A Vein of Deceit

Chapter 7

The inside of Withersfield Manor was as neat and pleasant as its outside. There was a huge hall on the ground floor, with two chambers for sleeping above it – one for Luneday and his woman, and one for their servants. The stone floor was strewn with rushes, and the walls had been painted with hunting scenes. A fire blazed merrily in the hearth, large enough for all to enjoy its warmth. Cynric and the students retreated to the far side, where the book-bearer honed his sword and entertained Valence, Risleye and Tesdale with yet another account of Poitiers.

‘Withersfield is a jewel in the Suffolk countryside,’ boasted Luneday, as he handed goblets of mulled wine to Bartholomew and Michael. The brew was rough, but the scholars were cold and thirsty, so did not mind. ‘Of course, you do not need me to tell you that, since you have ridden through it. You will already have seen that it is a foretaste of Heaven.’

‘You have not told us your business in the area, Brother,’ said Margery, more inclined to fish for information than to dispense it. ‘Why have you come all this way?’

Bartholomew glanced at Michael, and saw him consider his options: launch into an enquiry about the five marks Wynewyk was supposed to have given Luneday, or wait until morning. The wrong questions might cause Luneday to take umbrage and order them to leave – and the weather was worsening. But postponing the matter might mean an opportunity lost and never regained.

‘My College has done business with Haverhill for years,’ began Michael, evidently deciding to put duty before comfort. ‘Coal, timber, pigs–’

‘Pigs?’ echoed Luneday, raising his eyebrows. ‘Haverhill cannot have sold you pigs, for they do not own any worth mentioning. Are you sure about this?’

‘No,’ said Michael. ‘A colleague named Wynewyk made the arrangements, but he is dead.’

Bartholomew was watching Luneday closely, but the lord of Withersfield Manor showed no spark of recognition at Wynewyk’s name. A fleeting frown crossed Margery’s face, but the physician could not tell whether it was significant, or whether she was merely searching her memory.

‘I am sorry to hear that,’ said Luneday. His tone was bland, impossible to interpret. ‘However, if he bought pigs from Haverhill, then perhaps it is just as well – he cannot have been a sensible man.’

‘How about if he had done business with Withersfield?’ asked Michael innocently.

Luneday smiled again. ‘Then he would have been very wise.’

‘Our Master, Ralph de Langelee, is always telling us that Withersfield is the only place to come for pigs,’ Michael went on, pushing the matter further. ‘It is a pity Wynewyk did not listen to him.’

‘It is indeed,’ agreed Luneday. He smiled again. ‘But I like the sound of this Langelee.’

‘He is a great philosopher and a man of outstanding wisdom.’ Michael faltered when Bartholomew choked into his wine. The physician was glad the students were not within earshot; they would have laughed openly, thinking the monk was making a joke.

‘Then he should have come to trade in person,’ said Luneday, standing to pound on the physician’s back. He banged rather harder than was necessary, and Bartholomew was not sure whether Luneday was just a naturally vigorous person, or whether it was revenge for Michael’s sly probing. ‘Your Wynewyk does not seem to have been capable – not if he went to Haverhill.’

Michael pretended to look thoughtful. ‘Do you know, I think Wynewyk did tell me came here. I distinctly recall him mentioning a chimney. And I am sure he said he spent five marks on pigs.’

‘Five marks is a lot of hog,’ said Luneday, sitting again when Bartholomew had recovered his breath. ‘I do not recall Wynewyk, though. Are there documents to substantiate his claim?’

‘Not that we have found. It must have been a gentleman’s agreement – five marks given on the understanding that the contract would be honoured by men of decency and principle.’

‘It is getting late,’ said Margery with a yawn. ‘And we retire early here, because there is so much to be done in the fields – not that I labour, of course. I prefer to stay inside and have my hair dyed.’

Luneday jumped to his feet again. ‘My woman is right. We all need our sleep, and you look tired, Brother. The maid will bring you bedding, and we shall bid you goodnight.’

Michael’s smile was pained, but there was no way he could force Luneday to stay and answer questions. He nodded his thanks, and watched the lord of the manor and his woman disappear up the stairs. There was a short delay as a maid hunted for spare blankets and straw-filled mattresses, then she followed her master’s example and went to bed, too. It was not long before the house was silent.

‘I am not sure what to think,’ said Bartholomew, removing some of his clothes and setting them to dry by the fire. Cynric and the students were examining the bedding, paying no attention to the discussion between physician and monk. Risleye was agreeing with Cynric that everything was damp and smelled of mould; Tesdale was declaring that he did not care and just wanted to lie down; and Valence said he was grateful just to have a roof over his head. ‘Was Luneday lying about not knowing Wynewyk?’

‘I could not tell,’ said Michael. He frowned. ‘But do you remember what Risleye said about meeting Wynewyk in Babraham when he should have been visiting his father?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Are you thinking that Risleye caught Wynewyk returning from Suffolk – that he did come here to buy pigs from Luneday?’

‘Yes. He paid Risleye to keep the encounter quiet, which is suspicious in itself. Ergo, I suspect he came in person to facilitate these arrangements – he would not have done it in writing, as the transactions were illegal. He was a lawyer, and knew better than to leave a document trail.’

‘The transactions were not illegal,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘They are inexplicable, which is not the same thing. However, you may be right about his travels – perhaps he did come here. If so, then maybe he used another name. That would explain why Luneday did not recognise “Wynewyk”.’

‘It is possible, although you should bear in mind that men engaged in legitimate business do not feel the need for such subterfuge. Of course, we must also remember that Wynewyk may have chosen these names randomly – that Luneday, Elyan and d’Audley are innocent of any wrongdoing.’

‘Wynewyk is innocent of wrongdoing,’ persisted Bartholomew doggedly.

‘How can you still think that?’ asked Michael wonderingly. ‘He tried to kill Langelee, he sent letters to noblemen offering to sell them diamonds, and he cheated your College. It is not as if it is just one dubious incident here, Matt – it is several, and they do not add up to anything pleasant.’

‘That is because we still do not have the whole picture, and it is leading you to premature conclusions. However, there are a lot of connections between these Suffolk men and Cambridge. Something is going on – and it is bigger than Wynewyk.’

Michael regarded him soberly. ‘I hope you will not be too devastated when you learn your faith in him is misplaced. But we should not discuss this tonight, when neither of us has new evidence with which to sway the other. We will only quarrel, and I am too weary for a spat.’

Bartholomew was only too happy to oblige. ‘Perhaps we should talk about Carbo instead.’

Michael winced. ‘Perhaps we should not – it is too depressing. We still know nothing about him.’

‘Nonsense, Brother! We have learned that the death of a much-loved parent lost him his post as Luneday’s steward. And we know he was no priest – his Dominican habit was stolen property. Tomorrow, I shall ask Neubold how his brother came by the injury to his head – the one I think was responsible for his odd demeanour. I said the scarring looked as if the wound had been inflicted in the last two years or so, and–’

‘And his mother died a little less than two years ago,’ finished Michael. ‘How do you think he came to be hurt? An accident? He was a steward, and we all know agriculture is a dangerous business.’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Who knows? The possibilities are endless – a fall, a kick from a horse, being struck with something heavy, either accidentally or deliberately. That is why we need to ask Neubold. Are you going to tell him his brother is dead?’

