A Vein of Deceit

Chapter 12

Michael wasted no time in summoning some of his beadles to remove the bodies from King’s Hall. Junior Proctor Cleydon was with them, and was instructed to return to St Mary the Great and discreetly invite Powys to walk outside for some air. The monk needed to talk to the King’s Hall Warden urgently, but did not want to do it in such a way that several hundred scholars would wonder what was going on. Fortunately, the debate had started, so he hoped attention would be on the disputants, not on what was happening in the audience; the last thing he needed was a contingent of outraged King’s Hall students rallying to their Warden’s side.

‘I was looking forward to today,’ he said bitterly. ‘I was going to dazzle everyone with my incisive analyses, to remind men of influence that I would make a good bishop. Instead, I am forced to explore Tesdale’s sordid accusations against King’s Hall. And when that is done, I am obliged to help Langelee resolve the dispute surrounding Elyan Manor. Sometimes I hate being a proctor!’

‘You need to arrest Gosse and Idoma, too,’ added Bartholomew, who felt missing an academic discussion was the least of their worries. ‘They are killers, and we must thwart whatever they are planning to do during the debate.’

‘Then we had better not waste any more time,’ said Michael, beginning to stride to where Paxtone, white-faced and tearful, was sitting on a bench in King’s Hall’s well-appointed yard.

Bartholomew grabbed the monk’s arm and held him back. ‘He was protecting his College, Brother. Do not tell me you have never recruited spies to combat a threat to your home?’

‘You are too willing to see the good in people,’ said Michael, freeing himself impatiently. ‘I saw Paxtone myself, laughing and joking with Wynewyk, pretending to be his friend. At best he is duplicitous, and at worst … It does not bear thinking about.’

‘Paxtone did not harm Wynewyk, though,’ Bartholomew pointed out reasonably. ‘Tesdale confessed to that – along with Wynewyk’s own efforts to kill himself.’

‘Then what about Agatha’s claim – that Paxtone is in league with Gosse?’ demanded Michael. ‘Or Tesdale’s similar allegation against Powys? And do not forget the diamonds.’

‘Diamonds?’ Bartholomew was not sure how they fitted into anything.

Michael made an exasperated face. ‘Wynewyk carried an uncut gem in his purse, and had others hidden under the floorboards in his room – and Clippesby found letters in which he had offered them to wealthy nobles. Meanwhile, what does Paxtone have in his cupboard, that he snatched away from you when you happened across them? Uncut diamonds! Do not tell me that is coincidence.’

‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew cautiously. ‘But I still cannot see the significance.’

‘Has it occurred to you that Paxtone may not have been spying on us to protect King’s Hall, but because Wynewyk had something King’s Hall wanted? He made Wynewyk the villain, but who is to say he is telling the truth?’

Bartholomew was confused. ‘But Tesdale told us that Wynewyk and Paxtone discussed and wrote about stones together – he did not mention any antagonism between them. They were more likely to have been working jointly to–’

‘No. King’s Hall is not the sort of foundation to share that sort of thing, and neither, frankly, was Wynewyk. They may have maintained a veneer of co-operation, but the intentions of each of them would have been to best the other.’

‘Really, Brother,’ said Bartholomew in distaste. ‘Not everyone is base, greedy and corrupt.’

‘I think you will find they are,’ countered Michael. ‘Especially where lots of money is concerned. But let us take a moment and review what we know of these diamonds.’

‘They came from Neubold,’ obliged Bartholomew. ‘Yolande de Blaston told me Neubold gave Paxtone these stones because they can help women in childbirth. She stole one from him.’

‘Paxtone lied to her.’ Michael took up the tale. ‘He fabricated a tale, so a prostitute would not spread the story that King’s Hall owns a lot of uncut diamonds. I imagine Wynewyk’s stones came from Neubold, too. But why would a Dominican priest be dispensing such things?’

‘He dispensed them to men who were going to invest in Elyan’s coal seam,’ said Bartholomew.

Michael gaped at the implications. ‘You think Elyan’s colliery is actually a diamond mine?’

‘Of course not, but that is not the point – which is what other people believe. Precious stones discovered on Elyan land explain a lot of things. For example why Wynewyk made his secret journey to Suffolk in the summer. Why King’s Hall, d’Audley and Luneday are so eager to inherit Elyan Manor. And why Elyan pays vigilant guards.’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘It also explains why Wynewyk sent Kelyng to watch the place: he wanted to know if the tale was true.’

Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair, as various clues snapped together in his mind. ‘Margery said the mine held a secret. This must be what she meant. But Elyan said his mine is not producing what was expected. We thought he referred to coal, but he must have meant diamonds.’

