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

by Gregory, Susanna

‘But I was not having Haverhill men poking about in my personal affairs,’ said Luneday firmly.

  Powys continued to look smug. ‘And as no one can produce such a document, I submit it does not exist. The case is closed, and you may pass judgment, Langelee.’

  Michael started to rummage through Margery’s pile, aiming to present the later deed and wipe the smile from Powys’s face, but Shropham was there before him. With a lawyer’s consummate interest, he had taken a handful of the deeds, and was leafing through them. When he reached Alneston’s second testament, he went still.

  Powys noticed his reaction, and tried to see what he had found.

  ‘The priest is right,’ said Shropham, passing the deed to his Warden. ‘Alneston did make a—’

  ‘No,’ said Powys, screwing the parchment into a ball and tossing it over his shoulder. ‘This is a forgery, and prison has addled your mind.’

  Shropham cringed, and looked as if he wished the floor would open and swallow him up. ‘Yes,’ he said in a small voice. ‘I am not well. It must be a fake, or it would have come to light before now.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Hilton, retrieving the document and reading it for himself. ‘And it looks authentic to me – I am familiar with Alneston’s seal.’

  Langelee was also rifling through the pile. ‘And here is

  a writ drafted by King’s Hall and signed by your predecessor, Powys. It relinquishes all claims on Elyan Manor and the Alneston Chantry in exchange for the sum of forty marks, which was paid in full twenty-five years ago.’

  ‘No!’ cried Powys. ‘That is a forgery, too. We must have what is rightfully ours!’

  ‘Must?’ pounced Michael. ‘That is a powerful sentiment, Warden.’

  Powys reddened and turned away. ‘You know what I am saying.’

  ‘I am beginning to understand. You are interested in what the mine can offer. Not coal, but—’

  ‘Coal is a valuable commodity,’ snapped Warden Powys. ‘Of course we are interested.’

  ‘I do not care about the coal,’ said Luneday. ‘And if Elyan Manor comes to me, I shall fill in the mine and turn the land over to grazing for pigs.’

  ‘Then sell that particular wood to us,’ said Powys eagerly. ‘King’s Hall will take the coal.’

  Elyan laughed softly. ‘I do not plan on dying very soon, Warden Powys. Do you think my mine will still have anything to interest you years in the future?’

  Powys regarded him strangely. ‘I imagine it will. Why? Do you know different?’

  Elyan shrugged. ‘I have spent more than fifty marks on the place – d’Audley and I borrowed twenty-five from Michaelhouse and twenty-five from you – and I have been digging for almost three months now. Something should have been unearthed in all that time.’

  ‘Diamonds,’ said Bartholomew, leaning against the wall as he gauged Powys’s reaction. ‘That is what you were expecting to find.’

  ‘Diamonds?’ echoed Agnys, regarding her grandson in stunned disbelief. ‘You have been mining for diamonds? You ridiculous boy! Diamonds do not occur in England.’

  ‘Carbo found them,’ said Elyan. ‘He showed me where he had prised them from the seam.’

  ‘You did not mention this the other day, Elyan,’ said Michael accusingly. ‘You only said your minerals were exceptionally hard and pure.’

  Elyan looked shifty. ‘Diamonds are hard and pure. And it was none of your affair, anyway.’

  Powys was glaring. ‘Are you telling me you have excavated nothing since August? That was not what Neubold told us. Only last week, he said the work was proceeding apace and that King’s Hall would soon begin to enjoy the profits from its investment.’

  Langelee was growing bored with a discussion he did not understand. ‘You can chat about this nonsense later,’ he said. ‘Meanwhile, I have reached my decision: King’s Hall has no grounds to press its claim and d’Audley is dead. Ergo I declare Luneday to be the rightful heir.’

  Luneday beamed at him, while Powys gaped in horror and Shropham looked as if he was ready to cry. Shropham tried to apologise, but his Warden was too angry to listen. He surged to his feet and left without another word, Shropham scurrying at his heels. Langelee raised his eyebrows, but did not seem overly concerned that he might have made an enemy of King’s Hall.

  ‘I knew a man who professes skill with pigs would see justice done,’ declared Luneday, tears in his eyes as he shook the Master’s hand. ‘Put your decision in writing, if you please. And while we wait, you can tell me more about this game of camp-ball. You say a pig is on one team?’

