A Vein of Deceit (20 page)

The Master was presiding over the assembly. He toyed restlessly with his sceptre, a hefty piece of brassware that symbolised
his authority: it was tapped on the table in front of him to announce the beginning and end of official gatherings. Suttone
and Hemmysby, who sat nearest to him, flinched as it was tossed recklessly from hand to hand, while Thelnetham had already
moved, making it clear
he
was not going to be brained by Langelee’s agitated fidgeting. Meanwhile, Clippesby was more interested in the hedgehog in
his lap than in anything his colleagues were saying, and Bartholomew was struggling to stay awake after spending so much of
the previous night with patients.

‘Why must we hide what Wynewyk did, Brother?’ asked Hemmysby, calm and reasonable. ‘What can be gained from dissembling? Surely
it is better to be truthful?’

‘Being truthful would make us a laughing stock for trusting our coffers to a villain,’ Michael pointed out tartly. ‘The other
Colleges would never let us forget our gullibility.’

‘That is true,’ agreed Suttone. ‘No good can come out of making this public.’

‘Wynewyk did one decent thing, though,’ said Thelnetham. ‘He died – he fell on his sword, as the Romans would have said. Of
course, it would have been polite to leave us with an explanation.’

‘Wynewyk was not a thief,’ said Bartholomew, for at least the fourth time since the meeting had started. Clippesby nodded
agreement, but the others merely rolled their eyes or shook their heads. ‘I cannot imagine why you are all so ready to condemn
him.’

‘We are ready to condemn him because the evidence says we should,’ snapped Thelnetham. ‘I do not think I have ever encountered
a more clear-cut case of a man defrauding his friends.’

‘Thelnetham is right, Matt,’ said Michael, more kindly. ‘Wynewyk’s death
is
convenient for all concerned. It means he is not obliged to suffer our hurt indignation, and we are free to deal with his
crimes as we see fit – which is by ensuring that no one outside this room ever comes to hear about them. It sounds callous,
but his demise is a blessing in many ways.’

Bartholomew tried not to look at Langelee. The Master’s previous life as the Archbishop of York’s henchman meant he was used
to finding permanent solutions to sticky problems, and while there was no evidence that he
had
taken matters into his own hands, Bartholomew did not understand why – or even how – Wynewyk had died, and was confused and
unhappy about the whole affair.

Unfortunately, Langelee guessed what he was thinking, and an offended expression crossed his face. ‘You suspect I had something
to do with his end! Well, I did not. If I had, we would not be sitting here talking about his misdeeds, because you would
know nothing about them – I would have kept them from you, so you would never know I had a motive for his murder.’

Thelnetham frowned as he tried to grasp the convoluted logic. He shrugged when he found he could not, and turned to Bartholomew.
‘I do not think the Master harmed Wynewyk, Matthew – not when he has the most to lose from this death.’

Langelee’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘I do? And why is that, pray?’

‘Because you are the one who gave him the keys to our coffers. Now he is roasting in Hell,
you
bear the responsibility for what he did – his wicked betrayal of our College.’

Langelee scowled, and the sceptre was tossed a little higher. ‘As I recall, we all voted for him to take over the finances.
It was a joint decision.’

‘Yes, but it was on the understanding that he would discuss everything with you first,’ said Michael. ‘By relinquishing all
control, as you did, you virtually invited him to defraud us.’

‘I disagree,’ said Bartholomew hastily, seeing Langelee’s face darken. ‘We all trusted Wynewyk, and I still think we were
right to do so. There will be an explanation—’

‘Oh, there will be an explanation,’ interrupted Thelnetham bitterly. ‘And I can tell you what it is right now: Wynewyk was
a greedy dog who feathered his own nest at our expense.’

‘Then where is the money?’ demanded Bartholomew, resenting the fact that Thelnetham was so eager to condemn Wynewyk; he was,
after all, the Fellow who had known him for the least amount of time. ‘It is not in his room, because you have all searched
it.’

‘He gave it to a friend,’ Thelnetham snapped back. ‘One of his lovers. God knows, I like the company of a gentleman myself,
but at least I do not favour ruffians. I was appalled by some of the louts he entertained – men
I
would not have deigned to notice.’

There was an uncomfortable silence, and Bartholomew was not sure whether the observation said more about Wynewyk’s choice
of partners, or Thelnetham’s unappealing snobbery.

