A Vein of Deceit

Chapter 9

Michael was horrified when he saw his friend’s clothes were torn, sodden and filthy, and ordered Cynric to clean them as best as he could. Bartholomew agreed, aware that the guards would know exactly who he was if he was seen in such a bedraggled state. While the book-bearer went off in search of water and thread, Bartholomew told Michael what had happened.

‘So now we have a second Michaelhouse death to investigate,’ he concluded, shivering as he huddled next to the fire. There was a chill inside him that had nothing to do with the cold. ‘And this one is certainly murder. I am still not sure why Wynewyk died, but Kelyng did not stab himself.’

The monk’s face was pale in the flickering light. ‘I do not suppose the grave contained any evidence of who might have done this dreadful thing? An identifiable knife, perhaps?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Cynric thinks Wynewyk did it. I suppose poor Wynewyk will be blamed for anything untoward that happens now.’

‘Poor Wynewyk has only himself to blame,’ Michael said, placing sarcastic emphasis on the first word. ‘No one forced him to steal from us – or try to kill our Master.’

‘I wish we had not brought Valence, Risleye and Tesdale with us,’ said Bartholomew, changing the subject before they quarrelled. ‘I am taking them home this morning.’

‘Give me one more day.’ Michael spread his hands in a shrug when the physician started to object to the delay. ‘I am eager to leave, too – it is already Friday, and I need to prepare for Monday’s Blood Relic debate. But we cannot, not until we know what is going on.’

‘You think you can resolve all your mysteries in a day?’ Bartholomew sincerely doubted it.

‘I can try,’ said Michael quietly. ‘I am going to dawn mass in Hilton’s church. Are you coming?’

Bartholomew started to say he had no clothes, but he had reckoned without Cynric, who arrived with a new tunic, mended leggings and a cloak that had been brushed clean. It was still damp, but at least it did not look as if its owner had been grubbing about in graves. And as for the tunic, Bartholomew did not want to know how Cynric had come by it, afraid it might have been on someone’s washing line. Fortunately, it was nondescript homespun, indistinguishable from virtually everyone else’s, so its hapless owner was unlikely to challenge him over it. He accepted it grudgingly, telling himself he would arrange for its return later, when his own was dry.

Most of Haverhill was present for the morning mass at St Mary the Virgin – parishioners from the Upper Church were obliged to make use of Hilton’s services, now Neubold was unavailable. Elyan stood at the front, wearing yet another set of fine black clothes, while his grandmother sat in a great throne next to him; d’Audley hovered behind them like a malevolent bird of prey.

Bartholomew and Michael found a place at the back, keeping to the shadows so no one would notice them. It was just as well, because the students were deeply embroiled in a hissing debate about whether the Stanton Cups were sufficiently heavy to brain someone with.

‘Of course they are,’ asserted Risleye confidently. ‘Especially the base.’

‘But you would have to use a lot of force,’ argued Tesdale. ‘Or batter your victim multiple times. It would take a good deal of hard work.’ He shuddered, although Bartholomew thought it was the notion of physical labour that repelled him, not the mess such an attack would make of a head.

‘Tesdale is right,’ said Valence. ‘You could not guarantee a clean kill with either of those chalices, so it would be more humane to employ something else. A large stone would–’

‘Stop,’ ordered Bartholomew, though there was no real censure in his voice. He found himself strangely comforted by their familiar sparring after what he had seen of Kelyng the night before. ‘What sort of subject is that to be airing in a church?’

‘It is an academic exercise,’ said Risleye, stung by the reprimand. ‘We are honing our minds.’

‘Then do it another time, not during mass,’ snapped Michael.

He turned towards the altar and pressed his hands together, indicating the discussion was over. He did not close his eyes, though, and Bartholomew could tell by his distant expression that his thoughts were no more on the divine office than were the students’. He was thinking about the mysteries that confronted them, and how to find answers before they left for Cambridge the following day.

When the service was over, most of the congregation left in a rush, eager to be about their daily business. The students and Cynric went, too, because, for some inexplicable reason, Risleye wanted to show them a forge that produced weapons. Others lingered, though: Hilton was reporting the results of his investigation to Agnys and Elyan, while d’Audley and Gatekeeper Folyat loitered nearby, pretending to talk to each other, but it was clear their intention was to eavesdrop. Michael decided to do likewise. He edged towards the priest, Bartholomew in tow.

‘I am not sure how to proceed,’ Hilton was saying unhappily. ‘Neubold was certainly murdered–’

‘I thought I told you to decide it was suicide,’ snapped Elyan irritably.

‘How can he find it was suicide, when it is a clear case of unlawful killing?’ demanded d’Audley, abandoning Folyat and stepping forward to say his piece. ‘Luneday must be brought to justice.’

‘He is right,’ agreed Folyat, following him. ‘The culprit is that wife-stealing Withersfield villain.’

‘But if Luneday dispatched Neubold in Withersfield, then how did the body end up here?’ asked Agnys, rounding on him impatiently.

‘Lady Agnys has a point,’ mused Hilton. He also turned to the gatekeeper. ‘Did you see anyone who might have been carrying a corpse that night – from Withersfield or anywhere else?’

Folyat shrugged. ‘Margery was the only visitor. She came to sniff around our grandchildren near the Upper Church, but she did not have a body with her. I would have noticed.’

‘I wonder…’ whispered Bartholomew to Michael. He rubbed his chin, collecting his thoughts. ‘I wonder if Margery rode to Haverhill to create a diversion. She certainly claimed Folyat’s attention, if he knows she visited their grandchildren – the Upper Church is some distance from the gate, which suggests he followed her there.’

‘Thus leaving the gate unguarded,’ finished Michael, nodding. ‘That makes sense. Then, while Folyat was stalking his estranged wife, the killer sneaked the body into Haverhill.’

‘So, the question is, did Margery distract Folyat deliberately, or did the killer just seize an opportunity that happened to present itself? But then what? The culprit did not take Neubold straight to the chapel, or Hilton would have seen the body when he came for his morning prayers.’

Michael pondered the possibilities for a moment, then beckoned Hilton towards him. ‘How often do you say masses for Alneston?’ he asked.

‘Once a week, on Thursdays,’ replied the priest warily. ‘Why?’

‘Does anyone else pray in the chapel?’ asked Michael, ignoring the query.

Hilton shook his head, bemused. ‘You saw for yourself that the place is small and mean. No one spends time there unless he must.’

‘Who actually found Neubold? Folyat, who then raced about spreading the news?’

Folyat heard his name, and began to walk towards them. His reaction intrigued the others, who followed, curious to know what the monk was saying.

‘Yes, I found him,’ said Folyat, when the monk repeated the question. ‘But I am not his killer.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘You unwittingly let the culprit into the village unchallenged, but you did not execute anyone. But tell me, how did you come to find the body in the first place? Hilton has just said the Alneston Chantry is no place to linger.’

‘I…’ Folyat swallowed uneasily. ‘I sometimes…’ He trailed off.

