A Vein of Deceit

Chapter 8

Bartholomew and Michael joined the throng that hurried towards the Alneston Chantry. The chapel was tiny, and looked even shabbier up close than it had at a distance. The scholars entered to find themselves in a plain, single-celled building with a small altar at its eastern end. Above the altar was a window that had probably once contained glass, but that was now open to the elements. The floor was beaten earth, and was soft with bird droppings. It reeked of old feathers, damp and neglect.

‘I would not want to pray long in here,’ muttered Michael, wrinkling his nose in distaste. ‘No wonder Alneston’s soul only gets one mass a week.’

Neubold was indeed hanging from the rafters. He was in the same clothes he had worn the night before – blue gipon and orange leggings. Hilton and d’Audley were cutting him down, clearly in the hope of reviving him, but Bartholomew could see it was too late.

‘Neubold’s hands are tied,’ he whispered to Michael, watching Hilton push on the dead man’s chest in an effort to make him breathe. ‘And there is blood on his head. He was murdered.’

‘Then I hope no one will think we killed him,’ Michael murmured back. ‘Strangers are often blamed in situations like this, and we were in Withersfield last night. Perhaps we should leave.’

‘That will definitely look suspicious. And we cannot get out anyway – the place is too tightly packed, and more people are prising their way inside by the moment. We are effectively trapped.’

‘Can you save Neubold? That might make folk more kindly disposed towards us.’

‘Unfortunately not – he looks to be as stiff as a board, which suggests he has been dead for hours.’

‘Then we had better stand in the shadows,’ said Michael. ‘And hope no one notices us. What did you make of d’Audley’s testimony, by the way?’

‘It confirms what we had already guessed – that Wynewyk travelled to Suffolk in the summer, instead of going to see his ailing father. Of course, we would have known that without d’Audley – Wynewyk brought home a lot of jugs…’

‘And they are of the same distinctive design as the ones for sale in Haverhill market,’ finished Michael, nodding. ‘Moreover, d’Audley’s furtive manner leads me to surmise that Wynewyk almost certainly brokered some sort of deal with him. And probably with Elyan and Luneday, too.’

‘But it does not prove any wrongdoing on Wynewyk’s part,’ Bartholomew warned, predicting the monk’s next conclusion. ‘He may have organised the contracts in good faith, and it is these lordlings who are cheating Michaelhouse.’

‘Then why the secrecy?’ demanded the monk. ‘And why did he accept the money I gave him when I thought he was visiting sick kin? Such behaviour is not the act of a decent man.’

That was true, but Bartholomew was unwilling to admit it. He indicated that they should listen to what was happening by the altar; he seriously doubted any exchange between villagers would help them discover what Wynewyk had been doing in Suffolk, but it was a convenient way to bring an end to a conversation that was becoming uncomfortable.

‘Did anyone see Neubold this morning?’ Elyan was asking. ‘He was not at dawn mass, and he was unavailable when I asked for him last night. Does anyone know where he was?’

‘In Withersfield,’ replied Folyat. Bartholomew wondered who was collecting the tolls, or whether they were only levied when the gatekeeper felt like it. ‘He was caught trying to steal Lizzie, and Luneday locked him in his barn. I heard he escaped during the night.’

Elyan’s expression became suspiciously bland when Lizzie was mentioned, and Bartholomew was seized with the absolute conviction that he had known exactly what Neubold had been doing – that the priest had either been acting on his orders or with his complicit approval.

‘Luneday said he escaped,’ sneered d’Audley. ‘But it is obvious what really happened: the villains at Withersfield killed him, and invented the tale of Neubold’s escape, to confuse us.’

‘No,’ contradicted Lady Agnys sharply. She glared at d’Audley. ‘There is no evidence to suggest such a thing, and making such statements is both dangerous and offensive.’

‘I speak as I find,’ d’Audley snapped back.

They argued until Hilton stood, indicating that his efforts to save Neubold were over. He bowed his head and began to pray, which immediately stilled the clamour of accusations. But they started again the moment he had finished.

‘Neubold killed himself,’ said Elyan with considerable authority. ‘His brother Carbo went insane, so lunacy must run in the family.’

‘Then why are his hands tied?’ asked Agnys. ‘And how did he come by that cut on his head?’

‘He tied his hands to make sure he did not change his mind,’ replied Elyan, with the kind of shrug that said he thought his grandmother’s points were irrelevant. He smoothed down his immaculate gipon. ‘And of course there will be cuts when a man dies a violent death.’

‘Remember the mess in Luneday’s barn?’ murmured Bartholomew to Michael. ‘Perhaps Neubold was not rescued by whoever unbarred the door, but was dragged to his death instead. Do you think his murderer and the man who attacked us last night are one and the same?’

‘But why would anyone target us and Neubold? We have no connection to each other.’

‘He killed himself!’ Elyan was shouting, dragging the scholars’ attention back to the altar. ‘No one at Withersfield would risk his immortal soul by murdering a priest. You speak rubbish, d’Audley!’

‘Neubold is not wearing his habit,’ countered d’Audley. ‘And it was dark out last night – no moon, and thick clouds. Perhaps Luneday could not see, and hanged him without realising who he was.’

People were looking back and forth between the two men, as if watching a ball batted between two combatants. Hilton attempted to intervene, but the lords of the manor overrode him.

‘Then why is Neubold not dangling from the gibbet in Withersfield?’ demanded Elyan. He turned to the gatekeeper. ‘Folyat? Carry the body to the Upper Church. It can stay there until we decide where it can be buried. Suicides are banned from holy ground, but he will have to go somewhere.’

‘Elyan seems very keen for a verdict of self-murder,’ mused Michael. ‘Suspiciously so.’

‘And d’Audley seems equally keen to have Luneday blamed,’ Bartholomew whispered back. ‘Just as he is eager to have Luneday charged with harming Joan in Cambridge.’

‘Wait,’ said Hilton, putting out his hand to stop Folyat from doing as he was ordered. ‘Let us take a few moments to consider what really happened – not suppositions and theories, but proper facts.’

‘That is a very good idea, Hilton,’ said Agnys approvingly. ‘But none of us are qualified to do that sort of thing, so you had better oblige. You can find the truth.’

Elyan was furious. ‘No! I have a lot of clerking for him to do. Now Neubold is gone, he is the only one who can read and write for miles around.’

‘And I need him, too,’ declared d’Audley, equally peeved. ‘I do not want to lose this lovely chapel to King’s Hall. Besides, there is no need for an enquiry when the culprit is obvious.’

‘I am a priest, not a coroner,’ objected Hilton, also unhappy with Agnys’s decree. ‘I am not qualified to meddle in such matters, madam. You must send word to the Sheriff–’

‘You will do as I say,’ commanded Agnys firmly. ‘And we shall send for the Sheriff – but you will have answers for him when he arrives. The last time he came, he liked it so much that he declined to leave, and I do not want to give him an excuse to outstay his welcome again.’

