A Vein of Deceit (16 page)

‘I once had a black horse called Carbo, and so did two of my sisters,’ said Michael tartly. ‘If you start seeing links between
the name of a mad priest and the items Wynewyk bought, we will never get to the bottom of this mess, because we will be distracted
by irrelevancies. Besides, Carbo was not the man’s real name.’

‘No. It sounded as though it was one he had picked for himself,’ Bartholomew agreed.

‘Actually, he claimed God gave it to him. But to return to more important matters, the accounts tell us that Wynewyk made
large payments to two more Suffolk men, as well as Elyan: d’Audley for wood, and Luneday for pigs.’

‘D’Audley?’ Bartholomew was growing confused. ‘He is
Elyan’s friend, who came with him to collect Joan’s body and take it home.’

But Michael was not listening. ‘It makes no sense,’ he said, his voice a mixture of hurt and frustration. ‘Wynewyk must have
known he would be caught eventually, so why did he do it?’

‘That is what we are going to find out,’ vowed Bartholomew. ‘He will have had his reasons.’

‘I do not know what to think. On the one hand, I feel betrayed. On the other, I cannot help but feel you are right, and there
must be an explanation. It makes me sympathetic to King’s Hall, though: none of them believe Shropham is a killer, although
the evidence says otherwise. Visit him, Matt. Now, this morning. Persuade him to tell you why he is putting his colleagues
through this nightmare.’

Shropham had been moved to the proctors’ gaol, a small, cramped building near St Mary the Great, and although it was not the
festering hole used to secure prisoners in the castle, it was a dismal place nonetheless. When Bartholomew was shown into
Shropham’s cell, the King’s Hall man was sitting disconsolately on the edge of a wooden bed. He had been provided with blankets,
although he had made no effort to wrap them around himself. Bartholomew did it for him, after he had inspected the wound and
found it healing well.

‘It will be sore for a few days,’ he said. ‘And you will have to favour it for a while, until the muscles mend. Do you want
anything to ease the pain?’

‘I want something that will kill me,’ whispered Shropham, looking at him for the first time since he had arrived. ‘Something
that will allow me to slip away without causing any more trouble.’

There were a number of ways a prisoner could take his own life in prison – he could hang himself from the bars on his window,
cut himself with the knife provided for slicing up his meat, or drown himself in the water left for drinking and washing –
and the fact that Shropham had not tried any led Bartholomew to conclude he was not serious.

‘It would be a lot easier if you just told the truth,’ the physician said practically. ‘Carbo was not in his right mind, and
while that does not give anyone the right to kill him, it might go some way towards explaining what happened. Your situation
is not as hopeless as you seem to think.’

‘It is,’ said Shropham miserably. ‘Brother Michael will put me under oath, and if I make up a tale to exonerate myself, I
shall have to do it with my hand on the Bible. My immortal soul …’

‘I said you should tell the truth, not lie,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘You must have a reason for what you did, so tell Michael,
and let him help you.’

‘No,’ said Shropham in a low voice. ‘I would rather die than … Are you sure you cannot give me something to end it all?
It would be for the best.’

Bartholomew left feeling slightly soiled. Patients had pleaded with him to end their lives before, but they were usually dying
of painful diseases, so their demands were understandable. He had never been asked to provide an easy way out for someone
reluctant to tell the truth, and he had not liked it.

He was lost in thought as he walked down the narrow lane that led to the High Street. Shropham did not seem like a cold-blooded
killer, but Bartholomew struggled to remember him each time they met, which underlined the fact that he really did not know
him at all. For all he knew,
Shropham was a seasoned assassin, and this was just the first time he had been caught.

He glanced up when he saw a flicker of movement in the shadows ahead of him, then stopped when two figures materialised. They
were Gosse and Idoma. Bartholomew sighed. He was not in the mood for a set-to with felons.

‘Well?’ Gosse asked, nonchalantly drawing his dagger and using it to clean his fingernails. ‘Did you pass my message to your
colleagues? About handing over what is rightfully mine?’

‘It slipped my mind,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Partly because I have no idea what you were talking about. What do we have that
you think is yours?’