‘You use it for chickens,’ supplied Bartholomew, recalling the thick layer of droppings that carpeted the floor. ‘As gatekeeper, you accept poultry in lieu of coins, and you house them in the chantry until you can dispose of them.’

‘What?’ demanded Hilton, horrified. ‘But it is a chapel, not a hencoop! No wonder the place is so filthy. I thought it was pigeons, coming in through the broken windows.’

‘Well, what else am I supposed to do?’ demanded Folyat, going on the offensive. ‘It is effectively an empty building, and I have to put them somewhere. It does no harm.’

‘I think I am beginning to understand Neubold’s postmortem travels at last,’ said Michael, cutting across Hilton’s outraged declarations that filling a chapel with bird mess was doing harm. ‘I still have one or two questions, though. Will you all come to the chapel, to answer them for me?’

‘You are doing well, Brother,’ said Agnys slyly, as she followed him outside. ‘Your clever logic has your audience transfixed, and it is good to see that treacherous d’Audley look so unsettled.’

‘You did not tell us you bought pennyroyal shortly before Joan died,’ said Michael. He spoke in a low voice, so her grandson would not hear.

Agnys regarded him sharply. ‘I did not think it was relevant. It cannot have been my supply that killed her, because she died in Cambridge. Besides, I no longer have it.’

‘You mean you have used it all?’ asked the monk, regarding her suspiciously.

‘I mean I lost it. I suppose it is possible that Joan took the stuff, although it is far more likely that I dropped it on my way home. Regardless, it has gone.’

Michael glanced at Bartholomew, but the physician could only shrug. Was it significant that Agnys had been careless with a potent herb – and was now dismissive about what had then happened to it? And if she had dropped it, who had picked it up? Agnys seemed to consider the matter closed, because she made no effort to convince them further and the party walked in silence towards the Alneston Chantry.

When they reached the chapel, Michael threw open the door and strode inside. Hilton lit a lamp, which cast eerie shadows around the dirty walls. Several hens squawked their alarm at the sudden invasion, and one managed to escape through the open door. Folyat made no attempt to catch it.

‘What is kept in there?’ Michael asked, pointing to a huge chest that stood near the back.

‘Just a couple of altar cloths,’ replied Hilton. He shrugged sheepishly. ‘I have not looked inside for a while, because it is always full of spiders. I dislike spiders.’

Bartholomew opened the lid, and an inspection revealed a smear of blood and an orange thread. ‘Neubold was wearing leggings this colour when he died,’ he said, holding the snagged strand aloft.

Michael regarded it in silence for a moment, then began to outline what he had deduced about the priest’s death. His audience clustered around him, eager not to miss a word of it. Bartholomew wondered why. Guilty consciences? Or just idle curiosity in a place where not much else happened?

‘He was killed in Withersfield, then brought here,’ the monk began. ‘The murderer slipped through the gate when Folyat left his post to follow his wife. He hid the body in this chest, because he knew Hilton would pray for Alneston the next morning, and he did not want it discovered then.’

‘Why not?’ demanded Elyan. He looked annoyed that his suicide theory was being demolished.

‘Perhaps he thought a week would eliminate any stray evidence that he was the killer,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Or that the corpse would look so dreadful that no one would examine it too carefully.’

‘You examined it carefully,’ said Hilton, proving that Michael’s attempts to distract him in the Upper Church had not worked: he had known exactly what the physician had been doing. ‘I assume you did not find any evidence, or you would have told me.’

‘No,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘There was nothing to find.’

Michael took up the tale before awkward questions could be asked – such as why scholars from Michaelhouse should think Neubold’s death was any of their business. ‘As soon as Hilton finished his prayers, the killer came to hang Neubold from the rafters. I imagine he anticipated the place would remain undisturbed until next Thursday.’

‘But he had reckoned without Folyat coming to fill the chapel with chickens,’ finished Bartholomew. ‘Which meant Neubold was discovered far sooner.’

‘Did you see anyone enter or leave this place yesterday, Folyat?’ asked Hilton urgently, aware that a solution was at hand and eager to play a role, however small.

‘Only you,’ replied Folyat unsteadily. He would not meet the priest’s eyes. ‘I waited to make sure you had really finished your devotions, and then I came to put my hens back inside.’

Hilton blanched as the implications of the gatekeeper’s testimony struck home. ‘But that means the killer was in here with me all the time I was praying. We have deduced that Neubold was strung up between the time I left and the time Folyat entered, and if Folyat saw no one else coming or going…’

‘Skulking in one of these alcoves, probably,’ agreed Michael, pointing towards the shadows. ‘Hoping the dawn light would not be strong enough to give him away.’

‘He must have been here when you came with your birds, too,’ said Bartholomew to Folyat. ‘He probably escaped when you left to raise the alarm, and you are lucky he did not catch you.’

Folyat stared at his feet and made no reply.

‘I do not want to stay here until tomorrow,’ said Bartholomew to Michael as they left the chapel. Behind them, Agnys was issuing instructions – Hilton was to visit Withersfield, to ascertain whether Margery was a willing accomplice or an unwitting one, while Folyat was to improve Haverhill’s security. ‘It is not safe, and we should take the students home.’

‘They can look after themselves,’ said Michael. He glanced towards the forge, where Risleye was performing some fancy manoeuvres with a sword, Tesdale was playing lethargically with a dagger, and Valence was being shown some vicious-looking cudgels by an amiable blacksmith. ‘Indeed, Risleye is more skilled than I realised.’

‘We need to tell Langelee about Kelyng,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘As soon as possible.’

‘We need to tell him about Michaelhouse’s thirty marks, too, but we cannot, because we have no answers. One more day, Matt – we will leave tomorrow, I promise. And we are making some progress with our enquiries – we now know how Neubold’s body ended up in Haverhill. Unfortunately, we do not know why. Or who murdered him.’

‘He died in a place where we were attacked, and he is associated with coal, King’s Hall, Carbo and various other strands in the mysteries that confront us.’ Bartholomew’s stomach churned, and he felt with every fibre of his being that lingering in Suffolk was a very bad idea. ‘I suppose if we solve his murder we may find solutions to our other mysteries. But is it worth the risk?’

‘I think so, and we shall start with a visit to Elyan Manor,’ said Michael, watching Agnys and her grandson mount up and ride off in the direction of their home. ‘First, because they have eighteen of Michaelhouse’s thirty marks. And second, because I was unconvinced by Agnys’s tale of lost pennyroyal. She claims she was ready to overlook the fact that Joan’s child was not a Elyan, but I am sceptical. I would like to interview both of them in their lair.’

‘Shall I saddle the horses, then?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking the monk would want to reach Elyan Manor as soon as possible, thus leaving more time for their other enquiries.

‘It pains me to say it, but we had better walk. We do not want the villagers thinking we are fleeing the scene of Neubold’s murder, and come after us with bows and arrows. We shall leave Cynric and the students here – that should convince them that we are not running away.’

