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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘No doubt,’ agreed Luneday. ‘But he is locked in the barn, so cannot have come to stab you, even if he had been so inclined.’

  ‘You are right,’ said Michael. Bartholomew glanced sharply at him, bemused by the abrupt capitulation. ‘We are all tired. It must have been each other we encountered in the dark.’

  Luneday smiled thinly, then turned to William. ‘Relight the fire. Perhaps that will ease our guests’ minds. But it is late, and we all need to sleep if we are to do business in a rational manner tomorrow.’

  He left, taking his people with him, while William busied himself in the hearth. The steward made several snide remarks about leaving a lamp burning as well, lest the scholars were afraid of the dark, but eventually he went, too, and the Michaelhouse men were alone again.

  ‘We did not fight each other,’ said Cynric, eyeing the monk resentfully. ‘Someone was in here – I saw him haul open the door and hare off into the night. It was someone local, because he knew his way around, even though it is pitch black, both inside and out.’

  ‘I believe you,’ said Michael. ‘Which is why you five will sleep, while I stand the first watch. I shall wake Cynric in an hour. It should be easier now the fire is lit – we will be able to see.’

  ‘If you believe me, then why did you let Luneday think we imagined it?’ demanded Cynric, aggrieved. ‘Now he thinks we are cowards, frightened of our own shadows.’

  ‘I was being practical,’ replied Michael. ‘If we had pressed our point, he might have asked us to leave, and I do not want to be out in the dark while assassins lurk.’

  ‘I do not like Suffolk,’ declared Cynric sullenly. ‘It is a dangerous place.’

  The rest of the night passed uneventfully. Michael woke Cynric when he felt himself begin to drowse; then Cynric woke Valence and Risleye, they woke Tesdale, and Tesdale woke Bartholomew within moments on the grounds that no one would know how long he had been awake anyway.

  The physician opened a window shutter, and watched dawn steal across the fields. First, the sky turned from black to dark blue, then to violet. The landscape became full of grey shadows, which gradually resolved into trees, hedges, fences and buildings. There was no sign of the sun, hidden as it was behind a layer of cloud, but Bartholomew felt better once the night was over at last.

  He roused the others when he heard Luneday and Margery stirring above, and walked outside. The air was fresh, full of the scent of wet grass and damp earth. A sheep bleated in the distance, and he could hear the gurgle of the nearby brook. It was a pleasant, almost idyllic scene, and he began to wonder whether he had imagined the botched attack of the night before. Then he touched his hand to his head, where a fist had landed, and felt a tenderness that told him it had been all too real.

  He returned to the house, where he and his companions were given slices of cold oatmeal to dip in beakers of cream, and goblets of sweet ale to wash it down. Once they had broken their fast, Michael apologised to Luneday for the disturbance they had caused. Luneday was all smiles, and seemed more than happy to forget the incident. He rubbed his hands together energetically.

  ‘Now,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I can interest you in a tour of my piggeries?’

  Michael hesitated, not enthusiastic about a venture that would consume valuable time, yet realising it was an opportunity to resume his questions about the five marks. But before he could reply, there was a commotion in the yard outside. The racket grew louder, until the door was thrown open and William burst in, a horde of villagers at his heels.

  ‘Did you release Neubold this morning?’ he demanded. ‘He is not where we left him.’

  Luneday was unconcerned. ‘He has probably hidden in the hay, to give you the impression he has escaped. It will delight him to think he has deceived you, so do not bray too loudly about—’

  ‘We searched the barn from top to bottom,’ interrupted William. ‘With dogs. He is not there. However, Margery visited Haverhill last night, after we were all abed. I do not suppose she mentioned the fact that we had him here, did she? Let folk know he was in need of rescue?’

  Luneday’s eyes narrowed. ‘How do you know my woman went to Haverhill?’

  ‘Horses make a noise, even when their riders keep to the verges.’ William glared at Margery. ‘When I heard hoofs, I looked out of my window and I saw her.’

  Luneday sighed as he turned to Margery. ‘I thought we had agreed that these nocturnal forays would stop. Either you stay in Withersfield with me, or you go back to your old life in Haverhill with your husband the gatekeeper. You cannot have both.’

