A Vein of Deceit

Chapter 3

The witness to the attack on Langelee transpired to be a thin, beak-nosed Dominican with wild eyes and filthy robes. He stank, and Bartholomew did not think he had ever seen hands more deeply ingrained with dirt. He wondered why Prior Morden, the head of the Cambridge Black Friars, had not ordered him to bathe. The man was a hedge-priest – an itinerant cleric with no parish of his own – but the fact that he wore a Dominican habit meant Morden would have some control over him.

‘Tell me what you saw,’ ordered Michael, indicating that the friar should sit on a bench – a handsome piece of furniture that matched his exquisitely carved desk. Bartholomew surveyed the room’s tasteful elegance and understated wealth, and wondered how long Michael would obey the order to leave Gosse alone. The monk had not risen to such dizzy heights by letting himself be bullied, or by following instructions he thought were foolish.

‘It was dark that night,’ replied the friar with a peculiar smile. ‘As dark as the finest coal. Coal is a glorious substance. It shines like gold. Black gold.’

‘Right,’ said Michael warily. ‘What is your name?’

‘I have many names, but I like the one God gave me best – Carbo. It is Latin, and means–’

‘Coal,’ said Michael. ‘Yes, I know. Now, about the incident near King’s Hall on Thursday…’

‘I saw a small man step from the shadows with a knife. He stabbed a big man, then ran away.’

‘Did you recognise the small man?’ asked Michael hopefully. ‘Or do you know his name?’

‘No.’

The priest gesticulated as he talked, and Bartholomew noticed that the movements of one hand were less fluid than the other. He kept tilting his head to one side, too, shaking it, as if to clear his ears of water. The physician wondered what was wrong with him.

‘Can you describe this attacker?’ Michael was asking.

Carbo breathed in deeply, and an uneasy expression crossed his face. ‘Can you smell garlic?’

‘Garlic?’ queried Michael, startled. ‘No. Unless Agatha put some in my midday pottage…’

‘There!’ exclaimed Carbo, snapping his fingers and beaming. ‘It has gone! All is well again.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Michael, regarding him askance. ‘But you were about to describe–’

Carbo closed his eyes, and began to speak in a curious, chant-like manner. ‘The man I saw. A youth or small man. Well dressed. Scholar’s uniform. Neat hair. Good boots – black, like coal.’ His eyes snapped open again, and he grinned broadly. ‘Coal is a marvellous thing, although it brings out the worst in people. Do you not agree?’

Michael blinked. ‘I have never given it much thought, frankly. Is there any more you can tell us? This was an attempt on a man’s life, and we are eager to catch the culprit, lest he tries it again.’

‘I can tell you he should have darkened his face with coal-dust, because then I would not have seen him loitering in that doorway, waiting for his prey. He would have been invisible.’

‘Do you think Langelee – the big man – was his intended victim?’ asked Michael.

‘Yes – he let other folk pass unmolested, and only made his move when the big man came. He knew who to kill. Can you smell garlic? I smell garlic.’

‘Lord, Matt!’ exclaimed Michael, when Carbo had been sent on his way with money for a decent meal. ‘He is as mad as Clippesby. What is it about the Dominican Order that attracts lunatics?’

‘You should speak to Prior Morden about him,’ said Bartholomew, concerned. ‘He is obviously ill, and should not be wandering about on his own. He needs care and attention.’

‘Very well. Do you think we can trust his testimony?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘He confirmed what Langelee said – that the culprit wore academic garb.’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘His description of the culprit’s neat hair does not sound like Gosse, either – Gosse is virtually bald. So perhaps this is one crime of which he is innocent. But speak of the devil, and he will appear, because there is Idoma.’

‘Who?’

‘Gosse’s sister. Folk say she is a witch, but only because they are afraid of her. Obviously, it is easier to be frightened of a witch than admit to being intimidated by an ordinary woman.’

Bartholomew studied Idoma as she approached, and supposed she was an impressive specimen. She was taller and broader than most men, and many of his younger students would have been proud to boast a moustache like hers. Her hair was bundled under a wimple, but the tendril that escaped was jet black. It matched her eyes, which were oddly expressionless, and reminded him of a shark-fish he had once seen off the Spanish coast. The similarity was enhanced when she opened her mouth to speak, revealing two rows of sharp, jagged teeth. And Suttone had been right when he claimed she was a cut above the average villain, too – she carried herself with an aloof dignity that indicated she was no commoner.

‘Lost any more chalices recently, Brother?’ she asked gloatingly.

‘Why?’ asked Michael coldly. ‘Which ones has your brother stolen now?’

‘You cannot make that sort of accusation,’ said Idoma, stepping forward threateningly. Michael held his ground, so they were eye to eye. ‘Our lawyer says so.’

Michael smiled without humour. ‘But your lawyer is not here, is he, madam? What did Gosse do with my College’s cups? If they are returned, I may be persuaded to speak at his trial – the one that is a certainty, given the number of crimes he commits. A word from me may see him escape the noose.’

‘Do you have proof with which to accuse him?’ Idoma asked, unblinking eyes boring into his.

Watching them bandy words, Bartholomew found it was easy to imagine her sitting over a cauldron, chanting spells to rouse demons from Hell. Then he grimaced, aware that he was allowing himself to be influenced by popular bigotry. Of course she was not a witch, any more than he was a warlock. It was not her fault she looked the part. Or was it? She did not have to wear long black skirts, and nor did she have to cultivate an aura that oozed malevolence.

‘I have no evidence to trap him yet,’ said Michael, softly menacing in his turn. ‘But it is only a matter of time before I do. You can tell him that, if you like.’

Idoma inclined her head. ‘We shall see. And now, if you do not mind, I have better things to do than talk to you. Get out of my way.’

Bartholomew was surprised when the monk obliged. He watched her stride away, noting how most pedestrians and some carts gave her a very wide berth.

‘Damn!’ breathed Michael, shaking his head. ‘I did not mean to move, but I could not stop myself. It is those peculiar eyes of hers. There is something very eerie about them, and I felt myself powerless to resist her. It was uncanny – and disturbing, too. Perhaps she is a witch.’

‘She is not. And her eyes are only striking because they do not reflect the light. That is what lends them that flat, impenetrable expression. There must be some unusual pigment in the iris, which–’

‘There is more to it than that – Idoma has an evil charisma about her. So does Gosse. But they will not be free to burgle and rob their way through the town for much longer in the misguided belief that they are untouchable, because I meant what I said. I will catch them.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘But be on your guard from now on, Brother. If the tales about Gosse and Idoma are true, then they represent a formidable adversary.’

There was a hard, cold gleam in Michael’s green eyes. ‘But so do I, Matt. So do I.’

When Bartholomew and Michael returned to the College, the monk immediately laid claim to Edith’s cake. The physician tended to be absent-minded about such matters, and Michael did not want to sit through the Saturday Debate with nothing to eat. He whisked it away for cutting up.

Because Bartholomew’s pupils were still occupied with the tasks he had set them his chamber was empty, so he took the opportunity to spend a few moments with his treatise on fevers. He had started writing it several years before, as a concise guide for students. It was now several volumes long, and he still had not finished everything he wanted to say. He picked up his quill, but had penned no more than a sentence when there was a tap on his door. It was Langelee.

