‘Langelee was attacked two nights before he told you what he had discovered in the accounts,’ Clippesby pressed on. ‘And Wynewyk was out that particular evening, because the owls … because I saw him. It pains me to say it, but I think Wynewyk knew he was on the verge of being exposed, and tried to prevent it.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew again, aware that his voice shook.
Clippesby touched his arm sympathetically. ‘I still feel he would not cheat us, but he must really have wanted to keep his secrets, because to tackle Langelee …’
Bartholomew stared at the purse, thoughts churning wildly, and for some moments they stood in silence. Then Clippesby sketched a benediction at him, and returned to his reading. Bartholomew left the hall and walked slowly across the yard to where Langelee was inspecting the horses that had just been delivered from the Brazen George. The physician, who was not a skilled rider, regarded the snorting, stamping beasts with trepidation, and wondered whether it might be safer for him to walk.
‘Have you remembered anything else about the night you were attacked?’ he asked the Master.
Langelee patted the neck of a large, black creature that had a distinctly malevolent look in its eyes. ‘I keep recalling flashes, but it was very dark. I saw an academic tabard, though. Black, like ours.’
Bartholomew swallowed hard. ‘You think it was Wynewyk. That is why you ordered Michael to forget about it – pretend it did not happen.’
Langelee turned towards him, and his expression was haggard. ‘I would like to believe I am mistaken – that I was too drunk to remember clearly – but I am deluding myself. Wynewyk did try to kill me, and he damn near succeeded.’
‘There must be an explanation—’
‘So you keep saying,’ interrupted Langelee bitterly. ‘But I think he knew what I had found in the accounts, and wanted to prevent me from telling anyone else. Moreover, I believe he stole my purse to make the assault look like a common robbery.’
‘Perhaps he just meant to frighten you,’ began Bartholomew tentatively. ‘He would not have—’
‘He did frighten me,’ snarled Langelee. ‘He frightened me into telling you what I had discovered as soon as I could get you alone for a few hours. And then what did he do? He laughed himself to death!’
It was fully light by the time Bartholomew, Michael, the three students and Cynric finally set out, mostly because Tesdale, never a morning person, proved difficult to prise out of bed.
‘We cannot be gone long,’ said Michael, more to himself than anyone else. ‘The Blood Relic debate is on Monday, and I would not miss that for the world. Not only am I one of the primary disputants, but I am worried that Gosse might use the opportunity to burgle empty Colleges and hostels. I need to be here to ensure he does not succeed.’
‘I do not think it will take five days to demand thirty marks from three Suffolk lords,’ said Bartholomew, struggling to mount his horse. ‘We should be home long before then.’
‘I hope we find answers there,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘When I first saw Carbo dead with Shropham’s knife in him, I thought the case was cut and dried. But now I am uncertain. I cannot put my finger on it, but there is something badly amiss.’
‘I do not understand your reservations,’ said Bartholomew, becoming frustrated by the nag’s refusal to stand still. It was the fierce black one, and he was not sure he agreed with Michael’s assessment that it was the most docile of the bunch. ‘Your Junior Proctor arrived very quickly, and he says no one else was in sight. Moreover, Shropham was injured, which suggests he was involved in some sort of spat.’
‘That is what the application of cold logic would dictate. But we both know things are seldom what they seem, and I am beginning to think there may be a good reason for Shropham’s bewildering silence. The problem is that unless he confides in me, I may never know what it is.’
‘Shropham is so quiet and unassuming that it is difficult to gain his true measure. Who knows what he is really like? I do not. Perhaps he is a killer, but has managed to conceal it – until now.’
‘There is also the issue of motive,’ continued Michael, lost in his reverie. ‘Why should Shropham stab Carbo? Edith says Carbo is not Neubold, so we must abandon the theory that it was something to do with King’s Hall’s negotiations for coal.’
‘Perhaps he did it because he could.’ Bartholomew managed to climb into the saddle at last, then hung on grimly while the horse pranced about. ‘I have just said he might be a natural killer.’
