‘Get a witness to say Neubold was despondent, and there will be an end of the matter,’ advised Elyan, seeing Hilton was to be given no choice. ‘In fact I can tell you right now that he would have been mortified at having to pass a night in a barn.’
‘That is not a reason for suicide,’ said Hilton wearily. ‘Even for a vain man like Neubold.’
‘Luneday probably had help when he committed his crime,’ said d’Audley, looking around suddenly. He spotted Bartholomew and Michael, and jabbed a finger at them. ‘There are strangers in our midst, and it is odd that they should appear just as a man dies in peculiar circumstances.’
‘It is, indeed,’ agreed Folyat. ‘And they were vague about the nature of their business here when I asked. They said they were going to buy jugs, but they have not yet made a single purchase!’
‘Damn!’ murmured Michael, as everyone turned to look at them. ‘This is going to be awkward.’
There was little Bartholomew and Michael could do as they were shoved unceremoniously towards the altar. D’Audley was delighted by their discomfiture, while Elyan stood with his hands on his hips and nodded, as if he had known the scholars would be trouble.
‘They are from Cambridge,’ said Hilton, reaching out to steady Bartholomew after a particularly vigorous push propelled him forward faster than was pleasant. ‘They are not–’
‘From King’s Hall?’ cried Folyat in dismay. ‘The ones who are trying to wrest Alneston Chantry from us, and who have set their sights on Elyan Manor, too?’
Michael frowned in puzzlement. ‘King’s Hall wants Elyan Manor?’
‘Silence!’ snapped d’Audley, rounding on him. ‘You have no right to ask us questions – you, who are the accomplices of a murderer!’
‘They are no such thing,’ countered Agnys, poking her neighbour in the chest with a gnarled forefinger. ‘And you are a troublemaker, bandying accusations like some common fishwife.’
The blood drained from d’Audley’s face as a titter of amusement rippled through the onlookers, and for a moment, Bartholomew thought he might reach for his dagger. But he settled for treating the old lady to a venomous scowl. Then he turned on his heel and shouldered his way outside.
The moment he had gone, Agnys started to make pointed remarks about villagers with too much time on their hands, and the chores she could devise to remedy the matter. Her words precipitated a concerted dash for the door, and it was not long before the chapel was virtually empty. Only Elyan, Hilton and Folyat remained, struggling to tie Neubold into his cloak.
Michael heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you, madam. But I am confused. Did Gatekeeper Folyat say King’s Hall intends to claim Elyan Manor, as well as this chantry?’
It was Hilton who replied, looking up from his knotting. ‘They can only press their claim if Elyan dies childless. We thought our worries were over when Joan conceived, but–’
‘But Joan died, and the vultures circle,’ finished Agnys. ‘And if my grandson does not produce an heir, there are several parties who think they have a right to our estates. King’s Hall is one of them.’
‘How did that come about?’ asked Michael, astonished.
‘From ancient wills and records,’ replied Folyat disapprovingly. ‘Lawyers’ tricks. If they win, King’s Hall will rule from afar by appointing some non-local steward. And we all know what happens to manors with distant landlords – they are run for profit and nothing else. No kindness.’
‘All that is true, Folyat,’ said Hilton. ‘But these scholars are from Michaelhouse, not King’s Hall. It is a totally separate foundation, so do not blame them for their colleagues’ greed.’
‘A scholar is a scholar,’ muttered Folyat, turning back to his work. ‘Just as a chicken is a chicken.’
Imperiously, Agnys indicated Bartholomew and Michael were to follow her to an alcove, where she could speak without being overheard by Elyan, Hilton and Folyat. The priest and the gatekeeper did not seem to care, but Elyan watched resentfully, although he made no move to intervene.
‘Henry and d’Audley do not recognise you,’ Agnys said to Bartholomew in a low voice. ‘But I know you are the physician who tended Joan in Cambridge. However, if you have come to inform us that you have uncovered evidence to prove suicide, then I do not want to hear it. You can go home.’
‘What makes you think it was suicide?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘It was not,’ said Agnys firmly. ‘There are folk who say she was unhappy in the few weeks before she died, but her troubles did not run deep enough to warrant self-murder.’
‘You loved her,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘That much was obvious in St Mary the Great. And you do not want her dragged from her grave and reburied in unhallowed ground, even though you suspect – as do I – that she probably did take her own life.’
Agnys looked as though she would argue, but then inclined her head stiffly. ‘I taught her about pennyroyal, so she would not have swallowed it by accident. However, I will not have it said that she murdered her unborn child. She is dead, and that is bad enough. Please, leave her in peace.’
‘I doubt she took her own life,’ said Michael. Bartholomew and Agnys looked sharply at him, and he shrugged. ‘We have just been told a lot depended on this heir – that the inheritance of Elyan Manor is contested without one. That is a powerful motive for wanting Joan dead before it was born.’
‘But this is Suffolk,’ said Agnys indignantly. ‘We do not murder pregnant women here.’
‘She did not die here, she died in Cambridge,’ Michael pointed out. ‘And Matt’s sister is convinced there is something odd about her demise – so much that she has ordered him to ask questions about it.’
‘Because it was distressing to see an old friend die,’ argued Bartholomew, alarmed that the monk should be voicing such opinions. It would bring nothing but trouble, and there was good evidence for suicide, especially now Agnys said Joan had been unhappy. ‘Edith is racked by grief, and–’
Michael ignored him and addressed Agnys. ‘Tell us about Joan – about her child.’
Agnys’s fierce expression softened. ‘She had longed for a baby for many years, but failed to make one. Then, when we had all but given up, her prayers were answered. She was delighted.’
‘Yet you said she was troubled,’ said Michael. ‘Despondent.’
‘That came later – a few weeks ago. Unfortunately, she would not tell me the reason, no matter how much I begged her. Then one day, out of the blue, she insisted on travelling to Cambridge to buy ribbons. Henry should never have let her go.’
‘Then why did he?’ asked Michael. He shrugged when Agnys regarded him stonily. ‘I am sorry if I cause offence, but Joan’s child was important. I cannot imagine why he agreed to such a journey.’
Agnys grimaced. ‘He trusted Neubold, even if I despised the man. Unfortunately, she left when I was visiting Clare Priory – probably because she knew I would have talked her out of going, had I been here. I assumed she had decided an excursion might lift her spirits.’
‘Was it a happy marriage?’ asked Michael.
‘Yes. It was not a very physical relationship, but they cared deeply for each other even so.’
Bartholomew saw Michael’s thoughts reflected his own: that Joan might have secured the services of a more fertile fellow, given that Elyan had not been up to the task. The medical profession usually maintained that the fault lay with the woman in such cases, but Bartholomew knew plenty of ladies who refused to accept this ‘traditional wisdom’. Joan, who had sounded a strong-minded, independent sort of person, might well have been one of them. Bartholomew half expected the monk to pursue the matter, and braced himself for trouble, but Michael turned to another question instead.