A Vein of Deceit

Chapter 4

Bartholomew knew from experience that people injured in fights often fared better if he reached them before anyone else attempted to ‘help’. It was frustrating to see a man die because he had been given all manner of potions to drink, but no one had bothered to stem the flow of blood. He ran down the stairs, and met Paxtone halfway up. The King’s Hall physician was wiping his hands on a rag.

‘Messy business, phlebotomy,’ he said sheepishly. ‘Thank God I wore an apron. What are you–’

‘Brawl,’ replied Bartholomew tersely. ‘Will you come?’

He did not wait for a reply, but was aware of Paxtone turning to follow and was grateful; another pair of hands was invariably useful on such occasions. However, the portly physician could not hope to keep up with the rapid pace set by Cynric, and soon fell behind.

The book-bearer led the way to the Market Square. Night had fallen, bringing with it a drenching drizzle that seeped through cloaks and trickled down the backs of necks. It was miserable weather, and Bartholomew wished he was home in front of the fire. Others did not feel the same way, though, and a sizeable circle of onlookers had gathered at the scene of the incident.

Near the front, with the best view of what was happening, were a man and a woman. There was a space between them and the rest of the crowd, as if no one wanted to get too close. Idly, the physician wondered why – both were well dressed, covered in jewellery and looked respectable – until he recognised Idoma.

‘Osa Gosse and his sister,’ muttered Cynric, nodding towards them. ‘I suspect most of their finery belongs to someone else – not that their victims would dare complain, of course.’

Bartholomew regarded Gosse without much interest as he passed, more concerned with reaching the injured. A brief glance told him that the man causing such consternation was short and compact, quite unlike his hefty sibling. However, he shared her dead, shark-fish eyes and malign demeanour, and there was something in his confident, arrogant stance that indicated he was a cut above the average villain. Bartholomew was not amused when the fellow grabbed his arm, jerking him to an abrupt standstill. Cynric tried to come to his rescue, but was blocked by Idoma’s substantial bulk.

‘Your University has something I want,’ said Gosse. He spoke softly, so no one else would hear. ‘And I shall have it, no matter what it takes. It will be easier for everyone if you just give it to me.’

Bartholomew wrenched free. He had no idea what the man was talking about, but he was not about to engage in a discussion when there were people who needed his help. He took a step away, but a heavy hand fell on his shoulder and spun him around. This time, it was Idoma manhandling him.

‘How dare you walk away!’ Her eyes were cold and hard, and Bartholomew did not think he had ever seen a more malevolent expression. ‘My brother is talking, so you will listen.’

‘Tell your colleagues,’ ordered Gosse, leaning close and treating the physician to a waft of bad breath, ‘I will have what is rightfully mine, or the streets of your fine town will run with blood.’

More irritated than intimidated, Bartholomew pushed Gosse away from him. The man’s eyebrows shot up in astonishment that someone should dare fight back. Then Cynric managed to dodge around Idoma and stood next to his master, hand on the hilt of his long Welsh hunting knife. Idoma started to reach for Bartholomew again, but stopped when Cynric’s blade began to emerge from its scabbard.

‘I do not like you, physician,’ she whispered, pointing a finger at Bartholomew in a way he supposed was meant to be menacing. Then she turned and began to shoulder a path through the onlookers. Most people moved before she reached them.

‘That is unfortunate for you,’ said Gosse with a sneer, before turning to follow her. ‘Because bad things happen to people my sister does not like.’

‘You want to watch that scum, boy,’ said Cynric uneasily, once the pair had gone. ‘She is a witch, while he is a vicious devil, who would think nothing of slipping a dagger between your ribs.’

‘Cynric is right,’ gasped Paxtone, who had finally caught up. ‘They are not folk you should have as enemies, Matthew. It would have been better to give them whatever it was they wanted.’

‘But I do not know what they wanted. Other than for me to be frightened of them – which I am not.’

‘Really?’ asked Paxtone, impressed. ‘Because they terrify me. However, if you go out on errands of mercy during the night from now on, I recommend you carry a sword. It is common knowledge that you are a skilled and deadly warrior, so you should be able to fend them off.’

Bartholomew gaped at him, not liking the notion that he, a man of healing, should have acquired a reputation for the military arts. He had certainly done nothing to warrant it. ‘I am not a–’

‘He was not very good before we went to France last year,’ said Cynric, pleased by what he saw as a compliment. ‘But then we fought in the battle of Poitiers, and he got a lot of practice.’

‘Matt!’ came Michael’s urgent voice. ‘What are you doing? I need you here.’

Bartholomew broke away from Paxtone and Cynric, and hurried to where Michael was waiting. The monk’s latest deputy, Junior Proctor Cleydon, was there, too, a competent but nervous man who was anxiously counting the days until his term of office expired. He had told Bartholomew on several occasions that he did not think he would survive that long, given that the post was dangerous – and the arrival of Gosse and his formidable sister had done nothing to quell his unease.

It took Bartholomew no more than a moment to assess what had happened: a knife fight between two men. One lay on the ground with the weapon still embedded in his middle, while the other perched uncomfortably on an upturned crate and clutched his left arm with his right hand. Blood flowed between his fingers. Seeing immediately that the prone man was more in need of a priest than a physician, Bartholomew went to the one who was sitting. Michael’s beadles – the men who kept order in the University – seemed to be more interested in the corpse than the survivor, so the body was well lit, but the injured man sat in shadows.

‘I need a torch,’ Bartholomew said, cutting away the victim’s sleeve. When the lamp arrived, he focused on his work, aware that he needed to stem the bleeding as quickly as possible.

Meanwhile, Paxtone crouched next to the second victim, although his examination was confined to what he could see: he disliked handling corpses, and went to considerable lengths to avoid doing it. His aversion was based on the superstitious notion that touching bodies enabled poisonous miasmas to pass from the dead to the living. The belief reminded Bartholomew of the ‘healing stones’ in Paxtone’s room, and his colleague’s strange insistence that knives sharpened magically when they were left pointing north. Still, he supposed, what else could he expect from a man who thought the movements of remote planets had an impact on the health of an individual?

‘There is nothing I can do here,’ Paxtone announced after a moment. ‘The fellow is quite dead, and there can be no dispute about the cause: a dagger in the stomach.’

‘In the liver,’ muttered Bartholomew, wishing anatomy was not forbidden in England. He was sure even Paxtone would benefit from knowing the precise locations of various organs.

