A Vein of Deceit (11 page)

Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. ‘What are you saying? Wynewyk would never—’

‘Just look at the figures,’ interrupted Langelee shortly. ‘And then we will talk.’

By the end of the afternoon, Bartholomew had been through the accounts so many times that the columns of figures were beginning
to swim before his eyes. He leaned back and flexed his aching shoulders. There were a number of conclusions that could be
drawn from the complex calculations in the book and the documents that lay in front of him, but none made him happy.

First, it was possible that Wynewyk had made a series of honest mistakes. But Bartholomew felt there were too many errors
to be attributed solely to careless arithmetic.

Second, it could be argued that Wynewyk had been promoted beyond his abilities, and that the discrepancy between what the
College should have owned, and what was actually in its coffers, was down to incompetence. But Wynewyk was intelligent, and
the physician did not see him as inept.

And third – although Bartholomew was loath to believe it – Wynewyk could have been lining his own pockets at Michaelhouse’s
expense.

‘Well?’ asked Langelee. As good as his word, he had remained silent the whole time. He had paced to begin with, but an irritable
glance from the physician had made him sit again, and then he had either looked at the pictures in Bartholomew’s medical books,
or dozed on the bed. Now he was uncharacteristically grave. ‘Is there an innocent explanation for why we are short of thirty
marks?’

Bartholomew did not reply. He stood, and pushed the window shutters further open, feeling the need for fresh air. A cold breeze
blew in, billowing among the parchments on the table and sending some to the floor. Neither scholar moved to retrieve them.
The physician leaned against the stone mullion and gazed across the courtyard. It was deserted, and the only thing moving
was Walter’s tailless peacock, which was scratching in the mud for food.

‘Please,’ said Langelee in an uncharacteristically strangled voice. ‘You must tell me what you think. Are we thirty marks
short? Or have I missed something?’

‘You have not missed anything,’ replied Bartholomew. He closed the shutters, thinking this was a discussion they had better
have with the window barred against possible eavesdroppers. Frequent bellows of laughter from the hall showed that the debate
was still in full swing, but he did
not want to take the chance that someone had left early. ‘Thirty marks have gone astray.’

‘My next question is how,’ said Langelee unhappily. ‘
How
has such a vast sum disappeared?’

‘Through some cunning manipulation.’ Bartholomew spoke reluctantly, not liking what he was saying. ‘A quick glance at the
records suggests all is in order, and it is only when you work through them carefully that these … these
inconsistencies
are apparent.’

Langelee massaged his eyes wearily. ‘Your assessment coincides with mine. So what shall we do? Confront him, and demand to
know what the hell he thinks he is doing? Or shall we inform the Senior Proctor, and let there be an official investigation?’

‘Wynewyk is not a thief,’ said Bartholomew, his thoughts in turmoil. ‘He will have a reason for doing what he has done, and
you should give him the opportunity to explain himself.’

‘What
reason
?’ Langelee sneered the last word. He began to pace, the agitation that had been in control earlier now erupting. ‘What
reason
gives him the right to steal thirty marks?’

Bartholomew spread his hands, trying to think of one. ‘Perhaps he has invested in a scheme that will make the College a profit
eventually.’

‘Then why conceal it so slyly?’ demanded Langelee angrily. ‘He knows we do whatever he recommends – he could suggest we invest
in the moon, and we would do it. We
trust
him.’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘We do. So all we need to do is talk to him, and ask what is going on. You are agonising over
nothing.’

‘I am agonising over thirty marks,’ countered Langelee. ‘A fortune.’

‘What made you suspicious in the first place?’ asked Bartholomew, after a silence in which both men reflected on how much
more pleasant life in Michaelhouse would have been with an additional thirty marks. They would not have had to endure such
dreadful food, for a start.

Langelee sat on the bed again, as though pacing had sapped his energy. ‘Experience. I dealt with some very treacherous villains
for the Archbishop of York, and it taught me how to recognise them. I had Wynewyk marked for a scoundrel from the beginning.’

Bartholomew did not believe him, thinking it was easy to express reservations with the benefit of hindsight. ‘Then why did
you accept him as a Fellow?’

‘Because I hoped he would use his aptitude for deceit to benefit us,’ snapped Langelee. ‘God knows, we need something to give
us an edge over Cambridge’s venal tradesmen.’

