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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘Shropham has won this debate, Paxtone,’ said Warden Powys, before Bartholomew could inform them that he was not in the habit of slicing into entrails with sharp knives – at least, not as long as other viable options were available. ‘His empirical test nullifies your contention.’

  ‘Good steel needs less whetting than cheaper metal,’ said Wynewyk kindly, seeing Paxtone’s vexed expression. ‘So, perhaps we should conduct a series of experiments using different alloys. Personally, I think the debate is still in progress.’

  ‘I did not mean to cause trouble, Paxtone,’ said Shropham, eyeing his colleague uncomfortably. ‘You are almost certainly right – I must have mis-aimed my knife. I would not have mentioned the matter at all, but it is my job to prepare the quills for the students’ examinations, and—’

  ‘You take things too seriously, Shropham,’ said the Warden, flinging a comradely arm around his Fellow’s shoulders. ‘You are a scholar, so you are supposed to be argumentative – there is no need to apologise because you question someone else’s ideas. Look at Bartholomew – he does it all the time, even to medical theories that have been accepted as proven fact for hundreds of years.’

  Bartholomew watched the three King’s Hall men walk away, and supposed his attempts to be uncontroversial had not been as successful as he had hoped.

  ‘Ignore him, Matt,’ said Wynewyk, seeing his dismay. ‘He was only trying to make Shropham feel better – he does not really think you are an incurable nihilist. Incidentally, the Saturday Debate has been postponed for an hour because Langelee needs to finish something. He would not say what, but he has been in his office all morning. Perhaps he is devising a way to reclaim the Stanton Cups.’

  ‘I hope not. He is not subtle, and any plan he develops is almost certain to be violent.’

  Wynewyk looked alarmed. ‘Do you think he would consider hurting someone, then?’

  ‘To reclaim valuable heirlooms for his College? Yes, of course! You know what he is like as well as I do. He is an avid player of camp-ball, for a start – and the only purpose of camp-ball is to legitimise a lot of thumping, punching and kicking.’

  Wynewyk crossed himself. ‘Do not be late for the debate, Matthew. Our Master has been in an odd mood all week, and I would hate to see this violence unleashed on you.’

  When Bartholomew arrived home, he was unimpressed to find his students involved in a quarrel about Risleye’s lost essay. It had still not been found, and Risleye wanted to search his classmates’ possessions. They were outraged by the notion, and had presented a united front against him.

  ‘If you were innocent, none of you would mind,’ Risleye was shouting. He was near tears.

  ‘It does not exist,’ jeered Tesdale provocatively. ‘You only claimed it was stolen, so you would be excused from handing it in.’

  ‘Lies!’ howled Risleye. ‘But I will recover it, no matter what it takes. I will come at night, while you are all sleeping, and look then.’

  ‘You will do no such thing,’ ordered Bartholomew, not liking to imagine the commotion that would ensue should Risleye attempt what he threatened. He was almost certain to be caught, and the resulting rumpus would wake the entire College. ‘You cannot have forgotten all these brilliant ideas so soon. Write them out again.’

  ‘And make sure you keep them safe this time,’ gloated Tesdale, delighted that Risleye had effectively lost the argument.

  ‘Enough,’ said Bartholomew sharply. ‘I cannot believe how petty you have all become of late. What is wrong with you?’

  ‘It is not me,’ objected Risleye. ‘It is them. I am not the one who made the book explode—’

  ‘But you knew about it, and did nothing to stop us,’ countered Valence. ‘Complicity is—’

  ‘For God’s sake!’ cried Bartholomew, supposing he would have to find ways to keep them away from each other until the disputation started, to give tempers a chance to cool. ‘You are like a lot of children. Risleye, go to Yolande de Blaston and collect the forceps I left behind last week. Meanwhile, Tesdale can scrub that stain off the workbench in the storeroom.’

  ‘Scrub?’ echoed Tesdale, appalled by the prospect of physical labour. ‘Me? Let Valence do it – he is more junior than I.’

  ‘But it is my birthday,’ objected Valence. ‘I need to cut up the cake I bought, to distribute to my friends during this afternoon’s debate.’ He shot Tesdale a look that said he would not be getting any.

