A Vein Of Deceit: The Fifteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Gregory, Susanna

  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—’

  ‘Oh, be quiet, you silly little man,’ snapped Agnys, regarding him with utter disdain before turning her back on him. She addressed her grandson, taking his hand in hers. ‘Joan’s death was an accident, Henry, so let us leave it at that. There is no evidence of foul play, and you will only distress yourself further if you start making unfounded accusations.’

  ‘But she swallowed pennyroyal,’ said Elyan stubbornly, pulling away from her. ‘And I want to know why. How could she do such a thing? Could she not taste it?’

  ‘It must have been disguised,’ said Edith quietly. ‘Perhaps with honey or wine. I am sure she did not know what she was drinking.’

  ‘Quite. So it was an accident,’ said Agnys, in the tone of voice that suggested the discussion was over. ‘But the servants have finished now, and Joan is in the box. Go outside and help them put her on the cart, Henry, and then let us be away from this sad place. I want to be home by this evening.’

  ‘I will help you, Elyan,’ said d’Audley, with the air of a martyr. ‘And then we shall visit Constable Muschett together and order him to mount an enquiry into this grave matter.’

  ‘You will do no such thing,’ snapped Agnys, although her grandson looked as if he thought it a very good idea. ‘It is none of your damned business. Help Henry with the coffin, if you will, but we shall speak no more of murders and enquiries – unless you want to ride home alone. But I would not recommend it – the roads are hardly safe.’

  D’Audley shot her a look of such loathing that Bartholomew was unnerved. Agnys glowered back, unabashed, and it was d’Audley who looked away first. He turned on his heel and stalked out. Elyan followed, and it was not long before the physician and his sister were alone with the old lady.

  ‘I am sorry if I upset them,’ began Edith apologetically. ‘But—’

  ‘They will survive,’ stated Agnys grimly. ‘Although in the case of d’Audley, I might wish otherwise. But I am sorry you have been subjected to all this sorrow. You have been more than kind.’

  ‘Is there anything more we can do?’ asked Bartholomew, before Edith saw in Agnys a sympathetic ear and tried to convince her that Joan’s death was suspicious. ‘Fresh horses, perhaps, or the loan of a sturdier cart?’

  ‘Thank you, but we will manage. Did Joan … say anything before she died?’

  ‘Anything about what?’ asked Edith, bemused.

  ‘About her child,’ replied Agnys vaguely. ‘About Haverhill.’

  ‘A great deal,’ replied Edith. An expression of unease immediately flitted across the old woman’s face, although Edith did not notice and chattered on blithely. ‘She said she had never been so happy, and was looking forward to being a mother with all her heart.’

  Agnys’s relief was palpable, although she struggled to mask it. ‘I am glad she died contented.’

  ‘That was an odd remark,’ said Edith, when Agnys had followed her grandson and neighbour outside, and she and Bartholomew were alone again. ‘What did she mean?’

  ‘She is terrified that Joan might have swallowed pennyroyal deliberately, and loves her enough to want her buried in a churchyard, not a suicide’s grave. Why do you think she is so insistent that it was an accident and that there must be no investigation?’

  ‘But it was not an accident,’ protested Edith. ‘And she should know that Joan was murdered.’

  ‘She was not murdered,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘There is no evidence—’

  ‘There is no evidence it was an accident, either,’ interrupted Edith, beginning to walk away from him, wearing the determined face that told him argument would be a waste of time. ‘I know what I believe, and nothing you can say will convince me otherwise.’

  Bartholomew left Edith with the guilty sense that he was deceiving her: that he should confess that her friend had died from a dose of the same kind of herb that was missing from his storeroom. But he knew it would achieve nothing other than to fuel her suspicions, and he was almost certain now it was his pennyroyal Joan had swallowed anyway. As he had told Michael, it was not a rare or unusual plant, and women often kept some dissolved in vinegar, as a remedy against swooning. Perhaps she had swallowed some of that, either by accident or design.