‘Get a witness to say Neubold was despondent, and there will be an end of the matter,’ advised Elyan, seeing Hilton was to be given no choice. ‘In fact I can tell you right now that he would have been mortified at having to pass a night in a barn.’

‘That is not a reason for suicide,’ said Hilton wearily. ‘Even for a vain man like Neubold.’

‘Luneday probably had help when he committed his crime,’ said d’Audley, looking around suddenly. He spotted Bartholomew and Michael, and jabbed a finger at them. ‘There are strangers in our midst, and it is odd that they should appear just as a man dies in peculiar circumstances.’

‘It is, indeed,’ agreed Folyat. ‘And they were vague about the nature of their business here when I asked. They said they were going to buy jugs, but they have not yet made a single purchase!’

‘Damn!’ murmured Michael, as everyone turned to look at them. ‘This is going to be awkward.’

There was little Bartholomew and Michael could do as they were shoved unceremoniously towards the altar. D’Audley was delighted by their discomfiture, while Elyan stood with his hands on his hips and nodded, as if he had known the scholars would be trouble.

‘They are from Cambridge,’ said Hilton, reaching out to steady Bartholomew after a particularly vigorous push propelled him forward faster than was pleasant. ‘They are not–’

‘From King’s Hall?’ cried Folyat in dismay. ‘The ones who are trying to wrest Alneston Chantry from us, and who have set their sights on Elyan Manor, too?’

Michael frowned in puzzlement. ‘King’s Hall wants Elyan Manor?’

‘Silence!’ snapped d’Audley, rounding on him. ‘You have no right to ask us questions – you, who are the accomplices of a murderer!’

‘They are no such thing,’ countered Agnys, poking her neighbour in the chest with a gnarled forefinger. ‘And you are a troublemaker, bandying accusations like some common fishwife.’

The blood drained from d’Audley’s face as a titter of amusement rippled through the onlookers, and for a moment, Bartholomew thought he might reach for his dagger. But he settled for treating the old lady to a venomous scowl. Then he turned on his heel and shouldered his way outside.

The moment he had gone, Agnys started to make pointed remarks about villagers with too much time on their hands, and the chores she could devise to remedy the matter. Her words precipitated a concerted dash for the door, and it was not long before the chapel was virtually empty. Only Elyan, Hilton and Folyat remained, struggling to tie Neubold into his cloak.

Michael heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you, madam. But I am confused. Did Gatekeeper Folyat say King’s Hall intends to claim Elyan Manor, as well as this chantry?’

It was Hilton who replied, looking up from his knotting. ‘They can only press their claim if Elyan dies childless. We thought our worries were over when Joan conceived, but–’

‘But Joan died, and the vultures circle,’ finished Agnys. ‘And if my grandson does not produce an heir, there are several parties who think they have a right to our estates. King’s Hall is one of them.’

‘How did that come about?’ asked Michael, astonished.

‘From ancient wills and records,’ replied Folyat disapprovingly. ‘Lawyers’ tricks. If they win, King’s Hall will rule from afar by appointing some non-local steward. And we all know what happens to manors with distant landlords – they are run for profit and nothing else. No kindness.’

‘All that is true, Folyat,’ said Hilton. ‘But these scholars are from Michaelhouse, not King’s Hall. It is a totally separate foundation, so do not blame them for their colleagues’ greed.’

‘A scholar is a scholar,’ muttered Folyat, turning back to his work. ‘Just as a chicken is a chicken.’

Imperiously, Agnys indicated Bartholomew and Michael were to follow her to an alcove, where she could speak without being overheard by Elyan, Hilton and Folyat. The priest and the gatekeeper did not seem to care, but Elyan watched resentfully, although he made no move to intervene.

‘Henry and d’Audley do not recognise you,’ Agnys said to Bartholomew in a low voice. ‘But I know you are the physician who tended Joan in Cambridge. However, if you have come to inform us that you have uncovered evidence to prove suicide, then I do not want to hear it. You can go home.’

‘What makes you think it was suicide?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘It was not,’ said Agnys firmly. ‘There are folk who say she was unhappy in the few weeks before she died, but her troubles did not run deep enough to warrant self-murder.’

‘You loved her,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘That much was obvious in St Mary the Great. And you do not want her dragged from her grave and reburied in unhallowed ground, even though you suspect – as do I – that she probably did take her own life.’

Agnys looked as though she would argue, but then inclined her head stiffly. ‘I taught her about pennyroyal, so she would not have swallowed it by accident. However, I will not have it said that she murdered her unborn child. She is dead, and that is bad enough. Please, leave her in peace.’

‘I doubt she took her own life,’ said Michael. Bartholomew and Agnys looked sharply at him, and he shrugged. ‘We have just been told a lot depended on this heir – that the inheritance of Elyan Manor is contested without one. That is a powerful motive for wanting Joan dead before it was born.’

‘But this is Suffolk,’ said Agnys indignantly. ‘We do not murder pregnant women here.’

‘She did not die here, she died in Cambridge,’ Michael pointed out. ‘And Matt’s sister is convinced there is something odd about her demise – so much that she has ordered him to ask questions about it.’

‘Because it was distressing to see an old friend die,’ argued Bartholomew, alarmed that the monk should be voicing such opinions. It would bring nothing but trouble, and there was good evidence for suicide, especially now Agnys said Joan had been unhappy. ‘Edith is racked by grief, and–’

Michael ignored him and addressed Agnys. ‘Tell us about Joan – about her child.’

Agnys’s fierce expression softened. ‘She had longed for a baby for many years, but failed to make one. Then, when we had all but given up, her prayers were answered. She was delighted.’

‘Yet you said she was troubled,’ said Michael. ‘Despondent.’

‘That came later – a few weeks ago. Unfortunately, she would not tell me the reason, no matter how much I begged her. Then one day, out of the blue, she insisted on travelling to Cambridge to buy ribbons. Henry should never have let her go.’

‘Then why did he?’ asked Michael. He shrugged when Agnys regarded him stonily. ‘I am sorry if I cause offence, but Joan’s child was important. I cannot imagine why he agreed to such a journey.’

Agnys grimaced. ‘He trusted Neubold, even if I despised the man. Unfortunately, she left when I was visiting Clare Priory – probably because she knew I would have talked her out of going, had I been here. I assumed she had decided an excursion might lift her spirits.’

‘Was it a happy marriage?’ asked Michael.

‘Yes. It was not a very physical relationship, but they cared deeply for each other even so.’