‘It is Carbo,’ said Michael.

Bartholomew spared a brief glance at the body, and saw it was indeed the half-mad Dominican friar.

‘Did you speak to Prior Morden about him?’ he asked, not surprised Carbo had met an untimely end. He had seemed incapable of looking after himself, and the fact that he had seen Langelee attacked attested to the fact that he wandered about after the curfew had sounded.

‘Morden was out when I visited the Dominican Friary,’ said Michael. Then his voice became bitter. ‘I was supposed to go back there this evening, but I let other matters distract me.’

Bartholomew could only surmise that the monk had not enjoyed his time with the College accounts.

‘It hurts,’ whispered the injured man weakly. Bartholomew looked up sharply, because the voice was familiar. As usual, it took him a moment to recognise the nondescript features, but his astonishment at the man’s identity was nothing compared to Paxtone’s.

‘Shropham?’ gasped the King’s Hall physician. ‘What in God’s name are you doing here?’

‘He is here murdering Dominican priests,’ replied Cleydon when Shropham made no reply. ‘He stabbed Carbo.’

There was a stunned silence when Cleydon made his announcement, the only sound being the crackle of torches and the low-voiced grumbles of onlookers as they tried to resist being moved on by beadles. The reek of burnt pitch filled the air, along with the stench of rotting vegetables from a nearby costermongery. The rain carried its own aroma, too, of fallen leaves, frost-touched grass and the swollen river; it reminded Bartholomew that winter was approaching with all its inherent miseries – cold feet, leaking roofs, ice in the latrines, and the kind of fevers that claimed the old and the weak.

‘No!’ exclaimed Paxtone, when he had recovered from his shock. ‘Fellows of King’s Hall do not go around murdering Dominican priests or anyone else.’

‘I thought it was–’ began Shropham. He swayed, and Bartholomew indicated that Paxtone and Cynric were to support him.

Fortunately, the injury was clean, and should heal quickly; Shropham would experience some pain and stiffness, but the prognosis was good. Then he glanced at the man’s haunted face, and wondered whether it would matter. Shropham, like all scholars, had taken religious orders that would protect him from the full rigours of secular law, but the murder of a priest was a serious matter, and the Dominicans might call for him to be hanged.

‘You had better tell me what happened, Shropham,’ said Michael, when he saw Bartholomew had finished suturing, and only bandaging remained. ‘If you feel well enough.’

‘He does not,’ said Paxtone immediately. ‘He needs to go home, where he can recover from this dreadful ordeal. It cannot have been easy, watching a priest slaughtered.’

‘No,’ agreed Shropham weakly.

‘Are you saying you did not kill him?’ asked Michael. ‘That someone else is responsible?’

‘That is not possible, Shropham,’ said Cleydon quietly. ‘You and Carbo were the only ones here when we happened across you. And you cannot deny that the knife poking from his belly is yours: you have none, and he holds his own in his dead hand.’

‘I am not sure…’ began Shropham. He swallowed. ‘Perhaps he had two – and killed himself.’

Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly. The explanation was feeble, to say the least.

‘Come, Shropham,’ cried Paxtone, equally appalled. ‘You must have more to say for yourself than that! Someone else was here, someone Cleydon missed in all this dark and rain. You were coming to this priest’s aid because you saw him being attacked by ruffians.’

‘Gosse,’ suggested Cynric helpfully. ‘He was here a few moments ago.’

‘I cannot remember,’ said Shropham dully. ‘Perhaps Carbo fell on the knife by mistake.’

‘Not from that angle,’ said Bartholomew, who had seen enough wounds to be able to distinguish the more obviously deliberate from the accidental.

‘Self-defence, then,’ said Paxtone, sounding desperate as he appealed to his colleague to save himself. ‘The Dominican was deranged, and did not know what he was doing. Priests often become unhinged if they spend too long fasting. It is a medical fact.’

‘He has a point,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘Carbo was not rational when we met him. He did not seem dangerous, but ailments of the mind often take unpredictable courses.’

‘I do not know whether the Dominican was the type to starve himself for prayers,’ said Shropham. ‘I am not saying you are wrong, Paxtone – indeed, you are never wrong – only that I cannot verify it.’

‘So, the priest was a stranger to you,’ said Paxtone, refusing to give up. ‘He approached you without saying who he was, and you struck out to protect yourself. It was an accident.’

‘I am not sure,’ said Shropham tiredly. ‘Did you see those quills I left for you, Paxtone? They are the best out of the whole batch I sharpened today.’

Paxtone regarded him in disbelief. ‘How can you be thinking about such matters now? Do you not see the seriousness of the situation? You are accused of murder!’

Shropham hung his head, and tears slid down his cheeks. Michael and Cleydon pressed him with more questions, but he refused to answer.

‘Is there any reason why he should not be incarcerated, Matt?’ asked Michael eventually, exasperated by the lack of co-operation. Like Bartholomew, he had been ready to give Shropham the benefit of the doubt, but the evidence of his guilt was overwhelming, and his bewildering silence was doing nothing to help. ‘This wound will not kill him?’

‘Let me take him home,’ begged Paxtone. ‘I promise he will not escape.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, not liking the notion of Shropham roaming free. He had read of cases where someone had committed murder then remembered nothing about it, and did not want Paxtone to be Shropham’s next victim. ‘Michael can lock him in the documents room in St Mary the Great. It is warm and dry, but secure.’

Paxtone was dismayed, and barely listened to Michael telling him the crime was as straightforward as any he had seen: Shropham’s weapon was embedded in Carbo, and the Junior Proctor himself was able to say there was no one else in the Market Square when the victim was attacked. Shropham would almost certainly be found guilty of murder.

‘I refuse to believe it,’ said Paxtone, white-faced with horror as Cleydon led the prisoner away. ‘Shropham has been in Cambridge for decades and has never shown any propensity for violence before. Why should he start now?’

‘I wonder why he would not talk to us,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘It is almost as if he wants us to think he is guilty.’

‘He was a soldier once,’ said Cynric, who had been listening to the discussion from the shadows. When he spoke, everyone jumped, because they had forgotten he was there. Bartholomew knew he should not be surprised: since the year they had spent travelling overseas together, the Welshman had grown bold about offering his opinions where he thought they were needed. ‘He fought in Scotland. Afterwards, he came here and became a lawyer.’