‘Well, I do not believe it,’ said Clippesby eventually, setting the hedgehog on the table and scratching his hands. Bartholomew
recalled reading somewhere that hedgehogs were full of fleas, and felt himself grow itchy. ‘Wynewyk’s dishonesty, I mean.
Could it be poor accounting? His arithmetic was lacking?’

‘Unfortunately not,’ replied Michael. ‘He definitely used College money to purchase goods we never received. For example,
since August he has passed Henry Elyan eighteen marks for coal.’

‘But we never use coal,’ Suttone pointed out, puzzled. ‘And eighteen marks is enough to fuel a furnace – which we do not have.’

‘Exactly,’ said Michael. ‘And he gave Hugh d’Audley, Elyan’s neighbour, seven marks for wood.’

‘That is a lot of timber,’ mused Thelnetham. ‘But our
sheds are virtually empty, and he told me only last week that we need to fill them before winter sets in. He said he was
worried about where the money would come from, and I was sympathetic. What a scoundrel!’

‘And finally,’ said Michael, ‘he paid Roger Luneday of Withersfield five marks for pigs.’

‘Are there any other irregularities?’ asked Suttone.

‘One or two,’ replied Michael. ‘But the payments to Elyan, d’Audley and Luneday make up the bulk of the missing money. Those
transactions total thirty marks.’

‘Does anyone know these men?’ asked Thelnetham. ‘I have never heard of them.’

‘I met Elyan and d’Audley when they came to collect Elyan’s dead wife,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘I do not know Luneday, though.
Do you think they were blackmailing Wynewyk for—’

‘You are grasping at straws,’ interrupted Thelnetham curtly. ‘No one was blackmailing him. However, it would not surprise
me to learn that he did not provide these Suffolk men with anything – that he has been pocketing the money for himself.’

Uncomfortably, Bartholomew recalled Paxtone’s tale about Wynewyk’s plan to buy new law books. But he did not believe the two
could be connected, and stubbornly pushed it from his mind.

‘Perhaps he chose Haverhill and Withersfield because they are so far away,’ suggested Suttone tentatively. ‘They are difficult
to visit, so it will not be easy to verify what is going on. If I am right, I imagine he was horrified when Elyan arrived
in Cambridge to claim a dead wife.’

‘Hah!’ exclaimed Thelnetham triumphantly. ‘
Now
I understand what happened.’

‘What?’ asked Langelee warily, when the Gilbertine paused for dramatic effect.

‘Think about it for a moment,’ said Thelnetham. ‘Elyan collected Joan’s body on Saturday, which is the day Wynewyk died. So,
I put it to you that our felonious Fellow spotted Elyan in town, and was terrified that he was about to be exposed. He attended
the debate, but was so agitated that he began to laugh wildly – and this false hilarity brought on the seizure that killed
him.’

‘It is medically possible, I suppose,’ conceded Bartholomew, when everyone turned to look at him. ‘But—’

‘Damn the man!’ cried Langelee suddenly, bringing his sceptre down with such force that splinters flew. All his scholars jumped
in alarm, and Hemmysby, who was closest, put his head in his hands and made a whimpering sound. ‘How could he leave us in
such a wretched mess?’

‘Because he was a selfish brute,’ said Thelnetham, before anyone else could speak. ‘And I am glad he is dead, for we are well
rid of him. But we should not squander any more of our precious time debating what happened to him, because I, for one, do
not care. We should concentrate on deciding what to do about our missing thirty marks.’

‘Oh, I know how to resolve that,’ said Langelee, inspecting the damage to the table with a puzzled frown, as if he could not
imagine how it had happened. ‘Michael and Bartholomew will go to Suffolk, meet Elyan, d’Audley and Luneday, and ask if they
have our money. And if they do, they will demand it back again.’

That evening, Bartholomew went to visit Isnard the bargeman, to see whether he had recovered from the bad ale that had made
him so sick the night before. He took Risleye, Valence and Tesdale with him, because the rota said it was their turn, although
they were not very pleased – they were hoping to win a rather more interesting case.

‘I made a few enquiries about your missing pennyroyal,’ announced Risleye, as they walked along the towpath towards Isnard’s
house. ‘You were alarmed when you first learned it had gone, but you have paid it scant attention since, and it is too important
a matter to neglect.’

Bartholomew felt his jaw drop. The lad was right: he should have spent more time assessing what had happened to the stuff
– but it was not for a student to scold him about it, and he was on the verge of issuing a sharp reprimand when Valence spoke.

