A Vein of Deceit (23 page)

‘Did you ever meet Neubold?’ asked Bartholomew, supposing that if Edith was right and Joan had been murdered, then Carbo was
the obvious suspect – he had been in Cambridge when she had swallowed the pennyroyal, and had failed to respond when he had
been summoned.

‘Briefly, before Joan died. Afterwards, I asked for him at the Brazen George, but the landlord said he had gone – disappeared.’
Her eyes narrowed when she saw what he was thinking. ‘You suspect he is her killer? But when
I
suggested him as a culprit on Sunday, you dismissed the notion.’

Bartholomew rubbed his eyes. ‘I will ask questions about him in Suffolk,’ he replied vaguely.

Edith was thoughtful. ‘I went to King’s Hall after my enquiries in the tavern. Warden Powys told me Neubold had finished his
business there sooner than anticipated and has not been seen since.’

Bartholomew rubbed his chin. It was common knowledge that Elyan had sent his priest to negotiate with King’s
Hall, so why had the Warden, Paxtone and Shropham denied knowing Carbo? Had Shropham killed him over a contract for coal?
He had negotiated too hard a bargain, and the scholars had decided that King’s Hall’s interests would better be served if
he was dead? And had they then agreed to a conspiracy of silence about it?

‘Neubold is dead,’ he said. ‘Shropham killed him.’

Edith looked doubtful. ‘I thought Shropham had stabbed a fellow called Carbo.’

‘They are one and the same. Yolande told me.’

Edith looked startled. ‘Then Yolande told you wrong! There is a similarity in their build, hair and facial features – and
both are Dominicans – but Neubold is elegant and well-groomed, while Carbo was a beggar. And how could you think that Elyan
would send a scruffy, half-mad hedge-priest to represent him to the scholars of King’s Hall? Or that Joan would travel in
such company?’

‘But Yolande saw Carbo talking to the King’s Hall men, and—’

‘Yolande would have seen
Neubold
. I imagine what happened is this: she heard Shropham had stabbed a visiting Dominican, and made an erroneous assumption –
that he killed the priest she saw him chatting to. But she is mistaken, and you have let her lead you astray.’

‘I …’

But she was right: of course Carbo and Neubold could not be the same person, and her scornful words made Bartholomew feel
a fool for ever having thought so. He had set too much store by a letter from Withersfield and the coal in Carbo’s habit,
and they had led him to conclusions that were, as Edith pointed out, preposterous. Moreover, it meant the King’s Hall men
had not been lying when they had denied knowing Carbo. He closed his eyes wearily when he saw that he and Michael would
have to revise all their reasoning regarding the murdered friar.

Edith was reviewing her theories, too. ‘I know I suggested on Sunday that Neubold might have harmed Joan, but I have reconsidered
– I do not believe a trusted clerk would have poisoned his master’s wife. So perhaps Neubold
witnessed
Joan being plied with pennyroyal, and was killed to ensure his silence. And
that
is why he has disappeared so mysteriously.’

‘You said you had not seen Joan in years. People change, Edith.’

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘What are you saying? I do not understand.’

‘Everyone knows first pregnancies can be difficult, and that the mother – especially an older one – must take precautions.
She is advised to eat certain foods, avoid others. She needs rest, so that exertion does not prematurely expel the child from
her body. Joan was rich, well placed to do all this.’

‘So?’ asked Edith, when he paused.

‘So why did she risk a long journey for a few bits of cloth? Why not send a servant for the ribbons? And why go with only
a priest for protection? Do you not think it a little strange?’

Edith stared at him for a long time. ‘You think the journey was an attempt to rid herself of the baby – and she swallowed
pennyroyal when it did not work?’

‘It is possible. You should be aware that Joan may not have been entirely honest with you.’

Edith continued to stare. ‘She seemed the same. I confided in her – told her about you and Matilde. Do not look dismayed!
I felt like sharing something personal, and I do not have any interesting secrets of my own. Oswald and I lead very staid
lives.’

‘You could have told her about Richard,’ he said tartly, referring to her wayward son. ‘Did you persuade him to abandon his
tryst with the Earl of Suffolk’s daughter, by the way?’

