A Vein of Deceit (33 page)

‘Did you like them, Matt?’ asked Michael innocently. Hilton was regarding the physician warily. ‘I have just been telling
our friend here about your penchant for garishly painted saints. He does not believe me, and is under the impression that
you lingered inside for some other purpose.’

‘The statues are very colourful,’ said Bartholomew sincerely, thinking he had never seen such a gaudy collection, not even
in France.

‘Now, Father,’ the monk said briskly, cutting across a remark Hilton started to make about physicians with peculiar tastes
in sculpture, ‘you were telling me how Neubold’s body was found.’

‘Folyat discovered it,’ replied Hilton, dragging his wary gaze away from Bartholomew. ‘He said he came to tell me first, although
I suspect he shared the news with those he passed
en route
. Neubold cannot have been there for long, because I said a mass for Alneston at dawn, and I assure you I would have noticed,
had Neubold been present. His feet would have been in my face for a start.’

‘Well?’ asked Michael of Bartholomew, when Hilton had gone. ‘Were my lies in vain, or have you discovered something useful
from the corpse?’

‘Hilton says Neubold was not in the chantry at dawn, which is strange: estimating a time of death is not an exact
science, as you know, but I would guess he died last night. So, if Hilton is telling the truth, it means Neubold was killed
elsewhere, then strung up in the chapel this morning.’

‘Why would anyone do that?’ asked Michael, puzzled.

‘I really have no idea.’

Michael did not want to discuss Neubold’s murder where they might be overheard, so he led the way to the marketplace. Stone
benches had been placed around its perimeter, some with straw thatches, so that potential buyers could sit out storms and
sun and would not be tempted to leave before they had spent all their money. The monk selected the one that was farthest from
the bustling stalls and sat, indicating Bartholomew was to perch next to him. It might have been pleasant, watching the lively
hurly-burly of the traders, had their minds not been full of murder.

‘If you are right in saying Neubold has been dead for some time,’ said Michael, ‘then it means he was murdered in Withersfield.
And his body transported to Haverhill to be hung like a piece of meat.’

‘Not necessarily. For all we know, he was rescued within moments of the barn door being barred.
Ergo
, he could have been wandering around Haverhill for hours before he was killed.’

Michael frowned. ‘So he was hanged in Haverhill, then? How do you know?’

‘I do
not
know, Brother – I am just trying to note all the possibilities. However, since you ask, I am inclined to say he died in Withersfield.
The barn looked as though it had seen a struggle – we saw no blood, but I imagine we
would
find some, were we to look under all the hay.’

‘Very well – I accept your reasoning so far. However, do you not think it would be risky to bring a corpse all the
way from Withersfield? How would it get past Gatekeeper Folyat, for a start?’

‘William told us he relaxes his guard after dark, when the market is closed. And he said Margery came to Haverhill last night
– perhaps she carried Neubold on her horse.’

‘That cannot be true. First, if William saw enough to be able to identify Margery as the rider, he would have noticed a priest-shaped
bundle behind her saddle. And second, Hilton has just informed us that there was no corpse in Alneston Chantry when he arrived
at dawn.’

Bartholomew was beginning to be exasperated by the lack of answers. ‘We are looking at this the wrong way around – trying
to establish a chain of events when we do not understand
why
the villain should act as he did. Perhaps we should determine the identity of the culprit first – then we might grasp why
he deemed it necessary to tote a priest’s body around in the dark.’

‘We might, I suppose,’ said the monk dubiously. ‘So name your chief suspects.’

‘We have several in Withersfield to choose from. Margery despised Neubold – perhaps she hired a servant to bring the body
here. Luneday may have decided murder was the best way to protect his pig. William the steward also hated Neubold, and his
capture may have presented too tempting an opportunity.’

‘It was William who raised the alarm to say Neubold was missing,’ Michael pointed out.

‘Perhaps that is what he hopes we will think – that his “discovery” will be enough to spare him from suspicion. Of course,
it could be Lizzie.’

‘Lizzie?’ asked Michael, regarding him askance. ‘The pig?’

‘Sows can be dangerous when they have a litter.’

