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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘Do you believe Elyan was the father of Joan’s child?’ he asked.

  Hilton grimaced at the blunt question. ‘No. But I do not know who was, and I shall not speculate. However, it cannot have been anyone here. William of Withersfield is comely but coarse, Luneday would never dare betray Margery, and d’Audley made her skin crawl. There are others, but she had standards, and they were well below them.’

  ‘Well, someone obliged her, because she was definitely pregnant.’

  ‘Then you should look outside our villages. We get plenty of visitors, some from as far afield as Cambridge and St Edmundsbury.’

  ‘Why does Agnys think you know some secret about Joan’s death?’

  Hilton stared at his feet. ‘When I saw Joan in Neubold’s cart and I learned where she was going, I tried to stop her – I was afraid for the baby. But she said she had vital business in Cambridge.’

  ‘What do you think it was?’

  ‘I cannot imagine what possessed her to take such a risk.’ Hilton looked sincere, but Bartholomew was under the distinct impression that he was holding something back. ‘I offered her some of my pennyroyal tonic, to strengthen her blood for the venture, but she told me that particular herb is bad for unborn children, although I have never heard of such a thing.’

  When Hilton had left, Bartholomew stared after him thoughtfully. So, Agnys was right: Joan had known pennyroyal was something she should not have consumed – and she had refused some that had been offered kindly. Did that mean she would have rejected other offers, too, and was unaware that it was present in whatever she had swallowed before she died?

  And what did Hilton know that he was keeping to himself? That his fellow priest had also bought pennyroyal oil and might have slipped it to his travelling companion? Bartholomew had no idea how to prise the truth out of Hilton, and could only hope that Michael would.

  It was a pleasant journey to Clare, and Michael found himself enjoying it, despite his anxieties. The sun was shining, and the air bracing without being overly chill. The countryside was pretty, too, with little villages tucked among ancient woodlands, and a meandering river to keep them company.

  ‘I have never been to Clare,’ he said conversationally to Agnys, as they approached the place. ‘Is that the Austin friary, below the castle?’

  Agnys nodded. ‘We shall go there first, and then I have something else I would like you to see. No, do not ask me questions. I shall show you in my own good time.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Michael, his interest piqued. Obligingly, he changed the subject. ‘Have you thought any more about what might have happened to the pennyroyal you bought and lost?’

  Agnys looked sharply at him. ‘No. Why should I? I told you, it must have dropped out of my bag as I rode home. I am always losing items that way, because my grandson will insist on buying nags that are too lively for me, and they jostle me about. I almost had a nasty fall on Wednesday evening.’

  ‘Did you?’ asked Michael smoothly. ‘You were out on the night Neubold was murdered?’

  Agnys waved a dismissive hand. ‘Perhaps it was Tuesday, then. At my age, days tend to merge together. Do not look at me like that, Brother – it is true. And do not expect me to be sorry that Neubold met such an end, either. He was a vile fellow, and had no business meddling in the matter of who owns Elyan Manor.’

  ‘He meddled?’ asked Michael innocently. ‘I thought he had been asked to help decide—’

  ‘He meddled,’ said Agnys firmly. ‘But here we are at the priory. You go in. I have other business, and will meet you in the garden when you have finished. Then I shall show you my surprise.’

  The friars were hospitable, and it was some time before Michael remembered that he was not there to discuss Blood Relic theology, or to enjoy the delicious victuals that were supplied. The Prior was called John, a pleasant, intelligent man who was a distant relative of the Bishop of Ely.

  ‘Carbo,’ mused John sadly. ‘When he was with us, his name was Roger. Roger Neubold. I heard he had changed it. Poor man! We did our best to help him, but some head injuries are simply too severe to cure – there is some recovery, but not enough to allow the victim to return to his former life. Roger – we shall call him Carbo, if you prefer – was one of them.’

  ‘He was here because of an injury?’ probed Michael encouragingly.