‘We must, so he can go to Cambridge and retrieve the body, otherwise it will end up in the Dominican cemetery. Of course, Carbo might not have minded that, given that he wanted to enrol.’

‘What was he doing in Cambridge, do you think? What drew him there?’

‘I have no idea. It is yet another of these curious coincidences that keep cropping up in this case. They are beginning to be aggravating, so let us hope tomorrow brings some solutions.’

‘Be careful how you go about getting them, Brother,’ said Bartholomew uneasily. ‘I cannot say why exactly, but I do not feel safe here.’

Because the inhabitants of Withersfield Manor retired so early – far earlier than Bartholomew went to bed in Cambridge, even during winter – he had no idea what time it was when he woke later. It was still pitch black, and not even the merest glimmer of light came from under the window shutters. The fire had burned out, so he supposed several hours had passed. He lay in the darkness trying to determine whether the vague patterns he could see on the ceiling were the rafters or his imagination.

‘Did that noise wake you?’ Cynric’s low voice so close to his ear made him jump. There was a faint hiss of steel as the book-bearer drew his sword. ‘Someone is prowling, edging ever closer to us.’

Bartholomew lay still, straining his ears for anything out of the ordinary. All he could hear was Michael’s wet breathing and a strangled moan that told him Tesdale was in the grip of one of his dreams. Then there was a slight rustle to his left, as if a mouse or a rat was scavenging in the rushes. Outside, an owl hooted, and another answered from a distance. He raised himself on one elbow and peered around the hall, although it was far too dark to see anything.

‘You must have imagined it,’ he whispered. ‘Or perhaps someone is moving about upstairs.’

He reached out to the place where Cynric’s voice had been, but the Welshman had moved, and the physician’s groping hand met nothing but empty air. He sat up and widened his search. He encountered an arm.

‘I have a candle in my saddlebag,’ called Cynric softly from across the hall. ‘I shall light it.’

Bartholomew froze as the arm was wrenched away. The limb had been too small for Michael, and too well-muscled to have been Risleye or Valence. Meanwhile, he could still hear Tesdale dreaming.

‘Who are you?’ he demanded, clambering hastily to his feet. His voice was loud, and he was aware of Michael and the students snapping into wakefulness. ‘Who is there?’

He sensed, rather than saw, someone lunge at him, using his voice as a beacon. He jerked away, and tripped over the mattress he had been using. The other person stumbled, too, and Bartholomew heard a faint thud as something was dropped on the floor. The physician staggered upright again, waving his arms in front of him like a blind man. His flailing hands encountered a cloak.

‘Cynric!’ he yelled urgently, fingers tightening around it. ‘I have him.’

He did not have him for long, however. A fist caught him on the side of the head, and for a few moments he could not decide whether the lights he saw dancing in front of his eyes were real or imagined. The breath went out of him as he hit the floor. Michael started to shout, and Cynric began crashing about furiously on the other side of the room. Bartholomew struggled into a sitting position, and thought he could see a dim rectangle of light in the distance. Then Valence managed to light a candle, and its little flame filled the hall with eerily dancing shadows.

Michael and Risleye had apparently encountered each other in the darkness, and the monk had the student in a throttling grip. Cynric was near the hearth, while Tesdale was still in bed. Valence was kneeling on the floor, holding the candle aloft with a fearful expression on his face. The main door to the manor stood open, and a cold wind snaked through the rushes on the floor. Whoever it was that Cynric had heard, and that Bartholomew had come so close to catching, had fled.

The commotion had roused their hosts, and it was not many moments before Luneday and Margery came clattering down the stairs. Their servants appeared, too, bringing lanterns. The light illuminated a dagger that lay on the floor near Bartholomew’s feet, and the physician supposed the intruder had lost it during the scuffle – he had certainly heard something fall. It was a long, wicked-looking thing, with a blade honed to a murderous sharpness.

Cynric was suddenly nowhere to be seen, and Bartholomew realised he had gone outside to hunt for their would-be assailant. He started to follow, but his legs were unsteady, and he had not taken many steps before he was obliged to seek the support of a wall.

‘What is the matter?’ demanded Luneday. He wore a long nightgown and hefty boots. ‘Are all Cambridge men in the habit of waking their hosts by screeching in the depths of the night?’

‘Someone attacked us,’ shouted Michael furiously, pointing to the knife. ‘We are lucky Cynric was alert, or we would have been murdered where we lay.’

‘No one tried to kill you!’ exclaimed Luneday in disbelief. ‘This is Suffolk – we do not go around slaughtering people here.’

Cynric appeared, shaking his head in disgust. ‘There is no moon, and the clouds are thick. I could not see well enough to track him.’

‘Track whom?’ demanded Margery. ‘There is no one here, other than us.’

‘Someone came while we were asleep,’ said Cynric with quiet conviction. ‘He fled when he saw we were going to be more of a challenge than he anticipated.’

‘You imagined it,’ said William, who had arrived with the servants, yellow hair awry. ‘Being in a strange place made you restless, and you dreamt someone was in here.’

‘One of you was certainly whimpering and moaning,’ said Margery. ‘I could hear him from upstairs, and I am not surprised he disturbed the rest of you.’

‘Then how do you explain the knife?’ asked Michael coldly. ‘We are not imagining that.’

‘We do not change the rushes very often,’ admitted Luneday. ‘It could have been there for ages.’

‘Someone came in from outside,’ insisted Cynric. ‘It caused a draught, which woke me. In fact, the door has been opening and shutting all night, and it has been difficult to get any rest at all.’

‘Not so!’ cried Luneday indignantly. ‘We keep the door closed after dark, and no one wanders anywhere. Why would they, when it is cold and wet outside, but warm and cosy in here?’

‘And more to the point, why would anyone attack you?’ asked Margery. ‘Apart from the good Brother’s handsome cloak, you have nothing a thief could possibly want.’

‘There are motives for attack besides robbery, madam,’ said Michael stiffly.

‘Such as what?’ demanded Luneday. ‘I was under the impression that you are strangers here. If that is the case, then how can you have acquired enemies?’

‘There is Neubold,’ Michael pointed out. ‘He was not pleased when we let William put him under arrest, and he almost certainly hates us for it.’

‘No doubt,’ agreed Luneday. ‘But he is locked in the barn, so cannot have come to stab you, even if he had been so inclined.’

‘You are right,’ said Michael. Bartholomew glanced sharply at him, bemused by the abrupt capitulation. ‘We are all tired. It must have been each other we encountered in the dark.’

Luneday smiled thinly, then turned to William. ‘Relight the fire. Perhaps that will ease our guests’ minds. But it is late, and we all need to sleep if we are to do business in a rational manner tomorrow.’

He left, taking his people with him, while William busied himself in the hearth. The steward made several snide remarks about leaving a lamp burning as well, lest the scholars were afraid of the dark, but eventually he went, too, and the Michaelhouse men were alone again.

