The Lost Abbot by Susanna Gregory

argued Clippesby. ‘I doubt he made a mistake. But even if he did, he could just have claimed that Robert had a fatal seizure. No one would have challenged him.’
    ‘Rubbish,’ claimed William, although he wore a crestfallen expression. ‘But prime is starting, and I am not in the habit of chatting during sacred offices. Please be quiet now.’
    Tactfully refraining from pointing out that it had been William doing most of the talking, Bartholomew and Clippesby bowed their heads.
    Prime was a beautiful ceremony in Peterborough. The precentor was an innovative musician, and the monks had been taught to sing in parts rather than traditional plainsong. Bartholomew closed his eyes to listen to the exquisite harmonies, but opened them again when someone joined in who should not have done – a discordant yowl that clashed with the tenors. William was smirking, delighted at this example that not everything the Benedictines did was perfect; Clippesby did not seem to have noticed.
    When the service was over, Michael was waiting to say that they had been invited to breakfast in the refectory. He began walking there briskly, as though afraid there might not be anything left if he dawdled.
    ‘Did you hear Prior Yvo caterwauling?’ he asked, slightly breathless from the rapid pace he was setting. ‘He ruined the
Gloria
.’
    ‘That was him, was it?’ asked William, amused. ‘Why did no one tell him to desist?’
    ‘We did, but he informed us that there was nothing wrong with his warbling, and that it was our ears that were out of tune.’
    ‘You are talking about Prior Yvo,’ came a voice from behind them. They turned to see a plump, round-faced, smiling little man who had been at the gathering of obedientiaries the previous evening. ‘He made himself heard this morning, even though I had begged him to stay silent. I had dedicated this morning’s music to poor Joan, you see. I was fond of her.’
    ‘This is Thomas Appletre,’ said Michael to his colleagues. ‘The precentor.’
    The monk smiled a welcome. ‘Any friends of Bishop Gynewell are friends of mine; I admire him greatly. However, I hope he will appoint a new Abbot for Peterborough and not leave us to elect one of our own. I think an outsider would be a good idea.’
    ‘I am considering taking the post myself,’ confided Michael. ‘And—’
    ‘Oh, please do!’ cried Appletre in delight. ‘It would be wonderful to have a man who cares for music – and who might be persuaded to sing the responses on occasion.’
    ‘Well,’ said Michael, flattered. He was a talented musician, and it was unfortunate that Michaelhouse had one of the worst choirs in the country. ‘That would be pleasant. But there is more to an abbacy than a bit of chanting, you know.’
    ‘Not necessarily. You can do what Robert did – delegate all the tedious business to your obedientiaries and keep the enjoyable duties for yourself.’
    ‘What does being Peterborough’s precentor entail?’ asked William, while Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a meaningful glance at this latest revelation of the Abbot’s shortcomings.
    ‘Organising the music and setting the mortuary roll,’ replied Appletre. When the friar frowned his bemusement, he explained, ‘Arranging prayers for the dead. Of course, that has put me in an invidious position of late.’
    ‘Has it?’ asked William, puzzled. ‘Why?’
    Appletre looked pained. ‘Because I should like to arrange some for Abbot Robert, but Welbyrn refuses to let me, on the grounds that he thinks he is still in the world of the living.’
    ‘But you believe Robert is dead?’ asked Michael.
    ‘Yes, I am afraid I do. He loved his food, you see, and I cannot see him staying away from the abbey’s table for a month without good cause. He took his victuals seriously.’
    ‘Tell me what you thought of him as Abbot,’ ordered Michael.
    Appletre considered carefully before replying. ‘He was a strong man. Well, he had to be, because a weak one