A Vein of Deceit (7 page)

‘Kelyng has
not
disappeared,’ said Michael firmly. ‘He has decided to abscond. It is not the first time a lad has elected to run away rather
than pay what he owes, and I doubt it will be the last. If I had incurred Kelyng’s level of expenditure, I might flee, too.’

They processed to the church, where Suttone officiated at the morning mass, and Bartholomew assisted. It was over in record
time, because Suttone was eager to hear details of the Master’s brush with death. Flattered by the Carmelite’s demands for
the full story, Langelee declared that talking was permitted at breakfast that day – meals were normally eaten to the sole
sound of the Bible Scholar’s droning voice, although Kelyng’s absence made this difficult – then treated the entire College
to a lively and improbably colourful account of his adventures. It was rather different to the version related by Tobias and
Powys, and failed to mention the amount of wine he had swallowed or the drunken slumber that had followed, but
his audience sat in spellbound silence until he had finished, anyway.

‘Well, we are glad you survived,’ said Suttone warmly, rubbing his hands together as the servants began to put bowls of food
on the table. ‘None of
us
want the post of Master.’

‘I would not mind,’ said Michael, poking in distaste at something that appeared to be a mixture of scrambled eggs and parsnips.
‘But only if Wynewyk continues to manage the finances, which is the tedious part. The rest would be fun.’

‘I might resign and let you do it,’ said Langelee heavily. ‘God knows, it is a thankless task.’

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows in surprise. He had never heard the Master talk about stepping down before, and could see
that Michael was alarmed by the notion that his flippant remark might have been taken seriously. The monk might have harboured
ambitions in that direction once, but since then he had carved himself a niche as the University’s most influential scholar
– the man who told the Chancellor what to do, and who made all the important decisions. Accepting the Mastership of Michaelhouse
would represent a considerable demotion, and Bartholomew doubted the monk would do it – especially as he had once confided
that his next post would be either abbot or bishop.

‘Do not make any hasty decisions, Master,’ advised Michael quickly. ‘Especially as you are probably still shocked after last
night’s episode. Give yourself time to recover before—’

Langelee waved a dismissive hand. ‘Last night’s episode was nothing. I have experienced far worse in games of camp-ball –
and not just on the field, either. Why do you think I have taken to wearing a boiled-leather jerkin?
Because some teams will do anything to win, and good players like me are never safe from sly attacks in the street. But I
had better say a final grace, because I have a great deal to do today, and I am sure you do, too.’

He had intoned no more than two lines before he faltered, having apparently forgotten the words. As it was a prayer he used
regularly, Bartholomew peered around Michael’s bulk to regard him in alarm, wondering whether he had bumped his head when
he had fallen and was not in his right wits. Langelee made a vague gesture to indicate that his scholars were dismissed, then
left the hall.

‘What is wrong with him?’ demanded Suttone, when he had gone. ‘He is not himself today.’

‘Do you think it is malnutrition, from the terrible food we have been given over the last few weeks?’ asked Michael. ‘He is
a large man, and will not thrive on this sort of muck for long.’

Bartholomew glanced sharply at him, wondering if he was making a joke. Langelee
was
a large man, but Michael was considerably bigger.

‘It might be,’ agreed Suttone, who also boasted an impressive girth. ‘I know I am wasting away.’

‘I am exhausted,’ declared Michael, flopping into a fireside chair in the conclave that evening. All the Fellows were there.
Bartholomew, Suttone and Wynewyk were at the table, preparing lessons for the following day, Thelnetham and Hemmysby were
reading a Book of Hours together, and Langelee was sitting by the window. He was gazing into the courtyard below, although
it was dark outside and he would not be able to see anything. Clippesby was at his feet, playing with the College cat.

‘Why are you exhausted, Brother?’ asked Wynewyk courteously, when no one else seemed interested and the
monk was beginning to look annoyed by the lack of response. Bartholomew forced his thoughts away from his work when he realised
he was being rude.

‘For several reasons,’ replied Michael. ‘I spent all morning teaching, and all afternoon questioning Gosse about the attack
on our Master last night. Then I visited the apothecaries and asked whether they had sold any pennyroyal recently.’

Bartholomew regarded him guiltily. He had meant to make that enquiry himself, but too many patients had demanded his services
that day, and he had had no time. ‘And had they?’