Bartholomew saw Michael’s thoughts reflected his own: that Joan might have secured the services of a more fertile fellow, given that Elyan had not been up to the task. The medical profession usually maintained that the fault lay with the woman in such cases, but Bartholomew knew plenty of ladies who refused to accept this ‘traditional wisdom’. Joan, who had sounded a strong-minded, independent sort of person, might well have been one of them. Bartholomew half expected the monk to pursue the matter, and braced himself for trouble, but Michael turned to another question instead.

‘Will you tell us why King’s Hall think they have a right to your grandson’s manor?’

‘We have known for years that there will be two claimants, should Henry die without issue: d’Audley, who is a snake but a Haverhill man; and Luneday, who is nicer but from Withersfield. We asked the priests – Neubold and Hilton – to determine who has the stronger claim. Unfortunately, not only did they discover that certain ancient marriages had not been legitimate, but they learned that a will made by Alneston – who founded this chapel – brought another contestant into play.’

‘King’s Hall?’

‘King’s Hall,’ agreed Agnys. ‘The whole situation is rendered even more confusing by the fact that certain documents are missing. Or are owned by Luneday, who cannot read and who will not let anyone else see them. He is afraid of being cheated, which is understandable enough – d’Audley is vicious and will do anything to harm him, while King’s Hall seem somewhat unscrupulous, too.’

‘Is this why King’s Hall want Alneston Chantry?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘To strengthen their claim on Elyan Manor – saying they already own property here, so they should have more?’

‘I cannot imagine why else they should want it,’ said Agnys, looking around in distaste. ‘It is a paltry place, and reeks of chickens for some inexplicable reason.’

‘But all this would be irrelevant if Henry had a child,’ mused Michael, regarding her thoughtfully. ‘Do you think d’Audley or Luneday went to Cambridge and gave Joan pennyroyal? You said she would not have swallowed it by accident, which only leaves two possibilities: she did it deliberately, or someone gave it to her.’

Agnys was unhappy. ‘I would hate to think so. However, when he heard Joan was in Cambridge, d’Audley left Haverhill, saying he was going to visit kin. Luneday’s woman was also mysteriously absent at the pertinent time. And the men of King’s Hall were there already.’

‘King’s Hall will not have harmed Joan,’ said Bartholomew, thinking of Paxtone, Warden Powys, and other scholars he knew and liked there. Then a picture of Shropham sprang unbidden into his mind, a man who was in prison for murder.

‘I would have said the same about d’Audley and Luneday,’ said Agnys grimly. She shook her head slowly. ‘I admit my initial assumption was that Joan had killed herself – yet she was happy about the child, even in the last few weeks when she became unaccountably troubled. Meanwhile, the notion of her swallowing pennyroyal by accident is preposterous. So that leaves murder. And I have just decided that you two are going to help me find the culprit.’

There was a silence after Lady Agnys made her announcement. Bartholomew’s heart sank, and he wished Michael had held his tongue over something that was – after all – none of their business.

‘And how do you propose we do that?’ asked Michael eventually.

Agnys smiled. ‘Oh, I expect a cunning fellow like you will think of a way, especially if I offer you information in return. You mentioned a man called Wynewyk earlier. My ageing memory needed a while to work, but I do recall a fellow of that name visiting my grandson in August.’

‘Do you know why?’ asked Michael. ‘Or what was discussed?’

‘No, but I can find out.’

Michael regarded her suspiciously. ‘You would pry into your kinsman’s affairs on our behalf?’

Agnys’s grin became slightly malevolent. ‘Henry will not have done anything untoward. However, d’Audley had a very curious reaction to the name, and I would enjoy discovering something to discomfit him. You may think me unneighbourly, but I cannot abide the fellow.’

‘We think your grandson sold Wynewyk some coal in August,’ said Michael. His tone was cautious. ‘But Hilton maintains he does not have enough of it.’

Agnys shrugged. ‘Henry imports it from Ipswich for local needs, but the discovery of a seam on our land means he hopes to hawk more in the coming years. Perhaps Wynewyk’s purchase was for coal to be delivered in the future.’

Michael was about to ask more, but the door banged open and Cynric hurried towards them. The Welshman’s face was grim as he pulled Bartholomew to one side.

‘I have been making friends in taverns,’ he said in a low voice. ‘And two have just told me that they were paid to dig a secret grave, up by the mine. In the summer.’

Bartholomew winced. ‘That is unpleasant, but not our affair.’

‘They said the body belonged to a stranger.’ Cynric’s expression was deeply troubled. ‘A young man. And they described an unusual black garment over his tunic and hose.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘You mean like an academic tabard?’

Cynric nodded soberly. ‘That is what it sounded like to me. Kelyng always wore his tabard, because he was proud of it – and you know I think Wynewyk hired him for protection.’

‘You think it is our missing Bible Scholar in this grave? That is not very likely, Cynric.’

‘It is if you think about it,’ pressed Cynric urgently. ‘Kelyng went missing in August, after Wynewyk had made that suspicious journey to see his sick father. And while the rest of you assumed Kelyng had fled his debts, Wynewyk never did.’

‘But if this is true, and they were attacked, Wynewyk would have told us–’

‘Would he?’ interrupted Cynric. ‘Even though it would have meant admitting that he did not travel to Winwick, but went to Suffolk instead? And would have to tell you why?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Perhaps you are right, but I do not see how we will ever find out.’

‘I do. I got precise directions to this tomb, and I know where I can borrow a spade.’

‘No!’ Bartholomew was horrified.

But Cynric was adamant. ‘I liked Kelyng, and his parents have a right to know what happened to him. I will do it alone, if need be. But it will be easier with two of us.’

‘When?’ asked Bartholomew heavily.

Pleased, Cynric gripped his shoulder, warrior fashion. ‘At midnight. When else?’

Lady Agnys declared she was thirsty when Bartholomew returned, and asked him and Michael to join her for an ale at the Queen’s Head. It was an unusual invitation, because taverns were rarely frequented by ladies. First, they were the domain of men, and second, those women who did venture inside tended to be prostitutes.

Michael was grinning as they followed her out of the chapel. He admired doughty old ladies, and liked the fact that Agnys was prepared to ignore convention and do as she pleased. Bartholomew would have preferred to sit by himself and consider Cynric’s theory about Kelyng, but Agnys was astute, and he did not want to arouse her suspicions by asking to be excused.

The Queen’s Head was neat, clean and smelled of the new rushes on the floor. The landlord did not seem surprised when Agnys sailed into his establishment; he only doffed his cap and ousted three patrons so she could sit by the fire. When Michael started to ask for claret, Agnys stopped him.

‘The Queen’s Head is noted for its ale, so you will have ale. And it is famous for its roasted pork, too, so we shall have a plate of that, as well. You look like a man who appreciates his food, Brother.’

‘I am not fat,’ said Michael immediately. ‘Matt tells me I have unusually heavy bones.’

