‘How many burglaries have you attributed to them now?’ asked Bartholomew, changing the tack of the subject slightly.
‘Seven – all in the wealthiest Colleges and hostels. But there is not a single witness, which means they are both cunning and skilful. Unfortunately, they are confining themselves to the University; the townsfolk have not had to suffer their depredations. And the burgesses intend to keep it that way, which is why they are making it difficult for me to investigate.’
‘You think they have an agreement?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘That the Gosses will restrict themselves to scholars’ property, as long as the town keeps you in check?’
‘I do,’ said Michael. ‘Constable Muschett virtually told me as much. Normally, I would treat his orders with the contempt they deserve, and go after the Gosses as I see fit. But he has the backing of all the burgesses, and I cannot antagonise them en masse, especially as Dick Tulyet is not here to calm troubled waters. There are too many delicate trading arrangements at risk.’
Bartholomew was not very interested in commerce. He began to think about Gosse’s mysterious words. ‘What does he want from us? He kept saying we have something that is rightfully his.’
Michael raised his hands. ‘How can the University have anything that belongs to thieves from Suffolk?’
Bartholomew returned the gesture. ‘Scholars travel, Brother. And some of them hail from Clare – the home of the Gosses is a large settlement, complete with castle and priory.’
‘I know that, but I checked our registers, and no one currently enrolled in the University comes from there. There were three last year, but they have left. I can state, quite categorically, that we have no association with Clare at the moment.’
‘Then what did Gosse mean? What does he want from us?’
‘You may be looking for logical answers where there are none to find. As I have told you before, Idoma is not quite sane – her demand may be the product of a deranged mind.’
Bartholomew regarded the monk doubtfully. ‘I am not so sure, Brother. I was under the impression that she and Gosse think we have some specific item that they believe belongs to them. Neither sounded confused to me.’
Michael waved a dismissive hand. ‘Well, we do not have it, whatever it is. I have already asked all seven Colleges and hostels whether any of their members have been to Clare recently, but none have. I repeat: there are no connections between these felons and their Cambridge victims.’
‘Perhaps you had better pass their request to our colleagues, anyway,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Or they may corner someone else – someone who does not carry childbirth forceps in his bag, and who might be rather more intimidated by them.’
Michael agreed. ‘Very well. You know, Matt, I have met many scoundrels since becoming a proctor, some of them extremely dangerous. But I do not think I have ever encountered anyone who unsettles me to the same extent as Idoma. There is definitely something sinister about her.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘There is, but I cannot decide what. It cannot just be her shark-fish eyes; there is something else, too. Could it be that she is extremely large?’
‘Possibly. I grabbed one of her arms when I interviewed her once, and it was like gripping iron – she is strong as well as sizeable. You should steer clear of her and Gosse from now on. I have my beadles to protect me, but you are often out alone.’
‘You think they could best me?’ asked Bartholomew, smiling. ‘A deadly veteran of Poitiers?’
‘It is not funny,’ said Michael sternly. ‘You are a fool if you underestimate the threat they pose.’
‘I do not underestimate them. But equally, I will not let them unnerve me again – it is what they want, and I do not intend to play that game. But Wynewyk is more important than them, and it is time to bury him. Come, or we will be late.’
The weather suited the occasion as Michaelhouse’s scholars gathered outside the church. The clouds were a dense, unbroken grey, and rain fell in misty veils, blown this way and that by a determined wind. In their uniform black cloaks and tabards they formed a sombre group as they processed to the grave, accompanied by no sound except the tolling of a bell. Once there, Bartholomew listened to the sorrowful, moving eulogy delivered by Clippesby, and found himself inventing all manner of improbable explanations that would see Wynewyk absolved of any wrongdoing. When Clippesby had finished, the servants lowered the coffin into the ground.
‘He might as well be buried at sea,’ muttered Thelnetham – the drizzle had formed a deep puddle at the bottom of the grave. ‘Still, perhaps it will serve to quench the fires of Hell, because that is where he is bound. God does not approve of men who cheat their colleagues.’
