A Vein of Deceit (14 page)

He grabbed Galen’s
On Temperament
, but could not find what he wanted to know, so he started to look for Aristotle
instead, knowing the philosopher had addressed a number of curious medical questions. He did not recall laughter or nuts
being among them, but it had been some time since he had studied the texts carefully, and he did not trust his memory.

He found the book he wanted and started to tug it out, but a small bag in front of it fell to the floor. There was a skittering
sound as several pebbles rolled out. With a sigh, he knelt to retrieve them. They were some sort of white crystal, and he
supposed they were a mineral deemed to possess a particular healing property. He had always been sceptical of such claims
– for example that rubies could protect a person from plague – and assumed most sensible physicians thought the same. Of course,
Paxtone was not always sensible where medicine was concerned.

‘What are you doing?’

The sound of his colleague’s voice so close behind him made Bartholomew jump. He had not noticed that Paxtone had stopped
teaching and had come to see what was going on.

‘Looking for Aristotle,’ explained Bartholomew, slipping the last of the stones inside the bag.

‘I see,’ said Paxtone flatly, taking it from him and replacing it on the shelf. He bent to lock the cupboard with a key that
hung on a string around his neck. ‘And did you find it?’

‘Yes – but I might look in Avicenna, if I cannot find what I want in Aristotle,’ replied Bartholomew, somewhat puzzled by
his friend’s frosty manner.

‘Then let me know when you need it.’ Paxtone gave a pained smile. ‘I shall not be long now.’

Bartholomew could only suppose Paxtone had been dabbling in something of which he was slightly ashamed
– perhaps a foray into folk medicine – and wanted to keep the matter quiet. But he did not dwell on the matter for long,
because his mind was too full of Wynewyk.

He sat in the chair, and opened the Aristotle, but could find no mention of nuts, although there was a good deal about humour
being good for the health. There was, however, nothing to suggest that it might bring about death, unless in delirium. Bartholomew
frowned as he considered the notion. Had Wynewyk been delirious?

‘They have gone at last,’ said Paxtone, coming to flop into the seat opposite. ‘They are full of questions, and I thought
I would never prise them out. How is Risleye? Is he settling in with you?’

Bartholomew wondered why he should ask, given that the relationship between master and pupil had been acrimonious enough for
both to want a transfer. ‘He seems to have made himself at home,’ he replied cautiously, unwilling to admit that he was finding
the young man ‘unteachable’, too.

‘He is a good boy, who learns quickly,’ said Paxtone with a smile. ‘He will be no trouble.’

‘He must have been trouble, or you would not have asked me to take him on.’

Paxtone waved an airy hand. ‘He is young and opinionated, while I am old and opinionated. It was not a good combination. Did
Shropham offer you any wine?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I am sure he would have done, had I hinted that I was thirsty.’

Paxtone winced. ‘Yes, I am afraid he does have a tendency to fawn. I cured him of a strangury, you see, and since then he
has attached himself to me like a devoted dog. It is irritating, but he has his uses. You seem distracted, Matthew. Is something
wrong?’

‘You know how some folk have aversions to particular foods, which make them sick or give them rashes. Have you ever heard
of a violent reaction to nuts?’

‘No. However, nuts are not poisonous, and if you have a patient who claims to have been rendered unwell because of them, then
I suggest you look to some other form of toxin.’

Bartholomew rubbed his eyes. ‘Then is it possible for a man to laugh himself to death?’

‘Of course, just as it is possible for a person to die of sadness.’ Paxtone walked to the table, and filled two cups with
wine. ‘Unhappiness may cause a person to forget to eat, or render him susceptible to an imbalance of humours. It is very easy
for emotions to bring about a death. But this seems a curious topic for a practical man like you. What has spurred this particular
interest?’

‘Wynewyk is dead,’ replied Bartholomew. It was not easy to say the words, and they sounded unreal to his ears. ‘He died eating
a cake with nuts in it. While laughing.’

Paxtone’s jaw dropped in horror. ‘Oh, the poor man! How dreadful!’

‘I do not suppose you would look at him, would you? To see if you can spot anything amiss?’