‘Which were numerous to begin with – hence the free samples to investors – but which quickly petered out,’ finished Michael. ‘Wynewyk probably intended to repay Michaelhouse without us being any the wiser, and keep the fabulous profits for himself – profits earned by selling these uncut diamonds to wealthy nobles.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew stubbornly. ‘He would have shared them with Michaelhouse.’

Michael ignored him. ‘But when the promised returns failed to materialise, he realised he had “borrowed” too much. We began to feel the pinch, and he knew it was only a matter of time before his colleagues started to wonder why. He began to grow desperate–’

‘No,’ insisted Bartholomew. ‘He is not a thief.’

‘He would not have tried to kill Langelee if his intentions had been honest, nor would he have kept the whole thing secret – he would have solicited our help. But we do not have time for protracted deliberations here. I cannot escape the feeling that something terrible is about to happen, and while it is good to have answers to some of our questions, too many still remain.’

‘Such as who killed Joan, why she came to Cambridge–’

‘Such as what King’s Hall is doing with Gosse,’ corrected Michael. ‘That is far more pressing.’

‘Here is Powys,’ said Bartholomew, as the Warden of King’s Hall entered the College at a run. The Junior Proctor was behind him. ‘You can demand answers from him, as well as Paxtone.’

‘I dare not linger,’ gasped Cleydon, pulling Michael to one side. ‘Thelnetham has just made a highly inflammatory declaration, and the Franciscans are howling heresy. One of us needs to be there to keep the peace, or there will be bloodshed for certain.’

‘Do you need more beadles?’ asked Michael. ‘If so, we can use the ones I sent to arrest Gosse and Idoma. Laying hold of felons is not nearly as urgent as preventing a riot.’

‘I have already redeployed them,’ replied Cleydon, his face taut with worry. ‘It seemed reckless to squander resources on a manhunt when we are on the brink of serious trouble.’

‘Send word to Constable Muschett,’ ordered Michael. ‘His soldiers can deal with Gosse.’

‘I have told him, Brother. But he has locked himself in the castle and informs me that he does not intend to come out today. This would not be happening if Sheriff Tulyet were here.’

‘Gosse and Idoma are planning something terrible,’ said Bartholomew, horrified to learn they were still free. ‘We must stop it – whatever it is.’

Michael turned to Cleydon. ‘I will make enquiries about Gosse’s plans while you return to the church. Keep everyone calm and prevent a riot at all costs.’

It was a tall order, and Cleydon did not look happy as he hurried away.

Bartholomew’s mind was spinning as he and Michael walked towards Paxtone. The King’s Hall physician was in urgent conference with his Warden, but they stopped speaking abruptly when the Michaelhouse men came within earshot.

‘You owe us an explanation,’ said Michael coldly.

‘There is nothing more to say,’ replied Paxtone, exchanging a brief and rather furtive glance with his colleague. ‘I encouraged Matthew to accept Risleye as a student because we needed to know what Wynewyk was doing. And you heard Tesdale: Wynewyk was in such deep water that he tried to kill himself, so our qualms were certainly justified.’

‘I was not referring to that,’ said Michael icily, ‘although sending spies to other foundations is unsavoury, and is a matter that will be aired at greater length later. I refer to the rumours that say you have been doing business with Gosse – that he expects to share a considerable fortune with you.’

‘With us?’ asked Paxtone, startled, while the Warden gaped at the charge. ‘I cannot imagine–’

‘Do not play games,’ blazed Michael, patience at an end. ‘Men are dead, and there is something rotten going on that involves your College. You will tell me what.’

‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ said Paxtone, alarmed.

‘You can start by explaining why you came back to King’s Hall covered in blood on the night that Carbo was murdered.’ Michael’s expression was glacial.

‘What is wrong with you today, Brother?’ cried Warden Powys. ‘You cannot come here and start issuing wild accusations! You already have Shropham in your clutches. Is that not enough? Or do you intend to persist until you have all my Fellows under lock and key?’

Paxtone had looked confused when Michael mentioned the night of Carbo’s death, but suddenly his expression cleared. ‘You refer to the occasion when I left Matthew reading in my room, while I went to bleed Constable Muschett?’

Events suddenly made sense to Bartholomew, too. ‘You were wiping your hands when you came back, and said you were grateful you had worn an apron.’

‘I am not good at phlebotomy,’ said Paxtone sheepishly. ‘And it is not unusual for veins to spurt at me. I went to the kitchens to wash and Tesdale was there. I was embarrassed by my ineptitude, and paid him not to say anything – I suppose he put his own inimical twist on the incident. I do my best with these nasty techniques, but I do not own your skill with them, Matthew.’

Bartholomew ignored the barb and saw that Paxtone might well be telling the truth: Muschett’s summons had been unexpected, and Paxtone was notoriously bad at anything that involved cautery.

‘Then what about the diamonds?’ demanded Michael.