‘Actually, that is something you invented of your own–’ began Bartholomew.

‘I have heavy bones, too,’ said Agnys, with a conspiratorial wink as she patted her own ample girth. ‘God made the ones in my hips out of lead.’

Michael rubbed his hands approvingly as the landlord brought the victuals. The ale was sweet and clear, and the pork succulent. It made Bartholomew realise yet again how much he had missed decent food since Wynewyk’s tampering with the accounts had forced them to tighten their belts.

When they were settled, and were working their way through a platter of meat that would have fed half the King’s army, Michael regaled Agnys with a truncated and not very accurate account of why they had travelled to Suffolk. Bartholomew tried to listen, but most of his mind was on what Cynric had told him. What if the body in the grave did transpire to be Kelyng’s? How could there be an innocent explanation for Wynewyk taking a student on a journey from which he never returned?

‘… Neubold,’ Michael was saying. ‘What do you think happened to him?’

‘I do not believe he took his own life,’ replied Agnys. Bartholomew forced himself to pay closer attention. The sooner he and Michael had answers to their questions, the sooner they could leave – and he was unsettled and wary in Suffolk, and desperately wanted to go home. ‘First, he had no reason to do so – my grandson admits to paying him handsomely to steal Luneday’s pig, and no man kills himself while he has a fortune to enjoy. And second, he was happy with his lot.’

‘The Withersfield villagers chased him for miles when he was caught thieving,’ said Michael. ‘I think he was genuinely afraid of them.’

‘He had a slippery tongue and an inflated sense of his own cleverness,’ argued Agnys. ‘He may have been given a fright at first, but he would have assumed he could talk himself out of any trouble.’

‘I wonder if he was dispatched in Withersfield,’ mused Michael. ‘There was evidence of a struggle in the barn, although no blood that I could see.’

‘There was a cut on his head, though,’ said Agnys. ‘So perhaps we must conclude that he was killed elsewhere. The chapel, for example.’

Bartholomew started to say that the barn was a big building, and the wound on Neubold’s head had not been serious – it would need more than a passing glance to detect any drops of blood that might have been shed there. But he stopped, although he could not have said why. Were his feelings of unease leading him to question the probity of everyone in Suffolk, even those who seemed to be on their side? He rubbed a hand through his hair, troubled and tense.

‘We were attacked last night,’ said Michael, sopping the grease from the platter with a piece of bread. He tore the fat-drenched morsel in two and offered half to Agnys, who accepted it appreciatively. ‘Perhaps Neubold was murdered, then the culprit decided to kill us, too, lest we had witnessed anything. After all, the barn and the hall are not very far apart.’

‘Or perhaps your assailant heard only that you are scholars from Cambridge, and jumped to the not unreasonable conclusion that you hail from King’s Hall,’ suggested Agnys. ‘And King’s Hall is not popular around here. Alternatively, it is possible that your attacker wanted Luneday dead, because he had dared to incarcerate a Haverhill man in his barn – you were not the intended victims at all.’

Both theories had one obvious suspect: d’Audley. Bartholomew studied Agnys as he thought about it. D’Audley certainly had a motive for harming representatives from King’s Hall, given that they intended to claim property he considered to be his own, while his obvious hatred for Withersfield might well lead him to mount an attack on Luneday. But was he a murderer? Or did it just suit Agnys to have him considered as one?

‘Who do you think killed Neubold, My Lady?’ asked Michael, sitting back and folding his hands across his paunch, finally replete. ‘It must be someone from this area, because strangers would have been noticed – as we were.’

Agnys raised her hands in a shrug. ‘I barely know where to start. Luneday and his people despised Neubold for a whole host of reasons. D’Audley claims to have admired Neubold’s talent, but he is a devious fellow, and who knows what he really thinks? Gatekeeper Folyat was always quarrelling with Neubold over petty matters. And do not forget that Neubold was recently in Cambridge.’

‘What does that have to do with anything?’ asked Michael.

‘It is where Joan died. Perhaps he knew something about her passing, and was killed to ensure his silence. He claimed he left Cambridge before she became ill, which is why he failed to tend her on her deathbed, but he may have been lying. He was not an honest man.’

‘Did he say why he abandoned his master’s heavily pregnant wife in a strange town?’ asked Michael. ‘It is hardly a responsible thing to have done.’

‘He told me he wanted to inform Henry about his successful negotiations with King’s Hall as soon as possible,’ replied Agnys. ‘He thought Joan would be safe with Edith, and planned to collect her later, when she had finished shopping. Or so he said. Perhaps he was telling the truth, perhaps he was not.’

‘Are you sure he went to discuss coal?’ asked Michael. ‘His real intention was not to tell King’s Hall how they might strengthen their claim on Elyan Manor?’

Agnys blew out her cheeks in a sigh. ‘With Neubold, anything was possible. It would not surprise me to learn that he offered to destroy documents or change others – for a price. He was not loyal to us.’

‘It is a pity we did not know all this sooner,’ said Michael. ‘He has taken his secrets to the grave so we can no longer ask him about them.’

‘I questioned him at length about Joan, but my efforts to catch him out were wasted. Perhaps he was telling the truth – I tended to disbelieve anything he said, but maybe I do him an injustice.’

‘You say Joan became troubled about something in the last few weeks,’ said Bartholomew, changing the subject back to his sister’s hapless friend. ‘But you do not know what.’

A cloud passed over Agnys’s face. ‘I wish now that I had made more of an effort to find out – there is a fine line between anxious concern and the interference of a husband’s grandmother, and I thought I was doing the right thing by recognising her right to privacy. But…’

‘Your grandson can always remarry,’ Michael pointed out. ‘Joan’s death does not necessarily mean Elyan Manor will go to one of these claimants.’

Agnys winced. ‘It took him twenty years to impregnate Joan, by which time we had all but given up hope. And to be honest, I suspect she reverted to other measures in the end.’

‘Other measures,’ queried Michael innocently. ‘You mean the child was not his?’

‘I doubt it, although I shall deny ever saying so, should anyone ask.’

Bartholomew regarded Agnys thoughtfully, wondering why she had confided such a suspicion to strangers. She professed to be fond of Joan, so why tell tales that implied she was wanton?

‘Is your grandson the kind of man to avenge himself on an unfaithful wife?’ he asked.

Agnys was silent for a long time before she replied. ‘No, I do not think so.’

But she did not sound convinced by her answer, and neither was Bartholomew.

‘Lord, Matt,’ breathed Michael, as they took their leave to walk through the marketplace. They were going to visit the Upper Church, where Bartholomew hoped to examine Neubold’s body, preferably without an audience. ‘I wonder whether we are wise to become embroiled in all this.’

‘In all what, specifically?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Neubold’s murder?’

