A Vein of Deceit (30 page)

‘Then he is wrong,’ muttered d’Audley. ‘They are sly and dishonest, and I hate the lot of them.’

‘King’s Hall is trying to deprive him of his chantry,’ explained Agnys, when Bartholomew and Michael exchanged puzzled glances.
‘But they have always dealt decently with us.’

‘D’Audley’s bad experiences derive from the fact that he uses Hilton to negotiate,’ added Elyan. ‘He should employ Neubold
instead, because he is slippery. Hilton is far too honest.’

Agnys’s glower moved from d’Audley to her grandson. ‘I cannot believe you still deal with that vile man – not after he abandoned
Joan, just to hare home and gloat over some transaction he had brought about. I want nothing more to do with him.’

‘I buy his legal skills,’ said Elyan. ‘That does not mean I like him. Indeed, I find him loathsome, but he is good at his
job – unlike Hilton, whose integrity will see d’Audley lose his chantry.’

‘Neubold will
not
be more cunning than the University’s clerks,’ declared Agnys. ‘They will see through his amateur tricks in an instant. Hilton
has a far better legal mind.’

‘I hope you are right,’ said d’Audley uneasily. ‘Because I would hate to lose the place.’

Bartholomew studied the chantry chapel. It was small and mean, and did not look like an asset worth fighting over. ‘Does it
belong to an ancestor?’ he asked politely.

‘It was built by a fellow named Alneston,’ replied d’Audley, ‘which is why it is called the Alneston Chantry, I suppose. However,
I can tell you nothing else about him,
other than that he died years ago and bequeathed seven fields – the rent earned from them pays for the services of a priest
to pray for his soul.’

‘A shilling,’ murmured Hilton. ‘I am paid a shilling for fifty masses a year. The rest goes—’

‘The rest goes towards the upkeep of the building,’ interrupted d’Audley, although it was obvious to anyone looking at it
that the funds had been diverted – and for a considerable period of time. ‘It has been under the stewardship of my family
for generations, and I refuse to let some grasping College reap the benefits … I mean, assume the responsibility.’

‘I have been looking through old deeds, to see whether King’s Hall has any right to challenge his possession,’ said Hilton
to Bartholomew and Michael. ‘Unfortunately, many are missing, and it is difficult to tell who holds legal title to what.’

‘
I
hold legal title,’ stated d’Audley firmly. ‘And I have the documents to prove it.’

‘Unfortunately, you do not,’ said Hilton. ‘But the chantry ownership is of no interest to our visitors, and we are wrong to
bore them with it.’

‘On the contrary,’ said Michael smoothly. ‘We find it fascinating. Our colleague Wynewyk mentioned none of this when he told
us of his visits here.’

For the first time since arriving in Suffolk, Wynewyk’s name provoked a reaction other than a blank stare. D’Audley’s eyes
widened, and he shut an uneasy glance towards Elyan, but his neighbour’s expression was bland, and Bartholomew could not tell
if he was party to whatever had startled d’Audley.

‘Who is Wynewyk?’ asked Agnys.

‘No one,’ replied d’Audley with a brittle smile. ‘I have never heard of him.’

‘The day is wearing on,’ said Elyan, glancing up at the sky. He gave the impression that he was bored with the scholars from
Cambridge, and their questions and remarks. ‘It is time I inspected my mine.’

Agnys sighed disapprovingly. ‘You visit that place far too often, Henry, and it is beginning to impinge on more important
estate business. It is not—’

‘There
is
nothing more important,’ declared Elyan, springing lithely into his saddle. He patted his clothes into place. ‘Are you coming,
grandmother? Or shall I allow d’Audley to escort you home?’

Neither Agnys nor their neighbour seemed very keen on that proposition. The old lady headed for her horse, while d’Audley
suddenly developed an intense interest in worsted.

Gallantly, Hilton stepped forward to help Agnys mount, and, seeing the priest might be struggling for some time unless someone
else lent a hand, Bartholomew went to join him. Sensing the presence of two men who were uneasy in its company, the horse
began to misbehave. It snickered and pranced, and they might have been there all day, if Michael had not taken charge.

‘Hurry up, Hilton,’ ordered Elyan irritably. ‘I have need of your services today, because Neubold is nowhere to be found.
Come with me to the mine, and we shall talk on the way.’

