A Vein of Deceit

Chapter 6

Bartholomew and Michael made the most of their last day in Cambridge. The monk engaged in a concerted effort to identify the man who had attacked Langelee, and questioned Shropham about Carbo, but his efforts came to nothing. A lead relating to the ambush transpired to be the drunken imaginings of someone who had not been there, while Shropham merely turned his face to the wall and refused to speak. Short of punching the truth out of him – and Michael was not a violent man – he was stumped as how to proceed. He returned to the College late that night in a dark mood, worried about the journey he was being forced to make, and reluctant to leave Cambridge when there were so many matters there that clamoured for his attention.

Meanwhile, Bartholomew passed the morning explaining why his students needed to learn the texts he had selected, making it clear that those not familiar with them by the time he returned could expect to be set exercises that would keep them indoors for a month. He did not really expect trouble. His lads were full of high spirits, but most were keen to learn and took their studies seriously. They were also acutely aware that a lot of men wanted the chance to study at Michaelhouse, and that Langelee would have no compunction in replacing anyone who misbehaved.

The afternoon was spent seeing patients. Some had summoned him, while others suffered from long-term maladies that required regular visits. He ensured all had enough medicine to last for the next week, then issued Paxtone with detailed instructions on what to do if there was a problem.

Sincerely hoping his colleague’s expertise would not be required – he liked Paxtone, but did not want him near his patients unless there was absolutely no alternative – he walked to the Dominican Friary, where one of the novices had been injured. Risleye, Valence and Tesdale accompanied him, because the other students were all at a lecture in King’s Hall, and were delighted when the case transpired to be a possible cracked skull.

‘How do we test for a cranial fracture?’ he asked, taking the patient’s head gently in his hands.

‘We look it up in Frugard’s Chirurgia,’ replied Risleye promptly.

‘And what happens if we do not have a copy to hand?’

‘We squeeze the bones together, to see whether they grate,’ said Tesdale, with rather ghoulish glee.

Bartholomew winced. ‘Not unless we want to kill him.’

‘Osa Gosse did this,’ said Prior Morden, holding the novice’s hand comfortingly, but staring fixedly in the opposite direction so that he would not see anything the physician might do. ‘He and James had words yesterday, and threats were made. Well, it seems Gosse acted on his violent words.’

‘Are you sure it was Gosse?’ Bartholomew asked of James. A serious assault would give Michael the excuse he needed to arrest the fellow, and the monk would be much happier leaving his town if the felon was under lock and key.

‘Who else could it have been?’ asked James miserably. ‘The fight I had with the Franciscans was days ago now, and they will have forgotten that I called them villainous knaves whose mothers–’

‘James!’ exclaimed Morden, shocked. ‘You promised to leave the Grey Friars alone.’

‘They provoked me,’ objected James. ‘They said I was a dim-witted lout with no manners.’

‘Gosse,’ prompted Bartholomew, suspecting the Franciscans might have a point. ‘Can you be sure he was the one who attacked you today?’

‘No,’ admitted James reluctantly. ‘The villain wore a hood, and I could not see his face. I suppose it might have been a Grey Friar. They are certainly the kind of men to attack innocent Dominicans.’

Bartholomew was disappointed, but his duty was to treat the wound, not investigate the crime. He was just assessing James’s eyes when Morden suddenly jumped to his feet and shot towards the door.

‘I do not have the stomach to watch you crack open his skull and prod whatever you find inside,’ the Prior explained. ‘Do not look frightened, James. You will not be able to see it.’

‘Really, Father,’ said Bartholomew reproachfully. ‘I intend nothing so dramatic. Watch–’

But Morden had gone, leaving a terrified novice behind him, and it took the physician some time to convince James that cracking and prodding had no part in his plans.

When James was calm, he resumed his examination. There was no obvious depression or swelling, but there was a worrying pain caused by a boot stamping on an ear. He did not think the skull was fractured, but decided to apply Roger of Parma’s test to make sure. James was instructed to stop up his mouth, nose and ears, and to blow as hard as he could. The escape of air or tissue would imply a fissure.

‘But my brains will fly out if I do that,’ James wept, distraught. ‘And Prior Morden says I am short of them, so I cannot afford to lose any.’

‘You will not,’ said Valence kindly. ‘Doctor Bartholomew knows what he is doing.’

‘Besides,’ added Tesdale practically, ‘brains are too glutinous to fly – they are more prone to ooze. And I shall catch any that dribble out and shove them back in for you.’

‘Do not be a baby,’ ordered Risleye, regarding the novice disdainfully. ‘And if you do not trust your physicians – us – then you deserve to die. But you will not, because I will not let you.’

Strangely, it was Risleye’s cold arrogance that convinced James to do as he was told. Afterwards, satisfied the pain was caused by simple bruising, Bartholomew showed his pupils how to make a poultice to ease the ache, and when James said he was hungry – a good sign – he sent Risleye and Valence to the kitchen for broth.

While they were gone, Bartholomew found himself recalling how eagerly Yolande had devoured Isnard’s stew the previous evening. He suspected her children were also hungry, and did not want to return from Suffolk to find them half-dead from starvation. He handed Tesdale the money Morden had paid him to tend James, and told him what he wanted bought. The student was bemused.

‘And I am to leave all this outside their house without them seeing? Why?’

‘Pride,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘No one likes accepting charity.’

‘I do not mind,’ said Tesdale ruefully. ‘I am grateful for anything I can get.’

‘Please be discreet,’ said Bartholomew, hoping Tesdale’s innate laziness would not encourage him to be careless. He half wished he had recruited Valence instead.

‘You can trust me,’ said Tesdale solemnly. ‘I used to do similar things for Master Wynewyk – mostly making anonymous donations of food and ale for the Michaelhouse Choir.’

‘That was Wynewyk?’ Bartholomew recalled Michael often remarking on the miraculous appearance of victuals when his own funds were low. ‘I never knew.’

Tears welled in Tesdale’s eyes. ‘I probably should not have mentioned it, but I thought you should know I have experience with this kind of thing, so you can depend on me to–’ He stopped speaking abruptly when Risleye and Valence entered the sickroom with the soup.

‘Depend on you to what?’ asked Risleye.

‘To … to return my library books before we leave on our journey tomorrow,’ replied Tesdale in a guilty stammer. Risleye narrowed his eyes.

‘I do not believe you,’ he said accusingly. ‘You were probably ingratiating yourself so Doctor Bartholomew will save you first if we are attacked. We all know it is perilous and stupid to travel in winter.’

‘It is not perilous,’ said Bartholomew, deliberately turning his mind from the very real dangers of robbers, floods, getting lost and being thrown from panicky horses.

‘Master Wynewyk did not agree,’ said Risleye resentfully. ‘He hated leaving Cambridge at any time of the year.’

‘He left it to visit his father last term,’ Tesdale pointed out. ‘In Winwick, which is a long way west of Huntingdon. Personally, I cannot imagine why anyone would want to leave home. It is hard work, and I would much rather stay in by the fire.’

