A Vein Of Deceit: The Fifteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Gregory, Susanna

  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 lit
hely 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.’

  CHAPTER 8

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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