  He was so engrossed in his thoughts as he walked home that Paxtone of King’s Hall was obliged to prod him in order to gain his attention.

  Paxtone was a portly physician, whose ample bulk was perched atop a pair of ludicrously slender ankles; Bartholomew was always expecting them to snap under the weight, and never knew what to say when his colleague complained of aching feet. Paxtone was not a talented practitioner, for he refused to act on any theory that had not been penned by ancient Greeks, but he was a decent teacher, and no one had a better grasp of Galen and Hippocrates.

  That morning, he was with Warden Powys and another King’s Hall Fellow named Shropham. Shropham had been in Cambridge long before Bartholomew had joined the University, but was one of those mousy nonentities who was hard to remember. He was older than his two colleagues, but his demeanour towards them had always been deferential. He was slightly built, with large, sad eyes and hair of an indeterminate colour, somewhere between brown and grey.

  Wynewyk was with them, which Bartholomew thought was odd – the Michaelhouse Fellow rarely befriended scholars outside his College. But then he recalled Wynewyk saying he enjoyed intellectual discussions with King’s Hall. It did not appear that their discussion was intellectual that day, however: he and Powys were laughing fit to burst, Paxtone looked aggrieved and Shropham dismayed.

  ‘Matthew can resolve this,’ said Paxtone stiffly. ‘Because the debate has turned absurd.’

  ‘It has,’ agreed the Warden, wiping tears from his eyes. ‘I have not laughed so much in years.’

  Paxtone grimaced, then turned to his fellow physician. ‘We are debating whether knives keep their sharpness if you leave them pointing northwards at night.’

  Bartholomew failed to see what could be amusing about such a topic, or why Paxtone should be so obviously irritated by it. ‘Yes?’ he prompted warily.

  Paxtone pursed his lips as he glared at Powys and Wynewyk. ‘And this pair will insist on guffawing every time I posit a notion – they say I am employing a posteriori reasoning to argue a baseless superstition. It is Shropham’s fault: he does not believe my contention that blades self-sharpen under certain conditions.’

  Shropham’s expression was one of abject mortification. ‘I am not saying you are wrong, Paxtone,’ he said, in something of a bleat. ‘I merely remarked that I tried leaving my dagger in the way you suggested, and it was still blunt the following morning.’

  ‘Then you did not aim it directly north,’ declared Paxtone. He took a small knif
e from the pouch he carried at his side. It was identical to the ones Bartholomew used for surgery. ‘Look at mine. You could shave a pig with this.’

  ‘Why would you want to do that?’ asked Powys innocently. Wynewyk smothered a snigger.

  ‘It is sharp,’ acknowledged Shropham, ignoring them as he ran a tentative finger along the edge. ‘And I am not questioning whether the trick works for you. I am only saying that I tried it, and it failed to work for me. I do not suppose you chanted a spell at the same time, did you?’

  ‘A spell ?’ squawked Paxtone, so loud in his horror that Shropham cringed. Wynewyk and Powys dissolved into more paroxysms of mirth, although Bartholomew could not help but notice that the humour did not touch Wynewyk’s eyes; there was an odd expression in them, which could only be described as bleak. He wondered what was going on. ‘Spells are for witches and heathens, but I am a physician!’

  Bartholomew pulled his attention away from Wynewyk when he realised Paxtone was being inconsistent. ‘Believing knives retain their sharpness when they point north is hardly scientific,’ he pointed out. ‘Ergo, it is not unreasonable to assume you invoke charms—’

  ‘There is a wealth of difference between a natural phenomenon that hones metal, and magic,’ countered Paxtone curtly. ‘I am not superstitious.’

  ‘What about you, Bartholomew?’ asked Powys, struggling to bring his amusement under control. ‘Do you sharpen your knives by leaving them pointing northwards at night?’

  ‘No,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘I use a whetstone.’

  ‘Well, I suppose you would,’ said Shropham. ‘You use yours for cautery, and I imagine slicing into a man’s entrails with blunt blades would be unpleasant for all concerned. You, of all people, will want to be assured of a keen edge.’