‘There is no money in this purse,’ said William. Michael had set it on the table and was wiping his fingers on a piece of scented linen, but the friar had no qualms about touching it, being used to grimy things. ‘Just a scrap of parchment.’
Bartholomew took it from him, but the writing was so tiny that he could only make out some of the words. William and Michael declared it illegible, and even Clippesby, who had the keenest eyesight, struggled.
‘It is a pardon for sins committed this year,’ said the Dominican eventually. ‘And there is a cross drawn at the bottom. How curious!’
‘I rarely dispense pardons these days,’ said William, blithely ignoring the fact that the Church frowned on such practices. ‘Well, not unless the petitioner is willing to pay a hefty fee.’
Bartholomew stared at him, then snatched the little document from Clippesby. The cross indicated that a cleric had written it, and suddenly the answer to the mystery surrounding Lady Lullington was as clear as day.
‘It is Reginald’s reward – his payment – for creating the diversion when she was strangled!’ he exclaimed. ‘He was right: the purse has told us all we need to know. Well, all we need to know about Lady Lullington’s death, at least.’
‘It is not much of a clue,’ grumbled Michael. ‘Because I do not understand it. Moreover, sin can only be pardoned through proper penitence, not because someone scrawls a few words on a bit of parchment.’
‘Theology is irrelevant here,’ said Bartholomew im-patiently. ‘The point is that it comes from a man who could not pay coins for the favour he wanted, so another commodity was provided instead. And as Reginald was involved in something unsavoury, the offer was accepted.’
‘But Reginald was not a Christian,’ argued Michael. ‘He refused absolution. Why should he want a pardon from the Church?’
‘Perhaps he was persuaded that it would ease his troubled conscience,’ suggested Bartholomew with a shrug. ‘We will probably never know why he accepted it. However, the more I think about this, the more I am sure I am right.’
‘I agree – you are,’ said Clippesby. ‘And the fact that Reginald mentioned the purse – with the clue it contained – as he lay dying suggests that he wanted to expose the culprit. I suspect it was because he had not known why he was ordered to make a fuss in the chapel, and when he found out, he was horrified and angry that he had been tricked into helping a killer.’
‘A monk?’ asked William, frowning as he sifted through likely suspects.
‘Monks cannot grant pardons,’ said Bartholomew impatiently. ‘Only priests can.’
‘Trentham?’ asked Michael, wide-eyed with shock. ‘A poor cleric who has no money of his own? He is the killer? I do not believe it! He is a good, decent lad, and his grief for Lady Lullington has been profound.’
‘He must have been acting,’ said William in distaste. ‘What a scoundrel!’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I think he was driven by compassion, not malice. He was sorry when she woke after the strong medicine I gave her, and so was she. They had become close, and her suffering distressed him deeply.’
‘But you said she had been throttled with unusual ferocity,’ Michael pointed out. ‘That does not sound compassionate to me.’
Bartholomew knew the reason for that, too. ‘Inges told a tale about strangulation when I was with Kirwell, and Trentham heard it. Apparently, it is more merciful to do it vigorously. Clearly Trentham did exactly that in the hope of sparing her more pain. I imagine he will confess when you confront him, Brother. But do it gently.’
Michael sighed unhappily. ‘Come with me, Clippesby. You can grant him absolution, because I do not have the stomach for it.’
‘Leave him to me,’ said William grimly. ‘I will be far better than a Dominican at informing him that murder leads straight to the fiery pits of Hell.’
Michael was unwilling to let William loose on a grieving and conflicted young man. ‘I know, but whoever confronts Trentham will be busy for hours, and I need you here.’
‘Why?’ asked William suspiciously.
‘To prevent anyone from coming in and noticing that Matt and I are missing.’
‘Why would you be missing? There is no point in burgling Reginald’s shop now that Yvo has removed everything of value.’
‘Lullington was only ordered to collect easily portable items from Reginald’s home,’ explained Bartholomew, ‘so it is still worth exploring.’
‘I sincerely hope we find something,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘Because if we fail, we will have to invade the Abbot’s House instead. But I shall live there myself soon, and I would rather my enjoyment of its luxury was not tainted by the memory of a crime.’
Trentham lived in a small house next to the parish church, and Bartholomew, Clippesby and Michael walked there in silence. A glimmer of light under the shutters showed that the priest was awake, as did the sound of weeping, which was distinctly audible as they approached. Michael opened the door without knocking, and stepped inside.
The house comprised a single room containing a few sticks of furniture and some utensils for cooking. Other than a wooden cross that had been nailed to the wall, there were no decorations. It was clean, though, and the ancient blankets had been carefully darned. Trentham was kneeling at a prie-dieu, his youthful face wet with tears.
‘I cannot pray,’ he said brokenly. He did not seem surprised to see the Bishop’s Commissioners in his home. ‘I have not been able to pray since…’
‘Since you strangled Lady Lullington,’ finished Michael baldly.
Trentham made no attempt to deny the accusation. ‘She begged me to do it, and it seemed right at the time. She was in such agony, and had been for weeks. But now I wish I had stolen Doctor Bartholomew’s bag, and used some of his potions instead. It would have been…’
‘Tell us what happened,’ said Michael, sitting on the bed. His voice was kind, and Clippesby stepped towards the priest, to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder.
‘Abbot Robert always said that I was unsuitable for this post, and he was right – it hurts me to see people suffering. Especially Lady Lullington, who was so virtuous and good. Her husband treated her abominably, but she never once complained. She was a saint.’
‘But then she became ill,’ said Michael, encouraging him.
‘Shortly after the Abbot vanished.’ Trentham looked at Bartholomew. ‘On Saturday, you seemed surprised when you heard that her illness had occurred suddenly. I wanted to ask why, but Hagar was talking too much. Will you tell me now?’
‘I can think of any number of ailments that bring about a lingering death, but none with the symptoms I could see in Lady Lullington – including an abrupt onset. She declined to let me examine her and would not answer questions…’
‘But you suspected something odd,’ surmised Trentham bitterly. ‘Well, you are right. Her illness struck her down after a meal in the abbey.’
‘You think a monk did her harm?’ asked Michael uneasily.
‘No,’ replied Trentham shortly. ‘Not them.’
‘Lullington,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Her loving husband. What happened? Did he try to poison her but fail to do it properly?’
‘She would never accuse him, but I believe so. She became violently ill that night – purging blood and the like. I think whatever substance he fed her did irreparable harm, but instead of killing her quickly, it sentenced her to a slow and lingering death.’