A Vein of Deceit (17 page)

‘He is malleable, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He told
me he runs errands for the rest of you – teaching classes you dislike, sharpening your quills …’

‘He is not
made
to do those things,’ said Powys, a little defensively. ‘He pesters us until we agree to let him. We do not feel entirely
comfortable with it, but it seems to make him happy. And we are all busy men, so you cannot blame us for taking advantage
of what is freely offered.’

‘Why does he do it?’ asked Bartholomew. It was odd behaviour for a senior scholar.

‘I really have no idea. And it has been going on for so long that I no longer give it any thought.’

‘Did you ever meet the Dominican he killed? Carbo?’

Powys grimaced at his choice of words. ‘No, I had never seen Carbo before. And I took several Fellows to view his corpse in
the Black Friars’ chapel today, but they did not know him, either. Prior Morden says Carbo is not one of his own people, so
he must be a visitor.
Ergo
, there is no reason for Shropham to have …’ He waved his hand, not sure how to describe what had occurred.

‘If there is an explanation, Michael will find it,’ promised Bartholomew, seeing the unhappiness in the Warden’s face, and
sympathising. It was how he felt about Wynewyk.

‘I visited Shropham earlier,’ said Powys miserably. ‘But he declined to talk to me. What is wrong with him? Could he have
a brain fever?’

‘He does not seem ill,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘Just tired and sad.’

Powys’s expression was pained. ‘Paxtone may have to contest your opinion about that, if the Black Friars clamour for him to
be hanged. The murder of a priest is a serious matter, and a plea of insanity may be the only way to save him. We do not want
him executed.’

Bartholomew watched him move away, wondering to what lengths he would go to save his colleague. Would
Michaelhouse do the same for Wynewyk? Would a tale be invented to explain the missing money, which would absolve him from
any wrongdoing? He rubbed his head, and wished with all his heart that Wynewyk was alive to explain himself.

When the guests had gone, Langelee decided the rest of the day was to be dedicated to lessons, despite the fact that it was
Sunday, when learning was usually suspended.

‘We must resume the semblance of normality as soon as possible,’ he said, looking around at his Fellows and ignoring the fact
that teaching on the Sabbath was not normal at all. Then, in one of his legendary leaps of logic, he added, ‘I do not want
it said that Wynewyk was the victim of foul play.’

‘Why would anyone say that?’ asked Michael suspiciously.

‘Because Bartholomew informed Paxtone that Wynewyk was poisoned,’ Langelee replied, shooting the physician a pained glance.
‘Warden Powys just told me.’

‘I said nothing of the kind,’ objected Bartholomew indignantly. ‘I mentioned Wynewyk’s aversion to nuts, but Paxtone said
it was excessive hilarity that carried Wynewyk away: he thinks it brought about a fatal imbalance of humours.’

‘And which of these two theories is correct?’ asked Suttone worriedly.

‘I do not know,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘I thought the almonds had killed him at first, but perhaps Paxtone is right and it
is
too outlandish a—’

‘He died of a seizure brought on by laughter,’ said Michael firmly. He glared at the physician. ‘It is what we agreed, and
it is what we shall tell anyone else who asks.’

‘Well, he had a lot to laugh about,’ said Langelee bitterly. ‘Thirty marks successfully stolen.’

‘Perhaps God struck him down,’ suggested Thelnetham.
‘I imagine He does not approve of thieves who gloat over their spoils, especially ones who do it in front of their victims.’

‘I do not believe that,’ said Clippesby, bending down to pick up the College cat, which had come to wind itself around his
legs. ‘Wynewyk did not steal from us – he was our friend. And, if it is not too much to ask, I would rather no one voiced
uncharitable thoughts about him until Brother Michael has proved his innocence. Which I know he will.’

‘Our students are waiting,’ said Langelee, bringing an abrupt end to the discussion. ‘We shall take their minds off this dismal
occasion with lessons, and Michael can resume his enquiries into Wynewyk’s crimes tomorrow.’

It was late by the time the Master decided the students had been taught enough that day, by which point their heads were spinning
and their masters were exhausted. Agatha had cooked pea pottage for supper, but it was full of peculiar lumps – she claimed
they were apple, but they were hard and tasteless, and Bartholomew suspected they were the cattle fodder that had mysteriously
gone missing the previous week.