‘Actually, he did not go to Winwick,’ said Risleye. His expression was smug. ‘He made me swear not to tell anyone, but I am released from that promise now he is dead. Am I not?’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘He did go. He brought back a lot of earthenware jugs – enough to replace all the ones that were cracked. Their design is alien to Cambridge, and–’

‘I did not say he did not leave Cambridge, I said he did not go to Winwick,’ corrected Risleye pedantically. ‘I was visiting friends in Babraham, you see, and there was a hailstorm. I ducked inside a tavern, and there was Wynewyk, also sheltering from the weather. Babraham is south-east of Cambridge, but Winwick is a long way west, as Tesdale pointed out.’

‘So?’ demanded Tesdale. ‘Perhaps he decided to take the scenic route.’

‘In completely the opposite direction?’ demanded Risleye archly. ‘He winked at me, and said his father had been dead for years – it was actually an old flame who needed the visit. He gave me a shilling, and we agreed not to mention the matter again. A pact between gentlemen.’

‘But only until death,’ said Valence, eyeing him in disgust. ‘At which point, you reveal his private business to the first people who ask. There is nothing of the gentleman about you, Risleye.’

‘Give your patient the soup,’ ordered Bartholomew, seeing Risleye gird himself up for a spat. ‘Slowly – a little at a time. And check the size of his pupils again.’

While the students did as he ordered, Bartholomew recalled that Michael had given Wynewyk money for his journey, sorry for a colleague rushing to a father’s sickbed. Was Risleye telling the truth about what had transpired in Babraham? Bartholomew thought he was – the lad had no reason to lie – and wondered what his colleague could have been doing. He did not believe Wynewyk would have accepted Michael’s charity to frolic with a lover; Wynewyk, he decided, had spun Risleye a yarn he thought the lad would believe in order to secure his silence. So what was the truth? He had no idea, and could only hope that all would become clear when they made their enquiries in Suffolk.

It was early evening by the time Bartholomew and his students left the Dominican Friary, and lamps were lit in the wealthiest homes. In most, though, doors and windows were open to catch the last of the daylight. It let in the cold, but candles were expensive, and most folk could not afford to use them as long as it was light outside. Rich smells wafted out as meals were prepared over hearths, mostly root vegetables that had been stewing over the embers all day, perhaps with a few bones for flavour. In the Market Square, many of the bakers’ ovens were cold, suggesting grain was already scarce and only the affluent were going to have bread to dip in their pottage that night.

Supper had finished when they reached Michaelhouse, and the Fellows were gathering in the conclave. Bartholomew was loath to join them, knowing the topic of conversation would be Wynewyk and the wrongs he had perpetrated on his trusting colleagues. He decided to visit his sister instead, to tell her he was going to Suffolk and would ask questions about Joan on her behalf.

Edith nodded her satisfaction that he was finally taking her concerns seriously. She mulled some wine, and they sat next to the roaring fire, listening to the wind rattle the window shutters. The wood released the scent of pine as it burned, combining pleasantly with the aroma of the cloves and ginger that were tied in small bags around the house – a common precaution against winter fevers. He was warm and content, and might have been happy, were it not for Wynewyk and the nagging fear that Edith might do something reckless in her quest to understand why her friend had died. And he missed Matilde, of course, but he had come to accept that as a hurt that would never go away.

‘There is a condition,’ he said, sipping the wine and thinking Matilde would have liked it, because it was heavily laced with cinnamon: ‘That Cynric stays with you.’

‘There is no need – Oswald’s apprentices are here, not to mention the burgesses he charged to watch me. Indeed, I think he ordered half the town to keep me from danger.’

‘It is the other half I am worried about,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Then perhaps I shall come with you to Haverhill,’ said Edith slyly. ‘You can look after me, and I can ask my own questions about Joan.’

‘Absolutely not! Oswald would never forgive me if he came home to find you gone.’

‘But I must do something! The more I think about it, the more I am certain Joan was murdered.’

‘There is no evidence to suggest–’

‘There is evidence – my testimony. Joan was delighted about the child, and would not have tried to rid herself of it. And nor would she have merrily downed a tonic without first assessing what was in it, so her death was not an accident, either. Therefore, the only option left is murder: someone gave her the pennyroyal, intending to cause her harm.’

‘It is possible,’ said Bartholomew, more to calm her than because he believed it. ‘Of course, if she was selective about what she drank, we must assume she accepted the potion from someone she knew and trusted. Yet she was a virtual stranger here.’

‘And that is why I must visit Suffolk. The killer followed her here, gave her the potion and left when it killed her. He is at home now, smug in the belief that no one will ever catch him.’

‘How odd it is that everything seems to lead to Suffolk,’ said Bartholomew, more to himself than Edith. ‘Wynewyk did business there, it was Joan’s home, and Shropham killed one of its priests – who also happens to be the lawyer for another Suffolk man, namely Osa Gosse.’

‘You think all these things are connected?’ Edith was bemused.

‘Perhaps, although I cannot see how. The other common element is coal. Carbo had some sewn in his habit, Wynewyk bought some from Elyan…’

Edith nodded vigorously. ‘And Joan told me that Elyan’s priest – Neubold – came here to sell coal to King’s Hall, which was what afforded her the opportunity to travel in the first place.’

‘Did you ever meet Neubold?’ asked Bartholomew, supposing that if Edith was right and Joan had been murdered, then Carbo was the obvious suspect – he had been in Cambridge when she had swallowed the pennyroyal, and had failed to respond when he had been summoned.

‘Briefly, before Joan died. Afterwards, I asked for him at the Brazen George, but the landlord said he had gone – disappeared.’ Her eyes narrowed when she saw what he was thinking. ‘You suspect he is her killer? But when I suggested him as a culprit on Sunday, you dismissed the notion.’

Bartholomew rubbed his eyes. ‘I will ask questions about him in Suffolk,’ he replied vaguely.

Edith was thoughtful. ‘I went to King’s Hall after my enquiries in the tavern. Warden Powys told me Neubold had finished his business there sooner than anticipated and has not been seen since.’

Bartholomew rubbed his chin. It was common knowledge that Elyan had sent his priest to negotiate with King’s Hall, so why had the Warden, Paxtone and Shropham denied knowing Carbo? Had Shropham killed him over a contract for coal? He had negotiated too hard a bargain, and the scholars had decided that King’s Hall’s interests would better be served if he was dead? And had they then agreed to a conspiracy of silence about it?

‘Neubold is dead,’ he said. ‘Shropham killed him.’

Edith looked doubtful. ‘I thought Shropham had stabbed a fellow called Carbo.’

‘They are one and the same. Yolande told me.’

Edith looked startled. ‘Then Yolande told you wrong! There is a similarity in their build, hair and facial features – and both are Dominicans – but Neubold is elegant and well-groomed, while Carbo was a beggar. And how could you think that Elyan would send a scruffy, half-mad hedge-priest to represent him to the scholars of King’s Hall? Or that Joan would travel in such company?’

‘But Yolande saw Carbo talking to the King’s Hall men, and–’

‘Yolande would have seen Neubold. I imagine what happened is this: she heard Shropham had stabbed a visiting Dominican, and made an erroneous assumption – that he killed the priest she saw him chatting to. But she is mistaken, and you have let her lead you astray.’

