A Vein of Deceit (18 page)

‘I do not blame them – and I do not want
you
tackling him over what I have just told you, either. I mean it, Matthew. And if I hear you have disobeyed me, I shall be
very angry.’

Bartholomew smiled, recalling similar words issued when he had been a child. He was no longer six years old, but he still
did not want Edith angry with him.

She smiled back, then patted his hand. ‘But to return to Joan, I doubt Gosse is the one who harmed her, because I cannot imagine
he
knows what pennyroyal can do.’

‘What about Idoma?’ asked Bartholomew. He closed his eyes, and wished he had not asked. He wanted Edith to think she was wrong
about Joan, and the way to do it was not by posing questions that would make her reassess what she knew of the Gosse family.

‘She is too stupid to know about poisons,’ replied Edith with a dismissive sniff. ‘But
someone
harmed Joan – I am sure of it. And I am tempted to ride to Haverhill and tell Elyan so.’

‘Please do not,’ begged Bartholomew. ‘If you are right, then Joan’s killer will not be very happy to see you, and you will
put yourself in danger.’

‘But I cannot sit here knowing that my oldest friend is dead by foul means, and do nothing about it,’ cried Edith, eyes filling
with tears. ‘It is not right!’

‘I will ask Michael to investigate,’ promised Bartholomew. The monk would not appreciate being volunteered for
such a task, but the physician did not know how else to stop her. ‘He needs to speak to Elyan anyway, because Wynewyk bought
coal from him.’

He did not tell her that most of the transactions appeared to be illegal on Wynewyk’s part, and that the money passed to Elyan
– if it was ever received – was for goods that had never been delivered.

Edith was silent for a while. ‘Very well,’ she said eventually. ‘If Elyan does have enemies who might strike at him through
his pregnant wife, then Michael is the man to see justice done.’

The following day was wintry, with low clouds in the sky and a biting cut to the wind. Bartholomew was summoned in the small
hours by a patient who had poisoned himself by drinking a lot of bad ale. When Isnard the bargeman had recovered enough to
be left, the physician returned to the College, hoping to snatch a little sleep before the day began, but Cynric was waiting
with a message from Chancellor Tynkell, who had one of his stomach upsets – something the physician felt would not happen
if the man washed himself occasionally.

Afterwards, as he was near, he decided to visit Shropham in the proctors’ gaol, and found himself glancing around uneasily
as he walked. Then he recalled how Gosse had thrown stones at Edith, and half wished the felon would appear, so he could mete
out a little justice with his fists. He was not normally prone to violent urges, but he hated the thought of anyone harming
his sister.

‘Living in the elegant comfort of King’s Hall has made me soft,’ said Shropham, looking up when Bartholomew was shown into
his cell. ‘I do not think I have ever been so cold. Will you give me something to make me sleep? Poppy juice, perhaps? I will
need a lot of it, because—’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. He knelt next to Shropham and examined his arm. It was healing fast and cleanly, although Shropham
did not greet the news with much pleasure. ‘You have spent two nights in captivity now. Surely, it is time to tell Michael
what happened?’

‘I
have
told him. I do not remember – it was dark and difficult to see.’

‘Well, which was it?’ demanded Bartholomew archly. ‘If you cannot remember, how do you know it was dark and difficult to see?’

‘It was night,’ replied Shropham flatly. ‘It is always difficult to see at night.’

‘Did you know Carbo?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling that Shropham was a lawyer, so trying to catch him out was likely to be
a waste of time – he would know how to weasel his way out of any careless slips of the tongue.

‘No, but I saw him gazing at King’s Hall on several occasions.’

‘Gazing?’ echoed Bartholomew curiously. ‘Why would he do that?’

‘I have no idea, and neither will my colleagues. They do not fraternise with hedge-priests, as I am sure they have said. But
please do not ask me anything else, because I do not want to talk about it.’

‘Let Michael help you,’ urged Bartholomew, seeing the man’s inner agony. ‘It is obvious something is badly amiss, so tell
him what he needs to know and let him investigate the matter.’

Shropham opened his mouth, and for a moment Bartholomew thought he was going to capitulate. But then his lips set in a grim
line, and he shook his head. ‘There is nothing to say. But I am very cold, and my arm aches. Give me something to ease the
pain. Something strong.’

Bartholomew made an innocuous tonic of feverfew and mint, and asked the beadles to give the prisoner more blankets. He also
warned them to watch him, although he doubted Shropham would kill himself with any of the means currently at his disposal.
Did that mean he would not stab a priest, either? Bartholomew was not sure what
to believe, and walked slowly back to Michaelhouse, wondering what dire secret Shropham carried – and whether King’s Hall
shared it, and was willing to let him hang rather than have it made public. College loyalty ran deep, and it would not be
the first time a Fellow had sacrificed himself to protect the foundation he loved. He found himself thinking about Wynewyk,
who had been devoted to Michaelhouse, and became even more convinced that his colleague would never have done anything to
damage it.