  Margery scowled, and gave the impression she would have both if she wanted to. ‘I may have left Withersfield for a while.’ She shot William a black look. ‘I like to ride at night. It is invigorating.’

  ‘Did you take this invigorating ride to Haverhill?’ demanded William coldly. ‘And while you were there, did you happen to mention that we had one of their parish priests under lock and key?’

  ‘It may have slipped into a conversation,’ replied Margery defensively. ‘I do not recall.’

  ‘What could take her to Haverhill in the depths of the night?’ asked Michael, more of himself than of the community at large. His comment was heard, however, and William answered.

  ‘She likes to visit her grandchildren – her son’s brats. But her husband is gatekeeper, so getting into Haverhill without him seeing her is virtually impossible. However, he is less vigilant after dark.’

  Margery sidled towards Luneday, pointedly ignoring the steward. ‘I only do it to avoid unpleasant confrontations,’ she whined ingratiatingly, taking his arm. ‘And I was lonely for the children.’

  ‘Who did you talk to?’ demanded Luneday, freeing his hand impatiently. ‘Who might have come to set Neubold free?’

  ‘Well, I met d’Audley and Hilton,’ admitted Margery reluctantly. ‘They had been working on the deeds to the chantry chapel. But I do not think the news of Neubold’s detention excited their interest.’

  ‘Yes, but d’Audley would not have kept such a fact to himself,’ said Luneday bitterly. ‘By dawn, everyone in Haverhill would have known one of their priests had been incarcerated by us. Haverhill must have mounted a rescue mission, and come to take him back.’

  ‘Almost certainly – but I do not think he was grateful for their trouble,’ said William grimly. ‘There is hay everywhere, as though there was a fight.’

  ‘He made a mess to spite you,’ said Margery, shooting William a look to indicate she thought him stupid. ‘Why should he sit quietly all night when he could avenge himself with mischief?’

  Bartholomew listened to their quarrel, and thought visiting children in the middle of the night was a peculiar thing to do. But it did not seem a good time to say so.

  ‘Did you pass through the hall in order to leave?’ he asked instead, recalling Cynric’s contention that the door had been opened and shut constantly before the attack.

  ‘Of course,’ Margery replied. ‘It is the only way out. But if you are wondering why you did not hear me, it is because I know where to step so the floorboards do not creak. I tried not to disturb you.’

  ‘She is probably telling the truth,’ whispered Cynric in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘I assumed people needed the latrines, and thought nothing of all these comings and goings – until someone crept towards the spot where we were sleeping.’

  ‘Will you tell Master Langelee about me?’ asked Luneday, when Michael, who had had enough of Withersfield, stood to leave. ‘I like the sound of this fine philosopher who knows his pigs.’

  ‘I certainly shall,’ promised the monk. It sounded like a threat. ‘We hope to finish our business today and be home by this evening, so he will know all about you by tonight.’

  ‘Ah, yes, your business,’ said Margery. ‘You did not explain it last night. Will you tell us now?’

  ‘Willingly,’ replied Michael. Bartholomew wondered why she was so keen to know – she had asked several times for details. ‘We are here to reas
sess agreements made between our College and three Suffolk traders. Wynewyk negotiated them, but he is dead, so they are invalid.’

  Bartholomew watched Luneday intently, to see what he would make of this claim, but the lord of the manor gave nothing away.

  ‘How curious,’ Luneday said. ‘I assumed you were here about the chantry.’

  ‘Alneston Chantry,’ elaborated William, when the monk regarded Luneday blankly. He sighed when his ‘explanation’ failed to illuminate the matter. ‘You must know what we are talking about.’

  ‘Well, I do not,’ said Michael irritably.

  ‘Really?’ asked Luneday. ‘You are not here to challenge d’Audley’s hold on it? We heard a Cambridge College was contesting his tenure – allegedly one called King’s Hall, but who trusts rumours? – and I assumed that was why you made this long and arduous journey.’

