A Vein Of Deceit: The Fifteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)
Page 11
It was dusk, although there was not the merest glimmer of colour in the western sky, where the sun had set behind a bank of thick clouds. It was cold, too, and people scurried along with their heads down, reluctant to be out. Traders hauled their carts homeward, wheels squelching and hissing in the mud that formed most of Cambridge’s streets. A musician played a haunting melody on a pipe, hoping to be tossed coins by passers-by, but Bartholomew wished he would play something a little more cheerful. The tune was so sad that he felt his throat constrict, and he was forced to take several deep breaths when an image of Wynewyk’s face sprang unbidden into his mind.
He glanced at King’s Hall as he passed, seized by a sudden desire to discuss his nut theory with a fellow physician – someone who would understand what he was talking about. Medicine was not an exact science, and the longer he practised, the more he realised he did not know, so it was always good to air new ideas with colleagues. Paxtone was not an ideal choice for debates, because his experience was narrow and so was his mind, but he was better than Rougham of Gonville Hall. Making up his mind, Bartholomew headed towards the College that was Paxtone’s home.
He hammered on the gate and was admitted by Tobias the porter. As he was being escorted across the yard, they were intercepted by a thin, mouse-like man wearing King’s Hall’s blue tabard. As usual, it took Bartholomew a moment to recall Shropham’s name, for the diffident lawyer never did or said anything to make it stick in his mind.
‘I shall conduct our visitor to Paxtone’s quarters,’ Shropham said to Tobias. ‘Gosse was loitering around earlier, and I would rather you stayed by the gate.’
‘You think he might burgle King’s Hall?’ asked Bartholomew, as Shropham led the way to the handsome suite of rooms on the top floor where Paxtone lived. It did not sound very likely: not only was the College built like a fortress, but many of its scholars were the sons of nobles, who had been trained to wield swords and shoot arrows. Gosse would have to be insane to risk an invasion.
‘Probably not, but you cannot be too careful. I am sorry about Wynewyk, by the way. I saw your book-bearer carrying his corpse to the church and he told me the news. Your poor College is not having much luck this term; first you lose Kelyng the Bible Scholar, and now Wynewyk.’
‘Kelyng is not dead,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘He just decided not to return for his final year because it would have meant paying a massive debt for past fees.’
‘I see,’ said Shropham. He smiled sadly. ‘But I shall miss Wynewyk. He was a fellow lawyer, and was always laughing at something.’
Bartholomew glanced at him sharply. ‘Laughing?’
His tone startled Shropham, who backed away with his hands in the air, apologetic for having said something out of turn. ‘I only meant that he was a cheery sort of fellow, but if you say I am mistaken, then that is fair enough. I am sure he was perfectly sombre.’
‘He was not sombre, either,’ snapped Bartholomew. He disliked sycophants, and recalled with distaste Shropham’s habit of never contradicting anyone. It was a curious trait for a scholar: they had been trained to argue, and were usually delighted to do so.
Shropham was becoming flustered. ‘Perhaps he was both – merry sometimes, and grave the rest of the time. A man of contrasts. Yes, that must be it.’
‘Actually, he was very even tempered,’ countered Bartholomew, a little testily.
‘Yes, he was that, too,’ gushed Shropham, somewhat desperately. ‘Very even tempered.’
Bartholomew smothered his irritation, knowing Shropham was only trying to make conversation; he was just not very good at it, and had chosen a subject that was too raw for idle chatter.
‘You teach law?’ he asked, deciding they might do better if they discussed something else.
‘Yes,’ replied Shropham. ‘Except when I teach the Trivium – grammar, logic and rhetoric.’
‘I know what the Trivium is,’ said Bartholomew. He grimaced at his abrupt tone and wondered what it was about Shropham that seemed to be bringing out the worst in him. He struggled to make amends, forcing himself to smile. ‘Which parts of it do you teach?’
‘All of it,’ replied Shropham. ‘The other masters ask me to take their classes, and I do not like to disappoint – you know how senior scholars hate wasting their time with basics.’
