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treasurer, whereas all the other abbots refused him promotion on account of his dim wits. But Ramseye will win him round – he always does. They were ordained together.’
    Bartholomew did not say that he already knew. ‘Why would this Unholy Trinity want Joan dead?’
    ‘Who knows the workings of their nasty minds?’ replied Botilbrig airily. ‘I hope Ramseye is not elected Abbot, though. He will be better at it than Yvo, because he is shrewd. But he is not as agreeable.’
    ‘Yvo is agreeable?’ asked William doubtfully.
    The abbey was beautiful in the red-gold light of the fading day. It was dominated by the vast mass of its church, and Bartholomew stopped for a moment to admire its mighty west front, just as he had done when he had been a child. It soared upwards in a breathtaking array of spires and arches, every niche filled with a carving of a saint, so that it seemed as if the entire population of Heaven was looking down at him. Then William grabbed his arm, and they hurried to catch up with Yvo, who had skirted around the cloisters to a small building with sturdy Norman features.
    ‘This is the guest house,’ the Prior was telling Michael and Clippesby. ‘I shall leave you to refresh yourselves, and then you must join me and the other obedientiaries for a discussion. Afterwards, the cook will prepare you a small collation.’
    ‘It had better be more than a small one,’ grumbled Michael when they were alone. ‘After all the travails we have suffered today.’
    When Clippesby slumped into a chair, Bartholomew knelt in front of him and peered into his face. The Dominican was definitely less lucid than he had been earlier, and his hair stuck up in clumps where he had clawed at it. Clippesby ignored him, another sign that he was not himself, and all his attention was fixed on a hen that he had managed to snag.
    ‘How will you go about solving Joan’s murder, Brother?’ asked William, going to the best bed and tossing his cloak on it, to stake his claim.
    ‘I will not,’ replied Michael firmly. ‘I shall ask enough questions about Robert to fulfil my obligations to Gynewell, and then we are leaving.’
    ‘Good,’ said William. ‘I do not like it here.’
    ‘Neither do I,’ said Michael, slipping behind a screen to change. He was always prudish about anyone seeing him in his nether garments. ‘Yvo has offered to lend us a few
defensores
for our return journey. He says it should take no more than three days to get home, because robbers will not attack us if we are well protected, and we will make better time.’
    ‘You need to be back by Saturday week, which means leaving by next Wednesday at the latest,’ said William, calculating on his fingers. ‘That gives us seven days. Will it be enough?’
    ‘It will have to be, because I am not risking a riot at my University over this.’
    ‘I had misgivings about this venture the moment Langelee ordered me to pack,’ said William sourly. ‘And now I know why: Peterborough is not a happy place.’
    ‘No,’ agreed Michael, ‘which is a pity, because it is lovely. Wealthy, too.’
    ‘This bed is certainly costly,’ said William, flopping on to it and sighing his appreciation.
    Michael emerged from behind the screen and inspected his reflection in the tiny mirror he used for travelling. He evidently liked what he saw, for he smiled. ‘Will you stay here and mind our budding saint while I address the obedientiaries, Father?’ he asked, carefully adjusting a stray hair.
    ‘What saint?’ asked Clippesby, snapping out of his reverie.
    ‘Of course,’ replied William, kicking off his boots and closing his eyes. ‘I do not feel like dealing with more Benedictines today anyway. But you should not go alone, Brother. Take Matthew with you.’
    ‘I hardly think that is necessary,’ said Bartholomew, loath to be thrust into the company of Ramseye and Welbyrn again. ‘These are men of his own Order.’
    ‘Yes, but I shall still need help if we are to