A Vein of Deceit

Chapter 5

The following day was wintry, with low clouds in the sky and a biting cut to the wind. Bartholomew was summoned in the small hours by a patient who had poisoned himself by drinking a lot of bad ale. When Isnard the bargeman had recovered enough to be left, the physician returned to the College, hoping to snatch a little sleep before the day began, but Cynric was waiting with a message from Chancellor Tynkell, who had one of his stomach upsets – something the physician felt would not happen if the man washed himself occasionally.

Afterwards, as he was near, he decided to visit Shropham in the proctors’ gaol, and found himself glancing around uneasily as he walked. Then he recalled how Gosse had thrown stones at Edith, and half wished the felon would appear, so he could mete out a little justice with his fists. He was not normally prone to violent urges, but he hated the thought of anyone harming his sister.

‘Living in the elegant comfort of King’s Hall has made me soft,’ said Shropham, looking up when Bartholomew was shown into his cell. ‘I do not think I have ever been so cold. Will you give me something to make me sleep? Poppy juice, perhaps? I will need a lot of it, because–’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. He knelt next to Shropham and examined his arm. It was healing fast and cleanly, although Shropham did not greet the news with much pleasure. ‘You have spent two nights in captivity now. Surely, it is time to tell Michael what happened?’

‘I have told him. I do not remember – it was dark and difficult to see.’

‘Well, which was it?’ demanded Bartholomew archly. ‘If you cannot remember, how do you know it was dark and difficult to see?’

‘It was night,’ replied Shropham flatly. ‘It is always difficult to see at night.’

‘Did you know Carbo?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling that Shropham was a lawyer, so trying to catch him out was likely to be a waste of time – he would know how to weasel his way out of any careless slips of the tongue.

‘No, but I saw him gazing at King’s Hall on several occasions.’

‘Gazing?’ echoed Bartholomew curiously. ‘Why would he do that?’

‘I have no idea, and neither will my colleagues. They do not fraternise with hedge-priests, as I am sure they have said. But please do not ask me anything else, because I do not want to talk about it.’

‘Let Michael help you,’ urged Bartholomew, seeing the man’s inner agony. ‘It is obvious something is badly amiss, so tell him what he needs to know and let him investigate the matter.’

Shropham opened his mouth, and for a moment Bartholomew thought he was going to capitulate. But then his lips set in a grim line, and he shook his head. ‘There is nothing to say. But I am very cold, and my arm aches. Give me something to ease the pain. Something strong.’

Bartholomew made an innocuous tonic of feverfew and mint, and asked the beadles to give the prisoner more blankets. He also warned them to watch him, although he doubted Shropham would kill himself with any of the means currently at his disposal. Did that mean he would not stab a priest, either? Bartholomew was not sure what to believe, and walked slowly back to Michaelhouse, wondering what dire secret Shropham carried – and whether King’s Hall shared it, and was willing to let him hang rather than have it made public. College loyalty ran deep, and it would not be the first time a Fellow had sacrificed himself to protect the foundation he loved. He found himself thinking about Wynewyk, who had been devoted to Michaelhouse, and became even more convinced that his colleague would never have done anything to damage it.

When he arrived home, he was startled out of his morose reverie by Risleye and Tesdale, who were arguing over who was to read De urinis to their classmates that morning. It entailed work, so Tesdale thought Risleye should do it, while Risleye was protesting that he had done the honours the last time.

‘While you two have been squabbling, Deynman has preempted you.’ Bartholomew indicated the hall with a nod of his head. Through the window, the Librarian could be seen, pacing back and forth with a book in his hand. Deynman was not a gifted academic, and the physician dreaded to think of how he was mangling the text, no doubt rendering it all but incomprehensible.

Tesdale beamed. ‘Good! Reading is such a chore, and–’

‘It is not good at all,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘I asked one of you two to do it.’

Risleye grimaced. ‘It is not our fault he sneaked in. He gave up medicine when he became Librarian, so he is not supposed to teach. He knows reading to the juniors is our responsibility.’

‘He does,’ agreed Tesdale. ‘But he cannot accept that he is no longer your student. He often asks for access to your storeroom. We refuse, but he sometimes slinks in when we are not looking.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘Why would he do that? And why have you not mentioned it before?’

