A Vein of Deceit (38 page)

Michael tutted. ‘I think we both know better than that. Of course she was murdered. But perhaps you are right in saying the
answers lie in Cambridge. We shall soon find out, because we shall be there this time tomorrow.’

Bartholomew retired early, and was asleep the moment he lay down. Michael read for a while, then tossed and turned on his
bed, his mind full of Kelyng, Wynewyk, Carbo, Joan and the forthcoming debate. He was not as convinced as Bartholomew that
they had done all they could in Suffolk, and felt there were answers still to be learned.

He fell asleep eventually, but was woken abruptly by Tesdale, who was in the grip of a nightmare. It was a bad one, because
he shrieked instead of moaned, and the howl was loud enough even to disturb Bartholomew, who raced into the adjoining room
in alarm.

‘Please, Master Wynewyk,’ Tesdale was weeping. ‘Do not die.’

‘It is all right,’ said Bartholomew, shaking him awake. ‘It is only a dream.’

Tesdale looked around wildly, then dissolved into tears. Valence hurried to his side and put his arm around his
shoulders, while Risleye glared at them, and made a show of turning over and trying to get comfortable again. When he saw
there was nothing for him to do, Michael returned to his own chamber. Bartholomew sat next to Tesdale, speaking softly, so
as not to disturb Risleye.

‘What is wrong?’ he asked kindly. ‘You have been sleeping badly for weeks now.’

‘I have always had vivid dreams,’ sniffed Tesdale, struggling to bring himself under control.

‘You did not have them when you first came to Michaelhouse. Or at least, you did not frighten us all out of our wits by screaming
in the middle of the night. Tell me what is troubling you – I may be able to help. Physicians can do more than just devise
horoscopes, you know.’

Tesdale shot him a weak smile. ‘It is nothing. Really.’

‘You should tell him,’ advised Valence, his arm still about his friend’s shoulders. ‘He is good with difficult problems –
look at all the murders he has solved with Brother Michael. Let him help you.’

‘Are you worried about your debts?’ asked Bartholomew, seeing Tesdale begin to weaken. ‘Wynewyk told me they were upsetting
you.’

Tesdale blinked back more tears. ‘He was good to me – found me employment at King’s Hall.’

‘Employment?’ echoed Valence, startled. ‘
You?
But you hate the duties you have at Michaelhouse, so why undertake extra ones in another College?’

‘King’s Hall?’ asked Bartholomew at the same time, equally taken aback. ‘How did he persuade them to hire you? They have their
own students wanting to earn extra pennies.’

‘I am not lazy,’ said Tesdale stiffly to Valence. ‘I just need more sleep than you. And I had no choice but to look for ways
to earn more money, because I owe Michaelhouse a
fortune in fees.’ He turned to Bartholomew. ‘I worked at King’s Hall because Master Wynewyk fixed it up. His friend Paxtone
agreed to hire me, as a favour.’

‘Really?’ Bartholomew was astonished to learn the relationship between Paxtone and Wynewyk had been so warm – that sort of
good turn was not easy to arrange, so was usually reserved only for very close acquaintances.

Tesdale nodded. ‘They were composing documents together, and became friendly by spending so much time in each other’s company.’

‘What sort of documents?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘An academic project?’

Tesdale shrugged, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. ‘Their labours revolved around rocks, although I am not quite sure
how. They asked me not to say anything, and I
was
going to keep my word, but it cannot matter now Wynewyk is gone. I never saw what they were writing, but it was something
to do with selling stones of one kind or other.’

Bartholomew regarded him unhappily. Could this relate to the letters Clippesby had discovered in Wynewyk’s room, in which
he had offered to hawk diamonds to certain nobles? Or was it connected to the pebbles he himself had found in Paxtone’s cupboard
– the ones Yolande said could help a woman in childbirth? But Wynewyk’s activities were irrelevant to Tesdale’s current troubles.

‘There is more to your worries than your debt to Michaelhouse,’ he said to the snuffling student. ‘What have you done? Borrowed
money from someone who has put undue pressure on you – either to pay it back, or pay in kind?’

‘Christ!’ Tesdale’s expression was a mixture of fear and guilt. ‘How do you know that? Is Isnard right, and you really can
see into a man’s soul?’

‘It is a matter of logic, not sorcery,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘So, I am right?’

‘Lots of us borrow,’ said Valence, hastening to defend his friend. ‘We are not all rich like Risleye. If we did not make use
of moneylenders, we would starve.’

‘Who did you borrow from?’ asked Bartholomew, ignoring him and looking at Tesdale.

Tesdale looked as though he would refuse to reply, but saw the grim expression on his teacher’s face and thought better of
it. ‘Osa Gosse,’ he admitted reluctantly.

‘What?’ exploded Bartholomew. Risleye sighed angrily, annoyed to be woken a second time, while Valence looked stunned at the
revelation. The physician lowered his voice. ‘But Gosse is a criminal!’

