‘How do you know he murdered Neubold?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Of course it was him! Neubold died at Withersfield, and you have already proved it was his woman who helped sneak the body into Haverhill. But to get back to the crux of our discussion, I am not going to Cambridge, and that is that.’
‘But if you are not there to represent your interests, you may lose out. King’s Hall has some very clever lawyers, and they may use your absence to disinherit you.’
D’Audley had started to stalk away, but Bartholomew’s words made him pause. ‘Then I shall travel a day later, with my own guards.’
‘You may be too late,’ warned Bartholomew, knowing Langelee was unlikely to waste too much time on a matter that was not going to benefit him or his College. ‘Our Master is not a man to dither over a verdict. Indeed, I would be surprised if he took more than half a day.’
‘Honestly?’ asked d’Audley, narrowing his eyes. ‘You are not making it up?’
‘It is perfectly true. Have you ever heard of the Blood Relic debate? It is a scholastic dispute that has raged for centuries, involving some of the finest thinkers in history. But Langelee went to a lecture on the subject, and had what he claimed was a definitive answer within moments.’
‘Lord!’ exclaimed d’Audley, awed. ‘He must be brilliant!’
‘He makes quick decisions,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘It is not the same thing.’
‘I had better pack, then. But I shall rely on you to ensure Luneday does not stab me en route.’
‘Ride behind him,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Then you will be able to see what he is doing.’
When d’Audley had hurried away to make preparations for his journey, the physician walked to St Mary’s Church, where he found Hilton tidying up after his morning devotions.
‘I thought you might visit today,’ said the priest with a wry smile. ‘I let slip something about Joan last night, and I had a feeling Lady Agnys would send one of you to ask me about it. She knows I am terrified of her, and I imagine she hopes I will be more forthcoming with a man.’
‘Were you Joan’s confessor?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Neubold was, although he was not very good at keeping regular hours, and I was often obliged to help those of his flock in need of spiritual comfort. But I break no confidences by telling you that Joan was unhappy for a very long time. She desperately wanted a baby, not just to give Elyan an heir, but because she loved children. She became a different person once she conceived – joyous.’
‘Agnys said she was despondent for the last few weeks. Do you know why?’
Hilton frowned. ‘Yes and no. She was afraid for the safety of her child, and was terrified someone might harm it – a not unreasonable concern given the inheritance issues surrounding Elyan Manor. However, I was under the impression that something had happened recently to intensify her alarm. She never told me what, but it was almost certainly the cause of her sudden despondency.’
Bartholomew wondered how they could find out – it might answer a lot of questions about her death. Did Hilton know, and was lying when he said she had not told him? Bartholomew found he was not sure what to make of the priest’s role in the affair. He turned to a slightly different subject.
‘Do you believe Elyan was the father of Joan’s child?’ he asked.
Hilton grimaced at the blunt question. ‘No. But I do not know who was, and I shall not speculate. However, it cannot have been anyone here. William of Withersfield is comely but coarse, Luneday would never dare betray Margery, and d’Audley made her skin crawl. There are others, but she had standards, and they were well below them.’
‘Well, someone obliged her, because she was definitely pregnant.’
‘Then you should look outside our villages. We get plenty of visitors, some from as far afield as Cambridge and St Edmundsbury.’
‘Why does Agnys think you know some secret about Joan’s death?’
Hilton stared at his feet. ‘When I saw Joan in Neubold’s cart and I learned where she was going, I tried to stop her – I was afraid for the baby. But she said she had vital business in Cambridge.’
‘What do you think it was?’
‘I cannot imagine what possessed her to take such a risk.’ Hilton looked sincere, but Bartholomew was under the distinct impression that he was holding something back. ‘I offered her some of my pennyroyal tonic, to strengthen her blood for the venture, but she told me that particular herb is bad for unborn children, although I have never heard of such a thing.’
When Hilton had left, Bartholomew stared after him thoughtfully. So, Agnys was right: Joan had known pennyroyal was something she should not have consumed – and she had refused some that had been offered kindly. Did that mean she would have rejected other offers, too, and was unaware that it was present in whatever she had swallowed before she died?
And what did Hilton know that he was keeping to himself? That his fellow priest had also bought pennyroyal oil and might have slipped it to his travelling companion? Bartholomew had no idea how to prise the truth out of Hilton, and could only hope that Michael would.
It was a pleasant journey to Clare, and Michael found himself enjoying it, despite his anxieties. The sun was shining, and the air bracing without being overly chill. The countryside was pretty, too, with little villages tucked among ancient woodlands, and a meandering river to keep them company.
‘I have never been to Clare,’ he said conversationally to Agnys, as they approached the place. ‘Is that the Austin friary, below the castle?’
Agnys nodded. ‘We shall go there first, and then I have something else I would like you to see. No, do not ask me questions. I shall show you in my own good time.’
‘Very well,’ said Michael, his interest piqued. Obligingly, he changed the subject. ‘Have you thought any more about what might have happened to the pennyroyal you bought and lost?’
Agnys looked sharply at him. ‘No. Why should I? I told you, it must have dropped out of my bag as I rode home. I am always losing items that way, because my grandson will insist on buying nags that are too lively for me, and they jostle me about. I almost had a nasty fall on Wednesday evening.’
‘Did you?’ asked Michael smoothly. ‘You were out on the night Neubold was murdered?’
Agnys waved a dismissive hand. ‘Perhaps it was Tuesday, then. At my age, days tend to merge together. Do not look at me like that, Brother – it is true. And do not expect me to be sorry that Neubold met such an end, either. He was a vile fellow, and had no business meddling in the matter of who owns Elyan Manor.’
‘He meddled?’ asked Michael innocently. ‘I thought he had been asked to help decide–’
‘He meddled,’ said Agnys firmly. ‘But here we are at the priory. You go in. I have other business, and will meet you in the garden when you have finished. Then I shall show you my surprise.’
The friars were hospitable, and it was some time before Michael remembered that he was not there to discuss Blood Relic theology, or to enjoy the delicious victuals that were supplied. The Prior was called John, a pleasant, intelligent man who was a distant relative of the Bishop of Ely.
‘Carbo,’ mused John sadly. ‘When he was with us, his name was Roger. Roger Neubold. I heard he had changed it. Poor man! We did our best to help him, but some head injuries are simply too severe to cure – there is some recovery, but not enough to allow the victim to return to his former life. Roger – we shall call him Carbo, if you prefer – was one of them.’