It was not far to Elyan’s home, and it was a pleasant journey, even on an overcast day. The countryside smelled clean and fresh, and the scent of soil mingled with the heavier odour of grass and damp vegetation. The road took them through a wood, and some of its trees seemed to have been there since the days of the Conqueror, they were so gnarled and ancient. A brook accompanied them most of the way, trickling between its muddy banks with a gentle bubbling sound. A blackbird sang from the top branch of the tallest oak, and a dog barked in the distance.

‘There is the mine,’ said Bartholomew, pointing. The guards prowled, more alert than they had been, presumably because of the trouble the previous night. ‘Kelyng is buried over to the right.’

Prudently, Michael did not look in the direction he indicated. ‘Do you think Carbo killed him? Hilton told us a tale of Carbo killing someone by the mine, if you recall.’

‘He also said he did not believe it. And if Kelyng and Neubold were killed by the same person, then Carbo is innocent – he was dead long before someone hanged his brother.’

Michael glanced around uneasily. ‘I wish we had asked Cynric to accompany us to Elyan Manor. You are right: it does not feel safe here.’

Elyan and his grandmother lived in style. Their home was larger and grander than Luneday’s, and was supported by well-stocked stables, a sizeable kitchen block, pantries, granaries and a dovecote. Before they could knock at the door, a servant appeared and conducted them to a pleasant solar on the first floor. Both Elyan and Agnys were there, drinking mulled wine. She poured some for the visitors, while Michael quizzed Elyan on why his mine warranted so many guards.

‘Coal is valuable,’ replied Elyan. ‘Why do you think these vultures circle, waiting for me to die so they can inherit my manor? It is not for the sheep and the water meadows, believe me. And someone came a-spying only last night – my watchmen chased two villains intent on mischief.’

‘How do you know they were intent on mischief?’ asked Michael curiously.

Elyan raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, they were not there for a pleasant stroll, not in all that wind and rain. Clearly, the villains waited for a foul night in the hope that the guards would be less vigilant – that they would be hiding inside their hut. But my men take their duties seriously.’

Not that seriously, thought Bartholomew, given that he and Cynric had managed to excavate a grave and refill it before the guards had realised something was amiss.

‘I have seen coal mines in Wales,’ he said. ‘But none of those were protected by armed guards.’

Elyan looked smug. ‘But my mine is the only one in Suffolk, which makes it unique. Moreover, its coal is exceptionally hard and pure. Carbo told me so, when he discovered it in the summer.’

‘Carbo?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘Why should you believe anything he said? He was ill.’

‘He was not always so, and he claimed his knowledge of minerals came from God. I believed him because … well, suffice to say he proved himself to me.’

‘Proved himself how?’ pressed Michael.

Elyan sighed, resenting the interrogation. ‘Because he excavated some very fine specimens. When we find more – which I hope we will – they will make us rich, and I shall be able to buy any clothes that take my fancy. Have you seen the girdles worn by the King’s knights these days? They comprise a wide belt with the most fabulous buckles.’

Bartholomew took a sip of the wine, and was taken off guard when the taste summoned a vivid image of Matilde – it was identical to the brews she had prepared for him on cold winter nights. The intensity of the recollection took him by surprise, and he wondered whether he would ever stop thinking about her. He became aware that Agnys was staring at him.

‘You have tasted its like before,’ she said, while Michael struggled to drag her grandson’s attention away from clothes and back to minerals. ‘And it pains you. Shall I fetch you something else?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew quickly. ‘It is not an unpleasant memory.’

‘A lost lover?’ she asked sympathetically. ‘You are a scholar, so it cannot have been a wife.’

Bartholomew did not often talk about Matilde, but he was seized by a sudden urgent and wholly irrational desire to do so now. While Michael did his utmost to learn about Joan, coal and Wynewyk – and Elyan regaled him with an analysis of courtly fashions instead – the physician told Agnys all about the woman he had loved. He was not normally given to confiding in strangers, and could only suppose it was the result of a sleepless night and the shock of finding Kelyng. Agnys listened without interruption or comment, even when he described Matilde in the most impossibly eulogistic terms.

‘You still hope she will return to you,’ she said, when he eventually faltered into silence.

‘Logic tells me she is gone for ever, but I cannot bring myself to believe it. However, I would settle for knowing she is safe and happy. The King’s highways are dangerous places for lone women.’

‘Your Matilde would not have let robbers best her,’ said Agnys, patting his knee encouragingly. ‘She will have arrived at her destination unscathed, never fear.’

Although she had no grounds for making such an assured statement, Bartholomew found her words oddly comforting; more comforting than reason dictated he should. He smiled, and when he took another sip of the wine, the experience was much less unsettling.

‘You told me yesterday that you knew our colleague Wynewyk,’ Michael was saying to Elyan. He sounded exasperated, and the physician could tell he was reaching the end of his patience.

‘Actually, I did not,’ countered Elyan. He also sounded irritable, indicating they had managed to rile each other. ‘You asked if I knew him, but d’Audley started to gabble before I could reply.’

‘Wynewyk said he knew you,’ lied Michael. ‘He told me you sold the best coal in Suffolk, and was pleased to have done business with you. He has been commending you to friends in other Colleges.’

‘I very much doubt that,’ said Elyan flatly.

Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘And now we reach the crux of the matter. Your dealings with him were not honest – that is why you sit there so certain he would not have mentioned you to anyone else.’

Elyan glowered in a way that made Bartholomew certain that Michael was right, but made no other reply. Agnys also noticed her grandson’s reaction, and became sharp with him.

‘Our manor has always held a reputation for fair dealing, Henry. If you have flouted that tradition, you had better speak now, so the matter can be rectified before any harm is done.’

Elyan tried to ignore her, but there was a steely glint in her eye that warned him to do as he was told. ‘All right, I knew Wynewyk. But I did not sell him the coal I import from Ipswich – we had another arrangement.’

‘He paid you eighteen marks,’ stated Michael. ‘He wrote it our account book.’

‘Eighteen marks?’ echoed Agnys, shocked. ‘You did not tell me this when we enjoyed our pork and ale in the Queen’s Head yesterday. Eighteen marks is a vast sum of money, and I might not have been so willing to agree to an exchange of information, had I known the stakes were so high.’

Michael grimaced. ‘But you did not exchange information, madam – you promised to look into the matter of Wynewyk, but you had nothing to give us at the time.’

‘Then we had better rectify the matter: an arrangement is an arrangement, and an Elyan’s word is her bond.’ Agnys turned to her grandson. ‘Where is this eighteen marks, Henry? I hope you have not spent it on clothes.’

‘Wynewyk gave it to me because he wanted a share in my mine,’ said Elyan sullenly. ‘To invest in its running in order to enjoy its profits. I did not spend it on clothes. Although, I admit there was a rather nice red tunic that just happened to be–’

‘He invested?’ breathed Michael, appalled. ‘But your venture will founder, and eighteen–’

‘I told you: it has yielded some excellent specimens,’ interrupted Elyan tightly. ‘And I used his money to pay guards and diggers, so do not expect it back. It is long gone.’

