‘Can you be more specific? How was Robert a villain?’
‘He was sly over the paten he asked me to make, for a start. Once I had invested weeks of my time in it, he reduced the price, knowing I had no choice but to agree – it is not something I can offer to another buyer: no one else around here is in the market for expensive religious regalia.’
‘Why did you agree to make it in the first place?’
‘I should have refused, but it was a big order, and I liked the notion of my work being on display in such a grand setting. Of course, now he is dead, the abbey has refused to honour the agreement I struck with him, so I am landed with the thing after all.’
‘Where is it?’ asked Michael.
‘At home. I wrote to ask if Gynewell would buy it for Lincoln Cathedral, but he said he would prefer to have it donated. And I am not giving the Church anything. I like Gynewell, but my religion is the older one.’
‘You mean you are a heathen?’ asked Michael in distaste.
Aurifabro nodded. ‘Ever since the plague. It makes more sense to me than your aloof saints and martyrs, who failed to answer my prayers as my children lay dying. And as for Lawrence of Oxforde … I cannot condone any organisation that pays homage to a criminal.’
‘Robert,’ prompted Michael. ‘Tell us what happened the day he went missing.’
‘He told me in the morning that he was coming to see the paten. I asked him not to.’
‘Why?’ asked Michael.
‘Because I wanted to visit my mother in Barnack. He threatened to cancel the commission unless I made myself available, so I was forced to change my plans. I waited, but he never arrived. I assumed he was delayed by other business and had not bothered to let me know.’
‘What then?’ asked Michael.
‘A group of monks arrived the next day, and told me that he and Pyk were missing. I admired Pyk, so I sent my men to scour the area for them both, but they found nothing. The abbey, on the other hand, conducted a search that was cursory at best.’
‘You think they could have done more?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘I would, had one of my people gone missing. But, as I said, Robert was a villain, and the abbey is obviously glad to be rid of him.’
‘What do you think happened to Robert?’ asked Michael.
‘There are three possibilities. First, he was murdered, and there is no shortage of suspects, given that he was hated by all. Second, he is in hiding, although that seems unlikely, because he liked his creature comforts. And third, he was killed by robbers.’
‘The same robbers who have been causing trouble on the King’s highways?’
‘Yes. The abbey and Spalling will tell you that my mercenaries are responsible, but you should not believe them. They are liars.’
At that moment, young Trentham shuffled past, his face a mask of misery. He shot Bartholomew a baleful glance, to tell him he was still not forgiven for being unable to save Lady Lullington. The scowl sparked an idea in Bartholomew’s mind.
‘We have assumed the target was Robert,’ he said. ‘And Pyk just happened to be with him. But what if it was the other way around? I know from personal experience that people are often angry when physicians cannot cure their loved ones.’
‘No one would have taken against Pyk,’ said Aurifabro firmly. ‘He was not like other medici – he was a good man. Even his wife will have to concede that.’
‘Pyk was married?’ asked Michael.
Aurifabro nodded. ‘To a woman named Pernel, although not happily, unfortunately. Of course, there is a fourth possibility: that Robert and Pyk have been kidnapped.’
‘Then the culprits would have sent word to the abbey,’ said Bartholomew, ‘demanding payment and giving details of how to make it.’
‘Perhaps they did,’ said Aurifabro, ‘and the abbey refused to pay. However, if that happened, you will never find out, because it is not the sort of thing they will admit.’
‘May we visit you in Torpe tomorrow?’ asked Michael. ‘I want to retrace their journey.’ He did not say that he was also keen to confirm the goldsmith’s story with his servants.
‘No,’ said Aurifabro shortly. ‘No Benedictine is welcome on my land, not even one who has been hired by the Bishop.’
Chapter 5
Bartholomew could not go with Michael to question Pernel Pyk, because people kept waylaying him to report how they were faring after their consultations with him in St Leonard’s Hospital. The monk went alone, but the mistress of the house was out. Eventually, both returned to the chapel, which was now full of people – it was not every day that a sacred building was purified after a murder, and the citizens of Peterborough were keen to see how it was done.
‘The whole town is here,’ whispered Michael. ‘Even Spalling, and he hates the abbey.’
He nodded to where the rebel was standing with a huge contingent of the town’s poor. Most were farm labourers, sun-bronzed, sturdy people in smocks and straw hats. None looked particularly downtrodden, and they were healthier and better fed than the ones who worked around Cambridge. Spalling had changed his clothes to match theirs, although his tunic was made from finer wool and his hat was worn at a rakish angle.
‘Aurifabro has deigned to appear, too,’ murmured Michael, seeing the goldsmith near the altar. ‘And he is not even a Christian. We had better keep our distance – we do not want to be singed if he is struck by a thunderbolt.’
‘It is a good thing Cynric did not hear you say that,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘He tends to believe those kind of statements.’
‘Just as he believes everything that falls from Spalling’s lips. No good will come from that association, Matt. Perhaps you should order him home before it lands him in trouble.’
‘I will talk to him, but he is a free man and must decide for himself what is right.’
The bedesmen had also turned out. They had brought Kirwell on a litter, although he was fast asleep and seemed oblivious to the hands that reached out to touch him – and to the clink of coins that were collected from those who wanted to avail themselves of the privilege.
‘Some of those ancients are suspects for killing Joan,’ mused Bartholomew, watching the spectacle. ‘Yet none of them look guilty, not even Botilbrig, who is the obvious candidate.’
Michael gestured to the other side of the chapel. ‘Nor do the bedeswomen, who also had reason to want Joan dead. But Reginald is standing by the cemetery door. Shall we go to see whether he will answer our questions now?’
‘We might as well, I suppose. There is no sign that the ceremony is about to begin.’
They eased their way through the throng towards the cutler, who whipped around in alarm when Michael tapped him on the shoulder.
‘I am not talking to you,’ he declared, eyes furtive as he glanced around. ‘I have nothing to say, and what I do in my workshop is my own affair.’
The last words were delivered in a hissing snarl that turned his face scarlet and caused the veins to stand out on his neck. Bartholomew was concerned.
‘Take some deep breaths,’ he advised. ‘And try to relax your–’
‘Leave me alone,’ snapped Reginald, redder than ever. ‘I cannot help it if I am obliged to do things that … But I am not saying more. You will trap me into admitting … And Abbot Robert is not here to protect me.’
‘To protect you from what?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused by the tirade.
‘Trouble,’ replied Reginald shortly. He tugged at his tunic, as though the material was too tight around his throat.
‘You really should sit down. You will feel better if–’