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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘The place on the rise must be the Upper Church,’ said Bartholomew, recalling what William had told them the previous day. ‘Neubold’s parish. And that half-derelict place below must be the Alneston Chantry – which Luneday thought we were going to try to wrest from d’Audley.’

  ‘Well, it is all very pretty,’ said Michael, barely looking to where the physician was pointing. ‘But we are not here to admire the scenery: we are here to retrieve our money. What is this?’

  His progress was impeded by a fence that stretched across the road. There was a gate in the middle, but it was closed. As his horse skittered about in confusion, a small, well-dressed man emerged from a pleasant little cottage to one side.

  ‘I am Gatekeeper Folyat,’ he announced without inflection, as if he recited the words many times a day. ‘State your intentions and purpose.’

  ‘Folyat?’ asked Michael, raising his eyebrows. ‘There is a name I have heard before. Are you the Gatekeeper Folyat who was once wed to Margery of Withersfield?’

  Folyat’s eyes narrowed. ‘No. I am the Gatekeeper Folyat who is wed to Margery. And she is not of Withersfield, but of Haverhill. She thinks our union will be annulled one day, so she can marry that adulterous Luneday, but it will be over my dead body. However, my marital status is none of your concern. I asked what you wanted in our village.’

  ‘Jugs,’ lied Michael. ‘We may be interested in purchasing some.’

  ‘Three pennies, then,’ said Folyat. ‘Or a chicken. I have no strong feelings one way or the other, so do not trouble yourselves on my account.’

  ‘But we intend to spend money here,’ objected Michael. ‘Why should we pay for the privilege?’

  ‘Because everyone else does,’ replied Folyat. ‘Roads are expensive to maintain, so why should you ride about on them without donating something towards their upkeep?’

  ‘No wonder this is a wealthy place,’ muttered Michael resentfully. He rummaged for the requisite number of pennies. ‘You will have to accept coins, I am afraid – I left my poultry at home.’

  Folyat counted the money. ‘Are you only interested in jugs or do you have other business? If yes, I may be able to point you in the right direction, especially if you have come to arrange a slaughter.’

  ‘A slaughter?’ echoed Michael warily, eyes narrowed.

  ‘By our butchers,’ explained Folyat. ‘They are famous for taking a herd of cattle and rendering it down into easily portable lumps.’

  ‘Lord!’ breathed Michael. ‘We had better remember that.’ He cleared his throat and spoke a little more loudly. ‘We may also buy some fuel – coal or wood.’

  ‘You are interested in Elyan’s mine, are you? Did you see it as you rode in? The seam was only discovered in the summer, but Elyan believes it will make him very wealthy, even though it is small. Still, a commodity is a commodity, as my wife always likes to say.’

  Without conscious thought, Bartholomew and Michael headed for the nearer of the two churches – the large one in the marketplace that Folyat told them was dedicated to St Mary the Virgin. Travellers were expected to give thanks when they arrived safely at their destination, so it was not an unusual thing to be doing. But more pertinent to Michaelhouse’s thirty marks was the possibility that a garrulous priest might be there, or the kind of parishioner who liked to gossip. It would not be the first time the scholars had gleaned important information from places of worship.

  As they drew closer, they saw St Mary’s was being treated to some building work. A new three-storey tower had been raised, while the nave and chancel were in the process of being beautified. The end result promised to be magnificent – imposing as well as elegant. Bartholomew glanced at the Upper Church in the distance, and wondered how long it would survive once St Mary’s had been completed. The upkeep of such edifices was costly, and looking after two in one village – plus a chantry chapel – would be financially demanding.

  Michael pushed open the door and stepped inside, leaving the students to mind the horses. Cynric stayed with them, glancing around uneasily, as if he expected their nocturnal attacker to try his hand a second time. Bartholomew followed the monk, admiring the fine stained glass in the windows and the ornate altar rail. He started to remark on them, but Michael was never very interested in such matters, and began to stride purposefully towards the high altar, where a friar could be seen kneeling.

  ‘A Benedictine,’ said the priest, standing as the visitors approached. ‘We do not see those very often, despite the fact that one of their greatest abbeys lies not twenty miles away, in St Edmundsbury.’

