‘It is possible, I suppose,’ conceded Michael, although he sounded doubtful. In his mind, there was nothing unusual about a poorly fed, half-mad Dominican. ‘However, Shropham must have killed him for a reason, so I suspect he was more than just a vagrant.’
‘Carbo witnessed Langelee being stabbed,’ began Bartholomew tentatively. ‘Do you think he was killed by our Master’s assailant – perhaps to keep the culprit from being identified?’
‘Shropham attacked Langelee as well as Carbo?’ asked Morden, regarding him in confusion.
‘Of course not,’ said Michael. ‘And Carbo was killed two days after the assault on Langelee, when he had already been interviewed about what he had seen – it would have been like locking the stable door after the horse had bolted. Ergo, I do not think the two incidents are connected.’
Bartholomew reconsidered. ‘Then perhaps he witnessed a different event – one Shropham did not want him sharing with anyone else.’
‘Shropham is not the kind of man to resolve awkward situations with violence,’ objected Michael, and the physician saw he was beginning to persuade himself that there was going to be an exculpatory explanation for what had happened – one that would see Shropham exonerated.
‘He might if it were to protect his College,’ averred Morden. ‘And I understand it was his knife that was embedded in Carbo’s belly.’
‘True,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But let us not forget that Carbo had a dagger, too – despite the fact that friars are not supposed to carry weapons – and it was in his hand when my Junior Proctor found him. That suggests a fight, not an ambush. Where is Carbo’s blade, Morden? Do you have it, or did it go astray amid all the confusion?’
The Prior opened a wall cupboard, and handed the monk a sack that contained Carbo’s few possessions. There was his frayed habit, a pair of ancient boots, an empty purse and the dagger. The knife was made of base metal, and was stained with blood, although whether it was Carbo’s own or Shropham’s was impossible to say.
Bartholomew unrolled the habit and inspected it, noting the huge stitches that repaired a tear in the hem. An ungainly patch had been attached near the hip, too. Yet when Bartholomew looked on the inside of the garment, the material was sound – the patch was not there to mend damage. Frowning, he looked closer, and realised its real purpose was to act as a place in which to conceal a document; he could feel parchment crackling under his fingers. Prior and monk watched with interest as he slit the stitches to retrieve it.
‘That is cunning,’ said Morden admiringly. ‘No one would ever think of investigating a patch. Well, no one who is not a Corpse Examiner, that is.’
‘What is it, Matt?’ asked Michael eagerly. ‘A secret message?’
‘A letter,’ replied Bartholomew, spreading the document on the table. It was thin and friable, as though it had been read and reread until it was almost worn away. The words were faded, and the ink had run, but it was still just about legible. ‘From someone’s mother.’
‘Whose mother?’ demanded Michael. ‘Carbo’s?’
Bartholomew shot him a look that asked how he was supposed to know. ‘And there is something else here, too. A piece of coal.’
Michael took the rock from him. ‘Perhaps it is ballast, to stop his habit from flying up in the wind and revealing his nether-garments. I sew pieces of metal into my hems for the same purpose.’
‘It is too light to prevent embarrassing revelations,’ said Morden, studying it as it lay in Michael’s palm. ‘Perhaps it is an amulet. Many folk believe certain stones hold magical or healing powers.’
‘Carbo kept mentioning coal when we interviewed him,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘And his name is Latin for the stuff. He must have developed a fetish for it, so I do not think we should read too much into finding a lump of it in his clothing.’
‘Let me see the letter,’ ordered Michael, elbowing Bartholomew out of the way. The light was good, but the monk still squinted. ‘Damn people and their tiny writing! Read it aloud, Matt.’
Bartholomew obliged. ‘My Son and Friend. God’s Greetings and wishes of Good Health from your Loving Mother. The Withersfield Pigs are strong and Fine this year, and I wish you could See them, for I think they would make you Well again. I think of you Always.’
‘Is that it?’ asked the Prior, disappointed. ‘A message about pigs from a doting dam? I would not think it worthwhile to hide such a thing. Why not carry it openly?’
‘Perhaps it is code,’ suggested Michael hopefully, picking it up and turning it this way and that. ‘There must be some reason why it was concealed.’
‘You both know friars are not supposed to hoard mementoes from their past lives,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘So it is not really surprising that Carbo hid this one.’
‘True,’ Morden sighed, beginning to head for the door. ‘But interesting though this is, I must return to my duties. If I do not order more fuel today, my brethren will freeze in the coming winter – and it promises to be a hard one. You can see yourselves out.’
Michael opened his mouth to object – he had no wish to be abandoned with a corpse – but closed it when Bartholomew began to speak. The physician’s attention was on the letter.
‘Withersfield,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘One of Wynewyk’s odd transactions was with Withersfield. It is in Suffolk – the next village to Haverhill, where Elyan lives.’
Michael nodded. ‘Wynewyk bought pigs from a Withersfield man called Luneday – beasts which also happen to be the subject of this curious missive. Does this mean there is a connection between Wynewyk’s dealings and Carbo’s murder? That makes no sense!’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘No, it does not. However, just because we do not understand the association does not mean we should dismiss it. After all, both Wynewyk and Carbo died on the same day – Saturday.’
But Michael shook his head. ‘We have no evidence that the two of them ever met.’
‘We have no evidence they did not meet, either, and you have always distrusted coincidences. Here we have a murdered priest carrying a piece of coal and a letter mentioning Withersfield, while Wynewyk bought pigs from Withersfield and coal from Haverhill – the latter from Elyan, whose wife Joan is also dead in unusual circumstances.’
Michael shook his head again, denying the relevance of the connections Bartholomew was making, but there was a glint in his eye that indicated he was intrigued by the possibilities.
‘It is a pity we cannot tie Gosse into this, too,’ the monk said. ‘Then we would solve all our problems, and a good many people would be grateful to us.’
‘Give it time,’ said Bartholomew, thinking about Edith’s contention that Gosse had lobbed stone-laden mud at her and Joan. ‘You never know.’
‘There is only one thing we can do,’ argued Michael, speaking at the Statutory Fellows’ Meeting that afternoon. They were discussing what should be done about the missing thirty marks – wisely, Langelee had postponed any formal discussion of Wynewyk’s activities until the first rush of indignation had passed and his Fellows were in more reflective frames of mind. ‘We must conceal our erstwhile colleague’s thievery at all costs.’
The Master was presiding over the assembly. He toyed restlessly with his sceptre, a hefty piece of brassware that symbolised his authority: it was tapped on the table in front of him to announce the beginning and end of official gatherings. Suttone and Hemmysby, who sat nearest to him, flinched as it was tossed recklessly from hand to hand, while Thelnetham had already moved, making it clear he was not going to be brained by Langelee’s agitated fidgeting. Meanwhile, Clippesby was more interested in the hedgehog in his lap than in anything his colleagues were saying, and Bartholomew was struggling to stay awake after spending so much of the previous night with patients.