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

by Gregory, Susanna

  He wondered what Langelee would do now. His choices were to make Wynewyk’s activities public, or allow them to die with their perpetrator. Either way, Michaelhouse would lose thirty marks. Absently, he picked up the goblet from which Wynewyk had been drinking. It was empty, but there was nothing to suggest foul play – no odd aromas or residues in the bottom.

  ‘He was not poisoned,’ said Michael quietly, seeing the line Bartholomew’s thoughts had taken. ‘No one has any reason to harm Wynewyk.’

  Bartholomew was careful not to look at Langelee. ‘Who poured the wine?’

  ‘Tesdale,’ replied Thelnetham. ‘It should have been me, because I am the most junior Fellow, but I was presiding over the debate, so I paid Tesdale to do it in my stead.’

  ‘It was a kindness,’ said Hemmysby, smiling wanly. ‘Thelnetham is quite capable of pouring wine and presiding at the same time, but Tesdale is poor, and Thelnetham was being thoughtful.’

  Thelnetham flushed uncomfortably. ‘Nonsense! The truth is that I was afraid this cheap brew might stain my habit – and I have a rather important date with a certain young man tonight.’

  Michael shook Bartholomew’s arm. ‘I know your appointment as Corpse Examiner has exposed you to more murder than is normal for a physician, Matt, but you must not allow it to lead you to see evil in all untimely demises. Sometimes, men just die.’

  ‘I suppose it might have been a seizure,’ acknowledged Bartholomew, although he was not sure what to think. None of the other Fellows knew about the inconsistencies in the accounts so could have no reason to harm Wynewyk, while Langelee had an alibi in Bartholomew himself. And even if the Master had arranged for an accomplice to feed his errant Fellow some toxic substance, it would have been difficult to target his victim without poisoning the rest of the College, too.

  ‘Of course it was a seizure,’ said Langelee sharply. ‘What else could it be? But here is Cynric with the bier, so we should take Wynewyk to the church. The sooner he is there, the sooner we can start to think about arrangements for his burial.’

  ‘Oh, Lord!’ whispered Suttone, distressed by the notion. ‘I suppose it does fall to us to organise the ceremonies. However, it will take several days to—’

  ‘We shall inter him tomorrow,’ interrupted Langelee tersely. ‘We can hold a requiem mass later.’

  Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why the hurry, Master?’

  ‘Because I want our students to resume their normal routine as soon as possible – and we cannot afford a grand funeral, anyway. Our coffers are empty.’

  ‘And there is the crux of the matter,’ said Suttone bitterly. He bent down and tugged Wynewyk’s purse from its belt, shoving it fiercely at Langelee. ‘Perhaps you might care to see whether he has enough to pay for his own rites, Master.’

  ‘That is a good idea,’ said Langelee, either oblivious to or uncaring of the fact that Suttone was being facetious. He tipped the purse’s contents into his hand, ignoring the looks of shocked distaste that were exchanged between his Fellows. ‘A few pennies and a rock.’

  ‘A rock?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘What kind of rock?’

  Langelee tossed it to him. ‘One with sharp edges and crystals.’

  ‘A charm,’ said Cynric, who knew what he was talking about when it came to matters superstitious. He set the bier on the floor, and peered over Bartholomew’s shoulder. ‘Men often carry stones like that for luck or protection. It is quite normal.’

  ‘Perhaps he bought it to ward off seizures because he knew he was susceptible to them,’ suggested Clippesby. He looked away. ‘It is a pity the wretched thing did not work.’

  Cynric and Langelee lifted Wynewyk on to the stretcher, then Suttone, Clippesby, Thelnetham and Hemmysby began to pray over the body. Bartholomew went to stand in the library, so as not to distract them. Langelee and Michael followed him there.

  ‘You have told me in the past that people often die of natural seizures, Matt,’ said Michael softly. ‘Yet you seem oddly reluctant to accept that this is what has happened to Wynewyk. Why?’

  ‘Because of what he knows,’ explained Langelee, when he saw Bartholomew was not sure how to reply. He proceeded to give a brief account of what they had discovered, and Bartholomew was not surprised when the monk refused to believe it.