‘Being a warrior does not make him a killer,’ said Paxtone, while Bartholomew wondered whether King’s Hall would have kept Shropham’s military past quiet, had Cynric not revealed it.

‘Of course it does,’ countered Michael. ‘That is what warriors do: they kill people. But why do you think he resisted your attempts to exonerate him?’

‘Because he is injured,’ snapped Paxtone. ‘And shock has robbed him of his wits. When he recovers, he will provide you with an explanation that will make you sorry you doubted him.’

‘Your loyalty commends you,’ said Michael quietly. ‘Did you ever meet this Dominican? Carbo?’

‘Of course not,’ replied Paxtone, turning to look at the dead man with distaste. ‘I do not fraternise with hedge-priests. However, look at the cuffs on his sleeves – the Cambridge Black Friars do not wear theirs like that. Ergo, he is a visitor, which means Shropham has no reason to harm him. Fellows of the University do not go around stabbing strangers.’

‘My experience as Senior Proctor tells me otherwise,’ said Michael sombrely. ‘I do not suppose you can throw any light on the matter, can you, Matt?’

Bartholomew crouched next to Carbo, grateful the beadles had finally ousted the ghouls, so he no longer had an audience. Carbo was no cleaner than he had been when they had met him in St Mary the Great, and his face was thin to the point of being skeletal. The physician was not surprised Paxtone assumed he had been fasting, and wondered if he was right.

‘He died of a single knife wound that penetrated his liver,’ he said, rinsing his hands in a rain-puddle before standing. They felt oily from touching the priest’s habit, and he would have to scrub them before he went to bed. ‘It would have killed him fairly quickly.’

‘I had better go and tell Warden Powys what has happened,’ said Paxtone. He sounded near tears. ‘He will doubtless want to talk to you about keeping Shropham in King’s Hall until we prove his innocence – which I am sure we will.’

‘He cannot imagine a colleague being capable of murder,’ said Michael, watching Paxtone waddle away. ‘But Cleydon virtually watched the whole thing happen, and he has no reason to lie.’

Bartholomew woke later than usual the following day, because his students were aware that he had been out late and had taken care not to disturb him when they rose. He was a heavy sleeper at the best of times, and might not have stirred until noon had Michael not taken it upon himself to do the honours by hurling open the window shutters and clapping his hands.

‘Shropham had a comfortable night,’ the monk reported, sitting at the desk while Bartholomew tried to rally his sluggish wits. He cocked his head as a bell began to chime. ‘Langelee is almost ready to lead us to church for Sunday prayers, so you had better get up or you will be late.’

The physician clambered out of bed, hopping across the icy flagstones on bare feet as he made for the bowl of water Cynric left him each night. He washed and dressed quickly, listening to Michael describe all he had done that morning. The monk made it sound as though he had been up for hours while his friend had been sleeping the day away.

‘Is Shropham showing any sign of fever?’ he asked, straightening his tabard as he followed Michael across the yard. They were the last to arrive, and Langelee immediately led his neat phalanx of scholars through the gate and up St Michael’s Lane.

‘None that I could see,’ replied Michael, taking his usual place at Bartholomew’s side. Something felt strange about the procession – a change in something deeply familiar – and Bartholomew was momentarily confused when he glanced behind him to see Thelnetham next to Clippesby, where Wynewyk normally walked. ‘He is subdued, and refused the food my beadles took him, but that is understandable. Unfortunately, he still refuses to talk to us.’

‘I will examine him again today,’ said Bartholomew, trying to concentrate on what the monk was saying as grief for Wynewyk washed over him. ‘Perhaps he will tell me what happened.’

‘I doubt it, but you are welcome to try. So is Paxtone, Warden Powys and anyone else who will make him understand that declining to co-operate with the Senior Proctor is not a good idea. Even a half-baked explanation will only result in exile, given that he can claim “benefit of clergy”, but maintaining this ridiculous silence might well see him hanged.’

The Sunday mass was an unusually gloomy affair, and Bartholomew was not the only one who kept glancing at the spot where Wynewyk had always stood. Some of the younger students cried, and the physician was obliged to escort several home early. Risleye, Valence and Tesdale accompanied him, the latter two clearly struggling to control their own distress.

‘Still,’ said Valence, attempting a smile, ‘at least he died happy. I would not mind going like that when my time comes – surrounded by friends, and laughing fit to burst.’

‘Perhaps he did,’ said Risleye with wide eyes. ‘Burst, I mean. Perhaps his innards exploded, because of all the choleric humours that bubbled when he was so full of mirth. It is a pity we cannot anatomise him, because I would like to test such a hypothesis.’

For the first time ever, the physician found himself grateful that anatomy was illegal.

‘Hippocrates says laughing is good for you,’ said Tesdale. ‘He says nothing about it making you explode.’

‘I suppose you might be right,’ conceded Risleye, then added rather salaciously, ‘There was no blood. If Wynewyk had exploded, there would have been pots of blood.’

‘Enough,’ said Bartholomew sharply, aware that the graphic discussion was upsetting the younger students. ‘He died happy, so let us say no more about it.’

‘Did he die happy?’ asked Risleye. ‘Personally, I thought his guffaws had a strangely brittle quality to them – as if he did not really think the debate was funny, but could not help himself.’

‘I said, enough!’ snapped Bartholomew, although he found Risleye’s observation an uncomfortable one. If Wynewyk had been agitated, then perhaps he had eaten the nuts deliberately, fearing his days of manipulating the accounts were numbered. Or was Bartholomew wrong to doubt his integrity?

‘There is the breakfast bell,’ said Valence, brightening at the prospect of food. ‘It is Sunday, so perhaps there will be egg-mess, like there used to be before Wynewyk tightened the purse strings.’

‘You cannot blame him for that,’ objected Tesdale. ‘It is hardly his fault that food prices have risen and students are slow in paying their fees – or run off without paying at all, like Kelyng. He did his best with what he had. Still, some egg-mess would be nice…’

The other students followed him to the hall, but Bartholomew did not feel like eating whatever Agatha had concocted, certain that eggs would not feature in it. And Risleye’s remark about Wynewyk’s ‘brittle’ laughter had unsettled him. He went to Langelee’s room instead, and spent the time reassessing the College’s finances. Surely he could find something to prove Wynewyk innocent?

