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

by Gregory, Susanna

  CHAPTER 11

  ‘I recommend you stay at the Brazen George,’ said Michael briskly, when the party finally reached Cambridge and the town’s guards had allowed them through the Barnwell Gate. ‘I shall escort you there, and arrange for you to meet Langelee later. It will mean him missing the Blood Relic debate, but I doubt he will mind.’

  Bartholomew was sure Langelee would be delighted to be provided with an excuse to escape a lot of theologians pontificating. The Master had never been very keen on public disputations.

  ‘No,’ said Luneday firmly. ‘We shall go to Michaelhouse now, and ask him for his verdict. We will not deprive him of a chance to display his razor-like wits to his admiring colleagues.’

  ‘But this great philosopher may be otherwise engaged.’ Elyan pulled distastefully at his travel-stained clothes. ‘And we do not want to meet him looking like peasants.’

  ‘He probably is busy,’ agreed Michael, eager to brief Langelee before the claimants descended on him. ‘And he will want time to prepare a proper welcome for you.’

  ‘But that will inconvenience him, and we would not do that for the world,’ argued Luneday. ‘The sooner we all state our cases, the sooner we can go home. So lead on, Brother. You said he is known for speedy decisions, and I miss Lizzie already.’

  ‘But not Margery,’ muttered Cynric. ‘His woman of several years. His dead woman.’

  ‘If he gives too swift a verdict, King’s Hall will accuse him of not assessing all the evidence,’ said Michael warningly. ‘So do not expect a decision today. And if the answer to this case were simple, your priests would already have devised a fair and legal solution.’

  ‘It is complex,’ agreed Hilton. He glanced at Risleye, Valence and Tesdale. ‘But not as complex as the arguments surrounding whether wet dog is more unpleasant than wet horse, apparently.’

  ‘Then let us go to Michaelhouse, and have an end to it once and for all,’ said Elyan with a petulant sigh. ‘Master Langelee will just have to accept that no man looks his best after enduring the King’s highways. And if we hurry, there may be time to buy some new clothes before we return home.’

  Bartholomew’s attention was elsewhere. ‘There is Paxtone,’ he said, spotting his colleague’s impressive bulk and tiny ankles.

  He dismounted, eager for news of his patients, but Michael coughed meaningfully, and shot him a look that said he would need the physician’s help when the Suffolk men met the Messiah of Arbitration. The encounter was going to need some skilful manipulation if the visitors were not to know they had been shamefully misled.

  ‘Is he from King’s Hall?’ asked Agnys, narrowing her eyes. ‘I heard they all wear blue tabards.’

  ‘Yes. Have you met him?’ asked Michael, making polite conversation. ‘He is one of their Fellows, and might well have journeyed to Haverhill to inspect Elyan Manor and the Alneston Chantry.’

  ‘No,’ said Agnys sharply, cutting off some reply her grandson started to make. ‘I imagine they took care to avoid our company, given that they are trying to disinherit honest Suffolk folk.’

  ‘What is happening?’ asked Paxtone of Bartholomew, intrigued by the cavalcade. The physician thought his gaze lingered slightly longer on Agnys than the others, but could not be sure. Perhaps it was because her veil was comically awry from the ride and her heavy boots looked incongruous against the fine cloth of her kirtle.

  ‘These are claimants against King’s Hall for Elyan Manor,’ Bartholomew explained. ‘They want Langelee to pass judgement.’

  ‘Langelee?’ Paxtone started to laugh, but stopped when he saw Bartholomew was serious. ‘Lord! I doubt Warden Powys will agree to that. I mean no disrespect, but Langelee would not be my first choice of men to adjudicate complex legal disputes.’

  ‘The other litigants want a quick decision,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘So you had better arrange for someone to represent King’s Hall as soon as possible. Who will it be? You?’

  ‘Our best lawyer is Shropham, but he is in gaol. Perhaps Powys will represent us himself – he is not as good as Shropham, but he has an astute legal mind. I had better go and tell him at once.’

  Bartholomew watched him waddle away, then caught up with the others. ‘When will you release Shropham?’ he asked of the monk. ‘Or are you inclined to dismiss what Gosse said – that Neubold was Carbo’s killer?’