‘They say not, but I am not sure whether to believe them. They have lied to me in the past.’

‘Pennyroyal?’ asked Thelnetham, bemused. ‘Why would you want to know about that?’

‘Matt is interested in it,’ replied Michael vaguely. He glanced at Langelee, who was still staring out of the window. ‘Is
anyone curious to know the outcome of my encounter with Gosse?’

‘I am,’ said Wynewyk, when Langelee made no reply. ‘What happened?’

‘He does not live alone,’ began Michael. ‘He has a sister, although you would not think they were related to look at them;
he is small, while she is enormous. She is reputed to be a witch – although people tend to say that about anyone they do not
like.’

‘They say it about Matthew,’ Thelnetham pointed out. ‘But he is very popular – among the lower class of citizen, at least.
He is heartily reviled by persons of quality, of course.’

‘That is untrue!’ declared Wynewyk hotly, while Bartholomew regarded the Gilbertine in surprise. He knew not everyone approved
of the way he practised medicine,
but he had not been aware that he was ‘heartily reviled’. ‘He is very highly regarded among the town’s burgesses.’

‘Only because they are afraid to antagonise his brother-in-law,’ said Thelnetham acidly. ‘Oswald Stanmore is a powerful man,
and no sane merchant wants to incur
his
displeasure.’

‘Gosse’s sister is named Idoma – not a lady I would like to meet on a dark night,’ Michael went on, cutting across Wynewyk’s
retort. Bartholomew’s unorthodoxy was one of few subjects on which the Fellows could not agree, and there was almost certain
to be a quarrel if they pursued it. ‘I do not recall when I last met a more unpleasant pair, and I am glad I took plenty of
beadles with me.’

‘You did not fight them, did you?’ asked Thelnetham with a moue of distaste. ‘Blood is so difficult to remove from one’s habit.’

‘I would not know,’ replied Michael, regarding him askance. ‘I am usually careful not to spill any, especially my own.’

‘Did Gosse confess to attacking the Master?’ asked Wynewyk.

‘No,’ replied Michael. ‘He claims he was in the Cardinal’s Cap when Langelee was ambushed, and the landlord confirms this.
Unfortunately, the tavern was busy, and the landlord cannot say whether Gosse was there
all
night. And the Cardinal’s Cap is not far from King’s Hall.’

‘Langelee said it was a scholar who attacked him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Not Gosse and—’

‘Forget the matter, Brother,’ said Langelee, turning from the window at last. ‘It
was
a scholar, but it will transpire to be someone who does not want me to play in the next camp-ball game – some cheating villain
from one of the rival teams. Pretend it did not happen.’

‘I most certainly shall not,’ declared Michael, horrified.
‘An attempt was made to kill the Master of my College, and that is unacceptable. I will unmask this villain and he shall
answer for his crime.’

‘Then do it after you have eliminated the annoyance represented by Gosse,’ said Langelee tiredly.

Bartholomew frowned. ‘What annoyance?’

‘Several Colleges have been burgled recently,’ explained Langelee. ‘We all know Gosse is responsible, and the other heads
of houses are beginning to ask why the Senior Proctor lets him roam free, doing as he pleases.’

‘Because my hands have been tied,’ Michael snapped. ‘Apparently, Gosse visited the town a few years back, and was convicted
of theft. But he appealed the sentence, and clever lawyers got him acquitted. Then he sued, and Cambridge was forced to pay
him a substantial sum in damages. The Mayor and his burgesses have informed me that it will not happen again.’

‘You mean you have been ordered not to challenge him?’ asked Suttone, shocked. ‘He can do what he likes, and you must let
him, lest he demands more compensation?’

Michael nodded, his expression dark and angry. ‘He has already hired himself a lawyer, and knew exactly how not to incriminate
himself when I interviewed him.’

‘What lawyer?’ demanded Thelnetham, indignant on behalf of his legal colleagues. ‘No one in the University would have anything
to do with such a low scoundrel.’

‘He is a Suffolk man, apparently,’ replied Michael. ‘Probably someone from Clare, which is Gosse’s home. I did not meet him,
but he had briefed Gosse well. I came away feeling as though I had been bested.’

‘This Gosse sounds horrible,’ said Hemmysby. ‘But I had never heard of him before last night.’

