A Vein of Deceit (8 page)

‘Because I hoped to get them back on the quiet,’ explained Langelee. ‘I went to Muschett, but he said that since no one actually
saw
Gosse make off with them, we cannot accuse him of theft. We—’

‘But that is outrageous!’ exploded Michael, temper breaking at last. ‘Those cups are worth a fortune. If Gosse took them,
it is our prerogative to reclaim them.’

‘Not according to Muschett,’ said Langelee. ‘Believe me, there is nothing I would like more than to punch Gosse until he gives
them back. But Muschett said that would be
seen as an attack by the University against a layman. He feels the Stanton Cups are not worth the riot that is sure to follow.’

‘He is probably right,’ acknowledged Suttone, cutting across the spluttering reply Michael started to make. ‘Gosse may be
a criminal, but there are many who would side with him against the University. And without Sheriff Tulyet to keep them in
order, there might well be bloodshed.’

‘But we are talking about the Stanton Cups!’ protested Thelnetham, shocked. ‘Does Muschett seriously expect us to ignore the
fact that this lout has stolen our most valuable treasure?’

‘
Now
do you see why I was reluctant to confide in you?’ asked Langelee, accusing in his turn. ‘You have reacted just as I predicted
you would.’

‘Oh, do not worry,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘I do not want a riot. However, I shall keep a close eye on Gosse, and pounce with
all the weight of the law if I catch so much as a glimmer of silver gilt.’

‘I wonder if he took my pennyroyal, too,’ mused Bartholomew. But then he shook his head. ‘No, he cannot have done, because
my storeroom would have been locked when we were at the debate.’

‘Unless one of your careless lads left it open,’ said Michael savagely. ‘And as far as I am concerned, we have no idea
what
Gosse did when he roamed here unattended.’

As soon as it was light the following day, Michael left the College to investigate the Stanton Cups’ disappearance, but it
did not take him long to learn that Langelee was right: Gosse’s curious activities around the time of the theft were circumstantial,
and there was no indisputable evidence to link him with the crime – and certainly none convincing
enough to allow a search of his house. Bartholomew doubted the monk would find anything anyway: too much time had passed,
and the chalices would either be hidden in a safe place, or sold.

‘It is hopeless,’ said Michael despairingly, when he and the physician met in the hall for the noonday meal. ‘Constable Muschett,
the Mayor and all the burgesses joined together and expressly forbade me to investigate – they do not usually tell the University
what to do, but it is different this time. They are presenting a united front because they still resent the fine they were
obliged to pay the last time Cambridge tackled Gosse. I wish to God Dick Tulyet were here.’

‘It
is
a pity the Sheriff is away,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But being angry will not bring our chalices back. It is better to devise
a way to prevent Gosse from burgling anyone else.’

‘How can I, when I have been ordered to stay away from him?’ shouted Michael, banging a plump fist on the table in frustration.
Several students eased away, not wanting to be close when the Senior Proctor was in a temper. ‘Well, all I can say is that
I hope he robs these cowardly officials, because then they might feel differently. Of course, Gosse is too clever for that
– he knows who is protecting him, and chooses his victims with care.’

‘The Blood Relic debate is a week on Monday,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Virtually every scholar in the University will be there –
we have been looking forward to it for weeks now.’

‘So?’ snapped Michael. ‘What does that have to do with anything?’

‘It will mean a lot of empty Colleges and hostels,’ explained Bartholomew patiently. ‘And if Gosse invaded Michaelhouse when
everyone was out, then—’

‘Then he will almost certainly be planning something for then,’ finished Michael. His eyes gleamed, and some of the fury went
out of him. ‘You are right! And I shall be ready for him. Thank you, Matt. You have made me feel considerably better, good
physician that you are.’

Because it was Saturday, Bartholomew could finish teaching early, so he set his students some astrological calculations to
keep them occupied and out of trouble, then went to visit his sister. Although he did not believe in the power of horoscopes,
he still taught his pupils how to calculate them: they would not pass their disputations if he ignored that part of the curriculum,
and he had no desire to be accused of corrupting their minds with unorthodox theories.

He found Edith making preserves in the kitchen, and the sweet scent of fruit filled the house – apples and plums from the
garden, and the last of the blackberries from the hedgerows.

