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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘Leave him alone!’ the bargeman bellowed. ‘Damned felons!’

  ‘Felons, are we?’ snarled Idoma, turning to face him. ‘You will pay for that remark, cripple!’

  ‘We must kill them all,’ shouted Gosse urgently. ‘Or they will tell—’

  He stopped yelling when one of Isnard’s crutches cartwheeled towards him. It missed, but startled him into dropping his dagger. He bent to pick it up, but the riverfolk surged towards him, far too many to fight. He backed away fast, then turned to shoot up the alley that led to Milne Street, howling for his sister to follow.

  ‘Do not think you have won, physician,’ Idoma hissed, also backing away. ‘We have something planned for you – for all of you. Your debate will be talked about for years to come, but you will wish it never happened.’

  Aware that the riverfolk were closing in on her, she turned and fled, moving surprisingly swiftly and lightly for someone her size. The riverfolk waited until she had gone, then went back inside their houses without a word. One lingered long enough to raise his hand in salute, and then he disappeared, too, leaving Bartholomew alone with the bargeman.

  ‘Thank you, Isnard,’ said Bartholomew unsteadily. ‘They would have killed me for certain this time.’

  ‘The hero of Poitiers?’ demanded Isnard scornfully. ‘Do not make me laugh! We all know Cynric’s tales of your military prowess.’

  ‘Unfortunately, they are untrue.’

  Isnard did not believe him. ‘Well, regardless, my neighbours would not have let any harm come to you. You are their physician, and all that free medicine you dispense has some rewards.’

  ‘I see,’ said Bartholomew. His heart was hammering, and he took a deep breath, in an attempt to calm himself. He glanced at Isnard, balanced precariously on his one leg. ‘Let me help you home.’

  ‘I can manage, thank you, which is more than can be said for him.’ Isnard pointed, and Bartholomew turned to look at the person Gosse had felled. It was d’Audley.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Bartholomew, kneeling next to the Suffolk lordling. There was too much blood, and when he put his ear to d’Audley’s chest he detected an unnatural gurgle. A lung had been punctured, and there was nothing he knew that could be done to save him. He glanced anxiously towards the alleys that led to Milne Street. He did not think Gosse would return, but Idoma was unstable enough to be unpredictable.

  ‘He stabbed me!’ gasped d’Audley, his face white with pain. ‘Why? All I wanted was to talk to you. Brother Michael told me you had come this way, so I followed.’

  ‘Could it not have waited for—’

  ‘No!’ D’Audley grabbed the front of Bartholomew’s tabard. His grip was strong for a man with such a serious wound. ‘We need to talk before the arbitration. I tried to bribe the monk but he would not listen, and you are the only other scholar I know. I will give you six marks if you back my claim to Elyan Manor – concoct some legal nicety that will see me win.’

  ‘This is not the time to discuss such matters,’ chided Bartholomew. ‘You are—’

  ‘But it must be now,’ snapped d’Audley. He coughed wetly, and for a moment could not catch his breath. ‘King’s Hall cannot have a legitimate claim, and I am damned if Luneday will get the place.’

  ‘You need a priest,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You should not be thinking of earthly concerns now.’

  D’Audley stared at him. ‘I am dying?’ He began to shiver.

  Bartholomew removed his own cloak and spread it over him. ‘Do not try to speak.’

  D’Audley swallowed hard. ‘Oh, sweet Christ! I shall go to Hell! I have committed terrible sins. I thought I would have time to make amends – that future good deeds would …’

  ‘I will fetch a friar,’ said Isnard practically. He hobbled off to collect his crutch, but he moved slowly, and the physician knew he was going to be too late. So did d’Audley.

  ‘You must hear me,’ the Suffolk man gasped. There was panic in his eyes. ‘I will confess to you, and you can tell the priest that I repented, so he can pray for my soul.’

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew uncomfortably. ‘I am not qualified—’

  ‘Where to start?’ whispered d’Audley. The grasp on the physician’s tabard intensified, and Bartholomew felt himself dragged downwards, better to hear the words that began to pour from the landowner’s lips. ‘I seduced Margery away from Luneday – took her to Sudbury two weeks ago. Luneday thinks one of us was in Cambridge, killing Joan, but he is wrong. We were cuckolding him together.’