‘Absolutely not!’ exclaimed Paxtone with a shudder. ‘You know I dislike handling corpses.’

Bartholomew did know, but had forgotten. He turned to another question. ‘Wynewyk was with you earlier – you were debating
how to sharpen knives. Did he complain of any illness or pain?’

‘He seemed well enough to me.’ Paxtone drained his wine, and when he set the goblet on the hearth, his hand was shaking. ‘This
is a shock. Poor Wynewyk! He told me he was thinking of purchasing some new law books this coming week.’

Bartholomew thought uncomfortably of the Michaelhouse accounts. ‘Expensive ones?’

Paxtone shrugged with the carelessness of a man who never had to be concerned with such matters. ‘I imagine so. However, Risleye
told me that Wynewyk summoned you on Wednesday night. What were his symptoms then? The ailment may have been a precursor to
his death.’

‘It is possible,’ acknowledged Bartholomew, wondering why Risleye should have been reporting such matters to his old teacher;
he had been under the impression that they could not stand the sight of each other. ‘He said he had sipped an almond posset,
and mentioned a burning mouth. It led me to assume that even a small taste of nuts was capable of creating an imbalance of
his humours.’

‘And this is how you devised your theory about nuts being poisonous?’ mused Paxtone. ‘You think he ate more of them, and they
killed him?’

‘I have come across similar cases in the past. It is rare, but not unknown.’

‘I suppose your Arab master taught you this,’ said Paxtone, rather disparagingly. ‘However, the ancient Greeks do not mention
it, and it sounds a bit far-fetched to me.’

Bartholomew realised he was foolish to have imagined that Paxtone might help him. He liked the man, but he should not have
come expecting a proper medical debate. He stood, thinking they were wasting each other’s time, but Paxtone indicated that
he should sit again.

‘You said Wynewyk was laughing when he died?’ Paxtone spread his hands. ‘Then
there
is your cause of death. I put it to you that it was a seizure, induced by an excess of choler.’

‘You are probably right,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘The swelling in Wynewyk’s throat might have been caused by
a number of factors. I suppose nuts are not necessarily responsible.’

‘It is always hard to lose a colleague,’ said Paxtone kindly. ‘But I can think of far worse ways to go than laughing myself
to death.’

‘Does laughter always equate with happiness?’

‘Well, no,’ said Paxtone. ‘Hysterical cackles can mean quite the reverse – implying a person is distressed. You must have
seen how easily smiles turn to tears in some of our more impressionable students, especially around the time of their disputations.
However, you should not—’

Their discussion was interrupted by a sharp knock at the door, and Tobias entered.

‘Constable Muschett is ailing again,’ he said apologetically. ‘He needs to be bled.’

Paxtone’s face registered his distaste, and he turned to Bartholomew. ‘I do not suppose you …’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Phlebotomy is a procedure that carries more risk than advantage, as I have told you before.’

‘The ancient Greeks disagree,’ retorted Paxtone curtly. ‘It is very beneficial, and I advise all my patients to have it done
three times a year. Unfortunately, now Robin the surgeon is unavailable, I am obliged to do it myself. But there is no need
for you to leave, Matthew. Stay and read my Aristotle. I will not be long, and we shall resume our discussion when I come
back.’

Bartholomew had no wish to return to Michaelhouse, and was more than happy to sit in Paxtone’s peaceful chamber. He did as
his friend suggested, scanning Aristotle in search of any report of a man dying of laughter. He was on the verge of falling
asleep when there was a knock on the door and Tobias entered again, this time with Cynric at his heels.

‘I thought you might be here,’ said the book-bearer. He sounded relieved. ‘Brother Michael needs you. There has been a fight,
and one of the brawlers is dead. You are needed to tend the wounded.’

Bartholomew knew from experience that people injured in fights often fared better if he reached them before anyone else attempted
to ‘help’. It was frustrating to see a man die because he had been given all manner of potions to drink, but no one had bothered
to stem the flow of blood. He ran down the stairs, and met Paxtone halfway up. The King’s Hall physician was wiping his hands
on a rag.