  Pleased the matter had been resolved before his camp-ball game was due to begin, Langelee became magnanimous. He fetched wine from the kitchens, and began to pour generous measures into goblets. Elyan swallowed his thirstily, clearly glad the business was over, and held out his cup for more before the Master had finished distributing them around his other guests.

  ‘I was going to propose a toast,’ Langelee said, shooting Elyan an admonishing look for his greed. He pressed a goblet into Bartholomew’s hand, although the last thing the physician felt like doing was drinking in cosy bonhomie with the visitors from Suffolk.

  ‘To justice and pigs?’ suggested Luneday, raising his vessel.

  ‘And camp-ball,’ added Langelee with a grin, returning the salute.

  The others raised their goblets obligingly, and everyone was in the process of putting them to their lips when Elyan gave a cry and gripped his throat. The cup fell from his hand, and he dropped to his knees.

  ‘What is wrong with him?’ cried Agnys, hurrying to his side.

  Bartholomew was there before her. He tried to hold Elyan still, but the lord of the manor was thrashing about violently. It did not need a physician to know he had been poisoned.

  ‘But this wine came from the kitchens,’ shouted Langelee defensively, when everyone looked at him. ‘It was delivered earlier today – a gift from Bartholomew’s sister.’

  ‘My sister is not in the habit of providing us with wine,’ said Bartholomew, struggling to keep Elyan still so he could examine him. ‘Only cakes.’

  ‘Gosse,’ muttered Michael grimly. ‘Is this what he meant when he said he had something planned for us? I assumed he had set his sights on St Mary the Great.’

  ‘Do something,’ cried Agnys, gripping Bartholomew’s shoulder hard. ‘Help him!’

  But Bartholomew was already thrusting fingers down Elyan’s throat to make him vomit up what he had swallowed – he had watched Margery, d’Audley, Risleye and Tesdale die within the past few hours, and had had enough of feeling helpless in the face of death. He was not losing anyone else.

  Elyan retched violently, and when he leaned back, exhausted by the effort, Bartholomew made him sick again. And again. Eventually, when he thought all or most of the toxin had been expelled, he wiped Elyan’s face with a clean cloth and helped him sit comfortably.

  ‘It is a pity to die now,’ rasped Elyan, tears flowing down his cheeks. ‘Just when everything is going my way. Wynewyk dead, Luneday to inherit my manor – he will not harm me for a few gems.’

  But Bartholomew knew, from the colour that was beginning to trickle back into Elyan’s face, that the worst was over. ‘You are not going to—’ he began.

  ‘It is ironic to die of poison left by Gosse,’ interrupted Elyan, with a weak but bitter smile. ‘You see, Carbo found the diamonds in my mine, but Gosse said they were his – stolen from him by Carbo when he lived in Clare. He was very insistent, but I did not believe him. Perhaps I should have done.’

  Bartholomew recalled that both Hilton and Prior John had mentioned Gosse’s purloined sack, the contents of which Gosse had declined to reveal. ‘You are not going to—’

  Elyan cut across him a second time. ‘I told Neubold to pass some to potential investors. Namely Wynewyk and King’s Hall. But I kept most – the biggest and best – for myself.’

  ‘You kept precious stones that Gosse thinks are his?’ asked Hilton uneasily. ‘That was re
ckless.’

  Bartholomew tried a third time to tell Elyan he was going to recover, sure he would not be baring his soul if he knew he would live. ‘The poison is not—’

  But Michael jabbed him in the ribs. ‘We need answers,’ he hissed urgently.’ Do not interrupt him – lives depend on it.’

  ‘It would only have been reckless if Gosse knew I kept them,’ Elyan was rasping to Hilton. ‘But he does not. I told him they had all been given to scholars in Cambridge. So he came here to find them. But then someone pilfered the sack from me.’

  ‘So you were right, Matt,’ murmured Michael. ‘Gosse and Idoma really were asking for the whereabouts of something specific. I thought it was a ruse, to confuse me.’

  ‘Joan!’ exclaimed Hilton, somewhat out of the blue. ‘She took them! She told me she had vital business in Cambridge – important enough to risk her child on a journey. She must have realised these stones were going to cause trouble, so she brought them here.’