‘The harvest was dismal this year,’ said Edith, wiping her face with the back of her hand. It was hot in the room, with several
huge pots bubbling furiously over the fire. ‘I usually make three times this amount – half for us, and half for Yolande de
Blaston’s brood. They will be disappointed.’

‘I thought you would have gone back to Trumpington by now,’ said Bartholomew. He had been in the process of stealing an apple
from one of the jars, but her words stopped him: he had no wish to deprive Yolande’s children.

‘You mean after what happened to Joan?’ Edith gave a wan smile. ‘I considered it, but Trumpington is lonely without Oswald,
and I will only dwell on what happened. I am better off here.’

‘I am sorry I could not help Joan.’

‘You did your best. That priest never did appear, by the way.’

Bartholomew gazed at her blankly. ‘What priest?’

‘The one she came here with – Neubold. We sent for him to give her last rites, but he never arrived. I made enquiries at the
Brazen George, where he was lodging, but the landlord said he has not been back to his room since the night Joan died, although
he paid for it until the end of the week.’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Perhaps he finished his business early and decided to go home.’

‘And abandon the wife of his employer without saying a word?’

Bartholomew was uneasy. ‘What are you saying? That he is implicated in Joan’s death?’

Tears welled in Edith’s eyes. ‘I am
sure
she did not take the pennyroyal deliberately, Matt. I know Mother Coton thinks Joan’s joy at being with child was a ruse,
so she could rid herself of it without suspicion, but she is wrong. I spent three days with Joan – I would have seen through
such an act.’

Bartholomew was not sure she would. Edith was an honest, uncomplicated soul, and expected others to be the same. Her open
nature was one of the things he loved about her, because it was not something he often encountered in the University, where
men had been trained to prevaricate.

‘Then it was an accident – she took something she thought would help the baby,’ he said, feeling a sharp twinge of guilt when
he thought about his missing supplies. ‘But she was misinformed.’

‘I cannot imagine how she came by pennyroyal. The apothecaries would not have sold her any.’

‘Perhaps she brought it with her.’ Bartholomew thought, but did not say, that if she had, then it indicated premeditation,
and Joan’s few days of so-called happiness with Edith were indeed a cover for the crime she had been intending to commit.

He changed the subject, knowing they would argue otherwise, and began to talk about the forum on Blood Relics that was due
to take place in nine days’ time. It was not a topic that greatly intrigued him, but the University was on fire with it, and
some of the enthusiasm had seeped into him. He found he was looking forward to hearing some of the best minds in the country
– Michael’s among them – hold forth on the matter.

‘I made you a cake,’ said Edith, passing him a neatly wrapped parcel when he paused for breath. Blood Relics did not interest
her at all. ‘It contains the last of the almonds from our garden.’

‘Thank you. I had better be going. The Saturday Debate is due to start soon.’

‘The
Saturday
Debate?’ Edith frowned. ‘I thought you said this event was to be Monday week.’

‘The Blood Relic colloquy is on Monday. But the Saturday Debate is the weekly discussion at Michaelhouse, instigated by Thelnetham
to keep our students off the streets. The Fellows kept avoiding them, so Langelee made them mandatory. I have missed the last
two because of summonses from patients, and my colleagues will think I am shirking if I do it again.’

‘Can you spare a few moments more?’ asked Edith, rather tearfully. ‘Joan’s husband made arrangements to collect her body from
St Mary the Great today, and I should talk to him. Will you come with me? I would rather not go alone.’

*   *   *

St Mary the Great was Cambridge’s biggest and grandest church, used by the University for events too large for the debating
halls – such as discussions about Blood Relics. That day, loud voices rang from the Lady Chapel where Joan lay, and Bartholomew
saw that quite a deputation had arrived to claim her earthly remains. Two men and an elderly woman stood side by side, watching
the verger and half a dozen servants struggling to load the body into a sturdy box for transport home.

‘Which one is Henry Elyan?’ whispered Bartholomew. ‘Joan’s husband?’

Edith regarded him askance. ‘The one wearing black, of course, to show he is in mourning. Do you know nothing of the latest
courtly fashions?’