‘Do not lie,’ said Idoma, fixing him with her peculiar eyes. Involuntarily, he took a step backwards. Michael was right: there
was something unpleasantly charismatic about her, something that had compelled him to move against his will. ‘You know perfectly
well what my brother means.’

‘I assure you, I—’ he began.

‘Perhaps he is telling the truth,’ said Gosse to his sister. ‘One can never tell with scholars, slippery creatures that they
are. But that is no excuse for failing to act as my messenger.’

He brought his gaze back to the physician, who slid his hand inside his medical bag and let his fingers close around his childbirth
forceps. They were reassuringly heavy. The implement had been a gift from Matilde, and he wondered what she would say if she
knew he used it more often as a weapon than he did to assist pregnant women. He was sure she would not approve, and rightly
so.

‘But we shall give him another chance,’ Gosse was saying softly. ‘Because we are generous.’

Idoma scowled, and Bartholomew was under the
impression that she had hoped for a more violent end to the encounter. He recalled the rumour that she was insane, and thought
the tale might well have some basis in fact; that day, everything about her bespoke barely suppressed aggression, from the
odd twitching of her ham-sized hands to her peculiar eyes.

‘Give it back,’ she snarled. ‘Just tell them that.’

‘Give what back?’ asked Bartholomew, tightening his grip on the forceps.

‘Someone will know,’ replied Gosse enigmatically. ‘And you can tell that monk something else, too. He will make no more disparaging
remarks about us. If he does, he can expect to hear from our lawyer.’

‘He is not the only one to associate you with certain …’ Bartholomew decided at the last moment that ‘crimes’ would not
be a wise choice of words ‘… certain
incidents
, and—’

‘Then you can pass them the same message,’ declared Gosse. ‘To keep their slanderous opinions to themselves. But we have wasted
enough time here, Idoma. Come.’

He spun on his heel and stalked away. Idoma watched him go, and when she turned back to the physician, there was a curious
and far from pleasant expression on her face. Bartholomew forced himself to meet her eyes, fighting a deeply rooted instinct
that clamoured at him to take to his heels. It was Idoma who looked away first. Unhurriedly, she turned and began to follow
her brother. For someone so bulky, she had an uncannily light tread, like a large predator. Bartholomew leaned against the
wall the moment she had passed out of sight, aware that his heart was racing furiously.

He asked himself what it was about the pair that had inspired such a reaction – he was not a timid man, and they had not said
or done anything overtly frightening.
Had he been wrong to dismiss the notion that Idoma dabbled in witchcraft? Or were they just two powerful bullies who knew
how to use the force of their personalities to good effect? Regardless, he was glad they had gone.

Michael’s eyes narrowed when Bartholomew told him what had happened, and the physician was hard pressed to stop him from assembling
his beadles and going to tackle the Gosses there and then.

‘They did nothing wrong,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Other than exude an air of menace, and I do not think that is illegal. If it
were, you would be obliged to arrest yourself, because it is an art you have honed to perfection when dealing with recalcitrant
undergraduates.’

Michael grimaced. ‘That is different – I am on the side of right and justice. The Gosses are not.’

‘How many burglaries have you attributed to them now?’ asked Bartholomew, changing the tack of the subject slightly.

‘Seven – all in the wealthiest Colleges and hostels. But there is not a single witness, which means they are both cunning
and skilful. Unfortunately, they are confining themselves to the University; the townsfolk have not had to suffer their depredations.
And the burgesses intend to keep it that way, which is why they are making it difficult for me to investigate.’

‘You think they have an agreement?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘That the Gosses will restrict themselves to scholars’ property,
as long as the town keeps
you
in check?’

‘I do,’ said Michael. ‘Constable Muschett virtually told me as much. Normally, I would treat his orders with the contempt
they deserve, and go after the Gosses as I see fit. But he has the backing of
all
the burgesses, and I cannot antagonise them
en masse
, especially as Dick Tulyet is not
here to calm troubled waters. There are too many delicate trading arrangements at risk.’

Bartholomew was not very interested in commerce. He began to think about Gosse’s mysterious words. ‘What does he want from
us? He kept saying we have something that is rightfully his.’