  ‘You can look for yourself,’ said Langelee tiredly. ‘All the Fellows can. There is no point in keeping it secret now. Damn Wynewyk! How could he do this to us? To his friends?’

  ‘I can see why his death set warning bells jangling,’ said Michael to Bartholomew. ‘It is a suspicious combination of events. But is there any tangible evidence to suggest foul play?’

  ‘No,’ said Langelee, very firmly. ‘I imagine what happened is that his guilty conscience killed him. And the laughter was hysterical, because he knew he was on the verge of being exposed.’

  ‘I will never believe that of him,’ said Bartholomew angrily. ‘Never.’

  ‘Matt?’ prompted Michael, still waiting for an answer to his question.

  ‘When I looked in his mouth, I could see from his teeth that he had eaten some of Edith’s cake. He should not have done: it was full of almonds, and he had an aversion to those.’

  ‘You mean the cake gave him this seizure?’ asked Michael.

  Bartholomew raised his hands in a shrug. ‘It might have done. Or the almonds caused him to choke. He usually spat them out when he realised what he was eating, but his wild laughter suggests he might have had more wine than usual. Perhaps it made him incautious.’

  ‘I have no idea what you are telling me,’ said Michael impatiently.

  ‘I am saying that I do not know what happened, Brother,’ snapped Bartholomew, distress and shock making him uncharacteristically testy. ‘Perhaps the almonds did induce a seizure. Or perhaps he would have had one anyway. However, he knew he was supposed to avoid nuts, so why are they on his teeth? Did he eat the cake knowing what would happen?’

  Michael regarded him warily. ‘You think he guessed what Langelee was doing, and killed himself? I do not think that is very likely. Suicides do not spend their last moments laughing their heads off.’

  ‘His aversion was not a secret,’ said Bartholomew, rubbing a hand through his hair as he tried to make sense of it all. ‘Perhaps someone knew what would happen if he were to eat the cake, and plied him with it deliberately.’

  ‘Well, it was not me,’ said Langelee, when monk and physician looked at him. ‘I am no killer. Well, not of my colleagues, at least.’

  The abrupt nature of Wynewyk’s demise preyed heavily on Bartholomew’s mind, and he could not stop himself from wondering whether one of his colleagues had become suspicious of something Wynewyk had said or done, and had conducted his own survey of the accounts. The books were always available for Fellows to inspect, and thirty marks was an enormous sum of money.

  He walked to his room and found Valence, Risleye and Tesdale there. Risleye was trying to draw his classmates into wagering on the outcome of Langelee’s next camp-ball game, but the other two were pale and subdued, not in the mood for chattering about sport. Risleye became exasperated when he saw his attempts to cheer them up were not working.

  ‘We are all upset about Wynewyk,’ he said irritably. ‘But sitting here, all gloom and misery, is doing no one any good. Come to the kitchens – Agatha will sell me a jug of ale, and I shall share it with you.’

  ‘But I served him wine,’ said Tesdale, beginning to cry again. ‘His death might be my fault.’

  ‘It is not your fault,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘Why should you think such a thing?’

  ‘Because he had such a lot of it,’ sobbed Tesdale. ‘He is usually abstemious, but he kept draining his goblet today. I took care to refill it, because he has always been kind to me and I wanted to return the favour: if he was of a mind to get himself tipsy, then I was going to facilitate it for him.’

  ‘Are you saying he was drunk?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘Perhaps that is why he laughed
so much,’ suggested Valence, before Tesdale could reply. ‘The disputants were not that funny, and I thought it odd at the time that Wynewyk should cackle so.’

  ‘He was not drunk,’ said Tesdale, although he did not sound certain. ‘Merry, maybe. But he was a good man. I struggled to pay my fees last term, so he gave me more time to raise the money. And he sometimes shared his commons with me.’

  ‘Perhaps he liked the look of you,’ suggested Risleye baldly.

  ‘Enough of that sort of talk,’ snapped Bartholomew, knowing Wynewyk would never engage in an inappropriate relationship with a student, especially one from Michaelhouse.

  Risleye objected to the reprimand. ‘But he did like men – it was no secret. I am not maligning him – merely offering an explanation for his munificence. And you can say what you will, Tesdale, but Wynewyk was not generous – his tight hold on the College purse strings is testament to that.’