Bartholomew did not think he had ever seen Michael so full of rage. The monk leapt to his feet and treated Elyan to a stream of invective that would not have been out of place in a fish-market. Agnys’s eyes grew wide with astonishment, and Elyan eventually put his hands over his ears. It was something Wynewyk did when he thought his colleagues were being unnecessarily bellicose, and it sent a pang of grief stabbing through Bartholomew. When Michael saw the gesture, he faltered, too.

‘Wynewyk paid you with College funds,’ he said, temper subsiding as abruptly as it had risen. ‘Ergo, this arrangement is with Michaelhouse, not with him, and you are legally bound to honour it. I want our money back. Now. I refuse to wait years for these so-called profits to materialise.’

‘We signed no documents detailing our pact, and as he is dead, you cannot prove what he did or did not give me,’ snapped Elyan. ‘Your eighteen marks no longer exists, and neither does the seven he gave to d’Audley. Oh, damn it! Now look what you have made me say!’

Michael’s expression was cold and angry. ‘Tell me about d’Audley,’ he ordered softly.

Elyan was clearly disgusted with himself, but also seemed to appreciate that the time for subterfuge was over. He sighed irritably. ‘He had no spare cash of his own to invest in my scheme, so Wynewyk lent him some. In return, d’Audley was to supply him with free timber until the loan was repaid in full. Unfortunately for you, there is no written proof of his arrangement, either.’

‘I will find proof,’ warned Michael menacingly.

‘You will not – and we could not repay you, even if we wanted to. The money is spent.’

‘Squandered, you mean,’ said Agnys, regarding her grandson in disgust. ‘Joan was given pennyroyal for a reason, and I am beginning to think it is connected to this horrible mine.’

Elyan paled. ‘No! I do not believe that. She was murdered, as I have said from the beginning, but it has nothing to do with my coal.’

‘I imagine it has more to do with the fact that she was about to provide Elyan Manor with an heir,’ said Michael, ‘thus thwarting the hopes of three optimistic claimants. However, I understand the child may not have been yours.’

‘How dare you!’ shouted Elyan furiously. ‘Of course it was mine!’

‘You overstep the mark, Brother,’ said Agnys warningly. Her face was a mask of anger, furious that a remark made in confidence should be so bluntly repeated.

Michael ignored her, focusing his attention on her grandson. ‘You must feel vulnerable. Now she is dead and you are childless, d’Audley, Luneday and King’s Hall all eagerly await your death.’

Elyan’s expression was impossible to read. ‘If you think that, then you are a fool. The situation with my estates is murky, and no one claimant has a better case than the others. Lawyers are needed to sort it out, so no one wants me dead before the matter is resolved. I am safe until the clerks have finished wrangling – which will not be for years yet.’

Michael regarded him dispassionately. ‘You are the fool. Do you think a powerful foundation like King’s Hall, which bursts at the seams with clever minds, is going to wait years for a decision? And do you think a sly, greedy man like d’Audley will sit back and wait for them to best him?’

‘I disagree,’ said Agnys coldly. ‘Joan’s death is connected to the mine, not the inheritance issue.’

Bartholomew wondered why an astute woman like Agnys could not see what was so obvious. ‘But whoever wins the manor will get the mine,’ he pointed out. ‘The two are tightly interwoven. And Michael is right to warn you, Elyan: Neubold was involved in the case and he is murdered; Wynewyk invested in your mine and he is dead; Carbo advised you about coal, and he is stabbed – by someone from King’s Hall; and your wife is poisoned.’

‘You think I am in danger?’ Elyan looked bewildered. ‘But why strike now? I have been in this situation for years, and no one has tried to harm me before.’

‘Clearly, someone is growing impatient,’ replied Michael. ‘The claims on both your manor and d’Audley’s chantry are becoming more acrimonious, suggesting knives are being honed for battle.’

‘You are wrong,’ said Elyan unsteadily. ‘No one will try to kill me. If they do, I shall take another wife. That will put an end to such nonsense.’

‘Or result in another death from pennyroyal,’ said Michael harshly. ‘But why did Joan really go to Cambridge? She was heavily pregnant and not young. It was a risky thing to do, and I cannot believe she did it for ribbons.’

‘It was for ribbons,’ said Elyan firmly. ‘She told me the ones in Haverhill were dull and she wanted brighter colours. She was going to buy me a new hat, too.’

Bartholomew studied him thoughtfully, and concluded that whatever the reason for Joan’s sudden decision to travel, she had not confided it to her husband. She had invented an excuse she knew he would accept – inveterate clothes-lover that he was – and had pre-empted any objections he might have raised with promises of treats.

She had, however, taken care to leave at a time when Agnys was not there stop her. Why? Was it really because the old lady would have tried to dissuade her? Or was she running away from something in Haverhill, something Agnys knew all about? Agnys had denied knowing the cause of Joan’s recent unhappiness, but who was to say she was telling the truth? He turned to look at the old woman, but could read nothing in her face.

‘Perhaps she went to see the father of her child,’ suggested Michael. ‘Lady Agnys said she had been distant and distracted for a few weeks. Perhaps she wanted to tell him the good news.’

‘The brat was mine,’ said Elyan fiercely. ‘And if someone else did step into the breach, then so what? It would still have been born to my wife, and raised as my heir.’

‘D’Audley, Luneday and King’s Hall would not agree,’ Michael pointed out. ‘They only lose their rights if you provide a child: another man’s progeny does not count in the eyes of the law.’

‘Who was it, Henry?’ asked Agnys softly. ‘Joan is dead, so breaking her trust cannot matter now.’

‘I loved her,’ said Elyan in a strangled voice. ‘I will not…’

‘I know you did,’ said Agnys gently. ‘But people are being murdered, and it is time to put an end to it. Who do you suspect of obliging Joan?’

Elyan sighed unhappily. ‘Neubold said it was him. Joan claimed it was not, but I always assumed she lied because she did not want me to think less of her for selecting such a miserable specimen.’

‘Neubold accompanied her to Cambridge,’ mused Michael. ‘And it was there that she died of–’

‘Neubold would not have killed her,’ interrupted Agnys with conviction. ‘If he was the father, he would have wanted her and the baby alive, so he could reap the benefits. He would never have harmed her, not when there might have been profit in the situation.’

‘But Michael is right in that the father may live in Cambridge,’ mused Bartholomew. He thought, but did not say, that the University was awash with handsome men, most of whom would be only too pleased to provide their services to a desperate woman – Joan would have been spoiled for choice. ‘Edith is wrong to think the solution to Joan’s death lies here: it lies in the place where she died.’

It was mid-afternoon by the time Bartholomew and Michael left Elyan Manor, and the weather had turned chilly. It was not raining, but the clouds were low and menacing and it would not be long before there was another deluge. Michael complained bitterly, because it had been warm when they had set out on their journey, and he had not bothered to take his cloak. Now he was cold.