‘Diamonds?’ echoed Paxtone, jaw dropping. ‘What in God’s name are you talking about?’

‘The bag of stones I found in your cupboard,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘They are uncut gems.’

Paxtone continued to gape. ‘They are rocks to help a woman through childbirth. Even you, despite your unorthodoxy, must know certain minerals have the power to alleviate specific conditions.’

Bartholomew was uncertain what to think – Paxtone was convincing – but Michael was less credulous. ‘Tesdale said you and Wynewyk worked together on a project involving rocks,’ the monk said accusingly. ‘And he also said you took care to keep it away from him.’

‘Of course Paxtone did not let Tesdale know his business,’ snapped the Warden, before Paxtone could answer for himself. ‘We were wary of the lad – doubting the wisdom of hiring him – so naturally we made sure he saw nothing of our affairs.’

‘That does not tell us what you were doing with Wynewyk,’ said Bartholomew.

Paxtone sighed. ‘We were discussing Elyan Manor, if you must know. Wynewyk had purchased a share in the mine, and was concerned about who would eventually inherit. He supported our claim, because he knew we would treat fairly with him. We did not discuss rocks – we discussed coal.’

‘We dealt honestly with him, but our decency was not reciprocated,’ added the Warden bitterly. ‘I never trusted him, although we maintained a veneer of friendship. And if you say I malign him, then you are fools. I could not believe it when Langelee gave him free rein with the Michaelhouse accounts, and if you do not find inconsistencies in them, I will dance naked in St Mary the Great.’

‘Something malevolent is at work here,’ said Michael, declining to discuss a colleague, even a treacherous one, with members of a rival foundation. ‘It has already resulted in the deaths of Joan, Carbo, Neubold, Margery and her paramour d’Audley, Wynewyk and Kelyng, and attempts have been made on my life and Matt’s. It is time to bring an end to it. You must help me.’

‘But we have no idea what you are talking about!’ cried Paxtone. ‘Who is Margery?’

‘Neubold is dead?’ cried the Warden. ‘How?’

‘It would take too long to explain,’ snapped Michael. ‘So, for the last time, what is going on?’

‘Nothing is going on,’ declared Powys angrily. ‘At least, nothing involving King’s Hall. You say Gosse claims an association with us, but he is lying. Your accusations are outrageous – and offensive to a foundation that enjoys the patronage of the King.’

Bartholomew recalled what Michael had said about Powys – that he was unlikely to do anything without royal approval. Did His Majesty know that precious stones might be being unearthed in a quiet corner of his realm, and had he charged the Warden of his favourite College to ensure he did not lose out? Bartholomew’s stomach churned at the implications of the remark.

Michael also seemed to accept that the interrogation was going no further now such a powerful player had been introduced. ‘We should all go to Michaelhouse,’ he said coldly. ‘Langelee will be making his decision about Elyan Manor soon, and someone needs to represent King’s Hall if you think you have a right to the place.’

‘We do have a right,’ asserted Powys, equally icy. ‘Far more so than the other claimants.’

He gestured that Michael was to leave his domain, and with no alternative but to do as he was bid, the monk complied. Bartholomew followed, and the two King’s Hall men brought up the rear.

Michael, glanced around uneasily as they walked. ‘Idoma said you have all the pieces of the puzzle now, and I suspect she is right. We just need to put them together and find answers before anyone else dies.’

‘But you heard Powys,’ said Bartholomew, coils of unease writhing in his stomach. ‘The King–’

‘I do not believe that – he is just trying to frighten us. He is involved in something dark, and I can think of no better way to make him show his hand than to take him to Michaelhouse and see what happens when he learns his College has no right to inherit Elyan Manor.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘It is not dangerous?’

‘Oh, it is dangerous,’ said Michael. There was a gleam in his eye that said he was looking forward to outwitting his enemies. ‘But so are we.’

When Bartholomew and Michael arrived at Michaelhouse, Paxtone and Warden Powys in tow, the deputation from Suffolk was already there. Langelee was entertaining them in the hall, empty of scholars because they were all at the debate, and had donned his ceremonial robes for the occasion.

He was regaling them with details of a camp-ball game he had enjoyed the previous week. Luneday listened with rapt attention, his eyes never leaving Langelee’s face, and Lady Agnys interrupted with several astute observations. Hilton was more interested in the library, while Elyan was covetously fingering the half-finished cloak Agatha had left hanging over the back of a bench.

Michael began to make introductions. Elyan was pleased to meet the King’s Hall men, and began talking about the arrangements Neubold had made on his behalf. Agnys was polite but strangely subdued, especially towards Paxtone, while Luneday was bluff, hearty and insincere.

‘Where is d’Audley?’ asked Langelee. ‘We are all busy men, and cannot wait for him to–’

‘Dead,’ interrupted Michael. ‘Gosse killed him.’