Tesdale shrugged. ‘He declines to say – he merely informs us that he is Librarian, and thus immune to interrogation by students. And I did not mention it before because I forgot until now.’

Bartholomew supposed he would have to speak to Deynman and demand to know what he thought he was doing. He could not imagine why the Librarian should want to take pennyroyal, but with Deynman, anything was possible.

‘Go to the hall and make sure he reads the correct passages,’ he said tiredly. ‘And if he fails, I am holding you two responsible; if you had not been bickering, he would not have stepped into your shoes.’

‘That is unfair!’ cried Risleye angrily. ‘It is not our fault that–’

‘We will do our best,’ said Tesdale, jabbing his less-prudent classmate with his elbow. He blew out his cheeks in a sigh. ‘It will not be easy to wrest the tome from him, though – he likes books.’

Michael had heard Bartholomew’s voice from his room upstairs, and came down to speak to him. He pulled a disagreeable face as he watched the two pupils walk away.

‘It seems to me that virtually anyone can get inside your storeroom,’ he said reprovingly. ‘You claimed originally that it was just Tesdale and Risleye, but now we learn Deynman has been there, too – and he was “promoted” to Librarian specifically to keep him away from toxic medicines.’

There was no defence to the accusation, and Bartholomew saw he would have to be a lot more careful about his security arrangements in future.

‘I visited Shropham,’ he said, changing the subject before the monk could admonish him further. ‘He is recovering well, but still refuses to explain what happened on the night Carbo died.’

‘Carbo,’ mused Michael. ‘We still know nothing about him, other than the fact that he was a Black Friar who was not in his right mind. It is time we remedied the situation, so we had better visit the Dominican Friary – see what Prior Morden has managed to learn about the fellow. Are you ready?’

Bartholomew looked out of the window without enthusiasm. It was raining again. ‘Now?’

‘Yes, now! There is a mystery surrounding this priest’s murder, and I mean to find out what it is. I refuse to let Shropham hang, just for the want of a little probing.’

‘You think Shropham is innocent, then?’

‘There is insufficient information to allow me to judge,’ replied Michael pompously.

‘I thought you said this was as straightforward a case as any you have seen.’

‘I have changed my mind.’ Michael’s expression was haughty. ‘And I need your help, because I am feeling overwhelmed. Besides Carbo’s murder, I am expected to explore Wynewyk’s transgressions, find Langelee’s attacker, devise a way to retrieve the Stanton Cups, and locate your lost pennyroyal.’

‘I am investigating the pennyroyal myself.’

‘But not very effectively, for you still do not know what happened to it, and it has been four days since you noticed its disappearance. Do not look sour, Matt. It is true.’

Feeling somewhat chastened, Bartholomew followed him across the sodden courtyard to the gate. He was surprised to see Walter using the thicker, heavier of the two bars to secure it – the porter usually favoured the lighter one during the day, as it was easier to handle.

‘It is to keep Gosse out,’ Walter explained. ‘I am not having him in my College again.’

‘Do you think he might pay us another visit?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised.

‘Yes I do – he got the Stanton Cups last time, so he probably thinks there are other rich pickings to be had,’ said Walter grimly. He bent down to pick up his peacock, rubbing its head with a calloused finger. It crooned at him, and Bartholomew saw the affection between them was mutual. ‘I reckon he stole my bird’s tail, too. For a long time, I assumed you were the culprit, because you said in a lecture that peacock feathers can cure aching joints. But now I begin to wonder.’

‘I mentioned a superstitious belief to that effect,’ corrected Bartholomew, not for the first time. ‘But then I went on to explain how there is no evidence that it works, and–’

‘Gosse would think nothing of hurting a bird,’ interrupted Walter, lost in his own bitter reflections. ‘He came to Cambridge because Sheriff Tulyet is away, you know. He would not have dared show his face if our Sheriff were here.’

‘Then you will just have to rely on the Senior Proctor to see justice done,’ said Michael grandly, brushing a speck of mud from his elegant cloak.

Walter looked him up and down disparagingly. ‘I suppose we will,’ he muttered. ‘God help us.’