‘I am more confused than ever,’ he said, shivering. ‘Did Elyan kill Neubold because he believed Neubold was his wife’s lover? Personally, I doubt it was the case – I imagine she had more taste.’

‘He was rather keen for a verdict of suicide,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘That is suspicious in itself. However, by killing Neubold, Elyan lost himself the services of a slippery lawyer.’

‘He is not the only one,’ said Michael, rather gleefully. ‘I cannot imagine Osa Gosse will be pleased when he learns his legal adviser is no longer available.’

But Bartholomew’s thoughts were still on Joan. ‘The more I consider it, the more I am sure you are right about why she went to Cambridge – it was to see the father of her child.’

Michael sighed. ‘To be honest, I only said that to shake a reaction from Elyan. It cannot be true, because we have been told – by several people, including your sister – that Joan had not been to Cambridge for years. Ergo, the babe must have been conceived in Suffolk. The father is not some willing scholar or burgess, but someone in this county. Or perhaps someone who visited Haverhill.’

‘It cannot be Wynewyk,’ said Bartholomew, seeing what the monk was thinking. ‘It is one thing you cannot blame him for, because we both know his preferences. Although…’

‘Although what?’

‘Although Yolande de Blaston did say he hired her on occasion. However, I suspect Joan would have opted for someone more manly. Scholars from King’s Hall must have visited Haverhill, too, to look at the Alneston Chantry and the manor they hope to acquire. Then there is Gosse. Joan knew him, because Edith was with her when she exchanged words with the fellow.’

Michael was shocked. ‘But Gosse is a felon! A well-dressed, intelligent one, but a felon even so.’

‘Perhaps she had no choice,’ said Bartholomew soberly.

They were silent for a while, and the only sound was their footsteps on the muddy track and the distant bleat of sheep on the surrounding hills.

‘Do you think Elyan was telling the truth about his arrangement with Wynewyk?’ asked Michael at last. ‘If so, we may never retrieve our eighteen marks.’

‘Twenty-five marks,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘Wynewyk lent d’Audley money for the venture, too. And yes, I think he was telling the truth. He is not clever enough to have deceived you.’

‘What was Wynewyk thinking, to become embroiled with such people?’ demanded Michael.

‘I imagine he was thinking it offered an attractive long-term investment for Michaelhouse,’ said Bartholomew, who had been relieved by Elyan’s confession. ‘He was not dishonest, as I have said all along. It was not a wise decision, given that the mine is unlikely to be profitable, but being a fool is not the same as being a thief.’

‘We need to confirm this tale with d’Audley before we can be sure about that,’ said Michael. ‘And nor can we forget the five marks Wynewyk gave to Luneday, ostensibly for pigs.’

‘What a coincidence – there is d’Audley,’ said Bartholomew, pointing down the road to where a familiar figure could be seen riding towards them. ‘On his way home from the market, I suppose.’

D’Audley saw the Michaelhouse scholars coming his way, and attempted to force his way through a hedge in order to avoid them. Unfortunately, the gap he had picked was not wide enough, and the nag panicked. It taxed even Michael’s superior horsemanship to extricate them both unscathed.

‘I saw a fox,’ declared d’Audley, once he was free. ‘And I wanted to see where it went. I have chickens, you know. A man with chickens cannot be too careful about foxes.’

‘Speaking of foxes, I would like to hear about your arrangement with Wynewyk,’ said Michael. ‘Elyan has just informed us that Wynewyk lent you seven marks, to allow you to invest in his mine.’

‘Damn him!’ cried d’Audley furiously. ‘He promised to keep the matter to himself. I should have known he could not be trusted!’

‘The time for deceit is over,’ said Michael, keeping a firm grip on the reins, lest his victim attempted to bolt. ‘You have two choices: you can tell us the truth, or you can tell the King. However, I should warn you that His Majesty beheaded the last person who tried to cheat us.’

D’Audley regarded him in horror, and Bartholomew looked away, uncomfortable with the lie. But it had the desired effect, because d’Audley began to talk so fast that it was difficult to keep up with the stream of confessions.

‘I should have followed my first instinct, and stayed well away from that wretched coal,’ he gabbled, bitterness in every word. ‘I knew it would be unprofitable, and we would all end up throwing away good money. So why did I weaken and let Elyan persuade me otherwise?’

‘You tell me,’ suggested Michael.

‘He seemed so sure it would prosper, and I dislike the notion of neighbours growing rich while I remain poor. So I decided to accept his invitation to invest. Unfortunately, I had no free money of my own. Then I happened to meet your friend Wynewyk in the Queen’s Head one night. I bewailed my plight to his sympathetic ear, and he gave me seven marks. I could not believe my good luck!’

‘He lent you seven marks,’ corrected Michael. ‘He did not give it.’

‘No,’ agreed d’Audley tearfully. ‘And the interest on the loan was free firewood for the next five years, plus a percentage of my profits from the mine. He was going to have a percentage of Elyan’s returns, too, so it was a fabulous deal for your College.’

‘In other words,’ said Bartholomew quietly, ‘he negotiated a perfectly legitimate transaction.’

D’Audley nodded miserably. ‘But Elyan’s mine has not yielded what was promised, and it is time to start sending firewood to Cambridge. Then I heard Wynewyk was dead, and as there was no written agreement between us, I thought – hoped – that your College would not know about it.’

Michael almost laughed. ‘It did not occur to you that he might have kept records? Or that no foundation is likely to overlook such a large amount of money?’

‘It did, but the others told me I was being unreasonably pessimistic.’

‘What others?’ demanded Michael. ‘Your conspirators in crime? Luneday and Elyan?’

‘We are not conspirators,’ objected d’Audley, alarmed by the term. ‘Nor have we stolen–’

‘But not for want of trying,’ interrupted Michael coldly. ‘You have already confessed to attempting to defraud my College. The King will not like that.’

‘Then you must tell him I made a mistake,’ cried d’Audley. ‘Please! If I am imprisoned, my manor will never produce enough firewood to appease you until I can repay back what I borrowed. It is in your own interests to be nice.’

‘I shall think about it,’ said Michael stiffly, knowing he was right. ‘Now, if I draw up a written agreement of the transaction you arranged with Wynewyk, will you sign it?’

‘Yes,’ sighed d’Audley. He looked furtive. ‘I always intended to do right by Michaelhouse, as far as I could. It was the others who wanted to renege, and they forced me to do likewise. Elyan is supposed to give Michaelhouse eighteen marks’ worth of coal before the end of the year, and Luneday agreed to establish a fine herd of pigs at your manor in Ickleton.’

Michael was unimpressed. ‘What are we supposed to do with that much coal?’

‘It is a valuable commodity – I imagine Wynewyk planned to stockpile it, then release it when the price is highest. He was an astute man – too astute for us.’

‘And what about the animals?’ asked Michael in distaste. ‘We are scholars, not farmers.’

