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

by Gregory, Susanna

  Michael also seemed to accept that the interrogation was going no further now such a powerful player had been introduced. ‘We should all go to Michaelhouse,’ he said coldly. ‘Langelee will be making his decision about Elyan Manor soon, and someone needs to represent King’s Hall if you think you have a right to the place.’

  ‘We do have a right,’ asserted Powys, equally icy. ‘Far more so than the other claimants.’

  He gestured that Michael was to leave his domain, and with no alternative but to do as he was bid, the monk complied. Bartholomew followed, and the two King’s Hall men brought up the rear.

  Michael, glanced around uneasily as they walked. ‘Idoma said you have all the pieces of the puzzle now, and I suspect she is right. We just need to put them together and find answers before anyone else dies.’

  ‘But you heard Powys,’ said Bartholomew, coils of unease writhing in his stomach. ‘The King—’

  ‘I do not believe that – he is just trying to frighten us. He is involved in something dark, and I can think of no better way to make him show his hand than to take him to Michaelhouse and see what happens when he learns his College has no right to inherit Elyan Manor.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘It is not dangerous?’

  ‘Oh, it is dangerous,’ said Michael. There was a gleam in his eye that said he was looking forward to outwitting his enemies. ‘But so are we.’

  When Bartholomew and Michael arrived at Michaelhouse, Paxtone and Warden Powys in tow, the deputation from Suffolk was already there. Langelee was entertaining them in the hall, empty of scholars because they were all at the debate, and had donned his ceremonial robes for the occasion.

  He was regaling them with details of a camp-ball game he had enjoyed the previous week. Luneday listened with rapt attention, his eyes never leaving Langelee’s face, and Lady Agnys interrupted with several astute observations. Hilton was more interested in the library, while Elyan was covetously fingering the half-finished cloak Agatha had left hanging over the back of a bench.

  Michael began to make introductions. Elyan was pleased to meet the King’s Hall men, and began talking about the arrangements Neubold had made on his behalf. Agnys was polite but strangely subdued, especially towards Paxtone, while Luneday was bluff, hearty and insincere.

  ‘Where is d’Audley?’ asked Langelee. ‘We are all busy men, and cannot wait for him to—’

  ‘Dead,’ interrupted Michael. ‘Gosse killed him.’

  There was a startled silence.

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Agnys eventually, the first to recover her composure.

  ‘Quite sure,’ replied Michael tersely. The confrontations with Tesdale and the King’s Hall men had unsettled him, and made him disinclined to mince words.

  ‘It is probably good news for me,’ said Elyan, ignoring the warning glare his grandmother shot him. ‘He wanted me dead, because he was so sure he was going to win my estates. I shall sleep easier in my bed knowing he is not after my blood.’

  ‘We had better make a start,’ said Langelee briskly. ‘I understand that Gosse and his hell-hag sister have something deadly in mind for later, so it is in all our interests to get a move on.’

  ‘Something deadly?’ asked Hilton, turning white at the prospect. ‘What?’

  ‘We do not know yet,’ replied Michael coolly, looking around at each of the gathering in turn. Bartholomew did likewise, but could read nothing in anyone’s expression – could not tell if he was among friends or in the presence of people who were in league with some very deadly criminals.

  ‘Do you think this “something deadly” will happen here?’ asked Elyan, tugging his cloak around him as if he found the hall suddenly too cold. ‘I thought we would be safe inside these thick walls.’

  ‘We are secure enough,’ said Langelee. He grinned rather diabolically as he patted the sword he wore at his side; it was incongruous against his academic garb. ‘But if not, I can wield a blade with the best of them. I skewered many a villain when I worked for the Archbishop of York.’

  ‘Did you?’ asked Luneday, impressed. ‘You are indeed a man of many parts, Master.’

  ‘I am,’ agreed Langelee smugly. He took his sceptre and gave the table several enthusiastic raps to indicate business was under way. ‘This meeting will take the form of all College proceedings: we shall begin with a prayer, then discuss the matter in hand. I will hear all sides of the argument, and then make my decision. Do you all consent to bide by it?’

