A Vein of Deceit (49 page)

‘No!’ said Bartholomew, ignoring Tesdale’s tale about Wynewyk taking pennyroyal from his storeroom. ‘You have no evidence
to make such a terrible accusation.’

‘Actually, he might have,’ said Langelee quietly. ‘Because of something
I
saw on the day she died – namely Wynewyk giving her a phial and telling her it would make her baby strong. I had forgotten
about it until now. He was congratulating her, saying what a bonny child it would be, but there was a certain look in his
eye … It was one I have often observed in men about to commit a crime.’

‘There!’ exclaimed Elyan weakly. ‘I knew it! You see, you were right – her child was
not
mine. But Wynewyk met her when he came to buy pigs …’

‘He did visit me in February,’ acknowledged Luneday uncomfortably. ‘But I had no idea he went to Haverhill and seduced Joan
at the same time.’

‘He flirted outrageously with her in the Market Square,’ added Langelee. ‘As your sister will attest, too. He preferred men,
but he knew how to charm the ladies, as well.’

‘Enough!’ cried Bartholomew, when Elyan opened his mouth to say something else. ‘You are not dying. There is no need to pursue
this horrible matter any further.’

Michael grimaced his annoyance that the discussion was to be cut short, while Elyan just stared at the physician. Bartholomew
braced himself for anger at the deceit, but instead the Suffolk lordling’s eyes filled with tears. He groped for Agnys’s hand,
and gripped it hard, and Bartholomew indicated the onlookers were to move away, to give them privacy.

‘You cannot wait any longer to hunt down Gosse, Brother,’ Bartholomew said exhaustedly. ‘He might have
killed the entire College. And he is a danger to every scholar in Cambridge as long as he is free.’

There was a distant roar as someone in St Mary the Great made a contentious point, and it was followed by the kind of yells
that had no place in an academic dispute.

‘You are right,’ said Michael, hurrying towards the door. ‘But my first responsibility is to help Cleydon. I have wasted enough
time here.’

The monk began to run towards St Mary the Great, Bartholomew at his heels. The clamour of angry voices grew louder as they
drew closer, and they saw that a number of townsfolk had gathered to stand outside. Some looked concerned at the sounds of
discord within, but most were openly delighted that the hated University sounded as if it was tearing itself apart. Cynric
emerged from behind a buttress.

‘I have been watching them,’ he explained, nodding towards the crowd. ‘A stone through a window now will be enough to spark
a huge riot inside.’

‘You said you would follow Gosse and Idoma when they arrived back in Cambridge,’ said Bartholomew accusingly. ‘It was why
we did not challenge them in the hills.’

‘We did not challenge them in the hills because they outmatched us,’ corrected Cynric. ‘And they managed to give me the slip
once they reached town. I cannot imagine how – witchcraft, probably.’

He winced when there was another howl of fury from the debating scholars, then darted forward when two apprentices bent to
prise rocks from the ground. Several beadles joined him in hustling the would-be offenders away, but the remaining townsfolk
objected to their cronies being arrested before they had committed a crime. There was a rumble of anger and some serious jostling.

‘Your men have their hands full here, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Which means they cannot be watching the back of the church.
Gosse might—’

But Michael was already hurrying towards the graveyard. Bartholomew followed, and they had completed almost a full circuit
of the building before the physician skidded to a standstill.

‘There!’ he shouted, pointing to where a fold of material and the tip of a shoe poked from behind a bush. Idoma was simply
too large to conceal herself in undergrowth. Michael powered towards her and ripped away the branches.

‘Good afternoon, Brother,’ said Gosse mildly, not at all discomfited to be caught. ‘Why are you not at the debate? I thought
you were an accomplished theologian. Or are you afraid to take part, lest you are found wanting?’

From somewhere on his ample person, Michael produced a cudgel. ‘You have plagued my town long enough. Will you come peacefully
to my prison, or must I force you?’