When the meal was over, Michael came to find him. He saw what Bartholomew was doing, and cleared a space on one of Langelee’s benches. Then he sat down and raised questioning eyebrows. Reluctantly, Bartholomew shook his head.

‘I have uncovered nothing new. Just confirmed what we already knew – that the questionable transactions are for three commodities bought from Suffolk: coal, wood and pigs. But I am sure Wynewyk was not cheating us, Brother. There must be an explanation that will exonerate him.’

‘So you keep saying. But I went through most of his personal papers this morning and found nothing to indicate what that explanation might be.’

‘Then we must look harder. My students need to hear Theophilus’s De urinis before I can give my next set of lectures, and Risleye has offered to read it aloud to the others. That means I am free to help you unravel this mess – and clear Wynewyk’s name.’

Michael was pleased. ‘And in return, I shall help you hunt down your lost pennyroyal. I know it pales into insignificance when compared to Wynewyk, but it is still a toxic substance, and I will feel happier when we have satisfied ourselves that it did not end up inside Joan.’

‘I do not believe it did. Indeed, the more I think about it, the more I am convinced that there could not have been much left when I finished making the ulcer salve. Of course, it does not take much to kill a person…’

‘Well, the more I think about it, the more I am afraid that it might have been stolen at the same time that something else went astray,’ said Michael. ‘Namely the Stanton Cups.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘Why would Gosse take pennyroyal? I own far more expensive substances than that – and far more dangerous ones, too. Foxglove, mandrake, poppy juice…’

‘Even if he can read, he was probably in a hurry, and grabbed whatever he could reach.’

‘Should I talk to him about it, warn him of its dangers?’

‘That would be tantamount to accusing him of theft, and he will go crying to his lawyer about slander. Besides, if he does have it, your warning may encourage him to feed it to someone he does not like. No, Matt. We must devise another way to ascertain whether he is the culprit.’

Bartholomew nodded acquiescence, although he was unsure whether or not to be concerned. Was his pennyroyal in Gosse’s hands? Or had someone from Michaelhouse taken it to help with some innocent task, and was now too frightened to own up? The physician rubbed a hand through his hair, and turned to yet another cause for concern.

‘Do the other Fellows know about the missing thirty marks yet?’

‘Langelee told them after breakfast. Predictably, they are all very upset.’

‘We could talk to Wynewyk’s friends,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘They may know what he–’

‘We were his friends. He had acquaintances from other foundations – such as Paxtone and Warden Powys from King’s Hall – but his friends were here, at Michaelhouse.’

Bartholomew tapped the accounts book with his pen. ‘The inconsistencies only arise when he made purchases from Suffolk. As far as I can tell, he paid a total of eighteen marks for coal, seven for wood and five for pigs. But none of these supplies have been received.’

‘I reached the same conclusion, and so did Langelee. Then I went back through the receipts and found the names of the three Suffolk men with whom he did business. Did you do that?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I just studied the figures.’ ‘The largest amount was paid to a man called Henry Elyan of Haverhill, who–’

‘Elyan?’ echoed Bartholomew, startled. ‘But he is Joan’s husband.’

‘The woman who died of pennyroyal?’ asked Michael. ‘What a curious coincidence!’

Bartholomew’s thoughts were reeling. ‘Is it coincidence? Elyan came to collect his wife’s body on Saturday, which is the same day that Wynewyk died.’

Michael considered the matter, but then shook his head. ‘I am as bemused by this strange happenstance as you are, but it cannot be relevant. It is impossible that Elyan is involved in whatever happened to Wynewyk. First, he cannot have gained access to our College, and second, he is a stranger to our town, so not in a position to hire someone else to do it for him. Besides, I thought we had agreed that Wynewyk died of a seizure brought on by laughter.’

‘We did not agree – you decided that was what we were going to tell people. However, the truth is that I have absolutely no idea why Wynewyk died. But to return to Elyan, do not forget that his wife travelled here with their household priest – Edith told me Neubold represented Elyan in his business dealings with King’s Hall. In other words, he is not as much a stranger to Cambridge as you think.’

‘He is, if he sends Neubold to do his work,’ Michael pointed out. ‘But we shall bear the possibility in mind. Meanwhile, there is another connection, too – Gosse’s lawyer is also called Neubold. Of course, we do not know if it is the same man.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘If they are one and the same, then it raises another question – namely, why did a respectable lady elect to keep company with the kind of man who has felons as clients?’

‘According to what Edith told me the day after Joan died, Joan simply took advantage of an opportunity to travel. She also said that Neubold failed to come when Joan was dying. That is odd.’

‘Perhaps Joan was not the only one with friends here,’ suggested Bartholomew, wondering whether Neubold had taken the opportunity to avail himself of a Frail Sister; prostitutes were not very readily available to priests in small villages, and Neubold would not be the first cleric to take advantage of what a large town could offer.

The notion of Frail Sisters reminded Bartholomew of Matilde, and he tried to imagine what she would have said, had she heard of what Wynewyk stood accused. She had been fond of Wynewyk, and Bartholomew was sure she would have defended him.

‘… message did not reach Neubold in time,’ Michael was saying as the physician wrenched his thoughts away from two people he had loved and lost. ‘Although I doubt Elyan was pleased when he learned Neubold had failed his wife. But we are moving away from the real point here, which is that Wynewyk wrote in our accounts that Elyan sold him coal.’

‘But we do not burn coal. Did he mean charcoal? He uses the Latin carbo, which can mean either. And there is yet another coincidence: the Dominican whom Shropham killed was named Carbo.’

‘I once had a black horse called Carbo, and so did two of my sisters,’ said Michael tartly. ‘If you start seeing links between the name of a mad priest and the items Wynewyk bought, we will never get to the bottom of this mess, because we will be distracted by irrelevancies. Besides, Carbo was not the man’s real name.’

‘No. It sounded as though it was one he had picked for himself,’ Bartholomew agreed.

‘Actually, he claimed God gave it to him. But to return to more important matters, the accounts tell us that Wynewyk made large payments to two more Suffolk men, as well as Elyan: d’Audley for wood, and Luneday for pigs.’

‘D’Audley?’ Bartholomew was growing confused. ‘He is Elyan’s friend, who came with him to collect Joan’s body and take it home.’

But Michael was not listening. ‘It makes no sense,’ he said, his voice a mixture of hurt and frustration. ‘Wynewyk must have known he would be caught eventually, so why did he do it?’

