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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, not seeing at all. He stood, and indicated that Langelee should do likewise, so they could leave. ‘If the subject is contentious, we will be needed to calm—’

  But Langelee remained where he was. ‘Please sit down. I have something to tell you – something only you can help me resolve.’

  Reluctantly, Bartholomew returned to his seat, supposing he had made the offer of a sympathetic ear two nights before, so now he had no choice but to honour it. However, he sincerely hoped the confession would not turn out to be anything too alarming, perhaps involving Langelee’s former life as the Archbishop’s spy, or a romantic tryst with someone else’s wife. Scholars were forbidden relations with the town’s women, but Langelee tended to ignore that particular rule.

  ‘We had better wait until the debate has started,’ said Langelee, standing to lean out of the window and look into the yard. ‘I would rather no one knows what we are doing.’

  Bartholomew’s misgivings intensified. Langelee held his breath when Michael thundered down the stairs from his room above. The monk pushed open the door to ask whether Bartholomew was ready, and Langelee pressed himself against the wall, so as not to be seen. His shadow was clearly visible, though, and the physician knew from Michael’s amused smirk that he had seen it.

  ‘I will come in a while, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is something I need to finish first.’

  ‘I will make your excuses to Thelnetham, then,’ said Michael. He carried Edith’s cake, but there were crumbs on the front of his habit. He winked at his friend, made the kind of gesture that said he wished him luck, and left.

  When the last of the scholars had entered the hall and the door was closed, Langelee turned to the physician. ‘This is difficult, and I am not sure where to start. As you may have guessed, it is not just the loss of the Stanton Cups that is bothering me.’

  ‘Take your time,’ said Bartholomew kindly, seeing the distress in Langelee’s face. Whatever was troubling the Master was clearly serious; he did not think he had ever seen him in such a state.

  Langelee reached inside his tabard and produced a slender, leather-bound book and a pile of parchments. When he passed them to Bartholomew, his hand shook.

  ‘The College accounts,’ said Bartholomew, recognising the tome. He was puzzled. ‘Can you not make them balance? I thought you had delegated that task to Wynewyk.’

  ‘I have,’ said Langelee. ‘And you know why: a Master’s duties are onerous, and managing the finances for such a large foundation takes a lot of time. Wynewyk is good with figures, so it seemed sensible to pass the responsibility to him. It leaves me free for more important College business.’

  ‘What is wrong, Langelee?’ asked Bartholomew gently, seeing he would have to do some coaxing unless he wanted to be there all day. ‘What do you want to tell me?’

  ‘Go over the accounts. Do not demand explanations or ask me questions – just assess what you see, and let me know what you think. I shall sit here quietly until you have finished.’

  Bartholomew regarded the endless rows of tiny, neat figures with dismay. ‘But Wynewyk keeps very detailed records of all our transactions. It will take me ages to—’

  ‘I do not care. I will not say a word until you are done. Do not rush – take as long as you need.’

  ‘Perhaps you should go to the debate,’ suggested Bartholomew, not liking the notion of the Master looming behind him as he worked. He imagined there would be all manner of sighs and impatient rustles if Langelee thought he was taking too long, despite his assurances to the contrary.

  ‘I do not want to leave them,’ said Langelee, nodding at the book and the pile of documents. ‘I will stay here, if you do not mind.’

  ‘Where do you want me to start?’ asked Bartholomew, a little helplessly. ‘These records go back more than a decade – before the plague.’

  Langelee opened the book to a specific page. It was dated a year before, roughly where Langelee’s bold scrawl gave way entirely to Wynewyk’s neat roundhand. Before that, both had made entries.

  ‘There,’ he said, stabbing a thick forefinger at the record for the previous November. ‘That was when I decided I trusted him so completely that I stopped checking his sums. They were always right, anyway.’

  Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. ‘What are you saying? Wynewyk would never—’

  ‘Just look at the figures,’ interrupted Langelee shortly. ‘And then we will talk.’