Idoma regarded him in disbelief, then issued a low, deep laugh. It was an unpleasant sound, more demonic than human. Her eyes
seemed especially cold and shark-like that day, and she exuded an aura of deadly malice. Was Michael making a terrible mistake
in tackling her, when not even the bold Cynric would do it? Trying to prevent his hands from shaking, Bartholomew reached
into his bag and withdrew his birthing forceps, although the implement was no match for the knives both Gosse and Idoma produced
at the same time.

‘You are dead men,’ hissed Gosse. ‘Your University stole a fortune from us – made it disappear as though it never existed.
But we shall have our revenge. You will not be alive to see it, though.’

‘We found your poisoned wine,’ said Michael, standing firm. ‘Elyan swallowed some, but no scholars fell victim—’

Idoma sneered. ‘Good! It serves him right for giving away our property. We would have killed him, anyway, for the inconvenience
he caused. Now we do not need to bother.’

‘No more talking,’ said Gosse sharply. ‘There is no time.’

He lunged at Bartholomew with his knife, leaving Michael for his sister. The physician was unprepared for the viciousness
of the attack, and was forced to retreat fast. The defensive blows he struck with the forceps went wide, and only succeeded
in throwing him off balance. He went down on one knee. Gosse moved in for the kill, and, too late, Bartholomew knew Cynric
had been right – they were more than a match for him.

Suddenly, there was a yell of fury, and the book-bearer appeared. He carried his long Welsh hunting knife, and when he saw
Gosse’s blade begin to descend towards the physician, he lobbed it. Gosse screamed as it tore a gash in his arm. Before the
felon could recover, Bartholomew leapt to his feet and knocked the weapon from his hand. Cynric darted forward, drew back
his fist and punched Gosse on the point of the jaw. He went down as if pole-axed.

Bartholomew spun around to help Michael. Idoma had dropped her blade, but had both hands wrapped around the monk’s throat.
Michael was a strong man, but it was clear he was losing the battle, because his face was scarlet. He rained blows on her
head and shoulders, but she seemed oblivious to them, and Bartholomew wondered whether she really was imbued with some diabolical
energy. He raced towards them, and tried to prise the powerful fingers loose, but they were like bands of steel. He saw the
desperate terror in Michael’s eyes.

Knowing Michael was going to die before he could lever
her fingers away, Bartholomew took several steps back, put his head down, and charged at the struggling pair with all his
might. All three went flying. There was a sickening crack as Idoma’s head struck the buttress.

‘Well,’ said Cynric, looking at the two insensible villains with enormous satisfaction. ‘Perhaps I was wrong about their military
prowess. We bested them with ease.’

But Bartholomew was not so ready to gloat. And there had been nothing ‘easy’ about their victory, anyway – he and Michael
had come far too close to losing the fight.

‘Now we cannot ask what they have plotted,’ he said, alarmed. ‘Their plan may yet succeed.’

‘How?’ asked Michael hoarsely, rubbing his throat with one hand and holding out the other for Bartholomew to help him up.
‘They are hardly in a position to act now.’

‘They were not here to “act”,’ shouted Bartholomew, heart pounding. ‘They were here to watch what happened – to enjoy the
spectacle. Oh, no!’

‘What?’ asked Michael fearfully, leaning against the buttress to catch his breath.

‘Wine,’ said Bartholomew, white-faced. ‘Will some be provided at the end of the debate? For every scholar in the University?’

Michael gaped at him in horror, then whipped around and began running towards the church door. Bartholomew followed, stopping
only to order three beadles to help Cynric secure the Gosses.

Inside, the clamour of discordant voices was loud enough to hurt the ears. The refreshments sat on a table in the north aisle.
Bartholomew aimed for them, but Michael found his way barred by a horrified Junior Proctor.

‘Thank God you are here, Brother,’ gasped Cleydon.
‘The two sides are on the verge of a huge fight and I am powerless to stop it.’

‘There he is!’ cried a familiar voice. It was Warden Powys, and he was pointing at Michael. ‘There is the man who prefers
to let College business take precedence over his University duties. He has been in Michaelhouse, drinking claret with his
Master, when he should have been here.’