Michael raised his hands. ‘How can the University have anything that belongs to thieves from Suffolk?’

Bartholomew returned the gesture. ‘Scholars travel, Brother. And some of them hail from Clare – the home of the Gosses is
a large settlement, complete with castle and priory.’

‘I know that, but I checked our registers, and no one currently enrolled in the University comes from there. There were three
last year, but they have left. I can state, quite categorically, that we have no association with Clare at the moment.’

‘Then what did Gosse mean? What does he want from us?’

‘You may be looking for logical answers where there are none to find. As I have told you before, Idoma is not quite sane –
her demand may be the product of a deranged mind.’

Bartholomew regarded the monk doubtfully. ‘I am not so sure, Brother. I was under the impression that she
and
Gosse think we have some specific item that they believe belongs to them. Neither sounded confused to me.’

Michael waved a dismissive hand. ‘Well, we do not have it, whatever it is. I have already asked all seven Colleges and hostels
whether any of their members have been to Clare recently, but none have. I repeat: there are
no
connections between these felons and their Cambridge victims.’

‘Perhaps you had better pass their request to our colleagues, anyway,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Or they may
corner someone else – someone who does not carry childbirth forceps in his bag, and who might be rather more intimidated
by them.’

Michael agreed. ‘Very well. You know, Matt, I have met many scoundrels since becoming a proctor, some of them extremely dangerous.
But I do not think I have ever encountered anyone who unsettles me to the same extent as Idoma. There is definitely something
sinister about her.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘There is, but I cannot decide what. It cannot just be her shark-fish eyes; there is something else,
too. Could it be that she is extremely large?’

‘Possibly. I grabbed one of her arms when I interviewed her once, and it was like gripping iron – she is strong as well as
sizeable. You should steer clear of her and Gosse from now on. I have my beadles to protect me, but you are often out alone.’

‘You think they could best me?’ asked Bartholomew, smiling. ‘A deadly veteran of Poitiers?’

‘It is not funny,’ said Michael sternly. ‘You are a fool if you underestimate the threat they pose.’

‘I do not underestimate them. But equally, I will not let them unnerve me again – it is what they want, and I do not intend
to play that game. But Wynewyk is more important than them, and it is time to bury him. Come, or we will be late.’

The weather suited the occasion as Michaelhouse’s scholars gathered outside the church. The clouds were a dense, unbroken
grey, and rain fell in misty veils, blown this way and that by a determined wind. In their uniform black cloaks and tabards
they formed a sombre group as they processed to the grave, accompanied by no sound except the tolling of a bell. Once there,
Bartholomew listened to the sorrowful, moving eulogy delivered by Clippesby, and found
himself inventing all manner of improbable explanations that would see Wynewyk absolved of any wrongdoing. When Clippesby
had finished, the servants lowered the coffin into the ground.

‘He might as well be buried at sea,’ muttered Thelnetham – the drizzle had formed a deep puddle at the bottom of the grave.
‘Still, perhaps it will serve to quench the fires of Hell, because that is where he is bound. God does not approve of men
who cheat their colleagues.’

‘We should wait until we have all the facts before condemning him,’ said Bartholomew coldly. Thelnetham was a relative newcomer,
so what right did
he
have to judge Wynewyk?

‘If you say so,’ replied Thelnetham, adjusting the hood of his Gilbertine habit to keep the rain from his eyes. ‘But if he
was innocent, why did he go to such lengths to conceal what he was doing?’

‘This is neither the time nor the place for such a discussion,’ chided Langelee, raising a hand to prevent the physician from
responding. ‘Save your opinions for the Statutory Fellows’ Meeting tomorrow afternoon, where the matter will be aired in full.’

A number of people, including Chancellor Tynkell, a contingent of soldierly ex-lovers from the castle, and a small group of
scholars from King’s Hall, had come to pay their respects at Wynewyk’s graveside. Hospitably, Langelee invited them back to
the College for wine and honey cakes. Among the guests was Warden Powys.

‘Thank you for tending Shropham last night, Bartholomew,’ he said quietly. ‘It is a dreadful business, and I agree with Paxtone
that there will be some rational explanation for what has happened. I have known Shropham for years, and he has never been
violent before.’