A Vein of Deceit (3 page)

Bartholomew regarded her askance. ‘I sincerely doubt it! Wynewyk prefers to flirt with men.’

‘Well, he was doing it with Joan today,’ said Edith stiffly. ‘They were very funny.’

Bartholomew did not want to argue with her. ‘Why was she staying with you, if you had not met for so many years?’

‘Her husband does business with King’s Hall, and sent his priest there to draft some agreements. She decided to travel with
him, to shop for baby trinkets. She was going to lodge in the Brazen George, but when we met by chance in the Market Square
I decided she would be more comfortable here, with me. But someone still managed to kill her …’

‘No one killed her,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘And if you say she wanted this child, then we must assume her death was an
accident – she took the pennyroyal by mistake. Her pregnancy was obviously well along, so no apothecary would have prescribed
it. She must have bought that tincture herself, without realising it would harm her.’

Edith sniffed, then nodded, although he could see she was not convinced. He supposed she did not have the energy to debate
the matter; it was very late, and he knew from the amount of spilled blood that the battle to save Joan had raged for some
time before he had been summoned.

‘We ate supper and talked a while,’ said Edith unhappily. ‘Then she went to bed, while I stayed up, sewing Oswald a new shirt.
Not long after, she stumbled into this room, and there was blood … I wanted to call you, but she said she needed a midwife.
Perhaps I should have ignored her wishes …’

‘Mother Coton knows what she is doing. You did the right thing.’

Edith sniffed again, then looked up when there was a soft tap and the maid answered the door. ‘Here is Cynric, and he has
brought three of your pupils to carry Joan away. He is a thoughtful soul.’

Bartholomew’s book-bearer had been with him since he was an undergraduate, and was more friend than servant – and wholly indispensable.
As he watched Cynric usher the students inside, he thought, not for the first time, what an ill-matched trio his apprentices
were. Valence was tall, fair and amiable; Risleye was short, dark and sly; while red-haired Tesdale was one of the laziest
lads he had ever encountered.

‘Valence is a pleasant young man,’ said Edith, regarding them critically. ‘But I cannot imagine what possessed you to accept
Tesdale and Risleye. Surely, nicer lads applied for the honour of being taught by you? Moreover, I thought Risleye was Master
Paxtone’s protégé, so why have you been lumbered with him?’

‘He is a good student,’ replied Bartholomew. But he could see from Edith’s expression that this was not enough
of an answer to satisfy, and because he was sorry for her distress over Joan, he pandered to her curiosity. ‘Paxtone said
he was unteachable, and asked me to take him instead. It happens sometimes – a tutor and a pupil finding themselves incompatible.’

‘I imagine
you
think Risleye is unteachable, too,’ said Edith, indignant on her brother’s behalf. ‘But I doubt Paxtone will consent to take
him back again. It was unfair to foist such a fellow on you. Risleye is a horrible creature – spiteful, greedy and opinionated.’

She was right: Bartholomew
was
finding Risleye something of a trial. The lad was devious, argumentative and arrogant. However, he was also conscientious,
intelligent and eager to learn, virtues that might turn him into a decent physician one day; and, Bartholomew thought, if
Risleye knew his medicine, then his odious personality was irrelevant.

‘And Tesdale is almost as bad,’ Edith went on when he made no reply. ‘His sole purpose in life seems to be devising ways to
shirk his duties. And he has a nasty temper.’

Bartholomew started to object, but stopped when he realised she was right about Tesdale, too: the lad
was
hotheaded, and was always the last to volunteer for any tasks that needed performing. But he also possessed a gentle, confident
manner that patients liked, which was enough to make Bartholomew determined to do his best by the lad – the plague had left
a dearth of qualified physicians in England, and he felt a moral responsibility to train as many new ones as possible. However,
his resolve was tested when Tesdale shoved past the maid and, without so much as a nod to Edith, began to hold forth.

‘It was not me, sir,’ he declared without preamble. ‘Risleye is lying.’

‘I am not,’ declared Risleye, fists clenched angrily at
his side. ‘My essay on Galen
has
been stolen. The thief waited until I had added the finishing touches, then broke into my private chest and made off with
it.’

‘You are wrong, Risleye,’ said Valence softly. ‘And this is not the right place for—’

‘He thinks
I
took it, because I am too lazy to write my own,’ interrupted Tesdale resentfully. ‘But I would not touch his stupid essay
with a long pole.’