‘No,’ she replied stiffly. ‘And he says the baby is not his, although the Earl does not believe him.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘I am sure Joan would have found
that
a lot more interesting.’

‘Will you ask after Matilde when you visit Haverhill?’ asked Edith, deftly changing the subject. ‘You searched for her in
distant places, but perhaps she did not go far. She might be in Suffolk.’

Bartholomew thought it unlikely, but part of him hoped Edith was right: that one day he would find Matilde, and she would
agree to become his wife. But it was a hope that was too deeply personal to talk about, so he mumbled a vague reply about
the trail being cold after so long.

‘You should go,’ said Edith, seeing she was going to be told no more. ‘It is late and you have a long journey tomorrow. And
I have heard the rumours that say you are a formidable warrior these days, but we both know they are untrue. Take Cynric with
you – you need him, I do not.’

The following day, Bartholomew awoke to find his book-bearer packing a bag with items he thought might be needed for the foray
into Suffolk; his dark face was alight with excitement, and he was clearly looking forward to the adventure. Meanwhile, the
physician’s room-mates were groaning and pulling blankets over their heads, because dawn was still some way off, but Cynric
was creating enough racket to raise the dead. Bartholomew was a heavy sleeper, and the fact that
he
had been disturbed was testament to the rumpus Cynric was making.

‘That should do,’ declared the book-bearer eventually, sitting back to inspect his handiwork. ‘We will not be gone long, anyway.
My wife wants me home in four days, because her mother is coming to stay.’ He reflected for a moment. ‘But we can take longer,
if you like.’

Bartholomew prised himself out of bed, and looked in the bag. There was not much in it, because Cynric was of the opinion
that clean clothes were a waste of time when travelling on muddy roads. He had, however, packed a variety of items that could
be used as weapons, including a selection of knives, a length of rope and a piece of lead piping. Yawning, Bartholomew dressed
and went to wait for Michael in the yard. It was drizzling and still pitch dark. After a moment, Langelee appeared.

‘I did a stupid thing yesterday,’ he said, rubbing his hands to warm them. ‘I asked Clippesby to sort through Wynewyk’s belongings,
because everyone else was busy. Do you know what he claims to have found? Copies of letters to noblemen, asking if they would
like to buy some diamonds.’

Bartholomew regarded him in surprise. ‘Wynewyk had no diamonds!’

Langelee grimaced. ‘Clippesby was in the process of burning these so-called missives when I happened across him. He said the
College cat had told him to do it, to protect Wynewyk’s reputation. God only knows what he really destroyed.’

‘Perhaps I should talk to him before we go,’ said Bartholomew anxiously.

‘Please do,’ said Langelee. ‘He has been up all night, doing something in the library.’

He made it sound sinister, and Bartholomew hurried to the hall in alarm. Clippesby had lit a lamp and was sitting at a table.
The physician faltered. The last time he
had seen the Dominican at that desk he had been talking to a jar of moths, berating them for eating Michaelhouse’s linen.

Clippesby jumped when he realised someone was behind him. ‘You startled me,’ he said with a smile. ‘What is the matter? Can
you not sleep?’

‘What are you doing?’

Clippesby gestured to the book that lay in front of him. ‘Reading. What else would I be doing in here?’

Bartholomew did not like to imagine. He peered over the Dominican’s shoulder and saw Aquinas’s
Cathena aurea
, a standard biblical commentary. Clippesby was halfway through it.

‘I often read at night,’ Clippesby went on. ‘It is the only time I can be guaranteed peace and quiet. I begin Aquinas with
my third-years next week, and I wanted to refresh my memory. But I suspect you are not here to discuss teaching. I imagine
Langelee told you what I found in Wynewyk’s room.’

Bartholomew nodded, thinking Clippesby was often perfectly sane when they were alone together, and it was only the presence
of others that seemed to bring out the mischief in him. That morning, there was not an animal in sight and the notes he had
jotted on a scrap of parchment pertained to serious theological issues.

‘Langelee promised not to say anything,’ Clippesby went on. His voice was uncharacteristically bitter. ‘But I suppose he thinks
a vow to a madman does not count.’

Bartholomew was not sure what to say, because Clippesby was right: his eccentric behaviour did mean his colleagues often declined
to afford him the courtesies they extended to others. He settled for a shrug, thinking the Dominican had only himself to blame.

