Having been dismissed, Bartholomew and Michael followed Luneday outside. A number of folk milled around the barn, and Bartholomew paused to peer inside it. William was right: it looked as though a skirmish had taken place. Hay had been scattered, and several farming implements lay on the ground. There was, however, no sign that blood had been spilled. Perhaps Margery was right, and Neubold had made a mess for spite. It was not the sort of behaviour usually associated with priests, but Neubold had not seemed like a man particularly devoted to his vocation.
‘This is a dismal start,’ said Michael, as they rode away. ‘I was not expecting Luneday to hand us five marks with a smile and a blessing, but I hoped our questions would elicit some answers. We learned nothing from our night in Withersfield, except for the fact that we need to be on our guard.’
‘Perhaps that is your answer,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘We were attacked because Luneday does have our money and he is not keen on giving it back.’
Michael nodded slowly. ‘I cannot escape the feeling that there is something very odd and very dangerous going on here. And that it most definitely involves Michaelhouse’s thirty marks.’
Blue patches were showing through the clouds by the time the deputation from Cambridge left Withersfield. They rode along a pleasant track that eventually descended into a wide, shallow valley. A stream meandered across water meadows that were fringed by ancient oaks. Tesdale was unusually quiet, and tearfully admitted to dreaming about Wynewyk the previous night – that he was still alive, and had asked him to mind his classes while he went to the castle.
‘Wynewyk would not have asked you to help,’ scoffed Risleye, before Bartholomew could say it was normal to dream about the recently dead. ‘He would have hired his own students.’
‘You are wrong,’ declared Valence. ‘He knew Tesdale and I were short of money, so he often passed small tasks our way. He was a good man, and I wish he had not died. He was too young.’
‘It is something you will have to get used to, if you are going to be a physician,’ said Risleye unfeelingly. ‘Death will be our constant companion once we are qualified.’
Bartholomew was unsettled by the bleak remark. ‘It becomes easier with time,’ he said kindly to the other two, although he did not add that it was not by much. ‘The secret is to concentrate on helping the patient, rather than railing against matters over which you have no control.’
‘I should have stopped him from laughing so heartily,’ said Tesdale miserably. ‘Or warned him that eating four slices of almond cake was too much.’
Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. ‘He had four pieces? That is a lot.’
‘Especially for a man who tended to cough and gasp when he swallowed nuts,’ said Valence. ‘He must have been so amused by the debate that he did not realise what he was doing. He had his own piece, then he devoured the three that Thelnetham set aside for himself, Clippesby and Michael.’
‘Thelnetham put them close to Wynewyk deliberately,’ asserted Risleye. ‘I saw him. He knew Wynewyk had wolfed his own, and it was a taunt – that others still had theirs to enjoy.’
‘Thelnetham is not like that,’ cried Valence. ‘What is wrong with you?’
‘Actually, Thelnetham is like that,’ countered Tesdale. ‘He can be very cruel. Well, he is a lawyer, so what do you expect?’
While he and Risleye continued to attack the Gilbertine, and Valence struggled to defend him, Bartholomew considered what had been said about Wynewyk. His colleague had always been careful about avoiding nuts. Was it significant that he had thrown caution to the wind at the exact same time that Langelee had revealed the inconsistencies in the accounts? Could Wynewyk really have forced himself to eat four slices of cake, in the full knowledge of what would happen to him? Bartholomew rubbed his eyes. Why had Wynewyk not come to him for help? He was sure they could have worked together to devise a solution to whatever predicament he had embroiled himself in.
He realised with a guilty start that he was allowing Michael’s convictions to influence him – that he was starting to believe Wynewyk had done something wrong. Of course, it was not unreasonable, because the evidence was certainly mounting up. But then an image of Wynewyk’s face swam into his mind, and he felt ashamed for doubting the man who had been his friend.
‘Ignore them, Matt,’ said Michael, assuming the physician’s unhappy expression was a result of the increasingly acrimonious squabble that was taking place between the students. ‘One will kill the others soon, and then you will not have to intervene in their childish spats.’
‘Do not say such things,’ snapped Bartholomew. He saw Michael’s startled look, and relented. ‘I am sorry, Brother, but death in Michaelhouse is not a joke. Wynewyk’s is hard enough to cope with.’
‘Then we shall talk about something else. Who do you think attacked us last night?’
Bartholomew was not sure this was a topic he would have chosen to cheer a despondent colleague, but it was better than thinking about Wynewyk.
‘Neubold?’ he suggested. ‘He escaped, then decided to avenge himself on the men who saw him incarcerated in the first place?’
‘I doubt it,’ said Michael. ‘He was annoyed with us, but not murderously so. Besides, I doubt he is man enough to invade the home of his enemy and spit six men in their beds.’
Bartholomew listed his other suspects. ‘Luneday was wearing a strange combination of nightshift and boots when he came to see what was wrong, while Margery’s midnight jaunt to visit children was odd, to say the least. And she was suspiciously determined to discover the purpose of our visit.’
‘But she said the only way out of the manor house was through the hall. And she and Luneday came from upstairs when we raised the alarm. Our would-be killer had fled outside at that point.’
‘She said it was the only exit,’ replied Bartholomew with a shrug. ‘Why should we believe her? And I am not sure what to make of William the steward, either, or those vengeful villagers. As far as I am concerned, any of them could have come after us with a sharp knife.’
Michael rubbed his chin. ‘Meanwhile, Luneday denies knowing Wynewyk, but I am not sure he is telling the truth. And five marks is a lot of money.’
‘It is,’ agreed Cynric. Neither scholar had known he was listening, and his voice made them jump. ‘There are those who would kill an entire village for less.’
‘Then let us hope none of them live in Haverhill,’ said Michael feelingly.
‘What shall we do first?’ asked Michael, when they had ridden in silence for a while. ‘Go to see Elyan, who was paid eighteen marks for coal? Visit d’Audley, who was paid seven marks for timber? Or simply stroll into Haverhill and see what might be learned by chatting to the locals?’
‘The latter,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘You had no success dangling Wynewyk’s name in front of Luneday, so there is no reason to think these other two lordlings will be any different.’
‘What are those?’ asked Michael suddenly, pointing to several mounds of soil in the distance. ‘They look like earthworks – the kind thrown up around a castle to act as additional defences.’
‘It must be the colliery,’ replied Cynric. ‘Elyan sells coal in Cambridge, do not forget.’
‘I cannot imagine there is coal here,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘It is not the right kind of landscape, for a start, and there is no sign of black dust in the ground.’