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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘He gave it to a friend,’ Thelnetham snapped back. ‘One of his lovers. God knows, I like the company of a gentleman myself, but at least I do not favour ruffians. I was appalled by some of the louts he entertained – men I would not have deigned to notice.’

  There was an uncomfortable silence, and Bartholomew was not sure whether the observation said more about Wynewyk’s choice of partners, or Thelnetham’s unappealing snobbery.

  ‘Well, I do not believe it,’ said Clippesby eventually, setting the hedgehog on the table and scratching his hands. Bartholomew recalled reading somewhere that hedgehogs were full of fleas, and felt himself grow itchy. ‘Wynewyk’s dishonesty, I mean. Could it be poor accounting? His arithmetic was lacking?’

  ‘Unfortunately not,’ replied Michael. ‘He definitely used College money to purchase goods we never received. For example, since August he has passed Henry Elyan eighteen marks for coal.’

  ‘But we never use coal,’ Suttone pointed out, puzzled. ‘And eighteen marks is enough to fuel a furnace – which we do not have.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Michael. ‘And he gave Hugh d’Audley, Elyan’s neighbour, seven marks for wood.’

  ‘That is a lot of timber,’ mused Thelnetham. ‘But our sheds are virtually empty, and he told me only last week that we need to fill them before winter sets in. He said he was worried about where the money would come from, and I was sympathetic. What a scoundrel!’

  ‘And finally,’ said Michael, ‘he paid Roger Luneday of Withersfield five marks for pigs.’

  ‘Are there any other irregularities?’ asked Suttone.

  ‘One or two,’ replied Michael. ‘But the payments to Elyan, d’Audley and Luneday make up the bulk of the missing money. Those transactions total thirty marks.’

  ‘Does anyone know these men?’ asked Thelnetham. ‘I have never heard of them.’

  ‘I met Elyan and d’Audley when they came to collect Elyan’s dead wife,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘I do not know Luneday, though. Do you think they were blackmailing Wynewyk for—’

  ‘You are grasping at straws,’ interrupted Thelnetham curtly. ‘No one was blackmailing him. However, it would not surprise me to learn that he did not provide these Suffolk men with anything – that he has been pocketing the money for himself.’

  Uncomfortably, Bartholomew recalled Paxtone’s tale about Wynewyk’s plan to buy new law books. But he did not believe the two could be connected, and stubbornly pushed it from his mind.

  ‘Perhaps he chose Haverhill and Withersfield because they are so far away,’ suggested Suttone tentatively. ‘They are difficult to visit, so it will not be easy to verify what is going on. If I am right, I imagine he was horrified when Elyan arrived in Cambridge to claim a dead wife.’

  ‘Hah!’ exclaimed Thelnetham triumphantly. ‘Now I understand what happened.’

  ‘What?’ asked Langelee warily, when the Gilbertine paused for dramatic effect.

  ‘Think about it for a moment,’ said Thelnetham. ‘Elyan collected Joan’s body on Saturday, which is the day Wynewyk died. So, I put it to you that our felonious Fellow spotted Elyan in town, and was terrified that he was about to be exposed. He attended the debate, but was so agitated that he began to laugh wildly – and this false hilarity brought on the seizure that killed him.’

  ‘It is medically possible, I suppose,’ conceded Bartholomew, when everyone turned to look at him. ‘But—’

  ‘Damn the man!’ cried Langelee suddenly, bringing his sceptre down with such force that splinters flew. All his scholars jumped in alarm, and Hemmysby, who was closest, put his head in his hands and made a whimpering sound. ‘How could he leave us in such a wretched mess?’

  ‘Because he was a selfish brute,’ said Thelnetham, before anyone else could speak. ‘And I am glad he is dead, for we are well rid of him. But we should not squander any more of our precious time debating what happened to him, because I, for one, do not care. We should concentrate on deciding what to do about our missing thirty marks.’

  ‘Oh, I know how to resolve that,’ said Langelee, inspecting the damage to the table with a puzzled frown, as if he could not imagine how it had happened. ‘Michael and Bartholomew will go to Suffolk, meet Elyan, d’Audley and Luneday, and ask if they have our money. And if they do, they will demand it back again.’

