‘Wait,’ said Hilton, putting out his hand to stop Folyat from doing as he was ordered. ‘Let us take a few moments to consider what really happened – not suppositions and theories, but proper facts.’
‘That is a very good idea, Hilton,’ said Agnys approvingly. ‘But none of us are qualified to do that sort of thing, so you had better oblige. You can find the truth.’
Elyan was furious. ‘No! I have a lot of clerking for him to do. Now Neubold is gone, he is the only one who can read and write for miles around.’
‘And I need him, too,’ declared d’Audley, equally peeved. ‘I do not want to lose this lovely chapel to King’s Hall. Besides, there is no need for an enquiry when the culprit is obvious.’
‘I am a priest, not a coroner,’ objected Hilton, also unhappy with Agnys’s decree. ‘I am not qualified to meddle in such matters, madam. You must send word to the Sheriff—’
‘You will do as I say,’ commanded Agnys firmly. ‘And we shall send for the Sheriff – but you will have answers for him when he arrives. The last time he came, he liked it so much that he declined to leave, and I do not want to give him an excuse to outstay his welcome again.’
‘Get a witness to say Neubold was despondent, and there will be an end of the matter,’ advised Elyan, seeing Hilton was to be given no choice. ‘In fact I can tell you right now that he would have been mortified at having to pass a night in a barn.’
‘That is not a reason for suicide,’ said Hilton wearily. ‘Even for a vain man like Neubold.’
‘Luneday probably had help when he committed his crime,’ said d’Audley, looking around suddenly. He spotted Bartholomew and Michael, and jabbed a finger at them. ‘There are strangers in our midst, and it is odd that they should appear just as a man dies in peculiar circumstances.’
‘It is, indeed,’ agreed Folyat. ‘And they were vague about the nature of their business here when I asked. They said they were going to buy jugs, but they have not yet made a single purchase!’
‘Damn!’ murmured Michael, as everyone turned to look at them. ‘This is going to be awkward.’
There was little Bartholomew and Michael could do as they were shoved unceremoniously towards the altar. D’Audley was delighted by their discomfiture, while Elyan stood with his hands on his hips and nodded, as if he had known the scholars would be trouble.
‘They are from Cambridge,’ said Hilton, reaching out to steady Bartholomew after a particularly vigorous push propelled him forward faster than was pleasant. ‘They are not—’
‘From King’s Hall?’ cried Folyat in dismay. ‘The ones who are trying to wrest Alneston Chantry from us, and who have set their sights on Elyan Manor, too?’
Michael frowned in puzzlement. ‘King’s Hall wants Elyan Manor?’
‘Silence!’ snapped d’Audley, rounding on him. ‘You have no right to ask us questions – you, who are the accomplices of a murderer!’
‘They are no such thing,’ countered Agnys, poking her neighbour in the chest with a gnarled forefinger. ‘And you are a troublemaker, bandying accusations like some common fishwife.’
The blood drained from d’Audley’s face as a titter of amusement rippled through the onlookers, and for a moment, Bartholomew thought he might reach for his dagger. But he settled for treating the old lady to a venomous scowl. Then he turned on his heel and shouldered his way outside.
The moment he had gone, Agnys started to make pointed remarks about villagers with too much time on their hands, and the chores she could devise to remedy the matter. Her words precipitated a concerted dash for the door, and it was not long before the chapel was virtually empty. Only Elyan, Hilton and Folyat remained, struggling to tie Neubold into his cloak.
Michael heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you, madam. But I am confused. Did Gatekeeper Folyat say King’s Hall intends to claim Elyan Manor, as well as this chantry?’
It was Hilton who replied, looking up from his knotting. ‘They can only press their claim if Elyan dies childless. We thought our worries were over when Joan conceived, but—’
‘But Joan died, and the vultures circle,’ finished Agnys. ‘And if my grandson does not produce an heir, there are several parties who think they have a right to our estates. King’s Hall is one of them.’
‘How did that come about?’ asked Michael, astonished.
‘From ancient wills and records,’ replied Folyat disapprovingly. ‘Lawyers’ tricks. If they win, King’s Hall will rule from afar by appointing some non-local steward. And we all know what happens to manors with distant landlords – they are run for profit and nothing else. No kindness.’
