Free The Lost Abbot by Susanna Gregory

leave in a week,’ countered Michael. ‘So don some tidier clothes, and let us make a start on this wretched business.’
    Suspecting it would be futile to argue – and he had worked often enough with the monk to know that his assistance would definitely expedite matters – Bartholomew rummaged in his saddlebag for a clean tunic. Unfortunately, it had suffered from being scrunched into a ball to make room for his medicines, and was sadly creased. There was also a stain down the front, where one of the phials had leaked.
    ‘Wear your academic gown over the top,’ advised Michael, when the physician declared himself ready. ‘That will conceal some of the … deficiencies.’
    ‘That is a polite way of saying you are scruffy, Matthew,’ supplied William helpfully. ‘You might want to consider grooming yourself a little more carefully in future.’
    Feeling that if the likes of William felt compelled to comment on his appearance, it was time he did something about it, Bartholomew followed Michael outside. Before he closed the door, he heard Clippesby telling William what the hen had just confided.
    ‘She says the reason for the antagonism between Peterborough’s two hospitals is money – St Thomas’s earns far more with its relics and Oxforde’s grave than St Leonard’s does with its healing well. It is all rather sad. They should learn to get along.’
    ‘Yes, they should,’ murmured William drowsily. ‘Shame on them.’
    As Bartholomew and Michael left the guest house, they were intercepted by a monk who reeked of wine. The yellowness of his eyes and the broken veins in his cheeks and nose suggested an habitual drinker.
    ‘You were taking so long that I was sent to fetch you,’ he said curtly.
    Michael and Bartholomew exchanged a glance. No one had told them that they were supposed to hurry.
    ‘Are you the cellarer?’ asked Bartholomew. It was not easy for monks to drink themselves into ill health in an abbey, where wines and ales were locked away, so there had to be some reason why this man seemed to have managed it.
    ‘Richard de Nonton.’ The man bowed. ‘Abbot Robert made me cellarer five years ago – he took his claret seriously, and knew that I am of like mind.’
    ‘He drank?’ asked Michael.
    ‘Only if the wine reached his exacting standards.’ The last member of the Unholy Trinity reflected for a moment. ‘I would not mind being Abbot myself, but Ramseye is running, and he stands a better chance of winning than me. He will see me right, though.’
    ‘Have you known Ramseye long?’ asked Bartholomew.
    ‘Ten years, although he and Welbyrn were here long before that. Peterborough is a lovely place, you see, and no one leaves once he is here. We often joke that the only way we will depart will be in a coffin.’
    ‘I doubt Robert would find that particular jest amusing,’ murmured Michael.
    Nonton led them to a pretty house next to the refectory, which had a tiled roof, real glass in the windows, and smoke wafting from its chimney. As it was high summer, a fire to ward off the slight chill of evening was an almost unimaginable extravagance.
    ‘Abbot Robert’s home,’ explained Nonton. ‘He liked to be near the victuals, so he had this place built specially. Prior Yvo lives here now, although he will have to move when he loses the election.’
    ‘You think Ramseye will win, then?’ asked Michael.
    Nonton flexed his fists, an unpleasant gleam in his eye. ‘My brethren will vote for him if they know what is good for them.’
    ‘Tell me about Robert,’ invited Michael. ‘Was he popular?’
    ‘Not really. I liked him well enough, but most of the other monks did not. Why?’
    ‘Because it might have a bearing on what happened to him.’ Michael stopped walking and looked Nonton in the eye. ‘If the rumours are true, and Robert and Physician Pyk are found murdered, who are your favourite suspects for the crime?’
    ‘I only have one: Aurifabro,’ replied the cellarer promptly.