  ‘We know nothing of any chantry,’ said Michael. He started to leave, but then turned when he reached the door. ‘And you are sure Wynewyk never came to do business with you, Master Luneday? I am sure he described your magnificent chimney when he returned home.’

  ‘If he mentioned my chimney, then he admired it from afar, because I have never met him.’

  Michael persisted. ‘He was a small fellow, neat and clean. And he may have used one of his other names when he introduced himself. It sounds odd, I know, but it was a habit of his.’

  ‘I have never met anyone from Cambridge,’ said Luneday. He started to gather his belongings – cloak, hat, dagger and a heavy belt to carry it on – in readiness for an expedition outdoors. ‘Visit me again, if you are interested in pigs. They are all for sale with the exception of Lizzie.’

  Having been dismissed, Bartholomew and Michael followed Luneday outside. A number of folk milled around the barn, and Bartholomew paused to peer inside it. William was right: it looked as though a skirmish had taken place. Hay had been scattered, and several farming implements lay on the ground. There was, however, no sign that blood had been spilled. Perhaps Margery was right, and Neubold had made a mess for spite. It was not the sort of behaviour usually associated with priests, but Neubold had not seemed like a man particularly devoted to his vocation.

  ‘This is a dismal start,’ said Michael, as they rode away. ‘I was not expecting Luneday to hand us five marks with a smile and a blessing, but I hoped our questions would elicit some answers. We learned nothing from our night in Withersfield, except for the fact that we need to be on our guard.’

  ‘Perhaps that is your answer,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘We were attacked because Luneday does have our money and he is not keen on giving it back.’

  Michael nodded slowly. ‘I cannot escape the feeling that there is something very odd and very dangerous going on here. And that it most definitely involves Michaelhouse’s thirty marks.’

  Blue patches were showing through the clouds by the time the deputation from Cambridge left Withersfield. They rode along a pleasant track that eventually descended into a wide, shallow valley. A stream meandered across water meadows that were fringed by ancient oaks. Tesdale was unusually quiet, and tearfully admitted to dreaming about Wynewyk the previous night – that he was still alive, and had asked him to mind his classes while he went to the castle.

  ‘Wynewyk would not have asked you to help,’ scoffed Risleye, before Bartholomew could say it was normal to dream about the recently dead. ‘He would have hired his own students.’

  ‘You are wrong,’ declared Valence. ‘He knew Tesdale and I were short of money, so he often passed small tasks our way. He was a good man, and I wish he had not died. He was too young.’

  ‘It is something you will have to get used to, if you are going to be a physician,’ said Risleye unfeelingly. ‘Death will be our constant companion once we are qualified.’

  Bartholomew was unsettled by the bleak remark. ‘It becomes easier with time,’ he said kindly to the other two, although he did not add that it was not by much. ‘The secret is to concentrate on helping the patient, rather than railing against matters over which you have no control.’

  ‘I should have stopped him from laughing so heartily,’ said Tesdale miserably. ‘Or warned him that eating four slices of almond cake was too much.’

  Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. ‘He had four pieces? That is a lot.’

  ‘Especially for a man who tended to cough and gasp when he swallowed nuts,’ said Valence. ‘He must have been so amused by the debate that he did not realise what he was doing. He had his own piece, then he devoured the three that Thelnetham set aside for himself, Clippesby and Michael.’

  ‘Thelnetham put them close to Wynewyk deliberately,’ asserted Risleye. ‘I saw him. He knew Wynewyk had wolfed his own, and it was a taunt – that others still had theirs to enjoy.’

  ‘Thelnetham is not like that,’ cried Valence. ‘What is wrong with you?’

  ‘Actually, Thelnetham is like that,’ countered Tesdale. ‘He can be very cruel. Well, he is a lawyer, so what do you expect?’

  While he and Risleye continued to attack the Gilbertine, and Valence struggled to defend him, Bartholomew considered what had been said about Wynewyk. His colleague had always been careful about avoiding nuts. Was it significant that he had thrown caution to the wind at the exact same time that Langelee had revealed the inconsistencies in the accounts? Could Wynewyk really have forced himself to eat four slices of cake, in the full knowledge of what would happen to him? Bartholomew rubbed his eyes. Why had Wynewyk not come to him for help? He was sure they could have worked together to devise a solution to whatever predicament he had embroiled himself in.

