‘The Bishop’s Commissioner is nothing if not thorough,’ replied Michael, smoothly reminding her of his authority.
Hagar sighed. ‘Very well. Most of our patients have friends and family in the town, and those folk have leave to visit whenever they please.’
‘In other words, anyone could have slipped into Lady Lullington’s room to sit with her,’ said Trentham. ‘However, I imagine they would have said something to me if they had – no one sees a good woman breathe her last and forgets to mention it to her priest.’
‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘But let us move on to Joan.’
‘I would not like to be in her killer’s shoes come Judgement Day,’ said Trentham bleakly. ‘The saints do not look kindly on sacred relics being used to kill people. Whoever committed that atrocity will be damned for eternity.’
‘Oh, come, Father,’ said Hagar. She had turned pale, while Marion and Elene crossed themselves vigorously. ‘Surely it depends on whether there were extenuating circumstances?’
Trentham frowned. ‘Extenuating circumstances?’
‘Joan could be fierce,’ explained Hagar. ‘She might have darted at someone, who snatched up the stone to protect herself. Or the culprit might have been inspecting it and swiped accidentally when Joan startled her.’
‘Do you encourage people to touch the relics, then?’ asked Michael, catching Bartholomew’s eye again. Neither of them had missed Hagar’s choice of pronoun.
‘Not as a rule,’ replied Hagar. ‘But they cannot always be dissuaded.’
‘If you had to point a finger at a suspect, who would it be?’ asked the monk.
‘One of the men from St Leonard’s, of course,’ replied Hagar. ‘They are all villains. You should arrest the lot of them and close down their nasty chapel.’
‘What about you, Trentham?’
‘I did not kill Joan!’ exclaimed Trentham, shocked.
‘I meant who are your suspects,’ said Michael irritably.
Trentham calmed himself. ‘I doubt it was anyone she knew – they would not have dared. Of course, she was as gentle as a lamb really, or Robert would not have stayed with her all those years. Ergo, it must have been a stranger, someone who did not know her.’
‘Yes,’ said Hagar eagerly. ‘A stranger – one of the many pilgrims who visit. Of course, he will be long gone now, so I would not waste time looking if I were you. But we have wasted enough time today, and we have sick bedeswomen waiting. Are you ready to tend us, Doctor?’
‘Which would you like first?’ asked Elene sweetly. ‘My veins or Marion’s impostumes?’
‘What a decision!’ muttered Michael. ‘I am glad it is not incumbent on me to choose.’
Chapter 6
‘We still have no idea what happened to Robert,’ said Michael gloomily as he and Bartholomew sat in the Swan Inn that evening. Outside, day was fading to dusk earlier than usual, because it was raining. ‘Moreover, we now have two murders to complicate matters.’
‘Hagar’s reactions to our questions made me wonder again whether she might have killed Joan,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So she could be Prioress herself.’
Michael agreed. ‘And if Joan, then why not Lady Lullington, whose nursing would have been a drain on her foundation’s resources?’
But Bartholomew shook his head at that suggestion. ‘There is a big difference between knocking someone on the head and choking the life out of her with such vigour that bones were crushed. One suggests opportunism, the other a furious rage. Lady Lullington’s husband is my prime suspect for the strangling. He ignored her for weeks, but the one time he deigned to visit is the day she was killed.’
‘But why bother? She was no trouble, dying quietly with the bedeswomen to take care of her. It is not as if he was obliged to tend her himself.’
‘People disapproved of the way he treated her. Perhaps he wanted an early end to it.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Michael, although with scant conviction. He turned to another suspect. ‘We should not overlook Trentham either – he spends a lot of time in the chapel where the murders were committed. I like the boy, but something dark and nasty is unfolding, and until we discover what it is, I am unwilling to exclude anyone from our list of suspects.’
‘I doubt he killed Lady Lullington. He was fond of her and I think his distress is genuine. And as for Joan, he was very vocal in his certainty that her murderer is destined for Hell. I cannot see him making that sort of remark if he were the culprit.’
‘He might,’ countered Michael. ‘To throw us off the scent. It depends how clever he is, which is something I do not feel sufficiently qualified to determine.’
‘Regardless, we should speak to Reginald tomorrow, because he was the one who caused the trouble during which Lady Lullington was killed.’
Michael regarded him sharply. ‘Are you saying it was a deliberate diversion?’
‘Yes – and if we can persuade him to reveal who told him to make the fuss, we shall have our villain. Is there any wine left, Brother?’
‘It was heavily watered,’ said Michael defensively. ‘And I was parched.’
‘You said you would try again to see Pyk’s wife while I was busy with the bedeswomen this afternoon,’ said Bartholomew, once his cup had been filled. He thought the brew rather powerful, and was sure water had been nowhere near it. ‘Did you?’
‘I tried, but she was still out.’ Michael sighed. ‘It is a pity the taint of murder will hang over Peterborough because of a disagreeable character like Robert. This is a good place, and I would enjoy being Abbot here. The food alone would make it worthwhile – I have not eaten so well since we visited my brethren at Ely four years ago.’
‘Matilde was still in Cambridge then,’ sighed Bartholomew, for whom the episode of two nights before was still vivid. ‘I should have been married by now.’
‘Then by now you would have been living in a hovel, surrounded by squalling brats, and burdened with a wife who resents the fact that you have dragged her into poverty. Paupers would be demanding free medicine, and you would have to choose between providing it or letting your family starve.’
Bartholomew blinked, startled by the bleak image the monk had painted. Michael had never said anything like it before. ‘Matilde is a wealthy woman–’
‘Not wealthy enough to support numerous offspring and a husband with an unprofitable practice,’ countered Michael. ‘Besides, I imagine she lost anything of value to highway thieves – a lone woman would have presented an attractive target to outlaws. She would have been poor, and you would both have been miserable.’
‘But if she had not left Cambridge, there would have been no highway thieves,’ Bartholomew pointed out, bemused by the monk’s remarks. ‘We would have–’
‘She has gone, Matt,’ said Michael shortly. ‘So put her from your mind and set your sights on some other lady. And I do not mean Julitta Holm. Her husband may not love her, but that still does not make her available to you.’
‘I am not sure there are any women for me, other than them,’ said Bartholomew, wondering why they were discussing it. The monk had not so much as mentioned Matilde in months, while he usually maintained a tactful silence about Julitta.
‘There is something wrong with these leeks.’ Michael abruptly changed the subject. ‘They taste disgusting. You have them, while I concentrate on the meat.’
‘That is considerate, Brother.’
‘You are used to greenery. Your constitution copes with it better than mine.’
‘They are very salty,’ said Bartholomew, wincing.
‘Salt is good for you,’ declared Michael, grabbing the platter of chicken before Bartholomew could take any. ‘It keeps the blood healthy.’