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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘Actually, he did not go to Winwick,’ said Risleye. His expression was smug. ‘He made me swear not to tell anyone, but I am released from that promise now he is dead. Am I not?’

  Bartholomew stared at him. ‘He did go. He brought back a lot of earthenware jugs – enough to replace all the ones that were cracked. Their design is alien to Cambridge, and—’

  ‘I did not say he did not leave Cambridge, I said he did not go to Winwick,’ corrected Risleye pedantically. ‘I was visiting friends in Babraham, you see, and there was a hailstorm. I ducked inside a tavern, and there was Wynewyk, also sheltering from the weather. Babraham is south-east of Cambridge, but Winwick is a long way west, as Tesdale pointed out.’

  ‘So?’ demanded Tesdale. ‘Perhaps he decided to take the scenic route.’

  ‘In completely the opposite direction?’ demanded Risleye archly. ‘He winked at me, and said his father had been dead for years – it was actually an old flame who needed the visit. He gave me a shilling, and we agreed not to mention the matter again. A pact between gentlemen.’

  ‘But only until death,’ said Valence, eyeing him in disgust. ‘At which point, you reveal his private business to the first people who ask. There is nothing of the gentleman about you, Risleye.’

  ‘Give your patient the soup,’ ordered Bartholomew, seeing Risleye gird himself up for a spat. ‘Slowly – a little at a time. And check the size of his pupils again.’

  While the students did as he ordered, Bartholomew recalled that Michael had given Wynewyk money for his journey, sorry for a colleague rushing to a father’s sickbed. Was Risleye telling the truth about what had transpired in Babraham? Bartholomew thought he was – the lad had no reason to lie – and wondered what his colleague could have been doing. He did not believe Wynewyk would have accepted Michael’s charity to frolic with a lover; Wynewyk, he decided, had spun Risleye a yarn he thought the lad would believe in order to secure his silence. So what was the truth? He had no idea, and could only hope that all would become clear when they made their enquiries in Suffolk.

  It was early evening by the time Bartholomew and his students left the Dominican Friary, and lamps were lit in the wealthiest homes. In most, though, doors and windows were open to catch the last of the daylight. It let in the cold, but candles were expensive, and most folk could not afford to use them as long as it was light outside. Rich smells wafted out as meals were prepared over hearths, mostly root vegetables that had been stewing over the embers all day, perhaps with a few bones for flavour. In the Market Square, many of the bakers’ ovens were cold, suggesting grain was already scarce and only the affluent were going to have bread to dip in their pottage that night.

  Supper had finished when they reached Michaelhouse, and the Fellows were gathering in the conclave. Bartholomew was loath to join them, knowing the topic of conversation would be Wynewyk and the wrongs he had perpetrated on his trusting colleagues. He decided to visit his sister instead, to tell her he was going to Suffolk and would ask questions about Joan on her behalf.

  Edith nodded her satisfaction that he was finally taking her concerns seriously. She mulled some wine, and they sat next to the roaring fire, listening to the wind rattle the window shutters. The wood released the scent of pine as it burned, combining pleasantly with the aroma of the cloves and ginger that were tied in small bags around the house – a common precaution against winter fevers. He was warm and content, and might have been happy, were it not for Wynewyk and the nagging fear that Edith might do something reckless in her quest to understand why her friend had died. And he missed Matilde, of course, but he had come to accept that as a hurt that would never go away.

  ‘There is a condition,’ he said, sipping the wine and thinking Matilde would have liked it, because it was heavily laced with cinnamon: ‘That Cynric stays with you.’

  ‘There is no need – Oswald’s apprentices are here, not to mention the burgesses he charged to watch me. Indeed, I think he ordered half the town to keep me from danger.’

  ‘It is the other half I am worried about,’ said Bartholomew.

  ‘Then perhaps I shall come with you to Haverhill,’ said Edith slyly. ‘You can look after me, and I can ask my own questions about Joan.’

  ‘Absolutely not! Oswald would never forgive me if he came home to find you gone.’

  ‘But I must do something! The more I think about it, the more I am certain Joan was murdered.’