  Michael shook his head slowly. ‘The news of Shropham’s innocence comes as no surprise; you know I have never really been convinced of his guilt. But why did he not tell me he was blameless in the affair? It makes no sense. So, call me callous, but Shropham can stay in his cell until I know why he would rather hang than tell the truth.’

  Bartholomew and Michael led the visitors along the High Street and down St Michael’s Lane. The College looked the same as always, and the physician felt a profound sense of relief when he saw its sturdy yellow walls. Walter opened the gate, peacock tucked under his arm.

  ‘Where is the Master?’ demanded Michael without preamble. ‘Will you tell him he is needed? Now?’

  While Walter went to do as he was ordered, Bartholomew heard Thelnetham holding forth in the hall, entertaining his colleagues with one of his witty lectures.

  ‘I should check on my students,’ the physician said, keen to see his class and find out what they had learned in his absence. He found he was looking forward to the questions they would have on the texts he had set, and it made him realise how important they were to him.

  ‘No, you should not,’ hissed Michael, grabbing his arm. ‘You are going to stay here and help me out of this mess. It was not my idea to go to Suffolk in search of coal, timber and pigs.’

  ‘But it was your idea to lie about Langelee’s integrity,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘You are reaping the wages of your deceitful ways.’

  Michael started to respond with a curt remark, but Langelee had heard the commotion by the gate and was striding across the courtyard to see what was happening. Michael gaped at him, while Bartholomew struggled not to laugh.

  The Master had been with Agatha, being fitted for new clothes. Because money was tight, she was using an altar cloth that had been rendered unsuitable for its original purpose by moths and wine-stains. It was draped across his shoulders, and fell in folds to his feet. The damage had been disguised – although not very skilfully – with motifs cut from a fox pelt.

  ‘By heaven!’ breathed Luneday. ‘Is this him?’

  ‘I am afraid so,’ replied Michael wearily.

  ‘Fashions change so fast these days,’ said Elyan, glancing down at his own black garb. ‘And it is difficult to keep up when you live so far from court. But, if this is what is in vogue, then this is what we must wear. I had better purchase some of that cloth while I am here.’

  ‘It is very fine,’ declared Luneday. ‘Exactly what a man of honour and intelligence might select.’

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Michael, as Langelee approached. Agatha was behind him, trying to keep the fabric from dragging in the mud. ‘This is Master Ralph de Langelee, Michaelhouse’s finest philosopher and a man of great wisdom.’

  Bartholomew was amused to note that Langelee did not seem at all surprised or discomfited by the grand introduction. He effected an elegant bow, and Agatha swore under her breath when some of her pinning slipped and material cascaded to the ground.

  ‘I am deeply honoured, noble sir,’ said Luneday, stepping forward to make a low and very sincere obeisance. Langelee frowned a little, but took it in his stride.

  ‘There is an inheritance dispute over Elyan Manor,’ Michael started to explain. Bartholomew could see faces pressed against the windows of the hall, as students strained to see what was going on. ‘King’s Hall is also involved. You have been chosen to preside over a discussion of the business, to decide who has the strongest claim.’

  ‘All right,’ said Langelee amiably. ‘I am always pleased to voice an opinion, even if it is on affairs I know nothing about.’ He guffawed heartily, and Michael winced.

&nb
sp; ‘Will you hear us now, my lord?’ asked Luneday politely.

  ‘He will not,’ growled Agatha. ‘He is busy, and I had him first.’

  ‘You heard the lady,’ said Langelee, with a wink. ‘She has first claim on my person, and I need this cloak finished, because the other slipped off and fell in the latrine during a careless moment. Come back later – preferably during the Blood Relic contest.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ objected Luneday, chagrined. ‘We would not deprive the University of your wisdom for the world – especially as I am told you have solved the matter.’

  ‘Well, perhaps not solved,’ hedged Langelee, aware that he was in the presence of Michael, a talented theologian. ‘But I certainly have views. However, the reason I asked you to come this afternoon is because there is a camp-ball game later, and I shall be able to take part in it if you give me an excuse to miss the debate.’

  Bartholomew ran after him when he started to walk away. ‘Do you not want more of an explanation?’