  ‘Well, he was generous to me,’ mumbled Tesdale. He sniffed, then regarded his classmate hopefully. ‘Did you mention sharing a jug of ale?’

  Bartholomew left them, and walked aimlessly along the High Street, craving time alone to think. He heard someone calling his name, and turned to see Michael waddling after him.

  ‘How could you even think of wandering off after what has just happened?’ the monk demanded angrily. ‘Surely you must know I still have questions to ask?’

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘I thought I had answered them all.’

  Michael scowled. ‘I want to speak to you without Langelee giving his opinion every few moments. I still cannot believe what he said about the accounts. I will inspect them myself tonight, but I want your views first. Are you sure he is right?’

  ‘Quite sure. We gave Wynewyk free rein to buy everything the College needs – food, cloth, pots, fuel, stationery. Most of the entries show he paid impressively low prices for them. Except for three commodities purchased from Suffolk, where he paid ridiculously high ones: wood, coal and pigs.’

  Michael’s face was pale. ‘This is dreadful! We all trusted him – he was our friend. But this is no place to be talking. Come to the Brazen George with me. We both need a drink.’

  The Brazen George was Michael’s favourite tavern. Such places were forbidden to scholars, on the grounds that ale, students and townsfolk were a volatile mix and likely to result in trouble, and his beadles were always on the lookout for academics who thought the rules did not apply to them. Being caught resulted in hefty fines. Michael, however, did a good deal of University business in taverns, and had declared himself exempt from this particular statute. Punishing others for what he enjoyed himself made him something of a hypocrite, but he did not care enough to change his ways.

  He led the way to the small chamber at the back of the inn, which the landlord kept for his exclusive use. It was a pleasant room, with real glass in the windows and a fire in the hearth.

  ‘It will be a bad winter,’ predicted Taverner Lister, bringing not just ale, but roast venison and a dish of apples, too. Michael’s eyes glistened: it was better fare than anything he was likely to be offered at Michaelhouse. ‘Folk will starve when the snows come.’

  ‘A number of my patients say the same thing.’ Bartholomew watched the monk tie a piece of linen around his neck to protect his habit from splattered grease. He wondered how Michael could bring himself to eat after what had happened. ‘Bread is already expensive.’

  ‘Then eat well while you can,’ suggested Lister. ‘Because this time of plenty will not last.’

  ‘Lord!’ exclaimed Michael, when he had gone. ‘He can be a gloomy fellow sometimes.’

  ‘I refuse to believe Wynewyk was cheating us,’ said Bartholomew, taking one of the apples and playing with it listlessly. ‘So there must be another reason why this thirty marks is missing. Do you have any idea what it might be?’

  Michael began feeding, and was silent for so long that Bartholomew was beginning to think he had forgotten the question. ‘Blackmail,’ the monk said eventually.

  Bartholomew gazed at him. ‘Wynewyk was not the kind of man to harbour dark secrets.’

  Michael regarded him soberly. ‘How do you know? No matter how we look at it, he took thirty marks. This has shocked us, which implies we have no idea what kind of man he was.’

  ‘I know he was no thief,’ persisted Bartholomew stubbornly. ‘And Langelee will feel terrible when we uncover the truth and Wynewyk is exonerated. However, I accept your point that Wynewyk’s failure to tell us what he was doing suggests he was more enigmatic than we realised. What do you think someone could have been blackmailing him about?’

  Michael tapped a bone on the edge of the platter as he thought. ‘He preferred men to women, but that was common knowledge, so no one could have threatened to make it public. And he confined himself to older men – rough, soldierly types – so there is no question of an inappropriate seduction.’

  ‘Perhaps it is something to do with his academic work,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘He devised a new and controversial theory.’

  Michael laughed, genuinely amused. ‘You are the only Michaelhouse Fellow who indulges in that sort of thing, and Wynewyk was an uninspired scholar, to say the least. He did not even have any interesting ideas about Blood Relics – and everyone likes to hold forth about those. Indeed, I am worried about the debate on the subject that is due to take place Monday week.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused.

