‘You think all these things are connected?’ Edith was bemused.
‘Perhaps, although I cannot see how. The other common element is coal. Carbo had some sewn in his habit, Wynewyk bought some from Elyan…’
Edith nodded vigorously. ‘And Joan told me that Elyan’s priest – Neubold – came here to sell coal to King’s Hall, which was what afforded her the opportunity to travel in the first place.’
‘Did you ever meet Neubold?’ asked Bartholomew, supposing that if Edith was right and Joan had been murdered, then Carbo was the obvious suspect – he had been in Cambridge when she had swallowed the pennyroyal, and had failed to respond when he had been summoned.
‘Briefly, before Joan died. Afterwards, I asked for him at the Brazen George, but the landlord said he had gone – disappeared.’ Her eyes narrowed when she saw what he was thinking. ‘You suspect he is her killer? But when I suggested him as a culprit on Sunday, you dismissed the notion.’
Bartholomew rubbed his eyes. ‘I will ask questions about him in Suffolk,’ he replied vaguely.
Edith was thoughtful. ‘I went to King’s Hall after my enquiries in the tavern. Warden Powys told me Neubold had finished his business there sooner than anticipated and has not been seen since.’
Bartholomew rubbed his chin. It was common knowledge that Elyan had sent his priest to negotiate with King’s Hall, so why had the Warden, Paxtone and Shropham denied knowing Carbo? Had Shropham killed him over a contract for coal? He had negotiated too hard a bargain, and the scholars had decided that King’s Hall’s interests would better be served if he was dead? And had they then agreed to a conspiracy of silence about it?
‘Neubold is dead,’ he said. ‘Shropham killed him.’
Edith looked doubtful. ‘I thought Shropham had stabbed a fellow called Carbo.’
‘They are one and the same. Yolande told me.’
Edith looked startled. ‘Then Yolande told you wrong! There is a similarity in their build, hair and facial features – and both are Dominicans – but Neubold is elegant and well-groomed, while Carbo was a beggar. And how could you think that Elyan would send a scruffy, half-mad hedge-priest to represent him to the scholars of King’s Hall? Or that Joan would travel in such company?’
‘But Yolande saw Carbo talking to the King’s Hall men, and–’
‘Yolande would have seen Neubold. I imagine what happened is this: she heard Shropham had stabbed a visiting Dominican, and made an erroneous assumption – that he killed the priest she saw him chatting to. But she is mistaken, and you have let her lead you astray.’
‘I…’
But she was right: of course Carbo and Neubold could not be the same person, and her scornful words made Bartholomew feel a fool for ever having thought so. He had set too much store by a letter from Withersfield and the coal in Carbo’s habit, and they had led him to conclusions that were, as Edith pointed out, preposterous. Moreover, it meant the King’s Hall men had not been lying when they had denied knowing Carbo. He closed his eyes wearily when he saw that he and Michael would have to revise all their reasoning regarding the murdered friar.
Edith was reviewing her theories, too. ‘I know I suggested on Sunday that Neubold might have harmed Joan, but I have reconsidered – I do not believe a trusted clerk would have poisoned his master’s wife. So perhaps Neubold witnessed Joan being plied with pennyroyal, and was killed to ensure his silence. And that is why he has disappeared so mysteriously.’
‘You said you had not seen Joan in years. People change, Edith.’
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘What are you saying? I do not understand.’
‘Everyone knows first pregnancies can be difficult, and that the mother – especially an older one – must take precautions. She is advised to eat certain foods, avoid others. She needs rest, so that exertion does not prematurely expel the child from her body. Joan was rich, well placed to do all this.’
‘So?’ asked Edith, when he paused.
‘So why did she risk a long journey for a few bits of cloth? Why not send a servant for the ribbons? And why go with only a priest for protection? Do you not think it a little strange?’
Edith stared at him for a long time. ‘You think the journey was an attempt to rid herself of the baby – and she swallowed pennyroyal when it did not work?’
‘It is possible. You should be aware that Joan may not have been entirely honest with you.’
Edith continued to stare. ‘She seemed the same. I confided in her – told her about you and Matilde. Do not look dismayed! I felt like sharing something personal, and I do not have any interesting secrets of my own. Oswald and I lead very staid lives.’
‘You could have told her about Richard,’ he said tartly, referring to her wayward son. ‘Did you persuade him to abandon his tryst with the Earl of Suffolk’s daughter, by the way?’
‘No,’ she replied stiffly. ‘And he says the baby is not his, although the Earl does not believe him.’
‘Christ!’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘I am sure Joan would have found that a lot more interesting.’
‘Will you ask after Matilde when you visit Haverhill?’ asked Edith, deftly changing the subject. ‘You searched for her in distant places, but perhaps she did not go far. She might be in Suffolk.’
Bartholomew thought it unlikely, but part of him hoped Edith was right: that one day he would find Matilde, and she would agree to become his wife. But it was a hope that was too deeply personal to talk about, so he mumbled a vague reply about the trail being cold after so long.
‘You should go,’ said Edith, seeing she was going to be told no more. ‘It is late and you have a long journey tomorrow. And I have heard the rumours that say you are a formidable warrior these days, but we both know they are untrue. Take Cynric with you – you need him, I do not.’
The following day, Bartholomew awoke to find his book-bearer packing a bag with items he thought might be needed for the foray into Suffolk; his dark face was alight with excitement, and he was clearly looking forward to the adventure. Meanwhile, the physician’s room-mates were groaning and pulling blankets over their heads, because dawn was still some way off, but Cynric was creating enough racket to raise the dead. Bartholomew was a heavy sleeper, and the fact that he had been disturbed was testament to the rumpus Cynric was making.
‘That should do,’ declared the book-bearer eventually, sitting back to inspect his handiwork. ‘We will not be gone long, anyway. My wife wants me home in four days, because her mother is coming to stay.’ He reflected for a moment. ‘But we can take longer, if you like.’
Bartholomew prised himself out of bed, and looked in the bag. There was not much in it, because Cynric was of the opinion that clean clothes were a waste of time when travelling on muddy roads. He had, however, packed a variety of items that could be used as weapons, including a selection of knives, a length of rope and a piece of lead piping. Yawning, Bartholomew dressed and went to wait for Michael in the yard. It was drizzling and still pitch dark. After a moment, Langelee appeared.
‘I did a stupid thing yesterday,’ he said, rubbing his hands to warm them. ‘I asked Clippesby to sort through Wynewyk’s belongings, because everyone else was busy. Do you know what he claims to have found? Copies of letters to noblemen, asking if they would like to buy some diamonds.’
Bartholomew regarded him in surprise. ‘Wynewyk had no diamonds!’
Langelee grimaced. ‘Clippesby was in the process of burning these so-called missives when I happened across him. He said the College cat had told him to do it, to protect Wynewyk’s reputation. God only knows what he really destroyed.’