  ‘There is no evidence to suggest—’

  ‘There is evidence – my testimony. Joan was delighted about the child, and would not have tried to rid herself of it. And nor would she have merrily downed a tonic without first assessing what was in it, so her death was not an accident, either. Therefore, the only option left is murder: someone gave her the pennyroyal, intending to cause her harm.’

  ‘It is possible,’ said Bartholomew, more to calm her than because he believed it. ‘Of course, if she was selective about what she drank, we must assume she accepted the potion from someone she knew and trusted. Yet she was a virtual stranger here.’

  ‘And that is why I must visit Suffolk. The killer followed her here, gave her the potion and left when it killed her. He is at home now, smug in the belief that no one will ever catch him.’

  ‘How odd it is that everything seems to lead to Suffolk,’ said Bartholomew, more to himself than Edith. ‘Wynewyk did business there, it was Joan’s home, and Shropham killed one of its priests – who also happens to be the lawyer for another Suffolk man, namely Osa Gosse.’

  ‘You think all these things are connected?’ Edith was bemused.

  ‘Perhaps, although I cannot see how. The other common element is coal. Carbo had some sewn in his habit, Wynewyk bought some from Elyan …’

  Edith nodded vigorously. ‘And Joan told me that Elyan’s priest – Neubold – came here to sell coal to King’s Hall, which was what afforded her the opportunity to travel in the first place.’

  ‘Did you ever meet Neubold?’ asked Bartholomew, supposing that if Edith was right and Joan had been murdered, then Carbo was the obvious suspect – he had been in Cambridge when she had swallowed the pennyroyal, and had failed to respond when he had been summoned.

  ‘Briefly, before Joan died. Afterwards, I asked for him at the Brazen George, but the landlord said he had gone – disappeared.’ Her eyes narrowed when she saw what he was thinking. ‘You suspect he is her killer? But when I suggested him as a culprit on Sunday, you dismissed the notion.’

  Bartholomew rubbed his eyes. ‘I will ask questions about him in Suffolk,’ he replied vaguely.

  Edith was thoughtful. ‘I went to King’s Hall after my enquiries in the tavern. Warden Powys told me Neubold had finished his business there sooner than anticipated and has not been seen since.’

  Bartholomew rubbed his chin. It was common knowledge that Elyan had sent his priest to negotiate with King’s Hall, so why had the Warden, Paxtone and Shropham denied knowing Carbo? Had Shropham killed him over a contract for coal? He had negotiated too hard a bargain, and the scholars had decided that King’s Hall’s interests would better be served if he was dead? And had they then agreed to a conspiracy of silence about it?

  ‘Neubold is dead,’ he said. ‘Shropham killed him.’

  Edith looked doubtful. ‘I thought Shropham had stabbed a fellow called Carbo.’

  ‘They are one and the same. Yolande told me.’

  Edith looked startled. ‘Then Yolande told you wrong! There is a similarity in their build, hair and facial features – and both are Dominicans – but Neubold is elegant and well-groomed, while Carbo was a beggar. And how could you think that Elyan would send a scruffy, half-mad hedge-priest to represent him to the scholars of King’s Hall? Or that Joan would travel in such company?’

  ‘But Yolande saw Carbo talking to the King’s Hall men, and—’

  ‘Yolande would have seen Neubold. I imagine what happened is this: she heard Shropham had stabbed a visiting Dominican, and made an erroneous assumption �
�� that he killed the priest she saw him chatting to. But she is mistaken, and you have let her lead you astray.’

  ‘I …’

  But she was right: of course Carbo and Neubold could not be the same person, and her scornful words made Bartholomew feel a fool for ever having thought so. He had set too much store by a letter from Withersfield and the coal in Carbo’s habit, and they had led him to conclusions that were, as Edith pointed out, preposterous. Moreover, it meant the King’s Hall men had not been lying when they had denied knowing Carbo. He closed his eyes wearily when he saw that he and Michael would have to revise all their reasoning regarding the murdered friar.

  Edith was reviewing her theories, too. ‘I know I suggested on Sunday that Neubold might have harmed Joan, but I have reconsidered – I do not believe a trusted clerk would have poisoned his master’s wife. So perhaps Neubold witnessed Joan being plied with pennyroyal, and was killed to ensure his silence. And that is why he has disappeared so mysteriously.’

