A Vein of Deceit (44 page)

‘You can tell me about King’s Hall. Something untoward is happening in that place and I want to know what. You were employed
there, so you can provide me with some answers.’

Tesdale was horrified. ‘But I worked in the kitchens, Brother! I do not know anything that will—’

‘Then you had better start looking for another master,’ said Michael, beginning to walk away. ‘Because you are finished at
Michaelhouse.’

‘Wait!’ shouted Tesdale, flustered and frightened. ‘I can tell you one thing you might find interesting – although Paxtone
paid me to keep quiet about it. On the night Carbo was murdered, Paxtone went out. He came back covered in blood. Shropham
saw him, too.’

‘You thought Paxtone killed Carbo?’ Bartholomew was aghast. ‘But that is—’

‘Then why did he buy my silence?’ cried Tesdale. ‘He must have had something to hide.’

‘This explains why Shropham will not speak to you,’ said Clippesby to Michael. ‘He worships Paxtone, but believes him to be
guilty of murder. So, he decided to take the blame instead.’

‘Why would he do that?’ demanded Michael suspiciously. ‘It makes no sense.’

‘Perhaps not to sane men like us,’ said Clippesby. ‘But Shropham once told me that Paxtone was King’s Hall’s most valuable
asset – for his noble character
and
the revenue he brings from teaching.’

‘Loyalty,’ said Tesdale in a small voice. ‘Shropham will do anything for his College, even go to the gallows to ensure another
Fellow is spared.’

‘You will have to release Shropham now, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We already knew he did not stab Carbo, but Tesdale’s
evidence explains his suspicious silence, too. He is innocent of everything, even concealing murder, because Paxtone did not
kill Carbo – Neubold did.’

But Michael’s expression remained grim. ‘Perhaps so, but he can still stay in his cell until we are certain.’ He fixed the
hapless Tesdale with a stern glare. ‘Are you willing to tell me anything else?’

‘I do not
know
anything else,’ said Tesdale in a wail. ‘I would have told you already, if I did. I am not such a fool as to stand by while
another College breaks the law.’

‘You had better be telling me the truth,’ growled Michael. ‘Or there will be trouble such as you have never seen.’

Bartholomew could not escape the unsettling sense that time was running out, and that unless they found answers to their various
mysteries fast, someone else would die. And, as he and Michael had been targeted several times already, he had the feeling
that they might be among the next victims.

‘I am going to interrogate Paxtone about his shady association with Gosse now,’ said Michael, as they left the physician’s
storeroom. Tesdale skulked away towards the hall. ‘I do not want you there, though. You are friends, so it will be painful
for you.’

Bartholomew was worried. ‘It is not a good idea to go to King’s Hall alone—’

‘I will not be alone. I shall take beadles and Cynric.’

Bartholomew regarded him unhappily, suspecting it would not be easy to march into King’s Hall and leave with one of its Fellows.
Tesdale was right about the depth of devotion some members felt for their College, and they might well prove it with their
swords.

‘Then be careful. Meanwhile, I had better visit Isnard. I would send Tesdale, but he might see it as a sign that he is back
in my favour – and he is not. And then I will deal with Risleye.’

Bartholomew walked to Isnard’s house with a heavy heart, barely acknowledging the greetings of people he knew. He found the
bargeman mostly recovered from his drunken revelry, but did not feel like lingering to chat. He mumbled something about preparing
for the Blood Relic debate, and made his escape, leaving Isnard staring after him in bewilderment; the physician was never
usually too busy to spend a few moments nattering with an old friend.

Bartholomew wanted to be alone, to consider Wynewyk’s death afresh, so he took the towpath route home, on the grounds that
he would be less likely to meet anyone. As he walked, he berated himself for thinking nuts could kill a man so quickly, and
for even entertaining the possibility that Wynewyk might have laughed to death. But foxglove would certainly explain what
had happened – he had seen chickens die within moments of ingesting the stuff.

But why had Wynewyk killed himself? Because of the Suffolk business, or the diamonds Clippesby had found? Bartholomew was
so immersed in his thoughts that he did not notice who was coming towards him until it was too late.

‘Not so fast, physician,’ said Idoma, reaching out to grab his arm.

