A Vein of Deceit (29 page)

‘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.’

‘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.

Lady Agnys had also ridden in with the horsemen. Her equestrian skills were even worse than Bartholomew’s, and she had been
jostled about so much that her veil had come loose and strands of white hair flapped around her face. As her grandson’s attention
was on the cloth, she was obliged to wait for someone else to help her dismount. With a sigh of surly resignation, d’Audley
stepped forward, all scrawny neck and ridiculously thin legs. He staggered when she launched herself into his arms, and the
manoeuvre deprived her of a veil and him of a hat.

‘I am surprised d’Audley rides in company with Lady Agnys,’ said Bartholomew to Hilton. ‘When I saw them together in Cambridge,
she was not very polite to him.’

Hilton grimaced. ‘She has a blunt tongue, and makes no bones about the fact that she cannot abide d’Audley.

Did you see them when they went to collect poor Joan? That was a bad business, especially given that Joan was carrying Elyan’s
heir. We had all but given up hope in that quarter, and were surprised when she became pregnant. Elyan was delighted, of course.’

‘Of course,’ said Bartholomew. But the physician in him was curious. ‘It is unusual for a woman of Joan’s mature years to
conceive for the first time. Did she—’

‘She prayed to God,’ interrupted Hilton, rather sharply, as if he imagined Bartholomew was going to suggest something untoward.
‘The Almighty can make a twenty-year union fertile, and Joan was a good and virtuous lady. God rewarded her by granting her
a child.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, thoughts whirling. It had not occurred to him that the reason for Joan’s unexpected pregnancy was
that she had gone outside her barren marriage, but the priest’s defensive answer made him wonder. And if that were true, then
perhaps Edith was right to be suspicious of Joan’s death. After all, no husband wanted another man’s brat to inherit his estates.

Bartholomew was unsure what reception he would receive from Elyan, since their first encounter had been over the body of his
wife, but his concerns were unfounded. Neither Elyan nor d’Audley recognised him, partly because it had been dim inside St
Mary the Great, partly because they had not paid much attention to him, and partly because he was no longer wearing academic
garb. Agnys was more observant, though, and smiled warily when Hilton brought the scholars to be introduced.

‘Michaelhouse,’ mused Elyan, rather more interested in the worsted. ‘Is that the big place overlooking the river? The only
time I ever visited Cambridge was to collect the
corpse of my poor wife, and I was so upset then that I paid scant heed to my surroundings.’

‘We heard about Joan,’ said Michael sympathetically. ‘Please accept our condolences.’

‘Someone gave her pennyroyal,’ Elyan went on bitterly, looking at him for the first time. ‘And as she was with child, it killed
her. In other words, she was murdered.’

‘She was
not
murdered, Henry,’ countered Agnys firmly. ‘She was a dear, kind soul, loved by all.’

‘True,’ agreed Elyan unhappily. ‘She did not have an enemy in the world. However,
I
do, and it is my contention that they attacked me through her.’

‘What enemies?’ asked Michael.

‘He is lord of a profitable manor,’ said d’Audley, before Elyan could reply for himself. ‘So naturally his less wealthy neighbours
are jealous of him. Luneday will do anything—’

‘Luneday did
not
kill Joan,’ interrupted Agnys, shooting him a long-suffering glare that indicated it was not the first time he had aired
his suspicions. ‘I know we have had our differences with him, but he is not that sort of man. Besides, he was at home in Withersfield
when Joan died.’

‘Then he hired someone,’ d’Audley flashed back. ‘Carbo, for example. Did you know Carbo was wandering around Cambridge when
Joan was there?’

‘So you have said before,’ said Agnys. ‘But Luneday would not have hired Carbo for such a task, because the poor man cannot
be trusted to carry it out. And she was not murdered, anyway. It was an accident, as I keep telling you.’

‘I do not want to talk about it,’ said Elyan, handing the cloth to the stall-owner, as if it no longer gave him pleasure.
‘Let us discuss something else instead. If you are from
Cambridge, then you must be acquainted with Warden Powys and his colleague Paxtone. I have never met them, but my priest
Neubold tells me they are fine, upstanding gentlemen.’