‘But you are a senior scholar,’ Bartholomew pointed out, bemused. ‘You have been here for years – before me, and long before Paxtone. You should not be saddled with the Trivium.’
‘Perhaps I should not,’ said Shropham, blushing furiously. ‘But when friends approach me for assistance it seems churlish to refuse.’
‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, suspecting he was abominably abused by his so-called friends.
‘Here we are,’ said Shropham, opening Paxtone’s door with obvious relief.
Paxtone’s two light, airy chambers – one for teaching and the other for private use – overlooked the water meadows, and saw some spectacular sunsets. That day, however, the shutters were closed, and a fire was blazing in the hearth, filling the private room with a warm, amber glow. The floor was of wood, but woollen rugs were scattered across it, and the walls had matching hangings, all selected with impeccable taste. Unlike Michaelhouse, not all King’s Hall Fellows were obliged to share their accommodation with students, and Paxtone paid a hefty rent to ensure his continued privacy.
‘He is teaching,’ whispered Shropham, pointing through the door that linked the two chambers; three lads could be seen sitting on stools at Paxtone’s feet. They were listening to his analysis of Galen’s views on almonds as an astringent. ‘He is one of the most inspired tutors in the College. Do you lecture on Galen, Doctor Bartholomew?’
‘Of course,’ replied Bartholomew, startled by the question – and by the notion that the staid Paxtone should be considered inspired. ‘It would be impossible not to, because his theories are cornerstones of traditional medicine.’
‘Then I must come to hear you some time. I am sure you will be equally good.’
Bartholomew frowned as Shropham fussed around him, ensuring his cloak was hung up neatly and that he was satisfied with the state of the fire. The lawyer was so determined that Paxtone’s guest should sit in the chair by the hearth that he gave him a rather enthusiastic shove that saw him topple into it. Bartholomew winced when something dug into his leg.
‘Is it yours?’ asked Shropham, watching him pull a small knife from under his thigh. ‘It fell out of your bag as you sat?’
‘As I was pushed,’ muttered Bartholomew. Shropham’s obsequiousness was grating on his nerves. He took a deep breath and forced himself to be gracious. ‘It looks like one of mine, but it is actually Paxtone’s. We both use these plain steel blades, because they are easy to clean.’
‘Perhaps he left it there to sharpen it – pointing north, so it will hone itself.’ Shropham took it from him and set in on a shelf. ‘Is this true north, do you think?’
‘Move it to the left a little.’ Bartholomew had all but forgotten the curious debate Paxtone had been airing with his colleagues earlier that day, and experienced an acute stab of grief when he recalled Wynewyk’s amusement. He swallowed hard, and pursued the subject of knives in an effort to push the memory from his mind. ‘Paxtone and I buy them from the same forge. They are the perfect size for delicate surgery and—’
‘Paxtone would never demean himself by doing surgery,’ interrupted Shropham indignantly. Then he blushed when he saw he had been insulting, and began to gabble in an effort to make amends. ‘Not that surgery is degrading, of course, but he uses his blades for more lofty purposes.’
‘Such as what?’ asked Bartholomew innocently. The question was a little wicked, because Paxtone was forced into ‘surgery’ because Robin of Grantchester was no longer available to do it for him. It was likely therefore that the King’s Hall physician did use his knives for cautery.
Shropham swallowed uneasily. ‘Such as peeling fruit and paring his nails. Not sharpening quills
, of course, because I do that for him.’
‘Really? And what do his students do, while you perform these lowly tasks?’ Bartholomew had not meant to sound rude, but the words were out before he could stop them. And he genuinely wanted an answer, bemused as to why a scholar of Shropham’s seniority should act as servant to his equals.
But Shropham did not take the question amiss. ‘I would not trust that rabble to see to his needs. And it is a great pleasure to serve a fine man like Paxtone.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, deciding he had better not pursue the subject any further. It was too bewildering, and he had had a long and distressing day.
