Bartholomew was beginning to be exasperated by the lack of answers. ‘We are looking at this the wrong way around – trying to establish a chain of events when we do not understand why the villain should act as he did. Perhaps we should determine the identity of the culprit first – then we might grasp why he deemed it necessary to tote a priest’s body around in the dark.’
‘We might, I suppose,’ said the monk dubiously. ‘So name your chief suspects.’
‘We have several in Withersfield to choose from. Margery despised Neubold – perhaps she hired a servant to bring the body here. Luneday may have decided murder was the best way to protect his pig. William the steward also hated Neubold, and his capture may have presented too tempting an opportunity.’
‘It was William who raised the alarm to say Neubold was missing,’ Michael pointed out.
‘Perhaps that is what he hopes we will think – that his “discovery” will be enough to spare him from suspicion. Of course, it could be Lizzie.’
‘Lizzie?’ asked Michael, regarding him askance. ‘The pig?’
‘Sows can be dangerous when they have a litter.’
‘Do not be flippant,’ snapped Michael. ‘I believed you for a moment. Personally, my money is on Margery. She loathed Neubold, and has admitted to being abroad and unaccounted for last night.’
Bartholomew thought about it. ‘He suffered a blow to the head, which may have been enough to subdue him and allow her to tie a rope around his neck. And his hands.’
‘What a mess,’ groaned Michael. ‘We are still no closer to learning anything new about Wynewyk, but we have a priest murdered and this mysterious grave to explore. But here comes Cynric with the students. I wonder what they have to report.’
‘There is an apothecary,’ announced Tesdale as he approached. He was pleased with himself, and gave Cynric a slight push when the book-bearer started to interrupt. ‘He told me that three people bought pennyroyal oil recently. He said he was surprised, because it is cheaper to make your own.’
‘Who?’ asked Michael.
‘Lady Agnys had a jar for flatulence. Hilton wanted a bit to put in some tonic he likes to drink at night. And Neubold purchased a pot, but would not say why.’
‘Hilton?’ asked Michael in a low voice, looking at Bartholomew. ‘Why would he mean Joan harm? He has nothing to gain by her death.’
‘We cannot know that, Brother. Perhaps he was paid to ensure Elyan’s heir never lived to inherit. The same is true of Neubold.’
‘And Agnys?’ asked Michael quietly.
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘She knows pennyroyal killed Joan, so why did she not mention the fact that she purchased some? I would have done, just to mark it as a curious coincidence.’
‘So would I,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘And we only have her word that she was pleased by Joan’s pregnancy. Perhaps she would rather see Elyan Manor go to one of the three claimants than a brat sired by the local stud.’
Risleye edged closer, trying to hear what they were saying. The moment they stopped speaking, he began to hold forth, his voice loud and full of self-importance. Cynric rolled his eyes when it became obvious that the student did not intend to share the credit for what they had done together.
‘I visited the mine, but I was not the only one interested in it,’ the student began. ‘I found clear evidence that others have been watching it, too. It was not possible to tell who, of course, but I could tell from the crushed grass and broken twigs that someone – perhaps more than one person – had lurked in the woods and observed what was happening, just as I was doing.’
‘Did you indeed?’ asked Michael, an amused smile plucking at the corners of his mouth. He did not look at Cynric. ‘And what else did you notice?’
‘That not much is happening there,’ said Valence, cutting across Risleye. ‘There are two men with picks, but they do not seem to be making much progress. I cannot see it making Elyan rich.’
‘Valence is right,’ said Cynric. ‘Welsh mines are full of labourers, but two men are too few. However, while this pair mined, six others were on guard. Elyan clearly thinks there is something worth protecting, and it was hard to get close.’
‘But you managed,’ predicted Bartholomew.
The book-bearer grinned. ‘We did. But I was surprised by what we saw. The seam is just a thin layer of poor-grade coal, which may not even burn – or will smoke so much that it is useless.’
‘Then why does Elyan guard it so jealously?’ asked Michael.
Cynric shrugged. ‘That is yet another mystery for you to solve, Brother.’
It was too late to do much else that day, and dusk was approaching early because of the rain clouds that were gathering. Michael complained bitterly that he was obliged to spend a second night in Suffolk, but Bartholomew felt he had far more cause to gripe – it was not the Benedictine who was obliged to disappear into the darkness with a shovel, to see whether one of their students was buried in an unmarked grave.
They hired beds in the Queen’s Head – in two separate rooms, so they would not have to explain their actions to Valence, Risleye and Tesdale – and retired early. Cynric fell asleep at once, but Bartholomew tossed and turned until Michael told him it was time to leave.
‘The students are still drinking downstairs,’ said the monk. ‘You will have to climb out of the window, or they will see you and wonder where you are going.’
‘God help me, Brother!’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘I am getting too old for this sort of caper.’
‘There is plenty of life in you yet,’ said Michael, opening the shutter and standing back smartly as the wind hurled a cascade of rain inside. ‘Are you sure you do not need my help?’
‘It is better that you stay here,’ replied Cynric, before Bartholomew could say that the monk’s strength would be very welcome. ‘Then if anything goes wrong, you can give us an alibi.’
‘What can go wrong?’ asked Bartholomew, alarmed.
‘Probably nothing,’ said Cynric, clearly looking forward to the escapade. He loved sneaking around in the dark. ‘But keep the door locked, Brother. And the windows, too.’
With serious misgivings, Bartholomew clambered on to the sill and began to climb down the back wall. It was not far to the ground, because the ceilings were low, and there were ample beams to use as foot- and hand-holds. Even so, it was a struggle, and he could feel Cynric’s disapproval coming in waves as he scraped and rattled his way to the ground. The book-bearer dropped lightly beside him, then disappeared. When he returned, he was carrying two spades and a lamp.
They set off along the Withersfield road, Bartholomew following Cynric’s lead by keeping to the shadows. They passed one or two people, who weaved along in a manner that suggested they would not have noticed other travellers anyway, but most folk were in bed, and the houses along the street were dark. A light shone from one, and they could hear a baby wailing inside, its mother trying wearily to soothe it with lullabies.
It was not long before Cynric left the road and set out across the fields. The going was miserable, because it was pitch black, and the rain made the route treacherously slippery. Wet vegetation slapped at them as they passed, and they were soon drenched through. As they neared the mine, thorns snagged their clothes and Bartholomew heard something rip in his tunic. He grimaced, hoping it could be repaired. After a while, Cynric slowed.
‘The mine,’ the book-bearer whispered, pointing through the undergrowth. ‘The guards are still here, although I cannot imagine why, because the diggers have gone home. Can you see their lamps?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘How are we going to get past them?’
‘There is no need. I took the precaution of locating the grave when I was here with Risleye and Valence earlier, and it is not too near the coal, although we must still tread softly. Fortunately, the wind should carry away most sounds we make. We should be all right.’