‘That is what we are going to find out,’ vowed Bartholomew. ‘He will have had his reasons.’

‘I do not know what to think. On the one hand, I feel betrayed. On the other, I cannot help but feel you are right, and there must be an explanation. It makes me sympathetic to King’s Hall, though: none of them believe Shropham is a killer, although the evidence says otherwise. Visit him, Matt. Now, this morning. Persuade him to tell you why he is putting his colleagues through this nightmare.’

Shropham had been moved to the proctors’ gaol, a small, cramped building near St Mary the Great, and although it was not the festering hole used to secure prisoners in the castle, it was a dismal place nonetheless. When Bartholomew was shown into Shropham’s cell, the King’s Hall man was sitting disconsolately on the edge of a wooden bed. He had been provided with blankets, although he had made no effort to wrap them around himself. Bartholomew did it for him, after he had inspected the wound and found it healing well.

‘It will be sore for a few days,’ he said. ‘And you will have to favour it for a while, until the muscles mend. Do you want anything to ease the pain?’

‘I want something that will kill me,’ whispered Shropham, looking at him for the first time since he had arrived. ‘Something that will allow me to slip away without causing any more trouble.’

There were a number of ways a prisoner could take his own life in prison – he could hang himself from the bars on his window, cut himself with the knife provided for slicing up his meat, or drown himself in the water left for drinking and washing – and the fact that Shropham had not tried any led Bartholomew to conclude he was not serious.

‘It would be a lot easier if you just told the truth,’ the physician said practically. ‘Carbo was not in his right mind, and while that does not give anyone the right to kill him, it might go some way towards explaining what happened. Your situation is not as hopeless as you seem to think.’

‘It is,’ said Shropham miserably. ‘Brother Michael will put me under oath, and if I make up a tale to exonerate myself, I shall have to do it with my hand on the Bible. My immortal soul…’

‘I said you should tell the truth, not lie,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘You must have a reason for what you did, so tell Michael, and let him help you.’

‘No,’ said Shropham in a low voice. ‘I would rather die than … Are you sure you cannot give me something to end it all? It would be for the best.’

Bartholomew left feeling slightly soiled. Patients had pleaded with him to end their lives before, but they were usually dying of painful diseases, so their demands were understandable. He had never been asked to provide an easy way out for someone reluctant to tell the truth, and he had not liked it.

He was lost in thought as he walked down the narrow lane that led to the High Street. Shropham did not seem like a cold-blooded killer, but Bartholomew struggled to remember him each time they met, which underlined the fact that he really did not know him at all. For all he knew, Shropham was a seasoned assassin, and this was just the first time he had been caught.

He glanced up when he saw a flicker of movement in the shadows ahead of him, then stopped when two figures materialised. They were Gosse and Idoma. Bartholomew sighed. He was not in the mood for a set-to with felons.

‘Well?’ Gosse asked, nonchalantly drawing his dagger and using it to clean his fingernails. ‘Did you pass my message to your colleagues? About handing over what is rightfully mine?’

‘It slipped my mind,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Partly because I have no idea what you were talking about. What do we have that you think is yours?’

‘Do not lie,’ said Idoma, fixing him with her peculiar eyes. Involuntarily, he took a step backwards. Michael was right: there was something unpleasantly charismatic about her, something that had compelled him to move against his will. ‘You know perfectly well what my brother means.’

‘I assure you, I–’ he began.

‘Perhaps he is telling the truth,’ said Gosse to his sister. ‘One can never tell with scholars, slippery creatures that they are. But that is no excuse for failing to act as my messenger.’

He brought his gaze back to the physician, who slid his hand inside his medical bag and let his fingers close around his childbirth forceps. They were reassuringly heavy. The implement had been a gift from Matilde, and he wondered what she would say if she knew he used it more often as a weapon than he did to assist pregnant women. He was sure she would not approve, and rightly so.

‘But we shall give him another chance,’ Gosse was saying softly. ‘Because we are generous.’

Idoma scowled, and Bartholomew was under the impression that she had hoped for a more violent end to the encounter. He recalled the rumour that she was insane, and thought the tale might well have some basis in fact; that day, everything about her bespoke barely suppressed aggression, from the odd twitching of her ham-sized hands to her peculiar eyes.

‘Give it back,’ she snarled. ‘Just tell them that.’

‘Give what back?’ asked Bartholomew, tightening his grip on the forceps.

‘Someone will know,’ replied Gosse enigmatically. ‘And you can tell that monk something else, too. He will make no more disparaging remarks about us. If he does, he can expect to hear from our lawyer.’

‘He is not the only one to associate you with certain…’ Bartholomew decided at the last moment that ‘crimes’ would not be a wise choice of words ‘… certain incidents, and–’

‘Then you can pass them the same message,’ declared Gosse. ‘To keep their slanderous opinions to themselves. But we have wasted enough time here, Idoma. Come.’

He spun on his heel and stalked away. Idoma watched him go, and when she turned back to the physician, there was a curious and far from pleasant expression on her face. Bartholomew forced himself to meet her eyes, fighting a deeply rooted instinct that clamoured at him to take to his heels. It was Idoma who looked away first. Unhurriedly, she turned and began to follow her brother. For someone so bulky, she had an uncannily light tread, like a large predator. Bartholomew leaned against the wall the moment she had passed out of sight, aware that his heart was racing furiously.

He asked himself what it was about the pair that had inspired such a reaction – he was not a timid man, and they had not said or done anything overtly frightening. Had he been wrong to dismiss the notion that Idoma dabbled in witchcraft? Or were they just two powerful bullies who knew how to use the force of their personalities to good effect? Regardless, he was glad they had gone.

Michael’s eyes narrowed when Bartholomew told him what had happened, and the physician was hard pressed to stop him from assembling his beadles and going to tackle the Gosses there and then.

‘They did nothing wrong,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Other than exude an air of menace, and I do not think that is illegal. If it were, you would be obliged to arrest yourself, because it is an art you have honed to perfection when dealing with recalcitrant undergraduates.’

Michael grimaced. ‘That is different – I am on the side of right and justice. The Gosses are not.’

‘How many burglaries have you attributed to them now?’ asked Bartholomew, changing the tack of the subject slightly.

