‘I did not take to Hilton,’ said Michael, after a search told them that neither Suffolk lordling was there. ‘He said he did not care about Carbo stealing his habit, but I would have been livid. And he was a little too nice for my liking. There he is, standing by the cheese shop. Shall we demand to know why he told us to waste time here, when Elyan and d’Audley are nowhere in sight?’
‘I said they can usually be found in the marketplace of a morning,’ corrected Hilton pedantically, when Michael put his question. ‘However, Elyan spends hours up at his mine these days, while d’Audley needs to supervise the cutting of timber from his woods. They may come today, but they may not.’
‘I see,’ said Michael irritably. ‘It is a pity you could not have been more specific sooner. Then we would not have squandered half the day dawdling around slaughterhouses and pottery emporiums.’
‘Come, Brother,’ said Hilton reproachfully. ‘It was hardly “half the day”, and visiting their homes would have done you no good, either – they are almost certain to be out. But why do you want to see Elyan? I imagine you are here to discuss the Alneston Chantry with d’Audley – he said a deputation might arrive from Cambridge soon – but what does Elyan have to do with it?’
‘Actually, it is King’s Hall that is interested in the chantry,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘We are from Michaelhouse, which is a totally separate foundation.’
Hilton frowned in puzzlement. ‘Then why are you here? We do sell pottery and meat to the University, but they always send servants to negotiate. Scholars do not deign to come themselves.’
‘No?’ pounced Michael. ‘One of our colleagues did. His name was Wynewyk, and he did business with d’Audley for wood, with Elyan for coal, and with Luneday for pigs.’
‘He bought coal?’ asked Hilton, startled. ‘But Elyan’s mine is not producing yet. He does import a small amount from Ipswich, but it is barely enough to satisfy local demands, and I am amazed that he should have hawked some to your colleague. What did you say his name was again?’
‘Wynewyk,’ replied Michael. ‘Pleasant face, slight build, gentle manners.’
‘He does not sound familiar,’ said Hilton, after appearing to give the matter some careful reflection. ‘But he may have gone directly to Elyan Manor, in order to avoid paying Folyat’s toll.’
‘What about the timber?’ asked Michael. ‘Are you surprised he did business with d’Audley, too?’
‘A little,’ admitted Hilton. ‘I thought he restricted himself to customers from Suffolk.’
‘And pigs from Withersfield?’ asked Bartholomew.
Hilton smiled. ‘That does not surprise me. Folk travel miles for Luneday’s pork, and your Wynewyk is a discerning fellow if he stocked his larders with Withersfield fare. But your ire with me was wholly unnecessary, Brother, because here come Elyan and d’Audley now. They must have been out hunting.’
The two scholars turned at the sudden rattle of hoofs. Elyan was at the head of the cavalcade, a dead deer slung over his saddle. He had apparently decided that black suited him, because every item of his elegant finery was that colour. It was a different outfit to the one he had worn in Cambridge, suggesting he had already invested in a considerable wardrobe of mourning apparel. He dismounted and headed straight for a stall that sold cloth, fingering the more expensive wares appreciatively. The owner hurried to join him, and they were soon deep in discussion.
‘He likes clothes,’ explained Hilton, rather unnecessarily. ‘Barely a week goes by without him ordering some new garment.’
As if to prove him right, Elyan held a length of worsted to his chest, admiring the way it fell towards his feet.
Lady Agnys had also ridden in with the horsemen. Her equestrian skills were even worse than Bartholomew’s, and she had been jostled about so much that her veil had come loose and strands of white hair flapped around her face. As her grandson’s attention was on the cloth, she was obliged to wait for someone else to help her dismount. With a sigh of surly resignation, d’Audley stepped forward, all scrawny neck and ridiculously thin legs. He staggered when she launched herself into his arms, and the manoeuvre deprived her of a veil and him of a hat.
‘I am surprised d’Audley rides in company with Lady Agnys,’ said Bartholomew to Hilton. ‘When I saw them together in Cambridge, she was not very polite to him.’
Hilton grimaced. ‘She has a blunt tongue, and makes no bones about the fact that she cannot abide d’Audley. Did you see them when they went to collect poor Joan? That was a bad business, especially given that Joan was carrying Elyan’s heir. We had all but given up hope in that quarter, and were surprised when she became pregnant. Elyan was delighted, of course.’
‘Of course,’ said Bartholomew. But the physician in him was curious. ‘It is unusual for a woman of Joan’s mature years to conceive for the first time. Did she–’
‘She prayed to God,’ interrupted Hilton, rather sharply, as if he imagined Bartholomew was going to suggest something untoward. ‘The Almighty can make a twenty-year union fertile, and Joan was a good and virtuous lady. God rewarded her by granting her a child.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, thoughts whirling. It had not occurred to him that the reason for Joan’s unexpected pregnancy was that she had gone outside her barren marriage, but the priest’s defensive answer made him wonder. And if that were true, then perhaps Edith was right to be suspicious of Joan’s death. After all, no husband wanted another man’s brat to inherit his estates.
Bartholomew was unsure what reception he would receive from Elyan, since their first encounter had been over the body of his wife, but his concerns were unfounded. Neither Elyan nor d’Audley recognised him, partly because it had been dim inside St Mary the Great, partly because they had not paid much attention to him, and partly because he was no longer wearing academic garb. Agnys was more observant, though, and smiled warily when Hilton brought the scholars to be introduced.
‘Michaelhouse,’ mused Elyan, rather more interested in the worsted. ‘Is that the big place overlooking the river? The only time I ever visited Cambridge was to collect the corpse of my poor wife, and I was so upset then that I paid scant heed to my surroundings.’
‘We heard about Joan,’ said Michael sympathetically. ‘Please accept our condolences.’
‘Someone gave her pennyroyal,’ Elyan went on bitterly, looking at him for the first time. ‘And as she was with child, it killed her. In other words, she was murdered.’
‘She was not murdered, Henry,’ countered Agnys firmly. ‘She was a dear, kind soul, loved by all.’
‘True,’ agreed Elyan unhappily. ‘She did not have an enemy in the world. However, I do, and it is my contention that they attacked me through her.’
‘What enemies?’ asked Michael.
‘He is lord of a profitable manor,’ said d’Audley, before Elyan could reply for himself. ‘So naturally his less wealthy neighbours are jealous of him. Luneday will do anything–’
‘Luneday did not kill Joan,’ interrupted Agnys, shooting him a long-suffering glare that indicated it was not the first time he had aired his suspicions. ‘I know we have had our differences with him, but he is not that sort of man. Besides, he was at home in Withersfield when Joan died.’
‘Then he hired someone,’ d’Audley flashed back. ‘Carbo, for example. Did you know Carbo was wandering around Cambridge when Joan was there?’
‘So you have said before,’ said Agnys. ‘But Luneday would not have hired Carbo for such a task, because the poor man cannot be trusted to carry it out. And she was not murdered, anyway. It was an accident, as I keep telling you.’