A Vein of Deceit (19 page)

‘Fire away, then,’ said Morden amiably, sliding off his chair and landing with a slight thump. He walked across the room and
filled two goblets from a jug. ‘I shall do my best to answer, but do not hold your breath. As I said, I have met with scant
success.’

‘Did Carbo hold a post in Cambridge?’ Michael accepted the proffered goblet, and downed the contents in a single swallow.
Then he gagged. ‘God save us, man! What is this? It is not wine.’

‘It is a little something my brethren and I enjoy on cold mornings,’ replied Morden, and if he thought the monk’s response
was entertaining, he hid it well. ‘Fermented parsnip juice.’

Michael shoved the goblet back at him with distaste.
‘I thought you were being hospitable, but now I feel as though my innards are being scoured with drain cleaner.’

‘It will do you good,’ said Morden ambiguously. ‘And the answer to your question is no: Carbo did not hold a post in Cambridge.
He was an itinerant, as far as I can tell – a wandering preacher who follows the road. It is odd that a respectable man like
Shropham should want to kill him.’

‘I am not sure he did.’ Michael shrugged at the Prior’s surprise. ‘As you say, it is an odd thing for a scholar of King’s
Hall to do, and I feel there is something we are not being told.’

‘Shropham is holding out on you?’ asked Morden, his interest piqued.

Michael nodded, frowning as he assembled his thoughts. ‘He could have argued self-defence, or claimed that the real culprit
ran away before my Junior Proctor arrived on the scene. But instead he refuses to speak. I cannot imagine what kind of secret
is worth his life: he may very well hang if we let matters lie.’

‘Perhaps that is what he wants,’ suggested Morden. ‘Some folk find shame difficult to handle.’

‘Shame?’ queried Michael. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Perhaps he has done something to embarrass King’s Hall, and sees death as the only honourable recourse. He is certainly the
kind of man to sacrifice himself for his College – he is always trying to ingratiate himself by performing menial tasks for
his colleagues, after all.’

‘If he is that devoted, he would not have done anything to discredit King’s Hall in the first place,’ Bartholomew pointed
out.

‘We all make mistakes,’ said Morden. ‘It would not be the first time a good man has erred.’

‘Is Shropham a good man?’ mused Bartholomew, more
to himself than the others. ‘I have known him for years but I have no idea what he is really like.’

‘Yes, I believe he is essentially decent,’ replied Morden. ‘At one point, he was considering taking major orders, and we spent
several weeks discussing it. In the end, he decided to remain a secular, which disappointed me. He would have made a fine
Dominican.’

Michael’s expression suggested that a fine Dominican did not necessarily equate with a decent man, but he said nothing, and
moved to another subject. ‘So what
have
you discovered about Carbo?’

‘We have been unable to ascertain his origins, despite summoning all Black Friars within a ten-mile radius to come and look
at him. The cuffs of his habit are odd, though, and the style is unfamiliar to us. They suggest he hails from somewhere distant,
perhaps London or Norfolk.’

‘What about Suffolk?’ asked Michael.

Morden raised his tiny eyebrows, surprised by the question. ‘Yes, possibly. Other than that, all we have are guesses. His
habit was patched and frayed, which
may
imply he took holy orders some time ago. Of course, it might also mean he inherited a second-hand robe from another priest.’

Michael stood. ‘Drink your parsnip juice, Matt, and let us go and inspect this hapless fellow.’

Bartholomew swallowed the concoction, feeling a strong but not unpleasant burn as it made its way to his stomach. He experienced
a moment of agreeable light-headedness, followed by a sensation of warmth all over his body. Morden was right: the beverage
did dispel the chill of winter.

Bartholomew and Michael followed the Prior across the yard, to the chapel in which Carbo’s body was being stored. It had been
washed and dressed in a clean habit, ready to be laid to rest as soon as the proctors released it. While
Bartholomew began his examination, Michael regaled the Prior with details of the upcoming Blood Relic debate. The monk was
looking forward to the occasion, eager to show off his prowess as a disputant; Morden, by contrast, was dreading it, afraid
he might be called on to say something, thus exposing his poor grasp of the subject in front of the whole University. He had
never been a gifted academic.

‘Have you had any word from Kelyng?’ Morden asked, more to change the subject than to elicit information about Michaelhouse’s
missing Bible Scholar. ‘He was thinking of becoming a Dominican, too, and I was disappointed when I learned he had failed
to return for the start of term.’

