A Vein of Deceit

Chapter 11

‘I recommend you stay at the Brazen George,’ said Michael briskly, when the party finally reached Cambridge and the town’s guards had allowed them through the Barnwell Gate. ‘I shall escort you there, and arrange for you to meet Langelee later. It will mean him missing the Blood Relic debate, but I doubt he will mind.’

Bartholomew was sure Langelee would be delighted to be provided with an excuse to escape a lot of theologians pontificating. The Master had never been very keen on public disputations.

‘No,’ said Luneday firmly. ‘We shall go to Michaelhouse now, and ask him for his verdict. We will not deprive him of a chance to display his razor-like wits to his admiring colleagues.’

‘But this great philosopher may be otherwise engaged.’ Elyan pulled distastefully at his travel-stained clothes. ‘And we do not want to meet him looking like peasants.’

‘He probably is busy,’ agreed Michael, eager to brief Langelee before the claimants descended on him. ‘And he will want time to prepare a proper welcome for you.’

‘But that will inconvenience him, and we would not do that for the world,’ argued Luneday. ‘The sooner we all state our cases, the sooner we can go home. So lead on, Brother. You said he is known for speedy decisions, and I miss Lizzie already.’

‘But not Margery,’ muttered Cynric. ‘His woman of several years. His dead woman.’

‘If he gives too swift a verdict, King’s Hall will accuse him of not assessing all the evidence,’ said Michael warningly. ‘So do not expect a decision today. And if the answer to this case were simple, your priests would already have devised a fair and legal solution.’

‘It is complex,’ agreed Hilton. He glanced at Risleye, Valence and Tesdale. ‘But not as complex as the arguments surrounding whether wet dog is more unpleasant than wet horse, apparently.’

‘Then let us go to Michaelhouse, and have an end to it once and for all,’ said Elyan with a petulant sigh. ‘Master Langelee will just have to accept that no man looks his best after enduring the King’s highways. And if we hurry, there may be time to buy some new clothes before we return home.’

Bartholomew’s attention was elsewhere. ‘There is Paxtone,’ he said, spotting his colleague’s impressive bulk and tiny ankles.

He dismounted, eager for news of his patients, but Michael coughed meaningfully, and shot him a look that said he would need the physician’s help when the Suffolk men met the Messiah of Arbitration. The encounter was going to need some skilful manipulation if the visitors were not to know they had been shamefully misled.

‘Is he from King’s Hall?’ asked Agnys, narrowing her eyes. ‘I heard they all wear blue tabards.’

‘Yes. Have you met him?’ asked Michael, making polite conversation. ‘He is one of their Fellows, and might well have journeyed to Haverhill to inspect Elyan Manor and the Alneston Chantry.’

‘No,’ said Agnys sharply, cutting off some reply her grandson started to make. ‘I imagine they took care to avoid our company, given that they are trying to disinherit honest Suffolk folk.’

‘What is happening?’ asked Paxtone of Bartholomew, intrigued by the cavalcade. The physician thought his gaze lingered slightly longer on Agnys than the others, but could not be sure. Perhaps it was because her veil was comically awry from the ride and her heavy boots looked incongruous against the fine cloth of her kirtle.

‘These are claimants against King’s Hall for Elyan Manor,’ Bartholomew explained. ‘They want Langelee to pass judgement.’

‘Langelee?’ Paxtone started to laugh, but stopped when he saw Bartholomew was serious. ‘Lord! I doubt Warden Powys will agree to that. I mean no disrespect, but Langelee would not be my first choice of men to adjudicate complex legal disputes.’

‘The other litigants want a quick decision,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘So you had better arrange for someone to represent King’s Hall as soon as possible. Who will it be? You?’

‘Our best lawyer is Shropham, but he is in gaol. Perhaps Powys will represent us himself – he is not as good as Shropham, but he has an astute legal mind. I had better go and tell him at once.’

Bartholomew watched him waddle away, then caught up with the others. ‘When will you release Shropham?’ he asked of the monk. ‘Or are you inclined to dismiss what Gosse said – that Neubold was Carbo’s killer?’

Michael shook his head slowly. ‘The news of Shropham’s innocence comes as no surprise; you know I have never really been convinced of his guilt. But why did he not tell me he was blameless in the affair? It makes no sense. So, call me callous, but Shropham can stay in his cell until I know why he would rather hang than tell the truth.’

Bartholomew and Michael led the visitors along the High Street and down St Michael’s Lane. The College looked the same as always, and the physician felt a profound sense of relief when he saw its sturdy yellow walls. Walter opened the gate, peacock tucked under his arm.

‘Where is the Master?’ demanded Michael without preamble. ‘Will you tell him he is needed? Now?’

While Walter went to do as he was ordered, Bartholomew heard Thelnetham holding forth in the hall, entertaining his colleagues with one of his witty lectures.

‘I should check on my students,’ the physician said, keen to see his class and find out what they had learned in his absence. He found he was looking forward to the questions they would have on the texts he had set, and it made him realise how important they were to him.

‘No, you should not,’ hissed Michael, grabbing his arm. ‘You are going to stay here and help me out of this mess. It was not my idea to go to Suffolk in search of coal, timber and pigs.’

‘But it was your idea to lie about Langelee’s integrity,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘You are reaping the wages of your deceitful ways.’

Michael started to respond with a curt remark, but Langelee had heard the commotion by the gate and was striding across the courtyard to see what was happening. Michael gaped at him, while Bartholomew struggled not to laugh.

The Master had been with Agatha, being fitted for new clothes. Because money was tight, she was using an altar cloth that had been rendered unsuitable for its original purpose by moths and wine-stains. It was draped across his shoulders, and fell in folds to his feet. The damage had been disguised – although not very skilfully – with motifs cut from a fox pelt.

‘By heaven!’ breathed Luneday. ‘Is this him?’

‘I am afraid so,’ replied Michael wearily.

‘Fashions change so fast these days,’ said Elyan, glancing down at his own black garb. ‘And it is difficult to keep up when you live so far from court. But, if this is what is in vogue, then this is what we must wear. I had better purchase some of that cloth while I am here.’

‘It is very fine,’ declared Luneday. ‘Exactly what a man of honour and intelligence might select.’

‘Gentlemen,’ said Michael, as Langelee approached. Agatha was behind him, trying to keep the fabric from dragging in the mud. ‘This is Master Ralph de Langelee, Michaelhouse’s finest philosopher and a man of great wisdom.’

Bartholomew was amused to note that Langelee did not seem at all surprised or discomfited by the grand introduction. He effected an elegant bow, and Agatha swore under her breath when some of her pinning slipped and material cascaded to the ground.

