A Vein of Deceit (6 page)

‘Such as what?’ asked Bartholomew.

Tesdale shrugged. ‘Cynric says it puts a lovely shine on metal, so perhaps one of the servants took it to buff the College
silver. Or, as it has a strong but not unpleasant aroma, perhaps someone filched it to sweeten the latrines or to drop into
his wet boots. Its loss is not necessarily sinister.’

Bartholomew sincerely hoped he was right.

During the evenings, it was the Fellows’ wont to gather in the comfortable room called the conclave, next to the hall. Candles
and lamps were lit after dark, and on cold nights there was a fire in the hearth. Some Fellows read, some marked exercises
prepared by students, and others enjoyed the opportunity for erudite conversation. The atmosphere was always convivial, which
was something they all treasured – academics, being blessed with sharp minds, often had sharp tongues to go with them, and
many members of other Colleges were barely on speaking terms. Michaelhouse, though, was a haven of peace, and although there
were disagreements, they were rarely acrimonious.

When Bartholomew arrived, the room was unusually empty. Wynewyk was still unwell, Langelee was out, and
Father William was languishing in the Fens. He sat at the table, and was pleasantly surprised to discover that Michael, unhappy
with the supper Agatha had created, had provided his colleagues with something edible instead.

‘She gave me a beetroot, Matt,’ explained the monk, his green eyes full of righteous indignation. ‘A hard, barely cooked one.
It was reclining in a dish of melted butter, with a soggy leek for garnish.’

Bartholomew took a slice of meat pie. ‘Did you send it back?’

‘Only after he had drained the butter into a cup, and quaffed it,’ replied Suttone, a plump Carmelite who fervently believed
that the plague would return at any moment. ‘I wish I had thought of that. I like butter, and there was a lot of it.’

Bartholomew felt slightly queasy. ‘Where is Langelee?’ he asked, to change the subject.

‘Dining at King’s Hall,’ said Michael with a grimace. ‘He found out what Agatha planned to give us, and hastened to make other
arrangements. He should have warned us, too.’

‘
I
warned you,’ said Clippesby. He was a Dominican friar who taught theology and grammar. The College cat was in his lap, and
he held a frog in one hand and a mouse in the other. ‘The wren saw what Agatha had cooked, and I came immediately to tell
you. But you ignored me.’

‘That wren is unreliable,’ retorted Michael. It was widely accepted that Clippesby was insane, although he had been at Michaelhouse
long enough for his colleagues to overlook all but his most brazen idiosyncrasies. ‘If you had heard it from the peacock,
I might have been more willing to listen.’

The two newest Fellows sat near the window, and Bartholomew was disconcerted to note that Thelnetham was filing Hemmysby’s
nails. It was a curious thing to be
doing, especially as Hemmysby was not very interested in personal appearances. He was a quiet theologian, who divided his
time between Cambridge and Waltham Abbey, where he held a lucrative post.

Thelnetham, on the other hand,
was
interested in what he looked like, and was never anything short of immaculate. He was a brilliant Gilbertine, an expert in
both canon and civil law, and a demon in the debating chamber. Like Wynewyk, he had a penchant for male lovers, although where
Wynewyk was discreet, Thelnetham sported brightly coloured accessories to his religious habit and indulged in flamboyantly
effeminate conversation. The students liked him, because his lectures were boisterously entertaining, although he could be
brutally incisive, too.

‘What are you doing?’ Bartholomew asked him.

‘Hemmysby’s nails,’ replied Thelnetham, as if the answer were obvious. Bartholomew supposed it was, and realised he had asked
the wrong question. Thelnetham smiled, and elaborated anyway. ‘They are a disgrace, and a man is nothing without smart nails.
You always keep yours nice, which is considerate, given that you use them for clawing about in people’s innards.’

Bartholomew winced at the image. ‘I do nothing of the kind.’

Thelnetham wagged his file admonishingly. ‘Now Robin the surgeon no longer practises his unsavoury trade – for which we all
thank God – you are free to hack and saw to your heart’s content. You should be careful, though. Physicians are not supposed
to demean themselves with cautery.’

‘Leave him alone, Thelnetham,’ said Michael mildly. ‘Robin’s retirement means all the Cambridge physicians are forced to dabble
in surgery these days. Even Paxtone is obliged to bleed his own patients, although word is that he is not very good at it.’

Bartholomew was astonished to hear this. He knew Paxtone was a firm believer in the benefits of phlebotomy, but he had not
imagined him to be enthusiastic enough about the procedure to open his patients’ veins himself. The King’s Hall physician
disliked getting his hands dirty, and preferred his treatments to revolve around the inspection of urine and the calculation
of personal horoscopes.

