A Vein of Deceit (36 page)

‘You are wrong,’ said Elyan unsteadily. ‘No one will try to kill me. If they do, I shall take another wife. That will put
an end to such nonsense.’

‘Or result in another death from pennyroyal,’ said Michael harshly. ‘But why did Joan really go to Cambridge? She was heavily
pregnant and not young. It was a risky thing to do, and I cannot believe she did it for ribbons.’

‘It
was
for ribbons,’ said Elyan firmly. ‘She told me the ones in Haverhill were dull and she wanted brighter colours. She was going
to buy me a new hat, too.’

Bartholomew studied him thoughtfully, and concluded that whatever the reason for Joan’s sudden decision to travel, she had
not confided it to her husband. She had invented an excuse she knew he would accept – inveterate
clothes-lover that he was – and had pre-empted any objections he might have raised with promises of treats.

She had, however, taken care to leave at a time when Agnys was not there stop her. Why? Was it really because the old lady
would have tried to dissuade her? Or was she running away from something in Haverhill, something Agnys knew all about? Agnys
had denied knowing the cause of Joan’s recent unhappiness, but who was to say she was telling the truth? He turned to look
at the old woman, but could read nothing in her face.

‘Perhaps she went to see the father of her child,’ suggested Michael. ‘Lady Agnys said she had been distant and distracted
for a few weeks. Perhaps she wanted to tell him the good news.’

‘The brat was mine,’ said Elyan fiercely. ‘And if someone else did step into the breach, then so what? It would still have
been born to my wife, and raised as my heir.’

‘D’Audley, Luneday and King’s Hall would not agree,’ Michael pointed out. ‘They only lose their rights if
you
provide a child: another man’s progeny does not count in the eyes of the law.’

‘Who was it, Henry?’ asked Agnys softly. ‘Joan is dead, so breaking her trust cannot matter now.’

‘I loved her,’ said Elyan in a strangled voice. ‘I will not …’

‘I know you did,’ said Agnys gently. ‘But people are being murdered, and it is time to put an end to it. Who do you suspect
of obliging Joan?’

Elyan sighed unhappily. ‘Neubold said it was him. Joan claimed it was not, but I always assumed she lied because she did not
want me to think less of her for selecting such a miserable specimen.’

‘Neubold accompanied her to Cambridge,’ mused Michael. ‘And it was there that she died of—’

‘Neubold would not have killed her,’ interrupted Agnys with conviction. ‘If he was the father, he would have wanted her and
the baby alive, so he could reap the benefits. He would never have harmed her, not when there might have been profit in the
situation.’

‘But Michael is right in that the father may live in Cambridge,’ mused Bartholomew. He thought, but did not say, that the
University was awash with handsome men, most of whom would be only too pleased to provide their services to a desperate woman
– Joan would have been spoiled for choice. ‘Edith is wrong to think the solution to Joan’s death lies here: it lies in the
place where she died.’

It was mid-afternoon by the time Bartholomew and Michael left Elyan Manor, and the weather had turned chilly. It was not raining,
but the clouds were low and menacing and it would not be long before there was another deluge. Michael complained bitterly,
because it had been warm when they had set out on their journey, and he had not bothered to take his cloak. Now he was cold.

‘I am more confused than ever,’ he said, shivering. ‘Did Elyan kill Neubold because he believed Neubold was his wife’s lover?
Personally, I doubt it was the case – I imagine she had more taste.’

‘He was rather keen for a verdict of suicide,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘That is suspicious in itself. However, by killing Neubold,
Elyan lost himself the services of a slippery lawyer.’

‘He is not the only one,’ said Michael, rather gleefully. ‘I cannot imagine Osa Gosse will be pleased when he learns his legal
adviser is no longer available.’

But Bartholomew’s thoughts were still on Joan. ‘The more I consider it, the more I am sure you are right about
why she went to Cambridge – it
was
to see the father of her child.’

Michael sighed. ‘To be honest, I only said that to shake a reaction from Elyan. It cannot be true, because we have been told
– by several people, including your sister – that Joan had not been to Cambridge for years.
Ergo
, the babe must have been conceived in Suffolk. The father is not some willing scholar or burgess, but someone in
this
county. Or perhaps someone who visited Haverhill.’

‘It cannot be Wynewyk,’ said Bartholomew, seeing what the monk was thinking. ‘It is one thing you cannot blame him for, because
we both know his preferences. Although …’

‘Although what?’

