‘It is odd he talked to that priest, though,’ said Yolande. ‘Now he is dead, too.’
‘What priest?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘The Dominican,’ replied Yolande. ‘He called himself Carbo, although it was not his real name.’
Isnard looked interested. ‘Do you know his real name? Only Brother Michael came to ask if I knew it yesterday, and I wish I could have told him. I like helping the man who conducts my choir.’
‘Your choir?’ asked Yolande, amused. Then she frowned as a thought occurred to her. ‘Can my husband join? He cannot sing, but the free bread after rehearsals would be very welcome.’
‘I will speak to Brother Michael,’ promised Isnard grandly. ‘I am sure there will be a place for Robert among the tenors. They cannot sing, either, so he will be in good company.’
Bartholomew had no doubt at all that Blaston would be accepted, regardless of his musical abilities or lack thereof. Michael had a soft heart when it came to the poor, and it was common knowledge that the choir’s entire membership comprised men and boys – and even a few women – who desperately needed the post-practice refreshments. It was not common knowledge that he often paid for the victuals himself, however.
‘Tell me about Carbo and Wynewyk,’ prompted Bartholomew.
‘I saw them chatting together,’ obliged Yolande. ‘They were with Powys, Shropham and Paxtone from King’s Hall. Do you think Shropham killed Carbo, by the way? I do not – he is too meek.’
Bartholomew’s thoughts were a chaotic jumble as he tried to make sense of what she was telling him. ‘The King’s Hall men said they had never met Carbo.’
‘Then they were not telling you the truth,’ said Yolande firmly. ‘Although they were talking like acquaintances who meet by chance, not like friends. I was touting for business, hoping Paxtone might hire me, and I edged quite close to them – close enough to hear what they were saying. They were going on about the weather and the price of coal. It was rather stilted, actually.’
‘Did Shropham look as though he knew Carbo? asked Bartholomew. ‘Address him by name? Or did Wynewyk?’
‘Not that I heard. Later that day, I saw Wynewyk with your sister’s friend, too – Joan. He was flirting with her in the Market Square, and they were laughing over ribbons.’
Bartholomew was about to say that Wynewyk would not have flirted with a woman, but then he recalled Edith telling him the same thing. And there was Yolande’s earlier testimony to take into account – that Wynewyk liked the company of a lady on occasion. It made Bartholomew question how well he really had known his colleague, despite all the time they had spent confiding in each other.
‘Carbo and Joan travelled here together from Haverhill,’ Yolande was saying.
‘Carbo was Elyan’s priest?’ asked Isnard. ‘Then I do know his name! It is Neubold – Carbo Neubold, perhaps. I met him in the Brazen George, and we chatted for a while. You had better tell Brother Michael right away, Doctor. He is going to be pleased with me.’
‘He is,’ agreed Bartholomew, although the discovery raised more questions than answers. How could Elyan have employed such a fellow to represent him to King’s Hall? Or place his heavily pregnant wife in such hands? Of course, it explained why Joan was so eager to stay with Edith: Carbo had reeked, and would not have made for pleasant company. And that was before the lingering symptoms of his head injury were taken into account.
‘Carbo – it suits him better than Neubold – gave Paxtone some lovely little rocks,’ said Yolande chattily. ‘Paxtone told me they ease the pain of childbirth, so I filched one when he was not looking.’
‘You stole from him?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, watching her rummage in her purse for it.
‘Borrowed,’ she corrected. She shrugged when she saw his expression. ‘He rarely treats pregnant women, whereas I encounter them all the time. Who do you think will get more use out of it?’
The stone she showed him was similar to the ones Bartholomew had inadvertently knocked out of Paxtone’s cupboard, and he wondered why the King’s Hall physician should have felt the need to lie when asked whether he had ever met the man Shropham was accused of killing.
He walked home in a thoughtful frame of mind. Carbo’s real name was Neubold, the letter in his habit said he was from Withersfield, and he was Elyan’s priest and possibly Gosse’s lawyer. He had coal secreted in his robes, and Wynewyk had bought coal from Elyan. He had been seen talking to Shropham, who had later killed him. Connections were beginning to form thick and fast, and Bartholomew only hoped Michael would be able to make sense of them all, because he could not.
The next day saw an improvement in the weather. The heaviest clouds lifted, and a frail, silvery light trickled through the few that remained. Bartholomew was heartened by the watery rays that illuminated the east window of St Michael’s Church, and began to hope that the rain and wind of the last few weeks were coming to an end.
‘I do not want to go to Suffolk,’ grumbled Michael, as Langelee led the procession back to the College for breakfast.
‘I do,’ said Bartholomew. He found he was looking forward to a respite from demanding students and too many patients. And there was the added bonus that he would be able to ask questions about Joan for Edith, which might make her less inclined to launch an investigation of her own.
‘But Suffolk is such a long way,’ moaned the monk.
‘Seventeen miles – half a day’s ride.’
‘Only if the roads are good, and they are probably knee deep in mud after all this rain. I know thirty marks is a lot of money, but is it worth our lives? Langelee wants us to leave today, you know.’
‘Tomorrow,’ corrected Clippesby, coming to walk next to them. He had the College cat in his arms, which looked none too pleased to have been plucked from its domain and forced to spend part of its morning in church. ‘He has hired you horses from the Brazen George – stronger and younger than the College nags – but they are not available today.’
‘I suppose it gives us time to organise our teaching,’ said Michael. He glanced at Bartholomew. ‘And for you to warn your more grubby patients not to inflict themselves on Paxtone or Rougham in your absence. It would be a kindness – and not just to your colleagues.’
‘The Brazen George horses are experts on financial matters,’ said Clippesby. His hair was on end that morning, and his habit was not very clean. Wynewyk’s death had upset him badly, and Bartholomew suspected he was likely to be odder than usual until the shock had worn off. ‘They will advise you on the best way to reclaim the lost money. They told me.’
‘Lord!’ breathed Michael, as the Dominican stopped to exchange pleasantries with a dog. The cat decided this was too much, and freed itself with a hiss. ‘Should we really let him loose on students? God knows what he might teach them – he told me the other day that there is a good chance that St Paul was a donkey, and that he wrote his Letters in a stable. That is verging on heresy.’
‘He was amusing himself at your expense,’ said Bartholomew, hoping it was true and that the unpleasantness of the last few days was not going to precipitate a more serious ‘episode’.
‘If you say so,’ said Michael, unconvinced.
‘I am taking Risleye, Valence and Tesdale to Suffolk, by the way,’ the physician went on. ‘Risleye is too quarrelsome to leave unsupervised, while Tesdale is too lazy – at least if he is with me, I can make sure he learns something to help him through his disputations.’
‘And Valence?’
‘I need him to keep the peace between the other two. Besides, he has worked hard since that exploding-book incident, and it would be unfair to take Risleye and Tesdale, but leave him behind.’