‘The various deaths that have occurred since Wynewyk decided to cheat Michaelhouse – his own curious demise, Joan’s poisoning, Carbo’s stabbing and now Neubold’s hanging. I am sure they are all connected somehow.’

‘And Kelyng,’ said Bartholomew unhappily, and told him what his book-bearer had learned.

‘Cynric is right,’ said Michael, when he had finished. ‘We do need to excavate this grave. If it is not Kelyng’s, then it can be refilled, and that will be the end of the matter. But if it is him…’

‘Then we shall have yet another mystery to solve.’

Michael nodded soberly. ‘Kelyng was Wynewyk’s student, and Cynric is correct in saying that he was handy with a weapon. Wynewyk was not, and it makes sense that he should have hired himself a bodyguard. Kelyng would have been the obvious choice.’

Bartholomew was sceptical. ‘Then why was Wynewyk so concerned when Kelyng failed to arrive at the beginning of term? We all assumed Kelyng had fled his debts, so why did Wynewyk keep worrying after him – if you are right, and he did drag the lad to an early death here, then surely it would have been better never to mention him again? Your theory makes no sense!’

‘It does, if he “worried” as a sort of smokescreen. It means we would not look to him should Kelyng’s body ever be found – he could say he was the one who was anxious, while the rest of us dismissed the lad as a debtor. It is callous, but we are talking about a man who cheats his friends here.’

‘Wynewyk had nothing to do with Kelyng’s death because–’

‘I applaud your loyalty, Matt,’ interrupted Michael harshly. ‘I really do. But it is beginning to fly in the face of reason.’

‘Actually, Brother, I was going to say that Wynewyk had nothing to do with Kelyng’s death, because of something Hilton told us earlier. He said there is a rumour that Carbo had killed a man by the mine, although he did not believe it. Well, perhaps the tale is true, and the victim was Kelyng.’

Michael raised his hands in the air. ‘We are getting ahead of ourselves here – it is foolish to speculate who knew what about Kelyng’s demise when we cannot even be sure if he is dead. Let us review what we do know, and see what headway we have made.’

Bartholomew took a deep breath and tipped back his head, looking up at the sky. It was iron grey, and he wondered whether it would rain again. He hoped not, because it would make digging unpleasant, especially as Cynric had neglected to bring him a change of clothes.

‘Neubold went to Cambridge to do business with King’s Hall,’ he said, trying to do as Michael suggested. ‘He took Joan with him, and Carbo must have followed on their heels – we do not know why, but he was ill, so perhaps he simply chased after two familiar faces.’

‘That sounds plausible,’ said Michael. ‘Then what?’

‘Then the three of them died – Joan of pennyroyal, Carbo of being stabbed by Shropham, and Neubold of hanging. And Wynewyk … I am still not sure what caused his demise. However, all four deaths are associated with coal: Joan’s husband has a mine, Neubold was selling the stuff to King’s Hall, Carbo was obsessed by it, and Wynewyk bought some for Michaelhouse.’

Michael began to list other points on his fat fingers.

‘Meanwhile, we have two lords of the manor with ample reasons for wanting a third one dead; we have a wife under pressure to produce an heir; we have King’s Hall determined to inherit a distant manor; and we are nowhere near the truth regarding Michaelhouse’s missing money.’

Bartholomew glanced at his friend, and saw that despite his discouraging words, the monk’s eyes gleamed in the way they always did when faced with an intricate mystery. The physician did not feel the same way at all, and was beginning to dread where their enquiries might lead them.

‘I hope we do not learn that King’s Hall has done something untoward to get this manor,’ he said uneasily. ‘I like Warden Powys, and would hate to see him fall from grace.’

Michael made a disgusted sound. ‘Powys was hand-picked by the King himself, and such men do not “fall from grace”. They might have mysterious accidents or take early retirement, but they certainly do not do anything that might suggest His Majesty made an unwise choice.’

Bartholomew regarded him in horror. ‘If unravelling this mess might result in another murder, then I am stopping right now. Powys is a–’

‘Powys is unlikely to be doing anything without royal approval,’ interrupted Michael. ‘So I very much doubt he will come to any harm. However, the same cannot be said for us – we have been attacked once already, and I want to finish our enquiries and go home as soon as possible. It is too late today, and you have a grave to despoil anyway, but we will be gone at first light tomorrow. I am not missing Monday’s Blood Relic debate for anyone.’

‘I had forgotten about that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Somehow, an academic gathering pales into insignificance when compared to Wynewyk, Kelyng and whether we can leave Suffolk alive.’

Michael grinned. ‘We shall outwit these clumsy assassins, never fear. Better yet, we may uncover evidence to strengthen King’s Hall’s claim, which will put Powys – and the King – in our debt.’

‘Christ,’ muttered Bartholomew, not liking the fact that the stakes had risen so high. ‘But here come Cynric and the students. They can visit Elyan’s mine while we inspect Neubold; as I said, coal features large in our investigation, so we should try to learn more about Elyan’s lode.’

Cynric and Valence did not mind being asked to explore, but Risleye and Tesdale were much less enthusiastic. Risleye said he did not like the look of the weather, while Tesdale was appalled by the notion of doing anything as strenuous as a walk followed by a loiter in the woods.

‘It is a long way,’ he complained pitifully. ‘And I am very tired.’

Valence punched him playfully. ‘It will be fun to visit a mine – I have never seen one before.’

‘I have,’ said Risleye sullenly. ‘They are nasty, dirty, dangerous places, especially in the rain.’

Valence raised arch eyebrows. ‘Will you let a bit of drizzle prevent you from seeing patients when you are qualified? You will ignore their summons, lest you get wet?’

‘That will depend on what they agree to pay me,’ replied Risleye, quite seriously. He smiled at Bartholomew. ‘Are you offering to recompense me for this jaunt? That will put a different complexion on matters. I will go anywhere for silver!’

‘Well, I will not,’ said Tesdale miserably. ‘I had a bad dream about a mine last night.’

‘In that case, you can find out whether there is an apothecary in Haverhill,’ said Bartholomew, reluctant to exacerbate the lad’s nightmares. ‘If there is, ask who has bought pennyroyal oil recently.’

‘Pennyroyal oil?’ asked Tesdale, startled. ‘Do you think Joan was killed with supplies purchased in Suffolk, then? I assumed she came by hers in Cambridge.’

‘Well, if she did, then it was not from Doctor Bartholomew’s storeroom,’ said Valence. ‘Because Deynman has already confessed to borrowing that.’

‘This is grossly unfair!’ cried Risleye, when Cynric indicated he was ready to go. ‘Tesdale does not have to traipse up to this wretched colliery, so why do I?’

‘Because Doctor Bartholomew has asked you to,’ said Valence virtuously. ‘Do not glower so! We shall be back long before it rains.’