‘We did not fight each other,’ said Cynric, eyeing the monk resentfully. ‘Someone was in here – I saw him haul open the door and hare off into the night. It was someone local, because he knew his way around, even though it is pitch black, both inside and out.’

‘I believe you,’ said Michael. ‘Which is why you five will sleep, while I stand the first watch. I shall wake Cynric in an hour. It should be easier now the fire is lit – we will be able to see.’

‘If you believe me, then why did you let Luneday think we imagined it?’ demanded Cynric, aggrieved. ‘Now he thinks we are cowards, frightened of our own shadows.’

‘I was being practical,’ replied Michael. ‘If we had pressed our point, he might have asked us to leave, and I do not want to be out in the dark while assassins lurk.’

‘I do not like Suffolk,’ declared Cynric sullenly. ‘It is a dangerous place.’

The rest of the night passed uneventfully. Michael woke Cynric when he felt himself begin to drowse; then Cynric woke Valence and Risleye, they woke Tesdale, and Tesdale woke Bartholomew within moments on the grounds that no one would know how long he had been awake anyway.

The physician opened a window shutter, and watched dawn steal across the fields. First, the sky turned from black to dark blue, then to violet. The landscape became full of grey shadows, which gradually resolved into trees, hedges, fences and buildings. There was no sign of the sun, hidden as it was behind a layer of cloud, but Bartholomew felt better once the night was over at last.

He roused the others when he heard Luneday and Margery stirring above, and walked outside. The air was fresh, full of the scent of wet grass and damp earth. A sheep bleated in the distance, and he could hear the gurgle of the nearby brook. It was a pleasant, almost idyllic scene, and he began to wonder whether he had imagined the botched attack of the night before. Then he touched his hand to his head, where a fist had landed, and felt a tenderness that told him it had been all too real.

He returned to the house, where he and his companions were given slices of cold oatmeal to dip in beakers of cream, and goblets of sweet ale to wash it down. Once they had broken their fast, Michael apologised to Luneday for the disturbance they had caused. Luneday was all smiles, and seemed more than happy to forget the incident. He rubbed his hands together energetically.

‘Now,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I can interest you in a tour of my piggeries?’

Michael hesitated, not enthusiastic about a venture that would consume valuable time, yet realising it was an opportunity to resume his questions about the five marks. But before he could reply, there was a commotion in the yard outside. The racket grew louder, until the door was thrown open and William burst in, a horde of villagers at his heels.

‘Did you release Neubold this morning?’ he demanded. ‘He is not where we left him.’

Luneday was unconcerned. ‘He has probably hidden in the hay, to give you the impression he has escaped. It will delight him to think he has deceived you, so do not bray too loudly about–’

‘We searched the barn from top to bottom,’ interrupted William. ‘With dogs. He is not there. However, Margery visited Haverhill last night, after we were all abed. I do not suppose she mentioned the fact that we had him here, did she? Let folk know he was in need of rescue?’

Luneday’s eyes narrowed. ‘How do you know my woman went to Haverhill?’

‘Horses make a noise, even when their riders keep to the verges.’ William glared at Margery. ‘When I heard hoofs, I looked out of my window and I saw her.’

Luneday sighed as he turned to Margery. ‘I thought we had agreed that these nocturnal forays would stop. Either you stay in Withersfield with me, or you go back to your old life in Haverhill with your husband the gatekeeper. You cannot have both.’

Margery scowled, and gave the impression she would have both if she wanted to. ‘I may have left Withersfield for a while.’ She shot William a black look. ‘I like to ride at night. It is invigorating.’

‘Did you take this invigorating ride to Haverhill?’ demanded William coldly. ‘And while you were there, did you happen to mention that we had one of their parish priests under lock and key?’

‘It may have slipped into a conversation,’ replied Margery defensively. ‘I do not recall.’

‘What could take her to Haverhill in the depths of the night?’ asked Michael, more of himself than of the community at large. His comment was heard, however, and William answered.

‘She likes to visit her grandchildren – her son’s brats. But her husband is gatekeeper, so getting into Haverhill without him seeing her is virtually impossible. However, he is less vigilant after dark.’

Margery sidled towards Luneday, pointedly ignoring the steward. ‘I only do it to avoid unpleasant confrontations,’ she whined ingratiatingly, taking his arm. ‘And I was lonely for the children.’

‘Who did you talk to?’ demanded Luneday, freeing his hand impatiently. ‘Who might have come to set Neubold free?’

‘Well, I met d’Audley and Hilton,’ admitted Margery reluctantly. ‘They had been working on the deeds to the chantry chapel. But I do not think the news of Neubold’s detention excited their interest.’

‘Yes, but d’Audley would not have kept such a fact to himself,’ said Luneday bitterly. ‘By dawn, everyone in Haverhill would have known one of their priests had been incarcerated by us. Haverhill must have mounted a rescue mission, and come to take him back.’

‘Almost certainly – but I do not think he was grateful for their trouble,’ said William grimly. ‘There is hay everywhere, as though there was a fight.’

‘He made a mess to spite you,’ said Margery, shooting William a look to indicate she thought him stupid. ‘Why should he sit quietly all night when he could avenge himself with mischief?’

Bartholomew listened to their quarrel, and thought visiting children in the middle of the night was a peculiar thing to do. But it did not seem a good time to say so.

‘Did you pass through the hall in order to leave?’ he asked instead, recalling Cynric’s contention that the door had been opened and shut constantly before the attack.

‘Of course,’ Margery replied. ‘It is the only way out. But if you are wondering why you did not hear me, it is because I know where to step so the floorboards do not creak. I tried not to disturb you.’

‘She is probably telling the truth,’ whispered Cynric in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘I assumed people needed the latrines, and thought nothing of all these comings and goings – until someone crept towards the spot where we were sleeping.’

‘Will you tell Master Langelee about me?’ asked Luneday, when Michael, who had had enough of Withersfield, stood to leave. ‘I like the sound of this fine philosopher who knows his pigs.’

‘I certainly shall,’ promised the monk. It sounded like a threat. ‘We hope to finish our business today and be home by this evening, so he will know all about you by tonight.’

‘Ah, yes, your business,’ said Margery. ‘You did not explain it last night. Will you tell us now?’

‘Willingly,’ replied Michael. Bartholomew wondered why she was so keen to know – she had asked several times for details. ‘We are here to reassess agreements made between our College and three Suffolk traders. Wynewyk negotiated them, but he is dead, so they are invalid.’

Bartholomew watched Luneday intently, to see what he would make of this claim, but the lord of the manor gave nothing away.

‘How curious,’ Luneday said. ‘I assumed you were here about the chantry.’

‘Alneston Chantry,’ elaborated William, when the monk regarded Luneday blankly. He sighed when his ‘explanation’ failed to illuminate the matter. ‘You must know what we are talking about.’

‘Well, I do not,’ said Michael irritably.