‘Yes, but you eat pork, and these are the best pigs in Suffolk. A herd of Withersfield beasts is an excellent bargain for any foundation. Of course, Luneday probably lied to you, and denied knowing Wynewyk. If he did, you should not be surprised. The man is a scoundrel.’

‘Unlike you, I suppose,’ murmured Michael in distaste.

‘When did Wynewyk do all this?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘In the summer?’

D’Audley nodded. ‘Late August. He must have heard about the coal from King’s Hall, who were also invited to invest, and he came here to see it for himself.’

‘Was he here earlier than that?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking of Michael’s contention that Wynewyk might be the father of Joan’s child. He did some rapid calculations. ‘February or March?’

‘No. I had never seen him before August. And I wish to God I had not met him then, either.’

Michael released the reins, and the moment he did so, d’Audley jabbed his heels into his horse’s sides and galloped away. Bartholomew felt happier than he had done in days.

‘D’Audley’s testimony exonerates Wynewyk,’ he said, smiling. ‘These arrangements are irregular, which is probably why he did not tell us about them, but he did not steal our thirty marks.’

‘No,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘The whole affair is shabby, though. Langelee said Wynewyk was a scoundrel, and hoped he would use his unsavoury talents to benefit us. Well, he did.’

‘We should speak to Luneday – make him sign a document to ensure he delivers these pigs to Ickleton. It may not be money, but at least we will have retrieved something.’

‘We shall have eighteen marks in coal, too,’ vowed Michael. ‘And–’

He was interrupted by a sudden hiss, and an arrow thudded into the ground at his feet. The next one impaled the purse that dangled at his side.

Bartholomew grabbed Michael’s arm and hauled him into the deep ditch that ran along the side of the road. The monk squawked as icy water seeped into his boots, and then released a string of pithy oaths when the arrow, still embedded in his scrip, poked through his habit and jabbed him in the leg.

‘Quiet!’ ordered Bartholomew urgently, peering through the long grass and trying to see where their assailant might be lurking.

‘Easy for you to say,’ muttered the monk. ‘You are not soaking wet and grievously wounded.’

Bartholomew ducked when a third missile landed inches from his hand. From its angle, he thought the bowman was lurking behind the large beech tree on the opposite side of the road. Then another arrived from a different direction, and he realised there were two of them. He turned to Michael.

‘We will have to escape by crawling along the ditch. We cannot stay here – it is only a matter of time before one scores a lucky hit. Can you do it?’

‘Yes.’ Michael sounded offended. ‘I am not so portly that I cannot scramble along trenches to save my life.’

‘You said you were hurt.’

Michael hauled up the voluminous folds of his habit, prudishly turning his back, so the physician should not see anything too personal. Then he presented a minuscule patch of bare white thigh – the rest primly concealed by material – to reveal a scratch that had barely broken the skin.

‘It stings!’ the monk protested, seeing from Bartholomew’s expression that it did not constitute being ‘grievously wounded’.

‘Follow me,’ said Bartholomew. He winced when a fourth arrow soared into the drain, coming to rest in the space between them. ‘And keep well down.’

Unfortunately, they had not gone far before the channel narrowed so much that even Bartholomew was unable to squeeze along it. And as arrows had followed them every inch of the way, it was clear the bowmen knew exactly how they were trying to escape. When the next quarrel hit his medical bag, Bartholomew knew time was running out.

‘I cannot turn,’ Michael hissed, when the physician indicated they were to go back the way they had come. ‘I cannot even move – I am stuck. Which means you are trapped, too. Give me your bag.’

‘What for?’

‘I am going to leap up, holding it in front of me like a shield, so you can slither past. You should be able to make it to safety. Then you can fetch help.’

Bartholomew regarded him in horror. It was tantamount to suicide, and there would be no point in fetching help, because the monk would be dead.

‘Can you see either of them?’ asked Michael, ignoring his reaction. ‘I should like to know the identities of the men who will kill … who are making such a nuisance of themselves.’

‘They could abandon their hiding places and come to pick us off.’ Bartholomew grabbed a stone and lobbed it towards the beech, more in frustration than in the hope of hitting anyone. ‘But they prefer to remain hidden, presumably lest they are recognised but fail to dispatch us, and we–’

There was a yelp of pain, and he exchanged a startled glance with Michael. Wordlessly, he grabbed another missile and hurled it as hard as he could. Michael did likewise, and for a few moments they managed an impressive barrage. The archers began calling softly to each other, then there were footsteps.

‘They are coming for us,’ said Bartholomew grimly. He drew his sword – the one he wore when he travelled but was not permitted to carry in Cambridge. ‘We have driven them out of their cover. Still, at least we shall know who they are before they–’

Suddenly, there was a shout, followed by the thunder of hoofs. It was Luneday, William at his heels. Luneday’s sword flailed and the steward held a crossbow. Bartholomew risked a glance over the top of the bank and saw the two archers thrusting through the hedge into the fields beyond. Both wore hoods, and there was nothing – in their clothes or gait – that would allow him to identify them.

‘I will get the villains,’ yelled William, yellow hair flying as he turned his horse.

Luneday stood in his stirrups to watch the chase. He was panting hard, and his eyes flashed. ‘Sly bastards! They are making for the wood, where a mounted man cannot follow. William is going to lose them. Damn their black hearts!’

‘Who are they?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘Do you recognise them?’

‘Not in those hooded cloaks,’ replied Luneday. ‘However, they are no one local – we do not attack unarmed monks on the King’s highways. They must be robbers from another village.’

‘You arrived just in time,’ said Michael to Luneday, allowing Bartholomew to help him out of the ditch. His voice was unsteady. ‘They were coming to kill us.’

‘They were,’ agreed Luneday, sitting back down when William reached the edge of the trees and was forced to stop. ‘You are doubly lucky, because I rarely travel this road – it leads to Haverhill, you see, and I do not want to run the risk of meeting my woman’s husband.’

‘So, why are you here now?’ asked Michael. He rested his hand on Luneday’s saddle, as if he did not trust his legs to hold him up.

Luneday did not reply, and when Bartholomew glanced up at him to see why, he saw tears glittering in the man’s eyes. He gazed at the lord of Withersfield Manor in astonishment.

‘I am sorry,’ Luneday managed to choke out. ‘But my woman has gone, and I keep being gripped by these overwhelming urges to weep. I cannot imagine why. I did not cry when my wife left me, and it is not as if Margery was much of a replacement.’

Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a quick glance. Was Margery’s flight anything to do with the fact that she had distracted her gatekeeper husband while Neubold’s corpse was toted to the chantry chapel? Or was she the killer and realised she was about to be caught?

‘Gone where?’ asked Michael.

‘Not to Folyat,’ said Luneday. ‘She would not want to return to gatekeeping, not after the luxury she enjoyed at Withersfield. But you do not seem surprised by my news. Why not?’

‘Because we think she knows more about Neubold’s death than is innocent,’ replied Michael.

Luneday’s eyes narrowed, and Bartholomew braced himself for another skirmish, wishing the monk had phrased his remark in a more tactful manner.