  By the end of the afternoon, Bartholomew had been through the accounts so many times that the columns of figures were beginning to swim before his eyes. He leaned back and flexed his aching shoulders. There were a number of conclusions that could be drawn from the complex calculations in the book and the documents that lay in front of him, but none made him happy.

  First, it was possible that Wynewyk had made a series of honest mistakes. But Bartholomew felt there were too many errors to be attributed solely to careless arithmetic.

  Second, it could be argued that Wynewyk had been promoted beyond his abilities, and that the discrepancy between what the College should have owned, and what was actually in its coffers, was down to incompetence. But Wynewyk was intelligent, and the physician did not see him as inept.

  And third – although Bartholomew was loath to believe it – Wynewyk could have been lining his own pockets at Michaelhouse’s expense.

  ‘Well?’ asked Langelee. As good as his word, he had remained silent the whole time. He had paced to begin with, but an irritable glance from the physician had made him sit again, and then he had either looked at the pictures in Bartholomew’s medical books, or dozed on the bed. Now he was uncharacteristically grave. ‘Is there an innocent explanation for why we are short of thirty marks?’

  Bartholomew did not reply. He stood, and pushed the window shutters further open, feeling the need for fresh air. A cold breeze blew in, billowing among the parchments on the table and sending some to the floor. Neither scholar moved to retrieve them. The physician leaned against the stone mullion and gazed across the courtyard. It was deserted, and the only thing moving was Walter’s tailless peacock, which was scratching in the mud for food.

  ‘Please,’ said Langelee in an uncharacteristically strangled voice. ‘You must tell me what you think. Are we thirty marks short? Or have I missed something?’

  ‘You have not missed anything,’ replied Bartholomew. He closed the shutters, thinking this was a discussion they had better have with the window barred against possible eavesdroppers. Frequent bellows of laughter from the hall showed that the debate was still in full swing, but he did not want to take the chance that someone had left early. ‘Thirty marks have gone astray.’

  ‘My next question is how,’ said Langelee unhappily. ‘How has such a vast sum disappeared?’

  ‘Through some cunning manipulation.’ Bartholomew spoke reluctantly, not liking what he was saying. ‘A quick glance at the records suggests all is in order, and it is only when you work through them carefully that these … these inconsistencies are apparent.’

  Langelee massaged his eyes wearily. ‘Your assessment coincides with mine. So what shall we do? Confront him, and demand to know what the hell he thinks he is doing? Or shall we inform the Senior Proctor, and let there be an official investigation?’

  ‘Wynewyk is not a thief,’ said Bartholomew, his thoughts in turmoil. ‘He will have a reason for doing what he has done, and you should give him the opportunity to explain himself.’

  ‘What reason?’ Langelee sneered the last word. He began to pace, the agitation that had been in control earlier now erupting. ‘What reason gives him the right to steal thirty marks?’

  Bartholomew spread his hands, trying to think of one. ‘Perhaps he has invested in a scheme that will make the College a profit eventually.’

  ‘Then why conceal it so slyly?’ demanded Langelee angrily. ‘He knows we do whatever he recommends – he could suggest we invest in the moon, and we would do it. We trust him.�
��

  ‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘We do. So all we need to do is talk to him, and ask what is going on. You are agonising over nothing.’

  ‘I am agonising over thirty marks,’ countered Langelee. ‘A fortune.’

  ‘What made you suspicious in the first place?’ asked Bartholomew, after a silence in which both men reflected on how much more pleasant life in Michaelhouse would have been with an additional thirty marks. They would not have had to endure such dreadful food, for a start.

  Langelee sat on the bed again, as though pacing had sapped his energy. ‘Experience. I dealt with some very treacherous villains for the Archbishop of York, and it taught me how to recognise them. I had Wynewyk marked for a scoundrel from the beginning.’

  Bartholomew did not believe him, thinking it was easy to express reservations with the benefit of hindsight. ‘Then why did you accept him as a Fellow?’

  ‘Because I hoped he would use his aptitude for deceit to benefit us,’ snapped Langelee. ‘God knows, we need something to give us an edge over Cambridge’s venal tradesmen.’