‘I am deeply honoured, noble sir,’ said Luneday, stepping forward to make a low and very sincere obeisance. Langelee frowned a little, but took it in his stride.

‘There is an inheritance dispute over Elyan Manor,’ Michael started to explain. Bartholomew could see faces pressed against the windows of the hall, as students strained to see what was going on. ‘King’s Hall is also involved. You have been chosen to preside over a discussion of the business, to decide who has the strongest claim.’

‘All right,’ said Langelee amiably. ‘I am always pleased to voice an opinion, even if it is on affairs I know nothing about.’ He guffawed heartily, and Michael winced.

‘Will you hear us now, my lord?’ asked Luneday politely.

‘He will not,’ growled Agatha. ‘He is busy, and I had him first.’

‘You heard the lady,’ said Langelee, with a wink. ‘She has first claim on my person, and I need this cloak finished, because the other slipped off and fell in the latrine during a careless moment. Come back later – preferably during the Blood Relic contest.’

‘Oh, no!’ objected Luneday, chagrined. ‘We would not deprive the University of your wisdom for the world – especially as I am told you have solved the matter.’

‘Well, perhaps not solved,’ hedged Langelee, aware that he was in the presence of Michael, a talented theologian. ‘But I certainly have views. However, the reason I asked you to come this afternoon is because there is a camp-ball game later, and I shall be able to take part in it if you give me an excuse to miss the debate.’

Bartholomew ran after him when he started to walk away. ‘Do you not want more of an explanation?’

Langelee shrugged. ‘Here are folk in need of a decent mind to resolve a long-standing problem. What other explanation is needed? Besides, I suspect it has something to do with our missing thirty marks, and I am willing to do just about anything to retrieve that.’

Bartholomew’s pleasure at being among the safe, familiar things of home did not last long. The moment he had finished talking to Langelee, Deynman approached, his expression troubled. He began speaking without preamble.

‘Master Paxtone came to borrow poppy juice when you were gone. I gave him the whole jar, but he brought it back and said it contained nothing of the kind. I had a sip, and he was right. Someone had swapped it for water.’

Bartholomew knew there was no point in remonstrating with Deynman for tasting something that might have been dangerous. ‘Are you saying Paxtone exchanged an expensive medicine for–’

‘Oh, no! He was simply drawing attention to the fact – someone else is responsible. The culprit probably changed the pennyroyal for water, too, because it certainly did not put a shine on my hasps.’

Bartholomew was sceptical of Deynman’s claims, but obligingly followed him across the yard to the storeroom. Once there, it did not take him long to see the Librarian was right. He was aghast.

‘My God!’ he breathed, sinking down on to a bench. ‘Who would do something like this?’

‘Poppy juice is both costly and difficult to come by,’ replied Deynman. ‘So perhaps a student took it, in readiness for when he becomes a physician. Who do you know who is interested in money?’

‘Not Tesdale or Valence. They may be poor, but they–’

‘I said someone interested in money, not someone without any,’ interrupted Deynman. His curt tone suggested he had already given the question considerable thought, and had reached a conclusion.

‘Risleye?’ asked Bartholomew. Was that why Paxtone had declined to teach him, even though the lad was a decent student – he objected to having his supplies pilfered? And had Paxtone borrowed poppy juice to see whether Risleye had resumed his tricks with a new master? ‘No, I do not believe–’

‘Then who?’ demanded Deynman. ‘Because there are two facts you cannot escape here. First, the poppy juice is gone and water has been left in its place. And second, it did not happen by itself. So, who else might it have been? Valence? Tesdale? Me?’

‘Of course not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But Risleye…’

Risleye was one of few lads who had official access to his storeroom, came a clamouring voice in his head. And Risleye was secretive and sly – he kept his possessions locked in a chest, whereas everyone else left theirs for others to share. Bartholomew put his head in his hands, overwhelmed by the betrayal. Then he stood abruptly, not sure how he would start his interrogation of Risleye but determined it would be at once.

‘Where is he?’ he asked.

Deynman shrugged. ‘He was here a moment ago, talking to that Dominican priest about wet horses. Perhaps he went to the hall. Thelnetham is lecturing, and you know he is an entertaining–’

Thelnetham looked up questioningly when the physician burst in, but Risleye was not there. Without so much as a nod to his bemused colleague, Bartholomew ran back to his room, wondering whether the students were lying down after the journey. It was empty, so he tore up the stairs to talk to Michael.

The monk was studying the documents from Margery’s travelling bag, treating Langelee to an account of his experiences in darkest Suffolk at the same time. The Master was still draped in his altar cloth, and Agatha had resumed her pinning. Bartholomew paced back and forth in agitation as he told them about the missing poppy juice and his prime suspect.

‘Valence and Tesdale are just walking past,’ said Langelee, peering through the window into the yard. He leaned out and ordered the students to get themselves up the stairs in a bellow that would have been heard on the High Street. ‘Perhaps they know where Risleye has gone.’

‘He went out with the Haverhill priest, sir,’ supplied Valence, when the Master demanded the whereabouts of their classmate. ‘And will drag him from stable to stable until the poor man is forced to admit that wet horses smell worse than wet dogs.’

‘Did you know he has been stealing medicine?’ asked Langelee baldly.

Tesdale’s jaw dropped. ‘How do you … He is not … Lord Christ!’

‘No!’ cried Valence at the same time. ‘I do not believe you!’

‘I should have been more careful,’ said Bartholomew bitterly. ‘Then it would not have happened.’

He thought about the stain on his workbench, which had reeked of poppy juice. He should have known it was a new mark, and that he would not have overlooked it when he had been cleaning the day before. He rubbed a hand through his hair, feeling his stomach tie itself in knots.

‘Do not blame yourself, sir,’ said Valence, still struggling to control his shock. ‘It is not your fault he took advantage of your trust.’

‘Meanwhile,’ added Tesdale, ‘you have the evidence to confront him, so make him pay you back and then dismiss him. Meanwhile, we will all learn from this and make sure it never happens again.’

‘It is good advice, Matt,’ said Michael soberly. ‘Be more vigilant in future, but do not hold anyone but Risleye responsible for what he has done.’

‘I am sorry to change the subject,’ said Tesdale tentatively. ‘But Isnard sent word: he was very drunk last night and needs a tonic. Shall Valence make it and take it to him?’

‘You do it,’ ordered Langelee, while Valence rolled his eyes at his classmate’s brazen idleness. He held up a thick forefinger when Tesdale started to object. ‘No excuses. I am tired of seeing you foist your duties on to your friends, and unless you change your ways, you can look for another College.’