There was a startled silence.

‘Are you sure?’ asked Agnys eventually, the first to recover her composure.

‘Quite sure,’ replied Michael tersely. The confrontations with Tesdale and the King’s Hall men had unsettled him, and made him disinclined to mince words.

‘It is probably good news for me,’ said Elyan, ignoring the warning glare his grandmother shot him. ‘He wanted me dead, because he was so sure he was going to win my estates. I shall sleep easier in my bed knowing he is not after my blood.’

‘We had better make a start,’ said Langelee briskly. ‘I understand that Gosse and his hell-hag sister have something deadly in mind for later, so it is in all our interests to get a move on.’

‘Something deadly?’ asked Hilton, turning white at the prospect. ‘What?’

‘We do not know yet,’ replied Michael coolly, looking around at each of the gathering in turn. Bartholomew did likewise, but could read nothing in anyone’s expression – could not tell if he was among friends or in the presence of people who were in league with some very deadly criminals.

‘Do you think this “something deadly” will happen here?’ asked Elyan, tugging his cloak around him as if he found the hall suddenly too cold. ‘I thought we would be safe inside these thick walls.’

‘We are secure enough,’ said Langelee. He grinned rather diabolically as he patted the sword he wore at his side; it was incongruous against his academic garb. ‘But if not, I can wield a blade with the best of them. I skewered many a villain when I worked for the Archbishop of York.’

‘Did you?’ asked Luneday, impressed. ‘You are indeed a man of many parts, Master.’

‘I am,’ agreed Langelee smugly. He took his sceptre and gave the table several enthusiastic raps to indicate business was under way. ‘This meeting will take the form of all College proceedings: we shall begin with a prayer, then discuss the matter in hand. I will hear all sides of the argument, and then make my decision. Do you all consent to bide by it?’

‘Only if you find in our favour,’ said Powys. ‘I cannot stand by and see King’s Hall dispossessed.’

‘That is not how these things work,’ argued Luneday. ‘You either agree in advance to accept whatever Master Langelee decrees, or you do not – in which case we may as well go home.’

The Warden stood. ‘I do not approve of the way this is being rushed, and you have King’s Hall at a disadvantage. All our colleagues are at the Blood Relic debate, while our most skilful lawyer is in prison. I demand an adjournment until such time–’

‘In prison for what?’ asked Luneday curiously.

‘For something he did not do,’ replied Powys before Michael could speak.

‘We know he did not murder Carbo,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But there are other matters with which he might be able to help us. So he will stay where he is until I have answers.’

‘I say let him out,’ said Luneday. He shrugged when everyone regarded him uncertainly. ‘Just for an hour. He can represent King’s Hall, and then everyone will be happy – they will have their best lawyer, and we shall have our decision. Afterwards, you can lock him away again.’

‘No,’ demurred Warden Powys, looking uneasy. ‘He will not be himself after all this time in a cell, and this is too important a matter for errors. I object most strongly.’

‘You cannot object,’ said Agnys. ‘Your basis for demanding a delay is the lack of a good lawyer. But once Shropham is released, that no longer holds. Or do you have other reasons for wanting this to drag on for years – such as your case not being as strong as you would have us believe?’

‘Well, Powys?’ demanded Michael archly, when the Warden opened his mouth to argue, but no words emerged. ‘Lady Agnys makes a good point.’

Paxtone saw they were cornered, even if Powys was not ready to admit it.

‘Very well,’ he said, ignoring Powys’s immediate scowl of disapproval. ‘Bring Shropham. A respite from that dank gaol will do him good anyway.’

‘I shall fetch him at once,’ said Michael.

‘Good,’ said Paxtone. ‘It means I am not needed, for which I am grateful. The events of the day have distressed me, and I feel the need to rest.’

‘What events?’ asked Agnys immediately.

Paxtone’s smile was pained. ‘College matters, madam. You would not understand.’

Bartholomew followed Michael outside and across the yard, aware that they had left behind them a very unhappy group. Luneday and Langelee were the only two who seemed to be enjoying themselves, although even they were showing signs of strain: Langelee was itching to be done so he could attend his camp-ball game, while Luneday’s jovial bonhomie was beginning to sound forced. Meanwhile, Elyan was growing increasingly uneasy; he kept going to the windows to look out. His grandmother watched him with wary eyes, Hilton played nervously with pen and ink, and Powys was white with barely restrained fury.

‘There goes Paxtone,’ said Michael, stepping outside the gate and pointing to where the King’s Hall physician was waddling briskly towards the High Street. ‘I would have thought he would be eager to ensure King’s Hall is as well represented as possible, yet he cannot wait to leave.’

‘He explained why – he is not needed if Shropham is here. Besides, Risleye just died in his arms. I do not blame him for being loath to think about legal matters now.’