  ‘You said you had not seen Joan in years. People change, Edith.’

  Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘What are you saying? I do not understand.’

  ‘Everyone knows first pregnancies can be difficult, and that the mother – especially an older one – must take precautions. She is advised to eat certain foods, avoid others. She needs rest, so that exertion does not prematurely expel the child from her body. Joan was rich, well placed to do all this.’

  ‘So?’ asked Edith, when he paused.

  ‘So why did she risk a long journey for a few bits of cloth? Why not send a servant for the ribbons? And why go with only a priest for protection? Do you not think it a little strange?’

  Edith stared at him for a long time. ‘You think the journey was an attempt to rid herself of the baby – and she swallowed pennyroyal when it did not work?’

  ‘It is possible. You should be aware that Joan may not have been entirely honest with you.’

  Edith continued to stare. ‘She seemed the same. I confided in her – told her about you and Matilde. Do not look dismayed! I felt like sharing something personal, and I do not have any interesting secrets of my own. Oswald and I lead very staid lives.’

  ‘You could have told her about Richard,’ he said tartly, referring to her wayward son. ‘Did you persuade him to abandon his tryst with the Earl of Suffolk’s daughter, by the way?’

  ‘No,’ she replied stiffly. ‘And he says the baby is not his, although the Earl does not believe him.’

  ‘Christ!’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘I am sure Joan would have found that a lot more interesting.’

  ‘Will you ask after Matilde when you visit Haverhill?’ asked Edith, deftly changing the subject. ‘You searched for her in distant places, but perhaps she did not go far. She might be in Suffolk.’

  Bartholomew thought it unlikely, but part of him hoped Edith was right: that one day he would find Matilde, and she would agree to become his wife. But it was a hope that was too deeply personal to talk about, so he mumbled a vague reply about the trail being cold after so long.

  ‘You should go,’ said Edith, seeing she was going to be told no more. ‘It is late and you have a long journey tomorrow. And I have heard the rumours that say you are a formidable warrior these days, but we both know they are untrue. Take Cynric with you – you need him, I do not.’

  The following day, Bartholomew awoke to find his book-bearer packing a bag with items he thought might be needed for the foray into Suffolk; his dark face was alight with excitement, and he was clearly looking forward to the adventure. Meanwhile, the physician’s room-mates were groaning and pulling blankets over their heads, because dawn was still some way off, but Cynric was creating enough racket to raise the dead. Bartholomew was a heavy sleeper, and the fact that he had been disturbed was testament to the rumpus Cynric was making.

  ‘That should do,’ declared the book-bearer eventually, sitting back to inspect his handiwork. ‘We will not be gone long, anyway. My wife wants me home in four days, because her mother is coming to stay.’ He reflected for a moment. ‘But we can take longer, if you like.’

  Bartholomew prised himself out of bed, and looked in the bag. There was not much in it, because Cynric was of the opinion that clean clothes were a waste of time when travelling on muddy roads. He had, however, packed a variety of items that could be used as weapons, including a selection of knives, a length of rope and a piece of lead piping. Yawning, Bartholomew dressed and went to wait for Michael in the yard. It was drizzling and still pitch dark. After a moment, Langelee appeared.

  ‘I did a stupid thing yesterday,’ he said, rubbing his hands to warm them. ‘I asked Clippesby to sort through Wynewyk’s belongings, because everyone else was busy. Do you know what he claims to have found? Copies of letters to noblemen, asking if they would like to buy some diamonds.’

  Bartholomew regarded him in surprise. ‘Wynewyk had no diamonds!’

  Langelee grimaced. ‘Clippesby was in the process of burning these so-called missives when I happened across him. He said the College cat had told him to do it, to protect Wynewyk’s reputation. God only knows what he really destroyed.’

  ‘Perhaps I should talk to him before we go,’ said Bartholomew anxiously.

  ‘Please do,’ said Langelee. ‘He has been up all night, doing something in the library.’