‘What are you saying?’ Luneday demanded. ‘That she dispatched Neubold?’

‘Not without help,’ said Michael baldly. ‘However, it was obvious that she hated him, and she did go out the evening he was murdered. We also know she led Folyat away from his duties at the gate, thus allowing someone to carry Neubold’s corpse to the Alneston Chantry.’

Bartholomew expected Luneday to deny the charges, and was astonished when he closed his eyes in apparent despair. ‘I should have guessed she intended mischief when she crept out that night – her grandchildren had spent most of the day at Withersfield, so she should not have needed to see them again so soon.’

‘You did not mention this yesterday, when you found Neubold gone from the barn,’ said Michael, rather accusingly.

‘Why would I? I thought he had escaped to Haverhill, and only learned of his death later. The moment I did hear, I realised I would have to talk to my woman about it, but I have been busy. Then, when I returned from my piggeries this afternoon, I discovered her missing.’

‘You do not think she has been harmed, do you?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, wondering whether her accomplice had decided it would be safer if she was permanently silenced.

‘I might have done, had she simply disappeared. But she left with all her belongings, and some of mine. So no, I do not think she has been harmed. I think she realised the net was closing in around her, and has run for safety.’

‘Why did she dislike Neubold so intensely?’ asked Michael. ‘I do not think I have ever seen more venomous looks than the ones they exchanged on Wednesday night.’

‘For two reasons. First, he offered to fabricate writs of annulment – for her marriage and mine – which meant she could have wed me. She was eager for him to do it, because it would have made her a real lady of the manor. Unfortunately, he wanted ten marks, which is beyond my meagre means.’

‘Would you have paid, had he agreed to charge less?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘Bearing in mind that false annulments would not have made your union legal in any case?’

‘Of course. We do that sort of thing all the time around here. Why do you think there is so much fuss about who will inherit Elyan Manor? Someone’s nuptials were not all they should have been!’

‘And the second reason?’ asked Michael, declining to comment.

‘Neubold told me she had commissioned him to create forged documents that would see me inherit Elyan Manor. She was furious with him for revealing what she had charged him to do – I want to inherit, but not by cheating. So perhaps she did kill him – she is a strong lass. She would have needed help to cart the corpse to Haverhill, though.’

‘So what are you going to do about it?’ asked Michael. He released his grip on Luneday’s saddle and took a deep breath, nerves steady at last. ‘Hunt for her, and demand an explanation?’

‘She will be halfway to Paris by now. She has always had a hankering to see the place. There is no point mounting a search – the wretched woman has essentially escaped.’ Luneday sounded bitter.

‘She will not like Paris,’ predicted Michael, although he had never been, so was hardly in a position to make such a judgement. ‘And I have colleagues there – I shall write and warn them to be on the lookout for her. She will not escape, believe me. But enough of her. I have reason to believe you have misled us, Master Luneday.’

‘Misled you about what?’ asked Luneday. He sounded thankful to be talking about something else.

‘Wynewyk, five marks and some pigs,’ replied Michael coolly.

‘We have just been chatting to d’Audley, who was rather more open than you have been.’

‘Damn! I knew he could not be trusted. His big mouth has just cost me twenty pigs, and the best of Lizzie’s litter. And a long and dangerous journey to your manor at Ickleton to see the herd settled.’

‘You do not deny it, then?’ asked Michael, taken aback by the abrupt capitulation.

‘There is no point, not if d’Audley has blathered. I am sorry, Brother, but your Wynewyk struck a very hard bargain, and I was relieved when I heard he was dead. And you cannot blame us for trying to be as wily with you as he was with us. But we are caught, so we will all honour the debt.’

‘You used the five marks to invest in Elyan’s mine, too?’ asked Michael.

Luneday spat. ‘I would never waste good money on that foolish venture! No, I wanted it to buy new sows – Lizzie is not getting any younger, and it is time I experimented with fresh blood. A man cannot rest on his laurels where pigs are concerned.’

‘Right,’ said Michael. He gestured to Luneday’s horse. ‘You said Margery would be halfway to Paris by now, which means you are not looking for her. So, where are you going at such an hour?’

‘To Elyan Manor. I have decided it is time to resolve this inheritance issue once and for all, because I am weary of the ill-feeling among us. I plan to ask d’Audley and Elyan to come to Cambridge with me and meet the scholars from King’s Hall. Then we can review the documents like civilised men, and decide justly and truthfully what is to be done. If I lose my claim, then so be it.’

It was a noble idea, but Bartholomew foresaw problems. ‘No one will accept anyone else’s interpretation, especially if some deeds are missing or ambiguous. You will need to appoint a mediator – someone to make fair decisions – but I doubt all three parties will agree on a candidate.’

‘They will,’ said Luneday with conviction, ‘because I know the perfect man – someone with integrity and good judgement. In other words, your Master Langelee. You say he is blessed with outstanding wisdom, and he also knows pigs. I have never met a bad fellow who deals with pigs.’

Michael gaped at him. ‘You want Langelee to decide the rightful heir to Elyan Manor?’

Luneday nodded. ‘I will bide by his verdict, and I shall urge the others to do so, too.’

‘See where your dishonest tongue has led us, Brother?’ muttered Bartholomew, not liking to imagine what would happen when Luneday met the paragon of virtue that Michael had portrayed. ‘We could have got away with Suttone or Thelnetham. But Langelee? What are we going to do?’

‘When will you go to Cambridge, Luneday?’ asked Michael uneasily.

‘Sunday,’ replied Luneday. ‘I would say tomorrow, but we shall need a day to put our business in order. The road to Cambridge is long and dangerous, after all.’

‘This is not a good idea,’ said Michael desperately. ‘Elyan and d’Audley are unlikely to–’

‘They will come,’ Luneday assured him. ‘They are as tired of the uncertainty and growing mistrust as I am. D’Audley will agree to arbitration, and Elyan will agree to be there. I recommend you travel with us, given that there appear to be robbers at large.’

‘If they were robbers,’ said Bartholomew to Michael, watching Luneday ride away.

Michael nodded grimly. ‘And we know they were not – they wanted our lives, not our purses.’

It was dusk by the time they reached Haverhill, and the first drops of rain were beginning to fall. They paid their toll to Gatekeeper Folyat, whose small house was full of roosting hens, and walked towards the Queen’s Head. The tavern was busy when they opened the door and stepped into its stuffy interior, and there was a convivial atmosphere as men drank ale and devoured platters of roasted pork. The students were playing dice in a corner, and Cynric was regaling a small group of fascinated listeners with a colourful and not very accurate account of the battle of Poitiers.

‘Perhaps we should do as Luneday suggests, and go with him on Sunday,’ said Michael, when they were settled with cups of spiced ale. ‘It may not be safe for us to travel in such a small group.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘We have done what we came to do: cleared Wynewyk’s name and located our thirty marks. You can draw up the legal documents tonight and d’Audley, Luneday and Elyan can sign them in the morning. Then we are going home.’