‘All that is true, Folyat,’ said Hilton. ‘But these scholars are from Michaelhouse, not King’s Hall. It is a totally separate foundation, so do not blame them for their colleagues’ greed.’
‘A scholar is a scholar,’ muttered Folyat, turning back to his work. ‘Just as a chicken is a chicken.’
Imperiously, Agnys indicated Bartholomew and Michael were to follow her to an alcove, where she could speak without being overheard by Elyan, Hilton and Folyat. The priest and the gatekeeper did not seem to care, but Elyan watched resentfully, although he made no move to intervene.
‘Henry and d’Audley do not recognise you,’ Agnys said to Bartholomew in a low voice. ‘But I know you are the physician who tended Joan in Cambridge. However, if you have come to inform us that you have uncovered evidence to prove suicide, then I do not want to hear it. You can go home.’
‘What makes you think it was suicide?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘It was not,’ said Agnys firmly. ‘There are folk who say she was unhappy in the few weeks before she died, but her troubles did not run deep enough to warrant self-murder.’
‘You loved her,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘That much was obvious in St Mary the Great. And you do not want her dragged from her grave and reburied in unhallowed ground, even though you suspect – as do I – that she probably did take her own life.’
Agnys looked as though she would argue, but then inclined her head stiffly. ‘I taught her about pennyroyal, so she would not have swallowed it by accident. However, I will not have it said that she murdered her unborn child. She is dead, and that is bad enough. Please, leave her in peace.’
‘I doubt she took her own life,’ said Michael. Bartholomew and Agnys looked sharply at him, and he shrugged. ‘We have just been told a lot depended on this heir – that the inheritance of Elyan Manor is contested without one. That is a powerful motive for wanting Joan dead before it was born.’
‘But this is Suffolk,’ said Agnys indignantly. ‘We do not murder pregnant women here.’
‘She did not die here, she died in Cambridge,’ Michael pointed out. ‘And Matt’s sister is convinced there is something odd about her demise – so much that she has ordered him to ask questions about it.’
‘Because it was distressing to see an old friend die,’ argued Bartholomew, alarmed that the monk should be voicing such opinions. It would bring nothing but trouble, and there was good evidence for suicide, especially now Agnys said Joan had been unhappy. ‘Edith is racked by grief, and—’
Michael ignored him and addressed Agnys. ‘Tell us about Joan – about her child.’
Agnys’s fierce expression softened. ‘She had longed for a baby for many years, but failed to make one. Then, when we had all but given up, her prayers were answered. She was delighted.’
‘Yet you said she was troubled,’ said Michael. ‘Despondent.’
‘That came later – a few weeks ago. Unfortunately, she would not tell me the reason, no matter how much I begged her. Then one day, out of the blue, she insisted on travelling to Cambridge to buy ribbons. Henry should never have let her go.’
‘Then why did he?’ asked Michael. He shrugged when Agnys regarded him stonily. ‘I am sorry if I cause offence, but Joan’s child was important. I cannot imagine why he agreed to such a journey.’
Agnys grimaced. ‘He trusted Neubold, even if I desp
ised the man. Unfortunately, she left when I was visiting Clare Priory – probably because she knew I would have talked her out of going, had I been here. I assumed she had decided an excursion might lift her spirits.’
‘Was it a happy marriage?’ asked Michael.
‘Yes. It was not a very physical relationship, but they cared deeply for each other even so.’
Bartholomew saw Michael’s thoughts reflected his own: that Joan might have secured the services of a more fertile fellow, given that Elyan had not been up to the task. The medical profession usually maintained that the fault lay with the woman in such cases, but Bartholomew knew plenty of ladies who refused to accept this ‘traditional wisdom’. Joan, who had sounded a strong-minded, independent sort of person, might well have been one of them. Bartholomew half expected the monk to pursue the matter, and braced himself for trouble, but Michael turned to another question instead.
‘Will you tell us why King’s Hall think they have a right to your grandson’s manor?’