Bartholomew handed over the key to the storeroom and watched his students leave, his thoughts in chaos. It was all very well for Valence and Tesdale to dismiss so blithely the actions of a classmate they had never liked, but Risleye’s actions would bother their master for a long time to come.

‘I need to find him,’ he said, trying to imagine which stables Risleye might have elected to visit. ‘I cannot just wait here for him to show up.’

‘You can – and you should,’ said Michael. ‘You run the risk of missing him if you dash off on a wild goose chase. He will not be long. Just be patient.’

‘Clippesby has not been himself since you left,’ said Langelee, deciding the physician needed a diversion. ‘Wynewyk’s treachery hit him hard, and I have never seen him so unhappy. He has not even found solace in his animals.’

Bartholomew regarded him in alarm. Clippesby did not forsake his furred and feathered friends lightly, and when he did, there was usually something seriously wrong. ‘Has he been … unwell?’

‘You mean has he been more lunatic than usual,’ translated Langelee. ‘No – quite the reverse, in fact. He seems as sane as any of us, except when you actually listen to what he is saying. Then you realise he is raving. He keeps claiming that Wynewyk took poison because he was unable to live with his remorse.’

‘Fortunately, we know that is untrue,’ said Michael. ‘Wynewyk made these business arrangements in good faith, and we were wrong to have suspected him of dishonesty.’

‘Yes and no,’ said Langelee. ‘He may not have stolen from us, but he had no right to give our money to these Suffolk lords, no matter what the returns. It has left us all but destitute – and we will remain destitute until we have these pigs, wood and coal. I am not forgetting that he tried to kill me, either. He may be innocent of cheating, but he was definitely guilty of that.’

‘He took Kelyng to Suffolk, too,’ added Michael. ‘And must have known some harm had befallen the lad when he failed to return from the mine. Then to pretend to be worried … it beggars belief!’

‘Are you sure it was Wynewyk who tried to kill you, Master?’ asked Agatha conversationally. ‘Only Idoma Gosse likes to ambush men in the dead of night. Incidentally, I heard her brother bragging the other day in the Cardinal’s Cap. He claims to be on the verge of acquiring wealth that will see him established in the finest house in Cambridge.’

‘Did he say how?’ asked Michael nervously.

‘No,’ replied Agatha. ‘But you can be sure it will not be legal.’

‘Arrest him, Brother,’ said Langelee promptly. ‘Now. Today. Before he earns these riches.’

‘I shall,’ vowed Michael. He turned to Agatha. ‘So you had better tell me exactly what you overheard in the Cardinal’s Cap.’

‘Unfortunately, he declined to give details, and none of us liked to press him,’ replied the laundress apologetically. ‘Well, he said one thing, but I do not see how it can be relevant.’

‘What?’ demanded Michael.

‘He said his fortune is closely tied to that of a Fellow, and that they have great plans together.’

‘Not Wynewyk?’ asked Langelee heavily.

‘No. It is someone from King’s Hall – and from his description, I would say it is Paxtone.’

‘Damn!’ muttered Michael, standing wearily. ‘I thought I would have a few quiet moments to study my Blood Relic texts, but it seems I must go to interrogate King’s Hall scholars instead.’

‘You planned to study?’ asked Langelee incredulously. ‘I thought you would have been deploying your troops to hunt down Gosse. Or, if he proves elusive, to prevent him from doing any mischief during this tiresome debate.’

‘Junior Proctor Cleydon has that in hand,’ said Michael coolly. He disliked it when people questioned the way he ran his affairs. ‘I trust him.’

‘Then you can help me read Margery’s documents,’ said Langelee, waving the monk back down again. ‘You volunteered me as arbitrator, so it is only fair that you help me prepare, and you can talk to King’s Hall when we have finished. Meanwhile, you can visit Clippesby, Bartholomew. It will take your mind off Risleye – until he comes home.’

Bartholomew found the Dominican in his room. Clippesby was reading a book on Blood Relics, and the physician sincerely hoped he did not intend to take part in the debate: he might claim animal sources to prove his points, and lead the rest of the University to assume Michaelhouse was full of lunatics.

‘Langelee said you have concerns about Wynewyk,’ said Bartholomew, going to stand by the window so that he would see Risleye return. His thoughts were more on his student than his colleague.

‘The Master does not believe me,’ said the Dominican softly. ‘But I know Wynewyk poisoned himself deliberately because he was ashamed of what he had done.’

‘You are wrong,’ said Bartholomew gently, hearing the distress in his friend’s voice and turning to face him. ‘Wynewyk was not dishonest – we proved it in Suffolk. He made some unorthodox arrangements, but none of them were detrimental to the College.’

‘I wish that were true,’ said Clippesby fervently. ‘I really do. But it is not, and I can prove it.’

Bartholomew frowned. It was rare that Clippesby did not bring animals into a discussion, and the grave, intense expression on his face was unnerving.

‘Langelee charged me with packing up Wynewyk’s personal effects,’ Clippesby went on. ‘I was going through a box of documents, throwing away laundry lists and the like, when I found a letter from his father. It reminded his son never to eat nuts, because he had an unusually strong reaction to them. And it said never to let a poultice of foxglove near an open wound for the same reason.’

‘I knew about the nuts,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Meanwhile, foxglove is a potent herb, and if Wynewyk was sensitive to it, then even a small dose might have brought about his death. However, it is rarely prescribed for–’

‘I have been thinking hard about his manner of death, trying to recall all that happened,’ interrupted Clippesby. ‘And my ponderings told me that he consumed four pieces of cake. Obviously, I did not realise then that he had an aversion to nuts, or I would have stopped him. I remember him gagging several times, but he did not stop eating.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘Tesdale says he drank more than usual, which may have made him incautious. However, there was no foxglove–’

‘There was foxglove!’ Clippesby spoke sharply. ‘I use it to kill the fleas I catch from the hedgehog, so I am familiar with its smell. When I was cleaning up the hall after Wynewyk’s body had been taken away, I found an empty pot of it. It meant nothing to me at the time, so I threw it away. But then I discovered the letter from Wynewyk’s father, and all became clear.’

It was not clear to Bartholomew, and he struggled to understand what Clippesby was telling him.

‘There is more,’ said Clippesby, when the physician made no reply. ‘I told you about the copies of letters written to powerful men, offering to sell them precious stones. Do you remember? We decided he did not have any, so we dismissed the matter. But he did.’

‘Did what?’ asked Bartholomew, mind spinning.

‘He did own diamonds,’ said Clippesby. He reached into his purse and withdrew a handful of stones. ‘I found these under a loose floorboard in his room. Langelee said they are just rocks.’