‘Is this true, Brother?’ asked Chancellor Tynkell nervously. He was a timid nonentity, wholly incapable of calming the anger
that was erupting all around him.

‘Of course it is not true,’ bellowed Deynman indignantly. ‘King’s Hall is just trying to make trouble for Michaelhouse.’

As he headed for the north aisle, Bartholomew saw the scholars had arranged themselves into two distinct factions – those
who sided with Michaelhouse, and those who preferred King’s Hall. He knew from past experience that it was bad news when a
debate moved from academic topics and began to air other grievances. It meant the audience was itching for a fight. Powys
seemed to know it, too.

‘Michael should resign,’ he shouted provocatively. ‘He has accrued too much power, and I have no confidence in his rule. I
demand he steps down as Senior Proctor.’

There was a cacophony of yells, some howling support for Michael and others bawling that Powys made a very good point. The
clamour was deafening.

‘Powys is right,’ hollered Eltisle of Bene’t College, who had never liked the monk. He had a shrill voice, and it carried
over the others. ‘We have all been burgled over the last few weeks, but Brother Michael has made no effort to catch the culprits.’

‘On the contrary,’ boomed Michael, scrambling on to the dais next to the Chancellor. He held an imperious hand aloft, and
such was the force of his personality that
it immediately quelled the din. ‘I have just arrested Gosse and his sister on charges of theft and murder.’

His words were met with a startled silence, which was followed at once by a clamour of questions and cheers. Bartholomew reached
the refreshments and looked at the three large casks of wine that were sitting ready to be poured. Had Gosse poisoned them
all, or just one?

He could not afford to take risks with his colleagues’ lives, so he pulled the stoppers from all three and watched their contents
splatter to the floor. Fortunately, the rumpus caused by Michael’s declaration drowned the sound it made. By the time the
din subsided, the kegs were virtually empty.

‘You have Gosse in custody?’ It was Powys asking, and he sounded worried.

‘They are being taken to my prison as I speak,’ affirmed Michael haughtily. ‘Of course, I was
deeply
disappointed to miss the debate, but sacrifices must be made. I have always put duty before pleasure, and catching criminals
who have harmed my University is a sacred responsibility, as far as I am concerned.’

‘I am glad you have him, Brother,’ called Rougham of Gonville Hall warmly. ‘He stole three gold candlesticks from us.’

‘And a silver paten from us,’ added Master Wisbeche of Peterhouse.

‘I shall do my utmost to see they are returned to you,’ promised Michael. ‘Meanwhile, I insist you all return to your debate,
and leave the unpleasant work to me.’

Deynman released a sudden cheer, which was taken up by other Michaelhouse men, and soon the whole church resounded with it.
Friends surged forward to clap Michael on the back, although no one from King’s Hall was among them.

Bartholomew shook the barrels, to make sure they were drained to the dregs, then backed away and edged towards the door. The
gathering could turn against him just as quickly as it had turned to favour Michael – no scholar liked to be deprived of free
wine.

‘You transformed yourself from villain to hero,’ he remarked, when the monk’s path crossed his own. ‘It was cleverly done.’

Michael preened. ‘And Powys is furious. Look at his dark face!’

‘It will not stay dark for long,’ warned Cynric worriedly, appearing beside them. ‘Idoma recovered her senses as we were taking
her to the cells. We could not hold her, and she has escaped.’

Two weeks later, Bartholomew and Michael were again travelling the road that led to Suffolk. The physician was reluctant to
leave his pupils a second time, but Deynman had managed a surprisingly good job of supervising them during the earlier jaunt,
and had offered to do it again. And it would be the calm before the storm as far as the students were concerned, because Bartholomew
intended to keep them so busy for the rest of the term that no one would have time to think, let alone indulge in spying or
stealing his medicines.

It was a pretty day, with the crisp scent of late autumn in the air. The trees were red and gold, and showers of leaves drifted
across the road each time the wind blew. A pheasant croaked from deep in the woods, and a cow lowed in a nearby meadow. Bartholomew
tipped his head back and took a deep breath, savouring the smell of damp leaves and freshly tilled soil. Unfortunately, his
horse objected to the movement, and skittered sideways.