‘Messy business, phlebotomy,’ he said sheepishly. ‘Thank God I wore an apron. What are you—’

‘Brawl,’ replied Bartholomew tersely. ‘Will you come?’

He did not wait for a reply, but was aware of Paxtone turning to follow
and was grateful; another pair of hands was invariably useful on such occasions. However, the portly physician could not hope
to keep up with the rapid pace set by Cynric, and soon fell behind.

The book-bearer led the way to the Market Square. Night had fallen, bringing with it a drenching drizzle that seeped through
cloaks and trickled down the backs of necks. It was miserable weather, and Bartholomew wished he was home in front of the
fire. Others did not feel the same way, though, and a sizeable circle of onlookers had gathered at the scene of the incident.

Near the front, with the best view of what was happening, were a man and a woman. There was a space between them and the rest
of the crowd, as if no one wanted to get too close. Idly, the physician wondered why – both were well
dressed, covered in jewellery and looked respectable – until he recognised Idoma.

‘Osa Gosse and his sister,’ muttered Cynric, nodding towards them. ‘I suspect most of their finery belongs to someone else
– not that their victims would dare complain, of course.’

Bartholomew regarded Gosse without much interest as he passed, more concerned with reaching the injured. A brief glance told
him that the man causing such consternation was short and compact, quite unlike his hefty sibling. However, he shared her
dead, shark-fish eyes and malign demeanour, and there was something in his confident, arrogant stance that indicated he was
a cut above the average villain. Bartholomew was not amused when the fellow grabbed his arm, jerking him to an abrupt standstill.
Cynric tried to come to his rescue, but was blocked by Idoma’s substantial bulk.

‘Your University has something I want,’ said Gosse. He spoke softly, so no one else would hear. ‘And I shall have it, no matter
what it takes. It will be easier for everyone if you just give it to me.’

Bartholomew wrenched free. He had no idea what the man was talking about, but he was not about to engage in a discussion when
there were people who needed his help. He took a step away, but a heavy hand fell on his shoulder and spun him around. This
time, it was Idoma manhandling him.

‘How dare you walk away!’ Her eyes were cold and hard, and Bartholomew did not think he had ever seen a more malevolent expression.
‘My brother is talking, so you will listen.’

‘Tell your colleagues,’ ordered Gosse, leaning close and treating the physician to a waft of bad breath, ‘I
will
have what is rightfully mine, or the streets of your fine town will run with blood.’

More irritated than intimidated, Bartholomew pushed Gosse away from him. The man’s eyebrows shot up in astonishment that someone
should dare fight back. Then Cynric managed to dodge around Idoma and stood next to his master, hand on the hilt of his long
Welsh hunting knife. Idoma started to reach for Bartholomew again, but stopped when Cynric’s blade began to emerge from its
scabbard.

‘I do not like you, physician,’ she whispered, pointing a finger at Bartholomew in a way he supposed was meant to be menacing.
Then she turned and began to shoulder a path through the onlookers. Most people moved before she reached them.

‘That is unfortunate for you,’ said Gosse with a sneer, before turning to follow her. ‘Because bad things happen to people
my sister does not like.’

‘You want to watch that scum, boy,’ said Cynric uneasily, once the pair had gone. ‘She is a witch, while he is a vicious devil,
who would think nothing of slipping a dagger between your ribs.’

‘Cynric is right,’ gasped Paxtone, who had finally caught up. ‘They are not folk you should have as enemies, Matthew. It would
have been better to give them whatever it was they wanted.’

‘But I do not know what they wanted. Other than for me to be frightened of them – which I am not.’

‘Really?’ asked Paxtone, impressed. ‘Because they terrify
me
. However, if you go out on errands of mercy during the night from now on, I recommend you carry a sword. It is common knowledge
that you are a skilled and deadly warrior, so you should be able to fend them off.’

Bartholomew gaped at him, not liking the notion that he, a man of healing, should have acquired a reputation for the military
arts. He had certainly done nothing to warrant it. ‘I am not a—’

‘He was not very good before we went to France last year,’ said Cynric, pleased by what he saw as a compliment. ‘But then
we fought in the battle of Poitiers, and he got a lot of practice.’

