The four strongest, Hrype reflected. They would not necessarily be the four brightest, and he thought he understood the abbot’s rueful expression. ‘Is there not work elsewhere for you too, My Lord Abbot, more suited to your abilities?’
Ingulphus smiled. ‘This is my abbey,’ he said simply. ‘It is up to me to rebuild it.’ His smile widened. ‘It is often acknowledged among us here that we have a very comfortable life compared with our founder, for our blessed Guthlac clad himself in crude skins, his daily fare was no more than a morsel of barley bread and a cup of muddy water, and he bore his ague and marsh fever without complaint. Men say the island was the haunt of terrifying creatures, demons and vengeful spirits, yet Guthlac prevailed. Perhaps it is no bad thing for we who dwell here two hundred years later to experience the hardships our founder encountered and to celebrate his stout courage, which has enabled his successors to begin again each time our settlement has been destroyed. We shall not fail him now.’
He had finished tidying away the bowl and the wash cloths, and now, straightening up and turning to face Hrype, he said mildly, ‘You still haven’t told me why you are here.’
The mildness was, Hrype decided, deceptive. The abbot was an astute, brave man and, with such as he, the best thing — perhaps the only thing — was to tell the truth.
‘You had a priest here by the name of Father Clement,’ he said.
If the abbot was surprised at the remark, he did not show it. ‘Yes, indeed. He was our confessor until the fire and, like my monks, he was sent elsewhere afterwards. The five of us here go over to Thorney for confession,’ he added, ‘for it would be a waste of Father Clement’s talents to have him tend to the spiritual welfare of so small a group.’ He studied Hrype intently. ‘Did you hope to find Father Clement here? If so — ’ he answered the question before Hrype had a chance to — ‘then I am afraid you have had a wasted journey, for he now ministers to the nuns at Chatteris, although we hope very much that he will be permitted to return to us soon, once we are a proper community again, because he-’
‘My Lord Abbot,’ Hrype interrupted, as gently as he could, ‘I am very sorry to tell you this, but I fear that Father Clement is dead.’
The abbot’s lean face paled. ‘Dead?’ he said in a whisper. ‘But how? He was not an old man, and I would have said he was fit, and he-’
‘If the body has been correctly identified, and I fear that it has, then Father Clement was murdered,’ Hrype said.
The abbot’s eyes closed, and his lips moved in silent prayer. Then he stopped, his eyes flew open and he glared at Hrype. ‘This cannot be true,’ he said angrily, ‘for I have had word that Father Clement is safe at Chatteris!’
‘The man there is not Father Clement,’ Hrype said. ‘My guess is that this impostor took his place, although why he should do so, I cannot say. Yet,’ he added softly to himself.
The abbot studied him intently. Then, apparently detecting something in his visitor that inclined him to trust him, he said, ‘You wish to ask, I dare say, when I last saw Father Clement, and where he was bound when he left here.’
‘I do,’ Hrype agreed.
‘He did not, in truth, wish to leave us,’ Ingulphus said, his voice breaking on the words. ‘He had requested an audience with the bishop — this was back in the final months of last year, October perhaps, or early November — where he intended to plead his case for remaining here at Crowland. Not that he held out much hope,’ he added with a rueful smile. ‘He promised to let us know, as indeed he did: not very long after he had gone, we learned he was bound for Chatteris. Then later, as I said, we had word that he was settling into his new life ministering to the nuns.’ He shook his head in bemused misery. ‘But now you are telling me that was a falsehood, sent by this impostor, and that in truth poor Father Clement never got there. .’
Hrype was torn between respecting the abbot’s raw new grief and pressing on to find out what he had to know. He waited a short while, then said, ‘My Lord Abbot, where does your bishop reside?’
He realized as soon as the words were spoken that he should have said the bishop; the implication that he might be Ingulphus’s man but he certainly wasn’t Hrype’s was rather obvious.
The abbot, fortunately, had other concerns. His mind clearly still on his late colleague, he said vaguely, ‘He’s one of the new men brought in from Normandy by our King William. His name’s Herbert of Losigna, and originally he came over here to be bishop of Ramsey. Then Thetford fell vacant, and he came here to us.’ As if only then recalling the question, he added, ‘He is building a fine new church and a dwelling for himself at Lynn, which men are taking to calling Bishop’s Lynn in his honour.’
Hrype felt a moment’s violent exaltation. The trail was becoming clear. .
He became aware of Ingulphus’s eyes on him, their expression hard. ‘I am thinking about this man at Chatteris who pretends to be Father Clement,’ Ingulphus said, and Hrype could sense the abbot’s anger, although it was tightly controlled. ‘The fact that he has taken my friend’s place suggests strongly to me that he may also have taken his life.’
‘I am inclined to agree,’ Hrype murmured.
Ingulphus studied him for some time, and Hrype had the definite impression that he was being sized up. ‘I believe I trust you,’ the abbot said. ‘I dare say you have reasons of your own for pursuing the business of this murder,’ he went on shrewdly, ‘but the fact remains that, whatever they are, your present desire coincides with mine. You wish to see the killer brought to justice and Father Clement’s death thereby avenged.’
‘I do,’ Hrype agreed. He hesitated, then said, ‘Your priest was not the only victim. The killer also murdered a young novice at Chatteris and poisoned another.’
Ingulphus gasped, muttering a swift prayer for the dead girl. ‘But the second one is still alive?’ he asked anxiously.
‘When last I saw her, she seemed to be a little improved.’
‘I shall pray for her,’ Ingulphus announced. ‘As I shall for the souls of my friend and the young nun.’
There was a short silence. Then Ingulphus said, ‘Will you stay the night here? The day wears on, and you would not, I am sure, wish to be caught in the marshes once the light fails.’
‘I would gladly accept your hospitality, but-’ Hrype began.
‘Such as it is,’ the abbot put in.
‘-but I am filled with urgency, and I sense that there is not a moment to lose,’ he finished.
Ingulphus watched him, compassion in his face. ‘There is so much that you do not tell me,’ he mused. ‘You are a man of deep secrets, my friend, and I sense something very alien in you.’
The words sounded like the prelude to an attack, yet, even with his highly efficient defences fully alert, Hrype felt no threat. On the contrary, he had rarely sensed such well-being flowing towards him out of a man who had been until very recently a stranger.
‘I am many things,’ Hrype said carefully. ‘By my own lights, I am not evil.’
‘Evil?’ The abbot gave an incredulous laugh. ‘Indeed you are not. But come, if you are resolved upon going, I will take you across the water in our little boat.’
They walked together away from the ruins of the abbey and down across the foreshore. Leading the way off to the left, the abbot pointed to a small rowing boat. The two of them dragged the craft down to the water and got in, Ingulphus taking up the oars. In a short time, they were gently bumping up against the bank on the far side.
Hrype got out, turning to say farewell.
Ingulphus was studying him again, a puzzled expression on his face. ‘May I ask you something?’ he said, and the tentative quality of the question was surprising in a man of his status.
‘Of course.’
‘Would it offend you if I said I will pray for you?’