  ‘Only if you find in our favour,’ said Powys. ‘I cannot stand by and see King’s Hall dispossessed.’

  ‘That is not how these things work,’ argued Luneday. ‘You either agree in advance to accept whatever Master Langelee decrees, or you do not – in which case we may as well go home.’

  The Warden stood. ‘I do not approve of the way this is being rushed, and you have King’s Hall at a disadvantage. All our colleagues are at the Blood Relic debate, while our most skilful lawyer is in prison. I demand an adjournment until such time—’

  ‘In prison for what?’ asked Luneday curiously.

  ‘For something he did not do,’ replied Powys before Michael could speak.

  ‘We know he did not murder Carbo,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But there are other matters with which he might be able to help us. So he will stay where he is until I have answers.’

  ‘I say let him out,’ said Luneday. He shrugged when everyone regarded him uncertainly. ‘Just for an hour. He can represent King’s Hall, and then everyone will be happy – they will have their best lawyer, and we shall have our decision. Afterwards, you can lock him away again.’

  ‘No,’ demurred Warden Powys, looking uneasy. ‘He will not be himself after all this time in a cell, and this is too important a matter for errors. I object most strongly.’

  ‘You cannot object,’ said Agnys. ‘Your basis for demanding a delay is the lack of a good lawyer. But once Shropham is released, that no longer holds. Or do you have other reasons for wanting this to drag on for years – such as your case not being as strong as you would have us believe?’

  ‘Well, Powys?’ demanded Michael archly, when the Warden opened his mouth to argue, but no words emerged. ‘Lady Agnys makes a good point.’

  Paxtone saw they were cornered, even if Powys was not ready to admit it.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, ignoring Powys’s immediate scowl of disapproval. ‘Bring Shropham. A respite from that dank gaol will do him good anyway.’

  ‘I shall fetch him at once,’ said Michael.

  ‘Good,’ said Paxtone. ‘It means I am not needed, for which I am grateful. The events of the day have distressed me, and I feel the need to rest.’

  ‘What events?’ asked Agnys immediately.

  Paxtone’s smile was pained. ‘College matters, madam. You would not understand.’

  Bartholomew followed Michael outside and across the yard, aware that they had left behind them a very unhappy group. Luneday and Langelee were the only two who seemed to be enjoying themselves, although even they were showing signs of strain: Langelee was itching to be done so he could attend his camp-ball game, while Luneday’s jovial bonhomie was beginning to sound forced. Meanwhile, Elyan was growing increasingly uneasy; he kept going to the windows to look out. His grandmother watched him with wary eyes, Hilton played nervously with pen and ink, and Powys was white with barely restrained fury.

  ‘There goes Paxtone,’ said Michael, stepping outside the gate and pointing to where the King’s Hall physician was waddling briskly towards the High Street. ‘I would have thought he would be eager to ensure King’s Hall is as well represented as possible, yet he cannot wait to leave.’

  ‘He explained why – he is not needed if Shropham is here. Besides, Risleye just died in his arms. I do not blame him for being loath to think about legal matters now.’

  Michael frowned anxiously as they walked along the lane. ‘I was hoping Langelee would deliver one of his instant decisions, and we would be
done with the matter. We do not have time to race back and forth with incarcerated felons.’

  ‘Langelee will not dally,’ said Bartholomew. He increased his stride. ‘But we should hurry, anyway. You are right – we do not have time for this kind of errand.’

  The streets were strangely empty of scholars, and Bartholomew imagined St Mary the Great must be bursting at the seams. There was a distant roar of applause as a disputant made a clever point, although it was immediately followed by an equally loud chorus of boos and hisses.

  ‘I would not want to be in Luneday’s shoes,’ mused Michael, breathless from the rapid pace. ‘With Elyan’s heir and d’Audley dead, he is all that stands between King’s Hall and the inheritance.’

  ‘He does not seem concerned, though,’ said Bartholomew, wondering whether it was significant.

  ‘Damn it all!’ cried Michael. ‘We have murder and deception taking place right under our noses but we do not have enough clues and evidence to stop it. I cannot recall when I have ever felt so helpless in a tide of unfolding events.’