  ‘That is a dreadful thing to admit! We do not want a reputation for unfair dealings. The University is unpopular enough as it is, without courting trouble by cheating those who do business with us.’

  ‘They would cheat us, given the chance,’ Langelee flashed back. ‘And a reputation for honest trading would make us the target of every thief in the shire. It is better to be crafty and slippery.’

  ‘God’s teeth!’ breathed Bartholomew, shocked. He tried to bring his thoughts back to Wynewyk. ‘But if you knew he was a thief, why did you entrust him with Michaelhouse’s money?’

  ‘Because I did not think he would cheat us. I kept a close eye on him for two years, as he steered us from poverty to prosperity. Eventually, I decided he could be trusted, and spent less time checking his work. And in November, I stopped altogether. It was a terrible mistake, but I thought two years was enough to gain a man’s measure.’

  ‘It is enough,’ said Bartholomew. ‘In fact, I am so sure Wynewyk would never hurt us that I am willing to wager anything you like on there being an innocent explanation.’

  ‘I hope you are right, I really do. And if he refunds our thirty marks, I may be prepared to listen to his excuses. However, if he has spent it on himself, then he can expect my dagger in his gizzard.’

  ‘We shall talk to him as soon as the debate is over,’ said Bartholomew, not entirely sure that Langelee was speaking figuratively. That was the problem with having a Master whose previous occupation had involved so many insalubrious activities. ‘He will put your mind at rest.’

  ‘He will lie,’ predicted Langelee despondently. ‘You will believe him, and I will be alone with my suspicions once more. I chose to confide in you because you are faster at arithmetic than the others, but I should have approached Michael instead. He is less inclined to see the good in people.’

  Selfishly, Bartholomew wished Langelee had lumbered Michael with the burden of confronting a colleague with accusations of dishonesty. He was about to recommend that they made a list of all the questionable transactions they had found, when there was a knock at the door. It was Cynric.

  ‘There has been an incident,’ he said tersely. ‘In the hall.’

  ‘Another fight?’ asked Langelee wearily. ‘I thought I had made my views clear about that: if someone cannot win his point with words, then he must go outside to throw his punches. We are scholars, not louts, to be brawling in our own hall.’

  ‘No one was fighting,’ said Cynric. He was subdued, and Bartholomew was assailed with the conviction that something was very wrong. ‘And everyone was so intent on listening to Clippesby explain why goats make good wives that no one realised what was happening until it was too late.’

  ‘Too late for what?’ demanded Bartholomew, coils of unease writhing in the pit of his stomach.

  ‘For Wynewyk,’ said Cynric. He looked down at his boots, reluctant to continue.

  ‘Wynewyk?’ echoed Bartholomew, unable to avoid shooting Langelee an anxious glance.

  ‘He is dead,’ explained Cynric softly. ‘I think he died laughing.’

  That wintry afternoon, a fire had been lit in the hall, but Bartholomew’s breath still plumed in front of him as he hurried towards the dais, where a tight knot of Fellows and students had clustered around their stricken colleague. When he saw the physician and the Master enter, Thelnetham detached himself from the throng and hurried towards them, white-faced and shaking.

  ‘It has been a horrible week,’ he blurted, ‘what with bad weather, poor food and the loss of the Stanton Cups, so I chose a silly subject to cheer us up. But I never meant for …’ He trailed off.

  Langelee regarded him warily. ‘Never meant for what?’

  ‘Never meant for Wynewyk to laugh so hard that he died,’ finished Thelnetham in an appalled whisper. ‘I did not even know such a thing was possible.’

  Wynewyk was sitting at the high table, although he had slumped across it, as if he had grown bored with the debate and had fallen asleep. Bartholomew wondered if he was playing a prank, albeit one in poor taste, for his colleagues were distressed. All around, voices were raised, some in horror and others in disbelief; the babble quietened as he and Langelee approached.

  ‘Clippesby was postulating the merits of goat wives,’ explained Michael, as the physician bent to examine the fallen Fellow. The monk’s face was very pale. ‘And I was opposing him. But if I had thought for a moment that our ridiculous banter would lead to …’

  Despite Wynewyk’s restful pose, Bartholomew could see he was dead even before he felt the absence of a life-beat in the great veins of the neck. The lawyer’s face was an unnatural shade of blue, and his eyes were half closed, staring at nothing.

