‘So now we have a second Michaelhouse death to investigate,’ he concluded, shivering as he huddled next to the fire. There was a chill inside him that had nothing to do with the cold. ‘And this one is certainly murder. I am still not sure why Wynewyk died, but Kelyng did not stab himself.’
The monk’s face was pale in the flickering light. ‘I do not suppose the grave contained any evidence of who might have done this dreadful thing? An identifiable knife, perhaps?’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Cynric thinks Wynewyk did it. I suppose poor Wynewyk will be blamed for anything untoward that happens now.’
‘Poor Wynewyk has only himself to blame,’ Michael said, placing sarcastic emphasis on the first word. ‘No one forced him to steal from us – or try to kill our Master.’
‘I wish we had not brought Valence, Risleye and Tesdale with us,’ said Bartholomew, changing the subject before they quarrelled. ‘I am taking them home this morning.’
‘Give me one more day.’ Michael spread his hands in a shrug when the physician started to object to the delay. ‘I am eager to leave, too – it is already Friday, and I need to prepare for Monday’s Blood Relic debate. But we cannot, not until we know what is going on.’
‘You think you can resolve all your mysteries in a day?’ Bartholomew sincerely doubted it.
‘I can try,’ said Michael quietly. ‘I am going to dawn mass in Hilton’s church. Are you coming?’
Bartholomew started to say he had no clothes, but he had reckoned without Cynric, who arrived with a new tunic, mended leggings and a cloak that had been brushed clean. It was still damp, but at least it did not look as if its owner had been grubbing about in graves. And as for the tunic, Bartholomew did not want to know how Cynric had come by it, afraid it might have been on someone’s washing line. Fortunately, it was nondescript homespun, indistinguishable from virtually everyone else’s, so its hapless owner was unlikely to challenge him over it. He accepted it grudgingly, telling himself he would arrange for its return later, when his own was dry.
Most of Haverhill was present for the morning mass at St Mary the Virgin – parishioners from the Upper Church were obliged to make use of Hilton’s services, now Neubold was unavailable. Elyan stood at the front, wearing yet another set of fine black clothes, while his grandmother sat in a great throne next to him; d’Audley hovered behind them like a malevolent bird of prey.
Bartholomew and Michael found a place at the back, keeping to the shadows so no one would notice them. It was just as well, because the students were deeply embroiled in a hissing debate about whether the Stanton Cups were sufficiently heavy to brain someone with.
‘Of course they are,’ asserted Risleye confidently. ‘Especially the base.’
‘But you would have to use a lot of force,’ argued Tesdale. ‘Or batter your victim multiple times. It would take a good deal of hard work.’ He shuddered, although Bartholomew thought it was the notion of physical labour that repelled him, not the mess such an attack would make of a head.
‘Tesdale is right,’ said Valence. ‘You could not guarantee a clean kill with either of those chalices, so it would be more humane to employ something else. A large stone would—’
‘Stop,’ ordered Bartholomew, though there was no real censure in his voice. He found himself strangely comforted by their familiar sparring after what he had seen of Kelyng the night before. ‘What sort of subject is that to be airing in a church?’
‘It is an academic exercise,’ said Risleye, stung by the reprimand. ‘We are honing our minds.’
‘Then do it another time, not during mass,’ snapped Michael.
He turned towards the altar and pressed his hands together, indicating the discussion was over. He did not close his eyes, though, and Bartholomew could tell by his distant expression that his thoughts were no more on the divine office than were the students’. He was thinking about the mysteries that confronted them, and how to find answers before they left for Cambridge the following day.
When the service was over, most of the congregation left in a rush, eager to be about their daily business. The students and Cynric went, too, because, for some inexplicable reason, Risleye wanted to show them a forge that produced weapons. Others lingered, though: Hilton was reporting the results of his investigation to Agnys and Elyan, while d’Audley and Gatekeeper Folyat loitered nearby, pretending to talk to each other, but it was clear their intention was to eavesdrop. Michael decided to do likewise. He edged towards the priest, Bartholomew in tow.