  ‘Why would she do that?’ demanded Luneday. ‘Why not keep them for herself – for her child?’

  ‘Because she was a sensible lady,’ replied Hilton softly. ‘She would not have been so credulous as to believe that Carbo had found diamonds in Haverhill – she would have been sceptical. Opportunities to travel are few and far between in our village, so she took advantage of the only one available: she came to Cambridge with Neubold, intending to hide them here.’

  ‘That explains why she chose this town,’ acknowledged Agnys. ‘It also explains why she was unhappy these last few weeks – it would have been a terrible burden, knowing Henry had property belonging to Gosse and that these stones might urge powerful foundations and greedy men to desperate measures to acquire them. But not why she felt compelled to transport the wretched things in the first place.’

  ‘It is obvious,’ said Michael. ‘The mine has produced no gems, and getting rid of the ones Carbo “found” – the big ones Elyan kept for himself – means Haverhill has none left. She probably had a plan to show King’s Hall and Wynewyk that Elyan Manor has nothing worth fighting for – and therefore nothing worth harming her child for, either. Unfortunately, her plan misfired.’

  ‘Oh, Henry,’ said Agnys, gazing at her grandson with sad eyes. ‘How could you have been so foolish? All these deaths – including Joan’s – and for what? Jewels stolen from the Gosses, that were never on Elyan Manor in the first place!’

  ‘They were!’ asserted Elyan weakly. ‘Carbo would not have lied to me.’

  ‘Not lied, no,’ agreed Agnys. ‘He did not have the wit. But that does not mean his tale was true.’

  But Elyan was not listening to her. His gaze was fixed on Bartholomew. ‘Wynewyk was an evil man. He sent his student to spy on the mine, and someone killed the boy. God forgive me, I buried his body in the woods. But worse than that, Wynewyk killed Joan. I have thought long and hard, and I understand what happened now. He poisoned her.’

  ‘No!’ said Bartholomew, ignoring Tesdale’s tale about Wynewyk taking pennyroyal from his storeroom. ‘You have no evidence to make such a terrible accusation.’

  ‘Actually, he might have,’ said Langelee quietly. ‘Because of something I saw on the day she died – namely Wynewyk giving her a phial and telling her it would make her baby strong. I had forgotten about it until now. He was congratulating her, saying what a bonny child it would be, but there was a certain look in his eye … It was one I have often observed in men about to commit a crime.’

  ‘There!’ exclaimed Elyan weakly. ‘I knew it! You see, you were right – her child was not mine. But Wynewyk met her when he came to buy pigs …’

  ‘He did visit me in February,’ acknowledged Luneday uncomfortably. ‘But I had no idea he went to Haverhill and seduced Joan at the same time.’

  ‘He flirted outrageously with her in the Market Square,’ added Langelee. ‘As your sister will attest, too. He preferred men, but he knew how to charm the ladies, as well.’

  ‘Enough!’ cried Bartholomew, when Elyan opened his mouth to say something else. ‘You are not dying. There is no need to pursue this horrible matter any further.’

  Michael grimaced his annoyance that the discussion was to be cut short, while Elyan just stared at the physician. Bartholomew braced himself for anger at the deceit, but instead the Suffolk lordling’s eyes filled with tears. He groped for Agnys’s hand, and gripped it hard, and Bartholomew indicated the onlookers were to move away, to give them privacy.

  ‘You cannot wait any longer to hunt down Gosse, Brother,’ Bartholomew said exhaustedly. ‘He might have killed the entire College. And he is a danger to every scholar in Cambridge as long as he is free.’

  There was a distant roar as someone in St Mary the Great made a contentious point, and it was followed by the kind of yells that had no place in an academic dispute.

  ‘You are right,’ said Michael, hurrying towards the door. ‘But my first responsibility is to help Cleydon. I have wasted enough time here.’

  The monk began to run towards St Mary the Great, Bartholomew at his heels. The clamour of angry voices grew louder as they drew closer, and they saw that a number of townsfolk had gathered to stand outside. Some looked concerned at the sounds of discord within, but most were openly delighted that the hated University sounded as if it was tearing itself apart. Cynric emerged from behind a buttress.

  ‘I have been watching them,’ he explained, nodding towards the crowd. ‘A stone through a window now will be enough to spark a huge riot inside.’