He spurred his horse forward, flicking his fingers as he did so, to indicate Hilton was to trot along at his side. Agnys followed
more sedately. D’Audley abandoned the worsted and started to walk in the opposite direction, but found his path blocked by
Michael.

‘Tell me about Wynewyk,’ said the monk pleasantly. ‘Your reaction to his name made it obvious you
do
know him, so please do not claim otherwise. Could it be connected to timber, at all?’

‘Timber?’ echoed d’Audley in a squeak. ‘Why should I know him in connection with timber?’

‘Because he bought some from you. It cost him seven marks, although our woodsheds remain curiously empty.’

‘Do they?’ D’Audley swallowed uneasily. ‘I cannot imagine why you should think—’

‘My colleague and I have come to reclaim the money, so how will you pay? Cash or jewels?’

‘I am not paying anything,’ declared d’Audley, alarmed. ‘I cannot imagine why Wynewyk said he gave me seven marks, for he
did no such thing. You cannot prove otherwise, so leave me be.’

He spun on his heel and attempted to stalk away, but found his path blocked by Bartholomew.

‘How long have you known Wynewyk?’ the physician asked quietly.

D’Audley sighed angrily when he saw there was no escape – and that the scholars were not going to be fobbed off with lies.
‘Since the summer. He visited Withersfield, too, although why he sullied his feet by going there is beyond my understanding.’

‘Why did Luneday deny knowing him, then?’ demanded Michael.

‘Probably because the man cannot open his mouth without lying,’ spat d’Audley. ‘He is a murderous villain, who should be hanged
for what he did to poor Joan.’

‘And what about Elyan?’ asked Michael, more interested in Michaelhouse’s money than d’Audley’s wild theories. ‘Why did he
leave so suddenly when we mentioned Wynewyk’s name?’

‘He did not leave suddenly – he is just a busy man,’ replied d’Audley. ‘But Wynewyk did not give us money for timber, coal
or anything else. And
I
am a busy man, too, so you must excuse—’

‘How do you know coal is one of the commodities Wynewyk purchased?’ pounced Michael.

D’Audley swallowed uneasily, and he looked furtive. ‘It was a guess. Coal is one of Haverhill’s most lucrative exports.’

‘It is not,’ retorted Michael. ‘Elyan sells a small amount locally, but his mine has not yet started producing. So you are
not being entirely truthful with us, and—’

He turned quickly at a sudden commotion at the far end of the market. Hilton was running towards the Alneston Chantry, where
a crowd had gathered. Gatekeeper Folyat was busily darting here and there, whispering in people’s ears. When he saw d’Audley
with Bartholomew and Michael, Folyat raced towards them.

‘It is Neubold,’ he gasped, breathless from his exertions. ‘He has hanged himself in the chapel.’

Bartholomew and Michael joined the throng that hurried towards the Alneston Chantry. The chapel was tiny, and looked even
shabbier up close than it had at a distance. The scholars entered to find themselves in a plain, single-celled building with
a small altar at its eastern end. Above the altar was a window that had probably once contained glass, but that was now open
to the elements. The floor was beaten earth, and was soft with bird droppings. It reeked of old feathers, damp and neglect.

‘I would not want to pray long in here,’ muttered Michael, wrinkling his nose in distaste. ‘No wonder Alneston’s soul only
gets one mass a week.’

Neubold was indeed hanging from the rafters. He was in the same clothes he had worn the night before – blue gipon and orange
leggings. Hilton and d’Audley were cutting him down, clearly in the hope of reviving him, but Bartholomew could see it was
too late.

‘Neubold’s hands are tied,’ he whispered to Michael, watching Hilton push on the dead man’s chest in an effort to make him
breathe. ‘And there is blood on his head. He was murdered.’

‘Then I hope no one will think
we
killed him,’ Michael murmured back. ‘Strangers are often blamed in situations like this, and we were in Withersfield last
night. Perhaps we should leave.’

‘That will definitely look suspicious. And we cannot get out anyway – the place is too tightly packed, and more
people are prising their way inside by the moment. We are effectively trapped.’

‘Can you save Neubold? That might make folk more kindly disposed towards us.’

‘Unfortunately not – he looks to be as stiff as a board, which suggests he has been dead for hours.’

‘Then we had better stand in the shadows,’ said Michael. ‘And hope no one notices us. What did you make of d’Audley’s testimony,
by the way?’

