A Vein of Deceit (22 page)

Bartholomew grabbed his arm and pulled him to one side, so the others would not hear. ‘I understand you still demand access
to my storeroom. Why?’

Deynman looked annoyed. ‘Did Tesdale tell you that? The little rat! He said he would keep it to himself if I gave him a shilling.
I shall demand the money back, since he reneged.’

‘Never mind that. Tell me what you wanted in there.’

‘Pennyroyal,’ confessed Deynman reluctantly. ‘Cynric told me it puts a lovely shine on metal, and I wanted to polish the hasps
on my books. Of course, he was wrong.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Your useless pennyroyal did nothing for my hasps. However, I did not take much, because there was not much left, and I did
not think you would mind, as you know I
will replace it. I would have bought my own, but the apothecary said there was a sudden demand for it, and he ran out. But
I am to return there on Monday, when your supply will be replenished in full.’

‘Why did you not tell me all this when I first asked?’ Bartholomew distinctly recalled Deynman being with his students the
morning he had noticed its disappearance.

Deynman’s expression was sheepish. ‘I was going to, but you looked so irked that I decided to wait for a better moment. You
were furious when Valence borrowed ingredients to make that book explode, and I did not want you to rail at me like you hollered
at him.’

He grinned happily, clearly thinking the explanation was enough to see him forgiven. And he was right: the physician was too
relieved to be angry. He ordered him not to do it again, although the Librarian was not very good at remembering instructions
and was sure to forget. It made Bartholomew all the more determined to improve security in the future. He turned his mind
back to his students and teaching.

‘Here are the texts I want my students to have heard by the time I return,’ he said, handing Deynman an unreasonably ambitious
schedule. ‘Clippesby has volunteered to read them aloud.’

Deynman scanned the list. ‘I have most of these in my library, and the rest I can borrow from King’s Hall. Do not worry: your
pupils will be safe with me – and with Clippesby.’

Bartholomew hoped so, and decided to ask Wynewyk to keep an eye on them as well. He experienced a sharp pang of grief when
he realised that would not be possible.

He saw Valence standing alone and went to speak to him, keen to think about something else. ‘I understand you saw Gosse lob
a stone at my sister,’ he said.

‘Mud, not a stone,’ corrected Valence. ‘And she ordered
me not to tell you, because she said you would be upset. I went with her to see Constable Muschett afterwards, but he said
my testimony was inadmissible – that I would lie to get Gosse into trouble because he stole our Stanton Cups.’

‘He said that to you?’ asked Bartholomew.

Valence grinned. ‘He did – but he is right: I
would
do anything to get the chalices back. Gosse is a terrifying man, but it would not stop me from fabricating stories to convict
him.’

‘The Sheriff will be home soon, and he will put an end to such antics,’ said Bartholomew, declining to comment on the lad’s
ethics. ‘Do you know why Gosse threw mud at Edith?’

‘Well, he was in the Market Square, and Joan started to chat to him. Your sister asked how she knew him, and Joan said Gosse
hailed from Clare, which is near her home village of Haverhill.’

‘Then what?’

‘Then he started to hint that he would like some ribbon, and your sister thought he should buy his own. When she pulled Joan
away, he grabbed a handful of mud from the ground and threw it. I wanted to punch him, but she said you would not approve.
Personally, I thought you would not have minded.’

‘I
would
have minded,’ said Bartholomew. He softened. ‘Although I appreciate you looking out for her.’

‘Who will do it while we are away?’ asked Valence, worriedly. ‘Her husband has gone to Lincolnshire, and I dislike the notion
of her being unprotected. Perhaps I should forgo this exciting journey, and make sure Gosse does not hurl anything else in
her direction.’

‘Cynric will stay with her.’

‘Then who will look after us?’ Valence’s expression was
deeply anxious, but then it cleared. ‘You will! I had forgotten that you are a seasoned warrior who fought at Poitiers. Cynric
is always talking about it. Of course we will be safe with you!’