‘I should have kept quiet,’ Clippesby continued. ‘But
he caught me feeding parchments to the flames, and demanded an explanation. He was furious.’

‘He had every right to be. You have no business burning documents that might explain what Wynewyk had been doing.’

‘The cat suggested I light the fire—’

‘Stop,’ ordered Bartholomew. ‘Do not play this game with me, John. We both know you are only pretending to be fey in order
to avoid difficult questions. What did the letters say?’

Clippesby grimaced. ‘They asked whether certain people would be interested in buying diamonds. But
you
know Wynewyk is innocent, so you understand why I destroyed them. I was trying to protect his good name – to prevent the
others from obtaining more ammunition to use against him.’

‘What “certain people”?’ demanded Bartholomew, more interested in the letters than Clippesby’s concerns about their colleagues.

‘The Earl of Suffolk, the Bishop of Lincoln. Important men, rich men.’

‘You told Langelee these letters were copies. Does that mean the originals have been sent?’

Clippesby nodded unhappily. ‘I believe so. The abbreviations and contractions in the documents I found suggest they were being
kept as a record, to remind the author of what had been said.’

Bartholomew was bemused. ‘Did he say where these diamonds were supposed to come from?’

‘No. Langelee’s first thought was that he was selling them for Gosse, who is almost certainly responsible for the theft of
precious stones from around the University. But he must be wrong.’

‘So you do not think Wynewyk had diamonds to sell?’

‘If he did, then they are not in his room.’ Clippesby hesitated, and Bartholomew saw no trace of madness now, only sorrow.
‘After I had burned the letters and had my set-to with Langelee, I returned to Wynewyk’s room and resumed packing up his belongings.
And it was then that I found something else – something even more disturbing.’

‘What?’ prompted Bartholomew, when the Dominican paused again.

‘A purse with the strings cut. It contained a few coins, and a schedule of camp-ball games.’

Bartholomew gazed at him, not liking the implications of that discovery. ‘Wynewyk watched camp-ball if one of his lovers was
playing.’

Clippesby reached into the scrip at his side, and pulled something out. The purse was grubby, manly and large, and certainly
not something the fastidious Wynewyk would have owned.

‘He must have come by it
after
Langelee was attacked,’ said Bartholomew, refusing to believe what the evidence was telling him.

Clippesby would not meet his eyes. ‘The word is that Langelee was ambushed by someone slight, who wore a scholar’s tabard.
It was also someone who was very specific about selecting his victim – he let others pass unmolested before launching his
assault.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, shaking his head. ‘Wynewyk did
not
stab Langelee.’

‘Langelee was attacked two nights before he told you what he had discovered in the accounts,’ Clippesby pressed on. ‘And Wynewyk
was
out that particular evening, because the owls … because
I
saw him. It pains me to say it, but I think Wynewyk knew he was on the verge of being exposed, and tried to prevent it.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew again, aware that his voice shook.

Clippesby touched his arm sympathetically. ‘I still feel he would not cheat us, but he must really have wanted to keep his
secrets, because to tackle Langelee …’

Bartholomew stared at the purse, thoughts churning wildly, and for some moments they stood in silence. Then Clippesby sketched
a benediction at him, and returned to his reading. Bartholomew left the hall and walked slowly across the yard to where Langelee
was inspecting the horses that had just been delivered from the Brazen George. The physician, who was not a skilled rider,
regarded the snorting, stamping beasts with trepidation, and wondered whether it might be safer for him to walk.

‘Have you remembered anything else about the night you were attacked?’ he asked the Master.

Langelee patted the neck of a large, black creature that had a distinctly malevolent look in its eyes. ‘I keep recalling flashes,
but it was very dark. I saw an academic tabard, though. Black, like ours.’

Bartholomew swallowed hard. ‘You think it was Wynewyk. That is why you ordered Michael to forget about it – pretend it did
not happen.’

Langelee turned towards him, and his expression was haggard. ‘I would like to believe I am mistaken – that I was too drunk
to remember clearly – but I am deluding myself. Wynewyk
did
try to kill me, and he damn near succeeded.’

‘There must be an explanation—’