‘I am not sure how to proceed,’ Hilton was saying unhappily. ‘Neubold was certainly murdered—’
‘I thought I told you to decide it was suicide,’ snapped Elyan irritably.
‘How can he find it was suicide, when it is a clear case of unlawful killing?’ demanded d’Audley, abandoning Folyat and stepping forward to say his piece. ‘Luneday must be brought to justice.’
‘He is right,’ agreed Folyat, following him. ‘The culprit is that wife-stealing Withersfield villain.’
‘But if Luneday dispatched Neubold in Withersfield, then how did the body end up here?’ asked Agnys, rounding on him impatiently.
‘Lady Agnys has a point,’ mused Hilton. He also turned to the gatekeeper. ‘Did you see anyone who might have been carrying a corpse that night – from Withersfield or anywhere else?’
Folyat shrugged. ‘Margery was the only visitor. She came to sniff around our grandchildren near the Upper Church, but she did not have a body with her. I would have noticed.’
‘I wonder …’ whispered Bartholomew to Michael. He rubbed his chin, collecting his thoughts. ‘I wonder if Margery rode to Haverhill to create a diversion. She certainly claimed Folyat’s attention, if he knows she visited their grandchildren – the Upper Church is some distance from the gate, which suggests he followed her there.’
‘Thus leaving the gate unguarded,’ finished Michael, nodding. ‘That makes sense. Then, while Folyat was stalking his estranged wife, the killer sneaked the body into Haverhill.’
‘So, the question is, did Margery distract Folyat deliberately, or did the killer just seize an opportunity that happened to present itself? But then what? The culprit did not take Neubold straight to the chapel, or Hilton would have seen the body when he came for his morning prayers.’
Michael pondered the possibilities for a moment, then beckoned Hilton towards him. ‘How often do you say masses for Alneston?’ he asked.
‘Once a week, on Thursdays,’ replied the priest warily. ‘Why?’
‘Does anyone else pray in the chapel?’ asked Michael, ignoring the query.
Hilton shook his head, bemused. ‘You saw for yourself that the place is small and mean. No one spends time there unless he must.’
‘Who actually found Neubold? Folyat, who then raced about spreading the news?’
Folyat heard his name, and began to walk towards them. His reaction intrigued the others, who followed, curious to know what the monk was saying.
‘Yes, I found him,’ said Folyat, when the monk repeated the question. ‘But I am not his killer.’
‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘You unwittingly let the culprit into the village unchallenged, but you did not execute anyone. But tell me, how did you come to find the body in the first place? Hilton has just said the Alneston Chantry is no place to linger.’
‘I …’ Folyat swallowed uneasily. ‘I sometimes …’ He trailed off.
‘You use it for chickens,’ supplied Bartholomew, recalling the thick layer of droppings that carpeted the floor. ‘As gatekeeper, you accept poultry in lieu of coins, and you house them in the chantry until you can dispose of them.’
‘What?’ demanded Hilton, horrified. ‘But it is a chapel, not a hencoop! No wonder the place is so filthy. I thought it was pigeons, coming in through the broken windows.’
‘Well, what else am I supposed to do?’ demanded Folyat, going on the offensive. ‘It is effectively an empty building, and I have to put them somewhere. It doe
s no harm.’
‘I think I am beginning to understand Neubold’s postmortem travels at last,’ said Michael, cutting across Hilton’s outraged declarations that filling a chapel with bird mess was doing harm. ‘I still have one or two questions, though. Will you all come to the chapel, to answer them for me?’
‘You are doing well, Brother,’ said Agnys slyly, as she followed him outside. ‘Your clever logic has your audience transfixed, and it is good to see that treacherous d’Audley look so unsettled.’
‘You did not tell us you bought pennyroyal shortly before Joan died,’ said Michael. He spoke in a low voice, so her grandson would not hear.
Agnys regarded him sharply. ‘I did not think it was relevant. It cannot have been my supply that killed her, because she died in Cambridge. Besides, I no longer have it.’