‘Matt!’ came Michael’s urgent voice. ‘What are you doing? I need you here.’

Bartholomew broke away from Paxtone and Cynric, and hurried to where Michael was waiting. The monk’s latest deputy, Junior
Proctor Cleydon, was there, too, a competent but nervous man who was anxiously counting the days until his term of office
expired. He had told Bartholomew on several occasions that he did not think he would survive that long, given that the post
was dangerous – and the arrival of Gosse and his formidable sister had done nothing to quell his unease.

It took Bartholomew no more than a moment to assess what had happened: a knife fight between two men. One lay on the ground
with the weapon still embedded in his middle, while the other perched uncomfortably on an upturned crate and clutched his
left arm with his right hand. Blood flowed between his fingers. Seeing immediately that the prone man was more in need of
a priest than a physician, Bartholomew went to the one who was sitting. Michael’s beadles – the men who kept order in the
University – seemed to be more interested in the corpse than the survivor, so the body was well lit, but the injured man sat
in shadows.

‘I need a torch,’ Bartholomew said, cutting away the victim’s sleeve. When the lamp arrived, he focused on his work, aware
that he needed to stem the bleeding as quickly as possible.

Meanwhile, Paxtone crouched next to the second victim, although his examination was confined to what
he could see: he disliked handling corpses, and went to considerable lengths to avoid doing it. His aversion was based on
the superstitious notion that touching bodies enabled poisonous miasmas to pass from the dead to the living. The belief reminded
Bartholomew of the ‘healing stones’ in Paxtone’s room, and his colleague’s strange insistence that knives sharpened magically
when they were left pointing north. Still, he supposed, what else could he expect from a man who thought the movements of
remote planets had an impact on the health of an individual?

‘There is nothing I can do here,’ Paxtone announced after a moment. ‘The fellow is quite dead, and there can be no dispute
about the cause: a dagger in the stomach.’

‘In the liver,’ muttered Bartholomew, wishing anatomy was not forbidden in England. He was sure even Paxtone would benefit
from knowing the precise locations of various organs.

‘It is Carbo,’ said Michael.

Bartholomew spared a brief glance at the body, and saw it was indeed the half-mad Dominican friar.

‘Did you speak to Prior Morden about him?’ he asked, not surprised Carbo had met an untimely end. He had seemed incapable
of looking after himself, and the fact that he had seen Langelee attacked attested to the fact that he wandered about after
the curfew had sounded.

‘Morden was out when I visited the Dominican Friary,’ said Michael. Then his voice became bitter. ‘I was supposed to go back
there this evening, but I let other matters distract me.’

Bartholomew could only surmise that the monk had not enjoyed his time with the College accounts.

‘It hurts,’ whispered the injured man weakly. Bartholomew looked up sharply, because the voice was familiar. As usual, it
took him a moment to recognise the
nondescript features, but his astonishment at the man’s identity was nothing compared to Paxtone’s.

‘Shropham?’ gasped the King’s Hall physician. ‘What in God’s name are
you
doing here?’

‘He is here murdering Dominican priests,’ replied Cleydon when Shropham made no reply. ‘He stabbed Carbo.’

There was a stunned silence when Cleydon made his announcement, the only sound being the crackle of torches and the low-voiced
grumbles of onlookers as they tried to resist being moved on by beadles. The reek of burnt pitch filled the air, along with
the stench of rotting vegetables from a nearby costermongery. The rain carried its own aroma, too, of fallen leaves, frost-touched
grass and the swollen river; it reminded Bartholomew that winter was approaching with all its inherent miseries – cold feet,
leaking roofs, ice in the latrines, and the kind of fevers that claimed the old and the weak.

‘No!’ exclaimed Paxtone, when he had recovered from his shock. ‘Fellows of King’s Hall do not go around murdering Dominican
priests or anyone else.’

‘I thought it was—’ began Shropham. He swayed, and Bartholomew indicated that Paxtone and Cynric were to support him.