  John nodded. ‘He was deeply insensible when his brother brought him here, and none of us expected him to live. To the surprise of all, he did. He stayed with us for several months, regaining the use of his limbs and his speech, but his mind was . . . changed.’

  ‘The folk in Haverhill believe the death of his mother unhinged him.’

  John frowned. ‘She died several weeks after he was injured, and it was a bitter blow to him. But he was already “unhinged”, as you put it.’

  ‘Do you know how he came by this wound?’

  John stared at the monk for several moments. ‘Not for sure.’

  ‘But you have your suspicions,’ surmised Michael. ‘Will you share them with me?’

  John considered for a moment. ‘Let me give you the facts first. Neubold brought Carbo to us in the dead of night, then left without waiting to hear our physician’s diagnosis. It was clear he expected his brother to die without regaining his senses. He came back a week later with money for a burial, and was deeply shocked when I told him Carbo was still alive.’

  ‘You think he hit Carbo over the head? That he tried to kill his brother?’

  John hesitated, but then relented. ‘Yes, I do. And then I think he experienced a surge of guilt, which he allayed by bringing his victim here. His relief when I told him Carbo had no memory of what had happened – and would never regain his full faculties – was palpable.’

  ‘Do you know why he attacked Carbo?’

  ‘Their mother told me of a vicious argument the night Carbo “went missing”. Apparently, Carbo was appalled by Neubold’s escalating corruption, and threatened to report him to the Dominican Prior General. I can only assume Neubold decided that was not going to happen. He took Carbo away from us as soon as he could, saying he would look after him. I doubt he did.’

  Michael thought about Hilton’s tale of Carbo wandering around half-starved, with no proper home. ‘Why did you not stop Neubold? And why not tell someone of your suspicions?’

  ‘Because that is what they are – suspicions. I have no evidence. And Neubold was a cunning lawyer, who would have inveigled his way out of any unsupported charges – and probably would have sued me for slander into the bargain. And we would rather spend our money on the poor.’

  ‘Can you tell me anything else about Carbo?’

  ‘Not really. About a year after Neubold took him away, I heard he tried to join the Dominicans. I cannot help but wonder whether memories of what had happened were beginning to resurface, and he had devised some wild plan to bring his brother to book from within the Order.’

  ‘Do you think he was capable of developing and following through such a complex strategy?’

  John shrugged. ‘Look at his most recent actions – the ones you have outlined to me. He appeared in Cambridge at the same time as Neubold, even though Clare is the farthest he had ever travelled before his injury. He stole Hilton’s spare habit, which was intelligent – he had no money and neglect had rendered him painfully thin; people were going to take pity on a skeletal friar and give him alms. It seems to me there was method in his madness.’

  ‘And then someone stabbed him,’ said Michael heavily.

  ‘Perhaps you should ascertain where Neubold was on the night of his brother’s murder,’ said John, meeting the monk’s eyes. ‘Because if Carbo really was regaining his lost memories, then Neubold almost certainly would not have liked it. The man you have in custody may be innocent.’

  Michael grimaced. ‘I am sure of it, but he will not speak to me.’

  ‘Of course, Neubold is not my only suspect,’ began John tentatively. ‘There is a rumour …’

 
‘Yes?’ asked Michael encouragingly, when the Prior faltered.

  ‘I do not know if it is true, which is why I hesitate to mention it. There is a tale that Carbo stole a sack of property from an infamous Clare felon named Osa Gosse.’

  ‘I know – Hilton told me. And Gosse is in Cambridge at the moment, burgling my University.’

  John raised his eyebrows. ‘I wondered where he had gone. Anyway, when this sack went missing, Gosse was said to be furious. So, Brother, there is another man who may have meant Carbo harm.’

  Michael accepted the cloak John pressed on him, then went in search of Agnys. She was waiting in the priory gardens, walking slowly as she savoured the peace and the beauty of the place. Fallen leaves formed a bright carpet of yellow and orange under her feet, and she was gazing up at a mighty elm, where a family of sparrows was twittering.

