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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘You planned to study?’ asked Langelee incredulously. ‘I thought you would have been deploying your troops to hunt down Gosse. Or, if he proves elusive, to prevent him from doing any mischief during this tiresome debate.’

  ‘Junior Proctor Cleydon has that in hand,’ said Michael coolly. He disliked it when people questioned the way he ran his affairs. ‘I trust him.’

  ‘Then you can help me read Margery’s documents,’ said Langelee, waving the monk back down again. ‘You volunteered me as arbitrator, so it is only fair that you help me prepare, and you can talk to King’s Hall when we have finished. Meanwhile, you can visit Clippesby, Bartholomew. It will take your mind off Risleye – until he comes home.’

  Bartholomew found the Dominican in his room. Clippesby was reading a book on Blood Relics, and the physician sincerely hoped he did not intend to take part in the debate: he might claim animal sources to prove his points, and lead the rest of the University to assume Michaelhouse was full of lunatics.

  ‘Langelee said you have concerns about Wynewyk,’ said Bartholomew, going to stand by the window so that he would see Risleye return. His thoughts were more on his student than his colleague.

  ‘The Master does not believe me,’ said the Dominican softly. ‘But I know Wynewyk poisoned himself deliberately because he was ashamed of what he had done.’

  ‘You are wrong,’ said Bartholomew gently, hearing the distress in his friend’s voice and turning to face him. ‘Wynewyk was not dishonest – we proved it in Suffolk. He made some unorthodox arrangements, but none of them were detrimental to the College.’

  ‘I wish that were true,’ said Clippesby fervently. ‘I really do. But it is not, and I can prove it.’

  Bartholomew frowned. It was rare that Clippesby did not bring animals into a discussion, and the grave, intense expression on his face was unnerving.

  ‘Langelee charged me with packing up Wynewyk’s personal effects,’ Clippesby went on. ‘I was going through a box of documents, throwing away laundry lists and the like, when I found a letter from his father. It reminded his son never to eat nuts, because he had an unusually strong reaction to them. And it said never to let a poultice of foxglove near an open wound for the same reason.’

  ‘I knew about the nuts,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Meanwhile, foxglove is a potent herb, and if Wynewyk was sensitive to it, then even a small dose might have brought about his death. However, it is rarely prescribed for—’

  ‘I have been thinking hard about his manner of death, trying to recall all that happened,’ interrupted Clippesby. ‘And my ponderings told me that he consumed four pieces of cake. Obviously, I did not realise then that he had an aversion to nuts, or I would have stopped him. I remember him gagging several times, but he did not stop eating.’

  Bartholomew frowned. ‘Tesdale says he drank more than usual, which may have made him incautious. However, there was no foxglove—’

  ‘There was foxglove!’ Clippesby spoke sharply. ‘I use it to kill the fleas I catch from the hedgehog, so I am familiar with its smell. When I was cleaning up the hall after Wynewyk’s body had been taken away, I found an empty pot of it. It meant nothing to me at the time, so I threw it away. But then I discovered the letter from Wynewyk’s father, and all became clear.’

  It was not clear to Bartholomew, and he struggled to understand what Clippesby was telling him.

  ‘There is more,’ said Clippesby, when the physician made no reply. ‘I told you about the copies of letters written to powerful men, offering to sell them precious stones. Do you remember? We decided he did not have any, so we dismissed the matter. But he did.’

  ‘Did what?’ asked Bartholomew, mind spinning.

  ‘He did own diamonds,’ said Clippesby. He reached into his purse and withdrew a handful of stones. ‘I found these under a loose floorboard in his room. Langelee said they are just rocks.’

  Bartholomew took them from him. ‘But they are just rocks, John. Wynewyk carried another one in his purse, and Paxtone has a whole bag of them in his room. Tesdale said they pored over documents about stones together, so these are probably a charm against sickness. Or perhaps bad luck. But they are not diamonds, because diamonds are smooth and shiny, and these—’

  ‘They are raw,’ snapped Clippesby, uncharacteristically curt. ‘Diamonds look like this in their natural state, and only appear jewel-like when they have been cut and polished. If you do not believe me, rub one on this piece of glass. Diamonds scratch glass, as you know.’

  ‘So do many other things,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘Sapphires, rubies, even rock crystal.’