‘Wynewyk has a lot to answer for,’ muttered Michael, glowering at his bowl. ‘We made good money from the sale of Sewale Cottage
last summer, and we also have a tidy income from renting out the shops we bought from Mistress Refham. We should be living
like kings, not eating this slop.’

‘And that is something we should have thought about weeks ago,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘The quality of food has been declining
for months and Agatha is always saying she does not have enough money to make ends meet. We should have guessed far sooner
that something was amiss.’

Michael glowered at him. ‘I hope you are not suggesting that it is
our
fault Wynewyk stole from us? That had we been more vigilant, it would not have happened?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Why not? It is true. We all noticed the decline in the quality of meals, and we all complained. But
none of us bothered to investigate.’

‘That is complete and utter nonsense!’ exploded Michael, loudly enough to draw disapproving glances from his colleagues. Talking
at meals was overlooked if done discreetly, but yelling was not. He lowered his voice. ‘It did not occur to me to investigate,
because it did not occur to me that a colleague – a man I liked and trusted – would cheat us.’

‘Enough, Bartholomew,’ said Langelee, when the physician opened his mouth to reply. ‘I told you at the churchyard – save your
opinions for the Statutory Fellows’ Meeting tomorrow. Our students have long ears, and I do not want them overhearing something
we would all rather they did not.’

He had a point, and Bartholomew did not want Wynewyk to become the subject of scurrilous rumours. He turned his attention
to the pottage and found himself glad the rigours of the day had robbed him of his appetite, because it was almost inedible
and certainly lacking in any nutritional benefit. He was not the only one who toyed listlessly with it until the servants
took the dishes away.

When Langelee had said a final grace in his appalling Latin, which, as usual, entailed leaving out words he did not like the
look of or substituting for them ones of his own devising, the Fellows adjourned to the conclave, leaving the hall to the
students. Neither gathering was very merry.

‘I will ask the rats about the accounts, Brother,’ offered Clippesby. Bartholomew could see a whiskery nose
protruding from the Dominican’s sleeve, and hoped he had not brought one to the conclave. He did not mind most of Clippesby’s
‘friends’, but he drew the line at rats. ‘They have an eye for figures, and will prove Wynewyk was doing no wrong.’

‘You think everyone is good, Clippesby,’ said Michael. He made no comment about the rats’ fiscal abilities – he had learned
it was best to leave such declarations unchallenged, because acknowledging them invariably resulted in a rash of theories
and remarks that should have seen the Dominican incarcerated for his own safety. ‘But the world is a wicked place.’

‘People are wicked,’ corrected Clippesby. ‘Animals are not. Incidentally, the spiders did not see anyone steal your pennyroyal,
Matt. You asked me whether I knew anything about it.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Thelnetham. He was still not used to Clippesby, and found him unsettling. ‘You talk to spiders? I thought
you confined yourself to creatures with fur or feathers.’

‘Spiders have fur,’ averred Clippesby. ‘Next time you meet one, have a closer look.’

Thelnetham shuddered and made no reply.

Bartholomew was usually tolerant of Clippesby’s idiosyncrasies, far more so than the other Fellows, but he was not in the
mood for them that night. He made his excuses to Langelee, and left the College. He was worried about his sister, and wanted
to make sure she had not mounted her own investigation into Joan’s untimely death.

‘I cannot stop thinking about her,’ said Edith without preamble when he arrived. She was sitting by the fire, shivering, even
though the room was hot. ‘She
was
murdered. Why will you not believe me?’

Bartholomew regarded her unhappily. ‘You have let her husband’s claims unsettle you. Elyan was upset and angry, and said things
he did not mean. You heard what his grandmother—’

‘He is right to be suspicious. Someone gave Joan pennyroyal, encouraging her to drink it by saying it would strengthen her
blood or some such nonsense. She took it in good faith, and died for her trusting nature.’

‘But she did not know anyone in Cambridge,’ Bartholomew pointed out reasonably. ‘Other than you. Why would she drink a potion
offered by a stranger?’

Edith glared at him. ‘If
you
gave me a tonic, telling me it would benefit my well-being, I would swallow it without question. So would any of your patients,
whether they are intimately acquainted with you or not.’

‘You think a physician hurt her?’ Bartholomew was shocked. ‘Paxtone or Rougham? Or me?’