Fortunately, the injury was clean, and should heal quickly; Shropham would experience some pain and stiffness, but the prognosis
was good. Then he glanced at the man’s haunted face, and wondered whether it would matter. Shropham, like all scholars, had
taken religious orders that would protect him from the full rigours of secular law, but the murder of a priest was a serious
matter, and the Dominicans might call for him to be hanged.

‘You had better tell me what happened, Shropham,’ said
Michael, when he saw Bartholomew had finished suturing, and only bandaging remained. ‘If you feel well enough.’

‘He does not,’ said Paxtone immediately. ‘He needs to go home, where he can recover from this dreadful ordeal. It cannot have
been easy, watching a priest slaughtered.’

‘No,’ agreed Shropham weakly.

‘Are you saying you did not kill him?’ asked Michael. ‘That someone else is responsible?’

‘That is not possible, Shropham,’ said Cleydon quietly. ‘You and Carbo were the only ones here when we happened across you.
And you cannot deny that the knife poking from his belly is yours: you have none, and he holds his own in his dead hand.’

‘I am not sure …’ began Shropham. He swallowed. ‘Perhaps he had two – and killed himself.’

Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly. The explanation was feeble, to say the least.

‘Come, Shropham,’ cried Paxtone, equally appalled. ‘You must have more to say for yourself than that! Someone else was here,
someone Cleydon missed in all this dark and rain. You were coming to this priest’s aid because you saw him being attacked
by ruffians.’

‘Gosse,’ suggested Cynric helpfully. ‘He was here a few moments ago.’

‘I cannot remember,’ said Shropham dully. ‘Perhaps Carbo fell on the knife by mistake.’

‘Not from that angle,’ said Bartholomew, who had seen enough wounds to be able to distinguish the more obviously deliberate
from the accidental.

‘Self-defence, then,’ said Paxtone, sounding desperate as he appealed to his colleague to save himself. ‘The Dominican was
deranged, and did not know what he was doing. Priests often become unhinged if they spend too long fasting. It is a medical
fact.’

‘He has a point,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘Carbo was not rational when we met him. He did not seem dangerous, but ailments
of the mind often take unpredictable courses.’

‘I do not know whether the Dominican was the type to starve himself for prayers,’ said Shropham. ‘I am not saying you are
wrong, Paxtone – indeed, you are
never
wrong – only that I cannot verify it.’

‘So, the priest was a stranger to you,’ said Paxtone, refusing to give up. ‘He approached you without saying who he was, and
you struck out to protect yourself. It was an accident.’

‘I am not sure,’ said Shropham tiredly. ‘Did you see those quills I left for you, Paxtone? They are the best out of the whole
batch I sharpened today.’

Paxtone regarded him in disbelief. ‘How can you be thinking about such matters now? Do you not see the seriousness of the
situation? You are accused of murder!’

Shropham hung his head, and tears slid down his cheeks. Michael and Cleydon pressed him with more questions, but he refused
to answer.

‘Is there any reason why he should not be incarcerated, Matt?’ asked Michael eventually, exasperated by the lack of co-operation.
Like Bartholomew, he had been ready to give Shropham the benefit of the doubt, but the evidence of his guilt was overwhelming,
and his bewildering silence was doing nothing to help. ‘This wound will not kill him?’

‘Let me take him home,’ begged Paxtone. ‘I promise he will not escape.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, not liking the notion of Shropham roaming free. He had read of cases where someone had committed murder
then remembered nothing about it, and did not want Paxtone to be Shropham’s next victim. ‘Michael can lock him in the
documents room in St Mary the Great. It is warm and dry, but secure.’

Paxtone was dismayed, and barely listened to Michael telling him the crime was as straightforward as any he had seen: Shropham’s
weapon was embedded in Carbo, and the Junior Proctor himself was able to say there was no one else in the Market Square when
the victim was attacked. Shropham would almost certainly be found guilty of murder.

‘I refuse to believe it,’ said Paxtone, white-faced with horror as Cleydon led the prisoner away. ‘Shropham has been in Cambridge
for decades and has never shown any propensity for violence before. Why should he start now?’

‘I wonder why he would not talk to us,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘It is almost as if he wants us to think he is guilty.’