  ‘Because too many clever men with novel theories have been scheduled to speak, and—’

  ‘Then what else could Wynewyk have been blackmailed about?’ demanded Bartholomew. He did not care about the debate. ‘If Wynewyk was a dull scholar, and his private life was an open book?’

  Michael rubbed his flabby jowls. ‘I really have no idea. But if there is anything insalubrious in his life, we shall find it, you can be sure of that. Now, tell me more about his death.’

  ‘You know as much as I do. He swallowed nuts, which he should not have done, and Tesdale thinks he was drunk. Perhaps he ate the nuts because his wits were befuddled with wine, and his death was an accident. Or maybe he did it deliberately, because it was an easy way out of whatever predicament he was in. Or perhaps someone fed him something toxic earlier in the day and he was dying before the debate started, which would explain his odd behaviour. Or maybe it was a seizure.’

  ‘In other words, the possibilities are accident, suicide, murder or natural causes,’ concluded Michael dryly. ‘That is hardly helpful, Matt.’

  ‘I cannot draw conclusions from evidence that is not there.’

  ‘Then we must find some,’ determined Michael. ‘I want you to inspect Wynewyk’s body again. I know pawing the corpse of a friend will be distasteful to you, but we have no choice.’

  * * *

  Wynewyk had been taken to the Stanton Chapel in St Michael’s Church, where he occupied the parish coffin. The chapel, named for the College’s founder, was a pleasant, airy place adjacent to the chancel, with delicate windows and tasteful paintings on the walls. Niches on either side of the altar contained statues, one of the Virgin Mary and the other of St Michael. They looked down with flat stone eyes, although Bartholomew had always thought their expressions inexplicably sad. Perhaps they did not like the number of Michaelhouse scholars who had lain dead in front of them.

  The physician forced himself to begin his examination. Obviously, there were no wounds to find, because Wynewyk had died in a room full of witnesses and someone would have noticed if he had been injured. Even so, he went through the motions – assessing his colleague for marks of violence and disease, trying to ascertain whether there might be something less obvious that had brought about the sudden death of a healthy man. He spent a long time examining the mouth, even tipping the head back, to assess the throat. It was slightly swollen.

  ‘Some people have aversions to specific substances,’ he said, more to himself than Michael, who was sitting on a nearby tomb trying not to wat
ch, ‘which cause the neck tissues to swell. This prevents air from entering the lungs, so the victim suffocates. However, Wynewyk’s throat does not appear to be dangerously inflamed …’

  ‘So what are you saying?’ demanded Michael, when the physician trailed off.

  ‘Wynewyk knew nuts were dangerous for him, so why did he eat them? Even drunk, I cannot imagine him being so recklessly careless.’

  ‘So you think it was suicide?’ pressed Michael.

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Suicide means accepting that he did something untoward – something that warranted a brisk exit from the world. And I refuse to believe that of him.’

  ‘So, we are left with murder, accident or natural causes. What do you make of his giggling? Would he have been able to laugh so heartily, if he was struggling to breathe?’

  Bartholomew shrugged helplessly. ‘Clearly, he did laugh, because you heard him. I suppose it might have been a hysterical reaction brought about by a shortness of breath.’

  ‘I am not sure about this nut theory,’ said Michael, after a moment of silence. ‘It smacks of deviant thinking on your part, and I do not want attention drawn to your heterodoxy. I prefer our original diagnosis: that he died laughing – a seizure. It will be better for everyone – including Wynewyk – if we agree on a verdict of natural causes.’

  ‘You mean we should lie?’ asked Bartholomew coolly.

  ‘I mean we keep our fears and suspicions to ourselves until we have sufficient evidence to make them public.’ Michael gazed at their colleague’s cold, waxen face, then released an anguished cry that made the physician jump. ‘Lord Christ, Wynewyk! How could you do this to us?’

  When they had finished their dismal business in the church, Michael went to tackle the accounts, but Bartholomew did not feel like going with him. Nor was he inclined to visit the conclave, which would be full of talk about Wynewyk, or his room, where his students might ask for a medical explanation for what had happened. Normally, he encouraged his pupils’ willingness to learn, but he was not equal to it that evening. He told the monk he was going to see a patient, and set off along the High Street.