  Clippesby slapped the glass into his hand. ‘Just do the experiment.’

  Bartholomew did as he was told, and gazed at the mark the stone left behind. He looked more closely at the rock, and supposed Clippesby might be right. He had never seen diamonds straight from the ground, so it was hardly surprising that he did not know what they looked like.

  ‘I have no idea where these stones came from,’ said Clippesby quietly. ‘But the sly letters to the nobles suggest something untoward. So, you see, no matter what you discovered in Suffolk, I am afraid Wynewyk was embroiled in something shameful. And it led him to take his own life.’

  Bartholomew grabbed Clippesby’s arm and hauled him across the yard, so the Dominican could tell Michael what he had surmised. They met the monk coming from his room, having read more of the documents Margery had given them. He started to speak at the same time as Clippesby.

  ‘Me first,’ insisted Michael. ‘Most of Luneday’s records are irrelevant to who should have Elyan Manor – they pertain to the sale of pigs – but two are vital.’ He brandished them.

  ‘What are they?’ asked Bartholomew. He was distracted, more concerned with Risleye and Wynewyk than with Haverhill’s problems. The door to his storeroom was open, and Tesdale was there, working on Isnard’s remedy. Bartholomew stepped inside to stare at his empty poppy-juice jug again. The student glanced up and smiled absently at him.

  ‘The first is the will of Alneston – the fellow who founded the chantry and who was a past owner of Elyan Manor,’ replied Michael. ‘In it he leaves his estate to King’s Hall, on the grounds that he disliked his children.’

  ‘So King’s Hall does have a valid claim?’ asked Bartholomew flatly. ‘That will please them.’

  ‘I have not finished. This deed was clearly written when Alneston was angry, but he later made peace with his sons and there is a second will that favours them.’ The monk waved it in the air. ‘It proves King’s Hall does not have a claim on the manor, and I shall tell them so when I speak to Paxtone, and demand to know why he has dealings with Osa Gosse.’

  ‘I thought something odd was going on in that College,’ mused Clippesby. ‘Wynewyk spent inexplicable amounts of time there, with Paxtone and the Warden; Shropham stands accused of murder; they associate with felons; they stake dubious claims to distant manors; and Matt tells me Paxtone owns raw diamonds, just like the ones I found hidden in Wynewyk’s room.’

  Michael’s eyes narrowed – he was never quite sure what to make of Clippesby. ‘What diamonds?’

  While Clippesby regaled Michael with his theory, Bartholomew’s attention wandered to his storeroom. How much time had Risleye spent there, stealing and hiding evidence of his crimes? How many patients in desperate pain had been given water?

  As his mind filled with dark thoughts, he happened to glance at Tesdale. The student was listening to Clippesby telling Michael about the foxglove and was going through the motions of preparing the tonic for Isnard, but he had just added too much charcoal. It took a moment for Bartholomew to recognise the curious expression that filled the young man’s face, but when he did, his stomach lurched. It was guilt.

  ‘Oh, no,’ he whispered softly. ‘You gave Wynewyk the foxglove!’

  ‘What?’ asked Tesdale. He laughed his disbelief at the accusation, but not before the physician had caught the flash of panic in his eyes.

  ‘You a
re one of few people who have access to this room,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘He asked you for foxglove and, eager to help a man who was kind to you, you let him have it.’

  Tesdale shook his head. ‘I did not give him anything. I swear!’

  But Bartholomew was wise to the pedantry of students. ‘You did not give him anything,’ he repeated heavily. ‘So what did you do? Open the door and look the other way while he took what he wanted? I thought Risleye was the thief, and you let me.’

  ‘But Risleye is the thief,’ cried Tesdale, beginning to be agitated. ‘Perhaps I did help Wynewyk once when he asked, but he did not take the poppy juice – Risleye did. Risleye is always accusing us of stealing from him, but all the while he was the thief.’

  Bartholomew sat heavily on the bench, and regarded Tesdale with haunted eyes. ‘Why did you not tell us you let Wynewyk in here when we were trying to understand how he died?’ he asked, not sure whether he was more shocked by Risleye’s pilfering or Tesdale’s complicity in a colleague’s demise. ‘It would have answered so many questions.’