‘Neither had I,’ said Bartholomew. He opened his book again, not very interested in felons. Ambitious criminals
were always invading the town in search of easy pickings, but they did not last long; Michael or Sheriff Tulyet usually ousted
them before they did too much harm.

‘He
is
horrible,’ replied Michael grimly. ‘And so is his sister, who is said to be insane.’

‘I am said to be insane, too,’ remarked Clippesby from the floor. ‘But that does not make it true.’

‘Well, it is true in Idoma’s case,’ said Michael. ‘She twitched, blinked and flexed her fists the whole time I was there,
giving the impression that it would take very little to send her into a frenzy of violence. I am not easily unnerved, but
there was something about her that unsettled me profoundly.’

‘They are not like normal felons,’ agreed Suttone. ‘They are higher born, more intelligent and far more devious. I am glad
it is not my duty to tackle them.’

Thelnetham was unimpressed by the situation. ‘Your hands may have been tied by the burgesses, Brother, but what about the
Sheriff? Why does he not act?’

‘He is in London, explaining to the King why our shire is so expensive to run,’ replied Michael. ‘Constable Muschett is in
charge – a man who would not challenge a goose. He openly admits that Gosse frightens him
and
that he has no intention of doing anything that might see him sued.’

‘Bastards,’ snarled Langelee suddenly, standing abruptly and stalking towards the hearth. He took a wild kick at the poker,
which flew against the wall and ricocheted off, landing with a crash that made all the Fellows jump. The cat hurtled under
the table in alarm.

‘My!’ drawled Thelnetham, wide-eyed. ‘Do we feel better now?’

‘No, we do not,’ snarled Langelee. ‘We shall feel better when we have broken his neck.’

‘Why would we … would
you
do that?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, wondering what had precipitated the burst of temper. ‘You said Gosse was not the man
who attacked you.’

‘No, but he has committed other crimes,’ said Langelee darkly. ‘And do not look at me like that, because I am not telling
you anything about it. You will be angry. All of you will be angry.’

‘What has he done?’ demanded Michael. ‘If it is something to do with the College, we have a right to know. We will probably
find out anyway – this is no place for keeping secrets.’

Langelee swallowed hard. It was a moment before he spoke, and when he did, his voice was choked with emotion. ‘Two days ago,
I left the Stanton Cups in the hall by mistake – unattended. Someone stole them.’

His colleagues regarded him in horror. The Stanton Cups were a pair of beautiful silver-gilt chalices, bequeathed to Michaelhouse
by its founder, Hervey de Stanton. They were normally kept in a locked chest in the Master’s room, but Langelee believed such
treasures should be used regularly, for everyone to see and appreciate, so they were often out. It was an attitude Bartholomew
applauded, although their loss was a serious blow.

‘They were taken from the hall?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Then why did no one see the thief? It is seldom empty. Students, Fellows
or servants are always there.’

‘Because the cups went missing when we were all at that debate in Peterhouse,’ replied Langelee wretchedly. ‘And the servants
were picking apples in the orchard. I suspect the culprit saw us leave then slipped in when Walter was looking the other way.’

‘Why do you think Gosse is responsible?’ asked Michael. His voice was flat and low, and Bartholomew looked at him
sharply, suspecting he was more angry with Langelee for his carelessness than the burglar for his audacity.

‘Because both Suttone and Clippesby told me – independently – that Gosse was loitering around the College the morning the
cups went missing. And later, Thelnetham reported seeing him running down the High Street with something tucked under his
cloak.’

‘Yes, I did,’ agreed Thelnetham, horrified. ‘But I did not know it was the Stanton Cups!’

‘And I did not know Gosse was contemplating theft,’ added Suttone, equally appalled.

‘I did,’ said Clippesby. He was under the table, trying to soothe the cat. ‘The ducks guessed what was being planned, but
Walter declined to put their warning to good use by being more vigilant.’

The Dominican’s odd habit of sitting quietly in the shadows while he communed with nature meant he was often witness to incidents
no one else saw. Unfortunately, his eccentric way of reporting them meant he was rarely taken seriously. Bartholomew was not
surprised Walter had declined to act on intelligence provided by birds.

‘Why did you wait so long before telling us?’ demanded Michael of Langelee. ‘I am Senior Proctor. I have a right to know about
crimes committed in my own College.’