‘I…’

But she was right: of course Carbo and Neubold could not be the same person, and her scornful words made Bartholomew feel a fool for ever having thought so. He had set too much store by a letter from Withersfield and the coal in Carbo’s habit, and they had led him to conclusions that were, as Edith pointed out, preposterous. Moreover, it meant the King’s Hall men had not been lying when they had denied knowing Carbo. He closed his eyes wearily when he saw that he and Michael would have to revise all their reasoning regarding the murdered friar.

Edith was reviewing her theories, too. ‘I know I suggested on Sunday that Neubold might have harmed Joan, but I have reconsidered – I do not believe a trusted clerk would have poisoned his master’s wife. So perhaps Neubold witnessed Joan being plied with pennyroyal, and was killed to ensure his silence. And that is why he has disappeared so mysteriously.’

‘You said you had not seen Joan in years. People change, Edith.’

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘What are you saying? I do not understand.’

‘Everyone knows first pregnancies can be difficult, and that the mother – especially an older one – must take precautions. She is advised to eat certain foods, avoid others. She needs rest, so that exertion does not prematurely expel the child from her body. Joan was rich, well placed to do all this.’

‘So?’ asked Edith, when he paused.

‘So why did she risk a long journey for a few bits of cloth? Why not send a servant for the ribbons? And why go with only a priest for protection? Do you not think it a little strange?’

Edith stared at him for a long time. ‘You think the journey was an attempt to rid herself of the baby – and she swallowed pennyroyal when it did not work?’

‘It is possible. You should be aware that Joan may not have been entirely honest with you.’

Edith continued to stare. ‘She seemed the same. I confided in her – told her about you and Matilde. Do not look dismayed! I felt like sharing something personal, and I do not have any interesting secrets of my own. Oswald and I lead very staid lives.’

‘You could have told her about Richard,’ he said tartly, referring to her wayward son. ‘Did you persuade him to abandon his tryst with the Earl of Suffolk’s daughter, by the way?’

‘No,’ she replied stiffly. ‘And he says the baby is not his, although the Earl does not believe him.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘I am sure Joan would have found that a lot more interesting.’

‘Will you ask after Matilde when you visit Haverhill?’ asked Edith, deftly changing the subject. ‘You searched for her in distant places, but perhaps she did not go far. She might be in Suffolk.’

Bartholomew thought it unlikely, but part of him hoped Edith was right: that one day he would find Matilde, and she would agree to become his wife. But it was a hope that was too deeply personal to talk about, so he mumbled a vague reply about the trail being cold after so long.

‘You should go,’ said Edith, seeing she was going to be told no more. ‘It is late and you have a long journey tomorrow. And I have heard the rumours that say you are a formidable warrior these days, but we both know they are untrue. Take Cynric with you – you need him, I do not.’

The following day, Bartholomew awoke to find his book-bearer packing a bag with items he thought might be needed for the foray into Suffolk; his dark face was alight with excitement, and he was clearly looking forward to the adventure. Meanwhile, the physician’s room-mates were groaning and pulling blankets over their heads, because dawn was still some way off, but Cynric was creating enough racket to raise the dead. Bartholomew was a heavy sleeper, and the fact that he had been disturbed was testament to the rumpus Cynric was making.

‘That should do,’ declared the book-bearer eventually, sitting back to inspect his handiwork. ‘We will not be gone long, anyway. My wife wants me home in four days, because her mother is coming to stay.’ He reflected for a moment. ‘But we can take longer, if you like.’

Bartholomew prised himself out of bed, and looked in the bag. There was not much in it, because Cynric was of the opinion that clean clothes were a waste of time when travelling on muddy roads. He had, however, packed a variety of items that could be used as weapons, including a selection of knives, a length of rope and a piece of lead piping. Yawning, Bartholomew dressed and went to wait for Michael in the yard. It was drizzling and still pitch dark. After a moment, Langelee appeared.

‘I did a stupid thing yesterday,’ he said, rubbing his hands to warm them. ‘I asked Clippesby to sort through Wynewyk’s belongings, because everyone else was busy. Do you know what he claims to have found? Copies of letters to noblemen, asking if they would like to buy some diamonds.’

Bartholomew regarded him in surprise. ‘Wynewyk had no diamonds!’

Langelee grimaced. ‘Clippesby was in the process of burning these so-called missives when I happened across him. He said the College cat had told him to do it, to protect Wynewyk’s reputation. God only knows what he really destroyed.’

‘Perhaps I should talk to him before we go,’ said Bartholomew anxiously.

‘Please do,’ said Langelee. ‘He has been up all night, doing something in the library.’

He made it sound sinister, and Bartholomew hurried to the hall in alarm. Clippesby had lit a lamp and was sitting at a table. The physician faltered. The last time he had seen the Dominican at that desk he had been talking to a jar of moths, berating them for eating Michaelhouse’s linen.

Clippesby jumped when he realised someone was behind him. ‘You startled me,’ he said with a smile. ‘What is the matter? Can you not sleep?’

‘What are you doing?’

Clippesby gestured to the book that lay in front of him. ‘Reading. What else would I be doing in here?’

Bartholomew did not like to imagine. He peered over the Dominican’s shoulder and saw Aquinas’s Cathena aurea, a standard biblical commentary. Clippesby was halfway through it.

‘I often read at night,’ Clippesby went on. ‘It is the only time I can be guaranteed peace and quiet. I begin Aquinas with my third-years next week, and I wanted to refresh my memory. But I suspect you are not here to discuss teaching. I imagine Langelee told you what I found in Wynewyk’s room.’

Bartholomew nodded, thinking Clippesby was often perfectly sane when they were alone together, and it was only the presence of others that seemed to bring out the mischief in him. That morning, there was not an animal in sight and the notes he had jotted on a scrap of parchment pertained to serious theological issues.

‘Langelee promised not to say anything,’ Clippesby went on. His voice was uncharacteristically bitter. ‘But I suppose he thinks a vow to a madman does not count.’

Bartholomew was not sure what to say, because Clippesby was right: his eccentric behaviour did mean his colleagues often declined to afford him the courtesies they extended to others. He settled for a shrug, thinking the Dominican had only himself to blame.

‘I should have kept quiet,’ Clippesby continued. ‘But he caught me feeding parchments to the flames, and demanded an explanation. He was furious.’

‘He had every right to be. You have no business burning documents that might explain what Wynewyk had been doing.’

‘The cat suggested I light the fire–’

‘Stop,’ ordered Bartholomew. ‘Do not play this game with me, John. We both know you are only pretending to be fey in order to avoid difficult questions. What did the letters say?’

Clippesby grimaced. ‘They asked whether certain people would be interested in buying diamonds. But you know Wynewyk is innocent, so you understand why I destroyed them. I was trying to protect his good name – to prevent the others from obtaining more ammunition to use against him.’

‘What “certain people”?’ demanded Bartholomew, more interested in the letters than Clippesby’s concerns about their colleagues.

‘The Earl of Suffolk, the Bishop of Lincoln. Important men, rich men.’

‘You told Langelee these letters were copies. Does that mean the originals have been sent?’

Clippesby nodded unhappily. ‘I believe so. The abbreviations and contractions in the documents I found suggest they were being kept as a record, to remind the author of what had been said.’

Bartholomew was bemused. ‘Did he say where these diamonds were supposed to come from?’