  ‘I see.’ Bartholomew tried to free himself from the man’s fingers, but could not do it without using force – and no physician liked to be rough with the dying.

  ‘I made her see I was the better proposition,’ d’Audley gabbled on. ‘I promised that if she stole all his documents, I would marry her, and she would share my estates and Elyan Manor. She brought them to me last Friday, and was with the party travelling from Suffolk, pretending to be a servant.’

  Friday, Bartholomew recalled, was the day Margery had fled Withersfield Manor, after feeling the net closing in around her. So, d’Audley was the ‘friend’ with whom she had taken refuge.

  ‘Did you tell her to pass the documents to us, so they could be delivered to Langelee?’ he asked.

  D’Audley nodded weakly. ‘I could not give them to Langelee myself – Luneday would have known who was behind the theft. But Margery has disappeared – and the documents with her.’

  Bartholomew was not sure what to say; he did not want to distress d’Audley by telling him Margery was dead. Fortunately, though, d’Audley did not see him as someone with answers.

  ‘I honestly believe Alneston’s records will end King’s Hall’s claim,’ he went on softly. ‘But Luneday would never let anyone see them – he distrusted Haverhill’s priests, while Withersfield’s is a bumpkin, barely literate. Luneday and Margery cannot read … neither can I …’

  ‘Hush,’ said Bartholomew, seeing the desperate flood of words was taking its toll. ‘The priest will be here soon. You can make the rest of your confession to him.’

  D’Audley’s expression was haunted. ‘He will be too late, and I have not finished … the worst is yet to come.’ He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘I murdered Neubold.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘I know.’

  D’Audley stared at him. ‘How? I thought I was careful.’

  ‘You were. I would never have known, had you not mentioned your relationship with Margery. But she was your accomplice in stealing the documents, so it stands to reason she was your accomplice in killing Neubold, too. She told you he was locked in the barn – you hanged him there.’

  ‘Yes,’ whispered d’Audley. ‘I wanted Luneday blamed because I hate him – and because it would eliminate one of Elyan Manor’s claimants. Then it would just be me and King’s Hall.’

  Bartholomew was beginning to understand at last. ‘You took Neubold to Haverhill, because it is what Luneday might have done – he would not have wanted Neubold dead in Withersfield. And you hoped a week in the Alneston Chantry would destroy any evidence that you—’

  ‘Yes, God forgive me!’

  ‘But why kill Neubold? Was it just to make trouble for Luneday?’

  D’Audley closed his eyes. ‘No – it was also for his corruption, for befriending the thieving villains at King’s Hall, for making the inheritance issue more complex than it is … He was a bad man.’

  Bartholomew resisted the urge to point out that it still did not give anyone the right to murder him, then use his body to see another man accused of the crime.

  ‘So, there are my sins,’ breathed d’Audley. ‘I cannot say more now …’

  He slipped into the kind of drowse from which Bartholomew knew he would never wake. All the physician could do was make sure he was comfortable, and sit with him until his ragged breathing faded into nothing.

  Isnard had known d’Audley would die before he returned and, coolly practical, had brought two
Michaelhouse servants and a bier, as well as Clippesby. The compassionate Dominican did not waste time with questions, but promptly dropped to his knees and began to pray. While he muttered his devotions, Bartholomew helped the servants load d’Audley on to the stretcher. They carried it to the nearest church together, after which Bartholomew hurried back to the College.

  ‘Risleye is not the culprit,’ he said when he met Michael in the yard. He darted into his room, but it was empty, and there was no sign of any of his students. ‘It is Tesdale, and he sent Idoma and Gosse after me on the towpath. Gosse killed d’Audley, so he would not be a witness to my murder.’

  ‘What?’ Michael was shocked. ‘But I thought—’

  ‘Tesdale was lying,’ said Bartholomew, going to the chest where the lad stored his possessions. It was empty, and a glance inside some of the other students’ boxes told him Tesdale had not confined himself to his own belongings when he had packed. ‘He knew we would realise the truth as soon as we spoke to Risleye, so he escaped while he could.’