  That evening, Bartholomew went to visit Isnard the bargeman, to see whether he had recovered from the bad ale that had made him so sick the night before. He took Risleye, Valence and Tesdale with him, because the rota said it was their turn, although they were not very pleased – they were hoping to win a rather more interesting case.

  ‘I made a few enquiries about your missing pennyroyal,’ announced Risleye, as they walked along the towpath towards Isnard’s house. ‘You were alarmed when you first learned it had gone, but you have paid it scant attention since, and it is too important a matter to neglect.’

  Bartholomew felt his jaw drop. The lad was right: he should have spent more time assessing what had happened to the stuff – but it was not for a student to scold him about it, and he was on the verge of issuing a sharp reprimand when Valence spoke.

  ‘Your “enquiries” are nothing of the sort, Risleye. They are accusations without foundation.’

  ‘They are conclusions based on logic,’ Risleye flashed back. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘I have deduced that a servant is responsible. They have free access to every part of the College, and some of the substances in your room are worth a lot of money.’

  ‘Servants would not steal from a master,’ countered Tesdale. Then he frowned. ‘Would they?’

  ‘Sadly, some people will do anything for money,’ said Risleye. He glanced archly at his classmate. ‘Including you, Tesdale, so do not look so shocked. I know who made a whole two shillings from the sale of a remedy that had peacock feathers as a key ingredient.’

  ‘That was you?’ asked Bartholomew, dismayed.

  ‘No, it was not!’ declared Tesdale, but his face was red and he would not meet his teacher’s eyes. ‘I would never touch that nasty, greasy creature. It bites, for a start.’

  ‘You wore gloves,’ flashed Risleye. ‘I saw you.’

  ‘How could you, Tesdale?’ cried Valence, appalled. ‘That poor bird! How could you?’

  Bartholomew closed his eyes, and supposed he would have to apologise to Walter for mentioning the superstitious cure, thus encouraging a callous student to profit from it.

  ‘They will grow again,’ said Tesdale sullenly. ‘No harm was done – and it was an experiment, in the name of science. I wanted to conduct an empirical test, to ascertain the efficacy of—’

  ‘You wanted the two shillings,’ interjected Risleye. ‘And you cannot—’

  ‘Stop,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘If you persist in squabbling, you can go home.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Risleye keenly. ‘Does this mean we can claim the next case on the rota instead, then? It must – we have not seen Isnard yet, so this “visit” cannot count.’

  ‘Not so fast,’ ordered Bartholomew, as all three young men started back the way they had come. ‘I want you to take a sample of Isnard’s urine, and assess whether you think he needs more charcoal to balance his excess of yellow bile.’

  The students rolled their eyes, but followed him to the bargeman’s riverside cottage without further complaint. Isnard had made a miraculous recovery, given that he had been so wretchedly sick the night before. He was up and talking to Yolande de Blaston, who was known to supplement the family income by working as a Frail Sister. Bartholomew often wondered whether she might not have had fourteen children had she confined herself to the marriage bed.

  Yolande was cooking something over the hearth, although the rumpled bedcovers suggested she had provided her professional services first. Bartholomew marvelled at the bargeman’s capacity for regeneration, certain such violent vomiting would have laid most other men low for days.

  ‘Good evening, Doctor,’ smiled Yolande. ‘Would you like some
stew? It contains real meat – something Michaelhouse rarely sees these says, according to Agatha. She says you are destitute.’

  ‘You seem better, Isnard,’ said Bartholomew, ignoring the remark. He had gone out to escape College affairs, and did not want to discuss them with Yolande.

  ‘Much better,’ affirmed Isnard with a contented grin. ‘I am a little weak, but Yolande knows how to cope with a fellow’s temporary shortcomings. She is far more inventive than the other whores.’

  ‘Even though the twins are not long born, I am forced to work again,’ explained Yolande, while Bartholomew hoped she would not notice the way the students were sniggering at the bargeman’s blunt confidences. She had a fiery temper. ‘Food is dear, and we are worried about the winter.’

  ‘I will help,’ offered Isnard. ‘Especially if you do that again. I have never experienced anything quite like it. It is expensive, of course, but quality always costs, does it not, Doctor?’

  ‘I suppose it does,’ said Bartholomew, wondering what she had done.