  Langelee shrugged. ‘Here are folk in need of a decent mind to resolve a long-standing problem. What other explanation is needed? Besides, I suspect it has something to do with our missing thirty marks, and I am willing to do just about anything to retrieve that.’

  Bartholomew’s pleasure at being among the safe, familiar things of home did not last long. The moment he had finished talking to Langelee, Deynman approached, his expression troubled. He began speaking without preamble.

  ‘Master Paxtone came to borrow poppy juice when you were gone. I gave him the whole jar, but he brought it back and said it contained nothing of the kind. I had a sip, and he was right. Someone had swapped it for water.’

  Bartholomew knew there was no point in remonstrating with Deynman for tasting something that might have been dangerous. ‘Are you saying Paxtone exchanged an expensive medicine for—’

  ‘Oh, no! He was simply drawing attention to the fact – someone else is responsible. The culprit probably changed the pennyroyal for water, too, because it certainly did not put a shine on my hasps.’

  Bartholomew was sceptical of Deynman’s claims, but obligingly followed him across the yard to the storeroom. Once there, it did not take him long to see the Librarian was right. He was aghast.

  ‘My God!’ he breathed, sinking down on to a bench. ‘Who would do something like this?’

  ‘Poppy juice is both costly and difficult to come by,’ replied Deynman. ‘So perhaps a student took it, in readiness for when he becomes a physician. Who do you know who is interested in money?’

  ‘Not Tesdale or Valence. They may be poor, but they—’

  ‘I said someone interested in money, not someone without any,’ interrupted Deynman. His curt tone suggested he had already given the question considerable thought, and had reached a conclusion.

  ‘Risleye?’ asked Bartholomew. Was that why Paxtone had declined to teach him, even though the lad was a decent student – he objected to having his supplies pilfered? And had Paxtone borrowed poppy juice to see whether Risleye had resumed his tricks with a new master? ‘No, I do not believe—’

  ‘Then who?’ demanded Deynman. ‘Because there are two facts you cannot escape here. First, the poppy juice is gone and water has been left in its place. And second, it did not happen by itself. So, who else might it have been? Valence? Tesdale? Me?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But Risleye …’

  Risleye was one of few lads who had official access to his storeroom, came a clamouring voice in his head. And Risleye was secretive and sly – he kept his possessions locked in a chest, whereas everyone else left theirs for others to share. Bartholomew put his head in his hands, overwhelmed by the betrayal. Then he stood abruptly, not sure how he would start his interrogation of Risleye but determined it would be at once.

  ‘Where is he?’ he asked.

  Deynman shrugged. ‘He was here a moment ago, talking to that Dominican priest about wet horses. Perhaps he went to the hall. Thelnetham is lecturing, and you know he is an entertaining—’

  Thelnetham looked up questioningly when the physician burst in, but Risleye was not there. Without so much as a nod to his bemused colleague, Bartholomew ran back to his room, wondering whether the students were lying down after the journey. It was empty, so he tore up the stairs to talk to Michael.

  The monk was studying the documents from Margery’s travelling bag, treating Langelee to an account of his experiences in darkest Suffolk at the same time. The Master was still draped in his altar cloth, and Agatha had resumed her pinning. Bartholomew paced back and forth in agitation as he told them about the missing poppy juice and his prime suspect.

  ‘Valence and Tesdale are just walking past,’ said Langelee, peering through the window into the yard. He leaned out and ordered the students to get themselves up the stairs in a bellow that would have been heard on the High Street. ‘Perhaps they know where Risleye has gone.’

  ‘He went out with the Haverhill priest, sir,’ supplied Valence, when the Master demanded the whereabouts of their classmate. ‘And will drag him from stable to stable until the poor man is forced to admit that wet horses smell worse than wet dogs.’

  ‘Did you know he has been stealing medicine?’ asked Langelee baldly.

  Tesdale’s jaw dropped. ‘How do you … He is not … Lord Christ!’

  ‘No!’ cried Valence at the same time. ‘I do not believe you!’

  ‘I should have been more careful,’ said Bartholomew bitterly. ‘Then it would not have happened.’

  He thought about the stain on his workbench, which had reeked of poppy juice. He should have known it was a new mark, and that he would not have overlooked it when he had been cleaning the day before. He rubbed a hand through his hair, feeling his stomach tie itself in knots.

