Hilton’s expression was unreadable, and Bartholomew wondered whether everyone in west Suffolk aimed to be inscrutable. ‘Neubold has a talent for secular business, although I had thought he confined himself to the law. I did not realise he had graduated to pig rustling.’
‘Can I assume that while Neubold clerks for Elyan, you clerk for d’Audley?’ asked Michael. ‘Margery told us you were working on some deeds together when she saw the pair of you last night.’
‘I clerk for anyone who needs a scribe or basic legal advice,’ replied Hilton. His tone was a little chilly. ‘I do not have the same relationship with d’Audley that Neubold enjoys with Elyan.’
‘And what relationship is that?’
‘Neubold and I are priests,’ said Hilton stiffly. ‘We are not supposed to neglect our sacred duties for secular ones that pay. Elyan should not make so many demands on Neubold’s time – sending him on missions to distant towns, giving him piles of documents to interpret. It is not right.’
‘I quite agree. Incidentally, Margery also told us that Neubold’s brother stole your spare habit.’
Hilton raised his eyebrows. ‘Did she? What a curious tale to relate to strangers! But I did not begrudge it to him – Carbo is a troubled soul, and I only hope it brings him some peace.’
‘Unfortunately, it did not,’ said Michael quietly. ‘He is dead.’
Hilton gaped at him, then crossed himself. ‘Poor Carbo! The news is a shock, but not a surprise. He was barely rational most days. He used to be decent and staid, quite unlike his rakish brother, and we were all saddened by his sudden decline.’
‘What happened to him?’ asked Bartholomew, with the interest of a professional.
Hilton shook his head. ‘We are not sure. He was just like you and me two years ago, but then he went missing for several months. When he returned, he was a changed man. It was rather horrible, actually. People believe grief for his mother turned his mind.’
‘Was there an accident?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or was he attacked?’
Hilton frowned. ‘Not that I have heard. Why?’
‘There is a scar on his head, suggesting a serious injury. Perhaps that accounts for the time he was missing – and why he was different when he returned.’
Hilton regarded him uneasily. ‘He never mentioned anything about being wounded. But then he never said anything about the time he was away. Perhaps you are right, although I am appalled to hear it – appalled that whoever cared for him did not think to come and offer us an explanation. And appalled that he did not come to me for help.’
‘Was he ever violent?’ asked Michael hopefully. ‘Inclined to attack people for no reason?’
‘Not to my knowledge. How did he die?’
‘In a brawl,’ replied Michael. ‘Someone stands charged with his murder, but I do not think justice will be served if this man is hanged for the crime.’
‘I disagree. Carbo needed kindness and understanding, not people fighting him. His killer should be ashamed of himself for picking such a vulnerable victim.’
‘Can you tell us anything else about Carbo?’ asked Bartholomew, before Michael could argue.
Hilton shook his head slowly. ‘Not really. He was Luneday’s steward, but he became incapable of performing his duties, and Luneday was forced to dismiss him. Afterwards, he took to wandering aimlessly about the parish. He found coal on Elyan Manor in August, but the discovery did nothing to improve his health; on the contrary, it seemed to make him more lunatic than ever.’
‘He was obsessed with coal when we met him,’ said Bartholomew.
Hilton nodded. ‘He was obsessed – he even changed his name for it. Unfortunately – but inevitably, I suppose – he became a scapegoat for everything that went wrong in the area. Even a Clare villain – a fellow named Osa Gosse – claimed Carbo stole from him, which is a joke, because not even Carbo was that deranged.’
‘We know Gosse,’ said Michael. ‘What did he say Carbo took?’
‘A sack, although Gosse refused to say what was in it. Then there was a rumour that Carbo had stabbed a man at Elyan’s mine, but I did not believe that, either.’
‘Why not?’ asked Michael, exchanging a glance with Bartholomew. If Carbo had killed before, then Shropham was more likely to be pardoned.
‘Because I felt it was a lie invented by those who are unsettled by ailments of the mind – an excuse to ostracise him, in other words. Once the tale was out, no one was willing to give him kitchen scraps or let him sleep in their barn. The poor man was half starved when I last saw him.’
‘He died on Saturday, and it is now Thursday,’ said Michael. ‘And he had been in Cambridge for several more days before he was knifed. Has no one been concerned by his absence?’
‘Not really – he often disappeared. So he went to Cambridge, did he? Perhaps he followed Neubold there, in the misguided belief that his brother would help him. Poor Carbo! But now you must excuse me, because I am needed.’
Bartholomew and Michael watched him walk to where one of his parishioners was jumping from foot to foot in obvious agitation. He led the man to a quiet corner, where the penitent knelt and began a confession that had Hilton’s jaw dropping in astonishment. Bartholomew supposed it was one of the ‘intriguing’ ones the priest had said he heard from time to time.
‘At least we can safely say Shropham killed no priest,’ said Michael, turning away. ‘That will help his case. Carbo must have come at him in a fit of madness, and he did no more than defend himself.’
‘Then why does he not say so? He has been given every opportunity.’
‘Perhaps he felt guilty at the notion of dispatching a friar,’ suggested Michael. ‘And he sees his fate as punishment for having struck down one of God’s own.’
‘If Carbo came at him in a spate of madness, then he is unlikely to have seen him as one of “God’s own”. He is not stupid, Brother.’
‘No,’ said Michael with a sigh. ‘But let us go and talk to Elyan and d’Audley before any more of the day is lost. I want to be in my own bed tonight, where no one will try to spear me while I sleep.’
As Bartholomew and Michael left St Mary’s, Hilton interrupted his parishioner’s litany of sins just long enough to inform them that Elyan and d’Audley could usually be found in the marketplace of a morning. Once outside, the physician looked for his book-bearer, but Cynric had used the time to identify the village’s best tavern, and had taken the students there to listen to more of his war stories; the horses had been stabled. Satisfied that his companions were warm and safe, he turned to Michael.
‘I would not mind sitting in a cosy alehouse,’ grumbled Michael, before the physician could ask which lord they should tackle first. ‘It is cold out here, and I am daunted by the task Langelee has set us. Short of demanding the money outright, I cannot see how we will reclaim our thirty marks.’
‘The Senior Proctor will think of a way,’ said Bartholomew encouragingly.
Michael did not look convinced, but turned his attention to the marketplace. It was busy, and apparently attracted people from a large hinterland, as well as the residents of Haverhill. It had a sizeable section dedicated to meat, and the stink of blood and hot entrails was thick in the air. Nearby were rows of glistening river fish, while other stalls hawked jugs, thread, cloth, pots, candles, poultry, furniture and sacks of flour. It was noisy, colourful and lively, and people were exchanging cheerful greetings at the top of their voices, competing with the lowing of cattle and the honks of geese.