‘Do not be flippant,’ snapped Michael. ‘I believed you for a moment. Personally, my money is on Margery. She loathed Neubold,
and has admitted to being abroad and unaccounted for last night.’

Bartholomew thought about it. ‘He suffered a blow to the head, which may have been enough to subdue him and allow her to tie
a rope around his neck. And his hands.’

‘What a mess,’ groaned Michael. ‘We are still no closer to learning anything new about Wynewyk, but we have a priest murdered
and this mysterious grave to explore. But here comes Cynric with the students. I wonder what they have to report.’

‘There
is
an apothecary,’ announced Tesdale as he approached. He was pleased with himself, and gave Cynric a slight push when the book-bearer
started to interrupt. ‘He told me that three people bought pennyroyal oil recently. He said he was surprised, because it is
cheaper to make your own.’

‘Who?’ asked Michael.

‘Lady Agnys had a jar for flatulence. Hilton wanted a bit to put in some tonic he likes to drink at night. And Neubold purchased
a pot, but would not say why.’

‘Hilton?’ asked Michael in a low voice, looking at Bartholomew. ‘Why would he mean Joan harm? He has nothing to gain by her
death.’

‘We cannot know that, Brother. Perhaps he was paid to ensure Elyan’s heir never lived to inherit. The same is true of Neubold.’

‘And Agnys?’ asked Michael quietly.

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘She knows pennyroyal killed Joan, so why did she not mention the fact that she purchased some? I would
have done, just to mark it as a curious coincidence.’

‘So would I,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘And we only have
her word that she was pleased by Joan’s pregnancy. Perhaps she would rather see Elyan Manor go to one of the three claimants
than a brat sired by the local stud.’

Risleye edged closer, trying to hear what they were saying. The moment they stopped speaking, he began to hold forth, his
voice loud and full of self-importance. Cynric rolled his eyes when it became obvious that the student did not intend to share
the credit for what they had done together.

‘I visited the mine, but I was not the only one interested in it,’ the student began. ‘I found clear evidence that others
have been watching it, too. It was not possible to tell who, of course, but I could tell from the crushed grass and broken
twigs that someone – perhaps more than one person – had lurked in the woods and observed what was happening, just as I was
doing.’

‘Did you indeed?’ asked Michael, an amused smile plucking at the corners of his mouth. He did not look at Cynric. ‘And what
else did you notice?’

‘That not much is happening there,’ said Valence, cutting across Risleye. ‘There are two men with picks, but they do not seem
to be making much progress. I cannot see it making Elyan rich.’

‘Valence is right,’ said Cynric. ‘Welsh mines are full of labourers, but two men are too few. However, while this pair mined,
six others were on guard. Elyan clearly thinks there is something worth protecting, and it was hard to get close.’

‘But you managed,’ predicted Bartholomew.

The book-bearer grinned. ‘We did. But I was surprised by what we saw. The seam is just a thin layer of poor-grade coal, which
may not even burn – or will smoke so much that it is useless.’

‘Then why does Elyan guard it so jealously?’ asked Michael.

Cynric shrugged. ‘That is yet another mystery for you to solve, Brother.’

It was too late to do much else that day, and dusk was approaching early because of the rain clouds that were gathering. Michael
complained bitterly that he was obliged to spend a second night in Suffolk, but Bartholomew felt he had far more cause to
gripe – it was not the Benedictine who was obliged to disappear into the darkness with a shovel, to see whether one of their
students was buried in an unmarked grave.

They hired beds in the Queen’s Head – in two separate rooms, so they would not have to explain their actions to Valence, Risleye
and Tesdale – and retired early. Cynric fell asleep at once, but Bartholomew tossed and turned until Michael told him it was
time to leave.

‘The students are still drinking downstairs,’ said the monk. ‘You will have to climb out of the window, or they will see you
and wonder where you are going.’

‘God help me, Brother!’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘I am getting too old for this sort of caper.’

‘There is plenty of life in you yet,’ said Michael, opening the shutter and standing back smartly as the wind hurled a cascade
of rain inside. ‘Are you sure you do not need my help?’