  He made it sound sinister, and Bartholomew hurried to the hall in alarm. Clippesby had lit a lamp and was sitting at a table. The physician faltered. The last time he had seen the Dominican at that desk he had been talking to a jar of moths, berating them for eating Michaelhouse’s linen.

  Clippesby jumped when he realised someone was behind him. ‘You startled me,’ he said with a smile. ‘What is the matter? Can you not sleep?’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Clippesby gestured to the book that lay in front of him. ‘Reading. What else would I be doing in here?’

  Bartholomew did not like to imagine. He peered over the Dominican’s shoulder and saw Aquinas’s Cathena aurea, a standard biblical commentary. Clippesby was halfway through it.

  ‘I often read at night,’ Clippesby went on. ‘It is the only time I can be guaranteed peace and quiet. I begin Aquinas with my third-years next week, and I wanted to refresh my memory. But I suspect you are not here to discuss teaching. I imagine Langelee told you what I found in Wynewyk’s room.’

  Bartholomew nodded, thinking Clippesby was often perfectly sane when they were alone together, and it was only the presence of others that seemed to bring out the mischief in him. That morning, there was not an animal in sight and the notes he had jotted on a scrap of parchment pertained to serious theological issues.

  ‘Langelee promised not to say anything,’ Clippesby went on. His voice was uncharacteristically bitter. ‘But I suppose he thinks a vow to a madman does not count.’

  Bartholomew was not sure what to say, because Clippesby was right: his eccentric behaviour did mean his colleagues often declined to afford him the courtesies they extended to others. He settled for a shrug, thinking the Dominican had only himself to blame.

  ‘I should have kept quiet,’ Clippesby continued. ‘But he caught me feeding parchments to the flames, and demanded an explanation. He was furious.’

  ‘He had every right to be. You have no business burning documents that might explain what Wynewyk had been doing.’

  ‘The cat suggested I light the fire—’

  ‘Stop,’ ordered Bartholomew. ‘Do not play this game with me, John. We both know you are only pretending to be fey in order to avoid difficult questions. What did the letters say?’

  Clippesby grimaced. ‘They asked whether certain people would be interested in buying diamonds. But you know Wynewyk is innocent, so you understand why I destroyed them. I was trying to protect his good name – to prevent the others from obtaining more ammunition to use against him.’

  ‘What “certain people”?’ demanded Bartholomew, more interested in the letters than Clippesby’s conc
erns about their colleagues.

  ‘The Earl of Suffolk, the Bishop of Lincoln. Important men, rich men.’

  ‘You told Langelee these letters were copies. Does that mean the originals have been sent?’

  Clippesby nodded unhappily. ‘I believe so. The abbreviations and contractions in the documents I found suggest they were being kept as a record, to remind the author of what had been said.’

  Bartholomew was bemused. ‘Did he say where these diamonds were supposed to come from?’

  ‘No. Langelee’s first thought was that he was selling them for Gosse, who is almost certainly responsible for the theft of precious stones from around the University. But he must be wrong.’

  ‘So you do not think Wynewyk had diamonds to sell?’

  ‘If he did, then they are not in his room.’ Clippesby hesitated, and Bartholomew saw no trace of madness now, only sorrow. ‘After I had burned the letters and had my set-to with Langelee, I returned to Wynewyk’s room and resumed packing up his belongings. And it was then that I found something else – something even more disturbing.’

  ‘What?’ prompted Bartholomew, when the Dominican paused again.

  ‘A purse with the strings cut. It contained a few coins, and a schedule of camp-ball games.’

  Bartholomew gazed at him, not liking the implications of that discovery. ‘Wynewyk watched camp-ball if one of his lovers was playing.’

  Clippesby reached into the scrip at his side, and pulled something out. The purse was grubby, manly and large, and certainly not something the fastidious Wynewyk would have owned.

  ‘He must have come by it after Langelee was attacked,’ said Bartholomew, refusing to believe what the evidence was telling him.

  Clippesby would not meet his eyes. ‘The word is that Langelee was ambushed by someone slight, who wore a scholar’s tabard. It was also someone who was very specific about selecting his victim – he let others pass unmolested before launching his assault.’

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew, shaking his head. ‘Wynewyk did not stab Langelee.’