The Upper Church comprised a nave with an apsidal end and two flanking aisles. It was ancient, built in the sturdy manner of the Normans, and reminded Bartholomew of the abbey at Peterborough, where he had gone to school. There was a low tower, decorated with blind arcading, and its thick walls were pierced at regular intervals by roundheaded windows. Inside the church, every available surface had been daubed with energetic murals. The result was disquieting, especially when the statues were taken into account: they had been provided with the most vivid colours imaginable for their robes, and Bartholomew had never seen so many intense blue eyes.

As he and Michael walked towards the north aisle, where Neubold had been deposited, they found Hilton ushering the last of his inquisitive parishioners away, leaning forward to rest a hand on their heads in blessing as they went. When he thought he was alone, he crossed himself, muttered a very brief prayer and headed for the door.

‘Is that it?’ asked Michael, stepping out from behind one of the pillars. Hilton jumped violently, and clutched his chest, to indicate he had been given a serious shock. Michael ignored his reaction. ‘Are you in such a hurry that you cannot do more for your colleague’s soul?’

‘I will return later, and perhaps keep vigil tonight. But I am in a hurry to leave. Lady Agnys ordered me to look into Neubold’s death, and I must do as she says, because she is inclined to be testy when people ignore her instructions. And I do think Neubold was unlawfully killed, because of his tied hands – Elyan is wrong to say he committed suicide.’

‘How do you plan to proceed?’ asked Michael.

Hilton did not look happy. ‘By visiting the barn at Withersfield – the last place he was seen alive.’

‘Someone must have let him out,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘The door was barred from the outside, so he cannot have left without help. However, the question is, was he killed by his so-called rescuer, or did he return to Haverhill and meet his murderer here?’

Hilton nodded slowly. ‘You have put your finger on the crux of the matter. Unfortunately, it does not help me – I still have two villages full of suspects, because a lot of people disliked Neubold.’

‘Why was he so unpopular?’ asked Bartholomew.

Hilton raised his hands. ‘Where do I start? He neglected his religious duties – bodies left unburied and weddings postponed, which is inconvenient if you are about to have a child. He manipulated the law to secure favourable verdicts for anyone who could pay. He undertook spying missions for Elyan. He dabbled in market business, by brokering deals and negotiating contracts. Indeed, there was little he would not do if the money was right.’

‘I understand you and he were looking into the matter of who will inherit Elyan Manor,’ said Michael. ‘Do you think that earned him enemies?’

‘I hope not!’ exclaimed Hilton, horrified. ‘Because that means I might be in danger, too.’

‘Can you name any good suspects for Neubold’s death?’ asked Bartholomew, feeling they were beginning to go around in circles. ‘There must be a few who stand out from the masses.’

‘Not really. I do not think you understand the extent to which he was held in contempt.’

Michael sighed. ‘Then let us eliminate a few. I think we can discount Elyan: first, he admired Neubold’s cunning ways with the law, and second, there cannot be many men who would agree to act as pig-rustlers on his behalf.’

‘But Neubold failed to get Lizzie,’ Hilton pointed out. ‘Worse, he was caught, bringing embarrassment to his employer. Moreover, ever since Neubold abandoned Joan in Cambridge, Agnys has been telling Elyan to dispense with his services – perhaps this is Elyan’s way of obliging her. And finally, I am suspicious of his insistence that Neubold committed suicide. So, you see, we cannot discount Elyan.’

While Michael and Hilton continued to debate potential culprits, Bartholomew edged towards the north aisle. He glanced at Michael, and saw the monk take Hilton’s arm and draw him outside, ostensibly for air. Suspecting he would not be left alone for long, so should complete his examination as quickly as possible, Bartholomew removed the pall and stared down at Neubold’s body.

The priest did not look any more pleasant in death than he had in life, and his narrow, pinched features had a bluish sheen that made him look dirty; Bartholomew was starkly reminded of Carbo. Another similarity was their stained hands, although the blackness of Neubold’s could be attributed to ink, whereas Carbo’s had been just plain filthy.

There was a red ring around Neubold’s wrists, showing he had struggled against his bonds. A rip in his tunic and the cut on his head were further evidence that he had fought his attacker. The cause of death was strangulation – Bartholomew supposed he had been hauled up by the neck and left to asphyxiate. There were no other injuries, so he replaced all as he had found it, and hurried outside.

‘Did you like them, Matt?’ asked Michael innocently. Hilton was regarding the physician warily. ‘I have just been telling our friend here about your penchant for garishly painted saints. He does not believe me, and is under the impression that you lingered inside for some other purpose.’

‘The statues are very colourful,’ said Bartholomew sincerely, thinking he had never seen such a gaudy collection, not even in France.

‘Now, Father,’ the monk said briskly, cutting across a remark Hilton started to make about physicians with peculiar tastes in sculpture, ‘you were telling me how Neubold’s body was found.’

‘Folyat discovered it,’ replied Hilton, dragging his wary gaze away from Bartholomew. ‘He said he came to tell me first, although I suspect he shared the news with those he passed en route. Neubold cannot have been there for long, because I said a mass for Alneston at dawn, and I assure you I would have noticed, had Neubold been present. His feet would have been in my face for a start.’

‘Well?’ asked Michael of Bartholomew, when Hilton had gone. ‘Were my lies in vain, or have you discovered something useful from the corpse?’

‘Hilton says Neubold was not in the chantry at dawn, which is strange: estimating a time of death is not an exact science, as you know, but I would guess he died last night. So, if Hilton is telling the truth, it means Neubold was killed elsewhere, then strung up in the chapel this morning.’

‘Why would anyone do that?’ asked Michael, puzzled.

‘I really have no idea.’

Michael did not want to discuss Neubold’s murder where they might be overheard, so he led the way to the marketplace. Stone benches had been placed around its perimeter, some with straw thatches, so that potential buyers could sit out storms and sun and would not be tempted to leave before they had spent all their money. The monk selected the one that was farthest from the bustling stalls and sat, indicating Bartholomew was to perch next to him. It might have been pleasant, watching the lively hurly-burly of the traders, had their minds not been full of murder.

‘If you are right in saying Neubold has been dead for some time,’ said Michael, ‘then it means he was murdered in Withersfield. And his body transported to Haverhill to be hung like a piece of meat.’

‘Not necessarily. For all we know, he was rescued within moments of the barn door being barred. Ergo, he could have been wandering around Haverhill for hours before he was killed.’

Michael frowned. ‘So he was hanged in Haverhill, then? How do you know?’

‘I do not know, Brother – I am just trying to note all the possibilities. However, since you ask, I am inclined to say he died in Withersfield. The barn looked as though it had seen a struggle – we saw no blood, but I imagine we would find some, were we to look under all the hay.’

