The Lost Abbot: 19 (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) by Gregory Susanna

Author:Gregory, Susanna [Gregory, Susanna]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group
Published: 2013-06-06T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 7

When Bartholomew woke the following day, he found it difficult to rally his thoughts. He was lethargic, and had backache from lying in one position too long. Even so, he did not possess the energy to move, so he stared at the ceiling, watching the first tendrils of light creep across it as dawn broke. Only when he heard his colleagues stir did he sit up.

‘At last!’ exclaimed Michael in relief. ‘I am glad to have you back, because I shall need your help today. Not to mention the fact that we have been worried. In future, perhaps you would stay away from poison.’

‘Poison,’ murmured Bartholomew, as events filtered slowly back into his mind.

‘We have not caught the culprit yet,’ said William. ‘But last night was eventful, even so. First, we had news that Spalling has made Cynric his official deputy. Then Inges arrived to say that Welbyrn had died in St Leonard’s well. But before either of those, Matilde came and…’

He trailed off, horrified with himself for the inadvertent slip. Michael glowered, Clippesby rolled his eyes, and Bartholomew wondered whether he had misheard.

‘I was going to tell you after breakfast, Matt,’ said the monk wearily. ‘You must be hungry after lying about for so long without so much as a crumb to eat.’

Clippesby took William’s arm. ‘Come, Father. There is a sparrow you should meet, one who might be able to tutor you in the art of discretion.’

‘No, I want to know what—’ But when William saw the dark expression on Michael’s face, he left the room in what could best be described as a scurry.

When the door had closed, Michael turned warily to Bartholomew. ‘Are you well enough for this? I do not think I could stand the strain of a relapse.’

Bartholomew was experiencing an awful churning in his stomach, and could tell from Michael’s face that he was about to be told something he would not like.

‘A drink or some food must have been laced with a soporific,’ he said, aware that his speech was slurred – his tongue could not seem to form the words properly. ‘But now I am awake, the effects will soon dissipate. There will be no relapse.’

‘A soporific?’ echoed Michael in alarm. ‘Lord! I have been going around telling everyone that you were poisoned!’

‘Soporifics can be toxic in the wrong hands.’

‘William and Clippesby deduced that it was in the Lombard slices. I blamed the leeks, but Piel’s pig ate the rest of those with no ill effects…’

‘The leeks came from a communal pot, but the pastries appeared out of nowhere – and you left the tavern without eating any.’ Bartholomew wished his wits were sharper, for he knew that Michael had managed to sidetrack him, but he was not alert enough to stop it.

‘I learned nothing to help our investigation while you were asleep,’ the monk went on. ‘And the situation is now desperate, because we leave the day after tomorrow.’

‘Was Matilde really here?’ asked Bartholomew.

Michael ignored the question. ‘Seeing what one cake did to you, I dread to imagine what would have happened had we finished the plate.

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