  ‘After sending Gosse in your direction, to repay you for seeing through his nasty little game.’ The monk’s face was white with anger. ‘We must find him. He cannot have gone far yet.’

  ‘King’s Hall,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They are the only friends he has left now. He will have gone there, in the hope that they will lend him a fast horse.’

  ‘He has not – I have just come from there. They must have gone early to the Blood Relic debate, because there was no reply to my knock. I considered going to St Mary the Great and hauling Paxtone outside, but the church is already packed and there would have been a riot. The atmosphere is uneasy – our colleagues are honing their tongues for some serious invective.’

  ‘But King’s Hall has porters,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed. ‘They will not be at the church – and if they failed to answer the door, then it means something is wrong. I will go there. But Idoma said again that something is going to happen during the debate, so you should be at St Mary the Great.’

  ‘I have been at St Mary the Great. But short of dressing up as a scholar and expressing a controversial opinion, there is nothing she can do to disrupt the proceedings. Besides, my beadles have been charged to arrest them on sight. They will not remain free for long.’

  ‘I hope not – they are cold-blooded killers. There was no need to harm d’Audley.’

  ‘Well, at least we know it was not him who hired them,’ said Michael. ‘They would not have killed the man who paid their wages. That leaves Elyan, Luneday and Hilton.’

  ‘And Agnys,’ added Bartholomew, making for the door. ‘But now is not the time for talking. I am going to King’s Hall.’

  ‘I had better come, too, because you are right – it is odd that the porters did not answer my knock, and Tesdale will be desperate. Who knows what he might do?’

  Bartholomew did not wait to hear more. He set out for King’s Hall, running as hard as he could. The streets were oddly empty, and he supposed everyone had gone early to the debate to ensure themselves good places.

  Michael panted along behind him, shouting about waiting for beadles, but Bartholomew did not stop. Nor did he aim for King’s Hall’s front, but instead raced to the back, where a gate led from the towpath into the grounds. Then he sprinted across the vegetable plots, aware of Michael falling farther behind with every step. Only when he neared the main courtyard did he reduce his speed.

  The College was indeed deserted. The only sign of life was a cat washing itself. He crossed to the porters’ lodge, then backed out sharply when he saw the carnage within. Tobias had fought hard, but it had not saved his life.

  Michael was still lumbering through the gardens when Bartholomew dashed up the stairs towards Paxtone’s room. He heard voices and slowed down, treading softly in the hope that the wooden steps would not creak and lose him the element of surprise.

  ‘I will not do it,’ Paxtone was saying. ‘I thought you were just a lad in debt when Wynewyk asked me to help you, but you are a criminal. Kill me if you must – as you slaughtered Wynewyk and Tobias – but I will not forge you a graduation certificate, and nor will I give you one of our horses.’

  ‘Then you can die,’ came Tesdale’s furious voice.

  Bartholomew abandoned stealth and tore up the last few stairs. The racket he made alerted the student to his approach, and he only just managed to avoid the swipe that aimed to disembowel him. Tesdale lunged again and Bartholomew stumbled backwards, tripping over something that lay on the floor. It was Risleye, clutching a wound in his stomach. Paxtone was kneeling next to him, trying to staunch the flow of blood.

  Bartholomew’s brief moment of inattention almost cost him his life, for Tesdale attacked with such ferocity that the physician was hard-pressed to defend himself. He was astounded by the speed and force of the assault – it was wholly unexpected from so slothful a lad. Absently, he recalled Risleye once praising Tesdale’s skill with knives, and supposed the remark should have warned him that there was another, darker side to the indolent student.

  He forced himself to concentrate, pushing all else from his mind. Tesdale held a blade in either hand, and was clearly adept at using both. Bartholomew winced when one tore through his sleeve, but managed to grab the young man’s wrist, twisting it hard and forcing him to let go of one weapon. But Tesdale still had another, and the vengeful, furious expression on his face told Bartholomew that the student intended to see him dead. He jerked backwards as the blade sliced towards him.