‘He will not be long,’ said Shropham, leaning forward to pat a cushion into place. ‘Here is a psalter to occupy you while you wait. Unless you would rather I kept you company? There is nothing more important than ensuring Paxtone’s acquaintances are properly looked after.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, wondering whether Paxtone had acquired himself a jealous lover. But Paxtone had always seemed rather asexual, and on the few occasions when he had mentioned a preference, it was usually for Yolande de Blaston. ‘I will read, thank you.’
Shropham bowed his way out of the room, and his footsteps clattered down the stairs.
‘Christ!’ breathed Bartholomew, when the man had gone. ‘He is stranger than Clippesby!’
Bartholomew listened to Paxtone’s lecture through the door for a while, but it was a basic one, delivered at a very early stage in his students’ studies, and he knew he would learn nothing from it. He was not in the mood for perusing psalters, either, so he went to the books in Paxtone’s private library, intending to read what Galen had written about nuts – and about men who laughed themselves to death.
The tomes were stored in a wall-cupboard, and Bartholomew had been told in the past that he could browse through them whenever he liked. He opened the door and began to read the titles, impressed by the extent of his friend’s collection: books were hideously expensive.
He grabbed Galen’s On Temperament, but could not find what he wanted to know, so he started to look for Aristotle instead, knowing the philosopher had addressed a number of curious medical questions. He did not recall laughter or nuts being among them, but it had been some time since he had studied the texts carefully, and he did not trust his memory.
He found the book he wanted and started to tug it out, but a small bag in front of it fell to the floor. There was a skittering sound as several pebbles rolled out. With a sigh, he knelt to retrieve them. They were some sort of white crystal, and he supposed they were a mineral deemed to possess a particular healing property. He had always been sceptical of such claims – for example that rubies could protect a person from plague – and assumed most sensible physicians thought the same. Of course, Paxtone was not always sensible where medicine was concerned.
‘What are you doing?’
The sound of his colleague’s voice so close behind him made Bartholomew jump. He had not noticed that Paxtone had stopped teaching and had come to see what was going on.
‘Looking for Aristotle,’ explained Bartholomew, slipping the last of the stones inside the bag.
‘I see,’ said Paxtone flatly, taking it from him and replacing it on the shelf. He bent to lock the cupboard with a key that hung on a string around his neck. ‘And did you find it?’
‘Yes – but I might look in Avicenna, if I cannot find what I want in Aristotle,’ replied Bartholomew, somewhat puzzled by his friend’s frosty manner.
‘Then let me know when you need it.’ Paxtone gave a pained smile. ‘I shall not be long now.’
Bartholomew could only suppose Paxtone had been dabbling in something of which he was slightly ashamed – perhaps a foray into folk medicine – and wanted to keep the matter quiet. But he did not dwell on the matter for long, because his mind was too full of Wynewyk.
He sat in the chair, and opened the Aristotle, but could find no mention of nuts, although there was a good deal about humour being good for the health. There was, however, nothing to suggest that it might bring about death, unless in delirium. Bartholomew frowned as he considered the notion. Had Wynewyk been delirious?
‘They have gone at last,’ said Paxtone, coming to flop into the seat opposite. ‘They are full of questions, and I thought I would never prise them out. How is Risleye? Is he settling in with you?’
Bartholomew wondered why he should ask, given that the relationship between master and pupil had been acrimonious enough for both to want a transfer. ‘He seems to have made himself at home,’ he replied cautiously, unwilling to admit that he was finding the young man ‘unteachable’, too.
‘He is a good boy, who learns quickly,’ said Paxtone with a smile. ‘He will be no trouble.’
‘He must have been trouble, or you would not have asked me to take him on.’
Paxtone waved an airy hand. ‘He is young and opinionated, while I am old and opinionated. It was not a good combination. Did Shropham offer you any wine?’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I am sure he would have done, had I hinted that I was thirsty.’
Paxtone winced. ‘Yes, I am afraid he does have a tendency to fawn. I cured him of a strangury, you see, and since then he has attached himself to me like a devoted dog. It is irritating, but he has his uses. You seem distracted, Matthew. Is something wrong?’
‘You know how some folk have aversions to particular foods, which make them sick or give them rashes. Have you ever heard of a violent reaction to nuts?’