‘It confirms what we had already guessed – that Wynewyk travelled to Suffolk in the summer, instead of going to see his ailing
father. Of course, we would have known that without d’Audley – Wynewyk brought home a lot of jugs …’

‘And they are of the same distinctive design as the ones for sale in Haverhill market,’ finished Michael, nodding. ‘Moreover,
d’Audley’s furtive manner leads me to surmise that Wynewyk almost certainly brokered some sort of deal with him. And probably
with Elyan and Luneday, too.’

‘But it does not prove any wrongdoing on Wynewyk’s part,’ Bartholomew warned, predicting the monk’s next conclusion. ‘He may
have organised the contracts in good faith, and it is these lordlings who are cheating Michaelhouse.’

‘Then why the secrecy?’ demanded the monk. ‘And why did he accept the money I gave him when I thought he was visiting sick
kin? Such behaviour is not the act of a decent man.’

That was true, but Bartholomew was unwilling to admit it. He indicated that they should listen to what was happening by the
altar; he seriously doubted any exchange between villagers would help them discover what Wynewyk had been doing in Suffolk,
but it was a convenient way to bring an end to a conversation that was becoming uncomfortable.

‘Did anyone see Neubold this morning?’ Elyan was asking. ‘He was not at dawn mass, and he was unavailable when I asked for
him last night. Does anyone know where he was?’

‘In Withersfield,’ replied Folyat. Bartholomew wondered who was collecting the tolls, or whether they were only levied when
the gatekeeper felt like it. ‘He was caught trying to steal Lizzie, and Luneday locked him in his barn. I heard he escaped
during the night.’

Elyan’s expression became suspiciously bland when Lizzie was mentioned, and Bartholomew was seized with the absolute conviction
that he had known exactly what Neubold had been doing – that the priest had either been acting on his orders or with his complicit
approval.

‘Luneday
said
he escaped,’ sneered d’Audley. ‘But it is obvious what really happened: the villains at Withersfield killed him, and invented
the tale of Neubold’s escape, to confuse us.’

‘No,’ contradicted Lady Agnys sharply. She glared at d’Audley. ‘There is no evidence to suggest such a thing, and making such
statements is both dangerous and offensive.’

‘I speak as I find,’ d’Audley snapped back.

They argued until Hilton stood, indicating that his efforts to save Neubold were over. He bowed his head and began to pray,
which immediately stilled the clamour of accusations. But they started again the moment he had finished.

‘Neubold killed himself,’ said Elyan with considerable authority. ‘His brother Carbo went insane, so lunacy must run in the
family.’

‘Then why are his hands tied?’ asked Agnys. ‘And how did he come by that cut on his head?’

‘He tied his hands to make sure he did not change his mind,’ replied Elyan, with the kind of shrug that said he
thought his grandmother’s points were irrelevant. He smoothed down his immaculate gipon. ‘And of course there will be cuts
when a man dies a violent death.’

‘Remember the mess in Luneday’s barn?’ murmured Bartholomew to Michael. ‘Perhaps Neubold was not rescued by whoever unbarred
the door, but was dragged to his death instead. Do you think his murderer and the man who attacked us last night are one and
the same?’

‘But why would anyone target us
and
Neubold? We have no connection to each other.’

‘He killed
himself
!’ Elyan was shouting, dragging the scholars’ attention back to the altar. ‘No one at Withersfield would risk his immortal
soul by murdering a priest. You speak rubbish, d’Audley!’

‘Neubold is not wearing his habit,’ countered d’Audley. ‘And it was dark out last night – no moon, and thick clouds. Perhaps
Luneday could not see, and hanged him without realising who he was.’

People were looking back and forth between the two men, as if watching a ball batted between two combatants. Hilton attempted
to intervene, but the lords of the manor overrode him.

‘Then why is Neubold not dangling from the gibbet in Withersfield?’ demanded Elyan. He turned to the gatekeeper. ‘Folyat?
Carry the body to the Upper Church. It can stay there until we decide where it can be buried. Suicides are banned from holy
ground, but he will have to go somewhere.’

‘Elyan seems very keen for a verdict of self-murder,’ mused Michael. ‘Suspiciously so.’

‘And d’Audley seems equally keen to have Luneday blamed,’ Bartholomew whispered back. ‘Just as he is eager to have Luneday
charged with harming Joan in Cambridge.’

‘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.’