‘These three were the only ones awake,’ muttered Cynric to Bartholomew, apparently feeling some explanation was needed for
his choice of bier-bearers. ‘I shall know better next time.’

‘I was awake because my work is stolen,’ snapped Risleye, overhearing. ‘Michaelhouse is full of thieves, and it is not safe
to close your eyes there.’

‘You lost it,’ countered Tesdale angrily. ‘It will turn up in the morning and—’

‘Oh, yes!’ snarled Risleye. ‘After someone has copied all my ideas, to pass off as his own.’

‘Stop,’ ordered Bartholomew sharply, seeing Edith’s distaste at the clamouring voices in the place where her friend lay dead.
‘Help Cynric, and remember why you are here.’

‘Because you want us to shift a cadaver?’ asked Risleye, frowning his puzzlement at the remark.

‘Because he wants us to take his sister’s friend to the church,’ said Valence quietly. ‘Which we must do with the minimum
of fuss, to avoid unnecessary distress.’

‘Very well,’ said Tesdale with a huge yawn. ‘And then we should go home – I am exhausted.’

Edith watched in distaste as Risleye, Cynric and Valence lifted Joan on to the bier. Tesdale did not help, and confined himself
to issuing instructions. ‘I cannot imagine how you put up with them,’ she said.

There were times – and they were becoming increasingly frequent as term went on – when the physician wondered the same thing.

‘You are needed at Michaelhouse,’ said Cynric to Bartholomew, as he and the students carried the body out of Edith’s house.
‘Wynewyk is ill.’

Bartholomew was surprised – his colleague had seemed well enough earlier. Leaving Cynric and the students to deal with Joan,
he hurried back to the College, his footsteps echoing hollowly along the empty lanes. He was not sure how much time had passed
since he had arrived at his sister’s home, but it was still dark and there was no sign of daybreak.

He knocked on the gate and was admitted by Walter the porter, who greeted him with a scowl. Recently, a prankster had relieved
Walter’s beloved pet peacock of its tail, and because the incident occurred shortly after Bartholomew had given a lecture
on superstitious beliefs – including one that said peacock feathers could cure aching bones – Walter held the physician personally
responsible.

‘How long until dawn?’ Bartholomew asked pleasantly. He disliked discord and wanted peace.

‘How should I know?’ snapped Walter. ‘Do you think I have nothing better to do than watch an hour candle burn?’

The physician did not feel like berating him for his insolence – and Walter’s surly rejoinders were likely to wake half the
College if he tried – so he headed towards Wynewyk’s room without another word. As he walked across the yard, he looked around
at the place that was his home.

Michaelhouse was a medium-sized foundation, and
part of the University at Cambridge. It boasted a handsome hall, two accommodation wings that joined it at right angles,
and a range of outbuildings. All were protected by a high wall and a gatehouse that contained the porters’ lodge. Unfortunately,
time had taken its toll, and the College was starting to look decidedly shabby. Moss and lichen grew over its roofs, most
of which leaked, and its honey-coloured stone was in desperate need of scrubbing. The courtyard was a morass of churned mud,
mixed with the fallen leaves from a scrawny cherry tree.

It currently housed about sixty students, more than could comfortably be taught by its Master and eight Fellows. One reason
they were overworked was because one of their number, Father William, was on a sabbatical leave of absence – which everyone
knew was a nice way of saying he had been exiled to a remote part of the Fens for being a zealot. Bartholomew missed William,
although he was not sure why: it was certainly not for his dogmatic opinions and argumentative personality.

Wynewyk lived in the same building as Bartholomew, the older and more leak-prone of the two accommodation wings. Like all
Fellows, he shared his chamber with students, and it was a tight squeeze at night when they all spread their mattresses on
the floor. Bartholomew stepped over the slumbering forms, straining his eyes in the darkness to make sure he did not tread
on any. Wynewyk had lit a candle, but he had muted the light with a shade, so as not to disturb his room-mates.

‘Thank you for coming, Matt,’ he whispered. He was a small, neat man who taught law. He had been at Michaelhouse for about
three years, and Bartholomew liked him and considered him a friend. ‘I have been feeling wretched all night, although I cannot
imagine why
– my stars are in perfect alignment, so I should be in fine fettle.’