  Isnard seemed to think he knew anyway, because he addressed the three pupils. ‘Never think you can keep secrets from your master, because he can read your innermost thoughts.’

  ‘Can he?’ asked Tesdale uncomfortably. He blushed furiously, and Bartholomew supposed he had allowed his imagination free rein as the bargeman had waxed lyrical about Yolande’s talents.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Isnard. ‘If I tell him I was in church when I was in a tavern, he always knows.’

  Bartholomew tended to know about Isnard’s drunken revelries because either they were the talk of the town, or he reeked of ale; there were certainly no uncanny abilities involved. But he saw his students would learn no new medicine now the bargeman was on the mend, so he indicated they could go. Risleye had the audacity to wink conspiratorially on the way out, clearly of the opinion that they were being dismissed so the physician could learn what Yolande had done for Isnard. Bartholomew did not know whether to be amused or irritated by the presumption.

  ‘I was sorry to hear about Wynewyk, Doctor,’ said Yolande, when the students had gone. She ladled stew into three bowls, and indicated that Isnard and Bartholomew were to join her at the table; evidently, her contract with the bargeman entailed being fed for her labours. ‘He was a good man, although he was never one of my regulars – I only saw him occasionally.’

  ‘Did you?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘I thought he preferred men.’

  ‘Oh, he did,’ said Yolande. ‘But we all like a bit of a change from time to time.’

  To stop himself wondering whether Wynewyk had financed his frolics with Yolande by cheating Michaelhouse, Bartholomew concentrated on the stew instead. It was delicious, and he realised how much he missed decent food. Matilde had been an excellent cook, and had often fed him when the College was going through one of its lean phases. As usual, thoughts of his lost love deprived him of his appetite. He set down his spoon.

  ‘I have never heard of anyone dying of laughter before,’ said Isnard, grabbing the physician’s bowl and finishing it himself. ‘Does Brother Michael not think Wynewyk’s death suspicious?’

  ‘It brought on a seizure,’ explained Bartholomew hastily, aware that Isnard and Yolande were both rather keen on gossip. ‘It is sad when it happens to a man in his prime, but it is not unknown.’

  ‘It is odd he talked to that priest, though,’ said Yolande. ‘Now he is dead, too.’

  ‘What priest?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘The Dominican,’ replied Yolande. ‘He called himself Carbo, although it was not his real name.’

  Isnard looked interested. ‘Do you know his real name? Only Brother Michael came to ask if I knew it yesterday, and I wish I could have told him. I like helping the man who conducts my choir.’

  ‘Your choir?’ asked Yolande, amused. Then she frowned as a thought occurred to her. ‘Can my husband join? He cannot sing, but the free bread after rehearsals would be very welcome.’

  ‘I will speak to Brother Michael,’ promised Isnard grandly. ‘I am sure there will be a place for Robert among the tenors. They cannot sing, either, so he will be in good company.’

  Bartholomew had no doubt at all that Blaston would be accepted, regardless of his musical abilities or lack thereof. Michael had a soft heart when it came to the poor, and it was common knowledge that the choir’s entire membership comprised men and boys – and even a few women – who desperately needed the post-practice refreshments. It was not common knowledge that he often paid for the victuals himself, however.

  ‘Tell me about Carbo and Wynewyk,’ prompted Bartholomew.

  ‘I saw them chatting together,’ obliged Yolande. ‘They were with Powys, Shropham and Paxtone from King’s Hall. Do you think Shropham killed Carbo, by the way? I do not – he is too meek.’

  Bartholomew’s thoughts were a chaotic jumble as he tried to make sense of what she was telling him. ‘The King’s Hall men said they had never met Carbo.’

  ‘Then they were not telling you the truth,’ said Yolande firmly. ‘Although they were talking like acquaintances who meet by chance, not like friends. I was touting for business, hoping Paxtone might hire me, and I edged quite close to them – close enough to hear what they were saying. They were going on about the weather and the price of coal. It was rather stilted, actually.’

  ‘Did Shropham look as though he knew Carbo? asked Bartholomew. ‘Address him by name? Or did Wynewyk?’

  ‘Not that I heard. Later that day, I saw Wynewyk with your sister’s friend, too – Joan. He was flirting with her in the Market Square, and they were laughing over ribbons.’