When he arrived home, he was startled out of his morose reverie by Risleye and Tesdale, who were arguing over who was to read
De urinis
to their classmates that morning. It entailed work, so Tesdale thought Risleye should do it, while Risleye was protesting
that he had done the honours the last time.

‘While you two have been squabbling, Deynman has preempted you.’ Bartholomew indicated the hall with a nod of his head. Through
the window, the Librarian could be seen, pacing back and forth with a book in his hand. Deynman was not a gifted academic,
and the physician dreaded to think of how he was mangling the text, no doubt rendering it all but incomprehensible.

Tesdale beamed. ‘Good! Reading is
such
a chore, and—’

‘It is not good at all,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘I asked one of you two to do it.’

Risleye grimaced. ‘It is not our fault he sneaked in. He gave up medicine when he became Librarian, so he is not supposed
to teach. He knows reading to the juniors is our responsibility.’

‘He does,’ agreed Tesdale. ‘But he cannot accept that he is no longer your student. He often asks for access to your storeroom.
We refuse, but he sometimes slinks in when we are not looking.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘Why would he do that? And why have you not mentioned it before?’

Tesdale shrugged. ‘He declines to say – he merely informs us that he is Librarian, and thus immune to interrogation by students.
And I did not mention it before because I forgot until now.’

Bartholomew supposed he would have to speak to Deynman and demand to know what he thought he was doing. He could not imagine
why the Librarian should want to take pennyroyal, but with Deynman, anything was possible.

‘Go to the hall and make sure he reads the correct passages,’ he said tiredly. ‘And if he fails, I am holding you two responsible;
if you had not been bickering, he would not have stepped into your shoes.’

‘That is unfair!’ cried Risleye angrily. ‘It is not our fault that—’

‘We will do our best,’ said Tesdale, jabbing his less-prudent classmate with his elbow. He blew out his cheeks in a sigh.
‘It will not be easy to wrest the tome from him, though – he likes books.’

Michael had heard Bartholomew’s voice from his room upstairs, and came down to speak to him. He pulled a disagreeable face
as he watched the two pupils walk away.

‘It seems to me that virtually anyone can get inside your storeroom,’ he said reprovingly. ‘You claimed originally that it
was just Tesdale and Risleye, but now we learn Deynman has been there, too – and he was “promoted” to Librarian specifically
to keep him away from toxic medicines.’

There was no defence to the accusation, and Bartholomew saw he would have to be a lot more careful about his security arrangements
in future.

‘I visited Shropham,’ he said, changing the subject before
the monk could admonish him further. ‘He is recovering well, but still refuses to explain what happened on the night Carbo
died.’

‘Carbo,’ mused Michael. ‘We still know nothing about him, other than the fact that he was a Black Friar who was not in his
right mind. It is time we remedied the situation, so we had better visit the Dominican Friary – see what Prior Morden has
managed to learn about the fellow. Are you ready?’

Bartholomew looked out of the window without enthusiasm. It was raining again. ‘Now?’

‘Yes, now! There is a mystery surrounding this priest’s murder, and I mean to find out what it is. I refuse to let Shropham
hang, just for the want of a little probing.’

‘You think Shropham is innocent, then?’

‘There is insufficient information to allow me to judge,’ replied Michael pompously.

‘I thought you said this was as straightforward a case as any you have seen.’

‘I have changed my mind.’ Michael’s expression was haughty. ‘And I need your help, because I am feeling overwhelmed. Besides
Carbo’s murder, I am expected to explore Wynewyk’s transgressions, find Langelee’s attacker, devise a way to retrieve the
Stanton Cups, and locate your lost pennyroyal.’

‘I am investigating the pennyroyal myself.’

‘But not very effectively, for you still do not know what happened to it, and it has been four days since you noticed its
disappearance. Do not look sour, Matt. It is true.’

Feeling somewhat chastened, Bartholomew followed him across the sodden courtyard to the gate. He was surprised to see Walter
using the thicker, heavier of the two bars to secure it – the porter usually favoured the lighter one during the day, as it
was easier to handle.

‘It is to keep Gosse out,’ Walter explained. ‘I am not having him in
my
College again.’

‘Do you think he might pay us another visit?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised.

‘Yes I do – he got the Stanton Cups last time, so he probably thinks there are other rich pickings to be had,’ said Walter
grimly. He bent down to pick up his peacock, rubbing its head with a calloused finger. It crooned at him, and Bartholomew
saw the affection between them was mutual. ‘I reckon he stole my bird’s tail, too. For a long time, I assumed
you
were the culprit, because you said in a lecture that peacock feathers can cure aching joints. But now I begin to wonder.’