‘Really?’ asked Luneday. ‘You are not here to challenge d’Audley’s hold on it? We heard a Cambridge College was contesting his tenure – allegedly one called King’s Hall, but who trusts rumours? – and I assumed that was why you made this long and arduous journey.’

‘We know nothing of any chantry,’ said Michael. He started to leave, but then turned when he reached the door. ‘And you are sure Wynewyk never came to do business with you, Master Luneday? I am sure he described your magnificent chimney when he returned home.’

‘If he mentioned my chimney, then he admired it from afar, because I have never met him.’

Michael persisted. ‘He was a small fellow, neat and clean. And he may have used one of his other names when he introduced himself. It sounds odd, I know, but it was a habit of his.’

‘I have never met anyone from Cambridge,’ said Luneday. He started to gather his belongings – cloak, hat, dagger and a heavy belt to carry it on – in readiness for an expedition outdoors. ‘Visit me again, if you are interested in pigs. They are all for sale with the exception of Lizzie.’

Having been dismissed, Bartholomew and Michael followed Luneday outside. A number of folk milled around the barn, and Bartholomew paused to peer inside it. William was right: it looked as though a skirmish had taken place. Hay had been scattered, and several farming implements lay on the ground. There was, however, no sign that blood had been spilled. Perhaps Margery was right, and Neubold had made a mess for spite. It was not the sort of behaviour usually associated with priests, but Neubold had not seemed like a man particularly devoted to his vocation.

‘This is a dismal start,’ said Michael, as they rode away. ‘I was not expecting Luneday to hand us five marks with a smile and a blessing, but I hoped our questions would elicit some answers. We learned nothing from our night in Withersfield, except for the fact that we need to be on our guard.’

‘Perhaps that is your answer,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘We were attacked because Luneday does have our money and he is not keen on giving it back.’

Michael nodded slowly. ‘I cannot escape the feeling that there is something very odd and very dangerous going on here. And that it most definitely involves Michaelhouse’s thirty marks.’

Blue patches were showing through the clouds by the time the deputation from Cambridge left Withersfield. They rode along a pleasant track that eventually descended into a wide, shallow valley. A stream meandered across water meadows that were fringed by ancient oaks. Tesdale was unusually quiet, and tearfully admitted to dreaming about Wynewyk the previous night – that he was still alive, and had asked him to mind his classes while he went to the castle.

‘Wynewyk would not have asked you to help,’ scoffed Risleye, before Bartholomew could say it was normal to dream about the recently dead. ‘He would have hired his own students.’

‘You are wrong,’ declared Valence. ‘He knew Tesdale and I were short of money, so he often passed small tasks our way. He was a good man, and I wish he had not died. He was too young.’

‘It is something you will have to get used to, if you are going to be a physician,’ said Risleye unfeelingly. ‘Death will be our constant companion once we are qualified.’

Bartholomew was unsettled by the bleak remark. ‘It becomes easier with time,’ he said kindly to the other two, although he did not add that it was not by much. ‘The secret is to concentrate on helping the patient, rather than railing against matters over which you have no control.’

‘I should have stopped him from laughing so heartily,’ said Tesdale miserably. ‘Or warned him that eating four slices of almond cake was too much.’

Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. ‘He had four pieces? That is a lot.’

‘Especially for a man who tended to cough and gasp when he swallowed nuts,’ said Valence. ‘He must have been so amused by the debate that he did not realise what he was doing. He had his own piece, then he devoured the three that Thelnetham set aside for himself, Clippesby and Michael.’

‘Thelnetham put them close to Wynewyk deliberately,’ asserted Risleye. ‘I saw him. He knew Wynewyk had wolfed his own, and it was a taunt – that others still had theirs to enjoy.’

‘Thelnetham is not like that,’ cried Valence. ‘What is wrong with you?’

‘Actually, Thelnetham is like that,’ countered Tesdale. ‘He can be very cruel. Well, he is a lawyer, so what do you expect?’

While he and Risleye continued to attack the Gilbertine, and Valence struggled to defend him, Bartholomew considered what had been said about Wynewyk. His colleague had always been careful about avoiding nuts. Was it significant that he had thrown caution to the wind at the exact same time that Langelee had revealed the inconsistencies in the accounts? Could Wynewyk really have forced himself to eat four slices of cake, in the full knowledge of what would happen to him? Bartholomew rubbed his eyes. Why had Wynewyk not come to him for help? He was sure they could have worked together to devise a solution to whatever predicament he had embroiled himself in.

He realised with a guilty start that he was allowing Michael’s convictions to influence him – that he was starting to believe Wynewyk had done something wrong. Of course, it was not unreasonable, because the evidence was certainly mounting up. But then an image of Wynewyk’s face swam into his mind, and he felt ashamed for doubting the man who had been his friend.

‘Ignore them, Matt,’ said Michael, assuming the physician’s unhappy expression was a result of the increasingly acrimonious squabble that was taking place between the students. ‘One will kill the others soon, and then you will not have to intervene in their childish spats.’

‘Do not say such things,’ snapped Bartholomew. He saw Michael’s startled look, and relented. ‘I am sorry, Brother, but death in Michaelhouse is not a joke. Wynewyk’s is hard enough to cope with.’

‘Then we shall talk about something else. Who do you think attacked us last night?’

Bartholomew was not sure this was a topic he would have chosen to cheer a despondent colleague, but it was better than thinking about Wynewyk.

‘Neubold?’ he suggested. ‘He escaped, then decided to avenge himself on the men who saw him incarcerated in the first place?’

‘I doubt it,’ said Michael. ‘He was annoyed with us, but not murderously so. Besides, I doubt he is man enough to invade the home of his enemy and spit six men in their beds.’

Bartholomew listed his other suspects. ‘Luneday was wearing a strange combination of nightshift and boots when he came to see what was wrong, while Margery’s midnight jaunt to visit children was odd, to say the least. And she was suspiciously determined to discover the purpose of our visit.’

‘But she said the only way out of the manor house was through the hall. And she and Luneday came from upstairs when we raised the alarm. Our would-be killer had fled outside at that point.’

‘She said it was the only exit,’ replied Bartholomew with a shrug. ‘Why should we believe her? And I am not sure what to make of William the steward, either, or those vengeful villagers. As far as I am concerned, any of them could have come after us with a sharp knife.’

Michael rubbed his chin. ‘Meanwhile, Luneday denies knowing Wynewyk, but I am not sure he is telling the truth. And five marks is a lot of money.’

‘It is,’ agreed Cynric. Neither scholar had known he was listening, and his voice made them jump. ‘There are those who would kill an entire village for less.’

‘Then let us hope none of them live in Haverhill,’ said Michael feelingly.

‘What shall we do first?’ asked Michael, when they had ridden in silence for a while. ‘Go to see Elyan, who was paid eighteen marks for coal? Visit d’Audley, who was paid seven marks for timber? Or simply stroll into Haverhill and see what might be learned by chatting to the locals?’

‘The latter,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘You had no success dangling Wynewyk’s name in front of Luneday, so there is no reason to think these other two lordlings will be any different.’

