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‘A slip of the tongue,’ said Henry, crossing himself. ‘Pray God it is not true. But you will find no clues to Robert’s whereabouts here, I am quite sure of that.’

‘Are you indeed?’ muttered Michael, shoving past him to the street.

Yvo was bemused when Michael stormed into the Abbot’s House, and he claimed to know nothing about an order to seal it up. The other obedientiaries said likewise, so Henry was summoned. The monk raised his hands in a shrug, and said the instruction had been given to him by a lay brother named Raundes.

‘Raundes?’ Yvo turned to Nonton. ‘He is a defensor, is he not?’

The cellarer nodded. ‘But he has gone to Lincoln. Welbyrn was supposed to travel there tomorrow, so I thought I had better notify Gynewell that he would not be coming.’

‘Raundes spoke to me before he left,’ explained Henry.

‘Convenient,’ murmured Yvo. He spoke a little more loudly. ‘However, whoever issued these instructions was right: we cannot let anyone paw through Reginald’s belongings until the issue of ownership has been decided.’

‘I was not pawing, I was looking for clues that might explain what had happened to your Abbot,’ said Michael coldly. ‘And I insist that I be allowed to continue.’

‘What manner of clues?’ asked Yvo. He sighed in sudden irritation. ‘For God’s sake, Appletre! Must you blubber every time someone dies? It is not as if Reginald was a good man.’

‘He was a fine bass,’ sobbed Appletre. ‘And he made lovely forks.’

‘You have something nice to say about everyone,’ accused Ramseye. ‘And it is an aggravating habit. Take him to the kitchens for wine, Henry. He is as white as a sheet.’

Bartholomew seized the opportunity to leave with them, preferring their company to that of the remaining obedientiaries and Michael in a temper. Once outside, Henry began to apologise again for ousting him from Reginald’s lair, pointing out that it was not for a mere monk to question orders that were alleged to have come from obedientiaries. Bartholomew was more concerned with Appletre, who was indeed pale.

‘It is the thought of Welbyrn and Reginald in Purgatory,’ explained the precentor tearfully. ‘Welbyrn will rise to Heaven eventually, I suppose, but Reginald will not – not only was he a heathen, but he committed many terrible sins.’

‘Then we shall help by praying for their souls,’ said Henry kindly. ‘You are as bad as young Trentham with your soft heart! Did you see him as he dug Joan’s grave? He was sobbing fit to break his heart. You are both too sensitive for your own good.’

The pair went to the kitchen before beginning their vigil. Bartholomew accompanied them, but although he was hungry, he declined the cook’s offer of some apple pie. Appletre sipped a cup of wine, and the colour gradually seeped back into his cheeks, while the cook, a portly, smiling man named Walter, chatted amiably.

‘Raundes galloped away in a great rush. I suppose he is keen to put himself out of range of Aurifabro’s robbers before nightfall. Or are they Spalling’s, do you think?’

‘Aurifabro’s, probably,’ replied Appletre. ‘Those mercenaries are very rough men.’

‘Yet Spalling has been inciting violence of late,’ said Henry thoughtfully. ‘He always did hold controversial opinions, but he has been much more vocal recently. Much more active, too, with his rallies and meetings.’

‘He only developed those ideas to annoy his rich father,’ said Walter. ‘If they had been genuine, he would not have accepted a princely inheritance when the old man died. Aurifabro told me that Spalling is spending none of his own money on this revolution.’

‘You have been talking to Aurifabro?’ asked Henry, startled. ‘The abbey’s enemy?’

‘Just in passing,’ replied Walter, a little cagily. He hastened on with his gossip before Henry could question him further. ‘He says that Spalling’s riches are safely invested with the town’s jewellers, and thinks that someone is paying him to foment discontent.’

‘Come now, Brother Cook,’ chided Henry. ‘I do not believe that and nor should you.’

‘Do you think Bishop Gynewell will come when he hears there has been a second death in the abbey?’ asked Walter, ignoring the admonition and ranging off on another subject. ‘First our Abbot and now our treasurer.’

Appletre shook his head. ‘He has his hands too full with his own troubles. Doubtless he will order Brother Michael to look into Welbyrn’s death, too.’

‘I do not envy Michael his duties,’ said the cook soberly. ‘I doubt he will find answers, and he has been wasting his time from the start.’

Bartholomew felt the need to defend his friend. ‘He is very good at what he does.’

‘Maybe so,’ said Walter. ‘But Peterborough excels at keeping its secrets, and it will take a much sharper mind than his to make it yield them.’

The cook’s smug prediction made Bartholomew want to prove him wrong, so he spent the rest of the day in a determined effort to discover what Peterborough might be hiding. He questioned Cynric about Spalling’s finances, interviewed a lot of monks about Welbyrn, and visited taverns to ask about Reginald, Pyk, Joan, Robert and Lady Lullington.

He learned nothing, and was dispirited when he returned to the abbey, the energy that had surged through him after his icy dip in the well at St Leonard’s gone. Moreover, despite his resolve not to dwell on Matilde, she kept entering his thoughts, and his stomach lurched several times when he thought he saw her. He was still recovering from one such start when his arm was grabbed and he was spun around roughly.

‘I was talking to you,’ snapped Aurifabro. ‘Or is a Bishop’s Commissioner too grand to pass the time of day with a lowly goldsmith?’

‘Of course not,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘How may I help you?’

The phrase was one he used on patients, and had emerged instinctively rather than from any desire to be polite, but Aurifabro softened when he heard it.

‘I want to know who will be the next Abbot, and I thought you might give me a more honest answer than those damned Benedictines.’

‘Why are you curious about that?’

‘I am tired of sparring with the Church, and hiring mercenaries is expensive. I should like to make my peace with Robert’s successor. With luck, he might even buy that wretched paten. It is the best piece I have ever crafted, and it would be a pity to melt it down – and my own religion has no use for that sort of thing.’

‘Yvo plans to hold an election on Thursday. You will find out then whether the monks have chosen him or Ramseye.’ Bartholomew was disinclined to add that the result might be irrelevant if Michael persuaded Gynewell to appoint him instead.

Aurifabro grimaced. ‘Neither is likely to agree to a truce.’ He was silent for a moment, reflecting gloomily, then seemed to pull himself together. ‘The other thing I want to know is whether you have caught the villain who murdered the villainous Robert.’

‘Not yet.’

‘Pity, but I am not surprised. The only people who cared about him were Pyk, Reginald and Welbyrn, and now they are all dead, too.’

‘Lullington liked him,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

Aurifabro spat. ‘Lullington is incapable of liking anyone but himself.’

Bartholomew suspected that was true. He studied the goldsmith thoughtfully, and decided it was time he also spoke his mind. ‘If you really want the culprit found, you would not have told your mercenaries to prevent us from asking questions in Torpe.’

Aurifabro regarded him with an expression that was difficult to read. ‘Then come again, and I shall order them to admit you. However, think very carefully before you do. It would be wiser and safer simply to tell Bishop Gynewell that the case will never be solved.’