‘Of course not, but there are plenty of other folk who dabble in matters of health – witches, wise-women, midwives, apothecaries
and even priests. Perhaps one of them did it.’

‘But why? Joan came to Cambridge to buy ribbon. Surely she cannot have made enemies—’

‘
She
did not have enemies. But Elyan might have done – perhaps someone wanted to ensure he never had his heir.’

‘So the culprit followed Joan all the way from Haverhill, with the express purpose of damaging her unborn child?’ asked Bartholomew
doubtfully. ‘That does not sound very likely.’

‘Or perhaps the priest did it,’ Edith went on, ignoring him. ‘Neubold. Why else would he fail to come to her deathbed? Because
he
killed her!’

‘Easy,’ said Bartholomew, thinking she was letting her
imagination run riot. ‘No one killed Joan, and there will be a perfectly rational explanation for the absence of this cleric.’

‘How do you
know
?’ demanded Edith angrily. ‘You have no idea what kind of life Joan lived in Haverhill. She and Elyan might have accrued some
very
dangerous foes.’

‘Did she mention any?’

‘No,’ admitted Edith. ‘But perhaps she was oblivious to the malice they bore her. She was a kind, loving person, always eager
to see the good in people. She even said nice things about Osa Gosse, and we all know he does not deserve it.’

‘She knew him?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, thinking about Michael’s notion that Gosse might have stolen the missing pennyroyal.

‘She recognised him as an inhabitant of Clare, which is not far from Haverhill, apparently. They exchanged words.’

‘Hostile ones?’

‘No. It was mostly pleasantries about the weather and Cambridge’s pretty churches, but then Gosse began to hint that he wanted
her to buy
him
some Market Square trinkets – for his sister, he said. He is not poor, and I did not see why she should buy him anything.’

‘Then what?’ asked Bartholomew, when she paused.

‘It does not matter,’ said Edith, looking away. ‘You have enough to worry about.’

‘Then what?’ repeated Bartholomew.

Edith sighed. ‘I shall tell you, but it really was nothing, and I do not want you doing anything you might later regret. Gosse
and Idoma frighten me, and—’

‘Edith!’ said Bartholomew, exasperated. ‘What happened next?’

Edith sighed a second time. ‘I took her arm and pulled her away, to bring an end to the discussion. Gosse objected,
presumably because he thought Joan was about to capitulate, and he … found a way to express his disappointment.’

‘How?’ asked Bartholomew, feeling anger begin to boil inside him. It was one thing for Gosse to corner him in secluded alleys,
but another altogether to pick on his beloved sister.

Edith took his hand. ‘It was nothing, Matt. He grabbed a handful of mud and threw it. But it contained pebbles, and hurt when
it struck my head.’

‘He lobbed stones at you?’ demanded Bartholomew, fury erupting. He stood abruptly, with the wild notion of racing out to find
Gosse there and then, and showing him what happened to thieves who dared harm Edith.

‘Pebbles,’ she corrected. She indicated he was to sit again while she finished her tale. ‘I complained to Constable Muschett,
but he said there was nothing he could do because there were no witnesses. But there
was
a witness – Valence saw what happened.’ ‘My student?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘He

mentioned none of this to me.’

‘I ordered him not to, because I knew how you would react. Meanwhile, Muschett said Valence did not count as a witness, because
of the Stanton Cups – he thinks Michaelhouse will go to any lengths to get them back, including accusing Gosse of other crimes,
to discredit him.’

‘Muschett thinks we are dishonest? That we would lie?’ Bartholomew was offended.

‘I shall be glad when Sheriff Tulyet comes home,’ said Edith, ignoring his questions. ‘
He
will not be intimidated by Gosse. Did you know the Frail Sisters often see Gosse prowling the streets at night? And that
the next day there is always a burgled College or hostel? It is obvious he is the culprit, but everyone is too timid to challenge
him.’

‘Because he won a lawsuit against the town,’ explained
Bartholomew, deciding not to ask how she was acquainted with what prostitutes did. He was sure her husband would not approve
if she had decided to take up where Matilde had left off, and act as their advocate. ‘The burgesses were obliged to provide
compensation, and no one likes paying the villain who stole from them. I imagine most people would rather stay low until he
moves on.’