‘The Stanton Cups,’ said the Master without preamble. ‘Their loss is a terrible blow to us all.’

Masking his frustration that he was not to be permitted even a few moments to himself, Bartholomew set down his pen and leaned back in his chair to give the Master his full attention. ‘We will miss them when we celebrate special masses, but we have other chalices.’

‘True,’ acknowledged Langelee. He sat heavily on the bed. ‘But even so…’

Bartholomew glanced out of the window when the bell rang to announce the debate was about to start. Scholars began to troop towards the hall, some enthusiastically and others dragging their feet. The occasions were popular with the brighter students, who did not mind Thelnetham calling on them to argue a case at a moment’s notice, but they were dreaded by those who were less articulate.

‘We had better go,’ he said, when Langelee did not seem to have anything else to add. He closed his books and put the lid back on the inkwell.

‘The topic today is whether a man should be allowed to marry a goat,’ said Langelee gloomily.

Bartholomew regarded him in disbelief. ‘Are you sure? Suttone usually vetoes that sort of subject – there is only so far he allows Thelnetham to go in his quest to amuse.’

Langelee shrugged. ‘Perhaps I misheard. It is probably whether goats should be allowed to wed each other. Or perhaps goats have nothing to do with it. I did not pay much attention, to be honest.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, not seeing at all. He stood, and indicated that Langelee should do likewise, so they could leave. ‘If the subject is contentious, we will be needed to calm–’

But Langelee remained where he was. ‘Please sit down. I have something to tell you – something only you can help me resolve.’

Reluctantly, Bartholomew returned to his seat, supposing he had made the offer of a sympathetic ear two nights before, so now he had no choice but to honour it. However, he sincerely hoped the confession would not turn out to be anything too alarming, perhaps involving Langelee’s former life as the Archbishop’s spy, or a romantic tryst with someone else’s wife. Scholars were forbidden relations with the town’s women, but Langelee tended to ignore that particular rule.

‘We had better wait until the debate has started,’ said Langelee, standing to lean out of the window and look into the yard. ‘I would rather no one knows what we are doing.’

Bartholomew’s misgivings intensified. Langelee held his breath when Michael thundered down the stairs from his room above. The monk pushed open the door to ask whether Bartholomew was ready, and Langelee pressed himself against the wall, so as not to be seen. His shadow was clearly visible, though, and the physician knew from Michael’s amused smirk that he had seen it.

‘I will come in a while, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is something I need to finish first.’

‘I will make your excuses to Thelnetham, then,’ said Michael. He carried Edith’s cake, but there were crumbs on the front of his habit. He winked at his friend, made the kind of gesture that said he wished him luck, and left.

When the last of the scholars had entered the hall and the door was closed, Langelee turned to the physician. ‘This is difficult, and I am not sure where to start. As you may have guessed, it is not just the loss of the Stanton Cups that is bothering me.’

‘Take your time,’ said Bartholomew kindly, seeing the distress in Langelee’s face. Whatever was troubling the Master was clearly serious; he did not think he had ever seen him in such a state.

Langelee reached inside his tabard and produced a slender, leather-bound book and a pile of parchments. When he passed them to Bartholomew, his hand shook.

‘The College accounts,’ said Bartholomew, recognising the tome. He was puzzled. ‘Can you not make them balance? I thought you had delegated that task to Wynewyk.’

‘I have,’ said Langelee. ‘And you know why: a Master’s duties are onerous, and managing the finances for such a large foundation takes a lot of time. Wynewyk is good with figures, so it seemed sensible to pass the responsibility to him. It leaves me free for more important College business.’

‘What is wrong, Langelee?’ asked Bartholomew gently, seeing he would have to do some coaxing unless he wanted to be there all day. ‘What do you want to tell me?’

‘Go over the accounts. Do not demand explanations or ask me questions – just assess what you see, and let me know what you think. I shall sit here quietly until you have finished.’

Bartholomew regarded the endless rows of tiny, neat figures with dismay. ‘But Wynewyk keeps very detailed records of all our transactions. It will take me ages to–’

‘I do not care. I will not say a word until you are done. Do not rush – take as long as you need.’

‘Perhaps you should go to the debate,’ suggested Bartholomew, not liking the notion of the Master looming behind him as he worked. He imagined there would be all manner of sighs and impatient rustles if Langelee thought he was taking too long, despite his assurances to the contrary.

‘I do not want to leave them,’ said Langelee, nodding at the book and the pile of documents. ‘I will stay here, if you do not mind.’

‘Where do you want me to start?’ asked Bartholomew, a little helplessly. ‘These records go back more than a decade – before the plague.’

Langelee opened the book to a specific page. It was dated a year before, roughly where Langelee’s bold scrawl gave way entirely to Wynewyk’s neat roundhand. Before that, both had made entries.

‘There,’ he said, stabbing a thick forefinger at the record for the previous November. ‘That was when I decided I trusted him so completely that I stopped checking his sums. They were always right, anyway.’

Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. ‘What are you saying? Wynewyk would never–’

‘Just look at the figures,’ interrupted Langelee shortly. ‘And then we will talk.’

By the end of the afternoon, Bartholomew had been through the accounts so many times that the columns of figures were beginning to swim before his eyes. He leaned back and flexed his aching shoulders. There were a number of conclusions that could be drawn from the complex calculations in the book and the documents that lay in front of him, but none made him happy.

First, it was possible that Wynewyk had made a series of honest mistakes. But Bartholomew felt there were too many errors to be attributed solely to careless arithmetic.

Second, it could be argued that Wynewyk had been promoted beyond his abilities, and that the discrepancy between what the College should have owned, and what was actually in its coffers, was down to incompetence. But Wynewyk was intelligent, and the physician did not see him as inept.

And third – although Bartholomew was loath to believe it – Wynewyk could have been lining his own pockets at Michaelhouse’s expense.

‘Well?’ asked Langelee. As good as his word, he had remained silent the whole time. He had paced to begin with, but an irritable glance from the physician had made him sit again, and then he had either looked at the pictures in Bartholomew’s medical books, or dozed on the bed. Now he was uncharacteristically grave. ‘Is there an innocent explanation for why we are short of thirty marks?’

Bartholomew did not reply. He stood, and pushed the window shutters further open, feeling the need for fresh air. A cold breeze blew in, billowing among the parchments on the table and sending some to the floor. Neither scholar moved to retrieve them. The physician leaned against the stone mullion and gazed across the courtyard. It was deserted, and the only thing moving was Walter’s tailless peacock, which was scratching in the mud for food.

‘Please,’ said Langelee in an uncharacteristically strangled voice. ‘You must tell me what you think. Are we thirty marks short? Or have I missed something?’

‘You have not missed anything,’ replied Bartholomew. He closed the shutters, thinking this was a discussion they had better have with the window barred against possible eavesdroppers. Frequent bellows of laughter from the hall showed that the debate was still in full swing, but he did not want to take the chance that someone had left early. ‘Thirty marks have gone astray.’