‘You mean you have used it all?’ asked the monk, regarding her suspiciously.
‘I mean I lost it. I suppose it is possible that Joan took the stuff, although it is far more likely that I dropped it on my way home. Regardless, it has gone.’
Michael glanced at Bartholomew, but the physician could only shrug. Was it significant that Agnys had been careless with a potent herb – and was now dismissive about what had then happened to it? And if she had dropped it, who had picked it up? Agnys seemed to consider the matter closed, because she made no effort to convince them further and the party walked in silence towards the Alneston Chantry.
* * *
When they reached the chapel, Michael threw open the door and strode inside. Hilton lit a lamp, which cast eerie shadows around the dirty walls. Several hens squawked their alarm at the sudden invasion, and one managed to escape through the open door. Folyat made no attempt to catch it.
‘What is kept in there?’ Michael asked, pointing to a huge chest that stood near the back.
‘Just a couple of altar cloths,’ replied Hilton. He shrugged sheepishly. ‘I have not looked inside for a while, because it is always full of spiders. I dislike spiders.’
Bartholomew opened the lid, and an inspection revealed a smear of blood and an orange thread. ‘Neubold was wearing leggings this colour when he died,’ he said, holding the snagged strand aloft.
Michael regarded it in silence for a moment, then began to outline what he had deduced about the priest’s death. His audience clustered around him, eager not to miss a word of it. Bartholomew wondered why. Guilty consciences? Or just idle curiosity in a place where not much else happened?
‘He was killed in Withersfield, then brought here,’ the monk began. ‘The murderer slipped through the gate when Folyat left his post to follow his wife. He hid the body in this chest, because he knew Hilton would pray for Alneston the next morning, and he did not want it discovered then.’
‘Why not?’ demanded Elyan. He looked annoyed that his suicide theory was being demolished.
‘Perhaps he thought a week would eliminate any stray evidence that he was the killer,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Or that the corpse would look so dreadful that no one would examine it too carefully.’
‘You examined it carefully,’ said Hilton, proving that Michael’s attempts to distract him in the Upper Church had not worked: he had known exactly what the physician had been doing. ‘I assume you did not find any evidence, or you would have told me.’
‘No,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘There was nothing to find.’
Michael took up the tale before awkward questions could be asked – such as why scholars from Michaelhouse should think Neubold’s death was any of their business. ‘As soon as Hilton finished his prayers, the killer came to hang Neubold from the rafters. I imagine he anticipated the place would remain undisturbed until next Thursday.’
‘But he had reckoned without Folyat coming to fill the chapel with chickens,’ finished Bartholomew. ‘Which meant Neubold was discovered far sooner.’
‘Did you see anyone enter or leave this place yesterday, Folyat?’ asked Hilton urgently, aware that a solution was at hand and eager to play a role, however small.
‘Only you,’ replied Folyat unsteadily. He would not meet the priest’s eyes. ‘I waited to make sure you had really finished your devotions, and then I came to put my hens back inside.’
Hilton blanched as the implications of the gatekeeper’s testimony struck home. ‘But that means the killer was in here with me all the time I was praying. We have deduced that Neubold was strung up between the time I left and the time Folyat entered, and if Folyat saw no one else coming or going …’
‘Skulking in one of these alcoves, probably,’ agreed Michael, pointing towards the shadows. ‘Hoping the dawn light would not be strong enough to give him away.’
‘He must have been here when you came with your birds, too,’ said Bartholomew to Folyat. ‘He probably escaped when you left to raise the alarm, and you are lucky he did not catch you.’
Folyat stared at his feet and made no reply.
* * *
‘I do not want to stay here until tomorrow,’ said Bartholomew to Michael as they left the chapel. Behind them, Agnys was issuing instructions – Hilton was to visit Withersfield, to ascertain whether Margery was a willing accomplice or an unwitting one, while Folyat was to improve Haverhill’s security. ‘It is not safe, and we should take the students home.’