  Then Michael staggered in, puffing like a pair of bellows. Without missing a beat, the monk grabbed one of Paxtone’s books and lobbed it with all his might. It was dead on target, and Tesdale crashed to the floor, clutching his head.

  ‘See to Risleye, Matt,’ ordered Michael, retrieving the knives Tesdale had dropped and walking to where the student was trying to struggle to his feet. ‘This little toad will not be going anywhere.’

  ‘Risleye was Paxtone’s spy,’ Tesdale said, ignoring the monk and addressing Bartholomew. ‘Paxtone urged you to teach him, just so he could report on you. I dispatched him for your benefit.’

  ‘Do not lie,’ said Bartholomew shakily, still shocked by the lad’s murderous attack. ‘It is not—’

  ‘It is true,’ said Paxtone quietly. There were tears in his eyes, and Bartholomew saw Risleye had died while he had been skirmishing with Tesdale. ‘I did recruit Risleye to watch your College.’

  ‘I knew it!’ muttered Michael. ‘I knew there was something suspect about that arrangement!’

  ‘But why?’ Bartholomew asked Paxtone, bewildered and hurt. ‘I would have told you anything you wanted to know. I like discussing medicine.’

  ‘It was not about medicine,’ said Paxtone tiredly. ‘And it was not about you, either – I wanted to know what Wynewyk was doing. He was an enigma, and Warden Powys and I were afraid he might damage King’s Hall. Risleye was loyal, and volunteered to find out …’

  ‘Wynewyk would never harm King’s Hall,’ objected Bartholomew, stunned by the accusation.

  ‘I disagree,’ said Paxtone in the same weary voice. ‘He was embroiled in some very unsavoury business, although Risleye learned very little about it. His life has been squandered …’

  ‘Let me go,’ said Tesdale softly. ‘Risleye was the spy, and I have exposed him. He—’

  Bartholomew dragged his attention away from Paxtone, recalling what had been said as he had crept up the stairs. He looked hard at Tesdale. ‘Did you really kill Wynewyk?’

  ‘Yes, he did,’ said Paxtone, before Tesdale could deny it. ‘He knew Wynewyk was sensitive to foxglove, because Wynewyk told me and I mentioned it in a class – to make a point about the hidden dangers of potent cures. Tesdale was there. So he added foxglove to the Fellows’ claret: not enough to harm anyone else, but enough to kill a man who could not tolerate it.’

  ‘So the tale you spun earlier was untrue?’ asked Bartholomew of Tesdale. ‘Wynewyk did not demand access to my storeroom? You took the fox
glove yourself?’

  ‘He was going to kill himself anyway,’ said Tesdale defensively. ‘He ate the cake, knowing it was full of nuts. I helped him – gave him an easier death.’

  ‘But why?’ cried Bartholomew, appalled. ‘Most people would have stopped him.’

  ‘He was damaging my College,’ snarled Tesdale. ‘And I was afraid the nuts might not work. He had swallowed almond posset a few days earlier and lived to tell the tale. So I decided that this time there would be no mistakes. I did the right thing.’

  ‘You fed poison to a man in the process of committing suicide?’ said Michael, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘If it were not so tragic, it might be funny.’

  ‘I thought you liked Wynewyk.’ Bartholomew was lost and confused. ‘You said he was kind to you, and you seemed genuinely distressed by his death.’

  ‘No – he was a bad man,’ said Tesdale angrily. ‘He got me a job at King’s Hall, but he was always asking me questions; he thought finding me employment put me in his debt. He was harming our College with his crafty dealings, so I pretended to befriend him. But it was really to learn what he was doing and stop him. I did it for Michaelhouse – for all of us.’

  Michael regarded him with loathing. ‘You do not care about the College! What annoyed you was that Wynewyk’s financial games were resulting in dismal food. The rest of us can afford commons, but the meals in the hall are all you get. You blamed him for subjecting you to them.’

  Tesdale raised his hands in piteous entreaty, trying a different tactic when he saw righteous indignation was not going to work. ‘It was not only that – it was Gosse. He kept demanding more and more money from me, making me poorer than ever. None of this is my fault. I am a victim.’