‘No,’ said Michael. ‘A colleague named Wynewyk made the arrangements, but he is dead.’
Bartholomew was watching Luneday closely, but the lord of Withersfield Manor showed no spark of recognition at Wynewyk’s name. A fleeting frown crossed Margery’s face, but the physician could not tell whether it was significant, or whether she was merely searching her memory.
‘I am sorry to hear that,’ said Luneday. His tone was bland, impossible to interpret. ‘However, if he bought pigs from Haverhill, then perhaps it is just as well – he cannot have been a sensible man.’
‘How about if he had done business with Withersfield?’ asked Michael innocently.
Luneday smiled again. ‘Then he would have been very wise.’
‘Our Master, Ralph de Langelee, is always telling us that Withersfield is the only place to come for pigs,’ Michael went on, pushing the matter further. ‘It is a pity Wynewyk did not listen to him.’
‘It is indeed,’ agreed Luneday. He smiled again. ‘But I like the sound of this Langelee.’
‘He is a great philosopher and a man of outstanding wisdom.’ Michael faltered when Bartholomew choked into his wine. The physician was glad the students were not within earshot; they would have laughed openly, thinking the monk was making a joke.
‘Then he should have come to trade in person,’ said Luneday, standing to pound on the physician’s back. He banged rather harder than was necessary, and Bartholomew was not sure whether Luneday was just a naturally vigorous person, or whether it was revenge for Michael’s sly probing. ‘Your Wynewyk does not seem to have been capable – not if he went to Haverhill.’
Michael pretended to look thoughtful. ‘Do you know, I think Wynewyk did tell me came here. I distinctly recall him mentioning a chimney. And I am sure he said he spent five marks on pigs.’
‘Five marks is a lot of hog,’ said Luneday, sitting again when Bartholomew had recovered his breath. ‘I do not recall Wynewyk, though. Are there documents to substantiate his claim?’
‘Not that we have found. It must have been a gentleman’s agreement – five marks given on the understanding that the contract would be honoured by men of decency and principle.’
‘It is getting late,’ said Margery with a yawn. ‘And we retire early here, because there is so much to be done in the fields – not that I labour, of course. I prefer to stay inside and have my hair dyed.’
Luneday jumped to his feet again. ‘My woman is right. We all need our sleep, and you look tired, Brother. The maid will bring you bedding, and we shall bid you goodnight.’
Michael’s smile was pained, but there was no way he could force Luneday to stay and answer questions. He nodded his thanks, and watched the lord of the manor and his woman disappear up the stairs. There was a short delay as a maid hunted for spare blankets and straw-filled mattresses, then she followed her master’s example and went to bed, too. It was not long before the house was silent.
‘I am not sure what to think,’ said Bartholomew, removing some of his clothes and setting them to dry by the fire. Cynric and the students were examining the bedding, paying no attention to the discussion between physician and monk. Risleye was agreeing with Cynric that everything was damp and smelled of mould; Tesdale was declaring that he did not care and just wanted to lie down; and Valence said he was grateful just to have a roof over his head. ‘Was Luneday lying about not knowing Wynewyk?’
‘I could not tell,’ said Michael. He frowned. ‘But do you remember what Risleye said about meeting Wynewyk in Babraham when he should have been visiting his father?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘Are you thinking that Risleye caught Wynewyk returning from Suffolk – that he did come here to buy pigs from Luneday?’
‘Yes. He paid Risleye to keep the encounter quiet, which is suspicious in itself. Ergo, I suspect he came in person to facilitate these arrangements – he would not have done it in writing, as the transactions were illegal. He was a lawyer, and knew better than to leave a document trail.’
‘The transactions were not illegal,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘They are inexplicable, which is not the same thing. However, you may be right about his travels – perhaps he did come here. If so, then maybe he used another name. That would explain why Luneday did not recognise “Wynewyk”.’
‘It is possible, although you should bear in mind that men engaged in legitimate business do not feel the need for such subterfuge. Of course, we must also remember that Wynewyk may have chosen these names randomly – that Luneday, Elyan and d’Audley are innocent of any wrongdoing.’
‘Wynewyk is innocent of wrongdoing,’ persisted Bartholomew doggedly.
‘How can you still think that?’ asked Michael wonderingly. ‘He tried to kill Langelee, he sent letters to noblemen offering to sell them diamonds, and he cheated your College. It is not as if it is just one dubious incident here, Matt – it is several, and they do not add up to anything pleasant.’
‘That is because we still do not have the whole picture, and it is leading you to premature conclusions. However, there are a lot of connections between these Suffolk men and Cambridge. Something is going on – and it is bigger than Wynewyk.’
Michael regarded him soberly. ‘I hope you will not be too devastated when you learn your faith in him is misplaced. But we should not discuss this tonight, when neither of us has new evidence with which to sway the other. We will only quarrel, and I am too weary for a spat.’
Bartholomew was only too happy to oblige. ‘Perhaps we should talk about Carbo instead.’
Michael winced. ‘Perhaps we should not – it is too depressing. We still know nothing about him.’
‘Nonsense, Brother! We have learned that the death of a much-loved parent lost him his post as Luneday’s steward. And we know he was no priest – his Dominican habit was stolen property. Tomorrow, I shall ask Neubold how his brother came by the injury to his head – the one I think was responsible for his odd demeanour. I said the scarring looked as if the wound had been inflicted in the last two years or so, and–’
‘And his mother died a little less than two years ago,’ finished Michael. ‘How do you think he came to be hurt? An accident? He was a steward, and we all know agriculture is a dangerous business.’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Who knows? The possibilities are endless – a fall, a kick from a horse, being struck with something heavy, either accidentally or deliberately. That is why we need to ask Neubold. Are you going to tell him his brother is dead?’
‘We must, so he can go to Cambridge and retrieve the body, otherwise it will end up in the Dominican cemetery. Of course, Carbo might not have minded that, given that he wanted to enrol.’
‘What was he doing in Cambridge, do you think? What drew him there?’
‘I have no idea. It is yet another of these curious coincidences that keep cropping up in this case. They are beginning to be aggravating, so let us hope tomorrow brings some solutions.’
‘Be careful how you go about getting them, Brother,’ said Bartholomew uneasily. ‘I cannot say why exactly, but I do not feel safe here.’
Because the inhabitants of Withersfield Manor retired so early – far earlier than Bartholomew went to bed in Cambridge, even during winter – he had no idea what time it was when he woke later. It was still pitch black, and not even the merest glimmer of light came from under the window shutters. The fire had burned out, so he supposed several hours had passed. He lay in the darkness trying to determine whether the vague patterns he could see on the ceiling were the rafters or his imagination.