‘No. Langelee’s first thought was that he was selling them for Gosse, who is almost certainly responsible for the theft of precious stones from around the University. But he must be wrong.’

‘So you do not think Wynewyk had diamonds to sell?’

‘If he did, then they are not in his room.’ Clippesby hesitated, and Bartholomew saw no trace of madness now, only sorrow. ‘After I had burned the letters and had my set-to with Langelee, I returned to Wynewyk’s room and resumed packing up his belongings. And it was then that I found something else – something even more disturbing.’

‘What?’ prompted Bartholomew, when the Dominican paused again.

‘A purse with the strings cut. It contained a few coins, and a schedule of camp-ball games.’

Bartholomew gazed at him, not liking the implications of that discovery. ‘Wynewyk watched camp-ball if one of his lovers was playing.’

Clippesby reached into the scrip at his side, and pulled something out. The purse was grubby, manly and large, and certainly not something the fastidious Wynewyk would have owned.

‘He must have come by it after Langelee was attacked,’ said Bartholomew, refusing to believe what the evidence was telling him.

Clippesby would not meet his eyes. ‘The word is that Langelee was ambushed by someone slight, who wore a scholar’s tabard. It was also someone who was very specific about selecting his victim – he let others pass unmolested before launching his assault.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, shaking his head. ‘Wynewyk did not stab Langelee.’

‘Langelee was attacked two nights before he told you what he had discovered in the accounts,’ Clippesby pressed on. ‘And Wynewyk was out that particular evening, because the owls … because I saw him. It pains me to say it, but I think Wynewyk knew he was on the verge of being exposed, and tried to prevent it.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew again, aware that his voice shook.

Clippesby touched his arm sympathetically. ‘I still feel he would not cheat us, but he must really have wanted to keep his secrets, because to tackle Langelee…’

Bartholomew stared at the purse, thoughts churning wildly, and for some moments they stood in silence. Then Clippesby sketched a benediction at him, and returned to his reading. Bartholomew left the hall and walked slowly across the yard to where Langelee was inspecting the horses that had just been delivered from the Brazen George. The physician, who was not a skilled rider, regarded the snorting, stamping beasts with trepidation, and wondered whether it might be safer for him to walk.

‘Have you remembered anything else about the night you were attacked?’ he asked the Master.

Langelee patted the neck of a large, black creature that had a distinctly malevolent look in its eyes. ‘I keep recalling flashes, but it was very dark. I saw an academic tabard, though. Black, like ours.’

Bartholomew swallowed hard. ‘You think it was Wynewyk. That is why you ordered Michael to forget about it – pretend it did not happen.’

Langelee turned towards him, and his expression was haggard. ‘I would like to believe I am mistaken – that I was too drunk to remember clearly – but I am deluding myself. Wynewyk did try to kill me, and he damn near succeeded.’

‘There must be an explanation–’

‘So you keep saying,’ interrupted Langelee bitterly. ‘But I think he knew what I had found in the accounts, and wanted to prevent me from telling anyone else. Moreover, I believe he stole my purse to make the assault look like a common robbery.’

‘Perhaps he just meant to frighten you,’ began Bartholomew tentatively. ‘He would not have–’

‘He did frighten me,’ snarled Langelee. ‘He frightened me into telling you what I had discovered as soon as I could get you alone for a few hours. And then what did he do? He laughed himself to death!’

It was fully light by the time Bartholomew, Michael, the three students and Cynric finally set out, mostly because Tesdale, never a morning person, proved difficult to prise out of bed.

‘We cannot be gone long,’ said Michael, more to himself than anyone else. ‘The Blood Relic debate is on Monday, and I would not miss that for the world. Not only am I one of the primary disputants, but I am worried that Gosse might use the opportunity to burgle empty Colleges and hostels. I need to be here to ensure he does not succeed.’

‘I do not think it will take five days to demand thirty marks from three Suffolk lords,’ said Bartholomew, struggling to mount his horse. ‘We should be home long before then.’

‘I hope we find answers there,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘When I first saw Carbo dead with Shropham’s knife in him, I thought the case was cut and dried. But now I am uncertain. I cannot put my finger on it, but there is something badly amiss.’

‘I do not understand your reservations,’ said Bartholomew, becoming frustrated by the nag’s refusal to stand still. It was the fierce black one, and he was not sure he agreed with Michael’s assessment that it was the most docile of the bunch. ‘Your Junior Proctor arrived very quickly, and he says no one else was in sight. Moreover, Shropham was injured, which suggests he was involved in some sort of spat.’

‘That is what the application of cold logic would dictate. But we both know things are seldom what they seem, and I am beginning to think there may be a good reason for Shropham’s bewildering silence. The problem is that unless he confides in me, I may never know what it is.’

‘Shropham is so quiet and unassuming that it is difficult to gain his true measure. Who knows what he is really like? I do not. Perhaps he is a killer, but has managed to conceal it – until now.’

‘There is also the issue of motive,’ continued Michael, lost in his reverie. ‘Why should Shropham stab Carbo? Edith says Carbo is not Neubold, so we must abandon the theory that it was something to do with King’s Hall’s negotiations for coal.’

‘Perhaps he did it because he could.’ Bartholomew managed to climb into the saddle at last, then hung on grimly while the horse pranced about. ‘I have just said he might be a natural killer.’

‘Or perhaps Carbo tried to blackmail Shropham,’ suggested Michael, seeing the physician was going to be thrown, and leaning forward to grab the reins. He glanced at the students, who were watching their master’s antics in open-mouthed disbelief; politely, Cynric was pretending not to notice. ‘That would explain why Shropham is now reluctant to explain why he stabbed the man.’

‘Then he will not thank you for trying to discover the secret he committed murder to hide,’ said Bartholomew, breathing a sigh of relief when Michael brought the animal under control. ‘He does not value his life, or he would have pleaded self-defence. But perhaps he will feel differently by the time we return – or we will have answers that make his silence irrelevant.’

‘Perhaps Paxtone is the killer,’ suggested Michael. Bartholomew looked sharply at him, and the monk shrugged as he handed back the reins. ‘It is just a suggestion.’

‘Based on what evidence?’ Bartholomew was shocked.

‘On the fact that Shropham has developed a rather unhealthy admiration for him, so might be prepared to take the blame for a crime his hero committed. Did you know he rinses Paxtone’s urine jars? I would not do that for you, and we are genuine friends.’

‘He debases himself by waiting on all the King’s Hall Fellows, not just Paxtone.’

‘I am just playing with ideas here, Matt. In the past one of us has proposed a wild theory, and the subsequent discussion has allowed us to deduce sensible answers. I hoped that would happen now.’

‘In other words, you are desperate.’ Bartholomew grabbed the horse’s mane when it began to buck again, and wished he had paid closer attention to the riding lessons he had been given as a child.

‘I cannot rid myself of the notion that Shropham is innocent. Do not ask why, when common sense, logic and the testimony of my Junior Proctor tell me otherwise. But it is a strong feeling, and I have learned not to ignore my instincts.’

‘We should go,’ said Valence, uneasy about the amount of time that was passing. ‘Or we run the risk of being out on unfamiliar roads after dark.’