Bartholomew took them from him. ‘But they are just rocks, John. Wynewyk carried another one in his purse, and Paxtone has a whole bag of them in his room. Tesdale said they pored over documents about stones together, so these are probably a charm against sickness. Or perhaps bad luck. But they are not diamonds, because diamonds are smooth and shiny, and these–’

‘They are raw,’ snapped Clippesby, uncharacteristically curt. ‘Diamonds look like this in their natural state, and only appear jewel-like when they have been cut and polished. If you do not believe me, rub one on this piece of glass. Diamonds scratch glass, as you know.’

‘So do many other things,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘Sapphires, rubies, even rock crystal.’

Clippesby slapped the glass into his hand. ‘Just do the experiment.’

Bartholomew did as he was told, and gazed at the mark the stone left behind. He looked more closely at the rock, and supposed Clippesby might be right. He had never seen diamonds straight from the ground, so it was hardly surprising that he did not know what they looked like.

‘I have no idea where these stones came from,’ said Clippesby quietly. ‘But the sly letters to the nobles suggest something untoward. So, you see, no matter what you discovered in Suffolk, I am afraid Wynewyk was embroiled in something shameful. And it led him to take his own life.’

Bartholomew grabbed Clippesby’s arm and hauled him across the yard, so the Dominican could tell Michael what he had surmised. They met the monk coming from his room, having read more of the documents Margery had given them. He started to speak at the same time as Clippesby.

‘Me first,’ insisted Michael. ‘Most of Luneday’s records are irrelevant to who should have Elyan Manor – they pertain to the sale of pigs – but two are vital.’ He brandished them.

‘What are they?’ asked Bartholomew. He was distracted, more concerned with Risleye and Wynewyk than with Haverhill’s problems. The door to his storeroom was open, and Tesdale was there, working on Isnard’s remedy. Bartholomew stepped inside to stare at his empty poppy-juice jug again. The student glanced up and smiled absently at him.

‘The first is the will of Alneston – the fellow who founded the chantry and who was a past owner of Elyan Manor,’ replied Michael. ‘In it he leaves his estate to King’s Hall, on the grounds that he disliked his children.’

‘So King’s Hall does have a valid claim?’ asked Bartholomew flatly. ‘That will please them.’

‘I have not finished. This deed was clearly written when Alneston was angry, but he later made peace with his sons and there is a second will that favours them.’ The monk waved it in the air. ‘It proves King’s Hall does not have a claim on the manor, and I shall tell them so when I speak to Paxtone, and demand to know why he has dealings with Osa Gosse.’

‘I thought something odd was going on in that College,’ mused Clippesby. ‘Wynewyk spent inexplicable amounts of time there, with Paxtone and the Warden; Shropham stands accused of murder; they associate with felons; they stake dubious claims to distant manors; and Matt tells me Paxtone owns raw diamonds, just like the ones I found hidden in Wynewyk’s room.’

Michael’s eyes narrowed – he was never quite sure what to make of Clippesby. ‘What diamonds?’

While Clippesby regaled Michael with his theory, Bartholomew’s attention wandered to his storeroom. How much time had Risleye spent there, stealing and hiding evidence of his crimes? How many patients in desperate pain had been given water?

As his mind filled with dark thoughts, he happened to glance at Tesdale. The student was listening to Clippesby telling Michael about the foxglove and was going through the motions of preparing the tonic for Isnard, but he had just added too much charcoal. It took a moment for Bartholomew to recognise the curious expression that filled the young man’s face, but when he did, his stomach lurched. It was guilt.

‘Oh, no,’ he whispered softly. ‘You gave Wynewyk the foxglove!’

‘What?’ asked Tesdale. He laughed his disbelief at the accusation, but not before the physician had caught the flash of panic in his eyes.

‘You are one of few people who have access to this room,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘He asked you for foxglove and, eager to help a man who was kind to you, you let him have it.’

Tesdale shook his head. ‘I did not give him anything. I swear!’

But Bartholomew was wise to the pedantry of students. ‘You did not give him anything,’ he repeated heavily. ‘So what did you do? Open the door and look the other way while he took what he wanted? I thought Risleye was the thief, and you let me.’

‘But Risleye is the thief,’ cried Tesdale, beginning to be agitated. ‘Perhaps I did help Wynewyk once when he asked, but he did not take the poppy juice – Risleye did. Risleye is always accusing us of stealing from him, but all the while he was the thief.’

Bartholomew sat heavily on the bench, and regarded Tesdale with haunted eyes. ‘Why did you not tell us you let Wynewyk in here when we were trying to understand how he died?’ he asked, not sure whether he was more shocked by Risleye’s pilfering or Tesdale’s complicity in a colleague’s demise. ‘It would have answered so many questions.’

‘I wanted to, but I was afraid you would expel me,’ said Tesdale, tears welling. ‘It has not been easy, wondering whether I helped a man to suicide. I realise now that I should have refused when he asked to be allowed in, but it is easy to be wise after the event.’

Michael was angry. ‘You are a fool, Tesdale! However, you may be able to redeem yourself.’

Bartholomew was not so sure about that, but Tesdale looked up with hope in his eyes. ‘How?’

‘You can tell me about King’s Hall. Something untoward is happening in that place and I want to know what. You were employed there, so you can provide me with some answers.’

Tesdale was horrified. ‘But I worked in the kitchens, Brother! I do not know anything that will–’

‘Then you had better start looking for another master,’ said Michael, beginning to walk away. ‘Because you are finished at Michaelhouse.’

‘Wait!’ shouted Tesdale, flustered and frightened. ‘I can tell you one thing you might find interesting – although Paxtone paid me to keep quiet about it. On the night Carbo was murdered, Paxtone went out. He came back covered in blood. Shropham saw him, too.’

‘You thought Paxtone killed Carbo?’ Bartholomew was aghast. ‘But that is–’

‘Then why did he buy my silence?’ cried Tesdale. ‘He must have had something to hide.’

‘This explains why Shropham will not speak to you,’ said Clippesby to Michael. ‘He worships Paxtone, but believes him to be guilty of murder. So, he decided to take the blame instead.’

‘Why would he do that?’ demanded Michael suspiciously. ‘It makes no sense.’

‘Perhaps not to sane men like us,’ said Clippesby. ‘But Shropham once told me that Paxtone was King’s Hall’s most valuable asset – for his noble character and the revenue he brings from teaching.’

‘Loyalty,’ said Tesdale in a small voice. ‘Shropham will do anything for his College, even go to the gallows to ensure another Fellow is spared.’

‘You will have to release Shropham now, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We already knew he did not stab Carbo, but Tesdale’s evidence explains his suspicious silence, too. He is innocent of everything, even concealing murder, because Paxtone did not kill Carbo – Neubold did.’