‘I
knew
you would react like this,’ said Tesdale, bitterly unhappy. ‘Why do you think I have been too scared to confide in you? I
should have kept it to myself, because now you despise me.’

‘I do not despise you,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘But I did think you had more sense.’

‘Gosse said he had just come into an inheritance, and had spare funds to lend students. Please do not look at me like that,
sir! Nor you, Valence. I did not know at the time that he was a felon, and that his “inheritance” was probably the proceeds
of his most recent burglary.’

‘I suppose he offered you a better rate than the other moneylenders,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘But you have since discovered
that his interest accumulates faster than you can pay it off?’

Tesdale looked defeated. ‘Wynewyk knew I was in trouble, which is why he got me the work at King’s Hall. It was dismal pay,
but enough to keep Gosse happy.’

‘Go to sleep,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I will try to think of a way to extricate you from this mess.’

‘Thank you,’ said Tesdale, although he did not look very relieved, and Bartholomew supposed he thought Gosse was more than
a match for a mere physician.

Dawn came early, with streaks of pale blue sky showing through the clouds. Bartholomew woke determined to leave Haverhill
immediately, but Tesdale proved difficult to prise out of bed. Cynric was about to resort to a jug of cold water when Luneday
arrived. The Withersfield man grinned as he announced that Elyan and d’Audley had both agreed to his proposal concerning the
disputed manor.

‘Oh, good,’ said Michael without enthusiasm. ‘We are leaving today, so we shall warn …
tell
Langelee to expect you.’

Luneday’s expression became sombre. ‘I would not recommend that, Brother. Robbers struck again last night – either the ones
who attacked you or others – and they killed a man. You should not travel in such a small party while they are at large. Wait
until tomorrow, and come with us.’

‘We cannot,’ objected Michael. ‘Important business clamours for our attention in Cambridge. Besides, an important debate is
scheduled for the day after tomorrow, and I cannot miss it.’

‘Well, it is your decision,’ said Luneday with a shrug, ‘but
I
would not want to meet these thieves with only three students for protection. Bartholomew and his servant may be able warriors,
but what good will they be, once they have been dispatched with arrows?’

‘Was he threatening us?’ asked Michael uncomfortably,
when Luneday had gone. ‘Because he does not want us to arrive first and inform Langelee that Michaelhouse is owed a herd
of pigs?’

‘I am not sure,’ replied Bartholomew, unsettled. ‘But perhaps we should wait until tomorrow.’

‘I thought you were even more keen to leave than I am,’ said Michael, turning to stare at him in astonishment. ‘But now you
advise kicking our heels in this miserable hole for another day?’

‘I
am
keen to leave, but we were almost killed yesterday. We may not be so lucky next time, and I do not want Cynric or the students
hurt, just because we want to go home. I think we should wait.’

While they spoke, Michael had been rifling through the blankets they had folded and piled at the end of the bed. ‘I cannot
find my cloak. Did I leave it at Elyan Manor?’

‘You did not wear it there – you said you did not need it when we went out, then complained about being cold all the way home.’

Michael’s expression hardened. ‘Of course I complained about being cold – I was being forced to wallow in icy water. Still,
at least I had the foresight to bring a change of clothes, unlike some I could mention. I did not bring a spare cloak, though,
so you had better help me find it.’

But a search revealed that the garment was not in the bedchamber, and the landlord informed the monk that if it had been left
in the tavern at some point, then it would be long gone. It was a fine item of clothing, he said, and it was not surprising
someone had taken a fancy to it.

Michael exaggerated a shiver as they stood in the marketplace. It promised to be warm that morning, and it was only later
in the day that there was predicted to be a drop
in temperature. ‘We do not need to worry about being shot at – I shall freeze to death first.’

‘There is Lady Agnys,’ said Bartholomew, nodding to where the old woman was struggling to dismount her horse. ‘Ask to borrow
one of hers – she is large and favours sober colours.’

Michael shot him a nasty look, then grumbled at Agnys about the theft before she could say so much as good morning. She listened
patiently.

‘You and I had better ride to Clare this morning,’ she said, as soon as she could insert a few words into the angry tirade,
‘and beg one from the Austin friars. We cannot have you catching a chill.’

‘If it is not safe to go to Cambridge, then it is not safe to go to Clare, either,’ said Bartholomew, when he saw the monk
seriously considering the offer.

‘We shall take guards,’ replied Agnys smoothly. ‘And there is another reason for visiting the priory. I promised you information
about your mysteries, and I have managed to find you some at last. An informant tells me that Carbo stayed with the Austins
around the time when his mother died. Perhaps they can tell you what made him lose his mind.’

‘This is too good an opportunity to miss, Matt,’ said Michael in a low voice. ‘We are sadly lacking in intelligence about
Carbo, and I would like to help Shropham. We shall be safe enough with her guards, and Clare is only a fraction of Cambridge’s
distance.’

‘A very big fraction,’ Bartholomew pointed out unhappily. But he could see the monk’s mind was made up. ‘I will fetch the
horses.’