‘Seven – all in the wealthiest Colleges and hostels. But there is not a single witness, which means they are both cunning and skilful. Unfortunately, they are confining themselves to the University; the townsfolk have not had to suffer their depredations. And the burgesses intend to keep it that way, which is why they are making it difficult for me to investigate.’

‘You think they have an agreement?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘That the Gosses will restrict themselves to scholars’ property, as long as the town keeps you in check?’

‘I do,’ said Michael. ‘Constable Muschett virtually told me as much. Normally, I would treat his orders with the contempt they deserve, and go after the Gosses as I see fit. But he has the backing of all the burgesses, and I cannot antagonise them en masse, especially as Dick Tulyet is not here to calm troubled waters. There are too many delicate trading arrangements at risk.’

Bartholomew was not very interested in commerce. He began to think about Gosse’s mysterious words. ‘What does he want from us? He kept saying we have something that is rightfully his.’

Michael raised his hands. ‘How can the University have anything that belongs to thieves from Suffolk?’

Bartholomew returned the gesture. ‘Scholars travel, Brother. And some of them hail from Clare – the home of the Gosses is a large settlement, complete with castle and priory.’

‘I know that, but I checked our registers, and no one currently enrolled in the University comes from there. There were three last year, but they have left. I can state, quite categorically, that we have no association with Clare at the moment.’

‘Then what did Gosse mean? What does he want from us?’

‘You may be looking for logical answers where there are none to find. As I have told you before, Idoma is not quite sane – her demand may be the product of a deranged mind.’

Bartholomew regarded the monk doubtfully. ‘I am not so sure, Brother. I was under the impression that she and Gosse think we have some specific item that they believe belongs to them. Neither sounded confused to me.’

Michael waved a dismissive hand. ‘Well, we do not have it, whatever it is. I have already asked all seven Colleges and hostels whether any of their members have been to Clare recently, but none have. I repeat: there are no connections between these felons and their Cambridge victims.’

‘Perhaps you had better pass their request to our colleagues, anyway,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Or they may corner someone else – someone who does not carry childbirth forceps in his bag, and who might be rather more intimidated by them.’

Michael agreed. ‘Very well. You know, Matt, I have met many scoundrels since becoming a proctor, some of them extremely dangerous. But I do not think I have ever encountered anyone who unsettles me to the same extent as Idoma. There is definitely something sinister about her.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘There is, but I cannot decide what. It cannot just be her shark-fish eyes; there is something else, too. Could it be that she is extremely large?’

‘Possibly. I grabbed one of her arms when I interviewed her once, and it was like gripping iron – she is strong as well as sizeable. You should steer clear of her and Gosse from now on. I have my beadles to protect me, but you are often out alone.’

‘You think they could best me?’ asked Bartholomew, smiling. ‘A deadly veteran of Poitiers?’

‘It is not funny,’ said Michael sternly. ‘You are a fool if you underestimate the threat they pose.’

‘I do not underestimate them. But equally, I will not let them unnerve me again – it is what they want, and I do not intend to play that game. But Wynewyk is more important than them, and it is time to bury him. Come, or we will be late.’

The weather suited the occasion as Michaelhouse’s scholars gathered outside the church. The clouds were a dense, unbroken grey, and rain fell in misty veils, blown this way and that by a determined wind. In their uniform black cloaks and tabards they formed a sombre group as they processed to the grave, accompanied by no sound except the tolling of a bell. Once there, Bartholomew listened to the sorrowful, moving eulogy delivered by Clippesby, and found himself inventing all manner of improbable explanations that would see Wynewyk absolved of any wrongdoing. When Clippesby had finished, the servants lowered the coffin into the ground.

‘He might as well be buried at sea,’ muttered Thelnetham – the drizzle had formed a deep puddle at the bottom of the grave. ‘Still, perhaps it will serve to quench the fires of Hell, because that is where he is bound. God does not approve of men who cheat their colleagues.’

‘We should wait until we have all the facts before condemning him,’ said Bartholomew coldly. Thelnetham was a relative newcomer, so what right did he have to judge Wynewyk?

‘If you say so,’ replied Thelnetham, adjusting the hood of his Gilbertine habit to keep the rain from his eyes. ‘But if he was innocent, why did he go to such lengths to conceal what he was doing?’

‘This is neither the time nor the place for such a discussion,’ chided Langelee, raising a hand to prevent the physician from responding. ‘Save your opinions for the Statutory Fellows’ Meeting tomorrow afternoon, where the matter will be aired in full.’

A number of people, including Chancellor Tynkell, a contingent of soldierly ex-lovers from the castle, and a small group of scholars from King’s Hall, had come to pay their respects at Wynewyk’s graveside. Hospitably, Langelee invited them back to the College for wine and honey cakes. Among the guests was Warden Powys.

‘Thank you for tending Shropham last night, Bartholomew,’ he said quietly. ‘It is a dreadful business, and I agree with Paxtone that there will be some rational explanation for what has happened. I have known Shropham for years, and he has never been violent before.’

‘He is malleable, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He told me he runs errands for the rest of you – teaching classes you dislike, sharpening your quills…’

‘He is not made to do those things,’ said Powys, a little defensively. ‘He pesters us until we agree to let him. We do not feel entirely comfortable with it, but it seems to make him happy. And we are all busy men, so you cannot blame us for taking advantage of what is freely offered.’

‘Why does he do it?’ asked Bartholomew. It was odd behaviour for a senior scholar.

‘I really have no idea. And it has been going on for so long that I no longer give it any thought.’

‘Did you ever meet the Dominican he killed? Carbo?’

Powys grimaced at his choice of words. ‘No, I had never seen Carbo before. And I took several Fellows to view his corpse in the Black Friars’ chapel today, but they did not know him, either. Prior Morden says Carbo is not one of his own people, so he must be a visitor. Ergo, there is no reason for Shropham to have…’ He waved his hand, not sure how to describe what had occurred.

‘If there is an explanation, Michael will find it,’ promised Bartholomew, seeing the unhappiness in the Warden’s face, and sympathising. It was how he felt about Wynewyk.

‘I visited Shropham earlier,’ said Powys miserably. ‘But he declined to talk to me. What is wrong with him? Could he have a brain fever?’

‘He does not seem ill,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘Just tired and sad.’

Powys’s expression was pained. ‘Paxtone may have to contest your opinion about that, if the Black Friars clamour for him to be hanged. The murder of a priest is a serious matter, and a plea of insanity may be the only way to save him. We do not want him executed.’