Bartholomew did not, but it was clear that Elyan was well versed in such matters. The cut of his black clothes indicated they
were expensive, and his gipon, or tunic, was decorated with more buttons than the physician had ever seen on a single garment.
His handsome shoes were made from soft calfskin, and the jewellery that glittered at his throat and on his fingers was exquisite.

‘It is a pity you could not save her,’ Elyan said bitterly, after Edith had introduced her brother and given a brief account
of what had happened. Elyan’s eyes were red, indicating he had been weeping. ‘She was very dear to me, and so was her child
– my heir. Their deaths are a terrible shock.’

The elderly woman stepped forward. She was tall for her age, and voluminous skirts swirled around thick, practical travelling
boots. A veil covered her head, but several strands of white hair had escaped to hang rakishly down the sides of her leathery
cheeks. Sharp blue eyes indicated a person of character, who was used to having her own way.

‘I am Agnys Elyan,’ she announced. ‘My grandson and I are grateful for your efforts. Joan often talked about her happy childhood
here, and we are glad she died among friends.’

‘Her death was unnecessary,’ said Elyan. His voice was unsteady. ‘She came to buy ribbons for our child – she should not have
died purchasing ribbons.’

‘No, she should not,’ agreed his grandmother gently. She reached out to touch his arm, a self-conscious gesture of sympathy
that caused him to look away quickly, a sob catching at the back of his throat. She turned to Bartholomew and Edith, speaking
to give him time to compose himself. ‘Joan was fit and well before she left, and we were horrified to learn about this horrible
accident.’

‘Accident?’ asked Edith.

Bartholomew felt like jabbing her with his elbow, but suspected Agnys would notice and demand an explanation. He held his
breath, hoping Edith’s question would not lead the Haverhill folk to wonder whether there was more to Joan’s death than they
were being told. It would do no one any good if they clamoured murder – and Bartholomew was sure it was nothing of the kind.

Agnys nodded. ‘Constable Muschett told us how she had swallowed a potion to strengthen the babe. We were appalled, because
she was very careful about what she ate and drank. But I suppose even cautious women make mistakes.’

‘Her mistake cost me a much-loved wife,’ said Elyan in a muffled voice. He stood with his back to them, scrubbing surreptitiously
at his eyes. ‘Not to mention an heir twenty years in the making. Of course, this assumes it was her fault. For all I know,
someone gave her this poison on purpose.’

‘Pennyroyal is not poison,’ said Bartholomew, thinking guiltily about the loss of his own. ‘It is—’

‘Pennyroyal?’ echoed Agnys in disbelief. ‘I sincerely doubt she drank that! I taught her about herbs myself, and she was well
aware that pennyroyal is not for expectant mothers.’

‘You are right,’ said Edith, before Bartholomew could stop her. ‘Joan did
not
take it on purpose.’

‘What are you saying?’ demanded Elyan, whipping around to regard her intently. ‘If she would not have taken it of her own
volition, and she was too sensible to have swallowed it by accident, does this mean she was forced to imbibe it against her
will? She was
murdered
?’

‘Of course she was not murdered,’ said Agnys, before Bartholomew could say the same thing. ‘But there are many elixirs with
fanciful names that make no mention of the nature of their contents. She must have bought one that promised health and vitality,
and the seller neglected to—’

‘That is murder,’ said the third member of the visiting party, entering the discussion for the first time. He was small and
dark, with short black hair that was plastered to his head like a greasy cap. Spindly red-clad legs poked from under a purple
gipon, giving him the appearance of a predatory insect.

‘I agree, d’Audley,’ said Elyan coldly. ‘Any apothecary or physician giving pregnant women pennyroyal is guilty of murder,
as far as I am concerned. And he deserves to hang for his crime.’

‘Stop it, both of you,’ ordered Agnys sharply. She glared at d’Audley. ‘And you can keep your nasty opinions to yourself.
No one asked you to accompany us to Cambridge, and I, for one, wish you had not. You have been nothing but trouble – complaining
all the time.’

D’Audley did not like being admonished like a naughty child. He drew himself up to his full height, eyes flashing with indignation.
‘I am lord of a Suffolk manor, and I shall not be berated—’