‘What did you eat at supper?’ Bartholomew asked, to change the subject. Unusually for a physician, he placed scant trust in
the movements of the celestial bodies, but this was a controversial stance, and he took care to keep his opinion to himself;
rejecting the ancient and much-revered art of astrology would result in more accusations of witchcraft, for certain.

‘The same as you: bread and cheese. I also had a mouthful of posset, but there were nuts in it, and I have an aversion to
them, so I spat it out. My tongue still burns, though.’

The posset had contained almonds, but supper had been hours ago, so any reaction Wynewyk might have experienced from his brief
contact with them should have been past its worst. Bartholomew examined his colleague, but could find nothing wrong except
a reddening in the mouth. He prepared a tonic of soothing herbs that would help him sleep.

‘Where have you been?’ asked Wynewyk. ‘You took ages to come. Were you out?’

Bartholomew nodded absently as he worked. ‘Seeing a friend of Edith’s, but I was called too late.’

‘Dead?’ asked Wynewyk uneasily. He crossed himself. ‘Then I hope you have better luck with me.’

‘You are not going to die,’ said Bartholomew, helping him sit up so he could sip the remedy. ‘You will be perfectly well again
tomorrow.’

‘Have any of your patients heard news of Kelyng?’ Wynewyk asked, pushing away the cup when the physician put it to his lips.
‘You promised you would find out.’

Kelyng was Michaelhouse’s Bible Scholar, who had failed to arrive when term had started. He owed a fortune
in unpaid fees, and even the salary he earned from reading the scriptures aloud during meals had failed to reduce the debt
to a reasonable level. It would not be the first time a student had elected to abscond rather than pay, and Bartholomew, like
the other Fellows, thought Kelyng had done so. Kind-hearted Wynewyk was rather less willing to believe the worst of the lad.

‘They saw him leave Cambridge in August,’ replied Bartholomew, ‘but no one has seen him since.’

Wynewyk grimaced at the unhelpful news, and began to drink the medicine. ‘Did you hear what happened yesterday?’ he asked
between sips. ‘I had a run-in with that horrible Osa Gosse. He accused me of trying to seduce him.’

‘And did you?’ asked Bartholomew, knowing that while Wynewyk was usually discreet, there were occasionally misunderstandings
in his quest for willing partners.

‘No!’ Wynewyk sounded horrified. ‘He is a revolting fellow – a liar and a thief. You look as though you have not heard of
him, which amazes me. He is an inveterate felon, always being accused of some crime or other. He hails from Clare in Suffolk,
but has recently taken up residence in our town.’

‘How do you know him?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. Wynewyk owned a great weakness for ruffians, but he usually drew the line
at criminals.

‘Everyone knows him – or everyone who does not wander around with his mind full of medicine, at least. I had the misfortune
to make his acquaintance about a week ago, when he spat at me. I objected, and he drew a dagger. Fortunately, Paxtone of King’s
Hall saw what was happening, and shouted for help. Gosse’s servant was killed when the Carmelite novices rushed to my rescue.’

‘I know who you mean,’ said Bartholomew in understanding. Besides being a physician and a Doctor of Medicine, he was also
the University’s Corpse Examiner, which meant he was obliged to provide an official cause of death for anyone who died on
University property. The man in question had been stabbed on land belonging to King’s Hall, so Bartholomew had been asked
to give a verdict.

‘I wish Gosse would go back to Clare,’ said Wynewyk unhappily. ‘He blames me for the death of this servant, even though I
was not the one who knifed him.’

‘You should rest,’ said Bartholomew kindly. Talking about the incident was agitating Wynewyk, and he would not sleep if his
mind was full of worry.

‘Thank God for Paxtone,’ said Wynewyk fervently. ‘He saved my life. I never thought much of him until recently, but he is
a decent soul.’

‘Yes, he is,’ agreed Bartholomew, although he was surprised to hear Wynewyk say so – Wynewyk rarely fraternised with men from
other foundations, because he believed it created issues of loyalty. Many academics agreed, and confined their circle of acquaintances
to within their own College or hostel. But Bartholomew did not see any problem, and had a number of friends outside Michaelhouse,
Paxtone among them.

Wynewyk seemed to know what he was thinking. ‘You are astonished I should befriend anyone from King’s Hall. But Paxtone and
its Warden, Powys, are erudite men. I like them.’