‘We should wait until we have all the facts before condemning him,’ said Bartholomew coldly. Thelnetham was a relative newcomer, so what right did he have to judge Wynewyk?
‘If you say so,’ replied Thelnetham, adjusting the hood of his Gilbertine habit to keep the rain from his eyes. ‘But if he was innocent, why did he go to such lengths to conceal what he was doing?’
‘This is neither the time nor the place for such a discussion,’ chided Langelee, raising a hand to prevent the physician from responding. ‘Save your opinions for the Statutory Fellows’ Meeting tomorrow afternoon, where the matter will be aired in full.’
A number of people, including Chancellor Tynkell, a contingent of soldierly ex-lovers from the castle, and a small group of scholars from King’s Hall, had come to pay their respects at Wynewyk’s graveside. Hospitably, Langelee invited them back to the College for wine and honey cakes. Among the guests was Warden Powys.
‘Thank you for tending Shropham last night, Bartholomew,’ he said quietly. ‘It is a dreadful business, and I agree with Paxtone that there will be some rational explanation for what has happened. I have known Shropham for years, and he has never been violent before.’
‘He is malleable, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He told me he runs errands for the rest of you – teaching classes you dislike, sharpening your quills …’
‘He is not made to do those things,’ said Powys, a little defensively. ‘He pesters us until we agree to let him. We do not feel entirely comfortable with it, but it seems to make him happy. And we are all busy men, so you cannot blame us for taking advantage of what is freely offered.’
‘Why does he do it?’ asked Bartholomew. It was odd behaviour for a senior scholar.
‘I really have no idea. And it has been going on for so long that I no longer give it any thought.’
‘Did you ever meet the Dominican he killed? Carbo?’
Powys grimaced at his choice of words. ‘No, I had never seen Carbo before. And I took several Fellows to view his corpse in the Black Friars’ chapel today, but they did not know him, either. Prior Morden says Carbo is not one of his own people, so he must be a visitor. Ergo, there is no reason for Shropham to have …’ He waved his hand, not sure how to describe what had occurred.
‘If there is an explanation, Michael will find it,’ promised Bartholomew, seeing the unhappiness in the Warden’s face, and sympathising. It was how he felt about Wynewyk.
‘I visited Shropham earlier,’ said Powys miserably. ‘But he declined to talk to me. What is wrong with him? Could he have a brain fever?’
‘He does not seem ill,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘Just tired and sad.’
Powys’s expression was pained. ‘Paxtone may have to contest your opinion about that, if the Black Friars clamour for him to be hanged. The murder of a priest is a serious matter, and a plea of insanity may be the only way to save him. We do not want him executed.’
Bartholomew watched him move away, wondering to what lengths he would go to save his colleague. Would Michaelhouse do the same for Wynewyk? Would a tale be invented to explain the missing money, which would absolve him from any wrongdoing? He rubbed his head, and wished with all his heart that Wynewyk was alive to explain himself.
When the guests had gone, Langelee deci
ded the rest of the day was to be dedicated to lessons, despite the fact that it was Sunday, when learning was usually suspended.
‘We must resume the semblance of normality as soon as possible,’ he said, looking around at his Fellows and ignoring the fact that teaching on the Sabbath was not normal at all. Then, in one of his legendary leaps of logic, he added, ‘I do not want it said that Wynewyk was the victim of foul play.’
‘Why would anyone say that?’ asked Michael suspiciously.
‘Because Bartholomew informed Paxtone that Wynewyk was poisoned,’ Langelee replied, shooting the physician a pained glance. ‘Warden Powys just told me.’
‘I said nothing of the kind,’ objected Bartholomew indignantly. ‘I mentioned Wynewyk’s aversion to nuts, but Paxtone said it was excessive hilarity that carried Wynewyk away: he thinks it brought about a fatal imbalance of humours.’
‘And which of these two theories is correct?’ asked Suttone worriedly.
‘I do not know,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘I thought the almonds had killed him at first, but perhaps Paxtone is right and it is too outlandish a—’
‘He died of a seizure brought on by laughter,’ said Michael firmly. He glared at the physician. ‘It is what we agreed, and it is what we shall tell anyone else who asks.’