‘No. However, nuts are not poisonous, and if you have a patient who claims to have been rendered unwell because of them, then I suggest you look to some other form of toxin.’
Bartholomew rubbed his eyes. ‘Then is it possible for a man to laugh himself to death?’
‘Of course, just as it is possible for a person to die of sadness.’ Paxtone walked to the table, and filled two cups with wine. ‘Unhappiness may cause a person to forget to eat, or render him susceptible to an imbalance of humours. It is very easy for emotions to bring about a death. But this seems a curious topic for a practical man like you. What has spurred this particular interest?’
‘Wynewyk is dead,’ replied Bartholomew. It was not easy to say the words, and they sounded unreal to his ears. ‘He died eating a cake with nuts in it. While laughing.’
Paxtone’s jaw dropped in horror. ‘Oh, the poor man! How dreadful!’
‘I do not suppose you would look at him, would you? To see if you can spot anything amiss?’
‘Absolutely not!’ exclaimed Paxtone with a shudder. ‘You know I dislike handling corpses.’
Bartholomew did know, but had forgotten. He turned to another question. ‘Wynewyk was with you earlier – you were debating how to sharpen knives. Did he complain of any illness or pain?’
‘He seemed well enough to me.’ Paxtone drained his wine, and when he set the goblet on the hearth, his hand was shaking. ‘This is a shock. Poor Wynewyk! He told me he was thinking of purchasing some new law books this coming week.’
Bartholomew thought uncomfortably of the Michaelhouse accounts. ‘Expensive ones?’
Paxtone shrugged with the carelessness of a man who never had to be concerned with such matters. ‘I imagine so. However, Risleye told me that Wynewyk summoned you on Wednesday night. What were his symptoms then? The ailment may have been a precursor to his death.’
‘It is possible,’ acknowledged Bartholomew, wondering why Risleye should have been reporting such matters to his old teacher; he had been under the impression that they could not stand the sight of each other. ‘He said he had sipped an almond posset, and mentioned a burning mouth. It led me to assume that even a small taste of nuts was capable of creating an imbalance of his humours.’
‘And this is how you devised your theory about nuts being poisonous?’ mused Paxtone. ‘You think he ate more of them, and they killed him?’
‘I have come across similar cases in the past. It is rare, but not un
known.’
‘I suppose your Arab master taught you this,’ said Paxtone, rather disparagingly. ‘However, the ancient Greeks do not mention it, and it sounds a bit far-fetched to me.’
Bartholomew realised he was foolish to have imagined that Paxtone might help him. He liked the man, but he should not have come expecting a proper medical debate. He stood, thinking they were wasting each other’s time, but Paxtone indicated that he should sit again.
‘You said Wynewyk was laughing when he died?’ Paxtone spread his hands. ‘Then there is your cause of death. I put it to you that it was a seizure, induced by an excess of choler.’
‘You are probably right,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘The swelling in Wynewyk’s throat might have been caused by a number of factors. I suppose nuts are not necessarily responsible.’
‘It is always hard to lose a colleague,’ said Paxtone kindly. ‘But I can think of far worse ways to go than laughing myself to death.’
‘Does laughter always equate with happiness?’
‘Well, no,’ said Paxtone. ‘Hysterical cackles can mean quite the reverse – implying a person is distressed. You must have seen how easily smiles turn to tears in some of our more impressionable students, especially around the time of their disputations. However, you should not—’
Their discussion was interrupted by a sharp knock at the door, and Tobias entered.
‘Constable Muschett is ailing again,’ he said apologetically. ‘He needs to be bled.’
Paxtone’s face registered his distaste, and he turned to Bartholomew. ‘I do not suppose you …’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Phlebotomy is a procedure that carries more risk than advantage, as I have told you before.’
‘The ancient Greeks disagree,’ retorted Paxtone curtly. ‘It is very beneficial, and I advise all my patients to have it done three times a year. Unfortunately, now Robin the surgeon is unavailable, I am obliged to do it myself. But there is no need for you to leave, Matthew. Stay and read my Aristotle. I will not be long, and we shall resume our discussion when I come back.’