  ‘Do not blame yourself, sir,’ said Valence, still struggling to control his shock. ‘It is not your fault he took advantage of your trust.’

  ‘Meanwhile,’ added Tesdale, ‘you have the evidence to confront him, so make him pay you back and then dismiss him. Meanwhile, we will all learn from this and make sure it never happens again.’

  ‘It is good advice, Matt,’ said Michael soberly. ‘Be more vigilant in future, but do not hold anyone but Risleye responsible for what he has done.’

  ‘I am sorry to change the subject,’ said Tesdale tentatively. ‘But Isnard sent word: he was very drunk last night and needs a tonic. Shall Valence make it and take it to him?’

  ‘You do it,’ ordered Langelee, while Valence rolled his eyes at his classmate’s brazen idleness. He held up a thick forefinger when Tesdale started to object. ‘No excuses. I am tired of seeing you foist your duties on to your friends, and unless you change your ways, you can look for another College.’

  Bartholomew handed over the key to the storeroom and watched his students leave, his thoughts in chaos. It was all very well for Valence and Tesdale to dismiss so blithely the actions of a classmate they had never liked, but Risleye’s actions would bother their master for a long time to come.

  ‘I need to find him,’ he said, trying to imagine which stables Risleye might have elected to visit. ‘I cannot just wait here for him to show up.’

  ‘You can – and you should,’ said Michael. ‘You run the risk of missing him if you dash off on a wild goose chase. He will not be long. Just be patient.’

  ‘Clippesby has not been himself since you left,’ said Langelee, deciding the physician needed a diversion. ‘Wynewyk’s treachery hit him hard, and I have never seen him so unhappy. He has not even found solace in his animals.’

  Bartholomew regarded him in alarm. Clippesby did not forsake his furred and feathered friends lightly, and when he did, there was usually something seriously wrong. ‘Has he been … unwell?’

  ‘You mean has he been more lunatic than usual,’ translated Langelee. ‘No – quite the reverse, in fact. He seems as sane as any of us, except when you actually listen to what he is saying. Then you realise he is raving. He keeps
claiming that Wynewyk took poison because he was unable to live with his remorse.’

  ‘Fortunately, we know that is untrue,’ said Michael. ‘Wynewyk made these business arrangements in good faith, and we were wrong to have suspected him of dishonesty.’

  ‘Yes and no,’ said Langelee. ‘He may not have stolen from us, but he had no right to give our money to these Suffolk lords, no matter what the returns. It has left us all but destitute – and we will remain destitute until we have these pigs, wood and coal. I am not forgetting that he tried to kill me, either. He may be innocent of cheating, but he was definitely guilty of that.’

  ‘He took Kelyng to Suffolk, too,’ added Michael. ‘And must have known some harm had befallen the lad when he failed to return from the mine. Then to pretend to be worried … it beggars belief!’

  ‘Are you sure it was Wynewyk who tried to kill you, Master?’ asked Agatha conversationally. ‘Only Idoma Gosse likes to ambush men in the dead of night. Incidentally, I heard her brother bragging the other day in the Cardinal’s Cap. He claims to be on the verge of acquiring wealth that will see him established in the finest house in Cambridge.’

  ‘Did he say how?’ asked Michael nervously.

  ‘No,’ replied Agatha. ‘But you can be sure it will not be legal.’

  ‘Arrest him, Brother,’ said Langelee promptly. ‘Now. Today. Before he earns these riches.’

  ‘I shall,’ vowed Michael. He turned to Agatha. ‘So you had better tell me exactly what you overheard in the Cardinal’s Cap.’

  ‘Unfortunately, he declined to give details, and none of us liked to press him,’ replied the laundress apologetically. ‘Well, he said one thing, but I do not see how it can be relevant.’

  ‘What?’ demanded Michael.

  ‘He said his fortune is closely tied to that of a Fellow, and that they have great plans together.’

  ‘Not Wynewyk?’ asked Langelee heavily.

  ‘No. It is someone from King’s Hall – and from his description, I would say it is Paxtone.’

  ‘Damn!’ muttered Michael, standing wearily. ‘I thought I would have a few quiet moments to study my Blood Relic texts, but it seems I must go to interrogate King’s Hall scholars instead.’