‘There, I have finished, Hemmysby,’ said Thelnetham, sitting back in satisfaction. ‘You now have fingers any lady would be
proud to own. Can I tempt anyone else to a little beautification?’

‘Not if you turn us into girls,’ said Suttone in distaste. ‘That nasty Osa Gosse mocked me today, shouting that my habit was
womanly. I cannot have feminine hands, or he may do it again.’

‘Very well,’ said Thelnetham, slipping the rasp into the enormous purse that hung at his side. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Has
Wynewyk spoken to you about Tesdale yet?’

‘No,’ replied Bartholomew warily. ‘Why? What has he done?’

‘His nightmares,’ explained Thelnetham. ‘He cries and whimpers, and not all of us are heavy sleepers like you. He wakes us
up. You must talk to him, find out what is causing these night-terrors.’

‘I have tried. But he denies there is a problem, and I cannot force—’

There was a sharp knock on the door, and Cynric burst in. His face was pale and his hands were shaking badly. Bartholomew
regarded him in alarm – the book-bearer was not easily disturbed.

‘It is Master Langelee.’ Cynric took a deep, steadying breath. ‘He has been murdered.’

Bartholomew raced out of Michaelhouse, medical bag banging at his side. It was raining heavily, and the night was dark, so
it was difficult to see where he was going. He tripped twice, but did not slow down – he could not, not when his stomach churned
in horror at Cynric’s news, and all he wanted was to reach Master Langelee as quickly as possible. He was so agitated that
he was only vaguely aware of Michael puffing along behind him; Cynric ran at his side.

‘The Master was just leaving King’s Hall when he was attacked,’ panted Cynric. ‘Tobias, their porter, saw it happen, and thinks
Osa Gosse is responsible.’

It was not far to King’s Hall, Cambridge’s largest, richest and most powerful College, and when Bartholomew arrived, there
were three people in the street outside it. The first was its head, Thomas Powys. Powys had been Warden for years, and Bartholomew
knew he must be good at his job, or the King, who loved to meddle in the College’s affairs, would have replaced him. The second
was Tobias the porter, who held a lamp. And the third was Langelee, lying motionless on the ground. Bartholomew felt sick,
appalled to be losing yet another colleague to the violence that erupted so often in the little Fen-edge town.

‘I sent for you as soon as I saw it happen,’ said Tobias, moving forward with the lantern when Bartholomew skidded to a halt
and knelt to examine his fallen comrade. He sounded horror-stricken. ‘I could not believe it.’

‘What happened?’ gasped Michael, resting his hands on his knees as he struggled to catch his breath. It had been a hard sprint
for a man of his girth.

‘A vicious little villain stepped out of the shadows and stabbed him,’ replied Tobias, shaking his head incredulously as he
spoke. ‘Master Langelee was twice his size, so it was like David and Goliath. I am amazed Gosse had the courage to tackle
someone with
his
reputation.’

‘What reputation?’ asked Powys. He was a pleasant man, with long teeth, dark eyes and a stoop.

‘As a dirty fighter,’ explained Tobias. ‘
I
would not have taken Master Langelee on, and I am a professional soldier.’

‘Are you sure it was Gosse?’ demanded Michael. ‘You saw his face?’

‘No,’ admitted Tobias reluctantly. ‘It was dark. But who else could it have been? It was only ever a matter of time before
he went from theft to murder.’

‘If only Paxtone had been home,’ said Powys shakily. ‘He might have been able to save Langelee. But he is dining with Doctor
Rougham at Gonville Hall – and now it is too late!’

‘Langelee told me he was coming here tonight,’ said the monk. His face was pale in the gleam of the lamp, and his voice was
not quite steady. Like Bartholomew, he was fond of the Master, despite Langelee’s myriad idiosyncrasies. ‘Why did you invite
him?’

‘He invited himself,’ said Powys, wringing his hands miserably. ‘Because Michaelhouse was having beetroot. I told him it was
late – that he should not stay to help us drink yet another cask of wine – but he said he could look after himself. I should
have insisted he leave sooner. This is
my
fault!’

‘It is no one’s fault,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And he is—’

‘It is one thing to murder students,’ whispered Michael.
There was a catch in his voice, and his eyes were moist. ‘But this is our Master, and I will not rest until—’

‘He is not dead, Brother,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘He is in a stupor.’

A startled silence greeted his words.

‘But that is impossible!’ exclaimed Tobias, the first to find his voice. ‘He has no heartbeat.’

‘He does,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But you probably could not feel it because he is wearing a leather jerkin under his tabard.
There is a deep gash in it, though, which suggests someone meant him harm.’

Michael peered at the slash. ‘So, he
was
attacked?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘I imagine the impact knocked him off his feet, and once he was down, the wine took over. He does tend
to drink a lot when he is in other Colleges.’

