‘It is Neubold,’ he gasped, breathless from his exertions. ‘He has hanged himself in the chapel.’
Chapter 8
Bartholomew and Michael joined the throng that hurried towards the Alneston Chantry. The chapel was tiny, and looked even shabbier up close than it had at a distance. The scholars entered to find themselves in a plain, single-celled building with a small altar at its eastern end. Above the altar was a window that had probably once contained glass, but that was now open to the elements. The floor was beaten earth, and was soft with bird droppings. It reeked of old feathers, damp and neglect.
‘I would not want to pray long in here,’ muttered Michael, wrinkling his nose in distaste. ‘No wonder Alneston’s soul only gets one mass a week.’
Neubold was indeed hanging from the rafters. He was in the same clothes he had worn the night before – blue gipon and orange leggings. Hilton and d’Audley were cutting him down, clearly in the hope of reviving him, but Bartholomew could see it was too late.
‘Neubold’s hands are tied,’ he whispered to Michael, watching Hilton push on the dead man’s chest in an effort to make him breathe. ‘And there is blood on his head. He was murdered.’
‘Then I hope no one will think we killed him,’ Michael murmured back. ‘Strangers are often blamed in situations like this, and we were in Withersfield last night. Perhaps we should leave.’
‘That will definitely look suspicious. And we cannot get out anyway – the place is too tightly packed, and more people are prising their way inside by the moment. We are effectively trapped.’
‘Can you save Neubold? That might make folk more kindly disposed towards us.’
‘Unfortunately not – he looks to be as stiff as a board, which suggests he has been dead for hours.’
‘Then we had better stand in the shadows,’ said Michael. ‘And hope no one notices us. What did you make of d’Audley’s testimony, by the way?’
‘It confirms what we had already guessed – that Wynewyk travelled to Suffolk in the summer, instead of going to see his ailing father. Of course, we would have known that without d’Audley – Wynewyk brought home a lot of jugs…’
‘And they are of the same distinctive design as the ones for sale in Haverhill market,’ finished Michael, nodding. ‘Moreover, d’Audley’s furtive manner leads me to surmise that Wynewyk almost certainly brokered some sort of deal with him. And probably with Elyan and Luneday, too.’
‘But it does not prove any wrongdoing on Wynewyk’s part,’ Bartholomew warned, predicting the monk’s next conclusion. ‘He may have organised the contracts in good faith, and it is these lordlings who are cheating Michaelhouse.’
‘Then why the secrecy?’ demanded the monk. ‘And why did he accept the money I gave him when I thought he was visiting sick kin? Such behaviour is not the act of a decent man.’
That was true, but Bartholomew was unwilling to admit it. He indicated that they should listen to what was happening by the altar; he seriously doubted any exchange between villagers would help them discover what Wynewyk had been doing in Suffolk, but it was a convenient way to bring an end to a conversation that was becoming uncomfortable.
‘Did anyone see Neubold this morning?’ Elyan was asking. ‘He was not at dawn mass, and he was unavailable when I asked for him last night. Does anyone know where he was?’
‘In Withersfield,’ replied Folyat. Bartholomew wondered who was collecting the tolls, or whether they were only levied when the gatekeeper felt like it. ‘He was caught trying to steal Lizzie, and Luneday locked him in his barn. I heard he escaped during the night.’
Elyan’s expression became suspiciously bland when Lizzie was mentioned, and Bartholomew was seized with the absolute conviction that he had known exactly what Neubold had been doing – that the priest had either been acting on his orders or with his complicit approval.
‘Luneday said he escaped,’ sneered d’Audley. ‘But it is obvious what really happened: the villains at Withersfield killed him, and invented the tale of Neubold’s escape, to confuse us.’
‘No,’ contradicted Lady Agnys sharply. She glared at d’Audley. ‘There is no evidence to suggest such a thing, and making such statements is both dangerous and offensive.’
‘I speak as I find,’ d’Audley snapped back.
They argued until Hilton stood, indicating that his efforts to save Neubold were over. He bowed his head and began to pray, which immediately stilled the clamour of accusations. But they started again the moment he had finished.
‘Neubold killed himself,’ said Elyan with considerable authority. ‘His brother Carbo went insane, so lunacy must run in the family.’
‘Then why are his hands tied?’ asked Agnys. ‘And how did he come by that cut on his head?’
‘He tied his hands to make sure he did not change his mind,’ replied Elyan, with the kind of shrug that said he thought his grandmother’s points were irrelevant. He smoothed down his immaculate gipon. ‘And of course there will be cuts when a man dies a violent death.’
‘Remember the mess in Luneday’s barn?’ murmured Bartholomew to Michael. ‘Perhaps Neubold was not rescued by whoever unbarred the door, but was dragged to his death instead. Do you think his murderer and the man who attacked us last night are one and the same?’
‘But why would anyone target us and Neubold? We have no connection to each other.’
‘He killed himself!’ Elyan was shouting, dragging the scholars’ attention back to the altar. ‘No one at Withersfield would risk his immortal soul by murdering a priest. You speak rubbish, d’Audley!’
‘Neubold is not wearing his habit,’ countered d’Audley. ‘And it was dark out last night – no moon, and thick clouds. Perhaps Luneday could not see, and hanged him without realising who he was.’
People were looking back and forth between the two men, as if watching a ball batted between two combatants. Hilton attempted to intervene, but the lords of the manor overrode him.
‘Then why is Neubold not dangling from the gibbet in Withersfield?’ demanded Elyan. He turned to the gatekeeper. ‘Folyat? Carry the body to the Upper Church. It can stay there until we decide where it can be buried. Suicides are banned from holy ground, but he will have to go somewhere.’
‘Elyan seems very keen for a verdict of self-murder,’ mused Michael. ‘Suspiciously so.’
‘And d’Audley seems equally keen to have Luneday blamed,’ Bartholomew whispered back. ‘Just as he is eager to have Luneday charged with harming Joan in Cambridge.’
‘Wait,’ said Hilton, putting out his hand to stop Folyat from doing as he was ordered. ‘Let us take a few moments to consider what really happened – not suppositions and theories, but proper facts.’
‘That is a very good idea, Hilton,’ said Agnys approvingly. ‘But none of us are qualified to do that sort of thing, so you had better oblige. You can find the truth.’
Elyan was furious. ‘No! I have a lot of clerking for him to do. Now Neubold is gone, he is the only one who can read and write for miles around.’
‘And I need him, too,’ declared d’Audley, equally peeved. ‘I do not want to lose this lovely chapel to King’s Hall. Besides, there is no need for an enquiry when the culprit is obvious.’
‘I am a priest, not a coroner,’ objected Hilton, also unhappy with Agnys’s decree. ‘I am not qualified to meddle in such matters, madam. You must send word to the Sheriff–’
‘You will do as I say,’ commanded Agnys firmly. ‘And we shall send for the Sheriff – but you will have answers for him when he arrives. The last time he came, he liked it so much that he declined to leave, and I do not want to give him an excuse to outstay his welcome again.’