‘Very well,’ said Michael. ‘I suppose we should tell Langelee what we have learned as soon as possible – about Kelyng, as well as about the money. And the Blood Relic debate is on Monday. I would hate to miss it – not to mention the fact that it is the Senior Proctor’s duty to ensure Gosse does not burgle every College in Cambridge while it is under way. But what about Joan?’

‘What about her?’

‘Agnys said d’Audley was away from home when Joan was poisoned, and so was Margery. And both have good reason to want Elyan’s heir dead. Meanwhile, we have missing pennyroyal here, as well as in Cambridge: Agnys, Hilton and Neubold all bought some.’

Bartholomew rubbed his eyes. ‘Taking my students and Cynric home is more important than catching Joan’s killer – if indeed she was killed. Just because her unborn child stood between several claimants and a manor does not necessarily mean someone poisoned her. I still think she took her own life. Agnys said she was unhappy in the few weeks before she died–’

‘Yes, but why was she unhappy, when she was pregnant with this long-awaited heir?’

‘It was not her husband’s child. Perhaps she was ashamed of having gone elsewhere for favours, and was afraid the child’s birth might reveal the real father. Panic may have driven her to suicide.’

Michael tutted. ‘I think we both know better than that. Of course she was murdered. But perhaps you are right in saying the answers lie in Cambridge. We shall soon find out, because we shall be there this time tomorrow.’

Bartholomew retired early, and was asleep the moment he lay down. Michael read for a while, then tossed and turned on his bed, his mind full of Kelyng, Wynewyk, Carbo, Joan and the forthcoming debate. He was not as convinced as Bartholomew that they had done all they could in Suffolk, and felt there were answers still to be learned.

He fell asleep eventually, but was woken abruptly by Tesdale, who was in the grip of a nightmare. It was a bad one, because he shrieked instead of moaned, and the howl was loud enough even to disturb Bartholomew, who raced into the adjoining room in alarm.

‘Please, Master Wynewyk,’ Tesdale was weeping. ‘Do not die.’

‘It is all right,’ said Bartholomew, shaking him awake. ‘It is only a dream.’

Tesdale looked around wildly, then dissolved into tears. Valence hurried to his side and put his arm around his shoulders, while Risleye glared at them, and made a show of turning over and trying to get comfortable again. When he saw there was nothing for him to do, Michael returned to his own chamber. Bartholomew sat next to Tesdale, speaking softly, so as not to disturb Risleye.

‘What is wrong?’ he asked kindly. ‘You have been sleeping badly for weeks now.’

‘I have always had vivid dreams,’ sniffed Tesdale, struggling to bring himself under control.

‘You did not have them when you first came to Michaelhouse. Or at least, you did not frighten us all out of our wits by screaming in the middle of the night. Tell me what is troubling you – I may be able to help. Physicians can do more than just devise horoscopes, you know.’

Tesdale shot him a weak smile. ‘It is nothing. Really.’

‘You should tell him,’ advised Valence, his arm still about his friend’s shoulders. ‘He is good with difficult problems – look at all the murders he has solved with Brother Michael. Let him help you.’

‘Are you worried about your debts?’ asked Bartholomew, seeing Tesdale begin to weaken. ‘Wynewyk told me they were upsetting you.’

Tesdale blinked back more tears. ‘He was good to me – found me employment at King’s Hall.’

‘Employment?’ echoed Valence, startled. ‘You? But you hate the duties you have at Michaelhouse, so why undertake extra ones in another College?’

‘King’s Hall?’ asked Bartholomew at the same time, equally taken aback. ‘How did he persuade them to hire you? They have their own students wanting to earn extra pennies.’

‘I am not lazy,’ said Tesdale stiffly to Valence. ‘I just need more sleep than you. And I had no choice but to look for ways to earn more money, because I owe Michaelhouse a fortune in fees.’ He turned to Bartholomew. ‘I worked at King’s Hall because Master Wynewyk fixed it up. His friend Paxtone agreed to hire me, as a favour.’

‘Really?’ Bartholomew was astonished to learn the relationship between Paxtone and Wynewyk had been so warm – that sort of good turn was not easy to arrange, so was usually reserved only for very close acquaintances.

Tesdale nodded. ‘They were composing documents together, and became friendly by spending so much time in each other’s company.’

‘What sort of documents?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘An academic project?’

Tesdale shrugged, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. ‘Their labours revolved around rocks, although I am not quite sure how. They asked me not to say anything, and I was going to keep my word, but it cannot matter now Wynewyk is gone. I never saw what they were writing, but it was something to do with selling stones of one kind or other.’

Bartholomew regarded him unhappily. Could this relate to the letters Clippesby had discovered in Wynewyk’s room, in which he had offered to hawk diamonds to certain nobles? Or was it connected to the pebbles he himself had found in Paxtone’s cupboard – the ones Yolande said could help a woman in childbirth? But Wynewyk’s activities were irrelevant to Tesdale’s current troubles.

‘There is more to your worries than your debt to Michaelhouse,’ he said to the snuffling student. ‘What have you done? Borrowed money from someone who has put undue pressure on you – either to pay it back, or pay in kind?’

‘Christ!’ Tesdale’s expression was a mixture of fear and guilt. ‘How do you know that? Is Isnard right, and you really can see into a man’s soul?’

‘It is a matter of logic, not sorcery,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘So, I am right?’

‘Lots of us borrow,’ said Valence, hastening to defend his friend. ‘We are not all rich like Risleye. If we did not make use of moneylenders, we would starve.’

‘Who did you borrow from?’ asked Bartholomew, ignoring him and looking at Tesdale.

Tesdale looked as though he would refuse to reply, but saw the grim expression on his teacher’s face and thought better of it. ‘Osa Gosse,’ he admitted reluctantly.

‘What?’ exploded Bartholomew. Risleye sighed angrily, annoyed to be woken a second time, while Valence looked stunned at the revelation. The physician lowered his voice. ‘But Gosse is a criminal!’

‘I knew you would react like this,’ said Tesdale, bitterly unhappy. ‘Why do you think I have been too scared to confide in you? I should have kept it to myself, because now you despise me.’

‘I do not despise you,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘But I did think you had more sense.’

‘Gosse said he had just come into an inheritance, and had spare funds to lend students. Please do not look at me like that, sir! Nor you, Valence. I did not know at the time that he was a felon, and that his “inheritance” was probably the proceeds of his most recent burglary.’

‘I suppose he offered you a better rate than the other moneylenders,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘But you have since discovered that his interest accumulates faster than you can pay it off?’

Tesdale looked defeated. ‘Wynewyk knew I was in trouble, which is why he got me the work at King’s Hall. It was dismal pay, but enough to keep Gosse happy.’

‘Go to sleep,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I will try to think of a way to extricate you from this mess.’

‘Thank you,’ said Tesdale, although he did not look very relieved, and Bartholomew supposed he thought Gosse was more than a match for a mere physician.