To reach the Dominican Friary, Bartholomew and Michael had to pass through the guarded entrance to the town known as the Barnwell Gate, then travel along a road called the Hadstock Way. And after the village of Hadstock, Bartholomew thought as they walked, the highway went on to Suffolk, where Elyan and d’Audley lived.

‘I told Edith you would look into Joan’s death,’ he said, recalling his promise to his sister. ‘I know you are busy, but it was the only way I could stop her from mounting her own investigation.’

Michael was mystified. ‘I thought you said it was an accident or suicide. Or has Edith learned that you were careless, and wants to know whether it was your supplies that killed her friend?’

Bartholomew winced. ‘She believes Joan was provided with pennyroyal by someone who meant her harm – or to deprive Elyan of his heir. I think she is wrong, but…’

‘But you would rather I meddled with a distant landowner’s dangerous enemies than your sister,’ finished Michael flatly. ‘Very well. I shall tell her enquiries are under way – which they are, because I want to know exactly who has been in your storeroom. I do not like Risleye.’

Bartholomew regarded him uneasily, uncomfortable with the juxtaposition of the two remarks. ‘You think he took it?’

‘Two days ago, I would have said no one at Michaelhouse is a thief, but Wynewyk’s treachery has given me pause for thought. And I have been wary of Risleye ever since Paxtone foisted him on you. He said he could no longer teach the lad because of irreconcilable personal differences, but I am sceptical; you do not abandon a bright student when one more year will see him graduate.’

Bartholomew was not sure where the discussion was going. ‘You think Paxtone sent Risleye to Michaelhouse for a reason other than teaching?’ he asked, bemused. ‘Such as what?’

Michael shrugged. ‘To spy. Risleye told Paxtone that Wynewyk summoned you for a cure on Wednesday night. Now why would he do that, if they find each other’s company so objectionable?’

‘It would have been a casually passed remark when they happened to meet in the street,’ replied Bartholomew, regarding him askance. ‘It is hardly enough to warrant accusations of espionage!’

‘If they like each other enough to exchange gossip, then why did Paxtone part with Risleye in the first place?’ demanded Michael. ‘And do not say Michaelhouse has nothing Paxtone could possibly want, because it has you: he has always been jealous of your success.’

‘Lord, Brother!’ breathed Bartholomew, stunned by the turn the conversation had taken. ‘You have been Senior Proctor too long, because you see intrigue where there is none. I imagine he gives daily thanks he is not me, with my destitute patients, over-full classes and unconventional theories.’

‘Well, just bear my warning in mind,’ said Michael coolly. ‘And if it transpires that Paxtone did send Risleye to you for reasons other than education, then do not say I did not warn you.’

They walked in silence through a soggy, dripping landscape. To their left lay the boggy expanse of Barnwell Field, in which a flock of grey-brown sheep grazed, jaws working rhythmically as they watched the scholars pass. To the right was the fetid snake of the King’s Ditch. When they reached the powerful walls of the Dominican Friary, Michael knocked on the gate and asked to see the Prior.

Prior Morden was tiny, with legs and arms in perfect proportion to his elfin torso. He was sitting at a table in his handsome solar, chair loaded with cushions to raise him to a functional height; Bartholomew recalled his sister making similar arrangements for him when he was a child. Morden’s legs swung in the space below the seat, clad in minute knee-high boots.

‘I have learned nothing new, Brother,’ he said, wincing as the monk threw open the door so hard that the latch hit the wall with an ear-splitting crack. ‘I still do not know who Carbo was, or where he came from. I assume that is why you are here? To ask me about him?’

Michael plumped himself down on a bench, heavily enough to make it tip. He squawked in alarm as it threatened to deposit him on the floor, flailing his arms in a wild attempt to regain his balance. To his credit, Morden did not laugh, although Bartholomew saw an amused twinkle in his eyes, which was suppressed the moment the monk recovered his composure and began to glare.

‘We have a number of questions,’ said Bartholomew, before the monk could accuse Morden of deliberately placing unstable furniture where unwary guests might use it. The charge would probably be justified, because the Black Friars were notorious for indulging their slapstick sense of humour. Bartholomew did not mind, and had always liked Morden, but Michael considered him a buffoon, and his manner towards the diminutive Prior often verged on the contemptuous.