  Bartholomew ignored them both. ‘The rest of you can visit patients and report back to me on their health. Valence, you can have Isnard.’

  ‘Not Isnard!’ groaned Valence. ‘He will want to sing to me again. I cannot imagine why Brother Michael let him back into the Michaelhouse Choir, because he cannot carry a tune.’

  ‘None of them can,’ said Tesdale. ‘But they think that if they bellow at the top of their lungs, no one will notice. And it is true, by and large. I never realised before that something can simply be too loud to hear. Why is that, sir? Is there a physiological—’

  ‘The cleaning materials are in the kitchen,’ interrupted Bartholomew, knowing perfectly well that lazy Tesdale was trying to sidetrack him in order to avoid the chore he had been set. ‘You had better make a start, or you will miss the debate.’

  Shooting each other resentful glances, the students shuffled past him, rolling their eyes or grimacing when he allocated them particularly awkward or garrulous customers. He did not care. The sick would appreciate the attention, and it would do his pupils no harm to learn that life as a physician was not all interesting diseases and challenging wounds.

  ‘Is that a cake?’ asked Michael, arriving just as the last pupil had been dispatched to see Chancellor Tynkell. The lad would not have a pleasant time of it, as Tynkell had an aversion to any form of personal hygiene. Bartholomew often wondered how Michael, who was fastidious, could bear to spend so much time in the man’s pungent company.

  ‘Edith gave it to me,’ he said, moving to prevent the monk from unwrapping it. ‘I am going to take it to the debate, for the Fellows to share. The students have one of their own, apparently.’

  Michael pulled a disagreeable face. ‘Edith’s cakes are wasted on our colleagues. Clippesby is too fey to appreciate what he is eating, while Suttone is getting fat and should avoid rich foods.’

  Bartholomew glanced sideways, and thought Michael was a fine one to be talking. The monk had lost some weight the previous year, but his fondness for bread, meat and lard-drenched Lombard slices meant he had regained most of it.

  ‘A silver paten was stolen from Peterhouse this morning,’ Michael went on when there was no response. All the while, he watched the cake with eagle eyes. ‘It was Gosse, of course, but he managed to do it without being seen. I spent hours questioning students, Fellows and passers-by, but no one saw anything useful.’

  ‘Then how do you know Gosse is responsible?’

  ‘Because I defied the town worthies, and questioned him anyway. He loved the fact that I am certain of his guilt but can do nothing about it. He claims he was at a religious meeting in St Giles’s Church when the theft took place.’

  ‘Perhaps he was. Did you ask the vicar?’

  ‘Of course, but it was one of those ceremonies where the place was packed and people came and went at will. Gosse was at St Giles’s, but no one can say whether he was there the whole time. And those who might know are too frightened to talk. It is frustrating, knowing the identity of a culprit but being powerless to act.’

  ‘He will make a mistake eventually, or steal in front of a witness who is not afraid to speak out.’

  ‘Yes, but how many more heirlooms will we lose in the meantime?’ demanded Michael bitterly. ‘It is his lawyer who is to blame. Neubold.’

  Bartholomew frowned. ‘Neubold? That is the name of the priest who accompanied Joan to Cambridge, then failed to come and give her last rites.’

  Michael shrugged. ‘Joan hailed from Suffolk, and so does Gosse. Perhaps Neubold is a common name
there. Or perhaps this priest dabbles in criminal law to supplement his stipend.’

  ‘What about the attack on Langelee?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Have you solved that yet?’

  ‘No, but come with me to my office in St Mary the Great,’ said Michael, giving the cake one last, covetous glance before making for the door. ‘My beadles have found a witness, and he has agreed to meet me there. It will not take long, and we shall be back in time for the Saturday Debate.’

  CHAPTER 3

  The witness to the attack on Langelee transpired to be a thin, beak-nosed Dominican with wild eyes and filthy robes. He stank, and Bartholomew did not think he had ever seen hands more deeply ingrained with dirt. He wondered why Prior Morden, the head of the Cambridge Black Friars, had not ordered him to bathe. The man was a hedge-priest – an itinerant cleric with no parish of his own – but the fact that he wore a Dominican habit meant Morden would have some control over him.

