A Vein Of Deceit: The Fifteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘Carbo is not a thief,’ objected Neubold stiffly. ‘And neither am I.’

  ‘There,’ murmured Michael in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘Cynric was right to notice the similarity between this man and Carbo. They are siblings.’

  ‘No?’ Margery was demanding. ‘Then who stole Hilton’s spare habit?’

  ‘You bought him a lovely new one,’ snapped Neubold. ‘So Carbo actually did Hilton a favour.’

  ‘Is your brother a Dominican?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to sound casual.

  Margery’s laughter was spiteful. ‘Carbo wanted to become a priest when he finished working here, but the Dominicans would not have him. Nor would any Order.’

  ‘That does not say much for his character,’ Michael muttered, while William and Luneday exchanged an uncomfortable glance: evidently, Margery’s tongue was too sharp for their liking. ‘The Black Friars accept virtually anyone, and the fact that they drew the line at Carbo tells us a lot.’

  ‘Where is Carbo these days?’ asked Luneday with a sudden frown. ‘I have not seen him in ages.’

  ‘Neither have I,’ replied Neubold shortly. ‘But I have been away on important business in Cambridge. However, I am sure he will reappear when he hears I am home again.’

  ‘Actually,’ began Tesdale helpfully. ‘Carbo is the man who Shropham—’

  ‘Does your mother live in Withersfield, Neubold?’ interrupted Bartholomew, saying the first thing that came into his head. He did not want the priest to learn about his brother’s death in such circumstances – it would be kinder to break the news when they were alone.

  Neubold regarded him askance. ‘What a curious question! She died almost two years ago. Carbo took it badly – it was what caused him to lose his post as steward here. He loved her very much.’

  ‘Yes, but I could only be expected to tolerate his negligence for so long,’ said Luneday. He sounded defensive, as if dismissing Carbo had been a difficult decision. ‘He did no work for months, and had plenty of warnings. I had no choice but to give William his job.’

  ‘I will sue you for it,’ declared Neubold. ‘There is bound to be some statute forbidding shabby treatment of stewards, and I shall find it. I will have your fine pig in compensation for—’

  ‘Get him out of my sight,’ said Luneday to William. ‘I am tired of his bleating. Lock him in the barn, where we will not be able to hear him.’

  Not surprisingly, Neubold did not go quietly. ‘You cannot lock me up,’ he yelled. ‘I am a priest!’

  ‘Then where is your habit?’ demanded William. He smirked. ‘But we know the answer to that: you cannot steal a pig wearing priestly robes, so you dispensed with them, and donned a disguise.’

  Neubold’s face was black with anger, suggesting there was at least some truth in the accusation. He was still objecting as he was dragged around to the back of the house, and his enraged howls remained quite audible for some time after.

  CHAPTER 7

  The inside of Withersfield Manor was as neat and pleasant as its outside. There was a huge hall on the ground floor, with two chambers for sleeping above it – one for Luneday and his woman, and one for their servants. The stone floor was strewn with rushes, and the walls had been painted with hunting scenes. A fire blazed merrily in the hearth, large enough for all to enjoy its warmth. Cynric and the students retreated to the far side, where the book-bearer honed his sword and entertained Valence, Risleye and Tesdale with yet another account of Poitiers.

  ‘Withersfield is a jewel in the Suffolk countryside,’ boasted Luneday, as he handed goblets of mulled wine to Bartholomew and Michael. The brew was rough, but the scholars were cold and thirsty, so did not mind. ‘Of course, you do not need me to tell you that, since you have ridden through it. You will already have seen that it is a foretaste of Heaven.’

  ‘You have not told us your business in the area, Brother,’ said Margery, more inclined to fish for information than to dispense it. ‘Why have you come all this way?’

  Bartholomew glanced at Michael, and saw him consider his options: launch into an enquiry about the five marks Wynewyk was supposed to have given Luneday, or wait until morning. The wrong questions might cause Luneday to take umbrage and order them to leave – and the weather was worsening. But postponing the matter might mean an opportunity lost and never regained.