‘Very well – I accept your reasoning so far. However, do you not think it would be risky to bring a corpse all the way from Withersfield? How would it get past Gatekeeper Folyat, for a start?’

‘William told us he relaxes his guard after dark, when the market is closed. And he said Margery came to Haverhill last night – perhaps she carried Neubold on her horse.’

‘That cannot be true. First, if William saw enough to be able to identify Margery as the rider, he would have noticed a priest-shaped bundle behind her saddle. And second, Hilton has just informed us that there was no corpse in Alneston Chantry when he arrived at dawn.’

Bartholomew was beginning to be exasperated by the lack of answers. ‘We are looking at this the wrong way around – trying to establish a chain of events when we do not understand why the villain should act as he did. Perhaps we should determine the identity of the culprit first – then we might grasp why he deemed it necessary to tote a priest’s body around in the dark.’

‘We might, I suppose,’ said the monk dubiously. ‘So name your chief suspects.’

‘We have several in Withersfield to choose from. Margery despised Neubold – perhaps she hired a servant to bring the body here. Luneday may have decided murder was the best way to protect his pig. William the steward also hated Neubold, and his capture may have presented too tempting an opportunity.’

‘It was William who raised the alarm to say Neubold was missing,’ Michael pointed out.

‘Perhaps that is what he hopes we will think – that his “discovery” will be enough to spare him from suspicion. Of course, it could be Lizzie.’

‘Lizzie?’ asked Michael, regarding him askance. ‘The pig?’

‘Sows can be dangerous when they have a litter.’

‘Do not be flippant,’ snapped Michael. ‘I believed you for a moment. Personally, my money is on Margery. She loathed Neubold, and has admitted to being abroad and unaccounted for last night.’

Bartholomew thought about it. ‘He suffered a blow to the head, which may have been enough to subdue him and allow her to tie a rope around his neck. And his hands.’

‘What a mess,’ groaned Michael. ‘We are still no closer to learning anything new about Wynewyk, but we have a priest murdered and this mysterious grave to explore. But here comes Cynric with the students. I wonder what they have to report.’

‘There is an apothecary,’ announced Tesdale as he approached. He was pleased with himself, and gave Cynric a slight push when the book-bearer started to interrupt. ‘He told me that three people bought pennyroyal oil recently. He said he was surprised, because it is cheaper to make your own.’

‘Who?’ asked Michael.

‘Lady Agnys had a jar for flatulence. Hilton wanted a bit to put in some tonic he likes to drink at night. And Neubold purchased a pot, but would not say why.’

‘Hilton?’ asked Michael in a low voice, looking at Bartholomew. ‘Why would he mean Joan harm? He has nothing to gain by her death.’

‘We cannot know that, Brother. Perhaps he was paid to ensure Elyan’s heir never lived to inherit. The same is true of Neubold.’

‘And Agnys?’ asked Michael quietly.

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘She knows pennyroyal killed Joan, so why did she not mention the fact that she purchased some? I would have done, just to mark it as a curious coincidence.’

‘So would I,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘And we only have her word that she was pleased by Joan’s pregnancy. Perhaps she would rather see Elyan Manor go to one of the three claimants than a brat sired by the local stud.’

Risleye edged closer, trying to hear what they were saying. The moment they stopped speaking, he began to hold forth, his voice loud and full of self-importance. Cynric rolled his eyes when it became obvious that the student did not intend to share the credit for what they had done together.

‘I visited the mine, but I was not the only one interested in it,’ the student began. ‘I found clear evidence that others have been watching it, too. It was not possible to tell who, of course, but I could tell from the crushed grass and broken twigs that someone – perhaps more than one person – had lurked in the woods and observed what was happening, just as I was doing.’

‘Did you indeed?’ asked Michael, an amused smile plucking at the corners of his mouth. He did not look at Cynric. ‘And what else did you notice?’

‘That not much is happening there,’ said Valence, cutting across Risleye. ‘There are two men with picks, but they do not seem to be making much progress. I cannot see it making Elyan rich.’

‘Valence is right,’ said Cynric. ‘Welsh mines are full of labourers, but two men are too few. However, while this pair mined, six others were on guard. Elyan clearly thinks there is something worth protecting, and it was hard to get close.’

‘But you managed,’ predicted Bartholomew.

The book-bearer grinned. ‘We did. But I was surprised by what we saw. The seam is just a thin layer of poor-grade coal, which may not even burn – or will smoke so much that it is useless.’

‘Then why does Elyan guard it so jealously?’ asked Michael.

Cynric shrugged. ‘That is yet another mystery for you to solve, Brother.’

It was too late to do much else that day, and dusk was approaching early because of the rain clouds that were gathering. Michael complained bitterly that he was obliged to spend a second night in Suffolk, but Bartholomew felt he had far more cause to gripe – it was not the Benedictine who was obliged to disappear into the darkness with a shovel, to see whether one of their students was buried in an unmarked grave.

They hired beds in the Queen’s Head – in two separate rooms, so they would not have to explain their actions to Valence, Risleye and Tesdale – and retired early. Cynric fell asleep at once, but Bartholomew tossed and turned until Michael told him it was time to leave.

‘The students are still drinking downstairs,’ said the monk. ‘You will have to climb out of the window, or they will see you and wonder where you are going.’

‘God help me, Brother!’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘I am getting too old for this sort of caper.’

‘There is plenty of life in you yet,’ said Michael, opening the shutter and standing back smartly as the wind hurled a cascade of rain inside. ‘Are you sure you do not need my help?’

‘It is better that you stay here,’ replied Cynric, before Bartholomew could say that the monk’s strength would be very welcome. ‘Then if anything goes wrong, you can give us an alibi.’

‘What can go wrong?’ asked Bartholomew, alarmed.

‘Probably nothing,’ said Cynric, clearly looking forward to the escapade. He loved sneaking around in the dark. ‘But keep the door locked, Brother. And the windows, too.’

With serious misgivings, Bartholomew clambered on to the sill and began to climb down the back wall. It was not far to the ground, because the ceilings were low, and there were ample beams to use as foot- and hand-holds. Even so, it was a struggle, and he could feel Cynric’s disapproval coming in waves as he scraped and rattled his way to the ground. The book-bearer dropped lightly beside him, then disappeared. When he returned, he was carrying two spades and a lamp.

They set off along the Withersfield road, Bartholomew following Cynric’s lead by keeping to the shadows. They passed one or two people, who weaved along in a manner that suggested they would not have noticed other travellers anyway, but most folk were in bed, and the houses along the street were dark. A light shone from one, and they could hear a baby wailing inside, its mother trying wearily to soothe it with lullabies.