Bartholomew and Michael made the most of their last day in Cambridge. The monk engaged in a concerted effort to identify the
man who had attacked Langelee, and questioned Shropham about Carbo, but his efforts came to nothing. A lead relating to the
ambush transpired to be the drunken imaginings of someone who had not been there, while Shropham merely turned his face to
the wall and refused to speak. Short of punching the truth out of him – and Michael was not a violent man – he was stumped
as how to proceed. He returned to the College late that night in a dark mood, worried about the journey he was being forced
to make, and reluctant to leave Cambridge when there were so many matters there that clamoured for his attention.

Meanwhile, Bartholomew passed the morning explaining why his students needed to learn the texts he had selected, making it
clear that those not familiar with them by the time he returned could expect to be set exercises that would keep them indoors
for a month. He did not really expect trouble. His lads were full of high spirits, but most were keen to learn and took their
studies seriously. They were also acutely aware that a lot of men wanted the chance to study at Michaelhouse, and that Langelee
would have no compunction in replacing anyone who misbehaved.

The afternoon was spent seeing patients. Some had summoned him, while others suffered from long-term
maladies that required regular visits. He ensured all had enough medicine to last for the next week, then issued Paxtone
with detailed instructions on what to do if there was a problem.

Sincerely hoping his colleague’s expertise would not be required – he liked Paxtone, but did not want him near his patients
unless there was absolutely no alternative – he walked to the Dominican Friary, where one of the novices had been injured.
Risleye, Valence and Tesdale accompanied him, because the other students were all at a lecture in King’s Hall, and were delighted
when the case transpired to be a possible cracked skull.

‘How do we test for a cranial fracture?’ he asked, taking the patient’s head gently in his hands.

‘We look it up in Frugard’s
Chirurgia
,’ replied Risleye promptly.

‘And what happens if we do not have a copy to hand?’

‘We squeeze the bones together, to see whether they grate,’ said Tesdale, with rather ghoulish glee.

Bartholomew winced. ‘Not unless we want to kill him.’

‘Osa Gosse did this,’ said Prior Morden, holding the novice’s hand comfortingly, but staring fixedly in the opposite direction
so that he would not see anything the physician might do. ‘He and James had words yesterday, and threats were made. Well,
it seems Gosse acted on his violent words.’

‘Are you sure it was Gosse?’ Bartholomew asked of James. A serious assault would give Michael the excuse he needed to arrest
the fellow, and the monk would be much happier leaving his town if the felon was under lock and key.

‘Who else could it have been?’ asked James miserably. ‘The fight I had with the Franciscans was days ago now, and they will
have forgotten that I called them villainous knaves whose mothers—’

‘James!’ exclaimed Morden, shocked. ‘You promised to leave the Grey Friars alone.’

‘They provoked
me
,’ objected James. ‘They said I was a dim-witted lout with no manners.’

‘Gosse,’ prompted Bartholomew, suspecting the Franciscans might have a point. ‘Can you be sure he was the one who attacked
you today?’

‘No,’ admitted James reluctantly. ‘The villain wore a hood, and I could not see his face. I suppose it
might
have been a Grey Friar. They are certainly the kind of men to attack innocent Dominicans.’

Bartholomew was disappointed, but his duty was to treat the wound, not investigate the crime. He was just assessing James’s
eyes when Morden suddenly jumped to his feet and shot towards the door.

‘I do not have the stomach to watch you crack open his skull and prod whatever you find inside,’ the Prior explained. ‘Do
not look frightened, James.
You
will not be able to see it.’

‘Really, Father,’ said Bartholomew reproachfully. ‘I intend nothing so dramatic. Watch—’

But Morden had gone, leaving a terrified novice behind him, and it took the physician some time to convince James that cracking
and prodding had no part in his plans.

When James was calm, he resumed his examination. There was no obvious depression or swelling, but there was a worrying pain
caused by a boot stamping on an ear. He did not think the skull was fractured, but decided to apply Roger of Parma’s test
to make sure. James was instructed to stop up his mouth, nose and ears, and to blow as hard as he could. The escape of air
or tissue would imply a fissure.

‘But my brains will fly out if I do that,’ James wept, distraught. ‘And Prior Morden says I am short of them, so I cannot
afford to lose any.’

‘You will not,’ said Valence kindly. ‘Doctor Bartholomew knows what he is doing.’