‘Well, he had a lot to laugh about,’ said Langelee bitterly. ‘Thirty marks successfully stolen.’
‘Perhaps God struck him down,’ suggested Thelnetham. ‘I imagine He does not approve of thieves who gloat over their spoils, especially ones who do it in front of their victims.’
‘I do not believe that,’ said Clippesby, bending down to pick up the College cat, which had come to wind itself around his legs. ‘Wynewyk did not steal from us – he was our friend. And, if it is not too much to ask, I would rather no one voiced uncharitable thoughts about him until Brother Michael has proved his innocence. Which I know he will.’
‘Our students are waiting,’ said Langelee, bringing an abrupt end to the discussion. ‘We shall take their minds off this dismal occasion with lessons, and Michael can resume his enquiries into Wynewyk’s crimes tomorrow.’
It was late by the time the Master decided the students had been taught enough that day, by which point their heads were spinning and their masters were exhausted. Agatha had cooked pea pottage for supper, but it was full of peculiar lumps – she claimed they were apple, but they were hard and tasteless, and Bartholomew suspected they were the cattle fodder that had mysteriously gone missing the previous week.
‘Wynewyk has a lot to answer for,’ muttered Michael, glowering at his bowl. ‘We made good money from the sale of Sewale Cottage last summer, and we also have a tidy income from renting out the shops we bought from Mistress Refham. We should be living like kings, not eating this slop.’
‘And that is something we should have thought about weeks ago,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘The quality of food has been declining for months and Agatha is always saying she does not have enough money to make ends meet. We should have guessed far sooner that something was amiss.’
Michael glowered at him. ‘I hope you are not suggesting that it is our fault Wynewyk stole from us? That had we been more vigilant, it would not have happened?’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Why not? It is true. We all noticed the decline in the quality of meals, and we all complained. But none of us bothered to investigate.’
‘That is complete and utter nonsense!’ exploded Michael, loudly enough to draw disapproving glances from his colleagues. Talking at meals was overlooked if done discreetly, but yelling was not. He lowered his voice. ‘It did not occur to me to investigate, because it did not occur to me that a colleague – a man I liked and trusted – would cheat us.’
‘Enough, Bartholomew,’ said Langelee, when the physician opened his mouth to reply. ‘I told you at the churchyard – save your opinions for the Statutory Fellows’ Meeting tomorrow. Our students have long ears, and I do not want them overhearing something we would all rather they did not.’
He had a point, and Bartholomew did not want Wynewyk to become the subject of scurrilous rumours. He turned his attention to the pottage and found himself glad the rigours of the day had robbed him of his appetite, because it was almost inedible and certainly lacking in any nutritional benefit. He was not the only one who toyed listlessly with it until the servants took the dishes away.
When Langelee had said a final grace in his appalling Latin, which, as usual, entailed leaving out words he did not like the look of or substituting for them ones of his own devising, the Fellows adjourned to the conclave, leaving the hall to the students. Neither gathering was very merry.
‘I will ask the rats about the accounts, Brother,’ offered Clippesby. Bartholomew could see a whiskery nose protruding from the Dominican’s sleeve, and hoped he had not brought one to the conclave. He did not mind most of Clippesby’s ‘friends’, but he drew the line at rats. ‘They have an eye for figures, and will prove Wynewyk was doing no wrong.’
‘You think everyone is good, Clippesby,’ said Michael. He made no comment about the rats’ fiscal abilities – he had learned it was best to leave such declarations unchallenged, because acknowledging them invariably resulted in a rash of theories and remarks that should have seen the Dominican incarcerated for his own safety. ‘But the world is a wicked place.’
‘People are wicked,’ corrected Clippesby. ‘Animals are not. Incidentally, the spiders did not see anyone steal your pennyroyal, Matt. You asked me whether I knew anything about it.’
‘Lord!’ breathed Thelnetham. He was still not used to Clippesby, and found him unsettling. ‘You talk to spiders? I thought you confined yourself to creatures with fur or feathers.’