‘My next question is how,’ said Langelee unhappily. ‘How has such a vast sum disappeared?’

‘Through some cunning manipulation.’ Bartholomew spoke reluctantly, not liking what he was saying. ‘A quick glance at the records suggests all is in order, and it is only when you work through them carefully that these … these inconsistencies are apparent.’

Langelee massaged his eyes wearily. ‘Your assessment coincides with mine. So what shall we do? Confront him, and demand to know what the hell he thinks he is doing? Or shall we inform the Senior Proctor, and let there be an official investigation?’

‘Wynewyk is not a thief,’ said Bartholomew, his thoughts in turmoil. ‘He will have a reason for doing what he has done, and you should give him the opportunity to explain himself.’

‘What reason?’ Langelee sneered the last word. He began to pace, the agitation that had been in control earlier now erupting. ‘What reason gives him the right to steal thirty marks?’

Bartholomew spread his hands, trying to think of one. ‘Perhaps he has invested in a scheme that will make the College a profit eventually.’

‘Then why conceal it so slyly?’ demanded Langelee angrily. ‘He knows we do whatever he recommends – he could suggest we invest in the moon, and we would do it. We trust him.’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘We do. So all we need to do is talk to him, and ask what is going on. You are agonising over nothing.’

‘I am agonising over thirty marks,’ countered Langelee. ‘A fortune.’

‘What made you suspicious in the first place?’ asked Bartholomew, after a silence in which both men reflected on how much more pleasant life in Michaelhouse would have been with an additional thirty marks. They would not have had to endure such dreadful food, for a start.

Langelee sat on the bed again, as though pacing had sapped his energy. ‘Experience. I dealt with some very treacherous villains for the Archbishop of York, and it taught me how to recognise them. I had Wynewyk marked for a scoundrel from the beginning.’

Bartholomew did not believe him, thinking it was easy to express reservations with the benefit of hindsight. ‘Then why did you accept him as a Fellow?’

‘Because I hoped he would use his aptitude for deceit to benefit us,’ snapped Langelee. ‘God knows, we need something to give us an edge over Cambridge’s venal tradesmen.’

‘That is a dreadful thing to admit! We do not want a reputation for unfair dealings. The University is unpopular enough as it is, without courting trouble by cheating those who do business with us.’

‘They would cheat us, given the chance,’ Langelee flashed back. ‘And a reputation for honest trading would make us the target of every thief in the shire. It is better to be crafty and slippery.’

‘God’s teeth!’ breathed Bartholomew, shocked. He tried to bring his thoughts back to Wynewyk. ‘But if you knew he was a thief, why did you entrust him with Michaelhouse’s money?’

‘Because I did not think he would cheat us. I kept a close eye on him for two years, as he steered us from poverty to prosperity. Eventually, I decided he could be trusted, and spent less time checking his work. And in November, I stopped altogether. It was a terrible mistake, but I thought two years was enough to gain a man’s measure.’

‘It is enough,’ said Bartholomew. ‘In fact, I am so sure Wynewyk would never hurt us that I am willing to wager anything you like on there being an innocent explanation.’

‘I hope you are right, I really do. And if he refunds our thirty marks, I may be prepared to listen to his excuses. However, if he has spent it on himself, then he can expect my dagger in his gizzard.’

‘We shall talk to him as soon as the debate is over,’ said Bartholomew, not entirely sure that Langelee was speaking figuratively. That was the problem with having a Master whose previous occupation had involved so many insalubrious activities. ‘He will put your mind at rest.’

‘He will lie,’ predicted Langelee despondently. ‘You will believe him, and I will be alone with my suspicions once more. I chose to confide in you because you are faster at arithmetic than the others, but I should have approached Michael instead. He is less inclined to see the good in people.’

Selfishly, Bartholomew wished Langelee had lumbered Michael with the burden of confronting a colleague with accusations of dishonesty. He was about to recommend that they made a list of all the questionable transactions they had found, when there was a knock at the door. It was Cynric.

‘There has been an incident,’ he said tersely. ‘In the hall.’

‘Another fight?’ asked Langelee wearily. ‘I thought I had made my views clear about that: if someone cannot win his point with words, then he must go outside to throw his punches. We are scholars, not louts, to be brawling in our own hall.’

‘No one was fighting,’ said Cynric. He was subdued, and Bartholomew was assailed with the conviction that something was very wrong. ‘And everyone was so intent on listening to Clippesby explain why goats make good wives that no one realised what was happening until it was too late.’

‘Too late for what?’ demanded Bartholomew, coils of unease writhing in the pit of his stomach.

‘For Wynewyk,’ said Cynric. He looked down at his boots, reluctant to continue.

‘Wynewyk?’ echoed Bartholomew, unable to avoid shooting Langelee an anxious glance.

‘He is dead,’ explained Cynric softly. ‘I think he died laughing.’

That wintry afternoon, a fire had been lit in the hall, but Bartholomew’s breath still plumed in front of him as he hurried towards the dais, where a tight knot of Fellows and students had clustered around their stricken colleague. When he saw the physician and the Master enter, Thelnetham detached himself from the throng and hurried towards them, white-faced and shaking.

‘It has been a horrible week,’ he blurted, ‘what with bad weather, poor food and the loss of the Stanton Cups, so I chose a silly subject to cheer us up. But I never meant for…’ He trailed off.

Langelee regarded him warily. ‘Never meant for what?’

‘Never meant for Wynewyk to laugh so hard that he died,’ finished Thelnetham in an appalled whisper. ‘I did not even know such a thing was possible.’

Wynewyk was sitting at the high table, although he had slumped across it, as if he had grown bored with the debate and had fallen asleep. Bartholomew wondered if he was playing a prank, albeit one in poor taste, for his colleagues were distressed. All around, voices were raised, some in horror and others in disbelief; the babble quietened as he and Langelee approached.

‘Clippesby was postulating the merits of goat wives,’ explained Michael, as the physician bent to examine the fallen Fellow. The monk’s face was very pale. ‘And I was opposing him. But if I had thought for a moment that our ridiculous banter would lead to…’

Despite Wynewyk’s restful pose, Bartholomew could see he was dead even before he felt the absence of a life-beat in the great veins of the neck. The lawyer’s face was an unnatural shade of blue, and his eyes were half closed, staring at nothing.

Premature death was no stranger to members of the University – besides fatal brawls, there were accidents, suicides and a whole gamut of diseases – but it was still rare for it to occur quite so unexpectedly. Wynewyk was no more than thirty, and had been in good health. Bartholomew turned to his book-bearer.

‘Fetch a bier, Cynric. And escort the students from the hall – they do not need to see this.’

‘You mean he is dead?’ Langelee looked appalled. ‘But he was all right when I saw him earlier this afternoon.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Do you think he died because of … you know?’

Bartholomew was not sure what to think, and for a moment could do no more than stare at the man who had been his friend. He recalled the times he and Wynewyk had sat reading in companionable silence in the conclave after the others had gone to bed. And the times they had filched an illicit jug of wine from the kitchens, while Wynewyk had confided his concerns for his elderly father or waxed lyrical about whichever rough soldier had most recently captured his fancy.