‘Grip with your knees,’ said Michael automatically. ‘And shorten the reins.’

‘I was wrong,’ said Bartholomew, when he had regained control of the beast. He noticed Cynric and the beadles were riding
well back, partly to give the scholars the opportunity to talk without being overheard, but mostly to stay away from the menace
the physician represented while on horseback. ‘About Wynewyk.’

‘We all were,’ said Michael softly. ‘It just took you longer to accept the truth.’

‘He was a thief and a murderer,’ said Bartholomew, still barely able to believe it. ‘I kept thinking there would be an innocent
explanation for the wrong he did, but there was not.’

‘Poor Joan,’ said Michael. ‘If Carbo had not made his so-called discovery of diamonds, she and Wynewyk would probably never
have met again. Their affair would have been forgotten – Joan would have given Elyan his heir, and Wynewyk would never have
known about the child.’

‘So what happened?’ asked Bartholomew tiredly. ‘What made him poison her?’

‘I suspect he saw her in Cambridge, and assumed she was there to make trouble for him – to reveal that he, a scholar, had
fathered a child. In other words, he judged her by his own rotten standards. But, of course, she would have been as eager
as he to conceal what had happened.’

Bartholomew closed his eyes. ‘So he gave her pennyroyal, and he did it without compunction.’

Michael nodded. ‘Valence told me he heard Wynewyk and Tesdale discussing that particular herb the day before Joan died. Tesdale
almost certainly told him what to use.’

Bartholomew kept his eyes closed. ‘It
was
my supply that killed Joan. Edith will never forgive me.’

‘She knows it was not your fault, Matt,’ said Michael kindly. ‘She liked Wynewyk, too, and was appalled when she heard how
he deceived us.’

‘Did he deceive us? He borrowed money to make arrangements with Luneday, d’Audley and Elyan, but there is no proof that he
intended to keep the proceeds for himself.’

‘Actually, there is. Clippesby discovered more hidden documents in Wynewyk’s room, in the chimney this time. There were arrangements
to buy a big house in London, fine new clothes and deposits to be left with a moneylender
– a kind of pension. Apparently, he had a lover who was going to join him there, because there are several fond references
to a man named Osa.’

Bartholomew’s eyes snapped open. ‘Not Osa Gosse? But Wynewyk talked about him the night he was ill – when the almond posset
upset him – and he did not describe him in very flattering terms.’

Michael ignored him. ‘Apparently, Wynewyk and Osa met in February
,
when Wynewyk travelled to Suffolk to inspect Luneday’s pigs – and impregnated Joan, into the bargain – and they embarked
on a relationship. He always did have a weakness for ruffians, but the correspondence indicates he was deeply in love this
time.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘But the night he was unwell, he told me he had only met Gosse the previous week. He said Gosse had accused
him of seduction, and was offended by it.’

‘He was lying. Reliable witnesses have since informed me that he and Gosse were often together. And the night he misled you
was his first attempt at suicide. Tesdale said so, and I think he was telling the truth about that. You see, there is some
indication in Wynewyk’s letters that Gosse had recently spurned him – that he was refusing to go to London.’

Bartholomew tried to recall what else Wynewyk had said. ‘He told me he and Gosse had some sort of spat that turned violent.
Gosse’s servant was killed when daggers were drawn.’

‘The Carmelite novices saved him from a trouncing and there
was
a fatality – you gave me a verdict, if you recall. But I suspect Wynewyk had realised by then that he was on a slippery slope
to nowhere: he was
sans
lover, he had taken too many liberties with the College accounts to put right, he was responsible for our Bible Scholar’s
death …’

‘Gosse killed Kelyng,’ said Bartholomew stubbornly. ‘They fell over each other when they were spying on Elyan’s mine.’

‘But who ordered him there?’ demanded Michael harshly. ‘Wynewyk was a villain, Matt. He even tried to kill Langelee, and when
that failed and he knew his game was over, he ate nuts in earnest. But Tesdale got him first.’

‘But
why
kill himself? Why not go to London?’

