‘The statues are very colourful,’ said Bartholomew sincerely, thinking he had never seen such a gaudy collection, not even in France.
‘Now, Father,’ the monk said briskly, cutting across a remark Hilton started to make about physicians with peculiar tastes in sculpture, ‘you were telling me how Neubold’s body was found.’
‘Folyat discovered it,’ replied Hilton, dragging his wary gaze away from Bartholomew. ‘He said he came to tell me first, although I suspect he shared the news with those he passed en route. Neubold cannot have been there for long, because I said a mass for Alneston at dawn, and I assure you I would have noticed, had Neubold been present. His feet would have been in my face for a start.’
‘Well?’ asked Michael of Bartholomew, when Hilton had gone. ‘Were my lies in vain, or have you discovered something useful from the corpse?’
‘Hilton says Neubold was not in the chantry at dawn, which is strange: estimating a time of death is not an exact science, as you know, but I would guess he died last night. So, if Hilton is telling the truth, it means Neubold was killed elsewhere, then strung up in the chapel this morning.’
‘Why would anyone do that?’ asked Michael, puzzled.
‘I really have no idea.’
Michael did not want to discuss Neubold’s murder where they might be overheard, so he led the way to the marketplace. Stone benches had been placed around its perimeter, some with straw thatches, so that potential buyers could sit out storms and sun and would not be tempted to leave before they had spent all their money. The monk selected the one that was farthest from the bustling stalls and sat, indicating Bartholomew was to perch next to him. It might have been pleasant, watching the lively hurly-burly of the traders, had their minds not been full of murder.
‘If you are right in saying Neubold has been dead for some time,’ said Michael, ‘then it means he was murdered in Withersfield. And his body transported to Haverhill to be hung like a piece of meat.’
‘Not necessarily. For all we know, he was rescued within moments of the barn door being barred. Ergo, he could have been wandering around Haverhill for hours before he was killed.’
Michael frowned. ‘So he was hanged in Haverhill, then? How do you know?’
‘I do not know, Brother – I am just trying to note all the possibilities. However, since you ask, I am inclined to say he died in Withersfield. The barn looked as though it had seen a struggle – we saw no blood, but I imagine we would find some, were we to look under all the hay.’
‘Very well – I accept your reasoning so far. However, do you not think it would be risky to bring a corpse all the way from Withersfield? How would it get past Gatekeeper Folyat, for a start?’
‘William told us he relaxes his guard after dark, when the market is closed. And he said Margery came to Haverhill last night – perhaps she carried Neubold on her horse.’
‘That cannot be true. First, if William saw enough to be able to identify Margery as the rider, he would have noticed a priest-shaped bundle behind her saddle. And second, Hilton has just informed us that there was no corpse in Alneston Chantry when he arrived at dawn.’
Bartholomew was beginning to be exasperated by the lack of answers. ‘We are looking at this the wrong way around – trying to establish a chain of events when we do not understand why the villain should act as he did. Perhaps we should determine the identity of the culprit first – then we might grasp why he deemed it necessary to tote a priest’s body around in the dark.’
‘We might, I suppose,’ said the monk dubiously. ‘So name your chief suspects.’
‘We have several in Withersfield to choose from. Margery despised Neubold – perhaps she hired a servant to bring the body here. Luneday may have decided murder was the best way to protect his pig. William the steward also hated Neubold, and his capture may have presented too tempting an opportunity.’
‘It was William who raised the alarm to say Neubold was missing,’ Michael pointed out.
‘Perhaps that is what he hopes we will think – that his “discovery” will be enough to spare him from suspicion. Of course, it could be Lizzie.’
‘Lizzie?’ asked Michael, regarding him askance. ‘The pig?’
‘Sows can be dangerous when they have a litter.’
‘Do not be flippant,’ snapped Michael. ‘I believed you for a moment. Personally, my money is on Margery. She loathed Neubold, and has admitted to being abroad and unaccounted for last night.’
Bartholomew thought about it. ‘He suffered a blow to the head, which may have been enough to subdue him and allow her to tie a rope around his neck. And his hands.’