‘We suspect he was intimidated by his unpaid fees,’ replied Michael. ‘It is a pity, because he was an excellent student, and
might have gone on to great things. And I do not mean by becoming a Black Friar, either – I mean by making contributions to
philosophy.’

‘Or camp-ball,’ countered Morden waspishly. ‘He was Langelee’s student, and your Master would much rather study game strategies
than Aristotle.’

‘Perhaps Carbo was not a priest at all,’ said Bartholomew, to prevent Michael from responding with a retort that might lead
to a spat. It was true that Langelee preferred sport to lessons, but Morden was hardly the person to be making snide remarks
about it. ‘Maybe he found or was given the Dominican habit, and wore it because he was a beggar who had nothing else.’

‘And your evidence for such a suggestion?’ asked Michael.

‘This,’ replied Bartholomew, pushing the lank black hair from Carbo’s forehead to reveal a pink scar that curved around towards
the left temple.

‘So he suffered a cut on his head at some point,’ said Michael, bemused. ‘What of it?’

‘From the colour of the scarring, I would say it happened in the last two years or so. And it was a serious injury – there
is a depression of the skull beneath, suggesting a healed fracture. People with damage to the front of their heads often exhibit
the symptoms we saw: an inability to communicate, strange behaviour, paralysis of the limbs. One hand moved jerkily, if you
recall.’

‘Not really,’ said Michael, unconvinced. ‘But—’

‘Then there was the way he kept shaking his head, as if to clear his ears.’ Bartholomew was disgusted with himself for not
making the diagnosis when Carbo was alive. ‘Hearing a persistent ringing sound is another symptom. So is confusion about smells
– he asked twice if we could detect garlic. I should have understood immediately what was wrong with him.’

‘But why does all this make you think he was not a Dominican?’ asked Morden, puzzled.

‘Because your Order would have taken better care of a member who had lost his senses after such an injury,’ said Bartholomew.
‘He would not have been allowed to wander the country alone, without food or shelter. And poor Carbo is badly malnourished.’

‘It is possible, I suppose,’ conceded Michael, although he sounded doubtful. In his mind, there was nothing unusual about
a poorly fed, half-mad Dominican. ‘However, Shropham must have killed him for a reason, so I suspect he was more than just
a vagrant.’

‘Carbo witnessed Langelee being stabbed,’ began Bartholomew tentatively. ‘Do you think he was killed by our Master’s assailant
– perhaps to keep the culprit from being identified?’

‘Shropham attacked Langelee as well as Carbo?’ asked Morden, regarding him in confusion.

‘Of course not,’ said Michael. ‘And Carbo was killed two
days
after
the assault on Langelee, when he had already been interviewed about what he had seen – it would have been like locking the
stable door after the horse had bolted.
Ergo
, I do not think the two incidents are connected.’

Bartholomew reconsidered. ‘Then perhaps he witnessed a different event – one Shropham did not want him sharing with anyone
else.’

‘Shropham is not the kind of man to resolve awkward situations with violence,’ objected Michael, and the physician saw he
was beginning to persuade himself that there was going to be an exculpatory explanation for what had happened – one that would
see Shropham exonerated.

‘He might if it were to protect his College,’ averred Morden. ‘And I understand it was his knife that was embedded in Carbo’s
belly.’

‘True,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But let us not forget that Carbo had a dagger, too – despite the fact that friars are not supposed
to carry weapons – and it was in his hand when my Junior Proctor found him. That suggests a fight, not an ambush. Where
is
Carbo’s blade, Morden? Do you have it, or did it go astray amid all the confusion?’

The Prior opened a wall cupboard, and handed the monk a sack that contained Carbo’s few possessions. There was his frayed
habit, a pair of ancient boots, an empty purse and the dagger. The knife was made of base metal, and was stained with blood,
although whether it was Carbo’s own or Shropham’s was impossible to say.

Bartholomew unrolled the habit and inspected it, noting the huge stitches that repaired a tear in the hem. An ungainly patch
had been attached near the hip, too. Yet when Bartholomew looked on the inside of the garment, the material was sound – the
patch was not there to mend damage. Frowning, he looked closer, and realised its real purpose was to act as a place in which
to conceal a
document; he could feel parchment crackling under his fingers. Prior and monk watched with interest as he slit the stitches
to retrieve it.