  Premature death was no stranger to members of the University – besides fatal brawls, there were accidents, suicides and a whole gamut of diseases – but it was still rare for it to occur quite so unexpectedly. Wynewyk was no more than thirty, and had been in good health. Bartholomew turned to his book-bearer.

  ‘Fetch a bier, Cynric. And escort the students from the hall – they do not need to see this.’

  ‘You mean he is dead?’ Langelee looked appalled. ‘But he was all right when I saw him earlier this afternoon.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Do you think he died because of … you know?’

  Bartholomew was not sure what to think, and for a moment could do no more than stare at the man who had been his friend. He recalled the times he and Wynewyk had sat reading in companionable silence in the conclave after the others had gone to bed. And the times they had filched an illicit jug of wine from the kitchens, while Wynewyk had confided his concerns for his elderly father or waxed lyrical about whichever rough soldier had most recently captured his fancy.

  ‘In August, he went to visit family in Winwick,’ said Suttone. The Carmelite was near tears. ‘We all missed him, even though he was only gone for a week. What shall we do now he is gone for ever?’

  Bartholomew had no reply, and watched numbly as Cynric ushered the students from the hall. They were reluctant to go, not because they were ghoulish, but because they did not want to leave the reassuring presence of the senior scholars. Tesdale was crying, and Valence was trying to comfort him. By contrast, Risleye was excited, arguing that he should be allowed to stay so that he could learn from the case. Bartholomew appreciated the young man’s desire to expand his medical knowledge, but his behaviour was inappropriate. He glared at him, and Risleye slunk out without another word.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked, when they had gone. ‘Did Wynewyk say he felt unwell?’

  ‘Not that I heard,’ replied Michael, still ashen. ‘I was just refuting Clippesby’s contention that goats like a year’s betrothal before committing themselves to wedlock, when Suttone began to yell.’

  ‘The sudden clamour frightened us,’ added Clippesby, his peculiar eyes wide and intense. ‘We all leapt to our feet, to find him staring at Wynewyk a
s though he were a ghost.’

  Suttone crossed himself. ‘What happened, Matthew? Is it the plague? I have been saying for years that it will return, but I did not expect it to manifest itself in Wynewyk. There are far more sinful—’

  ‘He was laughing,’ said Michael, curtly cutting across him. ‘Thelnetham’s chosen topic was absurd, and Wynewyk found it very amusing. He chortled all afternoon.’

  ‘He did,’ confirmed Hemmysby quietly. He dabbed his eyes with the sleeve of his habit. ‘In fact, I thought he was drunk, because his hilarity seemed out of proportion to the humour of the situation.’

  ‘He did not seem drunk,’ said Thelnetham. He hesitated. ‘Or did he?’

  ‘What did he drink – and eat – at the noonday meal?’ asked Bartholomew.

  Everyone looked at Hemmysby, with whom he usually shared dishes. The theologian shrugged and wiped his eyes again. ‘He drank watered ale. And he ate pea pottage, like the rest of us.’

  ‘And at the debate, he had wine and Edith’s cake,’ added Michael. He grimaced. ‘In fact, I think he ate mine, too, because when I came for a bite it had gone, and I do not recall finishing it.’

  ‘He would not have taken cake,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He had an aversion to almonds, and knew to avoid them. Where is the wine?’

  Michael handed him the empty jug. ‘But there cannot be anything wrong with it, because it came from the barrel that served the whole College. It was not the best brew I have ever sampled, and some of the students said it tasted bitter, but none of us are dead.’

  Bartholomew inspected Wynewyk again, looking in his mouth and at his neck, and wondering whether his excessive giggles had been a response to Langelee discovering the inconsistencies in the accounts. Had he guessed what the Master had found, and an attack of fright or conscience had led to the strange laughter and then his death? But the physician had never heard of such a thing happening before, at least, not outside popular stories.