‘In August, he went to visit family in Winwick,’ said Suttone. The Carmelite was near tears. ‘We all missed him, even though he was only gone for a week. What shall we do now he is gone for ever?’

Bartholomew had no reply, and watched numbly as Cynric ushered the students from the hall. They were reluctant to go, not because they were ghoulish, but because they did not want to leave the reassuring presence of the senior scholars. Tesdale was crying, and Valence was trying to comfort him. By contrast, Risleye was excited, arguing that he should be allowed to stay so that he could learn from the case. Bartholomew appreciated the young man’s desire to expand his medical knowledge, but his behaviour was inappropriate. He glared at him, and Risleye slunk out without another word.

‘What happened?’ he asked, when they had gone. ‘Did Wynewyk say he felt unwell?’

‘Not that I heard,’ replied Michael, still ashen. ‘I was just refuting Clippesby’s contention that goats like a year’s betrothal before committing themselves to wedlock, when Suttone began to yell.’

‘The sudden clamour frightened us,’ added Clippesby, his peculiar eyes wide and intense. ‘We all leapt to our feet, to find him staring at Wynewyk as though he were a ghost.’

Suttone crossed himself. ‘What happened, Matthew? Is it the plague? I have been saying for years that it will return, but I did not expect it to manifest itself in Wynewyk. There are far more sinful–’

‘He was laughing,’ said Michael, curtly cutting across him. ‘Thelnetham’s chosen topic was absurd, and Wynewyk found it very amusing. He chortled all afternoon.’

‘He did,’ confirmed Hemmysby quietly. He dabbed his eyes with the sleeve of his habit. ‘In fact, I thought he was drunk, because his hilarity seemed out of proportion to the humour of the situation.’

‘He did not seem drunk,’ said Thelnetham. He hesitated. ‘Or did he?’

‘What did he drink – and eat – at the noonday meal?’ asked Bartholomew.

Everyone looked at Hemmysby, with whom he usually shared dishes. The theologian shrugged and wiped his eyes again. ‘He drank watered ale. And he ate pea pottage, like the rest of us.’

‘And at the debate, he had wine and Edith’s cake,’ added Michael. He grimaced. ‘In fact, I think he ate mine, too, because when I came for a bite it had gone, and I do not recall finishing it.’

‘He would not have taken cake,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He had an aversion to almonds, and knew to avoid them. Where is the wine?’

Michael handed him the empty jug. ‘But there cannot be anything wrong with it, because it came from the barrel that served the whole College. It was not the best brew I have ever sampled, and some of the students said it tasted bitter, but none of us are dead.’

Bartholomew inspected Wynewyk again, looking in his mouth and at his neck, and wondering whether his excessive giggles had been a response to Langelee discovering the inconsistencies in the accounts. Had he guessed what the Master had found, and an attack of fright or conscience had led to the strange laughter and then his death? But the physician had never heard of such a thing happening before, at least, not outside popular stories.

He wondered what Langelee would do now. His choices were to make Wynewyk’s activities public, or allow them to die with their perpetrator. Either way, Michaelhouse would lose thirty marks. Absently, he picked up the goblet from which Wynewyk had been drinking. It was empty, but there was nothing to suggest foul play – no odd aromas or residues in the bottom.

‘He was not poisoned,’ said Michael quietly, seeing the line Bartholomew’s thoughts had taken. ‘No one has any reason to harm Wynewyk.’

Bartholomew was careful not to look at Langelee. ‘Who poured the wine?’

‘Tesdale,’ replied Thelnetham. ‘It should have been me, because I am the most junior Fellow, but I was presiding over the debate, so I paid Tesdale to do it in my stead.’

‘It was a kindness,’ said Hemmysby, smiling wanly. ‘Thelnetham is quite capable of pouring wine and presiding at the same time, but Tesdale is poor, and Thelnetham was being thoughtful.’

Thelnetham flushed uncomfortably. ‘Nonsense! The truth is that I was afraid this cheap brew might stain my habit – and I have a rather important date with a certain young man tonight.’

Michael shook Bartholomew’s arm. ‘I know your appointment as Corpse Examiner has exposed you to more murder than is normal for a physician, Matt, but you must not allow it to lead you to see evil in all untimely demises. Sometimes, men just die.’

‘I suppose it might have been a seizure,’ acknowledged Bartholomew, although he was not sure what to think. None of the other Fellows knew about the inconsistencies in the accounts so could have no reason to harm Wynewyk, while Langelee had an alibi in Bartholomew himself. And even if the Master had arranged for an accomplice to feed his errant Fellow some toxic substance, it would have been difficult to target his victim without poisoning the rest of the College, too.

‘Of course it was a seizure,’ said Langelee sharply. ‘What else could it be? But here is Cynric with the bier, so we should take Wynewyk to the church. The sooner he is there, the sooner we can start to think about arrangements for his burial.’

‘Oh, Lord!’ whispered Suttone, distressed by the notion. ‘I suppose it does fall to us to organise the ceremonies. However, it will take several days to–’

‘We shall inter him tomorrow,’ interrupted Langelee tersely. ‘We can hold a requiem mass later.’

Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why the hurry, Master?’

‘Because I want our students to resume their normal routine as soon as possible – and we cannot afford a grand funeral, anyway. Our coffers are empty.’

‘And there is the crux of the matter,’ said Suttone bitterly. He bent down and tugged Wynewyk’s purse from its belt, shoving it fiercely at Langelee. ‘Perhaps you might care to see whether he has enough to pay for his own rites, Master.’

‘That is a good idea,’ said Langelee, either oblivious to or uncaring of the fact that Suttone was being facetious. He tipped the purse’s contents into his hand, ignoring the looks of shocked distaste that were exchanged between his Fellows. ‘A few pennies and a rock.’

‘A rock?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘What kind of rock?’

Langelee tossed it to him. ‘One with sharp edges and crystals.’

‘A charm,’ said Cynric, who knew what he was talking about when it came to matters superstitious. He set the bier on the floor, and peered over Bartholomew’s shoulder. ‘Men often carry stones like that for luck or protection. It is quite normal.’

‘Perhaps he bought it to ward off seizures because he knew he was susceptible to them,’ suggested Clippesby. He looked away. ‘It is a pity the wretched thing did not work.’

Cynric and Langelee lifted Wynewyk on to the stretcher, then Suttone, Clippesby, Thelnetham and Hemmysby began to pray over the body. Bartholomew went to stand in the library, so as not to distract them. Langelee and Michael followed him there.

‘You have told me in the past that people often die of natural seizures, Matt,’ said Michael softly. ‘Yet you seem oddly reluctant to accept that this is what has happened to Wynewyk. Why?’

‘Because of what he knows,’ explained Langelee, when he saw Bartholomew was not sure how to reply. He proceeded to give a brief account of what they had discovered, and Bartholomew was not surprised when the monk refused to believe it.

‘You can look for yourself,’ said Langelee tiredly. ‘All the Fellows can. There is no point in keeping it secret now. Damn Wynewyk! How could he do this to us? To his friends?’