‘Fire away, then,’ said Morden amiably, sliding off his chair and landing with a slight thump. He walked across the room and filled two goblets from a jug. ‘I shall do my best to answer, but do not hold your breath. As I said, I have met with scant success.’

‘Did Carbo hold a post in Cambridge?’ Michael accepted the proffered goblet, and downed the contents in a single swallow. Then he gagged. ‘God save us, man! What is this? It is not wine.’

‘It is a little something my brethren and I enjoy on cold mornings,’ replied Morden, and if he thought the monk’s response was entertaining, he hid it well. ‘Fermented parsnip juice.’

Michael shoved the goblet back at him with distaste. ‘I thought you were being hospitable, but now I feel as though my innards are being scoured with drain cleaner.’

‘It will do you good,’ said Morden ambiguously. ‘And the answer to your question is no: Carbo did not hold a post in Cambridge. He was an itinerant, as far as I can tell – a wandering preacher who follows the road. It is odd that a respectable man like Shropham should want to kill him.’

‘I am not sure he did.’ Michael shrugged at the Prior’s surprise. ‘As you say, it is an odd thing for a scholar of King’s Hall to do, and I feel there is something we are not being told.’

‘Shropham is holding out on you?’ asked Morden, his interest piqued.

Michael nodded, frowning as he assembled his thoughts. ‘He could have argued self-defence, or claimed that the real culprit ran away before my Junior Proctor arrived on the scene. But instead he refuses to speak. I cannot imagine what kind of secret is worth his life: he may very well hang if we let matters lie.’

‘Perhaps that is what he wants,’ suggested Morden. ‘Some folk find shame difficult to handle.’

‘Shame?’ queried Michael. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Perhaps he has done something to embarrass King’s Hall, and sees death as the only honourable recourse. He is certainly the kind of man to sacrifice himself for his College – he is always trying to ingratiate himself by performing menial tasks for his colleagues, after all.’

‘If he is that devoted, he would not have done anything to discredit King’s Hall in the first place,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

‘We all make mistakes,’ said Morden. ‘It would not be the first time a good man has erred.’

‘Is Shropham a good man?’ mused Bartholomew, more to himself than the others. ‘I have known him for years but I have no idea what he is really like.’

‘Yes, I believe he is essentially decent,’ replied Morden. ‘At one point, he was considering taking major orders, and we spent several weeks discussing it. In the end, he decided to remain a secular, which disappointed me. He would have made a fine Dominican.’

Michael’s expression suggested that a fine Dominican did not necessarily equate with a decent man, but he said nothing, and moved to another subject. ‘So what have you discovered about Carbo?’

‘We have been unable to ascertain his origins, despite summoning all Black Friars within a ten-mile radius to come and look at him. The cuffs of his habit are odd, though, and the style is unfamiliar to us. They suggest he hails from somewhere distant, perhaps London or Norfolk.’

‘What about Suffolk?’ asked Michael.

Morden raised his tiny eyebrows, surprised by the question. ‘Yes, possibly. Other than that, all we have are guesses. His habit was patched and frayed, which may imply he took holy orders some time ago. Of course, it might also mean he inherited a second-hand robe from another priest.’

Michael stood. ‘Drink your parsnip juice, Matt, and let us go and inspect this hapless fellow.’

Bartholomew swallowed the concoction, feeling a strong but not unpleasant burn as it made its way to his stomach. He experienced a moment of agreeable light-headedness, followed by a sensation of warmth all over his body. Morden was right: the beverage did dispel the chill of winter.

Bartholomew and Michael followed the Prior across the yard, to the chapel in which Carbo’s body was being stored. It had been washed and dressed in a clean habit, ready to be laid to rest as soon as the proctors released it. While Bartholomew began his examination, Michael regaled the Prior with details of the upcoming Blood Relic debate. The monk was looking forward to the occasion, eager to show off his prowess as a disputant; Morden, by contrast, was dreading it, afraid he might be called on to say something, thus exposing his poor grasp of the subject in front of the whole University. He had never been a gifted academic.