‘He certainly indulged himself this evening,’ averred Powys, after crossing himself, and breathing a brief prayer of thanksgiving.
‘Far more than usual. In fact, it appeared as though he was
trying
to drink himself into oblivion. I suppose I should have stopped him, but it goes against the grain to deprive a guest of
hospitality.’

‘So he is in a drunken slumber?’ asked Cynric, to be sure. ‘We have been upset for nothing?’

Michael pointed to the damage on Langelee’s jerkin. ‘It is not nothing, Cynric. Someone intended him to die, and would have
succeeded, were it not for his armour. However, just because the attempt failed does not mean it will be forgotten. I
will
have this villain under lock and key!’

‘Do you think it has anything to do with Langelee’s work for the Archbishop?’ asked Powys, glancing around uneasily. ‘He made
a lot of enemies then, if his stories are to be believed.’

‘I suspect those enemies know the difference between a blade catching on hard leather, and a blade sliding into flesh,’ said
Michael wryly. ‘So I doubt this has anything to do with his past.’

‘His purse is missing,’ said Bartholomew, pointing to where it had been cut from Langelee’s belt. ‘Perhaps it is just a case
of theft.’

‘Gosse is a thief,’ pounced Tobias. ‘He
must
be the culprit. The man I saw was small and wiry, and Gosse is small and wiry. Of
course
he is the villain! How can you even think otherwise?’

But Bartholomew was reluctant for conclusions to be drawn without proper evidence; attempted murder was a capital offence,
and it would not be the first time an innocent man had hanged just because he owned a dubious reputation. And Tobias’s testimony
was weak, to say the least.

‘But if Gosse is such an experienced thief, then why did he attack Langelee?’ he asked reasonably. ‘Our Master is a formidable
opponent, even when drunk, so why not wait for an easier victim?’

‘That is a good point – one I shall address when Gosse and I enjoy an informal chat tomorrow,’ said Michael. He shivered as
the wind blew a flurry of raindrops into his eyes. ‘Meanwhile, we had better carry poor Langelee home, before he drowns.’

Bartholomew had witnessed Langelee drunk on many occasions, but never to the point where he was quite so deeply insensible.
It was worrying, so he decided to monitor him through the night, sending his own students off to sleep in the hall. He wrapped
Langelee in blankets, and placed a bucket near his head. Then he sat at his desk and began to read the essays his students
had written – all except
Risleye, who still claimed his had been stolen. When the night-watch announced it was three o’clock, Langelee woke with a
start.

‘Where am I?’ he demanded, looking around blearily. ‘Am I ill? I feel sick.’

‘An excess of wine can do that to a man,’ replied Bartholomew dryly, watching him reach for the pail. ‘Do you remember anything
of what happened?’

‘I recall Warden Powys giving me cheaper brews once he thought I was too inebriated to notice.’

‘He said you made a concerted effort to drink yourself stupid. Why? Has something upset you?’

‘I am Master of a College,’ replied Langelee flatly. ‘Of course something has upset me: money. We do not have any, and I have
nigh on a hundred mouths to feed – students, Fellows, commoners, servants. I was a fool to have taken on those new pupils
last Easter, because they have transpired to be more of an expense than a source of revenue.’

Bartholomew was bemused. ‘But you have been concerned about funding for years. What is different now?’

‘I cannot talk about it,’ said Langelee miserably, turning away. ‘Not to you, and not to anyone. The burden is mine alone
to bear.’

Bartholomew would have been content to leave it at that, because he had no wish to become acquainted with the sort of business
that could drive a resilient, insensitive man like Langelee to drink. But friendship compelled him to persist.

‘You do not have to worry alone. All the Fellows will help, especially if it concerns the College.’

‘It
does
concern the College,’ whispered Langelee, his expression agonised. ‘But I cannot …’

‘Perhaps we should talk tomorrow,’ suggested
Bartholomew gently, when Langelee closed his eyes and seemed unable to continue. ‘When you are less overwrought.’

‘Overwrought,’ echoed Langelee bitterly. ‘That is a kinder word than drunk. And you are right: I did set out to drown my sorrows
this evening, although it was a waste of time. They still plague me, only now I have a raging headache to go with them.’

Bartholomew handed him a dose of the tonic he often dispensed to those who had overindulged. ‘We were appalled when we heard
you had been attacked,’ he said. ‘We thought you were dead.’

‘Attacked?’ Langelee frowned, cup halfway to his lips, then understanding dawned in his eyes. ‘God’s blood! You are right!
Someone emerged from the shadows and tried to stab me! Christ! I might have forgotten, if you had not jogged my memory.’

‘If whatever is worrying you is going to lead to murderous ambushes, then you should not keep it to yourself,’ said Bartholomew,
concerned for him. ‘Some of us may be able to help, especially Michael.’