‘Or perhaps Carbo tried to blackmail Shropham,’ suggested Michael, seeing the physician was going to be thrown, and leaning forward to grab the reins. He glanced at the students, who were watching their master’s antics in open-mouthed disbelief; politely, Cynric was pretending not to notice. ‘That would explain why Shropham is now reluctant to explain why he stabbed the man.’
‘Then he will not thank you for trying to discover the secret he committed murder to hide,’ said Bartholomew, breathing a sigh of relief when Michael brought the animal under control. ‘He does not value his life, or he would have pleaded self-defence. But perhaps he will feel differently by the time we return – or we will have answers that make his silence irrelevant.’
‘Perhaps Paxtone is the killer,’ suggested Michael. Bartholomew looked sharply at him, and the monk shrugged as he handed back the reins. ‘It is just a suggestion.’
‘Based on what evidence?’ Bartholomew was shocked.
‘On the fact that Shropham has developed a rather unhealthy admiration for him, so might be prepared to take the blame for a crime his hero committed. Did you know he rinses Paxtone’s urine jars? I would not do that for you, and we are genuine friends.’
‘He debases himself by waiting on all the King’s Hall Fellows, not just Paxtone.’
‘I am just playing with ideas here, Matt. In the past one of us has proposed a wild theory, and the subsequent discussion has allowed us to deduce sensible answers. I hoped that would happen now.’
‘In other words, you are desperate.’ Bartholomew grabbed the horse’s mane when it began to buck again, and wished he had paid closer attention to the riding lessons he had been given as a child.
‘I cannot rid myself of the notion that Shropham is innocent. Do not ask why, when common sense, logic and the testimony of my Junior Proctor tell me otherwise. But it is a strong feeling, and I have learned not to ignore my instincts.’
‘We should go,’ said Valence, uneasy about the amount of time that was passing. ‘Or we run the risk of being out on unfamiliar roads after dark.’
‘I do not want to be out at all,’ said Tesdale fervently. ‘I will be useless in a skirmish. Kelyng was a veritable Ajax – almost as skilled as Doctor Bartholomew or Cynric with weapons – but I am not.’
‘You are good with a knife, though,’ said Risleye. He did not often compliment people, so Bartholomew assumed Tesdale must be outstanding. ‘Did you hear Kelyng’s parents have written to Master Langelee, by the way? They want to know why they have not heard from him since August.’
Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘To what extents a man will go to avoid his debts!’
‘I do not think he fled for debts,’ whispered Cynric to Bartholomew. ‘I think Wynewyk hired him as personal protection. But he found the work too dangerous, so he took to his heels while he was still able.’
‘Christ, Cynric!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, amazed, as always, by the Welshman’s capacity for devising wild theories. ‘How in God’s name did you come up with that?’
‘Because Kelyng was Wynewyk’s student,’ explained Cynric, unperturbed by his master’s less than positive reaction to his thesis. ‘And he is poor, so will do anything for money. Meanwhile, Wynewyk was busily cheating his colleagues, which means he would have felt vulnerable—’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew. He realised he should not be surprised that Cynric knew of Wynewyk’s alleged crimes, when only the Fellows were supposed to be party to the secret – the Welshman was
an inveterate eavesdropper. ‘Kelyng did not leave Cambridge because of Wynewyk.’
‘We shall see, boy,’ said Cynric comfortably.
Six riders represented quite a cavalcade in Cambridge’s narrow streets, and people stopped to look at them or call greetings as they rode past. Edith was waiting with a bag of food for their journey. She started to give it to Bartholomew, but changed her mind when she saw he was not in sufficient control of his horse to allow her to approach safely. Michael thrust out an eager paw, but she handed it to Cynric instead.
Then Paxtone hurried forward to assure Bartholomew – again – that he should not worry about his patients, that he was ready to step into the breach in the event of an emergency. Bartholomew smiled, but sincerely hoped the King’s Hall physician would not attempt to inflict his rigid, uninspired medicine on Cambridge’s hapless poor.