‘Have you had any word from Kelyng?’ Morden asked, more to change the subject than to elicit information about Michaelhouse’s missing Bible Scholar. ‘He was thinking of becoming a Dominican, too, and I was disappointed when I learned he had failed to return for the start of term.’

‘We suspect he was intimidated by his unpaid fees,’ replied Michael. ‘It is a pity, because he was an excellent student, and might have gone on to great things. And I do not mean by becoming a Black Friar, either – I mean by making contributions to philosophy.’

‘Or camp-ball,’ countered Morden waspishly. ‘He was Langelee’s student, and your Master would much rather study game strategies than Aristotle.’

‘Perhaps Carbo was not a priest at all,’ said Bartholomew, to prevent Michael from responding with a retort that might lead to a spat. It was true that Langelee preferred sport to lessons, but Morden was hardly the person to be making snide remarks about it. ‘Maybe he found or was given the Dominican habit, and wore it because he was a beggar who had nothing else.’

‘And your evidence for such a suggestion?’ asked Michael.

‘This,’ replied Bartholomew, pushing the lank black hair from Carbo’s forehead to reveal a pink scar that curved around towards the left temple.

‘So he suffered a cut on his head at some point,’ said Michael, bemused. ‘What of it?’

‘From the colour of the scarring, I would say it happened in the last two years or so. And it was a serious injury – there is a depression of the skull beneath, suggesting a healed fracture. People with damage to the front of their heads often exhibit the symptoms we saw: an inability to communicate, strange behaviour, paralysis of the limbs. One hand moved jerkily, if you recall.’

‘Not really,’ said Michael, unconvinced. ‘But–’

‘Then there was the way he kept shaking his head, as if to clear his ears.’ Bartholomew was disgusted with himself for not making the diagnosis when Carbo was alive. ‘Hearing a persistent ringing sound is another symptom. So is confusion about smells – he asked twice if we could detect garlic. I should have understood immediately what was wrong with him.’

‘But why does all this make you think he was not a Dominican?’ asked Morden, puzzled.

‘Because your Order would have taken better care of a member who had lost his senses after such an injury,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He would not have been allowed to wander the country alone, without food or shelter. And poor Carbo is badly malnourished.’

‘It is possible, I suppose,’ conceded Michael, although he sounded doubtful. In his mind, there was nothing unusual about a poorly fed, half-mad Dominican. ‘However, Shropham must have killed him for a reason, so I suspect he was more than just a vagrant.’

‘Carbo witnessed Langelee being stabbed,’ began Bartholomew tentatively. ‘Do you think he was killed by our Master’s assailant – perhaps to keep the culprit from being identified?’

‘Shropham attacked Langelee as well as Carbo?’ asked Morden, regarding him in confusion.

‘Of course not,’ said Michael. ‘And Carbo was killed two days after the assault on Langelee, when he had already been interviewed about what he had seen – it would have been like locking the stable door after the horse had bolted. Ergo, I do not think the two incidents are connected.’

Bartholomew reconsidered. ‘Then perhaps he witnessed a different event – one Shropham did not want him sharing with anyone else.’

‘Shropham is not the kind of man to resolve awkward situations with violence,’ objected Michael, and the physician saw he was beginning to persuade himself that there was going to be an exculpatory explanation for what had happened – one that would see Shropham exonerated.

‘He might if it were to protect his College,’ averred Morden. ‘And I understand it was his knife that was embedded in Carbo’s belly.’

‘True,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But let us not forget that Carbo had a dagger, too – despite the fact that friars are not supposed to carry weapons – and it was in his hand when my Junior Proctor found him. That suggests a fight, not an ambush. Where is Carbo’s blade, Morden? Do you have it, or did it go astray amid all the confusion?’

The Prior opened a wall cupboard, and handed the monk a sack that contained Carbo’s few possessions. There was his frayed habit, a pair of ancient boots, an empty purse and the dagger. The knife was made of base metal, and was stained with blood, although whether it was Carbo’s own or Shropham’s was impossible to say.

Bartholomew unrolled the habit and inspected it, noting the huge stitches that repaired a tear in the hem. An ungainly patch had been attached near the hip, too. Yet when Bartholomew looked on the inside of the garment, the material was sound – the patch was not there to mend damage. Frowning, he looked closer, and realised its real purpose was to act as a place in which to conceal a document; he could feel parchment crackling under his fingers. Prior and monk watched with interest as he slit the stitches to retrieve it.