‘I can see why his death set warning bells jangling,’ said Michael to Bartholomew. ‘It is a suspicious combination of events. But is there any tangible evidence to suggest foul play?’

‘No,’ said Langelee, very firmly. ‘I imagine what happened is that his guilty conscience killed him. And the laughter was hysterical, because he knew he was on the verge of being exposed.’

‘I will never believe that of him,’ said Bartholomew angrily. ‘Never.’

‘Matt?’ prompted Michael, still waiting for an answer to his question.

‘When I looked in his mouth, I could see from his teeth that he had eaten some of Edith’s cake. He should not have done: it was full of almonds, and he had an aversion to those.’

‘You mean the cake gave him this seizure?’ asked Michael.

Bartholomew raised his hands in a shrug. ‘It might have done. Or the almonds caused him to choke. He usually spat them out when he realised what he was eating, but his wild laughter suggests he might have had more wine than usual. Perhaps it made him incautious.’

‘I have no idea what you are telling me,’ said Michael impatiently.

‘I am saying that I do not know what happened, Brother,’ snapped Bartholomew, distress and shock making him uncharacteristically testy. ‘Perhaps the almonds did induce a seizure. Or perhaps he would have had one anyway. However, he knew he was supposed to avoid nuts, so why are they on his teeth? Did he eat the cake knowing what would happen?’

Michael regarded him warily. ‘You think he guessed what Langelee was doing, and killed himself? I do not think that is very likely. Suicides do not spend their last moments laughing their heads off.’

‘His aversion was not a secret,’ said Bartholomew, rubbing a hand through his hair as he tried to make sense of it all. ‘Perhaps someone knew what would happen if he were to eat the cake, and plied him with it deliberately.’

‘Well, it was not me,’ said Langelee, when monk and physician looked at him. ‘I am no killer. Well, not of my colleagues, at least.’

The abrupt nature of Wynewyk’s demise preyed heavily on Bartholomew’s mind, and he could not stop himself from wondering whether one of his colleagues had become suspicious of something Wynewyk had said or done, and had conducted his own survey of the accounts. The books were always available for Fellows to inspect, and thirty marks was an enormous sum of money.

He walked to his room and found Valence, Risleye and Tesdale there. Risleye was trying to draw his classmates into wagering on the outcome of Langelee’s next camp-ball game, but the other two were pale and subdued, not in the mood for chattering about sport. Risleye became exasperated when he saw his attempts to cheer them up were not working.

‘We are all upset about Wynewyk,’ he said irritably. ‘But sitting here, all gloom and misery, is doing no one any good. Come to the kitchens – Agatha will sell me a jug of ale, and I shall share it with you.’

‘But I served him wine,’ said Tesdale, beginning to cry again. ‘His death might be my fault.’

‘It is not your fault,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘Why should you think such a thing?’

‘Because he had such a lot of it,’ sobbed Tesdale. ‘He is usually abstemious, but he kept draining his goblet today. I took care to refill it, because he has always been kind to me and I wanted to return the favour: if he was of a mind to get himself tipsy, then I was going to facilitate it for him.’

‘Are you saying he was drunk?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Perhaps that is why he laughed so much,’ suggested Valence, before Tesdale could reply. ‘The disputants were not that funny, and I thought it odd at the time that Wynewyk should cackle so.’

‘He was not drunk,’ said Tesdale, although he did not sound certain. ‘Merry, maybe. But he was a good man. I struggled to pay my fees last term, so he gave me more time to raise the money. And he sometimes shared his commons with me.’

‘Perhaps he liked the look of you,’ suggested Risleye baldly.

‘Enough of that sort of talk,’ snapped Bartholomew, knowing Wynewyk would never engage in an inappropriate relationship with a student, especially one from Michaelhouse.

Risleye objected to the reprimand. ‘But he did like men – it was no secret. I am not maligning him – merely offering an explanation for his munificence. And you can say what you will, Tesdale, but Wynewyk was not generous – his tight hold on the College purse strings is testament to that.’

‘Well, he was generous to me,’ mumbled Tesdale. He sniffed, then regarded his classmate hopefully. ‘Did you mention sharing a jug of ale?’

Bartholomew left them, and walked aimlessly along the High Street, craving time alone to think. He heard someone calling his name, and turned to see Michael waddling after him.

‘How could you even think of wandering off after what has just happened?’ the monk demanded angrily. ‘Surely you must know I still have questions to ask?’

‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘I thought I had answered them all.’

Michael scowled. ‘I want to speak to you without Langelee giving his opinion every few moments. I still cannot believe what he said about the accounts. I will inspect them myself tonight, but I want your views first. Are you sure he is right?’

‘Quite sure. We gave Wynewyk free rein to buy everything the College needs – food, cloth, pots, fuel, stationery. Most of the entries show he paid impressively low prices for them. Except for three commodities purchased from Suffolk, where he paid ridiculously high ones: wood, coal and pigs.’

Michael’s face was pale. ‘This is dreadful! We all trusted him – he was our friend. But this is no place to be talking. Come to the Brazen George with me. We both need a drink.’

The Brazen George was Michael’s favourite tavern. Such places were forbidden to scholars, on the grounds that ale, students and townsfolk were a volatile mix and likely to result in trouble, and his beadles were always on the lookout for academics who thought the rules did not apply to them. Being caught resulted in hefty fines. Michael, however, did a good deal of University business in taverns, and had declared himself exempt from this particular statute. Punishing others for what he enjoyed himself made him something of a hypocrite, but he did not care enough to change his ways.

He led the way to the small chamber at the back of the inn, which the landlord kept for his exclusive use. It was a pleasant room, with real glass in the windows and a fire in the hearth.

‘It will be a bad winter,’ predicted Taverner Lister, bringing not just ale, but roast venison and a dish of apples, too. Michael’s eyes glistened: it was better fare than anything he was likely to be offered at Michaelhouse. ‘Folk will starve when the snows come.’

‘A number of my patients say the same thing.’ Bartholomew watched the monk tie a piece of linen around his neck to protect his habit from splattered grease. He wondered how Michael could bring himself to eat after what had happened. ‘Bread is already expensive.’

‘Then eat well while you can,’ suggested Lister. ‘Because this time of plenty will not last.’

‘Lord!’ exclaimed Michael, when he had gone. ‘He can be a gloomy fellow sometimes.’

‘I refuse to believe Wynewyk was cheating us,’ said Bartholomew, taking one of the apples and playing with it listlessly. ‘So there must be another reason why this thirty marks is missing. Do you have any idea what it might be?’

Michael began feeding, and was silent for so long that Bartholomew was beginning to think he had forgotten the question. ‘Blackmail,’ the monk said eventually.

Bartholomew gazed at him. ‘Wynewyk was not the kind of man to harbour dark secrets.’

Michael regarded him soberly. ‘How do you know? No matter how we look at it, he took thirty marks. This has shocked us, which implies we have no idea what kind of man he was.’

‘I know he was no thief,’ persisted Bartholomew stubbornly. ‘And Langelee will feel terrible when we uncover the truth and Wynewyk is exonerated. However, I accept your point that Wynewyk’s failure to tell us what he was doing suggests he was more enigmatic than we realised. What do you think someone could have been blackmailing him about?’