But Michael’s expression remained grim. ‘Perhaps so, but he can still stay in his cell until we are certain.’ He fixed the hapless Tesdale with a stern glare. ‘Are you willing to tell me anything else?’

‘I do not know anything else,’ said Tesdale in a wail. ‘I would have told you already, if I did. I am not such a fool as to stand by while another College breaks the law.’

‘You had better be telling me the truth,’ growled Michael. ‘Or there will be trouble such as you have never seen.’

Bartholomew could not escape the unsettling sense that time was running out, and that unless they found answers to their various mysteries fast, someone else would die. And, as he and Michael had been targeted several times already, he had the feeling that they might be among the next victims.

‘I am going to interrogate Paxtone about his shady association with Gosse now,’ said Michael, as they left the physician’s storeroom. Tesdale skulked away towards the hall. ‘I do not want you there, though. You are friends, so it will be painful for you.’

Bartholomew was worried. ‘It is not a good idea to go to King’s Hall alone–’

‘I will not be alone. I shall take beadles and Cynric.’

Bartholomew regarded him unhappily, suspecting it would not be easy to march into King’s Hall and leave with one of its Fellows. Tesdale was right about the depth of devotion some members felt for their College, and they might well prove it with their swords.

‘Then be careful. Meanwhile, I had better visit Isnard. I would send Tesdale, but he might see it as a sign that he is back in my favour – and he is not. And then I will deal with Risleye.’

Bartholomew walked to Isnard’s house with a heavy heart, barely acknowledging the greetings of people he knew. He found the bargeman mostly recovered from his drunken revelry, but did not feel like lingering to chat. He mumbled something about preparing for the Blood Relic debate, and made his escape, leaving Isnard staring after him in bewilderment; the physician was never usually too busy to spend a few moments nattering with an old friend.

Bartholomew wanted to be alone, to consider Wynewyk’s death afresh, so he took the towpath route home, on the grounds that he would be less likely to meet anyone. As he walked, he berated himself for thinking nuts could kill a man so quickly, and for even entertaining the possibility that Wynewyk might have laughed to death. But foxglove would certainly explain what had happened – he had seen chickens die within moments of ingesting the stuff.

But why had Wynewyk killed himself? Because of the Suffolk business, or the diamonds Clippesby had found? Bartholomew was so immersed in his thoughts that he did not notice who was coming towards him until it was too late.

‘Not so fast, physician,’ said Idoma, reaching out to grab his arm.

He knocked the hand away and continued walking, loath to engage in a confrontation with her when Cynric had been too frightened to do it. He stopped abruptly when Gosse emerged from the bushes ahead, blocking his path. The thief carried a long hunting knife. Bartholomew turned quickly, intending to shove his way past Idoma before she realised what was happening, but she was similarly armed. With a pang of alarm, he saw he was trapped between them.

‘What do you want?’ he demanded, sounding more composed than he felt. He started to reach for his sword, before remembering that he no longer had it – scholars were not allowed to carry weapons in the town. He had nothing but his birthing forceps and some small surgical knives.

‘To kill you,’ replied Idoma evenly. Her cold, flat eyes were fixed unblinkingly on him and he realised he was in serious trouble. ‘We know you eavesdropped on our discussion in the hills, because we saw you creeping away. I doubt you have put all the pieces together yet, but it is only a matter of time before you do, and we cannot allow that. Not when we are on the verge of being rich.’

‘Rich?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering what they thought he knew. He did not feel as though he was close to a solution, and was as perplexed now as he had been when the business had first started.

‘Kill him,’ called Gosse softly. He was standing well back, watching the lane that led to the main road. ‘The longer you chat, the greater are our chances of discovery.’

‘Is stabbing me wise?’ Bartholomew edged away from Idoma, while inside his medical bag his fingers closed around the birthing forceps. ‘Michael will guess who did it, and you will hang.’

‘We will not,’ predicted Idoma smugly. Bartholomew tried to stop himself shuddering as her shark-fish eyes bored into his. ‘There are no witnesses, so no one will ever be able to prove anything.’

‘Idoma!’ snapped Gosse urgently. ‘You said you could do this better than me, so prove it. Stop chattering and dispatch him.’

‘I can do better,’ said Idoma. ‘Your mistake was putting too much emphasis on keeping your face hidden, lest your attack failed. But mine will not fail, so it does not matter if the physician sees me.’

‘It will matter if you do not hurry,’ retorted Gosse. ‘You cannot kill him with witnesses watching – and this is a public footpath. So get a move on!’

Idoma ignored him, relishing the opportunity to gloat. ‘Incidentally, your student told us you would be coming this way, and that this path was likely to be deserted. You should not have exposed his treacherous activities, because he is spiteful when crossed. And we should know – we are long-term friends of his family.’

‘You have seen Risleye? Where is he?’

‘Risleye?’ Idoma sneered. ‘You mean Tesdale! He is the one who raided your stores. He blamed Risleye, did he? Sly lad! Risleye accused him of essay-stealing, and it was quite true – Tesdale always did have sticky fingers. He has a vicious temper to go with them, too – you and Risleye would both have done better to stay on his good side. Not that it matters to you now.’

She raised her knife, and Bartholomew glanced at the river behind him, assessing his chances of jumping in and swimming to the other side. But it was fast, brown and swollen with recent rains – he would drown. He hauled the birthing forceps from his bag, determined not to make his murder too easy for her. But the implement was no kind of defence against daggers, and he could tell from her grimly determined expression that there would be no escape for him this time.

Suddenly, there was an agonised yell, followed by a thud. Bartholomew risked glancing away from Idoma and saw someone lying on the ground. Gosse stood over the figure, holding a bloody blade.

‘I told you to hurry,’ he snapped at his sister. ‘Now look what you made me do. Finish the physician quickly, before anyone else comes.’

Idoma resumed her advance, but there was another commotion from Gosse’s direction. Bartholomew knew better than to take his eyes off the enemy a second time but fortunately for him, Idoma was less prudent and he was able to take advantage of her momentary lapse of concentration by hitting her with the forceps. She staggered away with a howl of pain, and it was then that Bartholomew saw the riverfolk were emerging from their houses. Isnard was among them, lurching along on his crutches.

‘Leave him alone!’ the bargeman bellowed. ‘Damned felons!’

‘Felons, are we?’ snarled Idoma, turning to face him. ‘You will pay for that remark, cripple!’

‘We must kill them all,’ shouted Gosse urgently. ‘Or they will tell–’

He stopped yelling when one of Isnard’s crutches cartwheeled towards him. It missed, but startled him into dropping his dagger. He bent to pick it up, but the riverfolk surged towards him, far too many to fight. He backed away fast, then turned to shoot up the alley that led to Milne Street, howling for his sister to follow.

