‘I am not an anatomist,’ he said, then smiled, aiming to disconcert. ‘But such techniques are rarely necessary, because the evidence is usually obvious.’
‘Is it?’ Ramseye’s expression was closed, and Bartholomew could read nothing in it. ‘The things you know, Matthew! It has certainly been an experience meeting you again.’
‘And you,’ said Bartholomew, a little deflated that his ploy had not worked.
‘You sound tired.’ Ramseye studied him closely. ‘Not fully recovered from your brush with death. I never touch cakes, personally. I have always held them to be dangerous.’
Bartholomew glanced sharply at him. Had he poisoned the Lombard slices? Ramseye regarded him with a hurt expression, guessing exactly what he was thinking.
‘I have nothing to fear from the Bishop’s Commissioners, and nor do I have any desire to see them dead. However, if you will accept perilous missions, like investigating missing abbots, then you must expect attempts on your life.’
Bartholomew frowned. Had he and his colleagues just been threatened? This time, if Ramseye knew what he was thinking, he did not acknowledge it.
‘You owe me your thanks, by the way,’ the almoner said with a smile. ‘When fingers started pointing in your direction blaming you for Welbyrn’s demise, it was I who defended you.’
‘Yes, I heard.’ Bartholomew forced himself to sound grateful, although in reality the discussion was reminding him of why he had so detested Ramseye’s classes and had done his best to disrupt them. ‘Thank you.’
Ramseye shrugged. ‘It was the truth. None of you left the guest house last night.’
Bartholomew was puzzled. ‘Were you watching us? Why?’
‘Honestly? Because I was worried that your fat friend might accuse me if you succumbed to that toxin – I imagine you told him that I was a less than kindly tutor. Of course, it was a long time ago, and I am a different man now.’
Not so different, thought Bartholomew, taking in the sly eyes and silkily cajoling voice. ‘And Welbyrn? Had he changed as well?’
Ramseye shrugged. ‘I really cannot say. We had very little to do with each other outside the routine course of our duties, and rarely spoke socially.’
‘You just told me that he supported you in your aim to be Abbot,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Along with Nonton.’
‘The Unholy Trinity, as everyone likes to call us,’ sighed Ramseye. ‘I do not associate with them from choice, but because it is expedient. Yvo would be a disastrous ruler, whereas I will be just, generous and enlightened.’
Bartholomew could think of nothing to say to such a claim, and they stood in silence for a while. A gentle breeze ruffled the crops in the fields, and distant rain scented the air.
‘Poor Welbyrn,’ said Ramseye eventually. ‘Even with the limited contact we shared, I could see he was an unhappy man. I imagine it was because he knew he fell short as a monk – as sanctimonious men like Henry were always ready to remind him.’
‘Henry would never do that,’ objected Bartholomew.
‘Perhaps not in words, but glances can say a great deal. Henry was very vocal in his silence, and Welbyrn knew exactly what he thought of him.’
‘Then why did Welbyrn not try to rectify the matter? Become a better man?’
‘That is easier said than done. Could you change your nature so easily? Give up what you are, in order to become something others want you to be?’
Bartholomew supposed he might find out if Matilde returned to Cambridge with a fortune at her disposal.
Chapter 8
When the Bishop’s Commissioners and their unofficial entourage of monastics and townsfolk were eventually admitted to the hospital, it was to find it spotlessly clean. Freshly cut rushes had been scattered on the floor, the furniture had been dusted and little pots of fragrant summer flowers sat on the windowsills. The residents had also benefited from an overhaul. Hair had been brushed, beards trimmed and robes sponged. Even Simon the cowherd had been groomed; he sat in a corner whispering to himself.
‘Welcome to our domain,’ said Inges, haughty and proud in his finery. ‘We have done as you asked: the chapel has been shut ever since we made our terrible discovery.’
‘Good,’ said Lullington, sailing inside on a wave of expensive perfume that made the older man sneeze. ‘Will you show us the body?’
‘I thought he had an aversion to corpses,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew.
‘Just his wife’s, it would seem,’ Bartholomew muttered back.
‘You had better tell us what happened, Inges,’ said Michael, stepping into the hall and closing the door before anyone other than Bartholomew, Yvo and Ramseye could follow. There was a collective sigh of disappointment from the excluded spectators.
‘It was me who found him,’ said Botilbrig excitedly. ‘I came to fetch a flask of holy water for Kirwell just after compline last night, and there was Welbyrn floating in the well. I raised the alarm, and Prior Inges sent word to the abbey–’
‘And I locked the chapel when a messenger arrived to say that we should leave everything as it was discovered,’ finished Inges. ‘However, I want that corpse out of our spring, Father Prior, and then I want St Leonard’s resanctified, like you did for the bedeswomen.’
‘Today, if possible,’ added Botilbrig. ‘Kirwell is still waiting for his drink, and we have had to turn three pilgrims away already this morning – folk who would have left donations.’
‘That depends on Brother Michael,’ replied Yvo. ‘But he is a practical man who understands the importance of revenue. He will not waste time.’
‘You consider investigating Welbyrn’s death wasting time?’ asked Michael coolly.
‘Of course not,’ sighed Yvo irritably. ‘But running a large abbey is expensive, and we cannot afford to lose money, as Welbyrn himself would have said had he not been … Besides, you have less than two days before you must leave, so you are not in a position to dawdle.’
Michael turned his back on him, not bothering to mask his distaste. ‘I have been told that Welbyrn was in the habit of coming here late at night. Is it true?’
‘I suppose I can be honest with you now that he is not in a position to punch my teeth out,’ replied the bedesman. ‘Which he threatened to do if I ever mentioned his visits to anyone else. You see, he had an affliction, and claimed our healing waters eased his discomfort.’
‘What kind of affliction?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.
‘I think it had something to do with his intellectuals.’ Inges sniggered unpleasantly. ‘Maybe he feared he was losing them – and he did not have many to start with, no matter how much he liked to pretend otherwise.’
There was a chorus of wry agreement from the other bedesmen.
‘You may be right, Inges,’ said Ramseye thoughtfully. ‘About a month ago, he mentioned that he was struggling to remember certain things. Perhaps his mind was beginning to fail.’
‘Matt will identify the problem when he examines him,’ stated Michael.
Bartholomew blinked. ‘How am I supposed to deduce such a thing from a corpse? Even the dissectors at Salerno and Padua failed to–’
‘Dissectors?’ pounced Ramseye. ‘I thought you said you were not an anatomist.’
‘I am not,’ said Bartholomew, wishing his wits were sharper, because he would never have made such a slip had he been himself. ‘However, I have seen them at work, and there are no obvious changes in the brain that can be associated with–’
‘You watched a coven of ghouls chop up someone’s head?’ asked Ramseye in horror. ‘But that is the Devil’s work!’