  ‘My College has done business with Haverhill for years,’ began Michael, evidently deciding to put duty before comfort. ‘Coal, timber, pigs—’

  ‘Pigs?’ echoed Luneday, raising his eyebrows. ‘Haverhill cannot have sold you pigs, for they do not own any worth mentioning. Are you sure about this?’

  ‘No,’ said Michael. ‘A colleague named Wynewyk made the arrangements, but he is dead.’

  Bartholomew was watching Luneday closely, but the lord of Withersfield Manor showed no spark of recognition at Wynewyk’s name. A fleeting frown crossed Margery’s face, but the physician could not tell whether it was significant, or whether she was merely searching her memory.

  ‘I am sorry to hear that,’ said Luneday. His tone was bland, impossible to interpret. ‘However, if he bought pigs from Haverhill, then perhaps it is just as well – he cannot have been a sensible man.’

  ‘How about if he had done business with Withersfield?’ asked Michael innocently.

  Luneday smiled again. ‘Then he would have been very wise.’

  ‘Our Master, Ralph de Langelee, is always telling us that Withersfield is the only place to come for pigs,’ Michael went on, pushing the matter further. ‘It is a pity Wynewyk did not listen to him.’

  ‘It is indeed,’ agreed Luneday. He smiled again. ‘But I like the sound of this Langelee.’

  ‘He is a great philosopher and a man of outstanding wisdom.’ Michael faltered when Bartholomew choked into his wine. The physician was glad the students were not within earshot; they would have laughed openly, thinking the monk was making a joke.

  ‘Then he should have come to trade in person,’ said Luneday, standing to pound on the physician’s back. He banged rather harder than was necessary, and Bartholomew was not sure whether Luneday was just a naturally vigorous person, or whether it was revenge for Michael’s sly probing. ‘Your Wynewyk does not seem to have been capable – not if he went to Haverhill.’

  Michael pretended to look thoughtful. ‘Do you know, I think Wynewyk did tell me came here. I distinctly recall him mentioning a chimney. And I am sure he said he spent five marks on pigs.’

  ‘Five marks is a lot of hog,’ said Luneday, sitting again when Bartholomew had recovered his breath. ‘I do not recall Wynewyk, though. Are there documents to substantiate his claim?’

  ‘Not that we have found. It must have been a gentleman’s agreement – five marks given on the understanding that the contract would be honoured by men of decency and principle.’

  ‘It is getting late,’ said Margery with a yawn. ‘And we retire early here, because there is so much to be done in the fields – not that I labour, of course. I prefer to stay inside and have my hair dyed.’

  Luneday jumped to his feet again. ‘My woman is right. We all need our sleep, and you look tired, Brother. The maid will bring you bedding, and we shall bid you goodnight.’

  Michael’s smile was pained, but there was no way he could force Luneday to stay and answer questions. He nodded his thanks, and watched the lord of the manor and his woman disappear up the stairs. There was a short delay as a maid hunted for spare blankets and straw-filled mattresses, then she followed her master’s example and went to bed, too. It was not long before the house was silent.

  ‘I am not sure what to think,’ said Bartholomew, removing some of his clothes and setting them to dry by the fire. Cynric and the students were examining the bedding, paying no attention to the discussion between physician and monk. Risleye was agreeing with Cynric that everything was damp and smelled of mould; Tesdale was declaring that he did not care and just wanted to lie down; and Valence said he was grateful just to have a roof over his he
ad. ‘Was Luneday lying about not knowing Wynewyk?’

  ‘I could not tell,’ said Michael. He frowned. ‘But do you remember what Risleye said about meeting Wynewyk in Babraham when he should have been visiting his father?’

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘Are you thinking that Risleye caught Wynewyk returning from Suffolk – that he did come here to buy pigs from Luneday?’

  ‘Yes. He paid Risleye to keep the encounter quiet, which is suspicious in itself. Ergo, I suspect he came in person to facilitate these arrangements – he would not have done it in writing, as the transactions were illegal. He was a lawyer, and knew better than to leave a document trail.’

  ‘The transactions were not illegal,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘They are inexplicable, which is not the same thing. However, you may be right about his travels – perhaps he did come here. If so, then maybe he used another name. That would explain why Luneday did not recognise “Wynewyk”.’