‘Besides,’ added Tesdale practically, ‘brains are too glutinous to fly – they are more prone to ooze. And I shall catch any
that dribble out and shove them back in for you.’

‘Do not be a baby,’ ordered Risleye, regarding the novice disdainfully. ‘And if you do not trust your physicians – us – then
you deserve to die. But you will not, because
I
will not let you.’

Strangely, it was Risleye’s cold arrogance that convinced James to do as he was told. Afterwards, satisfied the pain was caused
by simple bruising, Bartholomew showed his pupils how to make a poultice to ease the ache, and when James said he was hungry
– a good sign – he sent Risleye and Valence to the kitchen for broth.

While they were gone, Bartholomew found himself recalling how eagerly Yolande had devoured Isnard’s stew the previous evening.
He suspected her children were also hungry, and did not want to return from Suffolk to find them half-dead from starvation.
He handed Tesdale the money Morden had paid him to tend James, and told him what he wanted bought. The student was bemused.

‘And I am to leave all this outside their house without them seeing? Why?’

‘Pride,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘No one likes accepting charity.’

‘
I
do not mind,’ said Tesdale ruefully. ‘I am grateful for anything I can get.’

‘Please be discreet,’ said Bartholomew, hoping Tesdale’s innate laziness would not encourage him to be careless. He half wished
he had recruited Valence instead.

‘You can trust me,’ said Tesdale solemnly. ‘I used to do similar things for Master Wynewyk – mostly making
anonymous donations of food and ale for the Michaelhouse Choir.’

‘That was Wynewyk?’ Bartholomew recalled Michael often remarking on the miraculous appearance of victuals when his own funds
were low. ‘I never knew.’

Tears welled in Tesdale’s eyes. ‘I probably should not have mentioned it, but I thought you should know I have experience
with this kind of thing, so you can depend on me to—’ He stopped speaking abruptly when Risleye and Valence entered the sickroom
with the soup.

‘Depend on you to what?’ asked Risleye.

‘To … to return my library books before we leave on our journey tomorrow,’ replied Tesdale in a guilty stammer. Risleye
narrowed his eyes.

‘I do not believe you,’ he said accusingly. ‘You were probably ingratiating yourself so Doctor Bartholomew will save you first
if we are attacked. We all know it is perilous and stupid to travel in winter.’

‘It is not perilous,’ said Bartholomew, deliberately turning his mind from the very real dangers of robbers, floods, getting
lost and being thrown from panicky horses.

‘Master Wynewyk did not agree,’ said Risleye resentfully. ‘He
hated
leaving Cambridge at any time of the year.’

‘He left it to visit his father last term,’ Tesdale pointed out. ‘In Winwick, which is a long way west of Huntingdon. Personally,
I cannot imagine why anyone would want to leave home. It is hard work, and I would much rather stay in by the fire.’

‘Actually, he did not go to Winwick,’ said Risleye. His expression was smug. ‘He made me swear not to tell anyone, but I am
released from that promise now he is dead. Am I not?’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘He
did
go. He brought back a lot of earthenware jugs – enough to replace all the
ones that were cracked. Their design is alien to Cambridge, and—’

‘I did not say he did not leave Cambridge, I said he did not go to Winwick,’ corrected Risleye pedantically. ‘I was visiting
friends in Babraham, you see, and there was a hailstorm. I ducked inside a tavern, and there was Wynewyk, also sheltering
from the weather. Babraham is south-east of Cambridge, but Winwick is a long way west, as Tesdale pointed out.’

‘So?’ demanded Tesdale. ‘Perhaps he decided to take the scenic route.’

‘In completely the opposite direction?’ demanded Risleye archly. ‘He winked at me, and said his father had been dead for years
– it was actually an old flame who needed the visit. He gave me a shilling, and we agreed not to mention the matter again.
A pact between gentlemen.’

‘But only until death,’ said Valence, eyeing him in disgust. ‘At which point, you reveal his private business to the first
people who ask. There is nothing of the gentleman about you, Risleye.’

‘Give your patient the soup,’ ordered Bartholomew, seeing Risleye gird himself up for a spat. ‘Slowly – a little at a time.
And check the size of his pupils again.’