‘What are those?’ asked Michael suddenly, pointing to several mounds of soil in the distance. ‘They look like earthworks – the kind thrown up around a castle to act as additional defences.’

‘It must be the colliery,’ replied Cynric. ‘Elyan sells coal in Cambridge, do not forget.’

‘I cannot imagine there is coal here,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘It is not the right kind of landscape, for a start, and there is no sign of black dust in the ground.’

‘But he must get it from somewhere,’ Michael pointed out. ‘And I am sure I can see a dark streak in the exposed rock – it is next to that little hut.’

‘You are right,’ said Cynric, standing in his stirrups for a better view. ‘I can see two men with pickaxes, and about six others lounging around talking to each other. It must be the mine.’

Bartholomew did not argue, but he remained sceptical: he had been in coal country, and it was different from west Suffolk. But they had reached the outskirts of Haverhill, and he soon forgot minerals as he looked with interest at the houses they passed. Most were large, well-built and handsome, and it seemed there was money in the area. The main road led to a vast triangle of open land in the village’s centre, which appeared to be a market. It was overlooked by a large church. Nearby was a ramshackle little building with a bell-cote. A second street wound up a hill, on which stood a smaller church and another cluster of cottages.

‘The place on the rise must be the Upper Church,’ said Bartholomew, recalling what William had told them the previous day. ‘Neubold’s parish. And that half-derelict place below must be the Alneston Chantry – which Luneday thought we were going to try to wrest from d’Audley.’

‘Well, it is all very pretty,’ said Michael, barely looking to where the physician was pointing. ‘But we are not here to admire the scenery: we are here to retrieve our money. What is this?’

His progress was impeded by a fence that stretched across the road. There was a gate in the middle, but it was closed. As his horse skittered about in confusion, a small, well-dressed man emerged from a pleasant little cottage to one side.

‘I am Gatekeeper Folyat,’ he announced without inflection, as if he recited the words many times a day. ‘State your intentions and purpose.’

‘Folyat?’ asked Michael, raising his eyebrows. ‘There is a name I have heard before. Are you the Gatekeeper Folyat who was once wed to Margery of Withersfield?’

Folyat’s eyes narrowed. ‘No. I am the Gatekeeper Folyat who is wed to Margery. And she is not of Withersfield, but of Haverhill. She thinks our union will be annulled one day, so she can marry that adulterous Luneday, but it will be over my dead body. However, my marital status is none of your concern. I asked what you wanted in our village.’

‘Jugs,’ lied Michael. ‘We may be interested in purchasing some.’

‘Three pennies, then,’ said Folyat. ‘Or a chicken. I have no strong feelings one way or the other, so do not trouble yourselves on my account.’

‘But we intend to spend money here,’ objected Michael. ‘Why should we pay for the privilege?’

‘Because everyone else does,’ replied Folyat. ‘Roads are expensive to maintain, so why should you ride about on them without donating something towards their upkeep?’

‘No wonder this is a wealthy place,’ muttered Michael resentfully. He rummaged for the requisite number of pennies. ‘You will have to accept coins, I am afraid – I left my poultry at home.’

Folyat counted the money. ‘Are you only interested in jugs or do you have other business? If yes, I may be able to point you in the right direction, especially if you have come to arrange a slaughter.’

‘A slaughter?’ echoed Michael warily, eyes narrowed.

‘By our butchers,’ explained Folyat. ‘They are famous for taking a herd of cattle and rendering it down into easily portable lumps.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Michael. ‘We had better remember that.’ He cleared his throat and spoke a little more loudly. ‘We may also buy some fuel – coal or wood.’

‘You are interested in Elyan’s mine, are you? Did you see it as you rode in? The seam was only discovered in the summer, but Elyan believes it will make him very wealthy, even though it is small. Still, a commodity is a commodity, as my wife always likes to say.’

Without conscious thought, Bartholomew and Michael headed for the nearer of the two churches – the large one in the marketplace that Folyat told them was dedicated to St Mary the Virgin. Travellers were expected to give thanks when they arrived safely at their destination, so it was not an unusual thing to be doing. But more pertinent to Michaelhouse’s thirty marks was the possibility that a garrulous priest might be there, or the kind of parishioner who liked to gossip. It would not be the first time the scholars had gleaned important information from places of worship.

As they drew closer, they saw St Mary’s was being treated to some building work. A new three-storey tower had been raised, while the nave and chancel were in the process of being beautified. The end result promised to be magnificent – imposing as well as elegant. Bartholomew glanced at the Upper Church in the distance, and wondered how long it would survive once St Mary’s had been completed. The upkeep of such edifices was costly, and looking after two in one village – plus a chantry chapel – would be financially demanding.

Michael pushed open the door and stepped inside, leaving the students to mind the horses. Cynric stayed with them, glancing around uneasily, as if he expected their nocturnal attacker to try his hand a second time. Bartholomew followed the monk, admiring the fine stained glass in the windows and the ornate altar rail. He started to remark on them, but Michael was never very interested in such matters, and began to stride purposefully towards the high altar, where a friar could be seen kneeling.

‘A Benedictine,’ said the priest, standing as the visitors approached. ‘We do not see those very often, despite the fact that one of their greatest abbeys lies not twenty miles away, in St Edmundsbury.’

The speaker was a Dominican, dressed in a spotless habit. He was more closely shaven than most, with curly grey hair and a perfectly clipped tonsure. He exuded a sense of quiet competence.

‘Actually, we are from Cambridge,’ said Michael. ‘The place with the University.’

‘I have heard of it,’ replied the Dominican dryly. ‘It has a reputation for brawls, smelly streets and producing exceptionally cunning lawyers. I am John de Hilton, by the way. May I ask what brings scholars to my humble parish?’

‘It is not humble,’ countered Michael. ‘It is wealthy – large houses, money poured into rebuilding its church, a vast market, efficient slaughterhouses … Haverhill has it all.’

‘It suits my modest needs.’ Hilton smiled, revealing long brown teeth. ‘And when my church is finished, it will be one of the finest in Suffolk. What more could a priest want?’

‘A princely living?’ suggested Michael, making it clear he would not be satisfied with what the village had to offer. ‘Rich parishioners who pay to have documents written? Intriguing confessions?’

Hilton laughed. ‘I hear my share of intriguing confessions, I assure you. Haverhill is at loggerheads with its Withersfield neighbours, you see, and I am always being told of some plot to best the enemy. Some are extremely inventive.’

‘Why do they dislike each other?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

Hilton shrugged. ‘No one remembers exactly how it all started. But these days, we are jealous of Withersfield’s pigs, while they covet our jugs and slaughterhouses.’

‘It sounds petty,’ said Bartholomew, thinking it a shame that two such prosperous communities should waste their energies so.

‘It is petty,’ agreed Hilton. ‘I encourage the lords of the manor – Luneday in Withersfield, and Elyan and d’Audley here – to lead by example and resolve their differences, but they are worse than their people. Elyan flaunts his new mine, d’Audley likes to spread sly rumours about Withersfield, while Luneday parades Lizzie in a way that is sure to antagonise.’