  ‘It is possible, although you should bear in mind that men engaged in legitimate business do not feel the need for such subterfuge. Of course, we must also remember that Wynewyk may have chosen these names randomly – that Luneday, Elyan and d’Audley are innocent of any wrongdoing.’

  ‘Wynewyk is innocent of wrongdoing,’ persisted Bartholomew doggedly.

  ‘How can you still think that?’ asked Michael wonderingly. ‘He tried to kill Langelee, he sent letters to noblemen offering to sell them diamonds, and he cheated your College. It is not as if it is just one dubious incident here, Matt – it is several, and they do not add up to anything pleasant.’

  ‘That is because we still do not have the whole picture, and it is leading you to premature conclusions. However, there are a lot of connections between these Suffolk men and Cambridge. Something is going on – and it is bigger than Wynewyk.’

  Michael regarded him soberly. ‘I hope you will not be too devastated when you learn your faith in him is misplaced. But we should not discuss this tonight, when neither of us has new evidence with which to sway the other. We will only quarrel, and I am too weary for a spat.’

  Bartholomew was only too happy to oblige. ‘Perhaps we should talk about Carbo instead.’

  Michael winced. ‘Perhaps we should not – it is too depressing. We still know nothing about him.’

  ‘Nonsense, Brother! We have learned that the death of a much-loved parent lost him his post as Luneday’s steward. And we know he was no priest – his Dominican habit was stolen property. Tomorrow, I shall ask Neubold how his brother came by the injury to his head – the one I think was responsible for his odd demeanour.

  I said the scarring looked as if the wound had been inflicted in the last two years or so, and—’

  ‘And his mother died a little less than two years ago,’ finished Michael. ‘How do you think he came to be hurt? An accident? He was a steward, and we all know agriculture is a dangerous business.’

  Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Who knows? The possibilities are endless – a fall, a kick from a horse, being struck with something heavy, either accidentally or deliberately. That is why we need to ask Neubold. Are you going to tell him his brother is dead?’

  ‘We must, so he can go to Cambridge and retrieve the body, otherwise it will end up in the Dominican cemetery. Of course, Carbo might not have minded that, given that he wanted to enrol.’

  ‘What was he doing in Cambridge, do you think? What drew him there?’

  ‘I have no idea. It is yet another of these curious coincidences that keep cropping up in this case. They are beginning to be aggravating, so let us hope tomorrow brings some solutions.’

  ‘Be careful how you go about getting them, Brother,’ said Bartholomew uneasily. ‘I cannot say why exactly, but I do not feel safe here.’

  Because the inhabitants of Withersfield Manor retired so early – far earlier than Bartholomew went to bed in Cambridge, even during winter – he had no idea what time it was when he woke later. It was still pitch black, and not even the merest glimmer of light came from under the window shutters. The fire had burned out, so he supposed several hours had passed. He lay in the darkness trying to determine whether the vague patterns he could see on the ceiling were the rafters or his imagination.

  ‘Did that noise wake you?’ Cynric’s low voice so close to his ear made him jump. There was a faint hiss of steel as the book-bearer drew his sword. ‘Someone is prowling, edging ever closer to us.’

  Bartholomew lay still, straining his ears for anything out of the ordinary. All he could hear was Michael’s wet breathing and a strangled moan that told him Tesdale was in the grip of one of his dreams. Then there was a slight rustle to his left, as if a mouse or a rat was scavenging in the rushes. Outside, an owl hooted, and another answered from a distance. He raised himself on one elbow and peered around the hall, although it was far too dark to see anything.

  ‘You must have imagined it,’ he whispered. ‘Or perhaps someone is moving about upstairs.’

  He reached out to the place where Cynric’s voice had been, but the Welshman had moved, and the physician’s groping hand met nothing but empty air. He sat up and widened his search. He encountered an arm.

  ‘I have a candle in my saddlebag,’ called Cynric softly from across the hall. ‘I shall light it.’

  Bartholomew froze as the arm was wrenched away. The limb had been too small for Michael, and too well-muscled to have been Risleye or Valence. Meanwhile, he could still hear Tesdale dreaming.

  ‘Who are you?’ he demanded, clambering hastily to his feet. His voice was loud, and he was aware of Michael and the students snapping into wakefulness. ‘Who is there?’