  ‘Thank you for bringing me here,’ said Michael, smiling at her. ‘It was very helpful. Now, what else did you want to show me?’

  Agnys led the way along a riverside path. There was a bench under one of the trees, and a woman sat there, reading a book. Her hair was neatly bound under a coif, and she carried herself with a light grace that said she was a woman of breeding. Agnys retreated tactfully, leaving them alone.

  ‘Matilde!’ Michael managed to gasp, once he had recovered from his shock.

  ‘Brother,’ she replied, with the enigmatic smile he recalled so well. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I am well, but where have you been these past two and a half years?’ Michael had so many questions, he barely knew where to begin. ‘Did you not know that Matt has been scouring the civilised world for you?’

  ‘Not until Agnys told me. The news I heard was that he had taken a sabbatical leave of absence, to visit the universities in Montpellier and Salerno.’

  ‘He spent that time trying to learn where you had gone,’ said Michael, trying to keep the reproach from his voice, but not succeeding. ‘The tale about Salerno and Montpellier was one invented by me, to ensure he did not lose his University post if his hunt was unsuccessful – you may remember that scholars are not supposed to hare off after women.’

  ‘Of course I remember,’ said Matilde sadly. ‘It made it difficult for Matt and me to be close.’

  Michael looked into her face. She was pale, but still as lovely as ever. ‘Langelee and Suttone think you fell prey to highway robbers, although Matt refuses to believe it.’

  She winced. ‘My original plan was to go to Norwich, but the roads proved too dangerous for a lone woman, so I decided to come here instead. I have friends in Clare, and they have been kind.’

  ‘Matt will be delighted to hear you—’

  ‘No,’ said Matilde, lifting her hand to touch his lips. ‘You cannot tell him I am here.’

  ‘But he wants to marry you. He was going to ask you the morning you disappeared.’

  ‘I did not know that.’ Matilde turned away, so he could not see her face.

  Michael grabbed her arm, and forced her to look at him. ‘Well, you do now. Come with me to see him – today. It will grieve me to lose my Corpse Examiner, but his happiness will be worth it.’

  ‘And that is why I cannot come,’ said Matilde. There were tears in her eyes and her voice was unsteady. ‘Matt will have to resign his Fellowship to wed me. He will not be able to teach, and he will be forced to take paying patients. And then what will happen to the Frail Sisters?’

  ‘They will manage, and so will he. Besides, I suspect you are hardly poor.’

  ‘On the contrary, I own nothing at all – you see, I was robbed as I travelled from Cambridge, and my attackers took everything. I am lucky my friends are charitable, or I would have starved.’

  ‘Matt is used to having no money,’ persisted Michael doggedly. ‘He will not care.’

  ‘But I will. His old patients will not accept that he needs to make a living, and they will expect him to continue to see them free of charge – and to provide their expensive medicines into the bargain. It will break his heart to refuse them.’

  ‘You are resourceful. You will find a way around these problems.’

  Tears began to fall in earnest. ‘But it would make him so miserable! He would gain me, but lose the other things he loves – Michaelhouse, teaching, his patients and their horrible ailments, his colleagues. He will loathe preparing horoscopes for the wealthy, and I will not inflict that life on him. I want you to promise that you will not tell him I am here.’

  ‘I shall do no such thing,’ declared Michael indignantly. ‘He has a right to know.’

  ‘Then I shall have to leave Clare,’ sobbed Matilde. ‘And I have found a measure of peace and happiness here. Please do not take it from me, Brother.’

  Michael regarded her unhappily. ‘I wish Agnys had not thrown us together, because now I do not know what to do – and it is not often I am bogged down in moral quandaries.’

  ‘She brought you because she suspected I was the woman Matt had told her about, but did not want to raise his hopes if she was wrong. She has agreed not to break my trust. Now you must do the same.’

  ‘But I will never be able to look him in the eye again,’ objected Michael, dismayed. ‘Do you realise the enormity of what you are asking? You want me to betray my closest friend!’

