A Vein of Deceit (15 page)

‘He was a soldier once,’ said Cynric, who had been listening to the discussion from the shadows. When he spoke, everyone jumped,
because they had forgotten he was there. Bartholomew knew he should not be surprised: since the year they had spent travelling
overseas together, the Welshman had grown bold about offering his opinions where he thought they were needed. ‘He fought in
Scotland. Afterwards, he came here and became a lawyer.’

‘Being a warrior does not make him a killer,’ said Paxtone, while Bartholomew wondered whether King’s Hall would have kept
Shropham’s military past quiet, had Cynric not revealed it.

‘Of course it does,’ countered Michael. ‘That is what warriors do: they kill people. But why do
you
think he resisted your attempts to exonerate him?’

‘Because he is injured,’ snapped Paxtone. ‘And shock has robbed him of his wits. When he recovers, he will provide you with
an explanation that will make you sorry you doubted him.’

‘Your loyalty commends you,’ said Michael quietly. ‘Did you ever meet this Dominican? Carbo?’

‘Of course not,’ replied Paxtone, turning to look at the dead man with distaste. ‘I do not fraternise with hedge-priests.
However, look at the cuffs on his sleeves – the Cambridge Black Friars do not wear theirs like that.
Ergo
, he is a visitor, which means Shropham has no reason to harm him. Fellows of the University do not go around stabbing strangers.’

‘My experience as Senior Proctor tells me otherwise,’ said Michael sombrely. ‘I do not suppose you can throw any light on
the matter, can you, Matt?’

Bartholomew crouched next to Carbo, grateful the beadles had finally ousted the ghouls, so he no longer had an audience. Carbo
was no cleaner than he had been when they had met him in St Mary the Great, and his face was thin to the point of being skeletal.
The physician was not surprised Paxtone assumed he had been fasting, and wondered if he was right.

‘He died of a single knife wound that penetrated his liver,’ he said, rinsing his hands in a rain-puddle before standing.
They felt oily from touching the priest’s habit, and he would have to scrub them before he went to bed. ‘It would have killed
him fairly quickly.’

‘I had better go and tell Warden Powys what has happened,’ said Paxtone. He sounded near tears. ‘He will doubtless want to
talk to you about keeping Shropham in King’s Hall until we prove his innocence – which I am sure we will.’

‘He cannot imagine a colleague being capable of murder,’ said Michael, watching Paxtone waddle away. ‘But Cleydon virtually
watched the whole thing happen, and he has no reason to lie.’

*   *   *

Bartholomew woke later than usual the following day, because his students were aware that he had been out late and had taken
care not to disturb him when they rose. He was a heavy sleeper at the best of times, and might not have stirred until noon
had Michael not taken it upon himself to do the honours by hurling open the window shutters and clapping his hands.

‘Shropham had a comfortable night,’ the monk reported, sitting at the desk while Bartholomew tried to rally his sluggish wits.
He cocked his head as a bell began to chime. ‘Langelee is almost ready to lead us to church for Sunday prayers, so you had
better get up or you will be late.’

The physician clambered out of bed, hopping across the icy flagstones on bare feet as he made for the bowl of water Cynric
left him each night. He washed and dressed quickly, listening to Michael describe all he had done that morning. The monk made
it sound as though he had been up for hours while his friend had been sleeping the day away.

‘Is Shropham showing any sign of fever?’ he asked, straightening his tabard as he followed Michael across the yard. They were
the last to arrive, and Langelee immediately led his neat phalanx of scholars through the gate and up St Michael’s Lane.

‘None that I could see,’ replied Michael, taking his usual place at Bartholomew’s side. Something felt strange about the procession
– a change in something deeply familiar – and Bartholomew was momentarily confused when he glanced behind him to see Thelnetham
next to Clippesby, where Wynewyk normally walked. ‘He is subdued, and refused the food my beadles took him, but that is understandable.
Unfortunately, he still refuses to talk to us.’

‘I will examine him again today,’ said Bartholomew, trying to concentrate on what the monk was saying as grief
for Wynewyk washed over him. ‘Perhaps he will tell me what happened.’