‘I do not want to be out at all,’ said Tesdale fervently. ‘I will be useless in a skirmish. Kelyng was a veritable Ajax – almost as skilled as Doctor Bartholomew or Cynric with weapons – but I am not.’

‘You are good with a knife, though,’ said Risleye. He did not often compliment people, so Bartholomew assumed Tesdale must be outstanding. ‘Did you hear Kelyng’s parents have written to Master Langelee, by the way? They want to know why they have not heard from him since August.’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘To what extents a man will go to avoid his debts!’

‘I do not think he fled for debts,’ whispered Cynric to Bartholomew. ‘I think Wynewyk hired him as personal protection. But he found the work too dangerous, so he took to his heels while he was still able.’

‘Christ, Cynric!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, amazed, as always, by the Welshman’s capacity for devising wild theories. ‘How in God’s name did you come up with that?’

‘Because Kelyng was Wynewyk’s student,’ explained Cynric, unperturbed by his master’s less than positive reaction to his thesis. ‘And he is poor, so will do anything for money. Meanwhile, Wynewyk was busily cheating his colleagues, which means he would have felt vulnerable–’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew. He realised he should not be surprised that Cynric knew of Wynewyk’s alleged crimes, when only the Fellows were supposed to be party to the secret – the Welshman was an inveterate eavesdropper. ‘Kelyng did not leave Cambridge because of Wynewyk.’

‘We shall see, boy,’ said Cynric comfortably.

Six riders represented quite a cavalcade in Cambridge’s narrow streets, and people stopped to look at them or call greetings as they rode past. Edith was waiting with a bag of food for their journey. She started to give it to Bartholomew, but changed her mind when she saw he was not in sufficient control of his horse to allow her to approach safely. Michael thrust out an eager paw, but she handed it to Cynric instead.

Then Paxtone hurried forward to assure Bartholomew – again – that he should not worry about his patients, that he was ready to step into the breach in the event of an emergency. Bartholomew smiled, but sincerely hoped the King’s Hall physician would not attempt to inflict his rigid, uninspired medicine on Cambridge’s hapless poor.

‘There is Gosse,’ muttered Michael, as they rode past the leafy churchyard of St Mary the Great. ‘And Idoma is with him. What are they doing?’

‘She is angry,’ said Bartholomew, watching the furious way she shoved her brother away from her. He declined to be repelled, and moved forward again each time he was pushed, all the while speaking in a low, calm voice. Idoma said nothing, but even from a distance Bartholomew could see the expression on her face was dark and dangerous. ‘And he is trying to soothe her.’

Michael grinned slyly. ‘I wonder if her ire stems from the fact that I thwarted an attempt to burgle Bene’t College last night.’

‘Did you?’ asked Bartholomew. Gosse seemed to be winning the battle; Idoma’s jostles were becoming less forceful. She still looked incensed, though, and the physician was glad their paths would not cross. ‘How?’

‘Beadle Meadowman reported two cunningly broken windows there – clearly, a villain had damaged them with a view to gaining easy access at some point in the future. I had them mended, and arranged for a couple of fierce dogs to be stationed nearby. There was a commotion at midnight, and a would-be burglar was seen running for his life.’

‘Was it Gosse? Or Idoma?’

‘Not Idoma – she is too large for scaling walls and squeezing through windows. But witnesses say the culprit was the right size for her brother. Of course, the sly devil was heavily disguised, and no one can identify him with certainty. Still, at least he did not manage to steal anything, and the fright he had may make him think twice before targeting other University buildings.’

‘Has he turned his attention to the town yet, or is he still only interested in what scholars own?’

‘The latter. Unfortunately, this has made him rather popular with the townsfolk: they applaud anyone who has the audacity to strike at us. It means that even if there are witnesses to his crimes, they are unlikely to come forward. And Gosse knows it. Indeed, it is probably why he picks on us.’

‘You do not think it is anything to do with the message he gave me – that we have something he believes belongs to him?’

Michael rubbed his chin. ‘Not really, Matt. He has cornered other scholars and made similar demands of them, too. But I believe it is a ruse to baffle the Senior Proctor. He is a clever man – unlike most criminals – and hopes to confound me with these curious claims.’

Bartholomew glanced to where Gosse was muttering in Idoma’s ear, having calmed her to the point where she no longer felt the need to shove him. She listened, nodding occasionally, but when she happened to glance towards the road her face became suffused with rage again. For one alarming moment, Bartholomew thought she was going to make a run at them, but she contented herself with a glare. Even so, the malice that blazed from her shark-fish eyes was disconcerting, and he felt a shiver run down his spine. Gosse turned to see what had attracted her attention, but the expression on his face was unreadable. Somehow, this was worse.

‘My beadles have laid traps in one or two other Colleges,’ said Michael, glancing in their direction, then contemptuously looking away, as if it was beneath him to acknowledge what he saw. ‘I doubt they will catch Gosse, but it will make life a little more difficult for him. And who knows? By the time we return, he may have decided that Cambridge is not worth his time.’

Bartholomew doubted it, and was not sure Michael was right to dismiss Gosse’s claim that the University had something that belonged to him. He regarded the pair unhappily, and wished Edith had not rejected his offer of Cynric’s protection. Or was he just unsettled by their unsavoury reputation? Gosse and Idoma certainly exuded a malevolent aura, but there were no reports of actual violence. James the Dominican was more likely to have been attacked by offended Franciscans, while Bartholomew’s own encounter had involved a lot of menace but no real attempt to do harm; even their threats had been ambiguous.

‘I do not want to go.’ Tesdale’s words dragged the physician’s attention away from his own concerns. ‘I am already tired, and we have a long way to travel yet. I was not built for hard riding.’

‘It will be fun,’ countered Valence, clearly relishing the prospect of an adventure. ‘And you cannot be tired. You slept almost all of yesterday.’

Tesdale ignored him and addressed Bartholomew. ‘Are you sure you need me, sir? Master Langelee said the purpose of the journey is to retrieve some College money, but I am not very good at demanding cash from people.’

‘That is why he wants you to go, stupid,’ said Risleye scornfully. ‘To learn how to demand payment from debtors. It is a vital lesson for any would-be physician.’

Michael glanced at Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps it was wise to bring these lads along. They may have a corrupting influence on the others, and I would not like to return home to find my students have become lazy, selfish and grasping. I do not know how you put up with them.’

The scholars rode through the Barnwell Gate, then turned right along the Hadstock Way, passing the Dominican Friary and the boggy expanse of the Barnwell Field. Houses became fewer and more scattered as they travelled farther from the town, and were soon reduced to the occasional squatters’ hut. Smoke issued through some roofs, but most were silent and still, their inhabitants either begging for bread on the streets of Cambridge or poaching wildfowl and fish in the marshes.

The road led as straight as the path of an arrow through the fertile meadows at the foot of the Gog Magog hills, then headed upwards, passing a series of banks and ditches at the summit, where legend had it that an ancient queen had once defied a Roman army. Behind them, Cambridge was a cluster of red tiles and yellow thatches set amid a sea of winter-brown fields. The towers of St Mary the Great, St Botolph and St Bene’t could just be made out, although they were mostly obscured by the pall of smoke created by hundreds of household fires.