‘That is a dreadful thing to admit! We do not want a reputation for unfair dealings. The University is unpopular enough as
it is, without courting trouble by cheating those who do business with us.’

‘They would cheat us, given the chance,’ Langelee flashed back. ‘And a reputation for honest trading would make us the target
of every thief in the shire. It is better to be crafty and slippery.’

‘God’s teeth!’ breathed Bartholomew, shocked. He tried to bring his thoughts back to Wynewyk. ‘But if you knew he was a thief,
why did you entrust him with Michaelhouse’s money?’

‘Because I did not think he would cheat
us
. I kept a close eye on him for two years, as he steered us from poverty to prosperity. Eventually, I decided he could be
trusted, and spent less time checking his work. And in
November, I stopped altogether. It was a terrible mistake, but I thought two years was enough to gain a man’s measure.’

‘It
is
enough,’ said Bartholomew. ‘In fact, I am so sure Wynewyk would never hurt us that I am willing to wager anything you like
on there being an innocent explanation.’

‘I hope you are right, I really do. And if he refunds our thirty marks, I may be prepared to listen to his excuses. However,
if he has spent it on himself, then he can expect my dagger in his gizzard.’

‘We shall talk to him as soon as the debate is over,’ said Bartholomew, not entirely sure that Langelee was speaking figuratively.
That was the problem with having a Master whose previous occupation had involved so many insalubrious activities. ‘He will
put your mind at rest.’

‘He will lie,’ predicted Langelee despondently. ‘You will believe him, and I will be alone with my suspicions once more. I
chose to confide in you because you are faster at arithmetic than the others, but I should have approached Michael instead.
He is less inclined to see the good in people.’

Selfishly, Bartholomew wished Langelee
had
lumbered Michael with the burden of confronting a colleague with accusations of dishonesty. He was about to recommend that
they made a list of all the questionable transactions they had found, when there was a knock at the door. It was Cynric.

‘There has been an incident,’ he said tersely. ‘In the hall.’

‘Another fight?’ asked Langelee wearily. ‘I thought I had made my views clear about that: if someone cannot win his point
with words, then he must go outside to throw his punches. We are scholars, not louts, to be brawling in our own hall.’

‘No one was fighting,’ said Cynric. He was subdued, and Bartholomew was assailed with the conviction that something was very
wrong. ‘And everyone was so intent on listening to Clippesby explain why goats make good wives that no one realised what was
happening until it was too late.’

‘Too late for what?’ demanded Bartholomew, coils of unease writhing in the pit of his stomach.

‘For Wynewyk,’ said Cynric. He looked down at his boots, reluctant to continue.

‘Wynewyk?’ echoed Bartholomew, unable to avoid shooting Langelee an anxious glance.

‘He is dead,’ explained Cynric softly. ‘I think he died laughing.’

That wintry afternoon, a fire had been lit in the hall, but Bartholomew’s breath still plumed in front of him as he hurried
towards the dais, where a tight knot of Fellows and students had clustered around their stricken colleague. When he saw the
physician and the Master enter, Thelnetham detached himself from the throng and hurried towards them, white-faced and shaking.

‘It has been a horrible week,’ he blurted, ‘what with bad weather, poor food and the loss of the Stanton Cups, so I chose
a silly subject to cheer us up. But I never meant for …’ He trailed off.

Langelee regarded him warily. ‘Never meant for what?’

‘Never meant for Wynewyk to laugh so hard that he died,’ finished Thelnetham in an appalled whisper.
‘I did not even know such a thing was possible.’

Wynewyk was sitting at the high table, although he had slumped across it, as if he had grown bored with the debate and had
fallen asleep. Bartholomew wondered if he was playing a prank, albeit one in poor taste, for his colleagues
were distressed. All around, voices were raised, some in horror and others in disbelief; the babble quietened as he and Langelee
approached.

‘Clippesby was postulating the merits of goat wives,’ explained Michael, as the physician bent to examine the fallen Fellow.
The monk’s face was very pale. ‘And I was opposing him. But if I had thought for a moment that our ridiculous banter would
lead to …’

Despite Wynewyk’s restful pose, Bartholomew could see he was dead even before he felt the absence of a life-beat in the great
veins of the neck. The lawyer’s face was an unnatural shade of blue, and his eyes were half closed, staring at nothing.