  A roar of clamouring voices told them someone had just made another contentious point, and Bartholomew knew from experience that when the disputants issued statements that induced that sort of reaction, tempers ran very hot.

  Michael was becoming exasperated. ‘We have solved a number of murders – Gosse killed Kelyng, d’Audley dispatched Neubold, Neubold stabbed Carbo, and Tesdale killed Wynewyk – but there are still far too many questions. This is not like other cases – there is not one culprit this time, but several, all with their own distinct agendas.’

  There was a third roar from St Mary the Great, angry and clamouring. It was followed by the kind of jeers that were intended to be provocative.

  ‘Get Shropham, Matt,’ ordered Michael abruptly. ‘And take him to the College. I think I had better check Cleydon does not need me.’

  Shropham, pale and heavy-eyed, said nothing when the physician told him he was going to represent King’s Hall in a legal dispute, and meekly followed him out into the High Street.

  ‘Shropham,’ said Paxtone warmly, stepping in front of them and forcing them to a sudden standstill. Bartholomew frowned, because Paxtone appeared to have come out of St Michael’s. It was not a church he usually frequented, and Bartholomew was not sure why he should start now. Moreover, Paxtone said he had escaped from Langelee’s impromptu court because he needed to rest, so why was he not at home, lying down?

  ‘Paxtone!’ cried Shropham, his face lighting up with genuine pleasure.

  ‘I have many things to tell you,’ said Paxtone. He glanced at Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps you would give us a moment alone together? God knows, we deserve it, after all we have been through.’

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew, not sure what Paxtone intended by the odd request, but determined he would not be party to it. ‘Langelee is waiting.’

  ‘I am only asking for a few moments. Surely, you will not begrudge me that? You are my friend.’

  Bartholomew was suddenly seized with the absolute conviction that Paxtone was nothing of the kind. He took a firmer hold of Shropham’s arm, and tugged him away. He was aware of Paxtone following, and it was not easy pulling Shropham in a direction he did not want to go, but the increasing sense that something was horribly amiss gave him the strength to do it.

  ‘You should not rile him,’ said Shropham, trying to look over his shoulder. ‘He is dangerous when crossed. I do not condemn him, of course. Great men are bound by different rules from you and me.’

  Bartholomew regarded him blankly, then realised what he meant. ‘You think Paxtone stabbed Carbo because you saw him covered in blood on the night of the murder. But you are wrong: he was summoned to bleed Constable Muschett and he cut too deeply. He killed no one.’

  Shropham gaped at him. ‘Are you sure? Only—’

  ‘Only what? Tell me, Shropham. You cannot harm Paxtone with anything you say – his innocence of that particular crime is incontrovertible.’

  ‘Only I saw him in the vicinity, and his knife was in Carbo’s body,’ whispered Shropham, hanging his head. ‘Oh, sweet Jesus! What have I done? I thought I was protecting him, but instead I have maligned him with false assumptions!’

  ‘His knives are standard equipment for anyone who needs small, sharp blades,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Lots of people own them, including me. Were you really prepared to hang for him? I know King’s Hall men are loyal, but …’

  ‘My College needs him,’ said Shropham softly. ‘More than it needs me. So it was a case of expediency. King’s Hall is the only home I have ever known, and I will do anything for it.’

  Bartholomew was too agitated to tell him he was insane. ‘So what did you see that night?’

  ‘Paxtone covered in blood. Carbo with one of those little knives in his stomach. Beadles coming. I knew they would catch Paxtone unless I acted, so I sliced my own arm to distract them.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘You know the rest – the Junior Proctor was so certain I was the culprit that he did not notice Paxtone disappearing around the corner. The only other person in the vicinity was another Dominican, who left as soon as the commotion started.’

  Bartholomew groaned. ‘You are a fool, Shropham! That was Neubold, who had ample reason to want his brother dead. If you had spoken out, we would have resolved all this days ago.’

  He turned at a sound behind him, and realised that while they had been talking he had slackened his pace, and Paxtone had caught up. With a shock, he saw that the King’s Hall physician held one of his little phlebotomy blades.