Michael tapped a bone on the edge of the platter as he thought. ‘He preferred men to women, but that was common knowledge, so no one could have threatened to make it public. And he confined himself to older men – rough, soldierly types – so there is no question of an inappropriate seduction.’

‘Perhaps it is something to do with his academic work,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘He devised a new and controversial theory.’

Michael laughed, genuinely amused. ‘You are the only Michaelhouse Fellow who indulges in that sort of thing, and Wynewyk was an uninspired scholar, to say the least. He did not even have any interesting ideas about Blood Relics – and everyone likes to hold forth about those. Indeed, I am worried about the debate on the subject that is due to take place Monday week.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused.

‘Because too many clever men with novel theories have been scheduled to speak, and–’

‘Then what else could Wynewyk have been blackmailed about?’ demanded Bartholomew. He did not care about the debate. ‘If Wynewyk was a dull scholar, and his private life was an open book?’

Michael rubbed his flabby jowls. ‘I really have no idea. But if there is anything insalubrious in his life, we shall find it, you can be sure of that. Now, tell me more about his death.’

‘You know as much as I do. He swallowed nuts, which he should not have done, and Tesdale thinks he was drunk. Perhaps he ate the nuts because his wits were befuddled with wine, and his death was an accident. Or maybe he did it deliberately, because it was an easy way out of whatever predicament he was in. Or perhaps someone fed him something toxic earlier in the day and he was dying before the debate started, which would explain his odd behaviour. Or maybe it was a seizure.’

‘In other words, the possibilities are accident, suicide, murder or natural causes,’ concluded Michael dryly. ‘That is hardly helpful, Matt.’

‘I cannot draw conclusions from evidence that is not there.’

‘Then we must find some,’ determined Michael. ‘I want you to inspect Wynewyk’s body again. I know pawing the corpse of a friend will be distasteful to you, but we have no choice.’

Wynewyk had been taken to the Stanton Chapel in St Michael’s Church, where he occupied the parish coffin. The chapel, named for the College’s founder, was a pleasant, airy place adjacent to the chancel, with delicate windows and tasteful paintings on the walls. Niches on either side of the altar contained statues, one of the Virgin Mary and the other of St Michael. They looked down with flat stone eyes, although Bartholomew had always thought their expressions inexplicably sad. Perhaps they did not like the number of Michaelhouse scholars who had lain dead in front of them.

The physician forced himself to begin his examination. Obviously, there were no wounds to find, because Wynewyk had died in a room full of witnesses and someone would have noticed if he had been injured. Even so, he went through the motions – assessing his colleague for marks of violence and disease, trying to ascertain whether there might be something less obvious that had brought about the sudden death of a healthy man. He spent a long time examining the mouth, even tipping the head back, to assess the throat. It was slightly swollen.

‘Some people have aversions to specific substances,’ he said, more to himself than Michael, who was sitting on a nearby tomb trying not to watch, ‘which cause the neck tissues to swell. This prevents air from entering the lungs, so the victim suffocates. However, Wynewyk’s throat does not appear to be dangerously inflamed…’

‘So what are you saying?’ demanded Michael, when the physician trailed off.

‘Wynewyk knew nuts were dangerous for him, so why did he eat them? Even drunk, I cannot imagine him being so recklessly careless.’

‘So you think it was suicide?’ pressed Michael.

‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Suicide means accepting that he did something untoward – something that warranted a brisk exit from the world. And I refuse to believe that of him.’

‘So, we are left with murder, accident or natural causes. What do you make of his giggling? Would he have been able to laugh so heartily, if he was struggling to breathe?’

Bartholomew shrugged helplessly. ‘Clearly, he did laugh, because you heard him. I suppose it might have been a hysterical reaction brought about by a shortness of breath.’

‘I am not sure about this nut theory,’ said Michael, after a moment of silence. ‘It smacks of deviant thinking on your part, and I do not want attention drawn to your heterodoxy. I prefer our original diagnosis: that he died laughing – a seizure. It will be better for everyone – including Wynewyk – if we agree on a verdict of natural causes.’

‘You mean we should lie?’ asked Bartholomew coolly.

‘I mean we keep our fears and suspicions to ourselves until we have sufficient evidence to make them public.’ Michael gazed at their colleague’s cold, waxen face, then released an anguished cry that made the physician jump. ‘Lord Christ, Wynewyk! How could you do this to us?’

When they had finished their dismal business in the church, Michael went to tackle the accounts, but Bartholomew did not feel like going with him. Nor was he inclined to visit the conclave, which would be full of talk about Wynewyk, or his room, where his students might ask for a medical explanation for what had happened. Normally, he encouraged his pupils’ willingness to learn, but he was not equal to it that evening. He told the monk he was going to see a patient, and set off along the High Street.

It was dusk, although there was not the merest glimmer of colour in the western sky, where the sun had set behind a bank of thick clouds. It was cold, too, and people scurried along with their heads down, reluctant to be out. Traders hauled their carts homeward, wheels squelching and hissing in the mud that formed most of Cambridge’s streets. A musician played a haunting melody on a pipe, hoping to be tossed coins by passers-by, but Bartholomew wished he would play something a little more cheerful. The tune was so sad that he felt his throat constrict, and he was forced to take several deep breaths when an image of Wynewyk’s face sprang unbidden into his mind.

He glanced at King’s Hall as he passed, seized by a sudden desire to discuss his nut theory with a fellow physician – someone who would understand what he was talking about. Medicine was not an exact science, and the longer he practised, the more he realised he did not know, so it was always good to air new ideas with colleagues. Paxtone was not an ideal choice for debates, because his experience was narrow and so was his mind, but he was better than Rougham of Gonville Hall. Making up his mind, Bartholomew headed towards the College that was Paxtone’s home.

He hammered on the gate and was admitted by Tobias the porter. As he was being escorted across the yard, they were intercepted by a thin, mouse-like man wearing King’s Hall’s blue tabard. As usual, it took Bartholomew a moment to recall Shropham’s name, for the diffident lawyer never did or said anything to make it stick in his mind.

‘I shall conduct our visitor to Paxtone’s quarters,’ Shropham said to Tobias. ‘Gosse was loitering around earlier, and I would rather you stayed by the gate.’

‘You think he might burgle King’s Hall?’ asked Bartholomew, as Shropham led the way to the handsome suite of rooms on the top floor where Paxtone lived. It did not sound very likely: not only was the College built like a fortress, but many of its scholars were the sons of nobles, who had been trained to wield swords and shoot arrows. Gosse would have to be insane to risk an invasion.

‘Probably not, but you cannot be too careful. I am sorry about Wynewyk, by the way. I saw your book-bearer carrying his corpse to the church and he told me the news. Your poor College is not having much luck this term; first you lose Kelyng the Bible Scholar, and now Wynewyk.’

‘Kelyng is not dead,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘He just decided not to return for his final year because it would have meant paying a massive debt for past fees.’

‘I see,’ said Shropham. He smiled sadly. ‘But I shall miss Wynewyk. He was a fellow lawyer, and was always laughing at something.’