‘What a mess,’ groaned Michael. ‘We are still no closer to learning anything new about Wynewyk, but we have a priest murdered and this mysterious grave to explore. But here comes Cynric with the students. I wonder what they have to report.’
‘There is an apothecary,’ announced Tesdale as he approached. He was pleased with himself, and gave Cynric a slight push when the book-bearer started to interrupt. ‘He told me that three people bought pennyroyal oil recently. He said he was surprised, because it is cheaper to make your own.’
‘Who?’ asked Michael.
‘Lady Agnys had a jar for flatulence. Hilton wanted a bit to put in some tonic he likes to drink at night. And Neubold purchased a pot, but would not say why.’
‘Hilton?’ asked Michael in a low voice, looking at Bartholomew. ‘Why would he mean Joan harm? He has nothing to gain by her death.’
‘We cannot know that, Brother. Perhaps he was paid to ensure Elyan’s heir never lived to inherit. The same is true of Neubold.’
‘And Agnys?’ asked Michael quietly.
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘She knows pennyroyal killed Joan, so why did she not mention the fact that she purchased some? I would have done, just to mark it as a curious coincidence.’
‘So would I,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘And we only have her word that she was pleased by Joan’s pregnancy. Perhaps she would rather see Elyan Manor go to one of the three claimants than a brat sired by the local stud.’
Risleye edged closer, trying to hear what they were saying. The moment they stopped speaking, he began to hold forth, his voice loud and full of self-importance. Cynric rolled his eyes when it became obvious that the student did not intend to share the credit for what they had done together.
‘I visited the mine, but I was not the only one interested in it,’ the student began. ‘I found clear evidence that others have been watching it, too. It was not possible to tell who, of course, but I could tell from the crushed grass and broken twigs that someone – perhaps more than one person – had lurked in the woods and observed what was happening, just as I was doing.’
‘Did you indeed?’ asked Michael, an amused smile plucking at the corners of his mouth. He did not look at Cynric. ‘And what else did you notice?’
‘That not much is happening there,’ said Valence, cutting across Risleye. ‘There are two men with picks, but they do not seem to be making much progress. I cannot see it making Elyan rich.’
‘Valence is right,’ said Cynric. ‘Welsh mines are full of labourers, but two men are too few. However, while this pair mined, six others were on guard. Elyan clearly thinks there is something worth protecting, and it was hard to get close.’
‘But you managed,’ predicted Bartholomew.
The book-bearer grinned. ‘We did. But I was surprised by what we saw. The seam is just a thin layer of poor-grade coal, which may not even burn – or will smoke so much that it is useless.’
‘Then why does Elyan guard it so jealously?’ asked Michael.
Cynric shrugged. ‘That is yet another mystery for you to solve, Brother.’
It was too late to do much else that day, and dusk was approaching early because of the rain clouds that were gathering. Michael complained bitterly that he was obliged to spend a second night in Suffolk, but Bartholomew felt he had far more cause to gripe – it was not the Benedictine who
was obliged to disappear into the darkness with a shovel, to see whether one of their students was buried in an unmarked grave.
They hired beds in the Queen’s Head – in two separate rooms, so they would not have to explain their actions to Valence, Risleye and Tesdale – and retired early. Cynric fell asleep at once, but Bartholomew tossed and turned until Michael told him it was time to leave.
‘The students are still drinking downstairs,’ said the monk. ‘You will have to climb out of the window, or they will see you and wonder where you are going.’
‘God help me, Brother!’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘I am getting too old for this sort of caper.’
‘There is plenty of life in you yet,’ said Michael, opening the shutter and standing back smartly as the wind hurled a cascade of rain inside. ‘Are you sure you do not need my help?’
‘It is better that you stay here,’ replied Cynric, before Bartholomew could say that the monk’s strength would be very welcome. ‘Then if anything goes wrong, you can give us an alibi.’
‘What can go wrong?’ asked Bartholomew, alarmed.
‘Probably nothing,’ said Cynric, clearly looking forward to the escapade. He loved sneaking around in the dark. ‘But keep the door locked, Brother. And the windows, too.’
