‘I am more confused than ever,’ he said, shivering. ‘Did Elyan kill Neubold because he believed Neubold was his wife’s lover? Personally, I doubt it was the case – I imagine she had more taste.’
‘He was rather keen for a verdict of suicide,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘That is suspicious in itself. However, by killing Neubold, Elyan lost himself the services of a slippery lawyer.’
‘He is not the only one,’ said Michael, rather gleefully. ‘I cannot imagine Osa Gosse will be pleased when he learns his legal adviser is no longer available.’
But Bartholomew’s thoughts were still on Joan. ‘The more I consider it, the more I am sure you are right about why she went to Cambridge – it was to see the father of her child.’
Michael sighed. ‘To be honest, I only said that to shake a reaction from Elyan. It cannot be true, because we have been told – by several people, including your sister – that Joan had not been to Cambridge for years. Ergo, the babe must have been conceived in Suffolk. The father is not some willing scholar or burgess, but someone in this county. Or perhaps someone who visited Haverhill.’
‘It cannot be Wynewyk,’ said Bartholomew, seeing what the monk was thinking. ‘It is one thing you cannot blame him for, because we both know his preferences. Although…’
‘Although what?’
‘Although Yolande de Blaston did say he hired her on occasion. However, I suspect Joan would have opted for someone more manly. Scholars from King’s Hall must have visited Haverhill, too, to look at the Alneston Chantry and the manor they hope to acquire. Then there is Gosse. Joan knew him, because Edith was with her when she exchanged words with the fellow.’
Michael was shocked. ‘But Gosse is a felon! A well-dressed, intelligent one, but a felon even so.’
‘Perhaps she had no choice,’ said Bartholomew soberly.
They were silent for a while, and the only sound was their footsteps on the muddy track and the distant bleat of sheep on the surrounding hills.
‘Do you think Elyan was telling the truth about his arrangement with Wynewyk?’ asked Michael at last. ‘If so, we may never retrieve our eighteen marks.’
‘Twenty-five marks,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘Wynewyk lent d’Audley money for the venture, too. And yes, I think he was telling the truth. He is not clever enough to have deceived you.’
‘What was Wynewyk thinking, to become embroiled with such people?’ demanded Michael.
‘I imagine he was thinking it offered an attractive long-term investment for Michaelhouse,’ said Bartholomew, who had been relieved by Elyan’s confession. ‘He was not dishonest, as I have said all along. It was not a wise decision, given that the mine is unlikely to be profitable, but being a fool is not the same as being a thief.’
‘We need to confirm this tale with d’Audley before we can be sure about that,’ said Michael. ‘And nor can we forget the five marks Wynewyk gave to Luneday, ostensibly for pigs.’
‘What a coincidence – there is d’Audley,’ said Bartholomew, pointing down the road to where a familiar figure could be seen riding towards them. ‘On his way home from the market, I suppose.’
D’Audley saw the Michaelhouse scholars coming his way, and attempted to force his way through a hedge in order to avoid them. Unfortunately, the gap he had picked was not wide enough, and the nag panicked. It taxed even Michael’s superior horsemanship to extricate them both unscathed.
‘I saw a fox,’ declared d’Audley, once he was free. ‘And I wanted to see where it went. I have chickens, you know. A man with chickens cannot be too careful about foxes.’
‘Speaking of foxes, I would like to hear about your arrangement with Wynewyk,’ said Michael. ‘Elyan has just informed us that Wynewyk lent you seven marks, to allow you to invest in his mine.’
‘Damn him!’ cried d’Audley furiously. ‘He promised to keep the matter to himself. I should have known he could not be trusted!’
‘The time for deceit is over,’ said Michael, keeping a firm grip on the reins, lest his victim attempted to bolt. ‘You have two choices: you can tell us the truth, or you can tell the King. However, I should warn you that His Majesty beheaded the last person who tried to cheat us.’
D’Audley regarded him in horror, and Bartholomew looked away, uncomfortable with the lie. But it had the desired effect, because d’Audley began to talk so fast that it was difficult to keep up with the stream of confessions.
‘I should have followed my first instinct, and stayed well away from that wretched coal,’ he gabbled, bitterness in every word. ‘I knew it would be unprofitable, and we would all end up throwing away good money. So why did I weaken and let Elyan persuade me otherwise?’
‘You tell me,’ suggested Michael.
‘He seemed so sure it would prosper, and I dislike the notion of neighbours growing rich while I remain poor. So I decided to accept his invitation to invest. Unfortunately, I had no free money of my own. Then I happened to meet your friend Wynewyk in the Queen’s Head one night. I bewailed my plight to his sympathetic ear, and he gave me seven marks. I could not believe my good luck!’
‘He lent you seven marks,’ corrected Michael. ‘He did not give it.’
‘No,’ agreed d’Audley tearfully. ‘And the interest on the loan was free firewood for the next five years, plus a percentage of my profits from the mine. He was going to have a percentage of Elyan’s returns, too, so it was a fabulous deal for your College.’
‘In other words,’ said Bartholomew quietly, ‘he negotiated a perfectly legitimate transaction.’
D’Audley nodded miserably. ‘But Elyan’s mine has not yielded what was promised, and it is time to start sending firewood to Cambridge. Then I heard Wynewyk was dead, and as there was no written agreement between us, I thought – hoped – that your College would not know about it.’
Michael almost laughed. ‘It did not occur to you that he might have kept records? Or that no foundation is likely to overlook such a large amount of money?’
‘It did, but the others told me I was being unreasonably pessimistic.’
‘What others?’ demanded Michael. ‘Your conspirators in crime? Luneday and Elyan?’
‘We are not conspirators,’ objected d’Audley, alarmed by the term. ‘Nor have we stolen–’
‘But not for want of trying,’ interrupted Michael coldly. ‘You have already confessed to attempting to defraud my College. The King will not like that.’
‘Then you must tell him I made a mistake,’ cried d’Audley. ‘Please! If I am imprisoned, my manor will never produce enough firewood to appease you until I can repay back what I borrowed. It is in your own interests to be nice.’
‘I shall think about it,’ said Michael stiffly, knowing he was right. ‘Now, if I draw up a written agreement of the transaction you arranged with Wynewyk, will you sign it?’
‘Yes,’ sighed d’Audley. He looked furtive. ‘I always intended to do right by Michaelhouse, as far as I could. It was the others who wanted to renege, and they forced me to do likewise. Elyan is supposed to give Michaelhouse eighteen marks’ worth of coal before the end of the year, and Luneday agreed to establish a fine herd of pigs at your manor in Ickleton.’
Michael was unimpressed. ‘What are we supposed to do with that much coal?’
‘It is a valuable commodity – I imagine Wynewyk planned to stockpile it, then release it when the price is highest. He was an astute man – too astute for us.’