Bartholomew glanced at him sharply. ‘Laughing?’

His tone startled Shropham, who backed away with his hands in the air, apologetic for having said something out of turn. ‘I only meant that he was a cheery sort of fellow, but if you say I am mistaken, then that is fair enough. I am sure he was perfectly sombre.’

‘He was not sombre, either,’ snapped Bartholomew. He disliked sycophants, and recalled with distaste Shropham’s habit of never contradicting anyone. It was a curious trait for a scholar: they had been trained to argue, and were usually delighted to do so.

Shropham was becoming flustered. ‘Perhaps he was both – merry sometimes, and grave the rest of the time. A man of contrasts. Yes, that must be it.’

‘Actually, he was very even tempered,’ countered Bartholomew, a little testily.

‘Yes, he was that, too,’ gushed Shropham, somewhat desperately. ‘Very even tempered.’

Bartholomew smothered his irritation, knowing Shropham was only trying to make conversation; he was just not very good at it, and had chosen a subject that was too raw for idle chatter.

‘You teach law?’ he asked, deciding they might do better if they discussed something else.

‘Yes,’ replied Shropham. ‘Except when I teach the Trivium – grammar, logic and rhetoric.’

‘I know what the Trivium is,’ said Bartholomew. He grimaced at his abrupt tone and wondered what it was about Shropham that seemed to be bringing out the worst in him. He struggled to make amends, forcing himself to smile. ‘Which parts of it do you teach?’

‘All of it,’ replied Shropham. ‘The other masters ask me to take their classes, and I do not like to disappoint – you know how senior scholars hate wasting their time with basics.’

‘But you are a senior scholar,’ Bartholomew pointed out, bemused. ‘You have been here for years – before me, and long before Paxtone. You should not be saddled with the Trivium.’

‘Perhaps I should not,’ said Shropham, blushing furiously. ‘But when friends approach me for assistance it seems churlish to refuse.’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, suspecting he was abominably abused by his so-called friends.

‘Here we are,’ said Shropham, opening Paxtone’s door with obvious relief.

Paxtone’s two light, airy chambers – one for teaching and the other for private use – overlooked the water meadows, and saw some spectacular sunsets. That day, however, the shutters were closed, and a fire was blazing in the hearth, filling the private room with a warm, amber glow. The floor was of wood, but woollen rugs were scattered across it, and the walls had matching hangings, all selected with impeccable taste. Unlike Michaelhouse, not all King’s Hall Fellows were obliged to share their accommodation with students, and Paxtone paid a hefty rent to ensure his continued privacy.

‘He is teaching,’ whispered Shropham, pointing through the door that linked the two chambers; three lads could be seen sitting on stools at Paxtone’s feet. They were listening to his analysis of Galen’s views on almonds as an astringent. ‘He is one of the most inspired tutors in the College. Do you lecture on Galen, Doctor Bartholomew?’

‘Of course,’ replied Bartholomew, startled by the question – and by the notion that the staid Paxtone should be considered inspired. ‘It would be impossible not to, because his theories are cornerstones of traditional medicine.’

‘Then I must come to hear you some time. I am sure you will be equally good.’

Bartholomew frowned as Shropham fussed around him, ensuring his cloak was hung up neatly and that he was satisfied with the state of the fire. The lawyer was so determined that Paxtone’s guest should sit in the chair by the hearth that he gave him a rather enthusiastic shove that saw him topple into it. Bartholomew winced when something dug into his leg.

‘Is it yours?’ asked Shropham, watching him pull a small knife from under his thigh. ‘It fell out of your bag as you sat?’

‘As I was pushed,’ muttered Bartholomew. Shropham’s obsequiousness was grating on his nerves. He took a deep breath and forced himself to be gracious. ‘It looks like one of mine, but it is actually Paxtone’s. We both use these plain steel blades, because they are easy to clean.’

‘Perhaps he left it there to sharpen it – pointing north, so it will hone itself.’ Shropham took it from him and set in on a shelf. ‘Is this true north, do you think?’

‘Move it to the left a little.’ Bartholomew had all but forgotten the curious debate Paxtone had been airing with his colleagues earlier that day, and experienced an acute stab of grief when he recalled Wynewyk’s amusement. He swallowed hard, and pursued the subject of knives in an effort to push the memory from his mind. ‘Paxtone and I buy them from the same forge. They are the perfect size for delicate surgery and–’

‘Paxtone would never demean himself by doing surgery,’ interrupted Shropham indignantly. Then he blushed when he saw he had been insulting, and began to gabble in an effort to make amends. ‘Not that surgery is degrading, of course, but he uses his blades for more lofty purposes.’

‘Such as what?’ asked Bartholomew innocently. The question was a little wicked, because Paxtone was forced into ‘surgery’ because Robin of Grantchester was no longer available to do it for him. It was likely therefore that the King’s Hall physician did use his knives for cautery.

Shropham swallowed uneasily. ‘Such as peeling fruit and paring his nails. Not sharpening quills, of course, because I do that for him.’

‘Really? And what do his students do, while you perform these lowly tasks?’ Bartholomew had not meant to sound rude, but the words were out before he could stop them. And he genuinely wanted an answer, bemused as to why a scholar of Shropham’s seniority should act as servant to his equals.

But Shropham did not take the question amiss. ‘I would not trust that rabble to see to his needs. And it is a great pleasure to serve a fine man like Paxtone.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, deciding he had better not pursue the subject any further. It was too bewildering, and he had had a long and distressing day.

‘He will not be long,’ said Shropham, leaning forward to pat a cushion into place. ‘Here is a psalter to occupy you while you wait. Unless you would rather I kept you company? There is nothing more important than ensuring Paxtone’s acquaintances are properly looked after.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, wondering whether Paxtone had acquired himself a jealous lover. But Paxtone had always seemed rather asexual, and on the few occasions when he had mentioned a preference, it was usually for Yolande de Blaston. ‘I will read, thank you.’

Shropham bowed his way out of the room, and his footsteps clattered down the stairs.

‘Christ!’ breathed Bartholomew, when the man had gone. ‘He is stranger than Clippesby!’

Bartholomew listened to Paxtone’s lecture through the door for a while, but it was a basic one, delivered at a very early stage in his students’ studies, and he knew he would learn nothing from it. He was not in the mood for perusing psalters, either, so he went to the books in Paxtone’s private library, intending to read what Galen had written about nuts – and about men who laughed themselves to death.

The tomes were stored in a wall-cupboard, and Bartholomew had been told in the past that he could browse through them whenever he liked. He opened the door and began to read the titles, impressed by the extent of his friend’s collection: books were hideously expensive.

He grabbed Galen’s On Temperament, but could not find what he wanted to know, so he started to look for Aristotle instead, knowing the philosopher had addressed a number of curious medical questions. He did not recall laughter or nuts being among them, but it had been some time since he had studied the texts carefully, and he did not trust his memory.