Langelee gazed at him in confusion. ‘You think the assault on me is connected to my problem?’

‘Without knowing the problem, it is impossible to say,’ replied Bartholomew, supposing the Master’s wits must still be muddled,
for the question was an inane one. ‘Did you see anything that might allow us to catch the culprit?’

Langelee’s face creased into a scowl as memories began to resurface. ‘I saw someone – a skinny devil – lurking in a doorway,
and when I walked past, he cowered away. I thought that was the end of it, but then I heard footsteps and the scoundrel was
on me before I could act. I saw the flash of a knife and managed to turn, so the blade caught my armour. Then I heard him
running away.’

‘Did you see his face?’

Langelee shook his head. ‘I thought it was Osa Gosse at first, but he has a distinctive odour, and I have been trained to
notice that sort of thing. It was not him. I think it was a scholar.’

Bartholomew eyed him warily. ‘Are you sure?’

‘No, I am not sure,’ snapped Langelee testily. ‘I shall have to think about it. However, my purse seems to be missing, and
as I am sure
you
did not steal it, it seems I was the victim of a robbery. Forget I mentioned scholars. I am unwell, and fever is making me
spout nonsense.’ He raised the cup and downed the tonic, evidently aiming to emphasise the current fragile state of his health.

‘Rest now and talk to Michael in the morning,’ said Bartholomew kindly. ‘The Senior Proctor does not like it when masters
are stabbed. Especially his own.’

In a demonstration of his extraordinary capacity for recuperation, Langelee sat up the following morning and announced that
he felt fighting fit. He was pale and his eyes were bloodshot, but he seemed otherwise unscathed, either by the attack or
by the amount of wine he had swallowed. There was not even a bruise where the knife had hammered home.

He rang the bell for the daily procession to church, not caring that it was rather earlier than usual. Yet even though he
tried to be his usual gruff and boisterous self as his colleagues emerged from their rooms and hurried to fuss over him and
ask him questions, there was a reserve in his replies that was out of character. Michael noticed it, too.

‘What is wrong with him?’ he asked of Bartholomew. ‘He pretends nothing is amiss, but I am the Senior Proctor and I know the
difference between lies and truth.’

‘Perhaps he is embarrassed,’ suggested the physician.
‘A camp-ball hero, knocked to the ground and almost stabbed by a fellow everyone agrees was petite. It must be humiliating.’

‘Wine,’ said Thelnetham, shaking his head disparagingly as he and the other Fellows came to join them. ‘It turns grown men
into weaklings. Of course, that is just the way I like them—’

‘Hush!’ urged Wynewyk reprovingly. He also looked better that morning, finally recovered from his malady. ‘That is not the
sort of remark that should be bawled at volume.’

‘Is it not?’ drawled Thelnetham. There was a merry twinkle in his eyes that said he was teasing. ‘I do not see why. It lets
us all know where we stand. Or lie.’

‘Yes, but we are about to go to mass,’ objected Wynewyk prudishly. ‘We should not be thinking about venal matters – at least,
not until after breakfast.’

Thelnetham laughed, and flung a comradely arm around the lawyer’s shoulders. ‘Very well. Then we shall resume our discussion
immediately after we have devoured our coddled eggs.’

Wynewyk recoiled at his touch, and struggled free. ‘Please! Not here!’

‘Where then?’ asked Thelnetham mischievously. ‘The hall? Or do you have a particular tavern you frequent? I know they are
forbidden to scholars, but I am sure
you
do not always obey the rules.’

‘Leave him, Thelnetham,’ warned Bartholomew, taking pity on his friend. ‘He has not been well.’

‘I apologise,’ said Thelnetham, effecting a gracious bow, although amusement still lingered in his eyes. ‘I shall leave my
friendly jousting until he is ready for it, then.’

‘Thank you, Matt,’ said Wynewyk weakly, when Thelnetham had gone. ‘I am not in the mood for his banter
today. Almost losing Langelee was distressing, and I had bad dreams all night.’

‘So did Tesdale,’ said Michael ruefully. ‘He howled like a Fury, and it took Valence ages to settle him down. I thought he
was going to wake the Pope in Avignon, he yelled so loud.’

‘Poor Tesdale,’ said Wynewyk worriedly. ‘Something is bothering him, and I wish you would find out what, Matthew. It is probably
money, because he owes Michaelhouse rather a lot of it.’

‘I will ask him again,’ promised Bartholomew. ‘But he always denies there is anything amiss, and I cannot force him to confide.’

‘Well, please try,’ said Wynewyk. ‘Kelyng suffered from night-terrors, too, and now he has disappeared. I would not like to
think we have failed a second unhappy student.’