‘I doubt it, but you are welcome to try. So is Paxtone, Warden Powys and anyone else who will make him understand that declining
to co-operate with the Senior Proctor is not a good idea. Even a half-baked explanation will only result in exile, given that
he can claim “benefit of clergy”, but maintaining this ridiculous silence might well see him hanged.’

The Sunday mass was an unusually gloomy affair, and Bartholomew was not the only one who kept glancing at the spot where Wynewyk
had always stood. Some of the younger students cried, and the physician was obliged to escort several home early. Risleye,
Valence and Tesdale accompanied him, the latter two clearly struggling to control their own distress.

‘Still,’ said Valence, attempting a smile, ‘at least he died happy. I would not mind going like that when my time comes –
surrounded by friends, and laughing fit to burst.’

‘Perhaps he did,’ said Risleye with wide eyes. ‘Burst, I mean. Perhaps his innards exploded, because of all the choleric humours
that bubbled when he was so full of mirth. It is a pity we cannot anatomise him, because I would like to test such a hypothesis.’

For the first time ever, the physician found himself grateful that anatomy was illegal.

‘Hippocrates says laughing is good for you,’ said Tesdale. ‘He says nothing about it making you explode.’

‘I suppose you might be right,’ conceded Risleye, then added rather salaciously, ‘There was no blood. If Wynewyk had exploded,
there would have been pots of blood.’

‘Enough,’ said Bartholomew sharply, aware that the graphic discussion was upsetting the younger students. ‘He died happy,
so let us say no more about it.’

‘
Did
he die happy?’ asked Risleye. ‘Personally, I thought his guffaws had a strangely brittle quality to them – as if he did not
really think the debate was funny, but could not help himself.’

‘I said, enough!’ snapped Bartholomew, although he found Risleye’s observation an uncomfortable one. If Wynewyk had been agitated,
then perhaps he
had
eaten the nuts deliberately, fearing his days of manipulating the accounts were numbered. Or was Bartholomew wrong to doubt
his integrity?

‘There is the breakfast bell,’ said Valence, brightening at the prospect of food. ‘It is Sunday, so perhaps there will be
egg-mess, like there used to be before Wynewyk tightened the purse strings.’

‘You cannot blame him for that,’ objected Tesdale. ‘It is hardly his fault that food prices have risen and students are slow
in paying their fees – or run off without paying at all, like Kelyng. He did his best with what he had. Still, some egg-mess
would be nice …’

The other students followed him to the hall, but Bartholomew did not feel like eating whatever Agatha had concocted, certain
that eggs would not feature in it. And Risleye’s remark about Wynewyk’s ‘brittle’ laughter had unsettled him. He went to Langelee’s
room instead, and spent the time reassessing the College’s finances. Surely he could find something to prove Wynewyk innocent?

When the meal was over, Michael came to find him. He saw what Bartholomew was doing, and cleared a space on one of Langelee’s
benches. Then he sat down and raised questioning eyebrows. Reluctantly, Bartholomew shook his head.

‘I have uncovered nothing new. Just confirmed what we already knew – that the questionable transactions are for
three commodities bought from Suffolk: coal, wood and pigs. But I am sure Wynewyk was not cheating us, Brother. There
must
be an explanation that will exonerate him.’

‘So you keep saying. But I went through most of his personal papers this morning and found nothing to indicate what that explanation
might be.’

‘Then we must look harder. My students need to hear Theophilus’s
De urinis
before I can give my next set of lectures, and Risleye has offered to read it aloud to the others. That means I am free to
help you unravel this mess – and clear Wynewyk’s name.’

Michael was pleased. ‘And in return, I shall help you hunt down your lost pennyroyal. I know it pales into insignificance
when compared to Wynewyk, but it is still a toxic substance, and I will feel happier when we have satisfied ourselves that
it did not end up inside Joan.’

‘I do not believe it did. Indeed, the more I think about it, the more I am convinced that there could not have been much left
when I finished making the ulcer salve. Of course, it does not take much to kill a person …’

‘Well, the more
I
think about it, the more I am afraid that it might have been stolen at the same time that something else went astray,’ said
Michael. ‘Namely the Stanton Cups.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘Why would Gosse take pennyroyal? I own far more expensive substances than that – and far more dangerous
ones, too. Foxglove, mandrake, poppy juice …’

‘Even if he can read, he was probably in a hurry, and grabbed whatever he could reach.’