He knocked the hand away and continued walking, loath to engage in a confrontation with her when Cynric had been too frightened
to do it. He stopped abruptly when Gosse emerged from the bushes ahead, blocking his path. The thief carried a long hunting
knife. Bartholomew turned quickly, intending to shove his way past Idoma before she realised what was happening, but she was
similarly armed. With a pang of alarm, he saw he was trapped between them.

‘What do you want?’ he demanded, sounding more composed than he felt. He started to reach for his sword, before remembering
that he no longer had it – scholars were not allowed to carry weapons in the town. He had nothing but his birthing forceps
and some small surgical knives.

‘To kill you,’ replied Idoma evenly. Her cold, flat eyes were fixed unblinkingly on him and he realised he was in serious
trouble. ‘We know you eavesdropped on our discussion in the hills, because we saw you creeping away.

I doubt you have put all the pieces together yet, but it is only a matter of time before you do, and we cannot allow that.
Not when we are on the verge of being rich.’

‘Rich?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering what they thought he knew.
He
did not feel as though he was close to a solution, and was as perplexed now as he had been when the business had first started.

‘Kill him,’ called Gosse softly. He was standing well back, watching the lane that led to the main road. ‘The longer you chat,
the greater are our chances of discovery.’

‘Is stabbing me wise?’ Bartholomew edged away from Idoma, while inside his medical bag his fingers closed around the birthing
forceps. ‘Michael will guess who did it, and you will hang.’

‘We will not,’ predicted Idoma smugly. Bartholomew tried to stop himself shuddering as her shark-fish eyes bored into his.
‘There are no witnesses, so no one will ever be able to prove anything.’

‘Idoma!’ snapped Gosse urgently. ‘You said you could do this better than me, so prove it. Stop chattering and dispatch him.’

‘I
can
do better,’ said Idoma. ‘Your mistake was putting too much emphasis on keeping your face hidden, lest your attack failed.
But mine will
not
fail, so it does not matter if the physician sees me.’

‘It
will
matter if you do not hurry,’ retorted Gosse. ‘You cannot kill him with witnesses watching – and this is a public footpath.
So get a move on!’

Idoma ignored him, relishing the opportunity to gloat.
‘Incidentally, your student told us you would be coming this way,
and
that this path was likely to be deserted. You should not have exposed his treacherous activities, because he is spiteful
when crossed. And we should know – we are long-term friends of his family.’

‘You have seen Risleye? Where is he?’

‘Risleye?’ Idoma sneered. ‘You mean Tesdale! He is the one who raided your stores. He blamed Risleye, did he? Sly lad! Risleye
accused him of essay-stealing, and it was quite true – Tesdale always did have sticky fingers. He has a vicious temper to
go with them, too – you and Risleye would both have done better to stay on his good side. Not that it matters to you now.’

She raised her knife, and Bartholomew glanced at the river behind him, assessing his chances of jumping in and swimming to
the other side. But it was fast, brown and swollen with recent rains – he would drown. He hauled the birthing forceps from
his bag, determined not to make his murder too easy for her. But the implement was no kind of defence against daggers, and
he could tell from her grimly determined expression that there would be no escape for him this time.

Suddenly, there was an agonised yell, followed by a thud. Bartholomew risked glancing away from Idoma and saw someone lying
on the ground. Gosse stood over the figure, holding a bloody blade.

‘I told you to hurry,’ he snapped at his sister. ‘Now look what you made me do. Finish the physician quickly, before anyone
else comes.’

Idoma resumed her advance, but there was another commotion from Gosse’s direction. Bartholomew knew better than to take his
eyes off the enemy a second time but fortunately for him, Idoma was less prudent and he was able to take advantage of her
momentary lapse of concentration by hitting her with the forceps. She staggered away with a howl of pain, and it was then
that Bartholomew saw the riverfolk were emerging from their houses. Isnard was among them, lurching along on his crutches.

‘Leave him alone!’ the bargeman bellowed. ‘Damned felons!’

‘Felons, are we?’ snarled Idoma, turning to face him. ‘You will pay for that remark, cripple!’

‘We must kill them all,’ shouted Gosse urgently. ‘Or they will tell—’

He stopped yelling when one of Isnard’s crutches cartwheeled towards him. It missed, but startled him into dropping his dagger.
He bent to pick it up, but the riverfolk surged towards him, far too many to fight. He backed away fast, then turned to shoot
up the alley that led to Milne Street, howling for his sister to follow.