  ‘Tell me what you saw,’ ordered Michael, indicating that the friar should sit on a bench – a handsome piece of furniture that matched his exquisitely carved desk. Bartholomew surveyed the room’s tasteful elegance and understated wealth, and wondered how long Michael would obey the order to leave Gosse alone. The monk had not risen to such dizzy heights by letting himself be bullied, or by following instructions he thought were foolish.

  ‘It was dark that night,’ replied the friar with a peculiar smile. ‘As dark as the finest coal. Coal is a glorious substance. It shines like gold. Black gold.’

  ‘Right,’ said Michael warily. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘I have many names, but I like the one God gave me best – Carbo. It is Latin, and means—’

  ‘Coal,’ said Michael. ‘Yes, I know. Now, about the incident near King’s Hall on Thursday …’

  ‘I saw a small man step from the shadows with a knife. He stabbed a big man, then ran away.’

  ‘Did you recognise the small man?’ asked Michael hopefully. ‘Or do you know his name?’

  ‘No.’

  The priest gesticulated as he talked, and Bartholomew noticed that the movements of one hand were less fluid than the other. He kept tilting his head to one side, too, shaking it, as if to clear his ears of water. The physician wondered what was wrong with him.

  ‘Can you describe this attacker?’ Michael was asking.

  Carbo breathed in deeply, and an uneasy expression crossed his face. ‘Can you smell garlic?’

  ‘Garlic?’ queried Michael, startled. ‘No. Unless Agatha put some in my midday pottage …’

  ‘There!’ exclaimed Carbo, snapping his fingers and beaming. ‘It has gone! All is well again.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Michael, regarding him askance. ‘But you were about to describe—’

  Carbo closed his eyes, and began to speak in a curious, chant-like manner. ‘The man I saw. A youth or small man. Well dressed. Scholar’s uniform. Neat hair. Good boots – black, like coal.’ His eyes snapped open again, and he grinned broadly. ‘Coal is a marvellous thing, although it brings out the worst in people. Do you not agree?’

  Michael blinked. ‘I have never given it much thought, frankly. Is there any more you can tell us? This was an attempt on a man’s life, and we are eager to catch the culprit, lest he tries it again.’

  ‘I can tell you he should have darkened his face with coal-dust, because then I would not have seen him loitering in that doorway, waiting for his prey. He would have been invisible.’

  ‘Do you think Langelee – the big man – was his intended victim?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Yes – he let other folk pass unmolested, and only made his move when the big man came. He knew who to kill. Can you smell garlic? I smell garlic.’

  ‘Lord, Matt!’ exclaimed Michael, when Carbo had been sent on his way with money for a decent meal. ‘He is as mad as Clippesby. What is it about the Dominican Order that attracts lunatics?’

  ‘You should speak to Prior Morden about him,’ said Bartholomew, concerned. ‘He is obviously ill, and should not be wandering about on his own. He needs care and attention.’

  ‘Very well. Do you think we can trust his testimony?’

  Bartholomew shrugged. ‘He confirmed what Langelee said – that the culprit wore academic garb.’

  Michael was thoughtful. ‘His description of the culprit’s neat hair does not sound like Gosse, either – Gosse is virtually bald. So perhaps this is one crime of which he is innocent. But speak of the devil, and he will appear, because there is Idoma.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Gosse’s sister. Folk say she is a witch, but only because they are afraid of her. Obviously, it is easier to be frightened of a witch than admit to being intimidated by an ordinary woman.’

  Bartholomew studied Idoma as she approached, and supposed she was an impressive specimen. She was taller and broader than most men, and many of his younger students would have been proud to boast a moustache like hers. Her hair was bundled under a wimple, but the tendril that escaped was jet black. It matched her eyes, which were oddly expressionless, and reminded him of a shark-fish he had once seen off the Spanish coast. The similarity was enhanced when she opened her mouth to speak, revealing two rows of sharp, jagged teeth. And Suttone had been right when he claimed she was a cut above the average villain, too – she carried herself with an aloof dignity that indicated she was no commoner.

  ‘Lost any more chalices recently, Brother?’ she asked gloatingly.