‘It is better that you stay here,’ replied Cynric, before Bartholomew could say that the monk’s strength would be very welcome.
‘Then if anything goes wrong, you can give us an alibi.’

‘What can go wrong?’ asked Bartholomew, alarmed.

‘Probably nothing,’ said Cynric, clearly looking forward to the escapade. He loved sneaking around in the dark. ‘But keep
the door locked, Brother. And the windows, too.’

With serious misgivings, Bartholomew clambered on to
the sill and began to climb down the back wall. It was not far to the ground, because the ceilings were low, and there were
ample beams to use as foot- and hand-holds. Even so, it was a struggle, and he could feel Cynric’s disapproval coming in waves
as he scraped and rattled his way to the ground. The book-bearer dropped lightly beside him, then disappeared. When he returned,
he was carrying two spades and a lamp.

They set off along the Withersfield road, Bartholomew following Cynric’s lead by keeping to the shadows. They passed one or
two people, who weaved along in a manner that suggested they would not have noticed other travellers anyway, but most folk
were in bed, and the houses along the street were dark. A light shone from one, and they could hear a baby wailing inside,
its mother trying wearily to soothe it with lullabies.

It was not long before Cynric left the road and set out across the fields. The going was miserable, because it was pitch black,
and the rain made the route treacherously slippery. Wet vegetation slapped at them as they passed, and they were soon drenched
through. As they neared the mine, thorns snagged their clothes and Bartholomew heard something rip in his tunic. He grimaced,
hoping it could be repaired. After a while, Cynric slowed.

‘The mine,’ the book-bearer whispered, pointing through the undergrowth. ‘The guards are still here, although I cannot imagine
why, because the diggers have gone home. Can you see their lamps?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘How are we going to get past them?’

‘There is no need. I took the precaution of locating the grave when I was here with Risleye and Valence earlier, and it is
not too near the coal, although we must still tread softly.
Fortunately, the wind should carry away most sounds we make. We should be all right.’

Bartholomew’s heart was pounding. It was only the need to know about Kelyng that stopped him from turning around and running
back to the Queen’s Head as fast as his legs would carry him. He followed Cynric to an oak tree with a jumble of brambles
growing around its trunk. The book-bearer tugged a few away, and Bartholomew saw a mound of raised earth. He was surprised
Cynric had found it, because he certainly would not have done, and could only suppose the directions to it had been very precise.
Wordlessly, the Welshman handed him a spade.

It was grim work: the ground was sodden, and the rain seemed to be coming down harder than ever. They lit a lamp, but it had
to be shaded so the guards would not notice it, which meant it was difficult to see what they were doing. Every so often,
Cynric would disappear, to ensure no one had been alerted to their presence. While he did so, Bartholomew continued to dig,
although it was unnerving to be alone and he was always relieved when the book-bearer returned.

‘I think I can feel cloth, Cynric,’ he whispered eventually. ‘And bone.’

‘You can do the rest, then,’ said the book-bearer promptly. ‘This is the bit I do not want to see.’

It was the bit Bartholomew did not want to see, either, and it took considerable willpower to scrape away the remaining soil
with his hands; he dared not use a spade, lest the blade damaged the body. Kelyng had been missing for two months, so identification
was going to be difficult enough, without having a broken skull to contend with.

At last he encountered an arm, although it was little more than bone and sinew. He worked upwards to where he thought the
head might be. After a while, he sat back
and moved the lamp over what he had exposed. There was a crooked front tooth that had once formed a distinctive part of Kelyng’s
impish grin, along with tufts of reddish hair, where the rain was washing it clean of mud. There was also a tin brooch the
Bible Scholar had liked, and the tattered remnants of Michaelhouse’s uniform black tabard.

‘Is it him?’ asked Cynric.

Bartholomew found he was unable to speak. He nodded.

It was some time before either man spoke again. Bartholomew sat on his heels and stared at the sorry remains, thinking sadly
of the cheerful youth whose voice had accompanied so many College meals. Cynric clutched one of the charms he wore around
his neck – a ward against restless spirits – as he stood with his head bowed, muttering prayers to whatever god happened to
be listening.

‘What shall we do?’ the Welshman asked after a while. ‘Can you get him out in one piece?’