‘We have known for years that there will be two claimants, should Henry die without issue: d’Audley, who is a snake but a Haverhill man; and Luneday, who is nicer but from Withersfield. We asked the priests – Neubold and Hilton – to determine who has the stronger claim. Unfortunately, not only did they discover that certain ancient marriages had not been legitimate, but they learned that a will made by Alneston – who founded this chapel – brought another contestant into play.’
‘King’s Hall?’
‘King’s Hall,’ agreed Agnys. ‘The whole situation is rendered even more confusing by the fact that certain documents are missing. Or are owned by Luneday, who cannot read and who will not let anyone else see them. He is afraid of being cheated, which is understandable enough – d’Audley is vicious and will do anything to harm him, while King’s Hall seem somewhat unscrupulous, too.’
‘Is this why King’s Hall want Alneston Chantry?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘To strengthen their claim on Elyan Manor – saying they already own property here, so they should have more?’
‘I cannot imagine why else they should want it,’ said Agnys, looking around in distaste. ‘It is a paltry place, and reeks of chickens for some inexplicable reason.’
‘But all this would be irrelevant if Henry had a child,’ mused Michael, regarding her thoughtfully. ‘Do you think d’Audley or Luneday went to Cambridge and gave Joan pennyroyal? You said she would not have swallowed it by accident, which only leaves two possibilities: she did it deliberately, or someone gave it to her.’
Agnys was unhappy. ‘I would hate to think so. However, when he heard Joan was in Cambridge, d’Audley left Haverhill, saying he was going to visit kin. Luneday’s woman was also mysteriously absent at the pertinent time. And the men of King’s Hall were there already.’
‘King’s Hall will not have harmed Joan,’ said Bartholomew, thinking of Paxtone, Warden Powys, and other scholars he knew and liked there. Then a picture of Shropham sprang unbidden into his mind, a man who was in prison for murder.
‘I would have said the same about d’Audley and Luneday,’ said Agnys grimly. She shook her head slowly. ‘I admit my initial assumption was that Joan had killed herself – yet she was happy about the child, even in the last few weeks when she became unaccountably troubled. Meanwhile, the notion of her swallowing pennyroyal by accident is preposterous. So that leaves murder. And I have just decided that you two are going to help me find the culprit.’
There was a silence after Lady Agnys made her announcement. Bartholomew’s heart sank, and he wished Michael had held his tongue over something that was – after all – none of their business.
‘And how do you propose we do that?’ asked Michael eventually.
Agnys smiled. ‘Oh, I expect a cunning fellow like you will think of a way, especially if I offer you information in return. You mentioned a man called Wynewyk earlier. My ageing memory needed a while to work, but I do recall a fellow of that name visiting my grandson in August.’
‘Do you know why?’ asked Michael. ‘Or what was discussed?’
‘No, but I can find out.’
Michael regarded her suspiciously. ‘You would pry into your kinsman’s affairs on our behalf?’
Agnys’s grin became slightly malevolent. ‘Henry will not have done anything untoward. However, d’Audley had a very curious reaction to the name, and I would enjoy discovering something to discomfit him. You may think me unneighbourly, but I cannot abide the fellow.’
‘We think your grandson sold Wynewyk some coal in August,’ said Michael. His tone was cautious. ‘But Hilton maintains he does not have enough of it.’
Agnys shrugged. ‘Henry imports it from Ipswich for local needs, but the discovery of a seam on our land means he hopes to hawk more in the coming years. Perhaps Wynewyk’s purchase was for coal to be delivered in the future.’
Michael was about to ask more, but the door banged open and Cynric hurried towards them. The Welshman’s face was grim as he pulled Bartholomew to one side.
‘I have been making friends in taverns,’ he said in a low voice. ‘And two have just told me that they were paid to dig a secret grave, up by the mine. In the summer.’
Bartholomew winced. ‘That is unpleasant, but not our affair.’
‘They said the body belonged to a stranger.’ Cynric’s expression was deeply troubled. ‘A young man. And they described an unusual black garment over his tunic and hose.’
Bartholomew stared at him. ‘You mean like an academic tabard?’