It was not long before the drizzle turned into something more persistent. The horses stumbled constantly, and some of the deeper puddles in the rutted track were well past their knees. The little party passed no other travellers once it had crossed the Gog Magogs, indicating they were the only ones foolish enough to embark on a journey in such foul weather.

Gradually, the flat lands of Cambridge gave way to the more rolling country of the west. Copses became more frequent, swathes of mixed woodland in which could be heard the trill of birds and the occasional bark of deer. Trees hissed and waved above them, and wet leaves fell in sodden showers.

They stopped when Michael declared himself hungry, and ate Edith’s pies and honey cakes under an ancient oak. The tree did not afford much shelter, but water had seeped through Bartholomew’s cloak hours before, and he could not have been wetter had he jumped in the river. It was eerily quiet, and no one objected when the physician brought an early end to the meal and began the hazardous process of remounting his horse.

The farther they travelled, the worse the road became. Ruts were larger, filled to the brim with filthy water. Fallen trees and branches littered the track, and with each one, Bartholomew half expected robbers to emerge – that the blockages were a deliberate ploy to slow travellers down and allow them to be ambushed. The afternoon grew gradually darker and colder, and just when he was thinking they might have to spend the night under a hedge, the highway stopped altogether, as if its builders had run out of materials and had decided to abandon the project.

‘Where has it gone?’ demanded Michael. ‘Langelee said it went all the way to Colchester.’

‘My grandfather came this way once,’ said Valence helpfully. ‘And he told me it goes nowhere near Colchester, although he thinks it was originally meant to.’

‘So what are we supposed to do?’ snapped Michael. ‘Stay here until they decide to finish it?’

‘Actually, it does not stop – it splits into three separate tracks,’ said Cynric, dismounting to peer into the undergrowth. ‘Obviously, they are not wide and straight, like the highway itself, but they all look as if they go somewhere.’

Bartholomew saw the book-bearer was right. One path wound through a dense coppice towards a hill on the left; a much narrower one disappeared into some long grass directly ahead; and the last went downhill, off to the right.

‘I vote we go left,’ said Michael. ‘The track is in marginally better repair than the other two.’

‘But I suspect Haverhill lies straight ahead,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘The directions Langelee gave us did not include any left-hand turns.’

‘We should go right, because it is downhill,’ argued Cynric. ‘There is more chance of a settlement in a valley than on a rise.’

‘No, we should turn around and go back the way we have come,’ said Valence, casting an anxious glance at the darkening countryside. ‘There was a village several miles back, with an inn.’

‘Nonsense,’ declared Risleye. ‘We should make camp here, and decide in the morning. Only fools plunge into unknown territory when nightfall cannot be more than an hour away.’

‘Or we could make a big fire, so someone sees it and comes to rescue us,’ suggested Tesdale with a yawn. ‘You five can collect the wood, while I see about drying out my tinderbox.’

‘Six possible options, and six views as to which one we should take.’ Bartholomew was amused, despite his tiredness and discomfort. Such dissent was typical among scholars.

‘I should not have stopped in the first place,’ muttered Michael. ‘I should have just ridden in the right direction and you would all have followed. This is the problem with democracy: nothing is ever decided. But I am Senior Proctor, and I outrank you all. We shall go left.’

He jabbed his heels into his horse’s flanks and rode off before objections could be raised. Bartholomew exchanged a shrug with Cynric, and supposed all three paths must lead somewhere, or they would not be there.

The track Michael had chosen narrowed after a few yards, forcing them to ride single file. Soon, the trees had closed in so tightly that they met overhead to form a gloomy tunnel. Leaves slapped at them as they passed, drenching them in droplets. Then the path jigged to the right, where the wood suddenly gave way to open meadows. Beyond, a few houses could be seen on the brow of a hill.

‘Haverhill!’ exclaimed Michael victoriously. ‘I told you so!’

He was about to move ahead again, when there was a shout. Someone emerged from the woods on the left and began running towards them. There was a mob at his heels, armed with pitchforks. With a gasp of relief, the man reached Michael’s horse and seized the reins. For a moment, Bartholomew thought he was going to haul the monk from the saddle and effect an escape, but he evidently took stock of Michael’s size and thought better of it.

‘Thank God you are here!’ he cried. ‘You must save me from this vicious, heathen crowd.’

‘Sweet Jesus and all the saints preserve us!’ breathed Cynric, staring at him in alarm. ‘It is Carbo – the priest Shropham murdered. He has risen from the dead, and is here to snatch our souls!’

‘That is not Carbo,’ said Bartholomew, although the fellow who ducked and bobbed behind Michael’s horse was more concerned with the crowd that was pursuing him than with the fact that the book-bearer was accusing him of being a corpse. ‘It is someone else.’

‘There is an unsettling similarity, though,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘This fellow is heavier and his hair is longer, but I can see why Cynric confused them.’

‘Are you sure?’ demanded the book-bearer uneasily. ‘You are not mistaking these small differences for what happens to a man once he is in his coffin?’

‘They are two different people,’ said Bartholomew firmly. The last thing they needed was for Cynric to indulge in a frenzy of superstitious terror when upwards of forty people were converging on them, all brandishing agricultural implements with razor-sharp points. ‘Carbo hailed from near here, so it is not surprising to encounter folk who look like him – they will be his kin.’

Once Cynric was settled, Bartholomew turned his attention to the crowd. The men were tall and strong, while their womenfolk gave the impression that they could wrestle with cows, toss haystacks over their shoulders, and tear down trees with their bare hands. Even the children seemed powerful, and were armed with the same ruthlessly honed tools as their elders.

By contrast, the man who cowered behind Michael was a puny specimen. Like Carbo, his complexion was pallid and unhealthy, and his hair fell in oily tendrils around his shoulders. Unlike Carbo, his clothes were well-made and expensive. He was clad in a handsome blue gipon with silver buttons on the sleeves, a gold brooch held his cloak in an elegant fold over his shoulder, and his leggings were bright orange and appeared to be made of silk.

‘We have no grievance with you, Brother,’ called one of the mob when he drew close enough to be heard, evidently assuming the monk would be in charge. ‘Our business is with Adam Neubold. So we shall take him from you, and go our separate ways.’

‘Neubold,’ mused Michael. ‘Well, well, well!’

‘You will let them do no such thing,’ countered Neubold vehemently. ‘I am a Dominican friar and I demand your help.’

‘Is that so,’ said Michael archly. ‘Then where is your religious habit?’

‘In the wash,’ replied Neubold, more curtly than was wise when addressing the man he was expecting to save him. ‘But my choice of apparel is none of your affair. My grievous treatment at the hands of these savages is, however, and I order you to intervene.’

There was an angry murmur from the crowd at the insult, and metallic clangs sounded as implements were brandished. Neubold became alarmed again, ducking behind Bartholomew and eyeing him speculatively, as though wondering whether he might be unhorsed, given that the portly monk was clearly out of the question.

‘Helping this man is not a good idea,’ murmured Cynric, glancing around to assess potential avenues of escape. ‘We cannot best forty angry peasants.’

‘We should leave,’ agreed Risleye. ‘This is not our quarrel, and we have no right to interfere.’

‘You cannot abandon me,’ cried Neubold in horror. ‘It would be tantamount to murder!’