‘Your “enquiries” are nothing of the sort, Risleye. They are accusations without foundation.’

‘They are conclusions based on logic,’ Risleye flashed back. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘I have deduced that a servant is responsible.
They have free access to every part of the College, and some of the substances in your room are worth a lot of money.’

‘Servants would not steal from a master,’ countered Tesdale. Then he frowned. ‘Would they?’

‘Sadly, some people will do anything for money,’ said Risleye. He glanced archly at his classmate. ‘Including you, Tesdale,
so do not look so shocked. I know who made a whole two shillings from the sale of a remedy that had peacock feathers as a
key ingredient.’

‘That was you?’ asked Bartholomew, dismayed.

‘No, it was not!’ declared Tesdale, but his face was red and he would not meet his teacher’s eyes. ‘I would never touch that
nasty, greasy creature. It bites, for a start.’

‘You wore gloves,’ flashed Risleye. ‘I saw you.’

‘How could you, Tesdale?’ cried Valence, appalled. ‘That poor bird! How
could
you?’

Bartholomew closed his eyes, and supposed he would have to apologise to Walter for mentioning the superstitious cure, thus
encouraging a callous student to profit from it.

‘They will grow again,’ said Tesdale sullenly. ‘No harm was done – and it was an experiment, in the name of science. I wanted
to conduct an empirical test, to ascertain the efficacy of—’

‘You wanted the two shillings,’ interjected Risleye. ‘And you cannot—’

‘Stop,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘If you persist in squabbling, you can go home.’

‘Really?’ asked Risleye keenly. ‘Does this mean we can claim the next case on the rota instead, then? It must – we have not
seen Isnard yet, so this “visit” cannot count.’

‘Not so fast,’ ordered Bartholomew, as all three young men started back the way they had come. ‘I want you to take a sample
of Isnard’s urine, and assess whether you think he needs more charcoal to balance his excess of yellow bile.’

The students rolled their eyes, but followed him to the bargeman’s riverside cottage without further complaint. Isnard had
made a miraculous recovery, given that he had been so wretchedly sick the night before. He was up and talking to Yolande de
Blaston, who was known to supplement the family income by working as a Frail Sister. Bartholomew often wondered whether she
might not have had fourteen children had she confined herself to the marriage bed.

Yolande was cooking something over the hearth, although the rumpled bedcovers suggested she had provided her professional
services first. Bartholomew marvelled at the bargeman’s capacity for regeneration, certain such violent vomiting would have
laid most other men low for days.

‘Good evening, Doctor,’ smiled Yolande. ‘Would you like some stew? It contains real meat – something Michaelhouse rarely sees
these says, according to Agatha. She says you are destitute.’

‘You seem better, Isnard,’ said Bartholomew, ignoring the remark. He had gone out to escape College affairs, and did not want
to discuss them with Yolande.

‘Much better,’ affirmed Isnard with a contented grin. ‘I am a little weak, but Yolande knows how to cope with a fellow’s temporary
shortcomings. She is far more inventive than the other whores.’

‘Even though the twins are not long born, I am forced to work again,’ explained Yolande, while Bartholomew hoped she would
not notice the way the students were sniggering at the bargeman’s blunt confidences. She had a fiery temper. ‘Food is dear,
and we are worried about the winter.’

‘I will help,’ offered Isnard. ‘Especially if you do
that
again. I have never experienced anything quite like it. It is expensive, of course, but quality always costs, does it not,
Doctor?’

‘I suppose it does,’ said Bartholomew, wondering what she had done.

Isnard seemed to think he knew anyway, because he addressed the three pupils. ‘Never think you can keep secrets from your
master, because he can read your innermost thoughts.’

‘Can he?’ asked Tesdale uncomfortably. He blushed furiously, and Bartholomew supposed he had allowed his imagination free
rein as the bargeman had waxed lyrical about Yolande’s talents.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Isnard. ‘If I tell him I was in church when I was in a tavern, he always knows.’

Bartholomew tended to know about Isnard’s drunken revelries because either they were the talk of the town, or he reeked of
ale; there were certainly no uncanny abilities involved. But he saw his students would learn no new medicine now the bargeman
was on the mend, so he
indicated they could go. Risleye had the audacity to wink conspiratorially on the way out, clearly of the opinion that they
were being dismissed so the physician could learn what Yolande had done for Isnard. Bartholomew did not know whether to be
amused or irritated by the presumption.