While the students did as he ordered, Bartholomew recalled that Michael had given Wynewyk money for his journey, sorry for
a colleague rushing to a father’s sickbed. Was Risleye telling the truth about what had transpired in Babraham? Bartholomew
thought he was – the lad had no reason to lie – and wondered what his colleague could have been doing. He did not believe
Wynewyk would have accepted Michael’s charity to frolic with a lover; Wynewyk, he decided, had spun Risleye a yarn he thought
the lad would believe in order to secure his silence. So what was
the truth? He had no idea, and could only hope that all would become clear when they made their enquiries in Suffolk.

It was early evening by the time Bartholomew and his students left the Dominican Friary, and lamps were lit in the wealthiest
homes. In most, though, doors and windows were open to catch the last of the daylight. It let in the cold, but candles were
expensive, and most folk could not afford to use them as long as it was light outside. Rich smells wafted out as meals were
prepared over hearths, mostly root vegetables that had been stewing over the embers all day, perhaps with a few bones for
flavour. In the Market Square, many of the bakers’ ovens were cold, suggesting grain was already scarce and only the affluent
were going to have bread to dip in their pottage that night.

Supper had finished when they reached Michaelhouse, and the Fellows were gathering in the conclave. Bartholomew was loath
to join them, knowing the topic of conversation would be Wynewyk and the wrongs he had perpetrated on his trusting colleagues.
He decided to visit his sister instead, to tell her he was going to Suffolk and would ask questions about Joan on her behalf.

Edith nodded her satisfaction that he was finally taking her concerns seriously. She mulled some wine, and they sat next to
the roaring fire, listening to the wind rattle the window shutters. The wood released the scent of pine as it burned, combining
pleasantly with the aroma of the cloves and ginger that were tied in small bags around the house – a common precaution against
winter fevers. He was warm and content, and might have been happy, were it not for Wynewyk and the nagging fear that Edith
might do something reckless in her quest to understand why her friend had died. And he missed Matilde, of course,
but he had come to accept that as a hurt that would never go away.

‘There is a condition,’ he said, sipping the wine and thinking Matilde would have liked it, because it was heavily laced with
cinnamon: ‘That Cynric stays with you.’

‘There is no need – Oswald’s apprentices are here, not to mention the burgesses he charged to watch me. Indeed, I think he
ordered half the town to keep me from danger.’

‘It is the other half I am worried about,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Then perhaps I shall come with you to Haverhill,’ said Edith slyly. ‘You can look after me, and I can ask my own questions
about Joan.’

‘Absolutely not! Oswald would never forgive me if he came home to find you gone.’

‘But I must do something! The more I think about it, the more I am certain Joan was murdered.’

‘There is no evidence to suggest—’

‘There
is
evidence –
my
testimony. Joan was delighted about the child, and would
not
have tried to rid herself of it. And nor would she have merrily downed a tonic without first assessing what was in it, so
her death was not an accident, either. Therefore, the only option left is murder: someone gave her the pennyroyal, intending
to cause her harm.’

‘It is possible,’ said Bartholomew, more to calm her than because he believed it. ‘Of course, if she was selective about what
she drank, we must assume she accepted the potion from someone she knew and trusted. Yet she was a virtual stranger here.’

‘And
that
is why I must visit Suffolk. The killer followed her here, gave her the potion and left when it killed her. He is at home
now, smug in the belief that no one will ever catch him.’

‘How odd it is that everything seems to lead to Suffolk,’ said Bartholomew, more to himself than Edith. ‘Wynewyk did business
there, it was Joan’s home, and Shropham killed one of its priests – who also happens to be the lawyer for another Suffolk
man, namely Osa Gosse.’

‘You think all these things are connected?’ Edith was bemused.

‘Perhaps, although I cannot see how. The other common element is coal. Carbo had some sewn in his habit, Wynewyk bought some
from Elyan …’

Edith nodded vigorously. ‘And Joan told me that Elyan’s priest – Neubold – came here to sell coal to King’s Hall, which was
what afforded her the opportunity to travel in the first place.’