  ‘Why?’ asked Michael coldly. ‘Which ones has your brother stolen now?’

  ‘You cannot make that sort of accusation,’ said Idoma, stepping forward threateningly. Michael held his ground, so they were eye to eye. ‘Our lawyer says so.’

  Michael smiled without humour. ‘But your lawyer is not here, is he, madam? What did Gosse do with my College’s cups? If they are returned, I may be persuaded to speak at his trial – the one that is a certainty, given the number of crimes he commits. A word from me may see him escape the noose.’

  ‘Do you have proof with which to accuse him?’ Idoma asked, unblinking eyes boring into his.

  Watching them bandy words, Bartholomew found it was easy to imagine her sitting over a cauldron, chanting spells to rouse demons from Hell. Then he grimaced, aware that he was allowing himself to be influenced by popular bigotry. Of course she was not a witch, any more than he was a warlock. It was not her fault she looked the part. Or was it? She did not have to wear long black skirts, and nor did she have to cultivate an aura that oozed malevolence.

  ‘I have no evidence to trap him yet,’ said Michael, softly menacing in his turn. ‘But it is only a matter of time before I do. You can tell him that, if you like.’

  Idoma inclined her head. ‘We shall see. And now, if you do not mind, I have better things to do than talk to you. Get out of my way.’

  Bartholomew was surprised when the monk obliged. He watched her stride away, noting how most pedestrians and some carts gave her a very wide berth.

  ‘Damn!’ breathed Michael, shaking his head. ‘I did not mean to move, but I could not stop myself. It is those peculiar eyes of hers. There is something very eerie about them, and I felt myself powerless to resist her. It was uncanny – and disturbing, too. Perhaps she is a witch.’

  ‘She is not. And her eyes are only striking because they do not reflect the light. That is what lends them that flat, impenetrable expression. There must be some unusual pigment in the iris, which—’

  ‘There is more to it than that – Idoma has an evil charisma about her. So does Gosse. But they will not be free to burgle and rob their way through the town for much longer in the misguided belief that they are untouchable, because I meant what I said. I will catch them.’

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘But be on your guard from now on, Brother. If the tales about Gosse and Idoma are true, then they represent a formidable adversary.’

  There was a hard, cold gleam in Michael’s green eyes. ‘But so do I, Matt. So do I.’

  When Bartholo
mew and Michael returned to the College, the monk immediately laid claim to Edith’s cake. The physician tended to be absent-minded about such matters, and Michael did not want to sit through the Saturday Debate with nothing to eat. He whisked it away for cutting up.

  Because Bartholomew’s pupils were still occupied with the tasks he had set them his chamber was empty, so he took the opportunity to spend a few moments with his treatise on fevers. He had started writing it several years before, as a concise guide for students. It was now several volumes long, and he still had not finished everything he wanted to say. He picked up his quill, but had penned no more than a sentence when there was a tap on his door. It was Langelee.

  ‘The Stanton Cups,’ said the Master without preamble. ‘Their loss is a terrible blow to us all.’

  Masking his frustration that he was not to be permitted even a few moments to himself, Bartholomew set down his pen and leaned back in his chair to give the Master his full attention. ‘We will miss them when we celebrate special masses, but we have other chalices.’

  ‘True,’ acknowledged Langelee. He sat heavily on the bed. ‘But even so …’

  Bartholomew glanced out of the window when the bell rang to announce the debate was about to start. Scholars began to troop towards the hall, some enthusiastically and others dragging their feet. The occasions were popular with the brighter students, who did not mind Thelnetham calling on them to argue a case at a moment’s notice, but they were dreaded by those who were less articulate.

  ‘We had better go,’ he said, when Langelee did not seem to have anything else to add. He closed his books and put the lid back on the inkwell.

  ‘The topic today is whether a man should be allowed to marry a goat,’ said Langelee gloomily.

  Bartholomew regarded him in disbelief. ‘Are you sure? Suttone usually vetoes that sort of subject – there is only so far he allows Thelnetham to go in his quest to amuse.’

  Langelee shrugged. ‘Perhaps I misheard. It is probably whether goats should be allowed to wed each other. Or perhaps goats have nothing to do with it. I did not pay much attention, to be honest.’