‘You will find nothing amiss,’ growled Nonton irritably. ‘As Prior Yvo just told you, it was an accident.’
‘If so, then Matt will confirm it,’ said Michael, kicking Bartholomew under the table when the physician started to say that he might be able to do nothing of the kind.
‘Very well,’ said Ramseye. ‘Shall we go now? The bedesmen are eager to open their chapel to pilgrims, but they cannot do it with a corpse bobbing in their healing well.’
‘You left Welbyrn in the water?’ Bartholomew was shocked.
‘Michael said nothing should be moved,’ replied Ramseye blandly. ‘So nothing was. Far be it from us to disobey the Bishop’s Commissioner.’
Michael glared at him. ‘You know I did not mean you to leave Welbyrn soaking! It was the rest of the chapel that I wanted left as it was found.’
‘Then you should have made yourself clear. We did exactly as you ordered.’
‘We did,’ smirked Lullington. ‘After all, we do not want to be accused of murder.’
‘As you accused Matt?’ asked Michael archly. ‘Even though he was insensible at the time, and incapable of doing anything?’
‘He was an obvious suspect, given their past antipathies,’ argued Lullington.
‘Welbyrn was far more likely to have murdered Matthew than the other way around,’ said Ramseye. ‘He was the one who bore the grudge. It is a pity you can no longer ask him whether he acted on it by sending a gift of poison.’
A sizeable deputation accompanied the two scholars to St Leonard’s Hospital. Michael led the way, Yvo and Lullington hard on his heels, both regaling him with theories about how Welbyrn might have come to fall. The monk’s face was expressionless, but he was wondering why they were so determined that Welbyrn’s demise should be deemed an accident.
Bartholomew was next, with Ramseye, Henry and Appletre. Nonton was behind them, stopping occasionally to take a swig from the flask he had hidden in his sleeve. A flock of monks, lay brethren and townsfolk followed, while the bedeswomen brought up the rear, gleeful that they were not the only ones to suffer the inconvenience of a corpse in their holy places.
Bartholomew was now marginally more alert, although his spirits were low – a combination of hurt that Matilde had not waited to speak to him, a residual vexation with Michael that he suspected would take a while to wear off, and sadness that Cynric would no longer play such a large role in his life.
‘Are you sure you are recovered, Matt?’ asked Henry kindly. ‘You are oddly quiet.’
‘Just tired.’ Bartholomew knew Henry would be a sympathetic confidant, but his feelings were too raw to be shared with anyone else just yet.
‘I do not want to be treasurer,’ said Appletre miserably. ‘I am a musician, not a financier. I shall have the abbey in debt within a month.’
‘You only need do it for three days,’ Ramseye reminded him. ‘At which point, the new Abbot will appoint someone else. It is high time we had a treasurer who knew what he was doing, anyway. Welbyrn did his best, but he was out of his depth.’
‘Do not speak ill of the dead,’ said Henry sharply, not seeming to care that he was berating a superior. ‘He was meticulous and honest.’
‘And mean,’ added Ramseye. ‘Which is what he will be remembered for.’
Henry opened his mouth to argue, but apparently could think of nothing to refute the remark, so he closed it again without speaking.
‘He was unquestionably loyal to Robert, though,’ said Appletre.
‘Yes,’ acknowledged Ramseye with a weary sigh. ‘Including his ridiculous assertion that my uncle is still in the land of the living.’
‘Perhaps he is,’ sniffed Appletre. ‘I cannot believe that God would deprive us of treasurer, Abbot and physician within a few weeks. Maybe Robert and Pyk are kidnapped, not dead.’
‘If that were true, a ransom demand would have been received by now,’ said Ramseye. ‘Or perhaps one was, but someone decided not to pay it.’
Appletre regarded him in horror. ‘Then we must search for them at once! I will–’
‘Search the Fens?’ Ramseye’s voice was scathing. ‘How do you propose we do that?’
‘But who would do such a wicked thing?’ asked Henry doubtfully. ‘If the letter is not acknowledged, the kidnappers may harm their victims. Or even kill them.’
‘Quite,’ said Ramseye pointedly. ‘Which brings me back to my original contention – that my uncle is dead. We need another abbot in post as quickly as possible, and the sooner I am elected, the sooner I can begin to put things right.’
‘Do you really think you will win?’ asked Henry wonderingly.
Ramseye regarded him haughtily. ‘When the alternative is Yvo? Of course! He has been Acting Abbot since Robert disappeared, but look at what has happened during his reign: a bedeswoman murdered, our treasurer dead in a sacred well, and the Bishop’s Commissioners probing our affairs. May I count on your support?’
‘Yes,’ nodded Appletre eagerly. ‘So I can be precentor again.’
‘And you shall be my almoner, Henry,’ said Ramseye when the other monk remained silent. ‘Just think of how much you could do for hungry beggars if you held such a post.’
Bartholomew was appalled, sure Ramseye was saying that the poor might suffer if Henry did not do as he was told. Appletre changed the subject, and Henry shot him a grateful glance that he would not be pressed for an answer there and then.
‘Inges has been telling everyone that Welbyrn was murdered.’ The precentor shook his head slowly. ‘But I cannot believe it. Who would want to kill Welbyrn?’
‘A great many people,’ replied Ramseye. ‘He had become something of a bully recently, so there are many who will be pleased that he is no longer with us.’
‘Including you?’ asked Bartholomew, before he could stop himself.
Ramseye raised his eyebrows. ‘Me? I wanted him alive. He and Nonton were going to help me win the election, and his death is a blow to my cause. I am deeply sorry he is gone.’
But there was something in his voice that set alarm bells ringing in Bartholomew’s mind. He stared at his old tutor, struggling to read his bland expression, but then Appletre started to talk about the music he thought would be suitable for Welbyrn’s requiem mass, and the moment was gone.
There was a delay before the deputation could enter St Leonard’s, because the bedesmen called out that they were praying. Hagar snorted in disbelief, but Yvo declared that such an activity could not possibly be interrupted, grinning his triumph when several monks nodded approval of his pious decision. While they waited for the bedesmen to finish their devotions – although clunks and scrapes from inside suggested rather that a hasty spring-clean was in progress – Yvo began to inform the onlookers that he had always admired the bedesfolk’s dedication to their religious duties. Ramseye did not demean himself with brazen electioneering, though he did not object when Nonton did it for him.
Bartholomew had no wish to listen, so he went to stare along the road that led to Torpe, wondering what had happened to the two men who had ridden along it on St Swithin’s Day. His thoughts were still annoyingly sluggish, and he took several deep breaths in an effort to clear them. He stifled a groan when Ramseye came to stand next to him.
‘If your work as a Corpse Examiner entails dissections, you might be wise to restrain yourself while you are here,’ the almoner warned. ‘The townsfolk are unlikely to be very understanding of such practices, and you may find yourself decried as a warlock.’
Bartholomew’s immediate assumption was that an uneasy conscience had prompted the advice – that Ramseye was worried about what clues might have been left on Welbyrn’s body.