‘Do not think you have won, physician,’ Idoma hissed, also backing away. ‘We have something planned for you – for all of you. Your debate will be talked about for years to come, but you will wish it never happened.’

Aware that the riverfolk were closing in on her, she turned and fled, moving surprisingly swiftly and lightly for someone her size. The riverfolk waited until she had gone, then went back inside their houses without a word. One lingered long enough to raise his hand in salute, and then he disappeared, too, leaving Bartholomew alone with the bargeman.

‘Thank you, Isnard,’ said Bartholomew unsteadily. ‘They would have killed me for certain this time.’

‘The hero of Poitiers?’ demanded Isnard scornfully. ‘Do not make me laugh! We all know Cynric’s tales of your military prowess.’

‘Unfortunately, they are untrue.’

Isnard did not believe him. ‘Well, regardless, my neighbours would not have let any harm come to you. You are their physician, and all that free medicine you dispense has some rewards.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew. His heart was hammering, and he took a deep breath, in an attempt to calm himself. He glanced at Isnard, balanced precariously on his one leg. ‘Let me help you home.’

‘I can manage, thank you, which is more than can be said for him.’ Isnard pointed, and Bartholomew turned to look at the person Gosse had felled. It was d’Audley.

‘What happened?’ asked Bartholomew, kneeling next to the Suffolk lordling. There was too much blood, and when he put his ear to d’Audley’s chest he detected an unnatural gurgle. A lung had been punctured, and there was nothing he knew that could be done to save him. He glanced anxiously towards the alleys that led to Milne Street. He did not think Gosse would return, but Idoma was unstable enough to be unpredictable.

‘He stabbed me!’ gasped d’Audley, his face white with pain. ‘Why? All I wanted was to talk to you. Brother Michael told me you had come this way, so I followed.’

‘Could it not have waited for–’

‘No!’ D’Audley grabbed the front of Bartholomew’s tabard. His grip was strong for a man with such a serious wound. ‘We need to talk before the arbitration. I tried to bribe the monk but he would not listen, and you are the only other scholar I know. I will give you six marks if you back my claim to Elyan Manor – concoct some legal nicety that will see me win.’

‘This is not the time to discuss such matters,’ chided Bartholomew. ‘You are–’

‘But it must be now,’ snapped d’Audley. He coughed wetly, and for a moment could not catch his breath. ‘King’s Hall cannot have a legitimate claim, and I am damned if Luneday will get the place.’

‘You need a priest,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You should not be thinking of earthly concerns now.’

D’Audley stared at him. ‘I am dying?’ He began to shiver.

Bartholomew removed his own cloak and spread it over him. ‘Do not try to speak.’

D’Audley swallowed hard. ‘Oh, sweet Christ! I shall go to Hell! I have committed terrible sins. I thought I would have time to make amends – that future good deeds would…’

‘I will fetch a friar,’ said Isnard practically. He hobbled off to collect his crutch, but he moved slowly, and the physician knew he was going to be too late. So did d’Audley.

‘You must hear me,’ the Suffolk man gasped. There was panic in his eyes. ‘I will confess to you, and you can tell the priest that I repented, so he can pray for my soul.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew uncomfortably. ‘I am not qualified–’

‘Where to start?’ whispered d’Audley. The grasp on the physician’s tabard intensified, and Bartholomew felt himself dragged downwards, better to hear the words that began to pour from the landowner’s lips. ‘I seduced Margery away from Luneday – took her to Sudbury two weeks ago. Luneday thinks one of us was in Cambridge, killing Joan, but he is wrong. We were cuckolding him together.’

‘I see.’ Bartholomew tried to free himself from the man’s fingers, but could not do it without using force – and no physician liked to be rough with the dying.

‘I made her see I was the better proposition,’ d’Audley gabbled on. ‘I promised that if she stole all his documents, I would marry her, and she would share my estates and Elyan Manor. She brought them to me last Friday, and was with the party travelling from Suffolk, pretending to be a servant.’

Friday, Bartholomew recalled, was the day Margery had fled Withersfield Manor, after feeling the net closing in around her. So, d’Audley was the ‘friend’ with whom she had taken refuge.

‘Did you tell her to pass the documents to us, so they could be delivered to Langelee?’ he asked.

D’Audley nodded weakly. ‘I could not give them to Langelee myself – Luneday would have known who was behind the theft. But Margery has disappeared – and the documents with her.’

Bartholomew was not sure what to say; he did not want to distress d’Audley by telling him Margery was dead. Fortunately, though, d’Audley did not see him as someone with answers.

‘I honestly believe Alneston’s records will end King’s Hall’s claim,’ he went on softly. ‘But Luneday would never let anyone see them – he distrusted Haverhill’s priests, while Withersfield’s is a bumpkin, barely literate. Luneday and Margery cannot read … neither can I…’

‘Hush,’ said Bartholomew, seeing the desperate flood of words was taking its toll. ‘The priest will be here soon. You can make the rest of your confession to him.’

D’Audley’s expression was haunted. ‘He will be too late, and I have not finished … the worst is yet to come.’ He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘I murdered Neubold.’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘I know.’

D’Audley stared at him. ‘How? I thought I was careful.’

‘You were. I would never have known, had you not mentioned your relationship with Margery. But she was your accomplice in stealing the documents, so it stands to reason she was your accomplice in killing Neubold, too. She told you he was locked in the barn – you hanged him there.’

‘Yes,’ whispered d’Audley. ‘I wanted Luneday blamed because I hate him – and because it would eliminate one of Elyan Manor’s claimants. Then it would just be me and King’s Hall.’

Bartholomew was beginning to understand at last. ‘You took Neubold to Haverhill, because it is what Luneday might have done – he would not have wanted Neubold dead in Withersfield. And you hoped a week in the Alneston Chantry would destroy any evidence that you–’

‘Yes, God forgive me!’

‘But why kill Neubold? Was it just to make trouble for Luneday?’

D’Audley closed his eyes. ‘No – it was also for his corruption, for befriending the thieving villains at King’s Hall, for making the inheritance issue more complex than it is … He was a bad man.’

Bartholomew resisted the urge to point out that it still did not give anyone the right to murder him, then use his body to see another man accused of the crime.

‘So, there are my sins,’ breathed d’Audley. ‘I cannot say more now…’

He slipped into the kind of drowse from which Bartholomew knew he would never wake. All the physician could do was make sure he was comfortable, and sit with him until his ragged breathing faded into nothing.