‘I have only been here a few hours, but I have already witnessed some shocking behaviour,’ said Michael, aiming to encourage more confidences. ‘Withersfield’s master has purloined the wife of Haverhill’s gatekeeper, while the Upper Church’s priest was caught trying to steal Luneday’s sow.’

Hilton’s expression was unreadable, and Bartholomew wondered whether everyone in west Suffolk aimed to be inscrutable. ‘Neubold has a talent for secular business, although I had thought he confined himself to the law. I did not realise he had graduated to pig rustling.’

‘Can I assume that while Neubold clerks for Elyan, you clerk for d’Audley?’ asked Michael. ‘Margery told us you were working on some deeds together when she saw the pair of you last night.’

‘I clerk for anyone who needs a scribe or basic legal advice,’ replied Hilton. His tone was a little chilly. ‘I do not have the same relationship with d’Audley that Neubold enjoys with Elyan.’

‘And what relationship is that?’

‘Neubold and I are priests,’ said Hilton stiffly. ‘We are not supposed to neglect our sacred duties for secular ones that pay. Elyan should not make so many demands on Neubold’s time – sending him on missions to distant towns, giving him piles of documents to interpret. It is not right.’

‘I quite agree. Incidentally, Margery also told us that Neubold’s brother stole your spare habit.’

Hilton raised his eyebrows. ‘Did she? What a curious tale to relate to strangers! But I did not begrudge it to him – Carbo is a troubled soul, and I only hope it brings him some peace.’

‘Unfortunately, it did not,’ said Michael quietly. ‘He is dead.’

Hilton gaped at him, then crossed himself. ‘Poor Carbo! The news is a shock, but not a surprise. He was barely rational most days. He used to be decent and staid, quite unlike his rakish brother, and we were all saddened by his sudden decline.’

‘What happened to him?’ asked Bartholomew, with the interest of a professional.

Hilton shook his head. ‘We are not sure. He was just like you and me two years ago, but then he went missing for several months. When he returned, he was a changed man. It was rather horrible, actually. People believe grief for his mother turned his mind.’

‘Was there an accident?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or was he attacked?’

Hilton frowned. ‘Not that I have heard. Why?’

‘There is a scar on his head, suggesting a serious injury. Perhaps that accounts for the time he was missing – and why he was different when he returned.’

Hilton regarded him uneasily. ‘He never mentioned anything about being wounded. But then he never said anything about the time he was away. Perhaps you are right, although I am appalled to hear it – appalled that whoever cared for him did not think to come and offer us an explanation. And appalled that he did not come to me for help.’

‘Was he ever violent?’ asked Michael hopefully. ‘Inclined to attack people for no reason?’

‘Not to my knowledge. How did he die?’

‘In a brawl,’ replied Michael. ‘Someone stands charged with his murder, but I do not think justice will be served if this man is hanged for the crime.’

‘I disagree. Carbo needed kindness and understanding, not people fighting him. His killer should be ashamed of himself for picking such a vulnerable victim.’

‘Can you tell us anything else about Carbo?’ asked Bartholomew, before Michael could argue.

Hilton shook his head slowly. ‘Not really. He was Luneday’s steward, but he became incapable of performing his duties, and Luneday was forced to dismiss him. Afterwards, he took to wandering aimlessly about the parish. He found coal on Elyan Manor in August, but the discovery did nothing to improve his health; on the contrary, it seemed to make him more lunatic than ever.’

‘He was obsessed with coal when we met him,’ said Bartholomew.

Hilton nodded. ‘He was obsessed – he even changed his name for it. Unfortunately – but inevitably, I suppose – he became a scapegoat for everything that went wrong in the area. Even a Clare villain – a fellow named Osa Gosse – claimed Carbo stole from him, which is a joke, because not even Carbo was that deranged.’

‘We know Gosse,’ said Michael. ‘What did he say Carbo took?’

‘A sack, although Gosse refused to say what was in it. Then there was a rumour that Carbo had stabbed a man at Elyan’s mine, but I did not believe that, either.’

‘Why not?’ asked Michael, exchanging a glance with Bartholomew. If Carbo had killed before, then Shropham was more likely to be pardoned.

‘Because I felt it was a lie invented by those who are unsettled by ailments of the mind – an excuse to ostracise him, in other words. Once the tale was out, no one was willing to give him kitchen scraps or let him sleep in their barn. The poor man was half starved when I last saw him.’

‘He died on Saturday, and it is now Thursday,’ said Michael. ‘And he had been in Cambridge for several more days before he was knifed. Has no one been concerned by his absence?’

‘Not really – he often disappeared. So he went to Cambridge, did he? Perhaps he followed Neubold there, in the misguided belief that his brother would help him. Poor Carbo! But now you must excuse me, because I am needed.’

Bartholomew and Michael watched him walk to where one of his parishioners was jumping from foot to foot in obvious agitation. He led the man to a quiet corner, where the penitent knelt and began a confession that had Hilton’s jaw dropping in astonishment. Bartholomew supposed it was one of the ‘intriguing’ ones the priest had said he heard from time to time.

‘At least we can safely say Shropham killed no priest,’ said Michael, turning away. ‘That will help his case. Carbo must have come at him in a fit of madness, and he did no more than defend himself.’

‘Then why does he not say so? He has been given every opportunity.’

‘Perhaps he felt guilty at the notion of dispatching a friar,’ suggested Michael. ‘And he sees his fate as punishment for having struck down one of God’s own.’

‘If Carbo came at him in a spate of madness, then he is unlikely to have seen him as one of “God’s own”. He is not stupid, Brother.’

‘No,’ said Michael with a sigh. ‘But let us go and talk to Elyan and d’Audley before any more of the day is lost. I want to be in my own bed tonight, where no one will try to spear me while I sleep.’

As Bartholomew and Michael left St Mary’s, Hilton interrupted his parishioner’s litany of sins just long enough to inform them that Elyan and d’Audley could usually be found in the marketplace of a morning. Once outside, the physician looked for his book-bearer, but Cynric had used the time to identify the village’s best tavern, and had taken the students there to listen to more of his war stories; the horses had been stabled. Satisfied that his companions were warm and safe, he turned to Michael.

‘I would not mind sitting in a cosy alehouse,’ grumbled Michael, before the physician could ask which lord they should tackle first. ‘It is cold out here, and I am daunted by the task Langelee has set us. Short of demanding the money outright, I cannot see how we will reclaim our thirty marks.’

‘The Senior Proctor will think of a way,’ said Bartholomew encouragingly.

Michael did not look convinced, but turned his attention to the marketplace. It was busy, and apparently attracted people from a large hinterland, as well as the residents of Haverhill. It had a sizeable section dedicated to meat, and the stink of blood and hot entrails was thick in the air. Nearby were rows of glistening river fish, while other stalls hawked jugs, thread, cloth, pots, candles, poultry, furniture and sacks of flour. It was noisy, colourful and lively, and people were exchanging cheerful greetings at the top of their voices, competing with the lowing of cattle and the honks of geese.

