‘Well, what else am I supposed to do?’ demanded Folyat, going on the offensive. ‘It is effectively an empty building, and I have to put them somewhere. It does no harm.’
‘I think I am beginning to understand Neubold’s postmortem travels at last,’ said Michael, cutting across Hilton’s outraged declarations that filling a chapel with bird mess was doing harm. ‘I still have one or two questions, though. Will you all come to the chapel, to answer them for me?’
‘You are doing well, Brother,’ said Agnys slyly, as she followed him outside. ‘Your clever logic has your audience transfixed, and it is good to see that treacherous d’Audley look so unsettled.’
‘You did not tell us you bought pennyroyal shortly before Joan died,’ said Michael. He spoke in a low voice, so her grandson would not hear.
Agnys regarded him sharply. ‘I did not think it was relevant. It cannot have been my supply that killed her, because she died in Cambridge. Besides, I no longer have it.’
‘You mean you have used it all?’ asked the monk, regarding her suspiciously.
‘I mean I lost it. I suppose it is possible that Joan took the stuff, although it is far more likely that I dropped it on my way home. Regardless, it has gone.’
Michael glanced at Bartholomew, but the physician could only shrug. Was it significant that Agnys had been careless with a potent herb – and was now dismissive about what had then happened to it? And if she had dropped it, who had picked it up? Agnys seemed to consider the matter closed, because she made no effort to convince them further and the party walked in silence towards the Alneston Chantry.
When they reached the chapel, Michael threw open the door and strode inside. Hilton lit a lamp, which cast eerie shadows around the dirty walls. Several hens squawked their alarm at the sudden invasion, and one managed to escape through the open door. Folyat made no attempt to catch it.
‘What is kept in there?’ Michael asked, pointing to a huge chest that stood near the back.
‘Just a couple of altar cloths,’ replied Hilton. He shrugged sheepishly. ‘I have not looked inside for a while, because it is always full of spiders. I dislike spiders.’
Bartholomew opened the lid, and an inspection revealed a smear of blood and an orange thread. ‘Neubold was wearing leggings this colour when he died,’ he said, holding the snagged strand aloft.
Michael regarded it in silence for a moment, then began to outline what he had deduced about the priest’s death. His audience clustered around him, eager not to miss a word of it. Bartholomew wondered why. Guilty consciences? Or just idle curiosity in a place where not much else happened?
‘He was killed in Withersfield, then brought here,’ the monk began. ‘The murderer slipped through the gate when Folyat left his post to follow his wife. He hid the body in this chest, because he knew Hilton would pray for Alneston the next morning, and he did not want it discovered then.’
‘Why not?’ demanded Elyan. He looked annoyed that his suicide theory was being demolished.
‘Perhaps he thought a week would eliminate any stray evidence that he was the killer,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Or that the corpse would look so dreadful that no one would examine it too carefully.’
‘You examined it carefully,’ said Hilton, proving that Michael’s attempts to distract him in the Upper Church had not worked: he had known exactly what the physician had been doing. ‘I assume you did not find any evidence, or you would have told me.’
‘No,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘There was nothing to find.’
Michael took up the tale before awkward questions could be asked – such as why scholars from Michaelhouse should think Neubold’s death was any of their business. ‘As soon as Hilton finished his prayers, the killer came to hang Neubold from the rafters. I imagine he anticipated the place would remain undisturbed until next Thursday.’
‘But he had reckoned without Folyat coming to fill the chapel with chickens,’ finished Bartholomew. ‘Which meant Neubold was discovered far sooner.’
‘Did you see anyone enter or leave this place yesterday, Folyat?’ asked Hilton urgently, aware that a solution was at hand and eager to play a role, however small.
‘Only you,’ replied Folyat unsteadily. He would not meet the priest’s eyes. ‘I waited to make sure you had really finished your devotions, and then I came to put my hens back inside.’
Hilton blanched as the implications of the gatekeeper’s testimony struck home. ‘But that means the killer was in here with me all the time I was praying. We have deduced that Neubold was strung up between the time I left and the time Folyat entered, and if Folyat saw no one else coming or going…’
‘Skulking in one of these alcoves, probably,’ agreed Michael, pointing towards the shadows. ‘Hoping the dawn light would not be strong enough to give him away.’
‘He must have been here when you came with your birds, too,’ said Bartholomew to Folyat. ‘He probably escaped when you left to raise the alarm, and you are lucky he did not catch you.’
Folyat stared at his feet and made no reply.
‘I do not want to stay here until tomorrow,’ said Bartholomew to Michael as they left the chapel. Behind them, Agnys was issuing instructions – Hilton was to visit Withersfield, to ascertain whether Margery was a willing accomplice or an unwitting one, while Folyat was to improve Haverhill’s security. ‘It is not safe, and we should take the students home.’
‘They can look after themselves,’ said Michael. He glanced towards the forge, where Risleye was performing some fancy manoeuvres with a sword, Tesdale was playing lethargically with a dagger, and Valence was being shown some vicious-looking cudgels by an amiable blacksmith. ‘Indeed, Risleye is more skilled than I realised.’
‘We need to tell Langelee about Kelyng,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘As soon as possible.’
‘We need to tell him about Michaelhouse’s thirty marks, too, but we cannot, because we have no answers. One more day, Matt – we will leave tomorrow, I promise. And we are making some progress with our enquiries – we now know how Neubold’s body ended up in Haverhill. Unfortunately, we do not know why. Or who murdered him.’
‘He died in a place where we were attacked, and he is associated with coal, King’s Hall, Carbo and various other strands in the mysteries that confront us.’ Bartholomew’s stomach churned, and he felt with every fibre of his being that lingering in Suffolk was a very bad idea. ‘I suppose if we solve his murder we may find solutions to our other mysteries. But is it worth the risk?’
‘I think so, and we shall start with a visit to Elyan Manor,’ said Michael, watching Agnys and her grandson mount up and ride off in the direction of their home. ‘First, because they have eighteen of Michaelhouse’s thirty marks. And second, because I was unconvinced by Agnys’s tale of lost pennyroyal. She claims she was ready to overlook the fact that Joan’s child was not a Elyan, but I am sceptical. I would like to interview both of them in their lair.’
‘Shall I saddle the horses, then?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking the monk would want to reach Elyan Manor as soon as possible, thus leaving more time for their other enquiries.
‘It pains me to say it, but we had better walk. We do not want the villagers thinking we are fleeing the scene of Neubold’s murder, and come after us with bows and arrows. We shall leave Cynric and the students here – that should convince them that we are not running away.’
It was not far to Elyan’s home, and it was a pleasant journey, even on an overcast day. The countryside smelled clean and fresh, and the scent of soil mingled with the heavier odour of grass and damp vegetation. The road took them through a wood, and some of its trees seemed to have been there since the days of the Conqueror, they were so gnarled and ancient. A brook accompanied them most of the way, trickling between its muddy banks with a gentle bubbling sound. A blackbird sang from the top branch of the tallest oak, and a dog barked in the distance.