‘There is Gosse,’ muttered Michael, as they rode past the leafy churchyard of St Mary the Great. ‘And Idoma is with him. What are they doing?’
‘She is angry,’ said Bartholomew, watching the furious way she shoved her brother away from her. He declined to be repelled, and moved forward again each time he was pushed, all the while speaking in a low, calm voice. Idoma said nothing, but even from a distance Bartholomew could see the expression on her face was dark and dangerous. ‘And he is trying to soothe her.’
Michael grinned slyly. ‘I wonder if her ire stems from the fact that I thwarted an attempt to burgle Bene’t College last night.’
‘Did you?’ asked Bartholomew. Gosse seemed to be winning the battle; Idoma’s jostles were becoming less forceful. She still looked incensed, though, and the physician was glad their paths would not cross. ‘How?’
‘Beadle Meadowman reported two cunningly broken windows there – clearly, a villain had damaged them with a view to gaining easy access at some point in the future. I had them mended, and arranged for a couple of fierce dogs to be stationed nearby. There was a commotion at midnight, and a would-be burglar was seen running for his life.’
‘Was it Gosse? Or Idoma?’
‘Not Idoma – she is too large for scaling walls and squeezing through windows. But witnesses say the culprit was the right size for her brother. Of course, the sly devil was heavily disguised, and no one can identify him with certainty. Still, at least he did not manage to steal anything, and the fright he had may make him think twice before targeting other University buildings.’
‘Has he turned his attention to the town yet, or is he still only interested in what scholars own?’
‘The latter. Unfortunately, this has made him rather popular with the townsfolk: they applaud anyone who has the audacity to strike at us. It means that even if there are witnesses to his crimes, they are unlikely to come forward. And Gosse knows it. Indeed, it is probably why he picks on us.’
‘You do not think it is anything to do with the message he gave me – that we have something he believes belongs to him?’
Michael rubbed his chin. ‘Not really, Matt. He has cornered other scholars and made similar demands of them, too. But I believe it is a ruse to baffle the Senior Proctor. He is a clever man – unlike most criminals – and hopes to confound me with these curious claims.’
Bartholomew glanced to where Gosse was muttering in Idoma’s ear, having calmed her to the point where she no longer felt the need to shove him. She listened, nodding occasionally, but when she happened to glance towards the road her face became suffused with rage again. For one alarming moment, Bartholomew thought she was going to make a run at them, but she contented herself with a glare. Even so, the malice that blazed from her shark-fish eyes was disconcerting, and he felt a shiver run down his spine. Gosse turned to see what had attracted her attention, but the expression on his face was unreadable. Somehow, this was worse.
‘My beadles have laid traps in one or two other Colleges,’ said Michael, glancing in their direction, then contemptuously looking away, as if it was beneath him to acknowledge what he saw. ‘I doubt they will catch Gosse, but it will make life a little more difficult for him. And who knows? By the time we return, he may have decided that Cambridge is not worth his time.’
Bartholomew doubted it, and was not sure Michael was right to dismiss Gosse’s claim that the University had something that belonged to him. He regarded the pair unhappily, and wished Edith had not rejected his offer of Cynric’s protection. Or was he just unsettled by their unsavoury reputation? Gosse and Idoma certainly exuded a malevolent aura, but there were no reports of actual violence. James the Dominican was more likely to have been attacked by offended Franciscans, while Bartholomew’s own encounter had involved a lot of menace but no real attempt to do harm; even their threats had been ambiguous.
‘I do not want to go.’ Tesdale’s words dragged the physician’s attention away from his own concerns. ‘I am already tired, and we have a long way to travel yet. I was not built for hard riding.’
‘It will be fun,’ countered Valence, clearly relishing the prospect of an adventure. ‘And you cannot be tired. You slept almost all of yesterday.’
Tesdale ignored him and addressed Bartholomew. ‘Are you sure you need me, sir? Master Langelee said the purpose of the journey is to retrieve some College money, but I am not very good at demanding cash from people.’
‘That is why he wants you to go, stupid,’ said Risleye scornfully. ‘To learn how to demand payment from debtors. It is a vital lesson for any would-be physician.’