  The speaker was a Dominican, dressed in a spotless habit. He was more closely shaven than most, with curly grey hair and a perfectly clipped tonsure. He exuded a sense of quiet competence.

  ‘Actually, we are from Cambridge,’ said Michael. ‘The place with the University.’

  ‘I have heard of it,’ replied the Dominican dryly. ‘It has a reputation for brawls, smelly streets and producing exceptionally cunning lawyers. I am John de Hilton, by the way. May I ask what brings scholars to my humble parish?’

  ‘It is not humble,’ countered Michael. ‘It is wealthy – large houses, money poured into rebuilding its church, a vast market, efficient slaughterhouses … Haverhill has it all.’

  ‘It suits my modest needs.’ Hilton smiled, revealing long brown teeth. ‘And when my church is finished, it will be one of the finest in Suffolk. What more could a priest want?’

  ‘A princely living?’ suggested Michael, making it clear he would not be satisfied with what the village had to offer. ‘Rich parishioners who pay to have documents written? Intriguing confessions?’

  Hilton laughed. ‘I hear my share of intriguing confessions, I assure you. Haverhill is at loggerheads with its Withersfield neighbours, you see, and I am always being told of some plot to best the enemy. Some are extremely inventive.’

  ‘Why do they dislike each other?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

  Hilton shrugged. ‘No one remembers exactly how it all started. But these days, we are jealous of Withersfield’s pigs, while they covet our jugs and slaughterhouses.’

  ‘It sounds petty,’ said Bartholomew, thinking it a shame that two such prosperous communities should waste their energies so.

  ‘It is petty,’ agreed Hilton. ‘I encourage the lords of the manor – Luneday in Withersfield, and Elyan and d’Audley here – to lead by example and resolve their differences, but they are worse than their people. Elyan flaunts his new mine, d’Audley likes to spread sly rumours about Withersfield, while Luneday parades Lizzie in a way that is sure to antagonise.’

  ‘I have only been here a few hours, but I have already witnessed some shocking behaviour,’ said Michael, aiming to encourage more confidences. ‘Withersfield’s master has purloined the wife of Haverhill’s gatekeeper, while the Upper Church’s priest was caught trying to steal Luneday’s sow.’

  Hilton’s expression was unreadable, and Bartholomew wondered whether everyone in west Suffolk aimed to be inscrutable. ‘Neubold has a talent for secular business, although I had thought he confined himself to the law. I did not realise he had graduated to pig rustling.’

  ‘Can I assume that while Neubold clerks for Elyan, you clerk for d’Audley?’ asked Michael. ‘Margery told us you were working on some deeds together when she saw the pair of you last night.’

  ‘I clerk for anyone who needs a scribe or basic legal advice,’ replied Hilton. His tone was a little chilly. ‘I do not have the same relationship with d’Audley that Neubold enjoys with Elyan.’

  ‘And what relationship is that?’

  ‘Neubold and I are priests,’ said Hilton stiffly. ‘We are not supposed to neglect our sacred duties for secular ones that pay. Elyan should not make so many demands on Neubold’s time – sending him on missions to distant towns, giving him piles of documents to interpret. It is not right.’

  ‘I quite agree. Incidentally, Margery also told us that Neubold’s brother stole your spar
e habit.’

  Hilton raised his eyebrows. ‘Did she? What a curious tale to relate to strangers! But I did not begrudge it to him – Carbo is a troubled soul, and I only hope it brings him some peace.’

  ‘Unfortunately, it did not,’ said Michael quietly. ‘He is dead.’

  Hilton gaped at him, then crossed himself. ‘Poor Carbo! The news is a shock, but not a surprise. He was barely rational most days. He used to be decent and staid, quite unlike his rakish brother, and we were all saddened by his sudden decline.’

  ‘What happened to him?’ asked Bartholomew, with the interest of a professional.

  Hilton shook his head. ‘We are not sure. He was just like you and me two years ago, but then he went missing for several months. When he returned, he was a changed man. It was rather horrible, actually. People believe grief for his mother turned his mind.’

  ‘Was there an accident?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or was he attacked?’

  Hilton frowned. ‘Not that I have heard. Why?’