‘That is cunning,’ said Morden admiringly. ‘No one would ever think of investigating a patch. Well, no one who is not a Corpse
Examiner, that is.’

‘What is it, Matt?’ asked Michael eagerly. ‘A secret message?’

‘A letter,’ replied Bartholomew, spreading the document on the table. It was thin and friable, as though it had been read
and reread until it was almost worn away. The words were faded, and the ink had run, but it was still just about legible.
‘From someone’s mother.’

‘Whose mother?’ demanded Michael. ‘Carbo’s?’

Bartholomew shot him a look that asked how he was supposed to know. ‘And there is something else here, too. A piece of coal.’

Michael took the rock from him. ‘Perhaps it is ballast, to stop his habit from flying up in the wind and revealing his nether-garments.
I sew pieces of metal into my hems for the same purpose.’

‘It is too light to prevent embarrassing revelations,’ said Morden, studying it as it lay in Michael’s palm. ‘Perhaps it is
an amulet. Many folk believe certain stones hold magical or healing powers.’

‘Carbo kept mentioning coal when we interviewed him,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘And his name is Latin for the stuff. He must
have developed a fetish for it, so I do not think we should read too much into finding a lump of it in his clothing.’

‘Let me see the letter,’ ordered Michael, elbowing Bartholomew out of the way. The light was good, but the monk still squinted.
‘Damn people and their tiny writing! Read it aloud, Matt.’

Bartholomew obliged. ‘
My Son and Friend. God’s Greetings
and wishes of Good Health from your Loving Mother. The Withersfield Pigs are strong and Fine this year, and I wish you could
See them, for I think they would make you Well again. I think of you Always
.’

‘Is that it?’ asked the Prior, disappointed. ‘A message about pigs from a doting dam? I would not think it worthwhile to hide
such a thing. Why not carry it openly?’

‘Perhaps it is code,’ suggested Michael hopefully, picking it up and turning it this way and that. ‘There must be some reason
why it was concealed.’

‘You both know friars are not supposed to hoard mementoes from their past lives,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘So it is not really
surprising that Carbo hid this one.’

‘True,’ Morden sighed, beginning to head for the door. ‘But interesting though this is, I must return to my duties. If I do
not order more fuel today, my brethren will freeze in the coming winter – and it promises to be a hard one. You can see yourselves
out.’

Michael opened his mouth to object – he had no wish to be abandoned with a corpse – but closed it when Bartholomew began to
speak. The physician’s attention was on the letter.

‘Withersfield,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘One of Wynewyk’s odd transactions was with Withersfield. It is in Suffolk – the next
village to Haverhill, where Elyan lives.’

Michael nodded. ‘Wynewyk bought pigs from a Withersfield man called Luneday – beasts which also happen to be the subject of
this curious missive. Does this mean there is a connection between Wynewyk’s dealings and Carbo’s murder? That makes no sense!’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘No, it does not. However, just because we do not understand the association does not mean we should
dismiss it. After all, both Wynewyk and Carbo died on the same day – Saturday.’

But Michael shook his head. ‘We have no evidence that the two of them ever met.’

‘We have no evidence they did
not
meet, either, and you have always distrusted coincidences. Here we have a murdered priest carrying a piece of coal and a
letter mentioning Withersfield, while Wynewyk bought pigs from Withersfield and coal from Haverhill – the latter from Elyan,
whose wife Joan is also dead in unusual circumstances.’

Michael shook his head again, denying the relevance of the connections Bartholomew was making, but there was a glint in his
eye that indicated he was intrigued by the possibilities.

‘It is a pity we cannot tie Gosse into this, too,’ the monk said. ‘Then we would solve all our problems, and a good many people
would be grateful to us.’

‘Give it time,’ said Bartholomew, thinking about Edith’s contention that Gosse had lobbed stone-laden mud at her and Joan.
‘You never know.’

‘There is only one thing we can do,’ argued Michael, speaking at the Statutory Fellows’ Meeting that afternoon. They were
discussing what should be done about the missing thirty marks – wisely, Langelee had postponed any formal discussion of Wynewyk’s
activities until the first rush of indignation had passed and his Fellows were in more reflective frames of mind. ‘We must
conceal our erstwhile colleague’s thievery at all costs.’