‘I mentioned a superstitious belief to that effect,’ corrected Bartholomew, not for the first time. ‘But then I went on to
explain how there is no evidence that it works, and—’

‘Gosse would think nothing of hurting a bird,’ interrupted Walter, lost in his own bitter reflections. ‘He came to Cambridge
because Sheriff Tulyet is away, you know. He would not have dared show his face if our Sheriff were here.’

‘Then you will just have to rely on the Senior Proctor to see justice done,’ said Michael grandly, brushing a speck of mud
from his elegant cloak.

Walter looked him up and down disparagingly. ‘I suppose we will,’ he muttered. ‘God help us.’

To reach the Dominican Friary, Bartholomew and Michael had to pass through the guarded entrance to the town known as the Barnwell
Gate, then travel along a road called the Hadstock Way. And after the village of Hadstock, Bartholomew thought as they walked,
the highway went on to Suffolk, where Elyan and d’Audley lived.

‘I told Edith you would look into Joan’s death,’ he said, recalling his promise to his sister. ‘I know you are busy, but it
was the only way I could stop her from mounting her own investigation.’

Michael was mystified. ‘I thought you said it was an accident or suicide. Or has Edith learned that you were careless, and
wants to know whether it was
your
supplies that killed her friend?’

Bartholomew winced. ‘She believes Joan was provided with pennyroyal by someone who meant her harm – or to deprive Elyan of
his heir. I think she is wrong, but …’

‘But you would rather I meddled with a distant landowner’s dangerous enemies than your sister,’ finished Michael flatly. ‘Very
well. I shall tell her enquiries are under way – which they are, because I want to know exactly who has been in your storeroom.
I do not like Risleye.’

Bartholomew regarded him uneasily, uncomfortable with the juxtaposition of the two remarks. ‘You think he took it?’

‘Two days ago, I would have said no one at Michaelhouse is a thief, but Wynewyk’s treachery has given me pause for thought.
And I have been wary of Risleye ever since Paxtone foisted him on you. He said he could no longer teach the lad because of
irreconcilable personal differences, but I am sceptical; you do not abandon a bright student when one more year will see him
graduate.’

Bartholomew was not sure where the discussion was going. ‘You think Paxtone sent Risleye to Michaelhouse for a reason other
than teaching?’ he asked, bemused. ‘Such as what?’

Michael shrugged. ‘To spy. Risleye told Paxtone that Wynewyk summoned you for a cure on Wednesday night. Now why would he
do that, if they find each other’s company so objectionable?’

‘It would have been a casually passed remark when they happened to meet in the street,’ replied Bartholomew, regarding him
askance. ‘It is hardly enough to warrant accusations of espionage!’

‘If they like each other enough to exchange gossip, then why did Paxtone part with Risleye in the first place?’ demanded Michael.
‘And do not say Michaelhouse has nothing Paxtone could possibly want, because it has you: he has always been jealous of your
success.’

‘Lord, Brother!’ breathed Bartholomew, stunned by the turn the conversation had taken. ‘You have been Senior Proctor too long,
because you see intrigue where there is none. I imagine he gives daily thanks he is
not
me, with my destitute patients, over-full classes and unconventional theories.’

‘Well, just bear my warning in mind,’ said Michael coolly. ‘And if it transpires that Paxtone
did
send Risleye to you for reasons other than education, then do not say I did not warn you.’

They walked in silence through a soggy, dripping landscape. To their left lay the boggy expanse of Barnwell Field, in which
a flock of grey-brown sheep grazed, jaws working rhythmically as they watched the scholars pass. To the right was the fetid
snake of the King’s Ditch. When they reached the powerful walls of the Dominican Friary, Michael knocked on the gate and asked
to see the Prior.

Prior Morden was tiny, with legs and arms in perfect proportion to his elfin torso. He was sitting at a table in his handsome
solar, chair loaded with cushions to raise him to a functional height; Bartholomew recalled his sister making similar arrangements
for him when he was a child. Morden’s legs swung in the space below the seat, clad in minute knee-high boots.

‘I have learned nothing new, Brother,’ he said, wincing
as the monk threw open the door so hard that the latch hit the wall with an ear-splitting crack. ‘I still do not know who
Carbo was, or where he came from. I assume that is why you are here? To ask me about him?’

Michael plumped himself down on a bench, heavily enough to make it tip. He squawked in alarm as it threatened to deposit him
on the floor, flailing his arms in a wild attempt to regain his balance. To his credit, Morden did not laugh, although Bartholomew
saw an amused twinkle in his eyes, which was suppressed the moment the monk recovered his composure and began to glare.

‘We have a number of questions,’ said Bartholomew, before the monk could accuse Morden of deliberately placing unstable furniture
where unwary guests might use it. The charge would probably be justified, because the Black Friars were notorious for indulging
their slapstick sense of humour. Bartholomew did not mind, and had always liked Morden, but Michael considered him a buffoon,
and his manner towards the diminutive Prior often verged on the contemptuous.