‘Actually, I have a different task for you, Doctor,’ said Agnys, putting out her hand to stop him. ‘D’Audley has changed his
mind about going to Cambridge. He sincerely
believes that Luneday killed Neubold, and claims he is too frightened to be in his company. You must persuade him that even
the most brazen of murderers is not going to attack him in front of such a large deputation.’

‘Why would he listen to me?’ asked Bartholomew, not liking the notion that Michael was about to be whisked away without his
protection – especially with Agnys, about whom his feelings were ambiguous. On the one hand, he liked her well enough to confide
his feelings about Matilde, but on the other, he was unsure of her role in their various investigations.

‘He is more likely to heed you than Brother Michael, whom he considers a bully,’ replied Agnys baldly. ‘If he refuses to come,
no agreement will be reached, and we will be fighting each other and King’s Hall for years. This is our one chance for a peaceful
solution. Please help us.’

‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew reluctantly, feeling he had been skilfully manipulated. Why was Agnys so keen to get Michael
alone? And surely d’Audley would not have the courage to refuse a direct order from her, so why did
she
not persuade him to go to Cambridge?

‘Thank you,’ said Agnys, smiling. ‘And when you have done that, you can speak to Hilton about Joan. He said something last
night that made me wonder whether he knows some secret about her death. I would ask him myself, but I suspect he will be more
open with another man. He is always uneasy in my company – I frighten him, although I cannot imagine why. Hey, you! Come here!’

The last words were delivered in a bellow that brought the entire marketplace to a standstill, and several men raced towards
her, not sure whether the remark had been directed at them but unwilling to run the risk of ignoring
a summons. She selected three of the sturdiest and ordered them to lift her on to her horse. When she was up, she picked
another half-dozen, and set off with Michael riding at her side. The ‘guards’ trotted behind them, delighted to be paid for
a jaunt in the country, although Bartholomew wondered whether they would be quite so thrilled if they knew killers were at
large.

‘No,’ said d’Audley firmly, when the physician had tracked him down and explained what he had been ordered to do. ‘Luneday
knows it was me who told you about our arrangements with Wynewyk, and he will kill me if I set off on an open road with him.
He murdered Joan and Neubold, so he is getting a taste for dispatching those he thinks are in his way.’

‘How do you know he murdered Neubold?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Of course it was him! Neubold died at Withersfield, and you have already proved it was his woman who helped sneak the body
into Haverhill. But to get back to the crux of our discussion, I am
not
going to Cambridge, and that is that.’

‘But if you are not there to represent your interests, you may lose out. King’s Hall has some very clever lawyers, and they
may use your absence to disinherit you.’

D’Audley had started to stalk away, but Bartholomew’s words made him pause. ‘Then I shall travel a day later, with my own
guards.’

‘You may be too late,’ warned Bartholomew, knowing Langelee was unlikely to waste too much time on a matter that was not going
to benefit him or his College. ‘Our Master is not a man to dither over a verdict. Indeed, I would be surprised if he took
more than half a day.’

‘Honestly?’ asked d’Audley, narrowing his eyes. ‘You are not making it up?’

‘It is perfectly true. Have you ever heard of the Blood Relic debate? It is a scholastic dispute that has raged for centuries,
involving some of the finest thinkers in history. But Langelee went to a lecture on the subject, and had what he claimed was
a definitive answer within moments.’

‘Lord!’ exclaimed d’Audley, awed. ‘He must be brilliant!’

‘He makes quick decisions,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘It is not the same thing.’

‘I had better pack, then. But I shall rely on you to ensure Luneday does not stab me
en route
.’

‘Ride behind him,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Then you will be able to see what he is doing.’

When d’Audley had hurried away to make preparations for his journey, the physician walked to St Mary’s Church, where he found
Hilton tidying up after his morning devotions.

‘I thought you might visit today,’ said the priest with a wry smile. ‘I let slip something about Joan last night, and I had
a feeling Lady Agnys would send one of you to ask me about it. She knows I am terrified of her, and I imagine she hopes I
will be more forthcoming with a man.’

‘Were you Joan’s confessor?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Neubold was, although he was not very good at keeping regular hours, and I was often obliged to help those of his flock in
need of spiritual comfort. But I break no confidences by telling you that Joan was unhappy for a very long time. She desperately
wanted a baby, not just to give Elyan an heir, but because she loved children. She became a different person once she conceived
– joyous.’

‘Agnys said she was despondent for the last few weeks. Do you know why?’

Hilton frowned. ‘Yes and no. She was afraid for the safety of her child, and was terrified someone might harm it – a not unreasonable
concern given the inheritance issues surrounding Elyan Manor. However, I was under the impression that something had happened
recently to intensify her alarm. She never told me what, but it was almost certainly the cause of her sudden despondency.’

Bartholomew wondered how they could find out – it might answer a lot of questions about her death.
Did
Hilton know, and was lying when he said she had not told him? Bartholomew found he was not sure what to make of the priest’s
role in the affair. He turned to a slightly different subject.

‘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.’