Premature death was no stranger to members of the University – besides fatal brawls, there were accidents, suicides and a
whole gamut of diseases – but it was still rare for it to occur quite so unexpectedly. Wynewyk was no more than thirty, and
had been in good health. Bartholomew turned to his book-bearer.

‘Fetch a bier, Cynric. And escort the students from the hall – they do not need to see this.’

‘You mean he
is
dead?’ Langelee looked appalled. ‘But he was all right when I saw him earlier this afternoon.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Do
you think he died because of … you know?’

Bartholomew was not sure what to think, and for a moment could do no more than stare at the man who had been his friend. He
recalled the times he and Wynewyk had sat reading in companionable silence in the conclave after the others had gone to bed.
And the times they had filched an illicit jug of wine from the kitchens, while Wynewyk had confided his concerns for his elderly
father or waxed lyrical about whichever rough soldier had most recently captured his fancy.

‘In August, he went to visit family in Winwick,’ said Suttone. The Carmelite was near tears. ‘We all missed him, even though
he was only gone for a week. What shall we do now he is gone for ever?’

Bartholomew had no reply, and watched numbly as Cynric ushered the students from the hall. They were reluctant to go, not
because they were ghoulish, but because they did not want to leave the reassuring presence of the senior scholars. Tesdale
was crying, and Valence was trying to comfort him. By contrast, Risleye was excited, arguing that he should be allowed to
stay so that he could learn from the case. Bartholomew appreciated the young man’s desire to expand his medical knowledge,
but his behaviour was inappropriate. He glared at him, and Risleye slunk out without another word.

‘What happened?’ he asked, when they had gone. ‘Did Wynewyk say he felt unwell?’

‘Not that I heard,’ replied Michael, still ashen. ‘I was just refuting Clippesby’s contention that goats like a year’s betrothal
before committing themselves to wedlock, when Suttone began to yell.’

‘The sudden clamour frightened us,’ added Clippesby, his peculiar eyes wide and intense. ‘We all leapt to our feet, to find
him staring at Wynewyk as though he were a ghost.’

Suttone crossed himself. ‘What happened, Matthew? Is it the plague? I have been saying for years that it will return, but
I did not expect it to manifest itself in Wynewyk. There are far more sinful—’

‘He was laughing,’ said Michael, curtly cutting across him. ‘Thelnetham’s chosen topic was absurd, and Wynewyk found it very
amusing. He chortled all afternoon.’

‘He did,’ confirmed Hemmysby quietly. He dabbed his eyes with the sleeve of his habit. ‘In fact, I thought he was
drunk, because his hilarity seemed out of proportion to the humour of the situation.’

‘He did not
seem
drunk,’ said Thelnetham. He hesitated. ‘Or did he?’

‘What did he drink – and eat – at the noonday meal?’ asked Bartholomew.

Everyone looked at Hemmysby, with whom he usually shared dishes. The theologian shrugged and wiped his eyes again. ‘He drank
watered ale. And he ate pea pottage, like the rest of us.’

‘And at the debate, he had wine and Edith’s cake,’ added Michael. He grimaced. ‘In fact, I think he ate mine, too, because
when I came for a bite it had gone, and I do not recall finishing it.’

‘He would not have taken cake,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He had an aversion to almonds, and knew to avoid them. Where is the wine?’

Michael handed him the empty jug. ‘But there cannot be anything wrong with it, because it came from the barrel that served
the whole College. It was not the best brew I have ever sampled, and some of the students said it tasted bitter, but none
of
us
are dead.’

Bartholomew inspected Wynewyk again, looking in his mouth and at his neck, and wondering whether his excessive giggles had
been a response to Langelee discovering the inconsistencies in the accounts. Had he guessed what the Master had found, and
an attack of fright or conscience had led to the strange laughter and then his death? But the physician had never heard of
such a thing happening before, at least, not outside popular stories.

He wondered what Langelee would do now. His choices were to make Wynewyk’s activities public, or allow them to die with their
perpetrator. Either way, Michaelhouse
would lose thirty marks. Absently, he picked up the goblet from which Wynewyk had been drinking. It was empty, but there
was nothing to suggest foul play – no odd aromas or residues in the bottom.