I cannot see a crime of passion simmering for quite so many years.’
‘I beg to differ. Affairs of the heart can remain painful for a very long time, as you will know from your experiences with Matilde. Even now, three years on, you see her in places where she cannot possibly be – Clippesby told me what happened in the marketplace on Thursday evening.’
‘How do you know it was not her?’ As it happened, Bartholomew thought Michael was right, but there was something in the monk’s remark that was oddly suspicious.
‘Because I do,’ replied Michael firmly. ‘Matilde would not be in Peterborough.’
As soon as they left the chapel, Michael aimed for a nearby tavern named the Swan. The place had changed since Bartholomew had last been in it. Then, it had been insalubrious, with a reputation for catering to drunks and criminals. Now it was smart, with gleaming white walls and pristine woodwork.
‘I hope you are not intending to eat again, Brother,’ he said, noting the energetic way the monk was signalling to the landlord. ‘Not after that gargantuan breakfast.’
‘Of course not,’ replied Michael blandly. ‘I just thought it would be a good place to sit and discuss our investigation until it is time to monitor Yvo’s reconsecrating skills.’
The tavern was alive with the buzz of genteel conversation. There were ladies present, which underlined the fact that it had grown respectable – decent women did not venture into rough inns. A group of master masons sat at one table, identifiable by their thick leather aprons and dusty leggings, and Aurifabro was at another, talking animatedly to several men who were almost as richly clad as he.
‘Peterborough is a nice town,’ said Michael, looking around approvingly. ‘It is a pity our ancestors did not found a university here. I could come to like it very much.’
‘Are you seriously considering putting yourself forward as Abbot?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And if so, is there anything I can do to help?’