‘Although Yolande de Blaston did say he hired her on occasion. However, I suspect Joan would have opted for someone more manly.
Scholars from King’s Hall must have visited Haverhill, too, to look at the Alneston Chantry and the manor they hope to acquire.
Then there is Gosse. Joan knew him, because Edith was with her when she exchanged words with the fellow.’

Michael was shocked. ‘But Gosse is a felon! A well-dressed, intelligent one, but a felon even so.’

‘Perhaps she had no choice,’ said Bartholomew soberly.

They were silent for a while, and the only sound was their footsteps on the muddy track and the distant bleat of sheep on
the surrounding hills.

‘Do you think Elyan was telling the truth about his arrangement with Wynewyk?’ asked Michael at last. ‘If so, we may never
retrieve our eighteen marks.’

‘Twenty-five marks,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘Wynewyk lent d’Audley money for the venture, too. And yes, I think he was telling
the truth. He is not clever enough to have deceived you.’

‘What was Wynewyk thinking, to become embroiled with such people?’ demanded Michael.

‘I imagine he was thinking it offered an attractive long-term investment for Michaelhouse,’ said Bartholomew, who had been
relieved by Elyan’s confession. ‘He was not dishonest, as I have said all along. It was not a wise decision, given that the
mine is unlikely to be profitable, but being a fool is not the same as being a thief.’

‘We need to confirm this tale with d’Audley before we can be sure about that,’ said Michael. ‘And nor can we forget the five
marks Wynewyk gave to Luneday, ostensibly for pigs.’

‘What a coincidence – there is d’Audley,’ said Bartholomew, pointing down the road to where a familiar figure could be seen
riding towards them. ‘On his way home from the market, I suppose.’

D’Audley saw the Michaelhouse scholars coming his way, and attempted to force his way through a hedge in order to avoid them.
Unfortunately, the gap he had picked was not wide enough, and the nag panicked. It taxed even Michael’s superior horsemanship
to extricate them both unscathed.

‘I saw a fox,’ declared d’Audley, once he was free. ‘And I wanted to see where it went. I have chickens, you know. A man with
chickens cannot be too careful about foxes.’

‘Speaking of foxes, I would like to hear about your arrangement with Wynewyk,’ said Michael. ‘Elyan has just informed us that
Wynewyk lent you seven marks, to allow you to invest in his mine.’

‘Damn him!’ cried d’Audley furiously. ‘He promised to keep the matter to himself. I should have known he could not be trusted!’

‘The time for deceit is over,’ said Michael, keeping a firm grip on the reins, lest his victim attempted to bolt.
‘You have two choices: you can tell
us
the truth, or you can tell the King. However, I should warn you that His Majesty beheaded the last person who tried to cheat
us.’

D’Audley regarded him in horror, and Bartholomew looked away, uncomfortable with the lie. But it had the desired effect, because
d’Audley began to talk so fast that it was difficult to keep up with the stream of confessions.

‘I should have followed my first instinct, and stayed well away from that wretched coal,’ he gabbled, bitterness in every
word. ‘I knew it would be unprofitable, and we would all end up throwing away good money. So why did I weaken and let Elyan
persuade me otherwise?’

‘You tell me,’ suggested Michael.

‘He seemed so sure it would prosper, and I dislike the notion of neighbours growing rich while I remain poor. So I decided
to accept his invitation to invest. Unfortunately, I had no free money of my own. Then I happened to meet your friend Wynewyk
in the Queen’s Head one night. I bewailed my plight to his sympathetic ear, and he gave me seven marks. I could not believe
my good luck!’

‘He
lent
you seven marks,’ corrected Michael. ‘He did not
give
it.’

‘No,’ agreed d’Audley tearfully. ‘And the interest on the loan was free firewood for the next five years, plus a percentage
of my profits from the mine. He was going to have a percentage of Elyan’s returns, too, so it was a fabulous deal for your
College.’

‘In other words,’ said Bartholomew quietly, ‘he negotiated a perfectly legitimate transaction.’

D’Audley nodded miserably. ‘But Elyan’s mine has not yielded what was promised, and it is time to start sending firewood to
Cambridge. Then I heard Wynewyk was dead, and as there was no written agreement between us, I thought – hoped – that your
College would not know about it.’

Michael almost laughed. ‘It did not occur to you that
he
might have kept records? Or that no foundation is likely to overlook such a large amount of money?’