Michael frowned anxiously as they walked along the lane. ‘I was hoping Langelee would deliver one of his instant decisions, and we would be done with the matter. We do not have time to race back and forth with incarcerated felons.’

‘Langelee will not dally,’ said Bartholomew. He increased his stride. ‘But we should hurry, anyway. You are right – we do not have time for this kind of errand.’

The streets were strangely empty of scholars, and Bartholomew imagined St Mary the Great must be bursting at the seams. There was a distant roar of applause as a disputant made a clever point, although it was immediately followed by an equally loud chorus of boos and hisses.

‘I would not want to be in Luneday’s shoes,’ mused Michael, breathless from the rapid pace. ‘With Elyan’s heir and d’Audley dead, he is all that stands between King’s Hall and the inheritance.’

‘He does not seem concerned, though,’ said Bartholomew, wondering whether it was significant.

‘Damn it all!’ cried Michael. ‘We have murder and deception taking place right under our noses but we do not have enough clues and evidence to stop it. I cannot recall when I have ever felt so helpless in a tide of unfolding events.’

A roar of clamouring voices told them someone had just made another contentious point, and Bartholomew knew from experience that when the disputants issued statements that induced that sort of reaction, tempers ran very hot.

Michael was becoming exasperated. ‘We have solved a number of murders – Gosse killed Kelyng, d’Audley dispatched Neubold, Neubold stabbed Carbo, and Tesdale killed Wynewyk – but there are still far too many questions. This is not like other cases – there is not one culprit this time, but several, all with their own distinct agendas.’

There was a third roar from St Mary the Great, angry and clamouring. It was followed by the kind of jeers that were intended to be provocative.

‘Get Shropham, Matt,’ ordered Michael abruptly. ‘And take him to the College. I think I had better check Cleydon does not need me.’

Shropham, pale and heavy-eyed, said nothing when the physician told him he was going to represent King’s Hall in a legal dispute, and meekly followed him out into the High Street.

‘Shropham,’ said Paxtone warmly, stepping in front of them and forcing them to a sudden standstill. Bartholomew frowned, because Paxtone appeared to have come out of St Michael’s. It was not a church he usually frequented, and Bartholomew was not sure why he should start now. Moreover, Paxtone said he had escaped from Langelee’s impromptu court because he needed to rest, so why was he not at home, lying down?

‘Paxtone!’ cried Shropham, his face lighting up with genuine pleasure.

‘I have many things to tell you,’ said Paxtone. He glanced at Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps you would give us a moment alone together? God knows, we deserve it, after all we have been through.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, not sure what Paxtone intended by the odd request, but determined he would not be party to it. ‘Langelee is waiting.’

‘I am only asking for a few moments. Surely, you will not begrudge me that? You are my friend.’

Bartholomew was suddenly seized with the absolute conviction that Paxtone was nothing of the kind. He took a firmer hold of Shropham’s arm, and tugged him away. He was aware of Paxtone following, and it was not easy pulling Shropham in a direction he did not want to go, but the increasing sense that something was horribly amiss gave him the strength to do it.

‘You should not rile him,’ said Shropham, trying to look over his shoulder. ‘He is dangerous when crossed. I do not condemn him, of course. Great men are bound by different rules from you and me.’

Bartholomew regarded him blankly, then realised what he meant. ‘You think Paxtone stabbed Carbo because you saw him covered in blood on the night of the murder. But you are wrong: he was summoned to bleed Constable Muschett and he cut too deeply. He killed no one.’

Shropham gaped at him. ‘Are you sure? Only–’

‘Only what? Tell me, Shropham. You cannot harm Paxtone with anything you say – his innocence of that particular crime is incontrovertible.’

‘Only I saw him in the vicinity, and his knife was in Carbo’s body,’ whispered Shropham, hanging his head. ‘Oh, sweet Jesus! What have I done? I thought I was protecting him, but instead I have maligned him with false assumptions!’

‘His knives are standard equipment for anyone who needs small, sharp blades,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Lots of people own them, including me. Were you really prepared to hang for him? I know King’s Hall men are loyal, but…’

‘My College needs him,’ said Shropham softly. ‘More than it needs me. So it was a case of expediency. King’s Hall is the only home I have ever known, and I will do anything for it.’

Bartholomew was too agitated to tell him he was insane. ‘So what did you see that night?’

‘Paxtone covered in blood. Carbo with one of those little knives in his stomach. Beadles coming. I knew they would catch Paxtone unless I acted, so I sliced my own arm to distract them.’

‘Then what?’

‘You know the rest – the Junior Proctor was so certain I was the culprit that he did not notice Paxtone disappearing around the corner. The only other person in the vicinity was another Dominican, who left as soon as the commotion started.’