‘Spiders have fur,’ averred Clippesby. ‘Next time you meet one, have a closer look.’
Thelnetham shuddered and made no reply.
Bartholomew was usually tolerant of Clippesby’s idiosyncrasies, far more so than the other Fellows, but he was not in the mood for them that night. He made his excuses to Langelee, and left the College. He was worried about his sister, and wanted to make sure she had not mounted her own investigation into Joan’s untimely death.
‘I cannot stop thinking about her,’ said Edith without preamble when he arrived. She was sitting by the fire, shivering, even though the room was hot. ‘She was murdered. Why will you not believe me?’
Bartholomew regarded her unhappily. ‘You have let her husband’s claims unsettle you. Elyan was upset and angry, and said things he did not mean. You heard what his grandmother—’
‘He is right to be suspicious. Someone gave Joan pennyroyal, encouraging her to drink it by saying it would strengthen her blood or some such nonsense. She took it in good faith, and died for her trusting nature.’
‘But she did not know anyone in Cambridge,’ Bartholomew pointed out reasonably. ‘Other than you. Why would she drink a potion offered by a stranger?’
Edith glared at him. ‘If you gave me a tonic, telling me it would benefit my well-being, I would swallow it without question. So would any of your patients, whether they are intimately acquainted with you or not.’
‘You think a physician hurt her?’ Bartholomew was shocked. ‘Paxtone or Rougham? Or me?’
‘Of course not, but there are plenty of other folk who dabble in matters of health – witches, wise-women, midwives, apothecaries and even priests. Perhaps one of them did it.’
‘But why? Joan came to Cambridge to buy ribbon. Surely she cannot have made enemies—’
‘She did not have enemies. But Elyan might have done – perhaps someone wanted to ensure he never had his heir.’
‘So the culprit followed Joan all the way from Haverhill, with the express purpose of damaging her unborn child?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘That does not sound very likely.’
‘Or perhaps the priest did it,’ Edith went on, ignoring him. ‘Neubold. Why else would he fail to come to her deathbed? Because he killed her!’
&nbs
p; ‘Easy,’ said Bartholomew, thinking she was letting her imagination run riot. ‘No one killed Joan, and there will be a perfectly rational explanation for the absence of this cleric.’
‘How do you know?’ demanded Edith angrily. ‘You have no idea what kind of life Joan lived in Haverhill. She and Elyan might have accrued some very dangerous foes.’
‘Did she mention any?’
‘No,’ admitted Edith. ‘But perhaps she was oblivious to the malice they bore her. She was a kind, loving person, always eager to see the good in people. She even said nice things about Osa Gosse, and we all know he does not deserve it.’
‘She knew him?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, thinking about Michael’s notion that Gosse might have stolen the missing pennyroyal.
‘She recognised him as an inhabitant of Clare, which is not far from Haverhill, apparently. They exchanged words.’
‘Hostile ones?’
‘No. It was mostly pleasantries about the weather and Cambridge’s pretty churches, but then Gosse began to hint that he wanted her to buy him some Market Square trinkets – for his sister, he said. He is not poor, and I did not see why she should buy him anything.’
‘Then what?’ asked Bartholomew, when she paused.
‘It does not matter,’ said Edith, looking away. ‘You have enough to worry about.’
‘Then what?’ repeated Bartholomew.
Edith sighed. ‘I shall tell you, but it really was nothing, and I do not want you doing anything you might later regret. Gosse and Idoma frighten me, and—’
‘Edith!’ said Bartholomew, exasperated. ‘What happened next?’
Edith sighed a second time. ‘I took her arm and pulled her away, to bring an end to the discussion. Gosse objected, presumably because he thought Joan was about to capitulate, and he … found a way to express his disappointment.’
‘How?’ asked Bartholomew, feeling anger begin to boil inside him. It was one thing for Gosse to corner him in secluded alleys, but another altogether to pick on his beloved sister.
A Vein Of Deceit: The Fifteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 14