  Bartholomew was about to say that Wynewyk would not have flirted with a woman, but then he recalled Edith telling him the same thing. And there was Yolande’s earlier testimony to take into account – that Wynewyk liked the company of a lady on occasion. It made Bartholomew question how well he really had known his colleague, despite all the time they had spent confiding in each other.

  ‘Carbo and Joan travelled here together from Haverhill,’ Yolande was saying.

  ‘Carbo was Elyan’s priest?’ asked Isnard. ‘Then I do know his name! It is Neubold – Carbo Neubold, perhaps. I met him in the Brazen George, and we chatted for a while. You had better tell Brother Michael right away, Doctor. He is going to be pleased with me.’

  ‘He is,’ agreed Bartholomew, although the discovery raised more questions than answers. How could Elyan have employed such a fellow to represent him to King’s Hall? Or place his heavily pregnant wife in such hands? Of course, it explained why Joan was so eager to stay with Edith: Carbo had reeked, and would not have made for pleasant company. And that was before the lingering symptoms of his head injury were taken into account.

  ‘Carbo – it suits him better than Neubold – gave Paxtone some lovely little rocks,’ said Yolande chattily. ‘Paxtone told me they ease the pain of childbirth, so I filched one when he was not looking.’

  ‘You stole from him?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, watching her rummage in her purse for it.

  ‘Borrowed,’ she corrected. She shrugged when she saw his expression. ‘He rarely treats pregnant women, whereas I encounter them all the time. Who do you think will get more use out of it?’

  The stone she showed him was similar to the ones Bartholomew had inadvertently knocked out of Paxtone’s cupboard, and he wondered why the King’s Hall physician should have felt the need to lie when asked whether he had ever met the man Shropham was accused of killing.

  He walked home in a thoughtful frame of mind. Carbo’s real name was Neubold, the letter in his habit said he was from Withersfield, and he was Elyan’s priest and possibly Gosse’s lawyer. He had coal secreted in his robes, and Wynewyk had bought coal from Elyan. He had been seen talking to Shropham, who had later killed him. Connections were beginning to form thick and fast, and Bartholomew only hoped Michael would be able to make sense of them all, because he could not.

  The next day saw an improvement in th
e weather. The heaviest clouds lifted, and a frail, silvery light trickled through the few that remained. Bartholomew was heartened by the watery rays that illuminated the east window of St Michael’s Church, and began to hope that the rain and wind of the last few weeks were coming to an end.

  ‘I do not want to go to Suffolk,’ grumbled Michael, as Langelee led the procession back to the College for breakfast.

  ‘I do,’ said Bartholomew. He found he was looking forward to a respite from demanding students and too many patients. And there was the added bonus that he would be able to ask questions about Joan for Edith, which might make her less inclined to launch an investigation of her own.

  ‘But Suffolk is such a long way,’ moaned the monk.

  ‘Seventeen miles – half a day’s ride.’

  ‘Only if the roads are good, and they are probably knee deep in mud after all this rain. I know thirty marks is a lot of money, but is it worth our lives? Langelee wants us to leave today, you know.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ corrected Clippesby, coming to walk next to them. He had the College cat in his arms, which looked none too pleased to have been plucked from its domain and forced to spend part of its morning in church. ‘He has hired you horses from the Brazen George – stronger and younger than the College nags – but they are not available today.’

  ‘I suppose it gives us time to organise our teaching,’ said Michael. He glanced at Bartholomew. ‘And for you to warn your more grubby patients not to inflict themselves on Paxtone or Rougham in your absence. It would be a kindness – and not just to your colleagues.’

  ‘The Brazen George horses are experts on financial matters,’ said Clippesby. His hair was on end that morning, and his habit was not very clean. Wynewyk’s death had upset him badly, and Bartholomew suspected he was likely to be odder than usual until the shock had worn off. ‘They will advise you on the best way to reclaim the lost money. They told me.’

  ‘Lord!’ breathed Michael, as the Dominican stopped to exchange pleasantries with a dog. The cat decided this was too much, and freed itself with a hiss. ‘Should we really let him loose on students? God knows what he might teach them – he told me the other day that there is a good chance that St Paul was a donkey, and that he wrote his Letters in a stable. That is verging on heresy.’