Cynric nodded soberly. ‘That is what it sounded like to me. Kelyng always wore his tabard, because he was proud of it – and you know I think Wynewyk hired him for protection.’
‘You think it is our missing Bible Scholar in this grave? That is not very likely, Cynric.’
‘It is if you think about it,’ pressed Cynric urgently. ‘Kelyng went missing in August, after Wynewyk had made that suspicious journey to see his sick father. And while the rest of you assumed Kelyng had fled his debts, Wynewyk never did.’
‘But if this is true, and they were attacked, Wynewyk would have told us—’
‘Would he?’ interrupted Cynric. ‘Even though it would have meant admitting that he did not travel to Winwick, but went to Suffolk instead? And would have to tell you why?’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Perhaps you are right, but I do not see how we will ever find out.’
‘I do. I got precise directions to this tomb, and I know where I can borrow a spade.’
‘No!’ Bartholomew was horrified.
But Cynric was adamant. ‘I liked Kelyng, and his parents have a right to know what happened to him. I will do it alone, if need be. But it will be easier with two of us.’
‘When?’ asked Bartholomew heavily.
Pleased, Cynric gripped his shoulder, warrior fashion. ‘At midnight. When else?’
Lady Agnys declared she was thirsty when Bartholomew returned, and asked him and Michael to join her for an ale at the Queen’s Head. It was an unusual invitation, because taverns were rarely frequented by ladies. First, they were the domain of men, and second, those women who did venture inside tended to be prostitutes.
Michael was grinning as they followed her out of the chapel. He admired doughty old ladies, and liked the fact that Agnys was prepared to ignore convention and do as she pleased. Bartholomew would have preferred to sit by himself and consider Cynric’s theory about Kelyng, but Agnys was astute, and he did not want to arouse her suspicions by asking to be excused.
The Queen’s Head was neat, clean and smelled of the new rushes on the floor. The landlord did not seem surprised when Agnys sailed into his establishment; he only doffed his cap and ousted three patrons so she could sit by the fire. When Michael started to ask for claret, Agnys stopped him.
‘The Queen’s Head is noted for its ale, so you will have ale. And it is famous for its roasted pork, too, so we shall have a plate of that, as well. You look like a man who appreciates his food, Brother.’
‘I am not fat,’ said Michael immediately. ‘Matt tells me I have unusually heavy bones.’
‘Actually, that is something you invented of your own—’ began Bartholomew.
‘I have heavy bones, too,’ said Agnys, with a conspiratorial wink as she patted her own ample girth. ‘God made the ones in my hips out of lead.’
Michael rubbed his hands approvingly as the landlord brought the victuals. The ale was sweet and clear, and the pork succulent. It made Bartholomew realise yet again how much he had missed decent food since Wynewyk’s tampering with the accounts had forced them to tighten their belts.
When they were settled, and were working their way through a platter of meat that would have fed half the King’s army, Michael regaled Agnys with a truncated and not very accurate account of why they had travelled to Suffolk. Bartholomew tried to listen, but most of his mind was on what Cynric had told him. What if the body in the grave did transpire to be Kelyng’s? How could there be an innocent explanation for Wynewyk taking a student on a journey from which he never returned?
‘… Neubold,’ Michael was saying. ‘What do you think happened to him?’
‘I do not believe he took his own life,’ replied Agnys. Bartholomew forced himself to pay closer attention. The sooner he and Michael had answers to their questions, the sooner they could leave – and he was unsettled and wary in Suffolk, and desperately wanted to go home. ‘First, he had no reason to do so – my grandson admits to paying him handsomely to steal Luneday’s pig, and no man kills himself while he has a fortune to enjoy. And second, he was happy with his lot.’
‘The Withersfield villagers chased him for miles when he was caught thieving,’ said Michael. ‘I think he was genuinely afraid of them.’
‘He had a slippery tongue and an inflated sense of his own cleverness,’ argued Agnys. ‘He may have been given a fright at first, but he would have assumed he could talk himself out of any trouble.’
‘I wonder if he was dispatched in Withersfield,’ mused Michael. ‘There was evidence of a struggle in the barn, although no blood that I could see.’
A Vein Of Deceit: The Fifteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 26