He found the book he wanted and started to tug it out, but a small bag in front of it fell to the floor. There was a skittering sound as several pebbles rolled out. With a sigh, he knelt to retrieve them. They were some sort of white crystal, and he supposed they were a mineral deemed to possess a particular healing property. He had always been sceptical of such claims – for example that rubies could protect a person from plague – and assumed most sensible physicians thought the same. Of course, Paxtone was not always sensible where medicine was concerned.

‘What are you doing?’

The sound of his colleague’s voice so close behind him made Bartholomew jump. He had not noticed that Paxtone had stopped teaching and had come to see what was going on.

‘Looking for Aristotle,’ explained Bartholomew, slipping the last of the stones inside the bag.

‘I see,’ said Paxtone flatly, taking it from him and replacing it on the shelf. He bent to lock the cupboard with a key that hung on a string around his neck. ‘And did you find it?’

‘Yes – but I might look in Avicenna, if I cannot find what I want in Aristotle,’ replied Bartholomew, somewhat puzzled by his friend’s frosty manner.

‘Then let me know when you need it.’ Paxtone gave a pained smile. ‘I shall not be long now.’

Bartholomew could only suppose Paxtone had been dabbling in something of which he was slightly ashamed – perhaps a foray into folk medicine – and wanted to keep the matter quiet. But he did not dwell on the matter for long, because his mind was too full of Wynewyk.

He sat in the chair, and opened the Aristotle, but could find no mention of nuts, although there was a good deal about humour being good for the health. There was, however, nothing to suggest that it might bring about death, unless in delirium. Bartholomew frowned as he considered the notion. Had Wynewyk been delirious?

‘They have gone at last,’ said Paxtone, coming to flop into the seat opposite. ‘They are full of questions, and I thought I would never prise them out. How is Risleye? Is he settling in with you?’

Bartholomew wondered why he should ask, given that the relationship between master and pupil had been acrimonious enough for both to want a transfer. ‘He seems to have made himself at home,’ he replied cautiously, unwilling to admit that he was finding the young man ‘unteachable’, too.

‘He is a good boy, who learns quickly,’ said Paxtone with a smile. ‘He will be no trouble.’

‘He must have been trouble, or you would not have asked me to take him on.’

Paxtone waved an airy hand. ‘He is young and opinionated, while I am old and opinionated. It was not a good combination. Did Shropham offer you any wine?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I am sure he would have done, had I hinted that I was thirsty.’

Paxtone winced. ‘Yes, I am afraid he does have a tendency to fawn. I cured him of a strangury, you see, and since then he has attached himself to me like a devoted dog. It is irritating, but he has his uses. You seem distracted, Matthew. Is something wrong?’

‘You know how some folk have aversions to particular foods, which make them sick or give them rashes. Have you ever heard of a violent reaction to nuts?’

‘No. However, nuts are not poisonous, and if you have a patient who claims to have been rendered unwell because of them, then I suggest you look to some other form of toxin.’

Bartholomew rubbed his eyes. ‘Then is it possible for a man to laugh himself to death?’

‘Of course, just as it is possible for a person to die of sadness.’ Paxtone walked to the table, and filled two cups with wine. ‘Unhappiness may cause a person to forget to eat, or render him susceptible to an imbalance of humours. It is very easy for emotions to bring about a death. But this seems a curious topic for a practical man like you. What has spurred this particular interest?’

‘Wynewyk is dead,’ replied Bartholomew. It was not easy to say the words, and they sounded unreal to his ears. ‘He died eating a cake with nuts in it. While laughing.’

Paxtone’s jaw dropped in horror. ‘Oh, the poor man! How dreadful!’

‘I do not suppose you would look at him, would you? To see if you can spot anything amiss?’

‘Absolutely not!’ exclaimed Paxtone with a shudder. ‘You know I dislike handling corpses.’

Bartholomew did know, but had forgotten. He turned to another question. ‘Wynewyk was with you earlier – you were debating how to sharpen knives. Did he complain of any illness or pain?’

‘He seemed well enough to me.’ Paxtone drained his wine, and when he set the goblet on the hearth, his hand was shaking. ‘This is a shock. Poor Wynewyk! He told me he was thinking of purchasing some new law books this coming week.’

Bartholomew thought uncomfortably of the Michaelhouse accounts. ‘Expensive ones?’

Paxtone shrugged with the carelessness of a man who never had to be concerned with such matters. ‘I imagine so. However, Risleye told me that Wynewyk summoned you on Wednesday night. What were his symptoms then? The ailment may have been a precursor to his death.’

‘It is possible,’ acknowledged Bartholomew, wondering why Risleye should have been reporting such matters to his old teacher; he had been under the impression that they could not stand the sight of each other. ‘He said he had sipped an almond posset, and mentioned a burning mouth. It led me to assume that even a small taste of nuts was capable of creating an imbalance of his humours.’

‘And this is how you devised your theory about nuts being poisonous?’ mused Paxtone. ‘You think he ate more of them, and they killed him?’

‘I have come across similar cases in the past. It is rare, but not unknown.’

‘I suppose your Arab master taught you this,’ said Paxtone, rather disparagingly. ‘However, the ancient Greeks do not mention it, and it sounds a bit far-fetched to me.’

Bartholomew realised he was foolish to have imagined that Paxtone might help him. He liked the man, but he should not have come expecting a proper medical debate. He stood, thinking they were wasting each other’s time, but Paxtone indicated that he should sit again.

‘You said Wynewyk was laughing when he died?’ Paxtone spread his hands. ‘Then there is your cause of death. I put it to you that it was a seizure, induced by an excess of choler.’

‘You are probably right,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘The swelling in Wynewyk’s throat might have been caused by a number of factors. I suppose nuts are not necessarily responsible.’

‘It is always hard to lose a colleague,’ said Paxtone kindly. ‘But I can think of far worse ways to go than laughing myself to death.’

‘Does laughter always equate with happiness?’

‘Well, no,’ said Paxtone. ‘Hysterical cackles can mean quite the reverse – implying a person is distressed. You must have seen how easily smiles turn to tears in some of our more impressionable students, especially around the time of their disputations. However, you should not–’

Their discussion was interrupted by a sharp knock at the door, and Tobias entered.

‘Constable Muschett is ailing again,’ he said apologetically. ‘He needs to be bled.’

Paxtone’s face registered his distaste, and he turned to Bartholomew. ‘I do not suppose you…’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Phlebotomy is a procedure that carries more risk than advantage, as I have told you before.’

‘The ancient Greeks disagree,’ retorted Paxtone curtly. ‘It is very beneficial, and I advise all my patients to have it done three times a year. Unfortunately, now Robin the surgeon is unavailable, I am obliged to do it myself. But there is no need for you to leave, Matthew. Stay and read my Aristotle. I will not be long, and we shall resume our discussion when I come back.’

Bartholomew had no wish to return to Michaelhouse, and was more than happy to sit in Paxtone’s peaceful chamber. He did as his friend suggested, scanning Aristotle in search of any report of a man dying of laughter. He was on the verge of falling asleep when there was a knock on the door and Tobias entered again, this time with Cynric at his heels.

‘I thought you might be here,’ said the book-bearer. He sounded relieved. ‘Brother Michael needs you. There has been a fight, and one of the brawlers is dead. You are needed to tend the wounded.’