‘I did not take to Hilton,’ said Michael, after a search told them that neither Suffolk lordling was there. ‘He said he did not care about Carbo stealing his habit, but I would have been livid. And he was a little too nice for my liking. There he is, standing by the cheese shop. Shall we demand to know why he told us to waste time here, when Elyan and d’Audley are nowhere in sight?’

‘I said they can usually be found in the marketplace of a morning,’ corrected Hilton pedantically, when Michael put his question. ‘However, Elyan spends hours up at his mine these days, while d’Audley needs to supervise the cutting of timber from his woods. They may come today, but they may not.’

‘I see,’ said Michael irritably. ‘It is a pity you could not have been more specific sooner. Then we would not have squandered half the day dawdling around slaughterhouses and pottery emporiums.’

‘Come, Brother,’ said Hilton reproachfully. ‘It was hardly “half the day”, and visiting their homes would have done you no good, either – they are almost certain to be out. But why do you want to see Elyan? I imagine you are here to discuss the Alneston Chantry with d’Audley – he said a deputation might arrive from Cambridge soon – but what does Elyan have to do with it?’

‘Actually, it is King’s Hall that is interested in the chantry,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘We are from Michaelhouse, which is a totally separate foundation.’

Hilton frowned in puzzlement. ‘Then why are you here? We do sell pottery and meat to the University, but they always send servants to negotiate. Scholars do not deign to come themselves.’

‘No?’ pounced Michael. ‘One of our colleagues did. His name was Wynewyk, and he did business with d’Audley for wood, with Elyan for coal, and with Luneday for pigs.’

‘He bought coal?’ asked Hilton, startled. ‘But Elyan’s mine is not producing yet. He does import a small amount from Ipswich, but it is barely enough to satisfy local demands, and I am amazed that he should have hawked some to your colleague. What did you say his name was again?’

‘Wynewyk,’ replied Michael. ‘Pleasant face, slight build, gentle manners.’

‘He does not sound familiar,’ said Hilton, after appearing to give the matter some careful reflection. ‘But he may have gone directly to Elyan Manor, in order to avoid paying Folyat’s toll.’

‘What about the timber?’ asked Michael. ‘Are you surprised he did business with d’Audley, too?’

‘A little,’ admitted Hilton. ‘I thought he restricted himself to customers from Suffolk.’

‘And pigs from Withersfield?’ asked Bartholomew.

Hilton smiled. ‘That does not surprise me. Folk travel miles for Luneday’s pork, and your Wynewyk is a discerning fellow if he stocked his larders with Withersfield fare. But your ire with me was wholly unnecessary, Brother, because here come Elyan and d’Audley now. They must have been out hunting.’

The two scholars turned at the sudden rattle of hoofs. Elyan was at the head of the cavalcade, a dead deer slung over his saddle. He had apparently decided that black suited him, because every item of his elegant finery was that colour. It was a different outfit to the one he had worn in Cambridge, suggesting he had already invested in a considerable wardrobe of mourning apparel. He dismounted and headed straight for a stall that sold cloth, fingering the more expensive wares appreciatively. The owner hurried to join him, and they were soon deep in discussion.

‘He likes clothes,’ explained Hilton, rather unnecessarily. ‘Barely a week goes by without him ordering some new garment.’

As if to prove him right, Elyan held a length of worsted to his chest, admiring the way it fell towards his feet.

Lady Agnys had also ridden in with the horsemen. Her equestrian skills were even worse than Bartholomew’s, and she had been jostled about so much that her veil had come loose and strands of white hair flapped around her face. As her grandson’s attention was on the cloth, she was obliged to wait for someone else to help her dismount. With a sigh of surly resignation, d’Audley stepped forward, all scrawny neck and ridiculously thin legs. He staggered when she launched herself into his arms, and the manoeuvre deprived her of a veil and him of a hat.

‘I am surprised d’Audley rides in company with Lady Agnys,’ said Bartholomew to Hilton. ‘When I saw them together in Cambridge, she was not very polite to him.’

Hilton grimaced. ‘She has a blunt tongue, and makes no bones about the fact that she cannot abide d’Audley. Did you see them when they went to collect poor Joan? That was a bad business, especially given that Joan was carrying Elyan’s heir. We had all but given up hope in that quarter, and were surprised when she became pregnant. Elyan was delighted, of course.’

‘Of course,’ said Bartholomew. But the physician in him was curious. ‘It is unusual for a woman of Joan’s mature years to conceive for the first time. Did she–’

‘She prayed to God,’ interrupted Hilton, rather sharply, as if he imagined Bartholomew was going to suggest something untoward. ‘The Almighty can make a twenty-year union fertile, and Joan was a good and virtuous lady. God rewarded her by granting her a child.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, thoughts whirling. It had not occurred to him that the reason for Joan’s unexpected pregnancy was that she had gone outside her barren marriage, but the priest’s defensive answer made him wonder. And if that were true, then perhaps Edith was right to be suspicious of Joan’s death. After all, no husband wanted another man’s brat to inherit his estates.

Bartholomew was unsure what reception he would receive from Elyan, since their first encounter had been over the body of his wife, but his concerns were unfounded. Neither Elyan nor d’Audley recognised him, partly because it had been dim inside St Mary the Great, partly because they had not paid much attention to him, and partly because he was no longer wearing academic garb. Agnys was more observant, though, and smiled warily when Hilton brought the scholars to be introduced.

‘Michaelhouse,’ mused Elyan, rather more interested in the worsted. ‘Is that the big place overlooking the river? The only time I ever visited Cambridge was to collect the corpse of my poor wife, and I was so upset then that I paid scant heed to my surroundings.’

‘We heard about Joan,’ said Michael sympathetically. ‘Please accept our condolences.’

‘Someone gave her pennyroyal,’ Elyan went on bitterly, looking at him for the first time. ‘And as she was with child, it killed her. In other words, she was murdered.’

‘She was not murdered, Henry,’ countered Agnys firmly. ‘She was a dear, kind soul, loved by all.’

‘True,’ agreed Elyan unhappily. ‘She did not have an enemy in the world. However, I do, and it is my contention that they attacked me through her.’

‘What enemies?’ asked Michael.

‘He is lord of a profitable manor,’ said d’Audley, before Elyan could reply for himself. ‘So naturally his less wealthy neighbours are jealous of him. Luneday will do anything–’

‘Luneday did not kill Joan,’ interrupted Agnys, shooting him a long-suffering glare that indicated it was not the first time he had aired his suspicions. ‘I know we have had our differences with him, but he is not that sort of man. Besides, he was at home in Withersfield when Joan died.’

‘Then he hired someone,’ d’Audley flashed back. ‘Carbo, for example. Did you know Carbo was wandering around Cambridge when Joan was there?’

‘So you have said before,’ said Agnys. ‘But Luneday would not have hired Carbo for such a task, because the poor man cannot be trusted to carry it out. And she was not murdered, anyway. It was an accident, as I keep telling you.’