Bartholomew groaned. ‘You are a fool, Shropham! That was Neubold, who had ample reason to want his brother dead. If you had spoken out, we would have resolved all this days ago.’

He turned at a sound behind him, and realised that while they had been talking he had slackened his pace, and Paxtone had caught up. With a shock, he saw that the King’s Hall physician held one of his little phlebotomy blades.

‘I want to inspect his wound,’ said Paxtone, holding the implement as if he intended to use it to cut away Shropham’s bandage. ‘It was inflamed yesterday, and I should examine it again. You do not need me to tell you the importance of monitoring cuts, Matthew. Let me see him.’

Bartholomew tugged Shropham away a second time. Was Paxtone using Shropham’s injury as an excuse to get him alone because he wanted to coach him about Elyan Manor? Or was his intention more deadly? Bartholomew did not wait to find out, and once again left the portly physician behind.

When Shropham saw Warden Powys sitting at the table in Michaelhouse’s hall, he darted towards him and dropped to his knees, sobbing. Bemused, Powys rested his hand on his colleague’s head. Suffolk eyebrows shot up in astonishment, although, politely, no one made any comment.

Powys tried to pull Shropham into a corner so they could speak undisturbed, but unfortunately for him, the visitors were interested in the newcomer, and followed. They all turned sharply when there was a thunder of footsteps on the stairs, accompanied by heavy breathing. It was Michael.

‘What are you doing here?’ demanded Bartholomew worriedly. ‘You should be at St Mary the Great, preventing a brawl – and protecting our colleagues from Gosse.’

‘Cleydon has the situation under control,’ panted Michael. ‘And my presence transpired to be inflammatory, because people started howling at me over contentious theological points I have made in the past. It calmed somewhat when I left.’

‘Right,’ said Langelee, rubbing his hands together when he saw that all the participants were present at last. Powys grimaced when the Master indicated they were to take their seats: he still had not managed to speak to Shropham alone. ‘We should begin. Benedic nobis. Domine. That should do for a starting prayer. Now, who wants to go first?’

‘You do not tarry, do you?’ said Hilton in awe.

‘No,’ agreed Langelee amiably. ‘Luneday, tell me why Elyan Manor should be yours.’

‘I once had documents to prove my case,’ said Luneday ruefully. ‘At least, I assume I did – I cannot read, so it is difficult to be certain. But my woman made off with them.’

‘We retrieved them,’ said Michael, placing the bundle on the table. ‘Do not ask how.’

‘I like Michaelhouse!’ exclaimed Luneday approvingly. ‘You are amazing men, and I wish we had invited you into our affairs years ago. It would have saved a lot of trouble.’

Powys’s expression was unreadable. He leaned towards Shropham and tried to mutter something, but Langelee was speaking again and Shropham did not notice his Warden’s attempts to pass him a message. He merely lent his undivided attention to what the judge was saying, like any good lawyer.

‘Your claim, Luneday,’ prompted Langelee. ‘Outline why you should have the manor.’

‘Now d’Audley is dead, I am Elyan’s closest blood relative,’ replied Luneday. ‘Not counting his grandmother. We share a great-great-uncle.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Langelee. He looked at Powys. ‘What does King’s Hall have to say?’

‘We were left Elyan Manor by a man named Alneston,’ replied Powys, also setting a pile of writs on the table. Bartholomew recognised one as a copy of the early will. ‘Alneston’s son claimed it illegally after his death, and so the occupation by his descendants is similarly illegal.’

‘I have seen that particular will,’ said Hilton. ‘Lady Agnys has a copy of it, too. But I am sure there are more recent codicils that would–’

‘If they exist, then no one has found them,’ interrupted Powys smoothly. ‘And my inclination is to believe that they are figments of hopeful imaginations. Alneston’s will is unambiguous: Elyan Manor belongs to King’s Hall, and so does his chantry chapel.’

‘It is true,’ said Shropham with a shrug, picking up the relevant document. ‘As a lawyer, I would say this deed is as straightforward as any I have seen.’

Warden Powys beamed at his colleague. ‘Does anyone have anything else to add?’ he asked smugly. ‘Because if not, perhaps we shall have this speedy decision, after all.’

‘I cannot believe Alneston lived another fifty years without making some amendment to his testimony,’ said Hilton unhappily. ‘I have long wanted to peruse Luneday’s records, but–’

‘But I was not having Haverhill men poking about in my personal affairs,’ said Luneday firmly.

Powys continued to look smug. ‘And as no one can produce such a document, I submit it does not exist. The case is closed, and you may pass judgment, Langelee.’

Michael started to rummage through Margery’s pile, aiming to present the later deed and wipe the smile from Powys’s face, but Shropham was there before him. With a lawyer’s consummate interest, he had taken a handful of the deeds, and was leafing through them. When he reached Alneston’s second testament, he went still.

Powys noticed his reaction, and tried to see what he had found.