  ‘I wanted to, but I was afraid you would expel me,’ said Tesdale, tears welling. ‘It has not been easy, wondering whether I helped a man to suicide. I realise now that I should have refused when he asked to be allowed in, but it is easy to be wise after the event.’

  Michael was angry. ‘You are a fool, Tesdale! However, you may be able to redeem yourself.’

  Bartholomew was not so sure about that, but Tesdale looked up with hope in his eyes. ‘How?’

  ‘You can tell me about King’s Hall. Something untoward is happening in that place and I want to know what. You were employed there, so you can provide me with some answers.’

  Tesdale was horrified. ‘But I worked in the kitchens, Brother! I do not know anything that will—’

  ‘Then you had better start looking for another master,’ said Michael, beginning to walk away. ‘Because you are finished at Michaelhouse.’

  ‘Wait!’ shouted Tesdale, flustered and frightened. ‘I can tell you one thing you might find interesting – although Paxtone paid me to keep quiet about it. On the night Carbo was murdered, Paxtone went out. He came back covered in blood. Shropham saw him, too.’

  ‘You thought Paxtone killed Carbo?’ Bartholomew was aghast. ‘But that is—’

  ‘Then why did he buy my silence?’ cried Tesdale. ‘He must have had something to hide.’

  ‘This explains why Shropham will not speak to you,’ said Clippesby to Michael. ‘He worships Paxtone, but believes him to be guilty of murder. So, he decided to take the blame instead.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ demanded Michael suspiciously. ‘It makes no sense.’

  ‘Perhaps not to sane men like us,’ said Clippesby. ‘But Shropham once told me that Paxtone was King’s Hall’s most valuable asset – for his noble character and the revenue he brings from teaching.’

  ‘Loyalty,’ said Tesdale in a small voice. ‘Shropham will do anything for his College, even go to the gallows to ensure another Fellow is spared.’

  ‘You will have to release Shropham now, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We already knew he did not stab Carbo, but Tesdale’s evidence explains his suspicious silence, too. He is innocent of everything, even concealing murder, because Paxtone did not kill Carbo – Neubold did.’

  But Michael’s expression remained grim. ‘Perhaps so, but he can still stay in his cell until we are certain.’ He fixed the hapless Tesdale with a stern glare. ‘Are you willing to tell me anything else?’

  ‘I do not know anything else,’ said Tesdale in a wail. ‘I would have told you already, if I did. I am not such a fool as to stand by while another College breaks the law.’

  ‘You had better be telling me the truth,’ growled Michael. ‘Or there will be trouble such as you have never seen.’

  Bartholomew could not escape the unsettling sense that time was running out, and that unless they found answers to their various mysteries fast, someone else would die. And, as he and Michael had been targeted several times already, he had the feeling that they might be among the next victims.

  ‘I am going to interrogate Paxtone about his shady association with Gosse now,’ said Michael, as they left the physician’s storeroom. Tesdale skulked away towards the hall. ‘I do not want you there, though. You are friends, so it will be painful for you.’

  Bartholomew was worried. ‘It is not a good idea to go to King’s Hall alone—’

  ‘I will not be alone. I shall take beadles and Cynric.’

  Bartholomew regarded him unhappily, suspecting it would not be easy to march into King’s Hall and leave with one of its Fellows. Tesdale was right about the depth of devotion some members felt for their College, and they might well prove it with their swords.

  ‘Then be careful. Meanwhile, I had better visit Isnard. I would send Tesdale, but he might see it as a sign that he is back in my favour – and he is not. And then I will deal with Risleye.’

  Bartholomew walked to Isnard’s house with a heavy heart, barely acknowledging the greetings of people he knew. He found the bargeman mostly recovered from his drunken revelry, but did not feel like lingering to chat. He mumbled something about preparing for the Blood Relic debate, and made his escape, leaving Isnard staring after him in bewilderment; the physician was never usually too busy to spend a few moments nattering with an old friend.

  Bartholomew wanted to be alone, to consider Wynewyk’s death afresh, so he took the towpath route home, on the grounds that he would be less likely to meet anyone. As he walked, he berated himself for thinking nuts could kill a man so quickly, and for even entertaining the possibility that Wynewyk might have laughed to death. But foxglove would certainly explain what had happened – he had seen chickens die within moments of ingesting the stuff.