‘It did, but the others told me I was being unreasonably pessimistic.’

‘What others?’ demanded Michael. ‘Your conspirators in crime? Luneday and Elyan?’

‘We are not conspirators,’ objected d’Audley, alarmed by the term. ‘Nor have we stolen—’

‘But not for want of trying,’ interrupted Michael coldly. ‘You have already confessed to attempting to defraud my College.
The King will not like that.’

‘Then you must tell him I made a mistake,’ cried d’Audley. ‘Please! If I am imprisoned, my manor will never produce enough
firewood to appease you until I can repay back what I borrowed. It is in your own interests to be nice.’

‘I shall think about it,’ said Michael stiffly, knowing he was right. ‘Now, if I draw up a written agreement of the transaction
you arranged with Wynewyk, will you sign it?’

‘Yes,’ sighed d’Audley. He looked furtive. ‘I always intended to do right by Michaelhouse, as far as I could. It was the others
who wanted to renege, and they forced me to do likewise. Elyan is supposed to give Michaelhouse eighteen marks’ worth of coal
before the end of the year, and Luneday agreed to establish a fine herd of pigs at your manor in Ickleton.’

Michael was unimpressed. ‘What are we supposed to do with that much coal?’

‘It is a valuable commodity – I imagine Wynewyk planned to stockpile it, then release it when the price is highest. He was
an astute man – too astute for us.’

‘And what about the animals?’ asked Michael in distaste. ‘We are scholars, not farmers.’

‘Yes, but you eat pork, and these are the best pigs in Suffolk. A herd of Withersfield beasts is an excellent bargain for
any foundation. Of course, Luneday probably lied to you, and denied knowing Wynewyk. If he did, you should not be surprised.
The man is a scoundrel.’

‘Unlike you, I suppose,’ murmured Michael in distaste.

‘When did Wynewyk do all this?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘In the summer?’

D’Audley nodded. ‘Late August. He must have heard about the coal from King’s Hall, who were also invited to invest, and he
came here to see it for himself.’

‘Was he here earlier than that?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking of Michael’s contention that Wynewyk might be the father of Joan’s
child. He did some rapid calculations. ‘February or March?’

‘No. I had never seen him before August. And I wish to God I had not met him then, either.’

Michael released the reins, and the moment he did so, d’Audley jabbed his heels into his horse’s sides and galloped away.
Bartholomew felt happier than he had done in days.

‘D’Audley’s testimony exonerates Wynewyk,’ he said, smiling. ‘These arrangements are irregular, which is probably why he did
not tell us about them, but he did not steal our thirty marks.’

‘No,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘The whole affair is shabby, though. Langelee said Wynewyk was a scoundrel, and hoped he would
use his unsavoury talents to benefit us. Well, he did.’

‘We should speak to Luneday – make him sign a document to ensure he delivers these pigs to Ickleton. It may not be money,
but at least we will have retrieved something.’

‘We shall have eighteen marks in coal, too,’ vowed Michael. ‘And—’

He was interrupted by a sudden hiss, and an arrow thudded into the ground at his feet. The next one impaled the purse that
dangled at his side.

Bartholomew grabbed Michael’s arm and hauled him into the deep ditch that ran along the side of the road. The monk squawked
as icy water seeped into his boots, and then released a string of pithy oaths when the arrow, still embedded in his scrip,
poked through his habit and jabbed him in the leg.

‘Quiet!’ ordered Bartholomew urgently, peering through the long grass and trying to see where their assailant might be lurking.

‘Easy for you to say,’ muttered the monk. ‘You are not soaking wet and grievously wounded.’

Bartholomew ducked when a third missile landed inches from his hand. From its angle, he thought the bowman was lurking behind
the large beech tree on the opposite side of the road. Then another arrived from a different direction, and he realised there
were two of them. He turned to Michael.

‘We will have to escape by crawling along the ditch. We cannot stay here – it is only a matter of time before one scores a
lucky hit. Can you do it?’

‘Yes.’ Michael sounded offended. ‘I am not so portly that I cannot scramble along trenches to save my life.’

‘You said you were hurt.’

Michael hauled up the voluminous folds of his habit, prudishly turning his back, so the physician should not see anything
too personal. Then he presented a minuscule patch of bare white thigh – the rest primly concealed by material – to reveal
a scratch that had barely broken the skin.