  ‘There is a scar on his head, suggesting a serious injury. Perhaps that accounts for the time he was missing – and why he was different when he returned.’

  Hilton regarded him uneasily. ‘He never mentioned anything about being wounded. But then he never said anything about the time he was away. Perhaps you are right, although I am appalled to hear it – appalled that whoever cared for him did not think to come and offer us an explanation. And appalled that he did not come to me for help.’

  ‘Was he ever violent?’ asked Michael hopefully. ‘Inclined to attack people for no reason?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge. How did he die?’

  ‘In a brawl,’ replied Michael. ‘Someone stands charged with his murder, but I do not think justice will be served if this man is hanged for the crime.’

  ‘I disagree. Carbo needed kindness and understanding, not people fighting him. His killer should be ashamed of himself for picking such a vulnerable victim.’

  ‘Can you tell us anything else about Carbo?’ asked Bartholomew, before Michael could argue.

  Hilton shook his head slowly. ‘Not really. He was Luneday’s steward, but he became incapable of performing his duties, and Luneday was forced to dismiss him. Afterwards, he took to wandering aimlessly about the parish. He found coal on Elyan Manor in August, but the discovery did nothing to improve his health; on the contrary, it seemed to make him more lunatic than ever.’

  ‘He was obsessed with coal when we met him,’ said Bartholomew.

  Hilton nodded. ‘He was obsessed – he even changed his name for it. Unfortunately – but inevitably, I suppose – he became a scapegoat for everything that went wrong in the area. Even a Clare villain – a fellow named Osa Gosse – claimed Carbo stole from him, which is a joke, because not even Carbo was that deranged.’

  ‘We know Gosse,’ said Michael. ‘What did he say Carbo took?’

  ‘A sack, although Gosse refused to say what was in it. Then there was a rumour that Carbo had stabbed a man at Elyan’s mine, but I did not believe that, either.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Michael, exchanging a glance with Bartholomew. If Carbo had killed before, then Shropham was more likely to be pardoned.

  ‘Because I felt it was a lie invented by those who are unsettled by ailments of the mind – an excuse to ostracise him, in other words. Once the tale was out, no one was willing to give him kitchen scraps or let him sleep in their barn. The poor man was half starved when I last saw him.’

  ‘He died on Saturday, and it is now Thursday,’ said Michael. ‘And he had been in Cambridge for several more days before he was knifed. Has no one been concerned by his absence?’

  ‘Not really – he often disappeared. So he went to Cambridge, did he? Perhaps he followed Neubold there, in the misguided belief that his brother would help him. Poor Carbo! But now you must excuse me, because I am needed.’

  Bartholomew and Michael watched him walk to where one of his parishioners was jumping from foot to foot in obvious agitation. He led the man to a quiet corner, where the penitent knelt and began a confession that had Hilton’s jaw dropping in astonishment. Bartholomew supposed it was one of the ‘intriguing’ ones the priest had said he heard from time to time.

  ‘At least we can safely say Shropham killed no priest,’ said Michael, turning away. ‘That will help his case. Carbo must have come at him in a fit of madness, and he did no more than defend himself.’

  ‘Then why does he not say so? He has been given every opportunity.’

  ‘Perhaps he felt guilty at the notion of dispatching a friar,’ suggested Michael. ‘And he sees his fate as punishment for having struck down one of God’s own.’

  ‘If Carbo came at him in a spate of madness, then he is unlikely to have seen him as one of “God’s own”. He is not stupid, Brother.’

  ‘No,’ said Michael with a sigh. ‘But let us go and talk to Elyan and d’Audley before any more of the day is lost. I want to be in my own bed tonight, where no one will try to spear me while I sleep.’

  As Bartholomew and Michael left St Mary’s, Hilton interrupted his parishioner’s litany of sins just long enough to inform them that Elyan and d’Audley could usually be found in the marketplace of a morning. Once outside, the physician looked for his book-bearer, but Cynric had used the time to identify the village’s best tavern, and had taken the students there to listen to more of his war stories; the horses had been stabled. Satisfied that his companions were warm and safe, he turned to Michael.