Bartholomew watched him move away, wondering to what lengths he would go to save his colleague. Would Michaelhouse do the same for Wynewyk? Would a tale be invented to explain the missing money, which would absolve him from any wrongdoing? He rubbed his head, and wished with all his heart that Wynewyk was alive to explain himself.

When the guests had gone, Langelee decided the rest of the day was to be dedicated to lessons, despite the fact that it was Sunday, when learning was usually suspended.

‘We must resume the semblance of normality as soon as possible,’ he said, looking around at his Fellows and ignoring the fact that teaching on the Sabbath was not normal at all. Then, in one of his legendary leaps of logic, he added, ‘I do not want it said that Wynewyk was the victim of foul play.’

‘Why would anyone say that?’ asked Michael suspiciously.

‘Because Bartholomew informed Paxtone that Wynewyk was poisoned,’ Langelee replied, shooting the physician a pained glance. ‘Warden Powys just told me.’

‘I said nothing of the kind,’ objected Bartholomew indignantly. ‘I mentioned Wynewyk’s aversion to nuts, but Paxtone said it was excessive hilarity that carried Wynewyk away: he thinks it brought about a fatal imbalance of humours.’

‘And which of these two theories is correct?’ asked Suttone worriedly.

‘I do not know,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘I thought the almonds had killed him at first, but perhaps Paxtone is right and it is too outlandish a–’

‘He died of a seizure brought on by laughter,’ said Michael firmly. He glared at the physician. ‘It is what we agreed, and it is what we shall tell anyone else who asks.’

‘Well, he had a lot to laugh about,’ said Langelee bitterly. ‘Thirty marks successfully stolen.’

‘Perhaps God struck him down,’ suggested Thelnetham. ‘I imagine He does not approve of thieves who gloat over their spoils, especially ones who do it in front of their victims.’

‘I do not believe that,’ said Clippesby, bending down to pick up the College cat, which had come to wind itself around his legs. ‘Wynewyk did not steal from us – he was our friend. And, if it is not too much to ask, I would rather no one voiced uncharitable thoughts about him until Brother Michael has proved his innocence. Which I know he will.’

‘Our students are waiting,’ said Langelee, bringing an abrupt end to the discussion. ‘We shall take their minds off this dismal occasion with lessons, and Michael can resume his enquiries into Wynewyk’s crimes tomorrow.’

It was late by the time the Master decided the students had been taught enough that day, by which point their heads were spinning and their masters were exhausted. Agatha had cooked pea pottage for supper, but it was full of peculiar lumps – she claimed they were apple, but they were hard and tasteless, and Bartholomew suspected they were the cattle fodder that had mysteriously gone missing the previous week.

‘Wynewyk has a lot to answer for,’ muttered Michael, glowering at his bowl. ‘We made good money from the sale of Sewale Cottage last summer, and we also have a tidy income from renting out the shops we bought from Mistress Refham. We should be living like kings, not eating this slop.’

‘And that is something we should have thought about weeks ago,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘The quality of food has been declining for months and Agatha is always saying she does not have enough money to make ends meet. We should have guessed far sooner that something was amiss.’

Michael glowered at him. ‘I hope you are not suggesting that it is our fault Wynewyk stole from us? That had we been more vigilant, it would not have happened?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Why not? It is true. We all noticed the decline in the quality of meals, and we all complained. But none of us bothered to investigate.’

‘That is complete and utter nonsense!’ exploded Michael, loudly enough to draw disapproving glances from his colleagues. Talking at meals was overlooked if done discreetly, but yelling was not. He lowered his voice. ‘It did not occur to me to investigate, because it did not occur to me that a colleague – a man I liked and trusted – would cheat us.’

‘Enough, Bartholomew,’ said Langelee, when the physician opened his mouth to reply. ‘I told you at the churchyard – save your opinions for the Statutory Fellows’ Meeting tomorrow. Our students have long ears, and I do not want them overhearing something we would all rather they did not.’

He had a point, and Bartholomew did not want Wynewyk to become the subject of scurrilous rumours. He turned his attention to the pottage and found himself glad the rigours of the day had robbed him of his appetite, because it was almost inedible and certainly lacking in any nutritional benefit. He was not the only one who toyed listlessly with it until the servants took the dishes away.

When Langelee had said a final grace in his appalling Latin, which, as usual, entailed leaving out words he did not like the look of or substituting for them ones of his own devising, the Fellows adjourned to the conclave, leaving the hall to the students. Neither gathering was very merry.

‘I will ask the rats about the accounts, Brother,’ offered Clippesby. Bartholomew could see a whiskery nose protruding from the Dominican’s sleeve, and hoped he had not brought one to the conclave. He did not mind most of Clippesby’s ‘friends’, but he drew the line at rats. ‘They have an eye for figures, and will prove Wynewyk was doing no wrong.’

‘You think everyone is good, Clippesby,’ said Michael. He made no comment about the rats’ fiscal abilities – he had learned it was best to leave such declarations unchallenged, because acknowledging them invariably resulted in a rash of theories and remarks that should have seen the Dominican incarcerated for his own safety. ‘But the world is a wicked place.’

‘People are wicked,’ corrected Clippesby. ‘Animals are not. Incidentally, the spiders did not see anyone steal your pennyroyal, Matt. You asked me whether I knew anything about it.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Thelnetham. He was still not used to Clippesby, and found him unsettling. ‘You talk to spiders? I thought you confined yourself to creatures with fur or feathers.’

‘Spiders have fur,’ averred Clippesby. ‘Next time you meet one, have a closer look.’

Thelnetham shuddered and made no reply.

Bartholomew was usually tolerant of Clippesby’s idiosyncrasies, far more so than the other Fellows, but he was not in the mood for them that night. He made his excuses to Langelee, and left the College. He was worried about his sister, and wanted to make sure she had not mounted her own investigation into Joan’s untimely death.

‘I cannot stop thinking about her,’ said Edith without preamble when he arrived. She was sitting by the fire, shivering, even though the room was hot. ‘She was murdered. Why will you not believe me?’

Bartholomew regarded her unhappily. ‘You have let her husband’s claims unsettle you. Elyan was upset and angry, and said things he did not mean. You heard what his grandmother–’

‘He is right to be suspicious. Someone gave Joan pennyroyal, encouraging her to drink it by saying it would strengthen her blood or some such nonsense. She took it in good faith, and died for her trusting nature.’