With serious misgivings, Bartholomew clambered on to the sill and began to climb down the back wall. It was not far to the ground, because the ceilings were low, and there were ample beams to use as foot- and hand-holds. Even so, it was a struggle, and he could feel Cynric’s disapproval coming in waves as he scraped and rattled his way to the ground. The book-bearer dropped lightly beside him, then disappeared. When he returned, he was carrying two spades and a lamp.
They set off along the Withersfield road, Bartholomew following Cynric’s lead by keeping to the shadows. They passed one or two people, who weaved along in a manner that suggested they would not have noticed other travellers anyway, but most folk were in bed, and the houses along the street were dark. A light shone from one, and they could hear a baby wailing inside, its mother trying wearily to soothe it with lullabies.
It was not long before Cynric left the road and set out across the fields. The going was miserable, because it was pitch black, and the rain made the route treacherously slippery. Wet vegetation slapped at them as they passed, and they were soon drenched through. As they neared the mine, thorns snagged their clothes and Bartholomew heard something rip in his tunic. He grimaced, hoping it could be repaired. After a while, Cynric slowed.
‘The mine,’ the book-bearer whispered, pointing through the undergrowth. ‘The guards are still here, although I cannot imagine why, because the diggers have gone home. Can you see their lamps?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘How are we going to get past them?’
‘There is no need. I took the precaution of locating the grave when I was here with Risleye and Valence earlier, and it is not too near the coal, although we must still tread softly. Fortunately, the wind should carry away most sounds we make. We should be all right.’
Bartholomew’s heart was pounding. It was only the need to know about Kelyng that stopped him from turning around and running back to the Queen’s Head as fast as his legs would carry him. He followed Cynric to an oak tree with a jumble of brambles growing around its trunk. The book-bearer tugged a few away, and Bartholomew saw a mound of raised earth. He was surprised Cynric had found it, because he certainly would not have done, and could only suppose the directions to it had been very precise. Wordlessly, the Welshman handed him a spade.
It was grim work: the ground was sodden, and the rain seemed to be coming down harder than ever. They lit a lamp, but it had to be shaded so the guards would not notice it, which meant it was difficult to see what they were doing. Every so often, Cynric would disappear, to ensure no one had been alerted to their presence. While he did so, Bartholomew continued to dig, although it was unnerving to be alone and he was always relieved when the book-bearer returned.
‘I think I can feel cloth, Cynric,’ he whispered eventually. ‘And bone.’
‘You can do the rest, then,’ said the book-bearer promptly. ‘This is the bit I do not want to see.’
It was the bit Bartholomew did not want to see, either, and it took considerable willpower to scrape away the remaining soil with his hands; he dared not use a spade, lest the blade damaged the body. Kelyng had been missing for two months, so identification was going to be difficult enough, without having a broken skull to contend with.
At last he encountered an arm, although it was little more than bone and sinew. He worked upwards to where he thought the head might be. After a while, he sat back and moved the lamp over what he had exposed. There was a crooked front tooth that had once formed a distinctive part of Kelyng’s impish grin, along with tufts of reddish hair, where the rain was washing it clean of mud. There was also a tin brooch the Bible Scholar had liked, and the tattered remnants of Michaelhouse’s uniform black tabard.
‘Is it him?’ asked Cynric.
Bartholomew found he was unable to speak. He nodded.
It was some time before either man spoke again. Bartholomew sat on his heels and stared at the sorry remains, thinking sadly of the cheerful youth whose voice had accompanied so many College meals. Cynric clutched one of the charms he wore around his neck – a ward against restless spirits – as he stood with his head bowed, muttering prayers to whatever god happened to be listening.
‘What shall we do?’ the Welshman asked after a while. ‘Can you get him out in one piece?’
Bartholomew shook his head, trying to find his voice. ‘No, and we cannot arrive at the Queen’s Head with a skeleton anyway. All we can do now is rebury him.’
‘And reclaim him another time – on another visit to Suffolk?’