  But why had Wynewyk killed himself? Because of the Suffolk business, or the diamonds Clippesby had found? Bartholomew was so immersed in his thoughts that he did not notice who was coming towards him until it was too late.

  ‘Not so fast, physician,’ said Idoma, reaching out to grab his arm.

  He knocked the hand away and continued walking, loath to engage in a confrontation with her when Cynric had been too frightened to do it. He stopped abruptly when Gosse emerged from the bushes ahead, blocking his path. The thief carried a long hunting knife. Bartholomew turned quickly, intending to shove his way past Idoma before she realised what was happening, but she was similarly armed. With a pang of alarm, he saw he was trapped between them.

  ‘What do you want?’ he demanded, sounding more composed than he felt. He started to reach for his sword, before remembering that he no longer had it – scholars were not allowed to carry weapons in the town. He had nothing but his birthing forceps and some small surgical knives.

  ‘To kill you,’ replied Idoma evenly. Her cold, flat eyes were fixed unblinkingly on him and he realised he was in serious trouble. ‘We know you eavesdropped on our discussion in the hills, because we saw you creeping away.

  I doubt you have put all the pieces together yet, but it is only a matter of time before you do, and we cannot allow that. Not when we are on the verge of being rich.’

  ‘Rich?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering what they thought he knew. He did not feel as though he was close to a solution, and was as perplexed now as he had been when the business had first started.

  ‘Kill him,’ called Gosse softly. He was standing well back, watching the lane that led to the main road. ‘The longer you chat, the greater are our chances of discovery.’

  ‘Is stabbing me wise?’ Bartholomew edged away from Idoma, while inside his medical bag his fingers closed around the birthing forceps. ‘Michael will guess who did it, and you will hang.’

  ‘We will not,’ predicted Idoma smugly. Bartholomew tried to stop himself shuddering as her shark-fish eyes bored into his. ‘There are no witnesses, so no one will ever be able to prove anything.’

  ‘Idoma!’ snapped Gosse urgently. ‘You said you could do t
his better than me, so prove it. Stop chattering and dispatch him.’

  ‘I can do better,’ said Idoma. ‘Your mistake was putting too much emphasis on keeping your face hidden, lest your attack failed. But mine will not fail, so it does not matter if the physician sees me.’

  ‘It will matter if you do not hurry,’ retorted Gosse. ‘You cannot kill him with witnesses watching – and this is a public footpath. So get a move on!’

  Idoma ignored him, relishing the opportunity to gloat. ‘Incidentally, your student told us you would be coming this way, and that this path was likely to be deserted. You should not have exposed his treacherous activities, because he is spiteful when crossed. And we should know – we are long-term friends of his family.’

  ‘You have seen Risleye? Where is he?’

  ‘Risleye?’ Idoma sneered. ‘You mean Tesdale! He is the one who raided your stores. He blamed Risleye, did he? Sly lad! Risleye accused him of essay-stealing, and it was quite true – Tesdale always did have sticky fingers. He has a vicious temper to go with them, too – you and Risleye would both have done better to stay on his good side. Not that it matters to you now.’

  She raised her knife, and Bartholomew glanced at the river behind him, assessing his chances of jumping in and swimming to the other side. But it was fast, brown and swollen with recent rains – he would drown. He hauled the birthing forceps from his bag, determined not to make his murder too easy for her. But the implement was no kind of defence against daggers, and he could tell from her grimly determined expression that there would be no escape for him this time.

  Suddenly, there was an agonised yell, followed by a thud. Bartholomew risked glancing away from Idoma and saw someone lying on the ground. Gosse stood over the figure, holding a bloody blade.

  ‘I told you to hurry,’ he snapped at his sister. ‘Now look what you made me do. Finish the physician quickly, before anyone else comes.’

  Idoma resumed her advance, but there was another commotion from Gosse’s direction. Bartholomew knew better than to take his eyes off the enemy a second time but fortunately for him, Idoma was less prudent and he was able to take advantage of her momentary lapse of concentration by hitting her with the forceps. She staggered away with a howl of pain, and it was then that Bartholomew saw the riverfolk were emerging from their houses. Isnard was among them, lurching along on his crutches.