‘Trentham is a good man,’ Bartholomew remarked. ‘He deplores the way Lullington has neglected his wife, yet he is prepared to set aside his personal feelings to offer him comfort.’
Michael nodded. ‘I shall reduce his duties when I am Abbot. It is unreasonable to give him two hospitals and a parish. It is too much, especially for someone so young.’
‘Lullington’s reaction to his wife’s body was odd,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully.
‘Not really. He was clearly lying about his military expertise, and hers may be the first corpse he has ever seen. And if she looks very different from when she was hale and hearty, then his shock is understandable.’
‘Perhaps. Or there could be another reason.’ Bartholomew led the way back to the body and pointed to the bruises on the dead woman’s throat. ‘She has been strangled, Brother.’
Michael gaped at him, then started to ask some of the questions that clamoured in his mind, but he stopped himself and went to the door instead.
‘We do not have much time. Inspect her quickly, then look at Joan. I will stand guard, and if I cough, it means that someone is coming, so drop to your knees and pretend to pray.’
It was sordid and Bartholomew did not like it, but he did as he was told. The marks on Lady Lullington’s throat were livid, but although they were obvious to him, he understood why they had been missed by others. The victim had been afflicted with blotchy skin – a side effect of whatever ailment had killed her – which meant they were fairly well disguised.
He touched the bruises lightly. It was impossible to tell whether they had been made by a man or a woman, but he was sure of one thing: whoever had committed the crime had used a massive degree of force. The killer had gripped her throat so hard that Bartholomew could feel damage to the bones underneath. He stared at her with quiet compassion, wondering what sort of monster would strangle a dying lady.
At a sharp hiss from Michael, he pulled himself from his reverie and inspected Joan, but there was nothing to learn from her, except for the fact that the murder weapon was definitely the broken piece of flagstone – he could see that its corner would match precisely the dent in her skull. He put all to rights and escaped from the room with relief.
‘Perhaps she viewed the arrival of the Bishop’s Commissioners as the final chapter in Robert’s life,’ suggested Michael, watching Bartholomew close the door. ‘That us being here meant he was dead for certain. Grief may have directed her hand – she brained herself.’
‘Impossible,’ said Bartholomew, watching the hope of an easy solution fade from the monk’s eyes. ‘I am afraid you are looking for a murderer. Probably more than one, because we cannot assume that whoever struck her also strangled Lady Lullington and … did whatever happened to Robert and Pyk.’
‘I am inclined to keep Lady Lullington’s fate to ourselves, lest the Bishop orders us to solve that crime, too. What do you think?’
‘I agree – we should confide in our Michaelhouse colleagues, but no one else. Not for the reason you suggest, but because anyone ruthless enough to throttle a sick woman is not someone we want annoyed with us.’
‘True,’ acknowledged Michael soberly.
Lullington had gone by the time Bartholomew and Michael returned to the chapel, although Trentham was on his knees at the altar, his head bent in prayer. He jumped when Michael tapped his shoulder, but made the sign of the cross and stood to lead them to the back of the building, where they could talk in private. Hagar came to join them uninvited.
‘It is good to have our shrines back,’ she said, beaming at the penitents who clustered around the relics. Most were staring at the stone that had killed Joan, and Bartholomew suspected it was ghoulish curiosity, not reverence, that had brought them there. Hagar brandished a heavy purse. ‘I have collected all this since we opened our doors.’
Trentham looked pained. ‘I do not condone this obsession with wealth, Prioress. It is unseemly.’
Hagar shrugged. ‘I will confess this evening and you can absolve me. You usually do.’
‘Yes, but it would be better if you were genuinely contrite,’ argued Trentham. ‘I have told you this before.’
‘I will be contrite this evening,’ offered Hagar blithely. ‘Genuinely, if you demand it.’
Michael brought the subject around to the one he wanted to discuss before Trentham could take issue with Hagar’s breezy attitude towards sin. ‘Poor Lady Lullington. Matt says she had been ill for some time.’
‘With a wasting sickness,’ nodded Hagar. ‘It came on her one night about a month ago, and she had been going steadily downhill ever since. Death was a tremendous relief.’
‘It happened suddenly?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. ‘That is odd. Did she–’
‘I would rather not discuss it,’ interrupted Hagar sharply, casting a meaningful look towards Trentham, whose eyes had filled with tears again. ‘Her illness was a terrible thing, distressing for all concerned. We should not dwell on its details.’
‘Very well,’ said Michael before Bartholomew could argue. ‘We shall talk about her life instead then. Did she have any particular friends? I think we can discount her husband as a caring companion.’
‘He never visited her when she was ill,’ said Trentham bitterly. ‘They were married for thirty years, so you would think he would have shown some concern.’
‘Actually, he came yesterday,’ said Hagar. ‘Just for a few moments.’
Bartholomew glanced at Michael, and saw the monk was asking himself the same questions. Had Lullington stayed long enough to dispatch the spouse he had never loved? But why bother when she would have been dead soon anyway?
‘Did he know she was nearing the end?’ he asked.
Hagar nodded. ‘But his visit was so fleeting that I cannot be certain that he even entered her room. Perhaps he reached the door and his courage failed him.’
‘Why would he need courage to face someone he did not care about?’ asked Michael, his harsh tone telling Bartholomew that he had a suspect for the crime.
‘Perhaps it was guilt,’ suggested Trentham. ‘He treated her with rank disdain even before she was unwell, although she never gave him cause, poor soul. She did not want to come to Peterborough. She was happy in London, where she could visit her sons.’
‘Who was with her when she died?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘She passed away shortly after Reginald tried to force his way in here,’ replied Trentham. ‘God forgive me, but I went to offer calming words to Hagar instead of staying at my post. Lady Lullington was alive when I left and dead when I returned.’ His face contorted with remorse. ‘She died alone.’
‘Alone?’ probed Michael. ‘Surely bedeswomen were on hand to see to the patients’ needs?’
‘Unfortunately, Reginald caused such a kerfuffle that he claimed every ounce of my attention,’ replied Hagar. ‘I cannot be sure who was where. Marion! Elene! Come here!’
The last was delivered in a stentorian bellow that had the named sisters dashing forward in alarm. Hagar repeated Michael’s question.
‘We both hurried downstairs when Reginald started yelling,’ explained Marion; Elene nodded at her side. ‘We were worried that he might damage the chapel. I think all the other sisters were here as well, but I cannot be sure.’
‘Who has access to the infirmary, other than you bedeswomen?’ asked Michael.
‘Why?’ demanded Hagar, regarding him suspiciously.