‘I think he could not bring himself to leave Cambridge in the end,’ replied Michael. ‘But it was all for greed. For these
wretched diamonds – Carbo’s so-called magic stones.’

‘And the irony is that the whole thing was a hoax. First, diamonds do not occur in England – and they certainly do not appear
in seams of coal in Suffolk. And second, the rocks in the bag Carbo stole from Gosse were not diamonds anyway.’

The last point was news to Michael. His jaw dropped.

‘They were, Matt! They were raw diamonds – uncut, and so unfamiliar to most of us. But they scratched glass, and everyone
knows—’

‘Many minerals scratch glass, Brother.’

Michael regarded him thoughtfully. ‘What about the sack of pebbles Joan buried in Edith’s garden?’ Edith had noticed freshly
turned soil, and asked Bartholomew to investigate, although he and Michael both knew what they would find. Joan had buried
it there, in the hope that its disappearance would prevent men like Wynewyk, Paxton, Warden Powys and d’Audley from harming
her child.

‘Poor Joan,’ said Bartholomew. ‘No wonder she was distressed for the last few weeks of her life. She knew she had to dispose
of the “diamonds” – the ones the husband she loved hoped would make him rich, and that she knew really belonged to Osa Gosse.
It cannot have been an easy decision to make.’

But Michael was more interested in the physician’s claim
that the precious gems were a hoax. ‘Can I assume from your remarks that you performed some kind of experiment on them?’
he asked.

‘I borrowed a real diamond and a ruby from Edith, and both scratched what Joan had buried – which means Elyan’s stones are
softer. I did some reading, and deduced that they are actually rock crystal, which is quarried by the bucket-load in Greece.’

Michael sighed. ‘I should not be surprised, given that the originator of the tale was Carbo – a madman. Elyan was a fool for
believing him, and everyone else was a fool for believing Elyan.’

‘According to Sheriff Tulyet, who returned today, a box of rock crystal was stolen from a Suffolk jeweller last summer. Clearly,
Gosse is the culprit, and no doubt he intended to pass them off as raw diamonds at some point in the future. Just as Wynewyk
tried to do.’

‘But Carbo found them first, and told Elyan they had come from his mine.’

‘I doubt Carbo lied – he probably believed it himself. Poor Carbo! It is a pity, because in other ways he was regaining his
wits – he came to Cambridge to expose his felonious brother. And Neubold killed him for it.’

‘Elyan is no innocent, either,’ added Michael. ‘He told Gosse the “diamonds” had been distributed around the University, so
Gosse would leave him alone and pick on someone else. Did I tell you he has gone on a pilgrimage to Walsingham, to atone for
all his sins?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘The whole affair was horrible. It led Gosse to kill Kelyng, Margery and d’Audley; Wynewyk to kill himself
– with Tesdale’s help; and d’Audley to hang Neubold. It brought Wynewyk into fatal contact with Joan; and induced Gosse and
Idoma to try to poison the entire University.’

‘And Risleye was killed by the duplicitous Tesdale,’ finished Michael. ‘Incidentally, in an effort to save himself, Gosse
became very verbose. He told me King’s Hall had hired him and his sister.’

‘Hired them to do what?’

‘To break into Michaelhouse and retrieve documents about the diamonds from Wynewyk. But they could not find any, so they made
off with the Stanton Cups instead. He also said they were paid to follow us to Suffolk and dispatch us there, because King’s
Hall was worried that we planned to take up where Wynewyk had left off.’

Bartholomew regarded him in horror. ‘Do you believe him?’

Michael was silent for a long time. ‘Gosse also said that King’s Hall promised him a lot of money – enough to buy a decent
house in our town and enjoy a life of luxury. Powys assures me that his College does not have that sort of cash to hand. But
who knows the truth? I do not.’

Bartholomew shook his head, sickened. ‘So King’s Hall tried to murder us? Paxtone and Powys? I thought they were our friends!’

‘They were not friends once the prospect of diamonds appeared,’ said Michael bleakly.