Isnard had known d’Audley would die before he returned and, coolly practical, had brought two Michaelhouse servants and a bier, as well as Clippesby. The compassionate Dominican did not waste time with questions, but promptly dropped to his knees and began to pray. While he muttered his devotions, Bartholomew helped the servants load d’Audley on to the stretcher. They carried it to the nearest church together, after which Bartholomew hurried back to the College.

‘Risleye is not the culprit,’ he said when he met Michael in the yard. He darted into his room, but it was empty, and there was no sign of any of his students. ‘It is Tesdale, and he sent Idoma and Gosse after me on the towpath. Gosse killed d’Audley, so he would not be a witness to my murder.’

‘What?’ Michael was shocked. ‘But I thought–’

‘Tesdale was lying,’ said Bartholomew, going to the chest where the lad stored his possessions. It was empty, and a glance inside some of the other students’ boxes told him Tesdale had not confined himself to his own belongings when he had packed. ‘He knew we would realise the truth as soon as we spoke to Risleye, so he escaped while he could.’

‘After sending Gosse in your direction, to repay you for seeing through his nasty little game.’ The monk’s face was white with anger. ‘We must find him. He cannot have gone far yet.’

‘King’s Hall,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They are the only friends he has left now. He will have gone there, in the hope that they will lend him a fast horse.’

‘He has not – I have just come from there. They must have gone early to the Blood Relic debate, because there was no reply to my knock. I considered going to St Mary the Great and hauling Paxtone outside, but the church is already packed and there would have been a riot. The atmosphere is uneasy – our colleagues are honing their tongues for some serious invective.’

‘But King’s Hall has porters,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed. ‘They will not be at the church – and if they failed to answer the door, then it means something is wrong. I will go there. But Idoma said again that something is going to happen during the debate, so you should be at St Mary the Great.’

‘I have been at St Mary the Great. But short of dressing up as a scholar and expressing a controversial opinion, there is nothing she can do to disrupt the proceedings. Besides, my beadles have been charged to arrest them on sight. They will not remain free for long.’

‘I hope not – they are cold-blooded killers. There was no need to harm d’Audley.’

‘Well, at least we know it was not him who hired them,’ said Michael. ‘They would not have killed the man who paid their wages. That leaves Elyan, Luneday and Hilton.’

‘And Agnys,’ added Bartholomew, making for the door. ‘But now is not the time for talking. I am going to King’s Hall.’

‘I had better come, too, because you are right – it is odd that the porters did not answer my knock, and Tesdale will be desperate. Who knows what he might do?’

Bartholomew did not wait to hear more. He set out for King’s Hall, running as hard as he could. The streets were oddly empty, and he supposed everyone had gone early to the debate to ensure themselves good places.

Michael panted along behind him, shouting about waiting for beadles, but Bartholomew did not stop. Nor did he aim for King’s Hall’s front, but instead raced to the back, where a gate led from the towpath into the grounds. Then he sprinted across the vegetable plots, aware of Michael falling farther behind with every step. Only when he neared the main courtyard did he reduce his speed.

The College was indeed deserted. The only sign of life was a cat washing itself. He crossed to the porters’ lodge, then backed out sharply when he saw the carnage within. Tobias had fought hard, but it had not saved his life.

Michael was still lumbering through the gardens when Bartholomew dashed up the stairs towards Paxtone’s room. He heard voices and slowed down, treading softly in the hope that the wooden steps would not creak and lose him the element of surprise.

‘I will not do it,’ Paxtone was saying. ‘I thought you were just a lad in debt when Wynewyk asked me to help you, but you are a criminal. Kill me if you must – as you slaughtered Wynewyk and Tobias – but I will not forge you a graduation certificate, and nor will I give you one of our horses.’

‘Then you can die,’ came Tesdale’s furious voice.

Bartholomew abandoned stealth and tore up the last few stairs. The racket he made alerted the student to his approach, and he only just managed to avoid the swipe that aimed to disembowel him. Tesdale lunged again and Bartholomew stumbled backwards, tripping over something that lay on the floor. It was Risleye, clutching a wound in his stomach. Paxtone was kneeling next to him, trying to staunch the flow of blood.

Bartholomew’s brief moment of inattention almost cost him his life, for Tesdale attacked with such ferocity that the physician was hard-pressed to defend himself. He was astounded by the speed and force of the assault – it was wholly unexpected from so slothful a lad. Absently, he recalled Risleye once praising Tesdale’s skill with knives, and supposed the remark should have warned him that there was another, darker side to the indolent student.

He forced himself to concentrate, pushing all else from his mind. Tesdale held a blade in either hand, and was clearly adept at using both. Bartholomew winced when one tore through his sleeve, but managed to grab the young man’s wrist, twisting it hard and forcing him to let go of one weapon. But Tesdale still had another, and the vengeful, furious expression on his face told Bartholomew that the student intended to see him dead. He jerked backwards as the blade sliced towards him.

Then Michael staggered in, puffing like a pair of bellows. Without missing a beat, the monk grabbed one of Paxtone’s books and lobbed it with all his might. It was dead on target, and Tesdale crashed to the floor, clutching his head.

‘See to Risleye, Matt,’ ordered Michael, retrieving the knives Tesdale had dropped and walking to where the student was trying to struggle to his feet. ‘This little toad will not be going anywhere.’

‘Risleye was Paxtone’s spy,’ Tesdale said, ignoring the monk and addressing Bartholomew. ‘Paxtone urged you to teach him, just so he could report on you. I dispatched him for your benefit.’

‘Do not lie,’ said Bartholomew shakily, still shocked by the lad’s murderous attack. ‘It is not–’

‘It is true,’ said Paxtone quietly. There were tears in his eyes, and Bartholomew saw Risleye had died while he had been skirmishing with Tesdale. ‘I did recruit Risleye to watch your College.’

‘I knew it!’ muttered Michael. ‘I knew there was something suspect about that arrangement!’

‘But why?’ Bartholomew asked Paxtone, bewildered and hurt. ‘I would have told you anything you wanted to know. I like discussing medicine.’

‘It was not about medicine,’ said Paxtone tiredly. ‘And it was not about you, either – I wanted to know what Wynewyk was doing. He was an enigma, and Warden Powys and I were afraid he might damage King’s Hall. Risleye was loyal, and volunteered to find out…’

‘Wynewyk would never harm King’s Hall,’ objected Bartholomew, stunned by the accusation.

‘I disagree,’ said Paxtone in the same weary voice. ‘He was embroiled in some very unsavoury business, although Risleye learned very little about it. His life has been squandered…’

‘Let me go,’ said Tesdale softly. ‘Risleye was the spy, and I have exposed him. He–’

Bartholomew dragged his attention away from Paxtone, recalling what had been said as he had crept up the stairs. He looked hard at Tesdale. ‘Did you really kill Wynewyk?’