  ‘You said you would follow Gosse and Idoma when they arrived back in Cambridge,’ said Bartholomew accusingly. ‘It was why we did not challenge them in the hills.’

  ‘We did not challenge them in the hills because they outmatched us,’ corrected Cynric. ‘And they managed to give me the slip once they reached town. I cannot imagine how – witchcraft, probably.’

  He winced when there was another howl of fury from the debating scholars, then darted forward when two apprentices bent to prise rocks from the ground. Several beadles joined him in hustling the would-be offenders away, but the remaining townsfolk objected to their cronies being arrested before they had committed a crime. There was a rumble of anger and some serious jostling.

  ‘Your men have their hands full here, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Which means they cannot be watching the back of the church. Gosse might—’

  But Michael was already hurrying towards the graveyard. Bartholomew followed, and they had completed almost a full circuit of the building before the physician skidded to a standstill.

  ‘There!’ he shouted, pointing to where a fold of material and the tip of a shoe poked from behind a bush. Idoma was simply too large to conceal herself in undergrowth. Michael powered towards her and ripped away the branches.

  ‘Good afternoon, Brother,’ said Gosse mildly, not at all discomfited to be caught. ‘Why are you not at the debate? I thought you were an accomplished theologian. Or are you afraid to take part, lest you are found wanting?’

  From somewhere on his ample person, Michael produced a cudgel. ‘You have plagued my town long enough. Will you come peacefully to my prison, or must I force you?’

  Idoma regarded him in disbelief, then issued a low, deep laugh. It was an unpleasant sound, more demonic than human. Her eyes seemed especially cold and shark-like that day, and she exuded an aura of deadly malice. Was Michael making a terrible mistake in tackling her, when not even the bold Cynric would do it? Trying to prevent his hands from shaking, Bartholomew reached into his bag and withdrew his birthing forceps, although the implement was no match for the knives both Gosse and Idoma produced at the same time.

  ‘You are dead men,’ hissed Gosse. ‘Your University stole a fortune from us – made it disappear as though it never existed. But we shall have our revenge. You will not be alive to see it, though.’

  ‘We found your poisoned wine,’ said Michael, standing firm. ‘Elyan swallowed some, but no scholars fell victim—’

  Idoma
sneered. ‘Good! It serves him right for giving away our property. We would have killed him, anyway, for the inconvenience he caused. Now we do not need to bother.’

  ‘No more talking,’ said Gosse sharply. ‘There is no time.’

  He lunged at Bartholomew with his knife, leaving Michael for his sister. The physician was unprepared for the viciousness of the attack, and was forced to retreat fast. The defensive blows he struck with the forceps went wide, and only succeeded in throwing him off balance. He went down on one knee. Gosse moved in for the kill, and, too late, Bartholomew knew Cynric had been right – they were more than a match for him.

  Suddenly, there was a yell of fury, and the book-bearer appeared. He carried his long Welsh hunting knife, and when he saw Gosse’s blade begin to descend towards the physician, he lobbed it. Gosse screamed as it tore a gash in his arm. Before the felon could recover, Bartholomew leapt to his feet and knocked the weapon from his hand. Cynric darted forward, drew back his fist and punched Gosse on the point of the jaw. He went down as if pole-axed.

  Bartholomew spun around to help Michael. Idoma had dropped her blade, but had both hands wrapped around the monk’s throat. Michael was a strong man, but it was clear he was losing the battle, because his face was scarlet. He rained blows on her head and shoulders, but she seemed oblivious to them, and Bartholomew wondered whether she really was imbued with some diabolical energy. He raced towards them, and tried to prise the powerful fingers loose, but they were like bands of steel. He saw the desperate terror in Michael’s eyes.

  Knowing Michael was going to die before he could lever her fingers away, Bartholomew took several steps back, put his head down, and charged at the struggling pair with all his might. All three went flying. There was a sickening crack as Idoma’s head struck the buttress.

  ‘Well,’ said Cynric, looking at the two insensible villains with enormous satisfaction. ‘Perhaps I was wrong about their military prowess. We bested them with ease.’

  But Bartholomew was not so ready to gloat. And there had been nothing ‘easy’ about their victory, anyway – he and Michael had come far too close to losing the fight.