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He yelped in alarm when there was a soft tap on the window, and he saw a face staring in at him. They were on the upper floor, so no one should have been outside.

‘Sorry, boy,’ said Cynric, climbing in off the ivy that grew up the wall. ‘I did not want anyone to see me visiting. The men who support Spalling are nervous about spies, see.’

‘I imagine they are,’ muttered Michael. ‘So what have you got for me?’

‘Nothing,’ replied Cynric in disgust. ‘I walked very slowly along the Torpe road today, but it has been too long since Robert and Pyk were there. If they were killed by robbers, then there are no clues to tell us the identity of the culprits.’

‘How did you manage to escape from Spalling?’ asked William curiously.

‘I told him I was going out. He is too busy to object.’

‘So, let us summarise what we know of Robert’s final journey,’ said Michael with a weary sigh. ‘He went to inspect the paten that Aurifabro was making, Pyk at his side. Aurifabro claims they never arrived. So, the first possibility is that they did arrive and Aurifabro killed them. It is common knowledge that they disliked each other, and we know they argued over the paten.’

‘But Aurifabro did not dislike Pyk,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

‘Yes, but if Pyk saw Robert murdered, Aurifabro would have had no choice but to kill him, too,’ put in William. ‘From what I have heard, Pyk was not a man to turn a blind eye.’

‘The second possibility is that they fell foul of outlaws,’ Michael went on.

‘For which there is no evidence,’ Cynric reminded him.

‘And the third possibility is that they were dispatched by someone they knew,’ Michael finished. ‘God knows, Robert had enough enemies.’

‘There is no evidence for that, either,’ said Cynric.

Michael thumped the table in frustration. ‘We are no further forward than we were when we first arrived. Meanwhile, we have four more suspicious deaths to solve, and we must leave the day after tomorrow.’

‘It is odd that Reginald should die just as we were going to talk to him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Then there is his peculiar guilty behaviour, and the fact that we were removed from his shop before we could search it properly – via a message from a defensor who is conveniently unavailable to tell us who issued the order.’

‘It is odd,’ agreed William. ‘But I think Lullington paid Reginald to create the diversion that allowed his wife to be strangled. It explains why he could not bear to look at her corpse.’

‘But she would have been dead soon anyway,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘And Lullington is not the kind of man to squander money. Your conclusion is illogical.’

‘Do you have a better one, then?’ demanded William.

Bartholomew did not.

It had been an exhausting day, and Bartholomew was beginning to pay the price for his earlier vigour. He wanted to go to bed, but Prior Yvo had other ideas.

‘We always have a little fun on the second Monday of every month,’ he said. ‘I was tempted to cancel, but that would have been the last thing Welbyrn would have wanted. He loved Entertainment Night.’

‘Entertainment Night?’ asked Michael warily.

‘When members of our community show off their talents,’ replied Yvo, eyes blazing rather fanatically. ‘I shall sing, and you will see others with equally impressive skills. And at the end, we vote for the best performance. You will attend.’

‘Not me,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I am too tired for–’

‘Nonsense,’ declared Yvo. ‘Entertainment Night will make you feel like a new man. Even Kirwell rouses himself for the occasion, and he always enjoys himself.’

It sounded distinctly unappealing, but the four scholars trailed obediently across the yard to the refectory, where there was a buzz of excited anticipation as the monks and lay brothers converged. They were joined not only by the men of St Leonard’s Hospital, but by their female counterparts from St Thomas’s. Lullington and Trentham had also been invited, and stood with Nonton, whose red face suggested he had been sampling the wines that were to be served later. The scholars entered the crush, and Bartholomew found himself next to Lullington. The knight began to make polite conversation in his aristocratic French.

‘I saw you talking to Aurifabro earlier. I hope he was not denigrating dear Abbot Robert.’

‘We discussed the paten,’ said Bartholomew, not entirely truthfully.

‘A paltry piece that would have been a waste of money.’ Lullington grimaced. ‘Burying my wife next to Oxforde would have been a waste of money as well, because if anyone is going to claim that hallowed spot, it will be me. But not for many years, of course.’

‘Of course. Why did you never visit her when she was ill?’

‘I was busy,’ replied Lullington stiffly. ‘Not that it is any of your business. Besides, I started to walk into her room the day she died, but my courage failed when I smelled sickness and urine. However, I am shattered by her death – my grief knows no bounds.’

‘Yes, you seem heartbroken.’

Lullington scowled as he brushed invisible specks from another handsome new gipon. ‘I am a knight – we do not display unmanly emotions in public. She loved me for it, of course. I know, because she was loyal.’

Bartholomew was bemused by the last remark and started to ask what it meant, but Lullington had spotted Yvo and hurried away to corner him, making no effort to disguise the fact that he considered the Prior a more worthy recipient of his attentions. Bartholomew was about to go after him when Trentham approached. The priest had donned a clean robe, brushed his hair and shaved. His cheeks were pink and very youthful, but there was a sadness in his eyes that was older than his years.

‘I buried Lady Lullington this afternoon,’ he began miserably. ‘In the parish churchyard, beneath my favourite tree. I did not want her near Oxforde, not after what Kirwell said.’

‘Unlike poor Joan,’ said Michael, overhearing as he came to join them, ‘who will keep the villain company for eternity. Have you finished digging her hole yet?’

Trentham shook his head. ‘I am not very good at it, so it is taking an age.’

‘Perhaps one of the monks will help you,’ suggested Bartholomew.

Trentham grinned suddenly, an expression that made him look more boyish than ever. ‘A monk! Why did I not think of that? Perhaps Henry will oblige; he is a good man. So is Appletre, although I doubt the other obedientiaries will offer. They are too grand.’

‘Entertainment Night should have been cancelled.’ It was Henry speaking, his expression troubled. ‘We should not be making merry when we have an abbot missing and a treasurer dead.’

‘I disagree,’ said Appletre, who was with him. ‘Music will make everyone feel better, and Robert and Welbyrn would have agreed.’

‘Poor Welbyrn,’ said Trentham with a sorrowful sigh. ‘Still, I suppose we should not be surprised. His father was the same.’

‘The same as what?’ asked Michael.

‘He also lost his wits,’ explained Trentham. ‘In the end, he tossed himself in the river, a tormented and lost soul. My grandfather told me about it. Perhaps it was terror of insanity that made the younger Welbyrn such an angry, unhappy man.’

‘It is certainly what drove him to take his own life,’ said Henry. ‘Because we all know that is what really happened, despite Yvo’s efforts to make us believe it was an accident. It is a pity, but these things happen, and all we can do is pray for his soul.’

Michael watched him, Appletre and Trentham walk away together. ‘Henry is very eager for everyone to view Welbyrn’s death as suicide. Does he want his old teacher to roast in the fires of Hell for committing a mortal sin? Or is there another reason for his insistence?’