‘But they must have been aware that we knew nothing about these wretched gemstones – they had a spy in our midst, after all.’

‘Risleye. But we were suspicious of him – or I was, at least – and took care never to say anything we did not want him to
hear. He was next to useless to King’s Hall.’

Bartholomew thought about his student. ‘I should have known something was amiss when he and Paxtone remained on friendly terms.
How could I have been so blind?’

‘Because you are too willing to see the good in people,
as I have told you before. You need to develop a more cynical attitude to your fellows – present company excepted, of course.’

‘Did Shropham know about the diamonds?’ asked Bartholomew, not wanting to think too much about his colleagues’ shortcomings.
He had liked the men from King’s Hall and was shocked by what the investigation had taught him about them.

‘No – just Powys and Paxtone. Did I tell you Powys has resigned as Warden? And Paxtone plans to leave Cambridge and practise
medicine in Lincoln?’

Bartholomew nodded unhappily, but made no other reply.

‘Gosse also claimed it was King’s Hall’s idea to poison the wine at the debate, but I know he was lying about that. Powys
turned out to be corrupt and greedy, but he does not bear a grudge against the entire University. That particular piece of
nastiness belonged to Gosse and Idoma alone.’

‘Good,’ said Bartholomew bleakly, supposing it was some comfort.

Michael tried to lighten the mood. ‘However, one good thing came out of this wretched affair: I was spared taking part in
the Blood Relic debate.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘I thought you were disappointed about that? You wanted the chance to show everyone that
you are bishop material.’

‘I did – but I would have failed. Thelnetham was ruthlessly savaged by the Franciscans, and he is better versed in the dispute
than me. I had a very narrow escape.’

It was late by the time Bartholomew and Michael arrived in Suffolk. They stopped in Haverhill first, to visit Agnys, and found
her entertaining Luneday. Both were lonely, with Margery dead and Elyan on pilgrimage, and had taken
to keeping each other company of an evening. Agnys was teaching Luneday how to cheat at dice, and she was learning a great
deal about pigs in return.

The next morning, she took the scholars to the mine, where Kelyng was excavated and placed in a chest, ready to be carried
home. Then Bartholomew went to inspect Lizzie: her humours were awry, and Luneday would not let the scholars leave until the
physician had examined her.

Bartholomew did not mind. The loans Wynewyk had made to d’Audley and Elyan had been less than scrupulous, but the deeds in
Margery’s satchel revealed that the one to Luneday was perfectly honourable. And Michaelhouse, not Wynewyk, had stood to profit
from it. The physician wondered whether Wynewyk had negotiated it out of guilt – that he had wanted his College to have something
after he had disappeared to London with the riches arising from the diamonds he had planned to sell.

While Bartholomew and Luneday were busy, Michael went to Withersfield’s quiet churchyard. He found Carbo’s grave – Agnys had
arranged for his return to the village of his birth – and scraped a hole in the freshly turned soil. Then he reached into
his saddlebag and extracted the stones that had caused so much trouble. He dropped them into the hollow and replaced all as
he had found it, hoping they would never resurface to cause trouble in the future.

‘Are you sure you should go to Clare, Brother?’ asked Agnys, while she and the monk waited for Bartholomew to finish with
Luneday’s pig. ‘Is it the best thing you can do?’

‘I have given it a lot of thought, and I think it is,’ replied Michael, watching Bartholomew walk towards them, Luneday jabbering
at his side. ‘Besides, we need to retrieve the Stanton Cups, and Gosse tells me they are in Clare.’

‘I took care of that for you,’ said Agnys. ‘I almost forgot. I sent word to Prior John, and he found them. Here are your silver-gilt
chalices.’

She handed over a bundle of cloth, which Michael snatched eagerly. He unwrapped it, and ran loving fingers over Michaelhouse’s
most precious heirlooms.

‘One is dented,’ he said. ‘But it can be repaired, and they are otherwise unharmed. Thank you.’

Neither heard the faint rustle of leaves as the person in the bushes shifted positions. Cynric’s head snapped up, but there
was nothing to see, and he soon turned his attention back to the horses.