‘But she did not know anyone in Cambridge,’ Bartholomew pointed out reasonably. ‘Other than you. Why would she drink a potion offered by a stranger?’

Edith glared at him. ‘If you gave me a tonic, telling me it would benefit my well-being, I would swallow it without question. So would any of your patients, whether they are intimately acquainted with you or not.’

‘You think a physician hurt her?’ Bartholomew was shocked. ‘Paxtone or Rougham? Or me?’

‘Of course not, but there are plenty of other folk who dabble in matters of health – witches, wise-women, midwives, apothecaries and even priests. Perhaps one of them did it.’

‘But why? Joan came to Cambridge to buy ribbon. Surely she cannot have made enemies–’

‘She did not have enemies. But Elyan might have done – perhaps someone wanted to ensure he never had his heir.’

‘So the culprit followed Joan all the way from Haverhill, with the express purpose of damaging her unborn child?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘That does not sound very likely.’

‘Or perhaps the priest did it,’ Edith went on, ignoring him. ‘Neubold. Why else would he fail to come to her deathbed? Because he killed her!’

‘Easy,’ said Bartholomew, thinking she was letting her imagination run riot. ‘No one killed Joan, and there will be a perfectly rational explanation for the absence of this cleric.’

‘How do you know?’ demanded Edith angrily. ‘You have no idea what kind of life Joan lived in Haverhill. She and Elyan might have accrued some very dangerous foes.’

‘Did she mention any?’

‘No,’ admitted Edith. ‘But perhaps she was oblivious to the malice they bore her. She was a kind, loving person, always eager to see the good in people. She even said nice things about Osa Gosse, and we all know he does not deserve it.’

‘She knew him?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, thinking about Michael’s notion that Gosse might have stolen the missing pennyroyal.

‘She recognised him as an inhabitant of Clare, which is not far from Haverhill, apparently. They exchanged words.’

‘Hostile ones?’

‘No. It was mostly pleasantries about the weather and Cambridge’s pretty churches, but then Gosse began to hint that he wanted her to buy him some Market Square trinkets – for his sister, he said. He is not poor, and I did not see why she should buy him anything.’

‘Then what?’ asked Bartholomew, when she paused.

‘It does not matter,’ said Edith, looking away. ‘You have enough to worry about.’

‘Then what?’ repeated Bartholomew.

Edith sighed. ‘I shall tell you, but it really was nothing, and I do not want you doing anything you might later regret. Gosse and Idoma frighten me, and–’

‘Edith!’ said Bartholomew, exasperated. ‘What happened next?’

Edith sighed a second time. ‘I took her arm and pulled her away, to bring an end to the discussion. Gosse objected, presumably because he thought Joan was about to capitulate, and he … found a way to express his disappointment.’

‘How?’ asked Bartholomew, feeling anger begin to boil inside him. It was one thing for Gosse to corner him in secluded alleys, but another altogether to pick on his beloved sister.

Edith took his hand. ‘It was nothing, Matt. He grabbed a handful of mud and threw it. But it contained pebbles, and hurt when it struck my head.’

‘He lobbed stones at you?’ demanded Bartholomew, fury erupting. He stood abruptly, with the wild notion of racing out to find Gosse there and then, and showing him what happened to thieves who dared harm Edith.

‘Pebbles,’ she corrected. She indicated he was to sit again while she finished her tale. ‘I complained to Constable Muschett, but he said there was nothing he could do because there were no witnesses. But there was a witness – Valence saw what happened.’ ‘My student?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘He mentioned none of this to me.’

‘I ordered him not to, because I knew how you would react. Meanwhile, Muschett said Valence did not count as a witness, because of the Stanton Cups – he thinks Michaelhouse will go to any lengths to get them back, including accusing Gosse of other crimes, to discredit him.’

‘Muschett thinks we are dishonest? That we would lie?’ Bartholomew was offended.

‘I shall be glad when Sheriff Tulyet comes home,’ said Edith, ignoring his questions. ‘He will not be intimidated by Gosse. Did you know the Frail Sisters often see Gosse prowling the streets at night? And that the next day there is always a burgled College or hostel? It is obvious he is the culprit, but everyone is too timid to challenge him.’

‘Because he won a lawsuit against the town,’ explained Bartholomew, deciding not to ask how she was acquainted with what prostitutes did. He was sure her husband would not approve if she had decided to take up where Matilde had left off, and act as their advocate. ‘The burgesses were obliged to provide compensation, and no one likes paying the villain who stole from them. I imagine most people would rather stay low until he moves on.’

‘I do not blame them – and I do not want you tackling him over what I have just told you, either. I mean it, Matthew. And if I hear you have disobeyed me, I shall be very angry.’

Bartholomew smiled, recalling similar words issued when he had been a child. He was no longer six years old, but he still did not want Edith angry with him.

She smiled back, then patted his hand. ‘But to return to Joan, I doubt Gosse is the one who harmed her, because I cannot imagine he knows what pennyroyal can do.’

‘What about Idoma?’ asked Bartholomew. He closed his eyes, and wished he had not asked. He wanted Edith to think she was wrong about Joan, and the way to do it was not by posing questions that would make her reassess what she knew of the Gosse family.

‘She is too stupid to know about poisons,’ replied Edith with a dismissive sniff. ‘But someone harmed Joan – I am sure of it. And I am tempted to ride to Haverhill and tell Elyan so.’

‘Please do not,’ begged Bartholomew. ‘If you are right, then Joan’s killer will not be very happy to see you, and you will put yourself in danger.’

‘But I cannot sit here knowing that my oldest friend is dead by foul means, and do nothing about it,’ cried Edith, eyes filling with tears. ‘It is not right!’

‘I will ask Michael to investigate,’ promised Bartholomew. The monk would not appreciate being volunteered for such a task, but the physician did not know how else to stop her. ‘He needs to speak to Elyan anyway, because Wynewyk bought coal from him.’

He did not tell her that most of the transactions appeared to be illegal on Wynewyk’s part, and that the money passed to Elyan – if it was ever received – was for goods that had never been delivered.

Edith was silent for a while. ‘Very well,’ she said eventually. ‘If Elyan does have enemies who might strike at him through his pregnant wife, then Michael is the man to see justice done.’