  He sensed, rather than saw, someone lunge at him, using his voice as a beacon. He jerked away, and tripped over the mattress he had been using. The other person stumbled, too, and Bartholomew heard a faint thud as something was dropped on the floor. The physician staggered upright again, waving his arms in front of him like a blind man. His flailing hands encountered a cloak.

  ‘Cynric!’ he yelled urgently, fingers tightening around it. ‘I have him.’

  He did not have him for long, however. A fist caught him on the side of the head, and for a few moments he could not decide whether the lights he saw dancing in front of his eyes were real or imagined. The breath went out of him as he hit the floor. Michael started to shout, and Cynric began crashing about furiously on the other side of the room. Bartholomew struggled into a sitting position, and thought he could see a dim rectangle of light in the distance. Then Valence managed to light a candle, and its little flame filled the hall with eerily dancing shadows.

  Michael and Risleye had apparently encountered each other in the darkness, and the monk had the student in a throttling grip. Cynric was near the hearth, while Tesdale was still in bed. Valence was kneeling on the floor, holding the candle aloft with a fearful expression on his face. The main door to the manor stood open, and a cold wind snaked through the rushes on the floor. Whoever it was that Cynric had heard, and that Bartholomew had come so close to catching, had fled.

  The commotion had roused their hosts, and it was not many moments before Luneday and Margery came clattering down the stairs. Their servants appeared, too, bringing lanterns. The light illuminated a dagger that lay on the floor near Bartholomew’s feet, and the physician supposed the intruder had lost it during the scuffle – he had certainly heard something fall. It was a long, wicked-looking thing, with a blade honed to a murderous sharpness.

  Cynric was suddenly nowhere to be seen, and Bartholomew realised he had gone outside to hunt for their would-be assailant. He started to follow, but his legs were unsteady, and he had not taken many steps before he was obliged to seek the support of a wall.

  ‘What is the matter?’ demanded Luneday. He wore a long nightgown and hefty boots. ‘Are all Cambridge men in the habit of waking their hosts by screeching in the depths of the night?’

  ‘Someone attacked us,’ shouted Michael furiously, pointing to the knife. ‘We are lucky Cynric was alert, or
we would have been murdered where we lay.’

  ‘No one tried to kill you!’ exclaimed Luneday in disbelief. ‘This is Suffolk – we do not go around slaughtering people here.’

  Cynric appeared, shaking his head in disgust. ‘There is no moon, and the clouds are thick. I could not see well enough to track him.’

  ‘Track whom?’ demanded Margery. ‘There is no one here, other than us.’

  ‘Someone came while we were asleep,’ said Cynric with quiet conviction. ‘He fled when he saw we were going to be more of a challenge than he anticipated.’

  ‘You imagined it,’ said William, who had arrived with the servants, yellow hair awry. ‘Being in a strange place made you restless, and you dreamt someone was in here.’

  ‘One of you was certainly whimpering and moaning,’ said Margery. ‘I could hear him from upstairs, and I am not surprised he disturbed the rest of you.’

  ‘Then how do you explain the knife?’ asked Michael coldly. ‘We are not imagining that.’

  ‘We do not change the rushes very often,’ admitted Luneday. ‘It could have been there for ages.’

  ‘Someone came in from outside,’ insisted Cynric. ‘It caused a draught, which woke me. In fact, the door has been opening and shutting all night, and it has been difficult to get any rest at all.’

  ‘Not so!’ cried Luneday indignantly. ‘We keep the door closed after dark, and no one wanders anywhere. Why would they, when it is cold and wet outside, but warm and cosy in here?’

  ‘And more to the point, why would anyone attack you?’ asked Margery. ‘Apart from the good Brother’s handsome cloak, you have nothing a thief could possibly want.’

  ‘There are motives for attack besides robbery, madam,’ said Michael stiffly.

  ‘Such as what?’ demanded Luneday. ‘I was under the impression that you are strangers here. If that is the case, then how can you have acquired enemies?’

  ‘There is Neubold,’ Michael pointed out. ‘He was not pleased when we let William put him under arrest, and he almost certainly hates us for it.’