Bartholomew felt his resolve begin to strengthen. ‘Yes, but when we do, it will be openly and in full daylight. And his killer will be under lock and key.’
‘He was murdered, then?’ asked Cynric unhappily.
‘Stabbed. You can see the mark quite clearly on his ribs.’
‘Cover him,’ urged Cynric, looking around uneasily.
‘This has taken too long, and we need to be back in the tavern before dawn, or we will start meeting labourers as they go out to the fields.’
Bartholomew placed a clean bandage from his medical bag across Kelyng’s face, and began to do as Cynric suggested. But it was even more difficult shovelling dirt on top of the Bible Scholar than it had been unearthing him, and he was obliged to stop when he thought he might be sick. He pretended to check on the guards, hoping Cynric would have finished when he returned.
He need not have worried. Cynric was eager to be gone, and had worked fast and efficiently, so that by the time Bartholomew had made sure the watchmen were still in their makeshift hut by the coal seam, the Welshman was patting the soil into place and tugging the brambles across it.
Suddenly, Cynric stiffened and cocked his head, listening intently. Automatically, Bartholomew did the same, but all he could hear was the wind sighing through the branches above his head and the patter of rain on the saturated ground.
‘What—’ he began, but Cynric silenced him with a sharp glance. Then the Welshman kicked the lantern so it went out, plunging them into utter blackness.
It took a moment for Bartholomew to attune his ears to what had startled Cynric, but once he did, it seemed as loud as thunder. The sound was footsteps, and they were coming closer. Cynric grabbed the physician’s arm and pulled him behind the oak tree. Almost immediately, one of the guards emerged from the undergrowth to stand where they had been. He bent down, and touched a finger to the earth. Then he straightened and looked around him.
‘There!’ he hissed, stabbing a finger in the direction of the oak. ‘I told you I heard someone!’
All at once the other watchmen were thrusting through the bushes. Cynric turned and fled, leaving Bartholomew to follow. The physician was slower and much less sure-footed, and soon began to f
all behind. Cynric stopped and urged him on, although Bartholomew needed no such encouragement – he was running as hard as he could, stumbling and staggering as he tripped over roots in the darkness. But it was not fast enough, and he could hear their pursuers coming closer.
His arm was almost wrenched from its socket when Cynric jerked him to a standstill before hauling him into a thicket. The Welshman put his finger to his lips, and an instant later, the guards shot past.
‘You must have made more noise than you thought when you went to check on them,’ said Cynric a little while later, when they had taken a tortuous route across several fields and were finally in sight of Haverhill. Bartholomew did not think he had ever been so relieved to see a place in his life.
‘Sorry,’ he said sheepishly. ‘I did my best.’
Cynric squeezed his shoulder in a rare gesture of affection. ‘It is all right, boy. It is not your fault you have no skill for this kind of thing. Still, we learned one important thing from the chase: the watchmen are not just for decoration – they take their duties seriously.’
‘But why does the mine warrant such vigilance?’ demanded Bartholomew, becoming frustrated by the lack of answers. ‘You say it does not even have decent coal.’
‘Perhaps it is magic coal,’ suggested Cynric matter-offactly. ‘And if Kelyng happened across it, he might have been stabbed to ensure his silence on the matter. It might even explain why Wynewyk gave the mine’s owner eighteen marks.’
‘It might,’ said Bartholomew, too tired and fraught to argue with him.
‘Of course, there is another explanation,’ Cynric went on, padding at the physician’s side with cat-like grace. ‘Wynewyk brought Kelyng here. Perhaps he was the one who wielded the knife.’
‘Not you as well, Cynric,’ groaned Bartholomew. ‘Is there no one who believes he is innocent?’
‘Not at Michaelhouse,’ replied Cynric.
CHAPTER 9
Michael was horrified when he saw his friend’s clothes were torn, sodden and filthy, and ordered Cynric to clean them as best as he could. Bartholomew agreed, aware that the guards would know exactly who he was if he was seen in such a bedraggled state. While the book-bearer went off in search of water and thread, Bartholomew told Michael what had happened.
A Vein Of Deceit: The Fifteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 28