‘The priest is right,’ said Shropham, passing the deed to his Warden. ‘Alneston did make a–’

‘No,’ said Powys, screwing the parchment into a ball and tossing it over his shoulder. ‘This is a forgery, and prison has addled your mind.’

Shropham cringed, and looked as if he wished the floor would open and swallow him up. ‘Yes,’ he said in a small voice. ‘I am not well. It must be a fake, or it would have come to light before now.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Hilton, retrieving the document and reading it for himself. ‘And it looks authentic to me – I am familiar with Alneston’s seal.’

Langelee was also rifling through the pile. ‘And here is a writ drafted by King’s Hall and signed by your predecessor, Powys. It relinquishes all claims on Elyan Manor and the Alneston Chantry in exchange for the sum of forty marks, which was paid in full twenty-five years ago.’

‘No!’ cried Powys. ‘That is a forgery, too. We must have what is rightfully ours!’

‘Must?’ pounced Michael. ‘That is a powerful sentiment, Warden.’

Powys reddened and turned away. ‘You know what I am saying.’

‘I am beginning to understand. You are interested in what the mine can offer. Not coal, but–’

‘Coal is a valuable commodity,’ snapped Warden Powys. ‘Of course we are interested.’

‘I do not care about the coal,’ said Luneday. ‘And if Elyan Manor comes to me, I shall fill in the mine and turn the land over to grazing for pigs.’

‘Then sell that particular wood to us,’ said Powys eagerly. ‘King’s Hall will take the coal.’

Elyan laughed softly. ‘I do not plan on dying very soon, Warden Powys. Do you think my mine will still have anything to interest you years in the future?’

Powys regarded him strangely. ‘I imagine it will. Why? Do you know different?’

Elyan shrugged. ‘I have spent more than fifty marks on the place – d’Audley and I borrowed twenty-five from Michaelhouse and twenty-five from you – and I have been digging for almost three months now. Something should have been unearthed in all that time.’

‘Diamonds,’ said Bartholomew, leaning against the wall as he gauged Powys’s reaction. ‘That is what you were expecting to find.’

‘Diamonds?’ echoed Agnys, regarding her grandson in stunned disbelief. ‘You have been mining for diamonds? You ridiculous boy! Diamonds do not occur in England.’

‘Carbo found them,’ said Elyan. ‘He showed me where he had prised them from the seam.’

‘You did not mention this the other day, Elyan,’ said Michael accusingly. ‘You only said your minerals were exceptionally hard and pure.’

Elyan looked shifty. ‘Diamonds are hard and pure. And it was none of your affair, anyway.’

Powys was glaring. ‘Are you telling me you have excavated nothing since August? That was not what Neubold told us. Only last week, he said the work was proceeding apace and that King’s Hall would soon begin to enjoy the profits from its investment.’

Langelee was growing bored with a discussion he did not understand. ‘You can chat about this nonsense later,’ he said. ‘Meanwhile, I have reached my decision: King’s Hall has no grounds to press its claim and d’Audley is dead. Ergo I declare Luneday to be the rightful heir.’

Luneday beamed at him, while Powys gaped in horror and Shropham looked as if he was ready to cry. Shropham tried to apologise, but his Warden was too angry to listen. He surged to his feet and left without another word, Shropham scurrying at his heels. Langelee raised his eyebrows, but did not seem overly concerned that he might have made an enemy of King’s Hall.

‘I knew a man who professes skill with pigs would see justice done,’ declared Luneday, tears in his eyes as he shook the Master’s hand. ‘Put your decision in writing, if you please. And while we wait, you can tell me more about this game of camp-ball. You say a pig is on one team?’

Pleased the matter had been resolved before his camp-ball game was due to begin, Langelee became magnanimous. He fetched wine from the kitchens, and began to pour generous measures into goblets. Elyan swallowed his thirstily, clearly glad the business was over, and held out his cup for more before the Master had finished distributing them around his other guests.

‘I was going to propose a toast,’ Langelee said, shooting Elyan an admonishing look for his greed. He pressed a goblet into Bartholomew’s hand, although the last thing the physician felt like doing was drinking in cosy bonhomie with the visitors from Suffolk.

‘To justice and pigs?’ suggested Luneday, raising his vessel.

‘And camp-ball,’ added Langelee with a grin, returning the salute.

The others raised their goblets obligingly, and everyone was in the process of putting them to their lips when Elyan gave a cry and gripped his throat. The cup fell from his hand, and he dropped to his knees.

‘What is wrong with him?’ cried Agnys, hurrying to his side.

Bartholomew was there before her. He tried to hold Elyan still, but the lord of the manor was thrashing about violently. It did not need a physician to know he had been poisoned.

