The Lost Abbot by Susanna Gregory

felled.’
    ‘Not necessarily,’ said Michael. ‘As Clippesby pointed out, the chapel is dark after the brightness of the sun. Hagar – or anyone else – could have brained Joan by the altar while those in the nave remained blissfully unaware.’
    ‘Well, my favourite suspect is Botilbrig,’ said William. ‘On account of his unseemly sparring with the victim. He claimed he was outside at the time, but I did not see him.’
    ‘Is he not too frail to brain anyone?’ asked Michael doubtfully.
    ‘It does not require much strength to bring down a stone on someone’s head,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Especially if he was fuelled by rage.’
    ‘But Botilbrig
may
have been outside,’ said Clippesby. ‘Just because we did not notice him does not mean he was not there.’
    ‘The other bedesmen are suspects, too,’ William went on. ‘I did not see any of them sneaking into the chapel, but I was watching that escaped pig, and I suspect other folk were, too. It was a perfect diversion.’
    ‘There are other ways into the chapel besides the marketplace,’ Bartholomew reminded them. ‘There are doors leading from the hospital, the abbey and the graveyard – although that was empty. Of course, its walls are not very high, and someone could easily have climbed over them. In other words, virtually anyone might have come in and killed Joan.’
    William sighed. ‘Well, let us hope the townsfolk do not decide to blame strangers. It would be easy to point fingers at us.’
    ‘At the Bishop’s Commissioners?’ asked Michael archly. ‘They would not dare.’
    ‘True,’ acknowledged William, then added ruefully, ‘So let us hope they never find out that you are the only one who actually holds that particular title.’
    ‘They will not,’ said Michael grimly. ‘Because I am appointing you all as my deputies. It seems I shall be investigating an abbot’s death, not his disappearance, so I shall need all the help I can get.’
    While they waited for the abbey officials, Michael took the opportunity to question the bedesfolk. The men claimed the women had killed Joan, while the women declared the men responsible, but neither side could prove it. Each asserted that the first he or she had known about the murder was when Marion had raised the alarm. He fared no better with the pilgrims, all of whom denied entering the chapel before Marion’s screech, although shifty eyes and shuffling feet told him that some were lying.
    ‘It will be a tough case to solve,’ he told his colleagues. ‘I am glad it is not my responsibility.’
    The abbey dignitaries arrived at that point, a collection of sleek, well-fed men with proud expressions and haughty manners. Bartholomew looked for old classmates among them, but the faces above the elegant habits were unfamiliar.
    A portly fellow with enormous eyebrows stepped forward. ‘I am Prior Yvo, Abbot Robert’s deputy. You must be Brother Michael and his Commissioners. I am sorry your arrival has been tainted by bloodshed. It is hardly the welcome we had hoped to extend.’
    ‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘We would rather have had dinner.’
    Yvo regarded him uncertainly, unsure whether he was making a joke.
    ‘You have missed it,’ said a tall, burly monk with a crooked nose. ‘What a pity for you.’
    The sneering arrogance gave a sudden jolt to Bartholomew’s memory, of his final few weeks at school when two monks, not much older than he, had arrived to teach theology. He had not been interested in the subject, which had caused trouble, the only unpleasantness during an otherwise happy phase of his life. Their names had been Welbyrn and Ramseye, and he had all but forgotten the friction his antipathy had created. Was the bulky monk Welbyrn? If so, the intervening years had not treated him kindly, for he had been a handsome lad with an athletic figure. The monk who stood by the Prior had coarse features, oily hair and a sullenness that was unappealing.
    ‘This is our treasurer, John