A Vein of Deceit (10 page)

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.’

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 Bartholomew 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.’

‘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.’