‘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 mig
ht 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.’
The Master was presiding over the assembly. He toyed restlessly with his sceptre, a hefty piece of brassware that symbolised his authority: it was tapped on the table in front of him to announce the beginning and end of official gatherings. Suttone and Hemmysby, who sat nearest to him, flinched as it was tossed recklessly from hand to hand, while Thelnetham had already moved, making it clear he was not going to be brained by Langelee’s agitated fidgeting. Meanwhile, Clippesby was more interested in the hedgehog in his lap than in anything his colleagues were saying, and Bartholomew was struggling to stay awake after spending so much of the previous night with patients.
‘Why must we hide what Wynewyk did, Brother?’ asked Hemmysby, calm and reasonable. ‘What can be gained from dissembling? Surely it is better to be truthful?’
‘Being truthful would make us a laughing stock for trusting our coffers to a villain,’ Michael pointed out tartly. ‘The other Colleges would never let us forget our gullibility.’
‘That is true,’ agreed Suttone. ‘No good can come out of making this public.’
‘Wynewyk did one decent thing, though,’ said Thelnetham. ‘He died – he fell on his sword, as the Romans would have said. Of course, it would have been polite to leave us with an explanation.’
‘Wynewyk was not a thief,’ said Bartholomew, for at least the fourth time since the meeting had started. Clippesby nodded agreement, but the others merely rolled their eyes or shook their heads. ‘I cannot imagine why you are all so ready to condemn him.’
‘We are ready to condemn him because the evidence says we should,’ snapped Thelnetham. ‘I do not think I have ever encountered a more clear-cut case of a man defrauding his friends.’
‘Thelnetham is right, Matt,’ said Michael, more kindly. ‘Wynewyk’s death is convenient for all concerned. It means he is not obliged to suffer our hurt indignation, and we are free to deal with his crimes as we see fit – which is by ensuring that no one outside this room ever comes to hear about them. It sounds callous, but his demise is a blessing in many ways.’
Bartholomew tried not to look at La
ngelee. The Master’s previous life as the Archbishop of York’s henchman meant he was used to finding permanent solutions to sticky problems, and while there was no evidence that he had taken matters into his own hands, Bartholomew did not understand why – or even how – Wynewyk had died, and was confused and unhappy about the whole affair.
Unfortunately, Langelee guessed what he was thinking, and an offended expression crossed his face. ‘You suspect I had something to do with his end! Well, I did not. If I had, we would not be sitting here talking about his misdeeds, because you would know nothing about them – I would have kept them from you, so you would never know I had a motive for his murder.’
Thelnetham frowned as he tried to grasp the convoluted logic. He shrugged when he found he could not, and turned to Bartholomew. ‘I do not think the Master harmed Wynewyk, Matthew – not when he has the most to lose from this death.’
Langelee’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘I do? And why is that, pray?’
‘Because you are the one who gave him the keys to our coffers. Now he is roasting in Hell, you bear the responsibility for what he did – his wicked betrayal of our College.’
Langelee scowled, and the sceptre was tossed a little higher. ‘As I recall, we all voted for him to take over the finances. It was a joint decision.’
‘Yes, but it was on the understanding that he would discuss everything with you first,’ said Michael. ‘By relinquishing all control, as you did, you virtually invited him to defraud us.’
‘I disagree,’ said Bartholomew hastily, seeing Langelee’s face darken. ‘We all trusted Wynewyk, and I still think we were right to do so. There will be an explanation—’
‘Oh, there will be an explanation,’ interrupted Thelnetham bitterly. ‘And I can tell you what it is right now: Wynewyk was a greedy dog who feathered his own nest at our expense.’
‘Then where is the money?’ demanded Bartholomew, resenting the fact that Thelnetham was so eager to condemn Wynewyk; he was, after all, the Fellow who had known him for the least amount of time. ‘It is not in his room, because you have all searched it.’
A Vein Of Deceit: The Fifteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 16