  He realised with a guilty start that he was allowing Michael’s convictions to influence him – that he was starting to believe Wynewyk had done something wrong. Of course, it was not unreasonable, because the evidence was certainly mounting up. But then an image of Wynewyk’s face swam into his mind, and he felt ashamed for doubting the man who had been his friend.

  ‘Ignore them, Matt,’ said Michael, assuming the physician’s unhappy expression was a result of the increasingly acrimonious squabble that was taking place between the students. ‘One will kill the others soon, and then you will not have to intervene in their childish spats.’

  ‘Do not say such things,’ snapped Bartholomew. He saw Michael’s startled look, and relented. ‘I am sorry, Brother, but death in Michaelhouse is not a joke. Wynewyk’s is hard enough to cope with.’

  ‘Then we shall talk about something else. Who do you think attacked us last night?’

  Bartholomew was not sure this was a topic he would have chosen to cheer a despondent colleague, but it was better than thinking about Wynewyk.

  ‘Neubold?’ he suggested. ‘He escaped, then decided to avenge himself on the men who saw him incarcerated in the first place?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Michael. ‘He was annoyed with us, but not murderously so. Besides, I doubt he is man enough to invade the home of his enemy and spit six men in their beds.’

  Bartholomew listed his other suspects. ‘Luneday was wearing a strange combination of nightshift and boots when he came to see what was wrong, while Margery’s midnight jaunt to visit children was odd, to say the least. And she was suspiciously determined to discover the purpose of our visit.’

  ‘But she said the only way out of the manor house was through the hall. And she and Luneday came from upstairs when we raised the alarm. Our would-be killer had fled outside at that point.’

  ‘She said it was the only exit,’ replied Bartholomew with a shrug. ‘Why should we believe her? And I am not sure what to make of William the steward, either, or those vengeful villagers. As far as I am concerned, any of them could have come after us with a sharp knife.’

  Michael rubbed his chin. ‘Meanwhile, Luneday denies knowing Wynewyk, but I am not sure he is telling the truth. And five marks is a lot of money.’

  ‘It is,’ agreed Cynric. Neither scholar had known he was listening, and his voice made them jump. ‘There are those
who would kill an entire village for less.’

  ‘Then let us hope none of them live in Haverhill,’ said Michael feelingly.

  ‘What shall we do first?’ asked Michael, when they had ridden in silence for a while. ‘Go to see Elyan, who was paid eighteen marks for coal? Visit d’Audley, who was paid seven marks for timber? Or simply stroll into Haverhill and see what might be learned by chatting to the locals?’

  ‘The latter,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘You had no success dangling Wynewyk’s name in front of Luneday, so there is no reason to think these other two lordlings will be any different.’

  ‘What are those?’ asked Michael suddenly, pointing to several mounds of soil in the distance. ‘They look like earthworks – the kind thrown up around a castle to act as additional defences.’

  ‘It must be the colliery,’ replied Cynric. ‘Elyan sells coal in Cambridge, do not forget.’

  ‘I cannot imagine there is coal here,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘It is not the right kind of landscape, for a start, and there is no sign of black dust in the ground.’

  ‘But he must get it from somewhere,’ Michael pointed out. ‘And I am sure I can see a dark streak in the exposed rock – it is next to that little hut.’

  ‘You are right,’ said Cynric, standing in his stirrups for a better view. ‘I can see two men with pickaxes, and about six others lounging around talking to each other. It must be the mine.’

  Bartholomew did not argue, but he remained sceptical: he had been in coal country, and it was different from west Suffolk. But they had reached the outskirts of Haverhill, and he soon forgot minerals as he looked with interest at the houses they passed. Most were large, well-built and handsome, and it seemed there was money in the area. The main road led to a vast triangle of open land in the village’s centre, which appeared to be a market. It was overlooked by a large church. Nearby was a ramshackle little building with a bell-cote. A second street wound up a hill, on which stood a smaller church and another cluster of cottages.