A Vein of Deceit (34 page)

Bartholomew shook his head, trying to find his voice. ‘No, and we cannot arrive at the Queen’s Head with a skeleton anyway.
All we can do now is rebury him.’

‘And reclaim him another time – on another visit to Suffolk?’

Bartholomew felt his resolve begin to strengthen. ‘Yes, but when we do, it will be openly and in full daylight. And his killer
will be under lock and key.’

‘He was murdered, then?’ asked Cynric unhappily.

‘Stabbed. You can see the mark quite clearly on his ribs.’

‘Cover him,’ urged Cynric, looking around uneasily.

‘This has taken too long, and we need to be back in the tavern before dawn, or we will start meeting labourers as they go
out to the fields.’

Bartholomew placed a clean bandage from his medical bag across Kelyng’s face, and began to do as Cynric suggested.
But it was even more difficult shovelling dirt on top of the Bible Scholar than it had been unearthing him, and he was obliged
to stop when he thought he might be sick. He pretended to check on the guards, hoping Cynric would have finished when he returned.

He need not have worried. Cynric was eager to be gone, and had worked fast and efficiently, so that by the time Bartholomew
had made sure the watchmen were still in their makeshift hut by the coal seam, the Welshman was patting the soil into place
and tugging the brambles across it.

Suddenly, Cynric stiffened and cocked his head, listening intently. Automatically, Bartholomew did the same, but all he could
hear was the wind sighing through the branches above his head and the patter of rain on the saturated ground.

‘What—’ he began, but Cynric silenced him with a sharp glance. Then the Welshman kicked the lantern so it went out, plunging
them into utter blackness.

It took a moment for Bartholomew to attune his ears to what had startled Cynric, but once he did, it seemed as loud as thunder.
The sound was footsteps, and they were coming closer. Cynric grabbed the physician’s arm and pulled him behind the oak tree.
Almost immediately, one of the guards emerged from the undergrowth to stand where they had been. He bent down, and touched
a finger to the earth. Then he straightened and looked around him.

‘There!’ he hissed, stabbing a finger in the direction of the oak. ‘I told you I heard someone!’

All at once the other watchmen were thrusting through the bushes. Cynric turned and fled, leaving Bartholomew to follow. The
physician was slower and much less sure-footed, and soon began to fall behind. Cynric stopped and
urged him on, although Bartholomew needed no such encouragement – he was running as hard as he could, stumbling and staggering
as he tripped over roots in the darkness. But it was not fast enough, and he could hear their pursuers coming closer.

His arm was almost wrenched from its socket when Cynric jerked him to a standstill before hauling him into a thicket. The
Welshman put his finger to his lips, and an instant later, the guards shot past.

‘You must have made more noise than you thought when you went to check on them,’ said Cynric a little while later, when they
had taken a tortuous route across several fields and were finally in sight of Haverhill. Bartholomew did not think he had
ever been so relieved to see a place in his life.

‘Sorry,’ he said sheepishly. ‘I did my best.’

Cynric squeezed his shoulder in a rare gesture of affection. ‘It is all right, boy. It is not your fault you have no skill
for this kind of thing. Still, we learned one important thing from the chase: the watchmen are not just for decoration – they
take their duties seriously.’

‘But
why
does the mine warrant such vigilance?’ demanded Bartholomew, becoming frustrated by the lack of answers. ‘You say it does
not even have decent coal.’

‘Perhaps it is magic coal,’ suggested Cynric matter-offactly. ‘And if Kelyng happened across it, he might have been stabbed
to ensure his silence on the matter. It might even explain why Wynewyk gave the mine’s owner eighteen marks.’

‘It might,’ said Bartholomew, too tired and fraught to argue with him.

‘Of course, there is another explanation,’ Cynric went on, padding at the physician’s side with cat-like grace.
‘Wynewyk brought Kelyng here. Perhaps
he
was the one who wielded the knife.’

‘Not you as well, Cynric,’ groaned Bartholomew. ‘Is there no one who believes he is innocent?’

‘Not at Michaelhouse,’ replied Cynric.

Michael was horrified when he saw his friend’s clothes were torn, sodden and filthy, and ordered Cynric to clean them as best
as he could. Bartholomew agreed, aware that the guards would know exactly who he was if he was seen in such a bedraggled state.
While the book-bearer went off in search of water and thread, Bartholomew told Michael what had happened.

‘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 does 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.’