‘Yes, he did,’ said Paxtone, before Tesdale could deny it. ‘He knew Wynewyk was sensitive to foxglove, because Wynewyk told me and I mentioned it in a class – to make a point about the hidden dangers of potent cures. Tesdale was there. So he added foxglove to the Fellows’ claret: not enough to harm anyone else, but enough to kill a man who could not tolerate it.’

‘So the tale you spun earlier was untrue?’ asked Bartholomew of Tesdale. ‘Wynewyk did not demand access to my storeroom? You took the foxglove yourself?’

‘He was going to kill himself anyway,’ said Tesdale defensively. ‘He ate the cake, knowing it was full of nuts. I helped him – gave him an easier death.’

‘But why?’ cried Bartholomew, appalled. ‘Most people would have stopped him.’

‘He was damaging my College,’ snarled Tesdale. ‘And I was afraid the nuts might not work. He had swallowed almond posset a few days earlier and lived to tell the tale. So I decided that this time there would be no mistakes. I did the right thing.’

‘You fed poison to a man in the process of committing suicide?’ said Michael, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘If it were not so tragic, it might be funny.’

‘I thought you liked Wynewyk.’ Bartholomew was lost and confused. ‘You said he was kind to you, and you seemed genuinely distressed by his death.’

‘No – he was a bad man,’ said Tesdale angrily. ‘He got me a job at King’s Hall, but he was always asking me questions; he thought finding me employment put me in his debt. He was harming our College with his crafty dealings, so I pretended to befriend him. But it was really to learn what he was doing and stop him. I did it for Michaelhouse – for all of us.’

Michael regarded him with loathing. ‘You do not care about the College! What annoyed you was that Wynewyk’s financial games were resulting in dismal food. The rest of us can afford commons, but the meals in the hall are all you get. You blamed him for subjecting you to them.’

Tesdale raised his hands in piteous entreaty, trying a different tactic when he saw righteous indignation was not going to work. ‘It was not only that – it was Gosse. He kept demanding more and more money from me, making me poorer than ever. None of this is my fault. I am a victim.’

‘Of course you are,’ said Michael harshly, while Bartholomew sank down on a bench and put his head in his hands, repelled by the lad’s transparent efforts to worm his way out of trouble.

‘Gosse said he would forget my debt if I got rid of Wynewyk,’ Tesdale went on. ‘I was frightened, and had no option but to do as he ordered. You must see I was out of my depth. Terrified and–’

‘You were not terrified,’ said Michael disdainfully. ‘You are adept with knives, and know how to look after yourself. Besides, you were reluctant to travel to Suffolk with us. If you were frightened of Gosse, you would have relished the chance to be away.’

‘He did not want to go, because he is lazy,’ said Paxtone, regarding Tesdale with a mixture of shock and revulsion. ‘I hired him to work in our kitchens because Wynewyk asked me to – and I did not dare decline a request from him because he unnerved me so with his capacity for sly dealings – but it was almost impossible to get Teasdale to do any work, and we were on the verge of dismissing him.’

Tesdale pounced on the physician’s words. ‘Did you hear that? Well, I did not dare decline Wynewyk, either. And he did demand access to your storeroom. I admit he did not take foxglove, as I led you to believe. What he actually stole was pennyroyal, but I did not tell you because I was confused by all that was–’

‘More lies,’ said Michael in distaste. ‘Deynman took the pennyroyal – he has admitted it.’

‘But he also said it did not shine the metal on his books as it should have done,’ argued Tesdale. ‘And that was because Wynewyk had replaced it with water. Where do you think I got the idea? Wynewyk did not say why he wanted it, but he stole most of the bottle.’

‘No wonder you have nightmares,’ said Michael in distaste. ‘Your lying conscience plagues you.’

‘It is not his conscience that gives him bad dreams,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is the poppy juice he has been swallowing. It makes him lethargic, too, which is why we all think he is lazy. I should have known there was something wrong about a young man who was quite so sluggish.’

‘Poppy juice can induce night-terrors?’ asked Tesdale, uneasily. ‘I did not know that. Is it–’

‘Enough of this,’ interrupted Michael, taking a firmer grip on the dagger. ‘The Blood Relic debate will be starting soon and I have more important things to do than listen to your nasty tales. Start walking. We are going to the proctors’ prison.’

‘We are not,’ said Tesdale, backing away. ‘I know too much – especially about King’s Hall. If you arrest me, I will reveal all.’

‘No,’ cried Paxtone. ‘You cannot repay our kindness to you with–’

‘Ask the Warden why he is so eager to own Elyan Manor,’ crowed Tesdale, seeing the King’s Hall physician’s distress. ‘And question him about his relationship with Osa Gosse.’

‘I really do not care,’ said Michael coldly. ‘At the moment, I am only interested in locking you away, you poisonous little rat.’

‘Then I will tell everyone about Wynewyk’s crimes,’ declared Tesdale, eyes flashing with malice. ‘And Michaelhouse will be disgraced. But if you let me go, I will start a practice in some distant city and we need never see each other again.’

‘We will take our chances,’ said Michael. ‘Come.’

Tesdale hesitated, then sagged in defeat. Michael lowered the dagger, but before Bartholomew could yell a warning, Tesdale had shoved past the monk and dived towards the window.

‘Go to Hell!’ the student yelled, as he clambered on to the sill. He stood and reached up, intending to scramble across the roof and make his escape. He moved so confidently that Bartholomew was sure he had done it before. Or was it poppy juice that gave him a sense of wild recklessness?

Unfortunately for Tesdale, he had reckoned without the constant rain of the past few weeks. The tiles were slick, and he immediately lost his balance. Bartholomew darted forward and managed to grab a corner of his tabard, arresting the young man’s fall with such a violent jolt that it almost pulled him out, too. Tesdale hung three floors up, with only Bartholomew’s fingers between him and oblivion. Then the material began to slide out of the physician’s hand.

‘Help me!’ Tesdale screamed, struggling frantically as he tried to gain purchase on the smooth stones of the wall. Bartholomew fought to retain his grip, feeling the muscles in his arm burn from the effort.

‘Do not squirm,’ ordered Michael urgently, leaning out of the window as far as he could, and straining to reach the terrified student. ‘I am almost–’

But more of the cloth tore through Bartholomew’s fingers. He tried to lift the dead weight, so Michael could catch Tesdale’s desperately flailing hand, but it was a manoeuvre beyond his strength. The last fragment of tabard ripped free, and Tesdale dropped with an ear-splitting scream.

‘Is he dead?’ asked Michael, deliberately not looking at the shattered figure on the ground below.

Bartholomew could only nod.