‘Should I talk to him about it, warn him of its dangers?’

‘That would be tantamount to accusing him of theft, and he will go crying to his lawyer about slander. Besides, if he does
have it, your warning may encourage him to
feed it to someone he does not like. No, Matt. We must devise another way to ascertain whether he is the culprit.’

Bartholomew nodded acquiescence, although he was unsure whether or not to be concerned.
Was
his pennyroyal in Gosse’s hands? Or had someone from Michaelhouse taken it to help with some innocent task, and was now
too frightened to own up? The physician rubbed a hand through his hair, and turned to yet another cause for concern.

‘Do the other Fellows know about the missing thirty marks yet?’

‘Langelee told them after breakfast. Predictably, they are all very upset.’

‘We could talk to Wynewyk’s friends,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘They may know what he—’

‘
We
were his friends. He had acquaintances from other foundations – such as Paxtone and Warden Powys from King’s Hall – but his
friends
were here, at Michaelhouse.’

Bartholomew tapped the accounts book with his pen. ‘The inconsistencies only arise when he made purchases from Suffolk. As
far as I can tell, he paid a total of eighteen marks for coal, seven for wood and five for pigs. But none of these supplies
have been received.’

‘I reached the same conclusion, and so did Langelee. Then I went back through the receipts and found the names of the three
Suffolk men with whom he did business. Did you do that?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I just studied the figures.’ ‘The largest amount was paid to a man called Henry Elyan of Haverhill,
who—’

‘Elyan?’ echoed Bartholomew, startled. ‘But he is Joan’s husband.’

‘The woman who died of pennyroyal?’ asked Michael. ‘What a curious coincidence!’

Bartholomew’s thoughts were reeling. ‘Is it coincidence? Elyan came to collect his wife’s body on Saturday, which is the same
day that Wynewyk died.’

Michael considered the matter, but then shook his head. ‘I am as bemused by this strange happenstance as you are, but it cannot
be relevant. It is impossible that Elyan is involved in whatever happened to Wynewyk. First, he cannot have gained access
to our College, and second, he is a stranger to our town, so not in a position to hire someone else to do it for him. Besides,
I thought we had agreed that Wynewyk died of a seizure brought on by laughter.’

‘We did not agree –
you
decided that was what we were going to tell people. However, the truth is that I have absolutely no idea why Wynewyk died.
But to return to Elyan, do not forget that his wife travelled here with their household priest – Edith told me Neubold represented
Elyan in his business dealings with King’s Hall. In other words, he is not as much a stranger to Cambridge as you think.’

‘He is, if he sends Neubold to do his work,’ Michael pointed out. ‘But we shall bear the possibility in mind. Meanwhile, there
is another connection, too – Gosse’s lawyer is also called Neubold. Of course, we do not know if it is the same man.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘If they
are
one and the same, then it raises another question – namely, why did a respectable lady elect to keep company with the kind
of man who has felons as clients?’

‘According to what Edith told me the day after Joan died, Joan simply took advantage of an opportunity to travel. She also
said that Neubold failed to come when Joan was dying. That is odd.’

‘Perhaps Joan was not the only one with friends here,’
suggested Bartholomew, wondering whether Neubold had taken the opportunity to avail himself of a Frail Sister; prostitutes
were not very readily available to priests in small villages, and Neubold would not be the first cleric to take advantage
of what a large town could offer.

The notion of Frail Sisters reminded Bartholomew of Matilde, and he tried to imagine what she would have said, had she heard
of what Wynewyk stood accused. She had been fond of Wynewyk, and Bartholomew was sure she would have defended him.

‘… message did not reach Neubold in time,’ Michael was saying as the physician wrenched his thoughts away from two people
he had loved and lost. ‘Although I doubt Elyan was pleased when he learned Neubold had failed his wife. But we are moving
away from the real point here, which is that Wynewyk wrote in our accounts that Elyan sold him coal.’

‘But we do not burn coal. Did he mean charcoal? He uses the Latin
carbo
, which can mean either. And there is yet
another
coincidence: the Dominican whom Shropham killed was named Carbo.’