The monk’s face was pale in the flickering light. ‘I do not suppose the grave contained any evidence of who might have done this dreadful thing? An identifiable knife, perhaps?’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Cynric thinks Wynewyk did it. I suppose poor Wynewyk will be blamed for anything untoward that happens now.’
‘Poor Wynewyk has only himself to blame,’ Michael said, placing sarcastic emphasis on the first word. ‘No one forced him to steal from us – or try to kill our Master.’
‘I wish we had not brought Valence, Risleye and Tesdale with us,’ said Bartholomew, changing the subject before they quarrelled. ‘I am taking them home this morning.’
‘Give me one more day.’ Michael spread his hands in a shrug when the physician started to object to the delay. ‘I am eager to leave, too – it is already Friday, and I need to prepare for Monday’s Blood Relic debate. But we cannot, not until we know what is going on.’
‘You think you can resolve all your mysteries in a day?’ Bartholomew sincerely doubted it.
‘I can try,’ said Michael quietly. ‘I am going to dawn mass in Hilton’s church. Are you coming?’
Bartholomew started to say he had no clothes, but he had reckoned without Cynric, who arrived with a new tunic, mended leggings and a cloak that had been brushed clean. It was still damp, but at least it did not look as if its owner had been grubbing about in graves. And as for the tunic, Bartholomew did not want to know how Cynric had come by it, afraid it might have been on someone’s washing line. Fortunately, it was nondescript homespun, indistinguishable from virtually everyone else’s, so its hapless owner was unlikely to challenge him over it. He accepted it grudgingly, telling himself he would arrange for its return later, when his own was dry.
Most of Haverhill was present for the morning mass at St Mary the Virgin – parishioners from the Upper Church were obliged to make use of Hilton’s services, now Neubold was unavailable. Elyan stood at the front, wearing yet another set of fine black clothes, while his grandmother sat in a great throne next to him; d’Audley hovered behind them like a malevolent bird of prey.
Bartholomew and Michael found a place at the back, keeping to the shadows so no one would notice them. It was just as well, because the students were deeply embroiled in a hissing debate about whether the Stanton Cups were sufficiently heavy to brain someone with.
‘Of course they are,’ asserted Risleye confidently. ‘Especially the base.’
‘But you would have to use a lot of force,’ argued Tesdale. ‘Or batter your victim multiple times. It would take a good deal of hard work.’ He shuddered, although Bartholomew thought it was the notion of physical labour that repelled him, not the mess such an attack would make of a head.
‘Tesdale is right,’ said Valence. ‘You could not guarantee a clean kill with either of those chalices, so it would be more humane to employ something else. A large stone would–’
‘Stop,’ ordered Bartholomew, though there was no real censure in his voice. He found himself strangely comforted by their familiar sparring after what he had seen of Kelyng the night before. ‘What sort of subject is that to be airing in a church?’
‘It is an academic exercise,’ said Risleye, stung by the reprimand. ‘We are honing our minds.’
‘Then do it another time, not during mass,’ snapped Michael.
He turned towards the altar and pressed his hands together, indicating the discussion was over. He did not close his eyes, though, and Bartholomew could tell by his distant expression that his thoughts were no more on the divine office than were the students’. He was thinking about the mysteries that confronted them, and how to find answers before they left for Cambridge the following day.
When the service was over, most of the congregation left in a rush, eager to be about their daily business. The students and Cynric went, too, because, for some inexplicable reason, Risleye wanted to show them a forge that produced weapons. Others lingered, though: Hilton was reporting the results of his investigation to Agnys and Elyan, while d’Audley and Gatekeeper Folyat loitered nearby, pretending to talk to each other, but it was clear their intention was to eavesdrop. Michael decided to do likewise. He edged towards the priest, Bartholomew in tow.
‘I am not sure how to proceed,’ Hilton was saying unhappily. ‘Neubold was certainly murdered–’
‘I thought I told you to decide it was suicide,’ snapped Elyan irritably.
‘How can he find it was suicide, when it is a clear case of unlawful killing?’ demanded d’Audley, abandoning Folyat and stepping forward to say his piece. ‘Luneday must be brought to justice.’
‘He is right,’ agreed Folyat, following him. ‘The culprit is that wife-stealing Withersfield villain.’
‘But if Luneday dispatched Neubold in Withersfield, then how did the body end up here?’ asked Agnys, rounding on him impatiently.
‘Lady Agnys has a point,’ mused Hilton. He also turned to the gatekeeper. ‘Did you see anyone who might have been carrying a corpse that night – from Withersfield or anywhere else?’
Folyat shrugged. ‘Margery was the only visitor. She came to sniff around our grandchildren near the Upper Church, but she did not have a body with her. I would have noticed.’
‘I wonder…’ whispered Bartholomew to Michael. He rubbed his chin, collecting his thoughts. ‘I wonder if Margery rode to Haverhill to create a diversion. She certainly claimed Folyat’s attention, if he knows she visited their grandchildren – the Upper Church is some distance from the gate, which suggests he followed her there.’
‘Thus leaving the gate unguarded,’ finished Michael, nodding. ‘That makes sense. Then, while Folyat was stalking his estranged wife, the killer sneaked the body into Haverhill.’
‘So, the question is, did Margery distract Folyat deliberately, or did the killer just seize an opportunity that happened to present itself? But then what? The culprit did not take Neubold straight to the chapel, or Hilton would have seen the body when he came for his morning prayers.’
Michael pondered the possibilities for a moment, then beckoned Hilton towards him. ‘How often do you say masses for Alneston?’ he asked.
‘Once a week, on Thursdays,’ replied the priest warily. ‘Why?’
‘Does anyone else pray in the chapel?’ asked Michael, ignoring the query.
Hilton shook his head, bemused. ‘You saw for yourself that the place is small and mean. No one spends time there unless he must.’
‘Who actually found Neubold? Folyat, who then raced about spreading the news?’
Folyat heard his name, and began to walk towards them. His reaction intrigued the others, who followed, curious to know what the monk was saying.
‘Yes, I found him,’ said Folyat, when the monk repeated the question. ‘But I am not his killer.’
‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘You unwittingly let the culprit into the village unchallenged, but you did not execute anyone. But tell me, how did you come to find the body in the first place? Hilton has just said the Alneston Chantry is no place to linger.’
‘I…’ Folyat swallowed uneasily. ‘I sometimes…’ He trailed off.
‘You use it for chickens,’ supplied Bartholomew, recalling the thick layer of droppings that carpeted the floor. ‘As gatekeeper, you accept poultry in lieu of coins, and you house them in the chantry until you can dispose of them.’
‘What?’ demanded Hilton, horrified. ‘But it is a chapel, not a hencoop! No wonder the place is so filthy. I thought it was pigeons, coming in through the broken windows.’