Chapter 12
It was not long before Michael decided they were wasting their time hunting for Lullington: the abbey had far too many hiding places, and they had no idea where to look for him outside. Moreover, the opportunity to search Reginald’s home might not arise again – it had to be done that night. When he had hidden the poison, seals, gold and jewels in the guest house, the monk took a deep breath and indicated that Bartholomew was to follow him to the Abbey Gate.
They arrived to find it patrolled by a defensor, but the little Bolhithe Gate in the south wall was secured by no more than a bar; it was a simple matter to remove it and walk to the marketplace. The streets were very dark, although lights gleamed here and there. A baby was awake in one house, wailing insistently, while from another came the sound of laughter as friends whiled away the small hours together. A dog’s claws clicked as it trotted purposefully across the cobbles, and an owl hooted in the distance.
‘Are you sure we should be doing this?’ whispered Michael anxiously. ‘What if we are seen? It will not look good for the Bishop’s Commissioners to be caught raiding the homes of wealthy townsfolk.’
‘Then we shall have to be careful,’ said Bartholomew with more confidence than he felt. ‘Although if you have an idea that does not involve us breaking in, I am all ears.’
‘I do not,’ said Michael, after a moment during which Bartholomew could almost hear the monk’s mind working. ‘But I am not climbing through any windows. I am not built for that sort of thing. You do it, while I stand guard.’
‘I had a feeling that might be the plan.’
When they reached the cutler’s shop, Bartholomew led the way to the back, knowing it was what Cynric would do – the book-bearer possessed an unsavoury but useful talent for entering places uninvited. He looked at the house rather helplessly at first, but then saw that one of the windows had a defective shutter. He tugged on it, but nothing happened, so he pulled harder. Michael squawked in alarm when it dropped to the ground with a clatter.
‘It came off in my hand,’ whispered Bartholomew.
Michael shot him a reproachful glare. ‘In you go, and please hurry. If you are caught, I shall be mortified.’
Resisting the urge to point out that his capture would give them a lot more to worry about than mere mortification, Bartholomew clambered through the window. He had had the foresight to bring a tinderbox, so he lit one of the cutler’s lamps and headed for the workshop. He started by the door, and worked systematically until he arrived back where he had started, and then did the same in the filthy bedchamber. It was easier and quicker now that Lullington had removed much of the clutter, but despite his efforts, Bartholomew found nothing that might have a bearing on what had happened to Robert and Pyk.
The only unusual thing was that several silver pennies had fallen between the floorboards, and Reginald had neglected to retrieve them. As most people tended to be careful with money, Bartholomew prised one out. It was new and shiny, and came from Bishop Gynewell’s Mint in Lincoln, but that was not surprising – it was the one closest to Peterborough.
‘Nothing,’ he reported, climbing back through the window and promptly stumbling over a pile of discarded tiles. One slipped off the heap and landed with a loud crack. Michael cringed away in alarm.
‘My nerves!’ the monk complained. ‘They are not built for this kind of thing.’
‘Nor mine,’ retorted Bartholomew. His heart was pounding from tension. ‘You can burgle the Abbot’s House on your own, because I am not doing this again. Can we go now?’
‘I have something to show you first. While you were inside, I lit a candle and prodded about in that mound of grass you can see over there.’
‘The one that looks like a grave?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.
Michael’s reply was to relight his candle and lead the way to the shallow hole he had excavated. Bartholomew crouched down to see a skeletal human hand. It was not very big, although the state of the joints told him it had belonged to an adult.
‘Reginald’s wife? So the rumours were right – he did kill her?’
‘It looks that way, and think of the implications. The murder of a spouse is a powerful secret, and we know she disappeared shortly after Robert’s arrival. Do you recall what the gossiping servants told William about the Abbot’s relationship with Reginald?’
‘That Robert had some kind of hold over him – they were not friends, but something less pleasant. So can we assume that Robert discovered what Reginald had done, and used it to blackmail him?’
‘It makes sense to me, and we have been told countless times that Robert was not a good man – extortion might be just another of his failings. Yet how would he have found out?’
‘Perhaps he saw this grave-shaped heap and drew his own conclusions. Or perhaps Robert was less than principled with what he heard in the confessional – which may have been why Reginald turned pagan. However, what we should be asking is: what did Robert force Reginald to do that resulted in him wanting Trentham’s pardon?’
It was a question neither could answer, so Bartholomew scraped the soil back over the sad remains and turned to leave, eager to be away. Michael fell into step at his side.
‘I did some serious thinking while you were in Reginald’s house. I know Welbyrn was murdered – someone shoved him so he cracked his head on the side of the pool and left him to drown – and I am sorry, Matt, but my suspicions keep returning to Henry.’
‘Why would Henry turn from devout monk to ruthless murderer?’ demanded Bartholomew, speaking loudly enough to set a dog barking in the house they were passing.
Michael made an urgent gesture for him to lower his voice. ‘Perhaps because Welbyrn tried to poison you, his old friend. You did battle with Welbyrn once to protect him, so he may have thought it incumbent on him to return the favour.’
‘Hah!’ Bartholomew stopped walking to regard Michael triumphantly. ‘Then your theory has just collapsed, because Welbyrn did not poison me – William did.’
Michael gaped at the physician. The baby was still howling in the house they had passed earlier, and an owl glided silently along the lane, death on wings as it hunted rodents among the rubbish. The same clicking-clawed dog trotted past, this time going in the opposite direction. There was a faint hint of colour in the eastern sky; dawn would break soon.
‘William might be a bigoted old fool, but he would never harm you,’ said Michael, once he had recovered from his shock. ‘Or anyone else from Michaelhouse.’
‘Not deliberately,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘He was trying to help, but he actually did something very dangerous. You see, he was with me when I physicked Lady Lullington. She was in agony, so I gave her a huge dose of an extremely powerful medicine.’
‘So he did the same for you? He thought you were in pain because you had scraped your elbow on the wall, so he decided to dose you with something to make you feel better?’
‘Precisely. Unfortunately, he failed to appreciate that I keep this particular potion for the terminally ill; I would never give it to anyone who might live.’
‘To help them towards the grave?’ asked Michael, round eyed. ‘Like Trentham–’
‘No, of course not! I mean it contains a potentially toxic combination of ingredients that should only be used in extreme cases, when relief of pain is the only recourse. I would never give it to someone for a graze.’
‘I remember William passing you a large beaker of watered wine,’ said Michael. ‘And I also recall you gulping it down quickly enough to alarm him.’