‘But this wine came from the kitchens,’ shouted Langelee defensively, when everyone looked at him. ‘It was delivered earlier today – a gift from Bartholomew’s sister.’

‘My sister is not in the habit of providing us with wine,’ said Bartholomew, struggling to keep Elyan still so he could examine him. ‘Only cakes.’

‘Gosse,’ muttered Michael grimly. ‘Is this what he meant when he said he had something planned for us? I assumed he had set his sights on St Mary the Great.’

‘Do something,’ cried Agnys, gripping Bartholomew’s shoulder hard. ‘Help him!’

But Bartholomew was already thrusting fingers down Elyan’s throat to make him vomit up what he had swallowed – he had watched Margery, d’Audley, Risleye and Tesdale die within the past few hours, and had had enough of feeling helpless in the face of death. He was not losing anyone else.

Elyan retched violently, and when he leaned back, exhausted by the effort, Bartholomew made him sick again. And again. Eventually, when he thought all or most of the toxin had been expelled, he wiped Elyan’s face with a clean cloth and helped him sit comfortably.

‘It is a pity to die now,’ rasped Elyan, tears flowing down his cheeks. ‘Just when everything is going my way. Wynewyk dead, Luneday to inherit my manor – he will not harm me for a few gems.’

But Bartholomew knew, from the colour that was beginning to trickle back into Elyan’s face, that the worst was over. ‘You are not going to–’ he began.

‘It is ironic to die of poison left by Gosse,’ interrupted Elyan, with a weak but bitter smile. ‘You see, Carbo found the diamonds in my mine, but Gosse said they were his – stolen from him by Carbo when he lived in Clare. He was very insistent, but I did not believe him. Perhaps I should have done.’

Bartholomew recalled that both Hilton and Prior John had mentioned Gosse’s purloined sack, the contents of which Gosse had declined to reveal. ‘You are not going to–’

Elyan cut across him a second time. ‘I told Neubold to pass some to potential investors. Namely Wynewyk and King’s Hall. But I kept most – the biggest and best – for myself.’

‘You kept precious stones that Gosse thinks are his?’ asked Hilton uneasily. ‘That was reckless.’

Bartholomew tried a third time to tell Elyan he was going to recover, sure he would not be baring his soul if he knew he would live. ‘The poison is not–’

But Michael jabbed him in the ribs. ‘We need answers,’ he hissed urgently.’ Do not interrupt him – lives depend on it.’

‘It would only have been reckless if Gosse knew I kept them,’ Elyan was rasping to Hilton. ‘But he does not. I told him they had all been given to scholars in Cambridge. So he came here to find them. But then someone pilfered the sack from me.’

‘So you were right, Matt,’ murmured Michael. ‘Gosse and Idoma really were asking for the whereabouts of something specific. I thought it was a ruse, to confuse me.’

‘Joan!’ exclaimed Hilton, somewhat out of the blue. ‘She took them! She told me she had vital business in Cambridge – important enough to risk her child on a journey. She must have realised these stones were going to cause trouble, so she brought them here.’

‘Why would she do that?’ demanded Luneday. ‘Why not keep them for herself – for her child?’

‘Because she was a sensible lady,’ replied Hilton softly. ‘She would not have been so credulous as to believe that Carbo had found diamonds in Haverhill – she would have been sceptical. Opportunities to travel are few and far between in our village, so she took advantage of the only one available: she came to Cambridge with Neubold, intending to hide them here.’

‘That explains why she chose this town,’ acknowledged Agnys. ‘It also explains why she was unhappy these last few weeks – it would have been a terrible burden, knowing Henry had property belonging to Gosse and that these stones might urge powerful foundations and greedy men to desperate measures to acquire them. But not why she felt compelled to transport the wretched things in the first place.’

‘It is obvious,’ said Michael. ‘The mine has produced no gems, and getting rid of the ones Carbo “found” – the big ones Elyan kept for himself – means Haverhill has none left. She probably had a plan to show King’s Hall and Wynewyk that Elyan Manor has nothing worth fighting for – and therefore nothing worth harming her child for, either. Unfortunately, her plan misfired.’

‘Oh, Henry,’ said Agnys, gazing at her grandson with sad eyes. ‘How could you have been so foolish? All these deaths – including Joan’s – and for what? Jewels stolen from the Gosses, that were never on Elyan Manor in the first place!’

‘They were!’ asserted Elyan weakly. ‘Carbo would not have lied to me.’

‘Not lied, no,’ agreed Agnys. ‘He did not have the wit. But that does not mean his tale was true.’

But Elyan was not listening to her. His gaze was fixed on Bartholomew. ‘Wynewyk was an evil man. He sent his student to spy on the mine, and someone killed the boy. God forgive me, I buried his body in the woods. But worse than that, Wynewyk killed Joan. I have thought long and hard, and I understand what happened now. He poisoned her.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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