It was not long before Cynric left the road and set out across the fields. The going was miserable, because it was pitch black, and the rain made the route treacherously slippery. Wet vegetation slapped at them as they passed, and they were soon drenched through. As they neared the mine, thorns snagged their clothes and Bartholomew heard something rip in his tunic. He grimaced, hoping it could be repaired. After a while, Cynric slowed.

‘The mine,’ the book-bearer whispered, pointing through the undergrowth. ‘The guards are still here, although I cannot imagine why, because the diggers have gone home. Can you see their lamps?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘How are we going to get past them?’

‘There is no need. I took the precaution of locating the grave when I was here with Risleye and Valence earlier, and it is not too near the coal, although we must still tread softly. Fortunately, the wind should carry away most sounds we make. We should be all right.’

Bartholomew’s heart was pounding. It was only the need to know about Kelyng that stopped him from turning around and running back to the Queen’s Head as fast as his legs would carry him. He followed Cynric to an oak tree with a jumble of brambles growing around its trunk. The book-bearer tugged a few away, and Bartholomew saw a mound of raised earth. He was surprised Cynric had found it, because he certainly would not have done, and could only suppose the directions to it had been very precise. Wordlessly, the Welshman handed him a spade.

It was grim work: the ground was sodden, and the rain seemed to be coming down harder than ever. They lit a lamp, but it had to be shaded so the guards would not notice it, which meant it was difficult to see what they were doing. Every so often, Cynric would disappear, to ensure no one had been alerted to their presence. While he did so, Bartholomew continued to dig, although it was unnerving to be alone and he was always relieved when the book-bearer returned.

‘I think I can feel cloth, Cynric,’ he whispered eventually. ‘And bone.’

‘You can do the rest, then,’ said the book-bearer promptly. ‘This is the bit I do not want to see.’

It was the bit Bartholomew did not want to see, either, and it took considerable willpower to scrape away the remaining soil with his hands; he dared not use a spade, lest the blade damaged the body. Kelyng had been missing for two months, so identification was going to be difficult enough, without having a broken skull to contend with.

At last he encountered an arm, although it was little more than bone and sinew. He worked upwards to where he thought the head might be. After a while, he sat back and moved the lamp over what he had exposed. There was a crooked front tooth that had once formed a distinctive part of Kelyng’s impish grin, along with tufts of reddish hair, where the rain was washing it clean of mud. There was also a tin brooch the Bible Scholar had liked, and the tattered remnants of Michaelhouse’s uniform black tabard.

‘Is it him?’ asked Cynric.

Bartholomew found he was unable to speak. He nodded.

It was some time before either man spoke again. Bartholomew sat on his heels and stared at the sorry remains, thinking sadly of the cheerful youth whose voice had accompanied so many College meals. Cynric clutched one of the charms he wore around his neck – a ward against restless spirits – as he stood with his head bowed, muttering prayers to whatever god happened to be listening.

‘What shall we do?’ the Welshman asked after a while. ‘Can you get him out in one piece?’

Bartholomew shook his head, trying to find his voice. ‘No, and we cannot arrive at the Queen’s Head with a skeleton anyway. All we can do now is rebury him.’

‘And reclaim him another time – on another visit to Suffolk?’

Bartholomew felt his resolve begin to strengthen. ‘Yes, but when we do, it will be openly and in full daylight. And his killer will be under lock and key.’

‘He was murdered, then?’ asked Cynric unhappily.

‘Stabbed. You can see the mark quite clearly on his ribs.’

‘Cover him,’ urged Cynric, looking around uneasily.

‘This has taken too long, and we need to be back in the tavern before dawn, or we will start meeting labourers as they go out to the fields.’

Bartholomew placed a clean bandage from his medical bag across Kelyng’s face, and began to do as Cynric suggested. But it was even more difficult shovelling dirt on top of the Bible Scholar than it had been unearthing him, and he was obliged to stop when he thought he might be sick. He pretended to check on the guards, hoping Cynric would have finished when he returned.

He need not have worried. Cynric was eager to be gone, and had worked fast and efficiently, so that by the time Bartholomew had made sure the watchmen were still in their makeshift hut by the coal seam, the Welshman was patting the soil into place and tugging the brambles across it.

Suddenly, Cynric stiffened and cocked his head, listening intently. Automatically, Bartholomew did the same, but all he could hear was the wind sighing through the branches above his head and the patter of rain on the saturated ground.

‘What–’ he began, but Cynric silenced him with a sharp glance. Then the Welshman kicked the lantern so it went out, plunging them into utter blackness.

It took a moment for Bartholomew to attune his ears to what had startled Cynric, but once he did, it seemed as loud as thunder. The sound was footsteps, and they were coming closer. Cynric grabbed the physician’s arm and pulled him behind the oak tree. Almost immediately, one of the guards emerged from the undergrowth to stand where they had been. He bent down, and touched a finger to the earth. Then he straightened and looked around him.

‘There!’ he hissed, stabbing a finger in the direction of the oak. ‘I told you I heard someone!’

All at once the other watchmen were thrusting through the bushes. Cynric turned and fled, leaving Bartholomew to follow. The physician was slower and much less sure-footed, and soon began to fall behind. Cynric stopped and urged him on, although Bartholomew needed no such encouragement – he was running as hard as he could, stumbling and staggering as he tripped over roots in the darkness. But it was not fast enough, and he could hear their pursuers coming closer.

His arm was almost wrenched from its socket when Cynric jerked him to a standstill before hauling him into a thicket. The Welshman put his finger to his lips, and an instant later, the guards shot past.

‘You must have made more noise than you thought when you went to check on them,’ said Cynric a little while later, when they had taken a tortuous route across several fields and were finally in sight of Haverhill. Bartholomew did not think he had ever been so relieved to see a place in his life.

‘Sorry,’ he said sheepishly. ‘I did my best.’

Cynric squeezed his shoulder in a rare gesture of affection. ‘It is all right, boy. It is not your fault you have no skill for this kind of thing. Still, we learned one important thing from the chase: the watchmen are not just for decoration – they take their duties seriously.’

‘But why does the mine warrant such vigilance?’ demanded Bartholomew, becoming frustrated by the lack of answers. ‘You say it does not even have decent coal.’

‘Perhaps it is magic coal,’ suggested Cynric matter-offactly. ‘And if Kelyng happened across it, he might have been stabbed to ensure his silence on the matter. It might even explain why Wynewyk gave the mine’s owner eighteen marks.’

‘It might,’ said Bartholomew, too tired and fraught to argue with him.

‘Of course, there is another explanation,’ Cynric went on, padding at the physician’s side with cat-like grace. ‘Wynewyk brought Kelyng here. Perhaps he was the one who wielded the knife.’

‘Not you as well, Cynric,’ groaned Bartholomew. ‘Is there no one who believes he is innocent?’

‘Not at Michaelhouse,’ replied Cynric.