Bartholomew was beginning to feel considerable sympathy for Pyk.
‘I quite understand,’ said Michael. ‘I suffer similar intrusions myself. But that is not why we are here. We wanted to ask about your husband’s–’
‘The poor will miss him,’ said Pernel rather spitefully. ‘He saw a number of them free of charge, although I did my best to put an end to such nonsense.’
‘What do you think happened to him and Robert?’ Michael was forced to speak quickly, to get the question out before he was interrupted again.
‘Thieves killed them, of course. He and the Abbot would have made an attractive target, because it threatened rain that day and they were both wearing nice cloaks. Hugh’s was scarlet, shot through with gold thread, while Robert’s was trimmed with ermine.’
‘An attractive target indeed,’ murmured Michael.
‘Many townsfolk believe these so-called outlaws are actually Aurifabro’s mercenaries, but I do not. He would not have sent them to look for Hugh if that had been the case.’
‘He might,’ countered Michael. ‘To forestall accusations.’
Pernel shook her head, making her chins swing from side to side. ‘Hugh was one of the few people Aurifabro liked. I think my husband’s disappearance can be laid at Spalling’s door. Spalling encourages the poor to think they have a right to the property of the rich, so is it any surprise that they then go out and put this philosophy into action?’
‘Do you have proof that Spalling’s followers are responsible?’ asked Bartholomew.
Pernel shot him a haughty glance. ‘I do not need proof. It is what I think.’
‘What I do not understand is why Pyk agreed to accompany Robert in the first place,’ said Michael. ‘I know they were friends, but it seems an unlikely association – a popular physician and a universally despised Abbot.’
‘Oh, that is easily explained. I encouraged the relationship, on the grounds that a high-ranking churchman was better company than his vile paupers – we have our social standing to consider, you know. Hugh liked everyone, so he had no trouble tolerating Robert.’
‘They arranged to ride to Torpe together on the day they disappeared?’
Pernel nodded. ‘Hugh had patients to see there, and Robert thought Hugh’s popularity with low-born villains would prevent him from being robbed. So much for that notion!’
‘I do not suppose you have received a ransom note, have you?’ asked Michael, more in desperation than hope – the interview had told them nothing new.
Pernel shook her head. ‘And I would not pay if I had. I do not believe in negotiating with extortionists. It only encourages them to try again.’
‘Surely you would have made an exception for your husband?’ Bartholomew did not try to mask his distaste for her icy pragmatism.
‘I would not,’ she said firmly. ‘But I am famished! Would you care to join me in a–’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew curtly, eager to be away from her objectionable company. ‘We have taken enough of your time.’
‘Poor Pyk,’ he said, as they walked towards Reginald’s shop. Michael had decided that it was time to force the cutler to tell them what he knew, and had already devised a list of threats that would compel him to open his door. ‘Perhaps he disappeared in order to escape from her.’
‘Taking Robert with him?’ asked Michael. ‘I doubt that.’
‘Did you believe her when she said she had forced Pyk to make friends with Robert? I cannot imagine following that sort of order – not for anyone.’
‘Fortunately for you, neither Matilde nor Julitta are the kind of women to demand that sort of obedience. But perhaps we have not been told the whole truth about Pyk – maybe he was not the saintly healer we have been led to believe.’
Bartholomew disagreed. ‘People have had no compunction about denigrating the Abbot, and if Pyk had had faults, they would have been listed, too. However, despite what Pernel claimed, I still think that Robert and Pyk were unlikely friends.’
‘People probably say the same about us: the man who will be the next prelate of Peterborough, and his sinister, anatomy-loving companion.’
Bartholomew regarded him sharply. ‘You said not an hour ago that you had decided not to try for the abbacy, on the grounds that there are too many disagreeable residents.’
‘There are, but I shall have the authority to oust most of them once I am invested. Yvo, Nonton, Ramseye and Henry can be exiled to distant outposts, while the threat of excommunication will keep Spalling in check.’
‘Do you think you will win an election?’
‘I would not demean myself by becoming involved in one of those! I shall tell Gynewell to appoint me, and he will oblige because he will be grateful to have me in his See. And who can blame him? I will be an excellent Abbot.’
But Bartholomew’s attention had wandered. ‘Something is happening near the fishmonger’s shop. A crowd has gathered outside it.’
They hurried forward, and Michael released a cry of dismay when he saw the cutler on the ground in the throes of an apoplectic attack. Bartholomew thrust his way through the onlookers and dropped to his knees next to the stricken man. Abruptly, Reginald went limp. Bartholomew put his ear to the cutler’s chest, then began compressing it.
‘What is he doing?’ whispered Hagar, watching in fascinated horror.
‘Perhaps it is anatomy,’ suggested long-toothed Marion.
Bartholomew would have reassured them that it was not, but he was concentrating on the task in hand and had no breath for explanations.
‘It is Corpse Examining,’ declared Botilbrig with great authority. ‘I just saw him doing similar things to Welbyrn.’
‘Excuse me,’ said someone, trying to push Bartholomew out of the way. The physician glanced up to see Spalling, clad in the simple attire of a fisherman, although the apron was conspicuously devoid of blood and scales. ‘Would you mind moving aside?’
‘I am busy,’ snapped Bartholomew, still trying to restart Reginald’s heart.
‘So I see,’ said Spalling. ‘But I need some fish. I am holding another meeting tonight, and people expect to be fed.’
He shoved hard enough to knock Bartholomew off balance and disappeared into the shop. Bartholomew gaped, astonished that anyone should consider shopping more important than a man’s life, but then his attention was taken by a faint thud beneath his fingers: Reginald’s heart was beating again. The cutler opened his eyes, but his lips were blue, and Bartholomew could see he had only delayed the inevitable.
‘He needs last rites, Brother,’ he said urgently. ‘Hurry!’
Although monks were not priests, Michael had been granted dispensation to hear confessions during the plague and had continued the practice since. He crouched down obligingly, fumbling for the chrism he carried for such occasions, while Bartholomew stepped back to give them privacy. Everyone else craned forward, then shuffled back sheepishly when Michael favoured them with a black glare. Reginald grasped the monk’s hand and started to whisper, but it was not long before he went limp again.
‘You could not save him then?’ asked Spalling conversationally, emerging from the shop with a parcel under his arm. Silvery heads poked from one end, tails from another.
‘No,’ replied Bartholomew shortly.
‘What happened?’ Spalling regarded the body dispassionately. ‘Apoplexy?’
‘Possibly,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Why?’
‘He had two attacks last year, and Master Pyk warned him that he would have another unless he stopped drinking a pint of melted butter with his custard every night. It is a pity Pyk is not here to see Reginald dead. He liked being right.’
‘Did he?’ pounced Michael. ‘Was he arrogant, then?’