  ‘I would not mind sitting in a cosy alehouse,’ grumbled Michael, before the physician could ask which lord they should tackle first. ‘It is cold out here, and I am daunted by the task Langelee has set us. Short of demanding the money outright, I cannot see how we will reclaim our thirty marks.’

  ‘The Senior Proctor will think of a way,’ said Bartholomew encouragingly.

  Michael did not look convinced, but turned his attention to the marketplace. It was busy, and apparently attracted people from a large hinterland, as well as the residents of Haverhill. It had a sizeable section dedicated to meat, and the stink of blood and hot entrails was thick in the air. Nearby were rows of glistening river fish, while other stalls hawked jugs, thread, cloth, pots, candles, poultry, furniture and sacks of flour. It was noisy, colourful and lively, and people were exchanging cheerful greetings at the top of their voices, competing with the lowing of cattle and the honks of geese.

  ‘I did not take to Hilton,’ said Michael, after a search told them that neither Suffolk lordling was there. ‘He said he did not care about Carbo stealing his habit, but I would have been livid. And he was a little too nice for my liking. There he is, standing by the cheese shop. Shall we demand to know why he told us to waste time here, when Elyan and d’Audley are nowhere in sight?’

  ‘I said they can usually be found in the marketplace of a morning,’ corrected Hilton pedantically, when Michael put his question. ‘However, Elyan spends hours up at his mine these days, while d’Audley needs to supervise the cutting of timber from his woods. They may come today, but they may not.’

  ‘I see,’ said Michael irritably. ‘It is a pity you could not have been more specific sooner. Then we would not have squandered half the day dawdling around slaughterhouses and pottery emporiums.’

  ‘Come, Brother,’ said Hilton reproachfully. ‘It was hardly “half the day”, and visiting their homes would have done you no good, either – they are almost certain to be out. But why do you want to see Elyan? I imagine you are here to discuss the Alneston Chantry with d’Audley – he said a deputation might arrive from Cambridge soon – but what does Elyan have to do with it?’

  ‘Actually, it is King’s Hall that is interested in the chantry,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘We are from Michaelhouse, which is a totally separate foundation.’

  Hilton frowned in puzzlement. ‘Then why are you here? We do sell pottery and meat to the University, but they always send servants to negotiate. Scholars do not deign to come themselves.’r />
  ‘No?’ pounced Michael. ‘One of our colleagues did. His name was Wynewyk, and he did business with d’Audley for wood, with Elyan for coal, and with Luneday for pigs.’

  ‘He bought coal?’ asked Hilton, startled. ‘But Elyan’s mine is not producing yet. He does import a small amount from Ipswich, but it is barely enough to satisfy local demands, and I am amazed that he should have hawked some to your colleague. What did you say his name was again?’

  ‘Wynewyk,’ replied Michael. ‘Pleasant face, slight build, gentle manners.’

  ‘He does not sound familiar,’ said Hilton, after appearing to give the matter some careful reflection. ‘But he may have gone directly to Elyan Manor, in order to avoid paying Folyat’s toll.’

  ‘What about the timber?’ asked Michael. ‘Are you surprised he did business with d’Audley, too?’

  ‘A little,’ admitted Hilton. ‘I thought he restricted himself to customers from Suffolk.’

  ‘And pigs from Withersfield?’ asked Bartholomew.

  Hilton smiled. ‘That does not surprise me. Folk travel miles for Luneday’s pork, and your Wynewyk is a discerning fellow if he stocked his larders with Withersfield fare. But your ire with me was wholly unnecessary, Brother, because here come Elyan and d’Audley now. They must have been out hunting.’

  The two scholars turned at the sudden rattle of hoofs. Elyan was at the head of the cavalcade, a dead deer slung over his saddle. He had apparently decided that black suited him, because every item of his elegant finery was that colour. It was a different outfit to the one he had worn in Cambridge, suggesting he had already invested in a considerable wardrobe of mourning apparel. He dismounted and headed straight for a stall that sold cloth, fingering the more expensive wares appreciatively. The owner hurried to join him, and they were soon deep in discussion.

  ‘He likes clothes,’ explained Hilton, rather unnecessarily. ‘Barely a week goes by without him ordering some new garment.’

  As if to prove him right, Elyan held a length of worsted to his chest, admiring the way it fell towards his feet.