‘Do not think you have won, physician,’ Idoma hissed, also backing away. ‘We have something planned for you – for all of you.
Your debate will be talked about for years to come, but
you
will wish it never happened.’

Aware that the riverfolk were closing in on her, she turned and fled, moving surprisingly swiftly and lightly for someone
her size. The riverfolk waited until she had gone, then went back inside their houses without a word. One lingered long enough
to raise his hand in salute, and then he disappeared, too, leaving Bartholomew alone with the bargeman.

‘Thank you, Isnard,’ said Bartholomew unsteadily. ‘They would have killed me for certain this time.’

‘The hero of Poitiers?’ demanded Isnard scornfully. ‘Do not make me laugh! We all know Cynric’s tales of your military prowess.’

‘Unfortunately, they are untrue.’

Isnard did not believe him. ‘Well, regardless, my neighbours would not have let any harm come to you. You are their physician,
and all that free medicine you dispense has some rewards.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew. His heart was hammering, and
he took a deep breath, in an attempt to calm himself. He glanced at Isnard, balanced precariously on his one leg. ‘Let me
help you home.’

‘I can manage, thank you, which is more than can be said for him.’ Isnard pointed, and Bartholomew turned to look at the person
Gosse had felled. It was d’Audley.

‘What happened?’ asked Bartholomew, kneeling next to the Suffolk lordling. There was too much blood, and when he put his ear
to d’Audley’s chest he detected an unnatural gurgle. A lung had been punctured, and there was nothing he knew that could be
done to save him. He glanced anxiously towards the alleys that led to Milne Street. He did not think Gosse would return, but
Idoma was unstable enough to be unpredictable.

‘He stabbed me!’ gasped d’Audley, his face white with pain. ‘Why? All I wanted was to talk to you. Brother Michael told me
you had come this way, so I followed.’

‘Could it not have waited for—’

‘No!’ D’Audley grabbed the front of Bartholomew’s tabard. His grip was strong for a man with such a serious wound. ‘We need
to talk
before
the arbitration. I tried to bribe the monk but he would not listen, and you are the only other scholar I know. I will give
you six marks if you back my claim to Elyan Manor – concoct some legal nicety that will see me win.’

‘This is not the time to discuss such matters,’ chided Bartholomew. ‘You are—’

‘But it
must
be now,’ snapped d’Audley. He coughed wetly, and for a moment could not catch his breath. ‘King’s Hall cannot have a legitimate
claim, and I am damned if Luneday will get the place.’

‘You need a priest,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You should not be thinking of earthly concerns now.’

D’Audley stared at him. ‘I am dying?’ He began to shiver.

Bartholomew removed his own cloak and spread it over him. ‘Do not try to speak.’

D’Audley swallowed hard. ‘Oh, sweet Christ! I shall go to Hell! I have committed terrible sins. I thought I would have time
to make amends – that future good deeds would …’

‘I will fetch a friar,’ said Isnard practically. He hobbled off to collect his crutch, but he moved slowly, and the physician
knew he was going to be too late. So did d’Audley.

‘You must hear me,’ the Suffolk man gasped. There was panic in his eyes. ‘I will confess to you, and you can tell the priest
that I repented, so he can pray for my soul.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew uncomfortably. ‘I am not qualified—’

‘Where to start?’ whispered d’Audley. The grasp on the physician’s tabard intensified, and Bartholomew felt himself dragged
downwards, better to hear the words that began to pour from the landowner’s lips. ‘I seduced Margery away from Luneday – took
her to Sudbury two weeks ago. Luneday thinks one of us was in Cambridge, killing Joan, but he is wrong. We were cuckolding
him together.’

‘I see.’ Bartholomew tried to free himself from the man’s fingers, but could not do it without using force – and no physician
liked to be rough with the dying.

‘I made her see
I
was the better proposition,’ d’Audley gabbled on. ‘I promised that if she stole all his documents, I would marry her, and
she would share my estates
and
Elyan Manor. She brought them to me last Friday, and was with the party travelling from Suffolk, pretending to be a servant.’

Friday, Bartholomew recalled, was the day Margery had fled Withersfield Manor, after feeling the net closing in
around her. So, d’Audley was the ‘friend’ with whom she had taken refuge.