Michael glanced at Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps it was wise to bring these lads along. They may have a corrupting influence on the others, and I would not like to return home to find my students have become lazy, selfish and grasping. I do not know how you put up with them.’
* * *
The scholars rode through the Barnwell Gate, then turned right along the Hadstock Way, passing the Dominican Friary and the boggy expanse of the Barnwell Field. Houses became fewer and more scattered as they travelled farther from the town, and were soon reduced to the occasional squatters’ hut. Smoke issued through some roofs, but most were silent and still, their inhabitants either begging for bread on the streets of Cambridge or poaching wildfowl and fish in the marshes.
The road led as straight as the path of an arrow through the fertile meadows at the foot of the Gog Magog hills, then headed upwards, passing a series of banks and ditches at the summit, where legend had it that an ancient queen had once defied a Roman army. Behind them, Cambridge was a cluster of red tiles and yellow thatches set amid a sea of winter-brown fields. The towers of St Mary the Great, St Botolph and St Bene’t could just be made out, although they were mostly obscured by the pall of smoke created by hundreds of household fires.
It was not long before the drizzle turned into something more persistent. The horses stumbled constantly, and some of the deeper puddles in the rutted track were well past their knees. The little party passed no other travellers once it had crossed the Gog Magogs, indicating they were the only ones foolish enough to embark on a journey in such foul weather.
Gradually, the flat lands of Cambridge gave way to the more rolling country of the west. Copses became more frequent, swathes of mixed woodland in which could be heard the trill of birds and the occasional bark of deer. Trees hissed and waved above them, and wet leaves fell in sodden showers.
They stopped when Michael declared himself hungry, and ate Edith’s pies and honey cakes under an ancient oak. The tree did not afford much shelter, but water had seeped through Bartholomew’s cloak hours before, and he could not have been wetter had he jumped in the river. It was eerily quiet, and no one objected when the physician brought an early end to the meal and began the hazardous process of remounting his horse.
The farther they travelled, the worse the road became. Ruts were larger, filled to the brim with filthy water. Fallen trees and branches littered the track, and with each one, Bartholomew half expected robbers to emerge – that the blockages were a deliberate ploy to slow travellers down and allow them to be am
bushed. The afternoon grew gradually darker and colder, and just when he was thinking they might have to spend the night under a hedge, the highway stopped altogether, as if its builders had run out of materials and had decided to abandon the project.
‘Where has it gone?’ demanded Michael. ‘Langelee said it went all the way to Colchester.’
‘My grandfather came this way once,’ said Valence helpfully. ‘And he told me it goes nowhere near Colchester, although he thinks it was originally meant to.’
‘So what are we supposed to do?’ snapped Michael. ‘Stay here until they decide to finish it?’
‘Actually, it does not stop – it splits into three separate tracks,’ said Cynric, dismounting to peer into the undergrowth. ‘Obviously, they are not wide and straight, like the highway itself, but they all look as if they go somewhere.’
Bartholomew saw the book-bearer was right. One path wound through a dense coppice towards a hill on the left; a much narrower one disappeared into some long grass directly ahead; and the last went downhill, off to the right.
‘I vote we go left,’ said Michael. ‘The track is in marginally better repair than the other two.’
‘But I suspect Haverhill lies straight ahead,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘The directions Langelee gave us did not include any left-hand turns.’
‘We should go right, because it is downhill,’ argued Cynric. ‘There is more chance of a settlement in a valley than on a rise.’
‘No, we should turn around and go back the way we have come,’ said Valence, casting an anxious glance at the darkening countryside. ‘There was a village several miles back, with an inn.’
‘Nonsense,’ declared Risleye. ‘We should make camp here, and decide in the morning. Only fools plunge into unknown territory when nightfall cannot be more than an hour away.’
‘Or we could make a big fire, so someone sees it and comes to rescue us,’ suggested Tesdale with a yawn. ‘You five can collect the wood, while I see about drying out my tinderbox.’
A Vein Of Deceit: The Fifteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 20