Michael addressed the villagers, drawing on all the tact he had learned during his years of dealing with prickly scholars. ‘I am sure this can be resolved without a spillage of blood. Perhaps we can adjourn to the nearest church, and discuss the matter like civilised–’

‘If you want to be useful, you can lend us a piece of rope, so we can hang this scoundrel,’ interrupted the largest and burliest of the villagers. He looked to be in his late thirties, and boasted an unlikely thatch of corn-yellow hair. ‘And then you can go on your way.’

‘No!’ screeched Neubold. He grabbed the hem of Michael’s habit, while the rabble showed their appreciation of their comrade’s remark by hammering their tools on the ground. It sounded like galloping horses, and Bartholomew’s nag began to rear in alarm.

‘Executing a priest is no way to solve problems,’ said Michael, glancing uneasily at the physician’s inept attempts to control his mount. The animal was on the verge of bolting – and to do so it would have to go through the press of villagers who now clustered around them. Injuries would be inevitable, and then it might not only be Neubold who was in danger from a furious horde.

‘Actually, it would solve a good many problems,’ countered Yellow Hair, stepping forward to soothe the beast with large, competent hands. ‘But we are not really going to lynch him, tempting though it is. He was trespassing, and all we intend to do is make him apologise for his audacity.’

‘Never!’ declared Neubold. ‘And we shall see what Elyan has to say about this outrage.’

‘Elyan?’ asked Michael. ‘Henry Elyan? What does he have to do with the situation?’

‘Neubold is his clerk, as well as his parish priest,’ explained Yellow Hair. He regarded Neubold coldly. ‘We shall make him apologise, too, for sending you in the first place.’

Neubold glowered back at him and made no reply. Michael regarded the Dominican thoughtfully. ‘Were you in Cambridge recently, dealing with King’s Hall on Elyan’s behalf?’

Yellow Hair sneered. ‘He sold coal at a greatly inflated price, and was so excited by his success that he came racing home forthwith. Unfortunately, he forgot to collect Elyan’s wife on the way, and she promptly fell ill and died. No doubt, that is why he is here now – trying to worm his way back into his master’s favour by offering to spy on us.’

‘You can go to Hell, William!’ spat Neubold. ‘You have no right to accuse me of spying, and if you do it again, I shall take legal action and have you fined. And you know I will succeed, because I won Osa and Idoma Gosse a fortune in compensation when they were slanderously maligned.’

There was a growl of disapproval from the throng.

‘Aiding those evil villains is not one of your finest achievements,’ said William, regarding the priest with disdain. ‘And you would do well not to brag, because we despise you for it.’

‘They are better than you,’ declared Neubold, nettled. ‘At least they do not molest priests.’

‘They have not been seen for several weeks now,’ said William with some satisfaction. ‘And word is that they have abandoned their home in Clare. We must have frightened them off when we threatened to hang first and consider the law later.’

‘If you had touched them, I would have sued the lot of you,’ snarled Neubold. ‘You cannot go around stringing up whoever you feel like.’

‘No?’ asked one villager, fingering his belt meaningfully. ‘And who is to stop us?’

‘Good people of Haverhill,’ said Michael soothingly. ‘Do not be hasty in your–’

‘Haverhill?’ interrupted William, dropping Bartholomew’s reins and spinning around to face the monk. Finding itself free, the animal bucked violently. ‘Haverhill? How dare you insult us!’

‘I assure you, I–’ began Michael, bewildered.

‘We are the good people of Withersfield. We are not from Haverhill.’ William spoke the name of the neighbouring village as though it was another word for Hell.

‘If you wanted Haverhill, you should have continued straight when the old road ended,’ called one of the women, evidently trying to be helpful. ‘You must have turned left.’

Michael did not look at Bartholomew. ‘Well, perhaps we should go back the way we came, then, and set ourselves aright before the daylight fades completely. Assuming my colleague can ever regain control of his horse, that is,’ he added, shooting the physician an exasperated glance.

‘You do not have time,’ said William, coming to the rescue a second time. ‘It is not a good idea to enter Haverhill after dark, because you never know who you might meet. So, you had better come with us, and resume your journey in the morning. We shall take you to Roger Luneday of Withersfield Manor. His house has a chimney.’

A ripple of pride ran through the assembled villagers. Chimneys were apparently architectural extras that were highly prized in west Suffolk.

‘Well, in that case, we accept,’ said Michael, exchanging a brief glance with Bartholomew: it was an excellent opportunity to see whether Luneday would admit to receiving five marks from Wynewyk for pigs. ‘We are not men to decline shelter in a house with a chimney.’

‘What about me?’ demanded Neubold, full of angry indignation. ‘Am I to be abandoned to these ruffians, while you flounce off to enjoy Luneday’s flue?’

‘You will accompany us, and your fate will be decided tomorrow, when tempers have cooled,’ decreed Michael. ‘It is too late to resolve what promises to be a lengthy business this evening.’

‘But I–’ objected Neubold.

Michael raised an imperious hand to silence him. ‘Who will lead the way to this chimney?’

It was not far to Withersfield. They followed a winding path down to a hollow, where a pretty church nestled in a fold in the hills next to a bubbling brook; several cottages huddled around it. The manor house was set across an undulating sward of common land. It was a handsome building with a thatched roof, and its elegant chimney boasted an ornately carved top. Its orchard was full of apple, pear and cherry trees, and its vegetable plots were home to leeks, onions and cabbages. The scent of herbs and recently scythed grass was rich in the chill evening air.

William led the way towards it, followed by the Michaelhouse men, while the remaining villagers brought up the rear. A reluctant Neubold was among them, protesting vociferously about the way he was being manhandled.

‘Be quiet,’ snapped William, becoming tired of it. ‘If you persist in whining, one of us might give you some real cause for complaint.’

‘I have every reason to be indignant,’ shouted Neubold. ‘I have been shamefully wronged.’

‘What exactly did he do?’ While Bartholomew’s better judgement told him it might be wiser not to ask, it was unusual for a priest to be pursued quite so hotly by a mob. It was also unusual for one to dispense with his habit and sport elegant secular clothing, and the physician’s curiosity was piqued.

‘Spying,’ replied William shortly. ‘But he has no excuse this time – he was caught red-handed.’

‘Spying on what?’ Withersfield was an attractive place, and its villagers were well-fed and healthy, but Bartholomew could not imagine it owned anything to warrant espionage.

‘Neubold is parish priest of Haverhill’s Upper Church,’ William started to explain. He saw the physician’s blank look and sighed impatiently. ‘The older of its churches.’

‘There are two?’

‘Actually, there are three. Well, two and a chapel, to be precise. Besides the Upper Church, there is St Mary the Virgin, which is bigger and newer, and there is the chantry chapel.’

‘You said Neubold was spying,’ prompted Bartholomew. ‘On what?’

‘I am getting there,’ said William testily. ‘As I was saying, Neubold is one of Haverhill’s priests, so he has no right to set foot on Withersfield soil. The fact that he is here means he is spying – there is no other reason for him to foul our land with his presence. And what do you think he wants? Pigs!’

‘Pigs?’ echoed Bartholomew, mystified.

‘Pigs,’ repeated William, adding darkly, ‘We have them, and Haverhill wants them.’

‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew, not sure how else to respond.

William’s expression was grim. ‘But we had better not talk about it any more, because it might induce me to wring Neubold’s miserable neck. Tell me about your business instead. Have you come to purchase pottery? I hate to say something good about Haverhill, but they do produce lovely jugs.’

‘We might look at them,’ hedged Bartholomew, reluctant to admit that they had come to investigate the loss of thirty marks. He was bemused by the antipathy of the Withersfield folk to their Haverhill neighbours, and decided it was safer to keep the real purpose of the visit secret until he and Michael had a fuller understanding of the situation.

William started to press him further, but the physician was spared from answering, because they had reached the manor house. One of the children had evidently run ahead to warn its residents that there were to be guests, for its lord and lady emerged from the house as the party approached.

Luneday was a sturdy fellow in middle years, whose black beard was tinged with grey. He wore a laced gipon of emerald green, and his shoulder cloak was brown and held in place by a gold pin. His boots were thick and practical, and bore stains that suggested he had been out on the land that day. The woman next to him was clad in a close-fitting kirtle, an unflattering garment for someone on the plump side. Her fair hair was coiled and held in place by a fine net of silver thread, called a fret.

‘I hear we are to have the pleasure of company tonight,’ said Luneday, smiling a welcome. ‘A monk from St Edmundsbury Abbey and his companions.’

‘Actually, they are only scholars from Cambridge,’ said William apologetically. ‘They do not have the good fortune to hail from Suffolk.’

Tesdale bristled with resentment at the remark. He was proud of the fact that he was Cambridge born and bred, and Bartholomew was obliged to nudge him, to prevent him from making an acid retort. Risleye merely regarded the lord of the manor with an aloof expression, as if he considered a mere landowner beneath him, although Valence smiled engagingly.

‘It does not matter,’ said Luneday. He tried to conceal his disappointment, but did not succeed – scholars were evidently a very poor second to visitors from St Edmundsbury. He cleared his throat, and gestured to the lady at his side. ‘This is my woman, Margery Folyat.’

‘Your wife?’ asked Bartholomew, a little bemused by the odd introduction.

‘Oh, no,’ replied Luneday airily. ‘My wife has been on business in Thetford since the plague, so Margery moved in three years ago, to keep me from being lonely.’

‘And to keep his purse empty,’ muttered William, not quite loud enough for Luneday to hear. Bartholomew glanced at him, and saw him regarding Margery with considerable dislike. But when he turned back to Margery, he supposed she did look like a woman out for her own ends. The hand on Luneday’s arm was more possessive than affectionate, and it was clear from her fine clothes that she liked spending money.

With unexpected grace for a man so large, Michael slid from his saddle and effected an elegant bow. Impressed by his gracious manners, Margery stepped forward to return the greeting.

‘I do like your cloak, Brother,’ she said, with a predatory smile that made Bartholomew wonder whether she intended to have it off him. ‘I do not think I have ever seen such fine wool – nor such generous folds. It must have cost a fortune.’

‘Her husband lives in Haverhill,’ Luneday went on, hastily stepping between them, ‘where he works as a gatekeeper. But we rarely visit the place, so we do not run into him very often. It is just as well, as he does not like her being up here and complains about it every time we do meet.’

‘You caught him, then,’ said Margery, indicating Neubold with a nod of her head. Then it was the priest’s turn to shoot her a look of dislike; she returned it in full. ‘I thought he was going to escape, because I have never seen anyone run so fast. He was like a rat, scuttling away.’

‘Lock him in the barn, William,’ ordered Luneday, also treating Neubold to a contemptuous glare. ‘We shall have his apology in the morning. I do not like men who steal pigs, especially Lizzie.’

‘He was trying to steal Lizzie?’ William was appalled. ‘I thought he was just inspecting her litter.’

‘He had a halter around her neck,’ said Luneday. He presented a harness, fashioned from rope, which William snatched from him in shocked anger.

Neubold became flustered when confronted with the evidence of his crime. ‘That is not a halter,’ he declared. His eyes were everywhere, like a frightened ferret. ‘It is a charm.’

‘A charm?’ echoed Margery, her voice dripping contempt. ‘Do not insult us with lies!’

‘What kind of charm?’ asked Luneday.

‘One that will ensure Lizzie wins the Haverhill and Withersfield Livestock Competition again next year,’ babbled Neubold. ‘It is for luck.’

Margery released a sharp bark of laughter, which was echoed by the listening villagers. ‘You should stick to the law,’ she said. ‘You may impress the likes of Osa Gosse by manipulating obscure statutes, but you are a pathetic thief. Even your brother is better than you, and he is mad.’

‘Carbo is not a thief,’ objected Neubold stiffly. ‘And neither am I.’

‘There,’ murmured Michael in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘Cynric was right to notice the similarity between this man and Carbo. They are siblings.’

‘No?’ Margery was demanding. ‘Then who stole Hilton’s spare habit?’

‘You bought him a lovely new one,’ snapped Neubold. ‘So Carbo actually did Hilton a favour.’

‘Is your brother a Dominican?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to sound casual.

Margery’s laughter was spiteful. ‘Carbo wanted to become a priest when he finished working here, but the Dominicans would not have him. Nor would any Order.’

‘That does not say much for his character,’ Michael muttered, while William and Luneday exchanged an uncomfortable glance: evidently, Margery’s tongue was too sharp for their liking. ‘The Black Friars accept virtually anyone, and the fact that they drew the line at Carbo tells us a lot.’

‘Where is Carbo these days?’ asked Luneday with a sudden frown. ‘I have not seen him in ages.’

‘Neither have I,’ replied Neubold shortly. ‘But I have been away on important business in Cambridge. However, I am sure he will reappear when he hears I am home again.’

‘Actually,’ began Tesdale helpfully. ‘Carbo is the man who Shropham–’

‘Does your mother live in Withersfield, Neubold?’ interrupted Bartholomew, saying the first thing that came into his head. He did not want the priest to learn about his brother’s death in such circumstances – it would be kinder to break the news when they were alone.

Neubold regarded him askance. ‘What a curious question! She died almost two years ago. Carbo took it badly – it was what caused him to lose his post as steward here. He loved her very much.’

‘Yes, but I could only be expected to tolerate his negligence for so long,’ said Luneday. He sounded defensive, as if dismissing Carbo had been a difficult decision. ‘He did no work for months, and had plenty of warnings. I had no choice but to give William his job.’

‘I will sue you for it,’ declared Neubold. ‘There is bound to be some statute forbidding shabby treatment of stewards, and I shall find it. I will have your fine pig in compensation for–’

‘Get him out of my sight,’ said Luneday to William. ‘I am tired of his bleating. Lock him in the barn, where we will not be able to hear him.’

Not surprisingly, Neubold did not go quietly. ‘You cannot lock me up,’ he yelled. ‘I am a priest!’

‘Then where is your habit?’ demanded William. He smirked. ‘But we know the answer to that: you cannot steal a pig wearing priestly robes, so you dispensed with them, and donned a disguise.’

Neubold’s face was black with anger, suggesting there was at least some truth in the accusation. He was still objecting as he was dragged around to the back of the house, and his enraged howls remained quite audible for some time after.