  ‘I want to inspect his wound,’ said Paxtone, holding the implement as if he intended to use it to cut away Shropham’s bandage. ‘It was inflamed yesterday, and I should examine it again. You do not need me to tell you the importance of monitoring cuts, Matthew. Let me see him.’

  Bartholomew tugged Shropham away a second time. Was Paxtone using Shropham’s injury as an excuse to get him alone because he wanted to coach him about Elyan Manor? Or was his intention more deadly? Bartholomew did not wait to find out, and once again left the portly physician behind.

  When Shropham saw Warden Powys sitting at the table in Michaelhouse’s hall, he darted towards him and dropped to his knees, sobbing. Bemused, Powys rested his hand on his colleague’s head. Suffolk eyebrows shot up in astonishment, although, politely, no one made any comment.

  Powys tried to pull Shropham into a corner so they could speak undisturbed, but unfortunately for him, the visitors were interested in the newcomer, and followed. They all turned sharply when there was a thunder of footsteps on the stairs, accompanied by heavy breathing. It was Michael.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ demanded Bartholomew worriedly. ‘You should be at St Mary the Great, preventing a brawl – and protecting our colleagues from Gosse.’

  ‘Cleydon has the situation under control,’ panted Michael. ‘And my presence transpired to be inflammatory, because people started howling at me over contentious theological points I have made in the past. It calmed somewhat when I left.’

  ‘Right,’ said Langelee, rubbing his hands together when he saw that all the participants were present at last. Powys grimaced when the Master indicated they were to take their seats: he still had not managed to speak to Shropham alone. ‘We should begin. Benedic nobis. Domine. That should do for a starting prayer. Now, who wants to go first?’

  ‘You do not tarry, do you?’ said Hilton in awe.

  ‘No,’ agreed Langelee amiably. ‘Luneday, tell me why Elyan Manor should be yours.’

  ‘I once had documents to prove my case,’ said Luneday ruefully. ‘At least, I assume I did – I cannot read, so it is difficult to be certain. But my woman made off with them.’

  ‘We retrieved them,’ said Michael, placing the bundle on the table. ‘Do not ask how.’

  ‘I like Michaelhouse!’ exclaimed Luneday approvingly. ‘You are amazing men, and I wish we had invited you into our affairs years ago. It would have s
aved a lot of trouble.’

  Powys’s expression was unreadable. He leaned towards Shropham and tried to mutter something, but Langelee was speaking again and Shropham did not notice his Warden’s attempts to pass him a message. He merely lent his undivided attention to what the judge was saying, like any good lawyer.

  ‘Your claim, Luneday,’ prompted Langelee. ‘Outline why you should have the manor.’

  ‘Now d’Audley is dead, I am Elyan’s closest blood relative,’ replied Luneday. ‘Not counting his grandmother. We share a great-great-uncle.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Langelee. He looked at Powys. ‘What does King’s Hall have to say?’

  ‘We were left Elyan Manor by a man named Alneston,’ replied Powys, also setting a pile of writs on the table. Bartholomew recognised one as a copy of the early will. ‘Alneston’s son claimed it illegally after his death, and so the occupation by his descendants is similarly illegal.’

  ‘I have seen that particular will,’ said Hilton. ‘Lady Agnys has a copy of it, too. But I am sure there are more recent codicils that would—’

  ‘If they exist, then no one has found them,’ interrupted Powys smoothly. ‘And my inclination is to believe that they are figments of hopeful imaginations. Alneston’s will is unambiguous: Elyan Manor belongs to King’s Hall, and so does his chantry chapel.’

  ‘It is true,’ said Shropham with a shrug, picking up the relevant document. ‘As a lawyer, I would say this deed is as straightforward as any I have seen.’

  Warden Powys beamed at his colleague. ‘Does anyone have anything else to add?’ he asked smugly. ‘Because if not, perhaps we shall have this speedy decision, after all.’

  ‘I cannot believe Alneston lived another fifty years without making some amendment to his testimony,’ said Hilton unhappily. ‘I have long wanted to peruse Luneday’s records, but—’