  ‘I know. But it is because I love him so very dearly that I will not condemn him to a life that will make him unhappy. You must see I am right. And if you love him, too, you will do as I ask.’

  The journey to Cambridge the following day began long before dawn. It started badly, and went from there to worse. The wet weather of the past few days meant the road had degenerated even further since their outward journey, and was all but impassable in places. Progress was painfully slow, which was worrying when robbers were at large and determined to prey on the large party that straggled through their various domains. And it was a large party, because d’Audley, Elyan, Agnys, Luneday and even Hilton had brought all manner of servants and retainers. In fact, there were so many of them that Bartholomew wondered whether anyone was left in the two villages.

  Their troubles began when Luneday had a brush with thieves as he made his way to Haverhill to meet the rest of the group, although he claimed to have driven the culprits off with no problem. Then the travellers were thrown into disarray when a volley of arrows was loosed at them near Hadstock. But Cynric, ever alert, quickly whisked them under cover, and so saved them from harm.

  A little later, Bartholomew glimpsed someone wearing a scarf around his face lurking on the track ahead. Cynric was eager to stand and fight, but Agnys marshalled the party into a tight group, then led them in a furious gallop, so that any ambush that had been planned never had the chance to materialise.

  ‘Lord!’ breathed Cynric, regarding her in admiration. ‘I shall have to remember that tactic.’

  ‘I visited Essex once,’ Agnys confided darkly, but did not elaborate.

  When he was sure the danger was over, Cynric spurred his horse forward to ride next to the physician. ‘I know we are unpopular in Suffolk – what with demanding thirty marks and exposing lies, deceit and murder – but I did not think the villains would go to these lengths to be rid of us.’

  ‘What do you mean? These raids are the work of highway thieves – nothing to do with our investigations.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’ asked Cynric. ‘Or have you forgotten the murderous attack on us in Withersfield, and the ambush that drove you and Brother Michael into a ditch?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘The second incident was definitely sinister,’ Cynric went on, getting into his stride. ‘It would have been easy to incapacitate you and steal your purses, but the archers were more concerned with concealing their faces – until you provoked them to come out into the open. Now why was that?’

  ‘In case they did not kill us, and we were later able to identify them?’ suggested Bartholomew.

  ‘Because you knew them,’ corrected Cynric. ‘And that means they want you dead f
or reasons relating to your enquiries. Now, some of these attacks today no doubt have been the work of common criminals, but not all. Do not relax your guard for an instant, boy.’

  Bartholomew was not sure whether to believe him. ‘Our Suffolk companions have managed to make us a very attractive target – Elyan’s elegant clothes, Luneday’s fine horses, d’Audley’s fabulous amount of baggage. I imagine half the villains in the county cannot believe their luck—’

  ‘Do not deceive yourself – someone wants you dead,’ replied Cynric with absolute conviction. He indicated their fellow travellers with a flick of his dark head. ‘And it may be one of this lot.’

  ‘Then why did you recommend we ride with them?’ asked Bartholomew uncomfortably.

  ‘For two reasons. First, there are robbers along this road, and they have already killed a man, so being in a big group is definitely better from that standpoint. And second, if one of these lordlings is responsible, then it is better to have him where we can see him. I have been watching them all very carefully, gauging their reactions.’

  ‘And what have you deduced?’

  ‘Nothing,’ admitted Cynric, reluctantly. ‘Yet.’

  Uneasily, Bartholomew studied each rider in turn, to see if he could detect any hints of disappointment that the raids so far had been unsuccessful.

  Luneday headed the procession and seemed to be enjoying himself – he kept stopping to point out ‘interesting’ features, such as lightning-struck trees or particularly well-made fences. Obviously, he was not the one who had ambushed Bartholomew and Michael by the ditch, because he had rescued them. Or had he? Perhaps the whole thing had been an elaborate hoax, in order to gain their confidence. Bartholomew could not imagine why Luneday should play such games, but that did not mean he had not done it. And what about Luneday’s woman? Margery had not killed Neubold and taken his corpse to Haverhill on her own, so who had helped her?