‘They can look after themselves,’ said Michael. He glanced towards the forge, where Risleye was performing some fancy manoeuvres with a sword, Tesdale was playing lethargically with a dagger, and Valence was being shown some vicious-looking cudgels by an amiable blacksmith. ‘Indeed, Risleye is more skilled than I realised.’
‘We need to tell Langelee about Kelyng,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘As soon as possible.’
‘We need to tell him about Michaelhouse’s thirty marks, too, but we cannot, because we have no answers. One more day, Matt – we will leave tomorrow, I promise. And we are making some progress with our enquiries – we now know how Neubold’s body ended up in Haverhill. Unfortunately, we do not know why. Or who murdered him.’
‘He died in a place where we were attacked, and he is associated with coal, King’s Hall, Carbo and various other strands in the mysteries that confront us.’ Bartholomew’s stomach churned, and he felt with every fibre of his being that lingering in Suffolk was a very bad idea. ‘I suppose if we solve his murder we may find solutions to our other mysteries. But is it worth the risk?’
‘I think so, and we shall start with a visit to Elyan Manor,’ said Michael, watching Agnys and her grandson mount up and ride off in the direction of their home. ‘First, because they have eighteen of Michaelhouse’s thirty marks. And second, because I was unconvinced by Agnys’s tale of lost pennyroyal. She claims she was ready to overlook the fact that Joan’s child was not a Elyan, but I am sceptical. I would like to interview both of them in their lair.’
‘Shall I saddle the horses, then?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking the monk would want to reach Elyan Manor as soon as possible, thus leaving more time for their other enquiries.
‘It pains me to say it, but we had better walk. We do not want the villagers thinking we are fleeing the scene of Neubold’s murder, and come after us with bows and arrows. We shall leave Cynric and the students here – that should convince them that we are not running away.’
It was not far to Elyan’s home, and it was a pleasant journey, even on an overcast day. The countryside smelled clean and fresh, and the scent of soil mingled with the heavier odour of grass and damp vegetation. The road took them through a wood, and some of its trees seemed to have been there since the days of the Conqueror, they were so gnarled and ancient. A brook accompanied them most of the way, trickling between its muddy banks with a gentle bubbling sound. A blackbird sang from the top branch of the tallest oak, and a dog barked in the distance.
‘There is the mine,’ said Bartholomew, pointing. The guards prowled, more alert than they had been, presumably because of the trouble the previous night. ‘Kelyng is buried over to the right.’
&nb
sp; Prudently, Michael did not look in the direction he indicated. ‘Do you think Carbo killed him? Hilton told us a tale of Carbo killing someone by the mine, if you recall.’
‘He also said he did not believe it. And if Kelyng and Neubold were killed by the same person, then Carbo is innocent – he was dead long before someone hanged his brother.’
Michael glanced around uneasily. ‘I wish we had asked Cynric to accompany us to Elyan Manor. You are right: it does not feel safe here.’
Elyan and his grandmother lived in style. Their home was larger and grander than Luneday’s, and was supported by well-stocked stables, a sizeable kitchen block, pantries, granaries and a dovecote. Before they could knock at the door, a servant appeared and conducted them to a pleasant solar on the first floor. Both Elyan and Agnys were there, drinking mulled wine. She poured some for the visitors, while Michael quizzed Elyan on why his mine warranted so many guards.
‘Coal is valuable,’ replied Elyan. ‘Why do you think these vultures circle, waiting for me to die so they can inherit my manor? It is not for the sheep and the water meadows, believe me. And someone came a-spying only last night – my watchmen chased two villains intent on mischief.’
‘How do you know they were intent on mischief?’ asked Michael curiously.
Elyan raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, they were not there for a pleasant stroll, not in all that wind and rain. Clearly, the villains waited for a foul night in the hope that the guards would be less vigilant – that they would be hiding inside their hut. But my men take their duties seriously.’
Not that seriously, thought Bartholomew, given that he and Cynric had managed to excavate a grave and refill it before the guards had realised something was amiss.
‘I have seen coal mines in Wales,’ he said. ‘But none of those were protected by armed guards.’
A Vein Of Deceit: The Fifteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 29