‘I do not want to talk about it,’ said Elyan, handing the cloth to the stall-owner, as if it no longer gave him pleasure. ‘Let us discuss something else instead. If you are from Cambridge, then you must be acquainted with Warden Powys and his colleague Paxtone. I have never met them, but my priest Neubold tells me they are fine, upstanding gentlemen.’

‘Then he is wrong,’ muttered d’Audley. ‘They are sly and dishonest, and I hate the lot of them.’

‘King’s Hall is trying to deprive him of his chantry,’ explained Agnys, when Bartholomew and Michael exchanged puzzled glances. ‘But they have always dealt decently with us.’

‘D’Audley’s bad experiences derive from the fact that he uses Hilton to negotiate,’ added Elyan. ‘He should employ Neubold instead, because he is slippery. Hilton is far too honest.’

Agnys’s glower moved from d’Audley to her grandson. ‘I cannot believe you still deal with that vile man – not after he abandoned Joan, just to hare home and gloat over some transaction he had brought about. I want nothing more to do with him.’

‘I buy his legal skills,’ said Elyan. ‘That does not mean I like him. Indeed, I find him loathsome, but he is good at his job – unlike Hilton, whose integrity will see d’Audley lose his chantry.’

‘Neubold will not be more cunning than the University’s clerks,’ declared Agnys. ‘They will see through his amateur tricks in an instant. Hilton has a far better legal mind.’

‘I hope you are right,’ said d’Audley uneasily. ‘Because I would hate to lose the place.’

Bartholomew studied the chantry chapel. It was small and mean, and did not look like an asset worth fighting over. ‘Does it belong to an ancestor?’ he asked politely.

‘It was built by a fellow named Alneston,’ replied d’Audley, ‘which is why it is called the Alneston Chantry, I suppose. However, I can tell you nothing else about him, other than that he died years ago and bequeathed seven fields – the rent earned from them pays for the services of a priest to pray for his soul.’

‘A shilling,’ murmured Hilton. ‘I am paid a shilling for fifty masses a year. The rest goes–’

‘The rest goes towards the upkeep of the building,’ interrupted d’Audley, although it was obvious to anyone looking at it that the funds had been diverted – and for a considerable period of time. ‘It has been under the stewardship of my family for generations, and I refuse to let some grasping College reap the benefits … I mean, assume the responsibility.’

‘I have been looking through old deeds, to see whether King’s Hall has any right to challenge his possession,’ said Hilton to Bartholomew and Michael. ‘Unfortunately, many are missing, and it is difficult to tell who holds legal title to what.’

‘I hold legal title,’ stated d’Audley firmly. ‘And I have the documents to prove it.’

‘Unfortunately, you do not,’ said Hilton. ‘But the chantry ownership is of no interest to our visitors, and we are wrong to bore them with it.’

‘On the contrary,’ said Michael smoothly. ‘We find it fascinating. Our colleague Wynewyk mentioned none of this when he told us of his visits here.’

For the first time since arriving in Suffolk, Wynewyk’s name provoked a reaction other than a blank stare. D’Audley’s eyes widened, and he shut an uneasy glance towards Elyan, but his neighbour’s expression was bland, and Bartholomew could not tell if he was party to whatever had startled d’Audley.

‘Who is Wynewyk?’ asked Agnys.

‘No one,’ replied d’Audley with a brittle smile. ‘I have never heard of him.’

‘The day is wearing on,’ said Elyan, glancing up at the sky. He gave the impression that he was bored with the scholars from Cambridge, and their questions and remarks. ‘It is time I inspected my mine.’

Agnys sighed disapprovingly. ‘You visit that place far too often, Henry, and it is beginning to impinge on more important estate business. It is not–’

‘There is nothing more important,’ declared Elyan, springing lithely into his saddle. He patted his clothes into place. ‘Are you coming, grandmother? Or shall I allow d’Audley to escort you home?’

Neither Agnys nor their neighbour seemed very keen on that proposition. The old lady headed for her horse, while d’Audley suddenly developed an intense interest in worsted.

Gallantly, Hilton stepped forward to help Agnys mount, and, seeing the priest might be struggling for some time unless someone else lent a hand, Bartholomew went to join him. Sensing the presence of two men who were uneasy in its company, the horse began to misbehave. It snickered and pranced, and they might have been there all day, if Michael had not taken charge.

‘Hurry up, Hilton,’ ordered Elyan irritably. ‘I have need of your services today, because Neubold is nowhere to be found. Come with me to the mine, and we shall talk on the way.’

He spurred his horse forward, flicking his fingers as he did so, to indicate Hilton was to trot along at his side. Agnys followed more sedately. D’Audley abandoned the worsted and started to walk in the opposite direction, but found his path blocked by Michael.

‘Tell me about Wynewyk,’ said the monk pleasantly. ‘Your reaction to his name made it obvious you do know him, so please do not claim otherwise. Could it be connected to timber, at all?’

‘Timber?’ echoed d’Audley in a squeak. ‘Why should I know him in connection with timber?’

‘Because he bought some from you. It cost him seven marks, although our woodsheds remain curiously empty.’

‘Do they?’ D’Audley swallowed uneasily. ‘I cannot imagine why you should think–’

‘My colleague and I have come to reclaim the money, so how will you pay? Cash or jewels?’

‘I am not paying anything,’ declared d’Audley, alarmed. ‘I cannot imagine why Wynewyk said he gave me seven marks, for he did no such thing. You cannot prove otherwise, so leave me be.’

He spun on his heel and attempted to stalk away, but found his path blocked by Bartholomew.

‘How long have you known Wynewyk?’ the physician asked quietly.

D’Audley sighed angrily when he saw there was no escape – and that the scholars were not going to be fobbed off with lies. ‘Since the summer. He visited Withersfield, too, although why he sullied his feet by going there is beyond my understanding.’

‘Why did Luneday deny knowing him, then?’ demanded Michael.

‘Probably because the man cannot open his mouth without lying,’ spat d’Audley. ‘He is a murderous villain, who should be hanged for what he did to poor Joan.’

‘And what about Elyan?’ asked Michael, more interested in Michaelhouse’s money than d’Audley’s wild theories. ‘Why did he leave so suddenly when we mentioned Wynewyk’s name?’

‘He did not leave suddenly – he is just a busy man,’ replied d’Audley. ‘But Wynewyk did not give us money for timber, coal or anything else. And I am a busy man, too, so you must excuse–’

‘How do you know coal is one of the commodities Wynewyk purchased?’ pounced Michael.

D’Audley swallowed uneasily, and he looked furtive. ‘It was a guess. Coal is one of Haverhill’s most lucrative exports.’

‘It is not,’ retorted Michael. ‘Elyan sells a small amount locally, but his mine has not yet started producing. So you are not being entirely truthful with us, and–’

He turned quickly at a sudden commotion at the far end of the market. Hilton was running towards the Alneston Chantry, where a crowd had gathered. Gatekeeper Folyat was busily darting here and there, whispering in people’s ears. When he saw d’Audley with Bartholomew and Michael, Folyat raced towards them.

‘It is Neubold,’ he gasped, breathless from his exertions. ‘He has hanged himself in the chapel.’