‘That is cunning,’ said Morden admiringly. ‘No one would ever think of investigating a patch. Well, no one who is not a Corpse Examiner, that is.’

‘What is it, Matt?’ asked Michael eagerly. ‘A secret message?’

‘A letter,’ replied Bartholomew, spreading the document on the table. It was thin and friable, as though it had been read and reread until it was almost worn away. The words were faded, and the ink had run, but it was still just about legible. ‘From someone’s mother.’

‘Whose mother?’ demanded Michael. ‘Carbo’s?’

Bartholomew shot him a look that asked how he was supposed to know. ‘And there is something else here, too. A piece of coal.’

Michael took the rock from him. ‘Perhaps it is ballast, to stop his habit from flying up in the wind and revealing his nether-garments. I sew pieces of metal into my hems for the same purpose.’

‘It is too light to prevent embarrassing revelations,’ said Morden, studying it as it lay in Michael’s palm. ‘Perhaps it is an amulet. Many folk believe certain stones hold magical or healing powers.’

‘Carbo kept mentioning coal when we interviewed him,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘And his name is Latin for the stuff. He must have developed a fetish for it, so I do not think we should read too much into finding a lump of it in his clothing.’

‘Let me see the letter,’ ordered Michael, elbowing Bartholomew out of the way. The light was good, but the monk still squinted. ‘Damn people and their tiny writing! Read it aloud, Matt.’

Bartholomew obliged. ‘My Son and Friend. God’s Greetings and wishes of Good Health from your Loving Mother. The Withersfield Pigs are strong and Fine this year, and I wish you could See them, for I think they would make you Well again. I think of you Always.’

‘Is that it?’ asked the Prior, disappointed. ‘A message about pigs from a doting dam? I would not think it worthwhile to hide such a thing. Why not carry it openly?’

‘Perhaps it is code,’ suggested Michael hopefully, picking it up and turning it this way and that. ‘There must be some reason why it was concealed.’

‘You both know friars are not supposed to hoard mementoes from their past lives,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘So it is not really surprising that Carbo hid this one.’

‘True,’ Morden sighed, beginning to head for the door. ‘But interesting though this is, I must return to my duties. If I do not order more fuel today, my brethren will freeze in the coming winter – and it promises to be a hard one. You can see yourselves out.’

Michael opened his mouth to object – he had no wish to be abandoned with a corpse – but closed it when Bartholomew began to speak. The physician’s attention was on the letter.

‘Withersfield,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘One of Wynewyk’s odd transactions was with Withersfield. It is in Suffolk – the next village to Haverhill, where Elyan lives.’

Michael nodded. ‘Wynewyk bought pigs from a Withersfield man called Luneday – beasts which also happen to be the subject of this curious missive. Does this mean there is a connection between Wynewyk’s dealings and Carbo’s murder? That makes no sense!’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘No, it does not. However, just because we do not understand the association does not mean we should dismiss it. After all, both Wynewyk and Carbo died on the same day – Saturday.’

But Michael shook his head. ‘We have no evidence that the two of them ever met.’

‘We have no evidence they did not meet, either, and you have always distrusted coincidences. Here we have a murdered priest carrying a piece of coal and a letter mentioning Withersfield, while Wynewyk bought pigs from Withersfield and coal from Haverhill – the latter from Elyan, whose wife Joan is also dead in unusual circumstances.’

Michael shook his head again, denying the relevance of the connections Bartholomew was making, but there was a glint in his eye that indicated he was intrigued by the possibilities.

‘It is a pity we cannot tie Gosse into this, too,’ the monk said. ‘Then we would solve all our problems, and a good many people would be grateful to us.’

‘Give it time,’ said Bartholomew, thinking about Edith’s contention that Gosse had lobbed stone-laden mud at her and Joan. ‘You never know.’

‘There is only one thing we can do,’ argued Michael, speaking at the Statutory Fellows’ Meeting that afternoon. They were discussing what should be done about the missing thirty marks – wisely, Langelee had postponed any formal discussion of Wynewyk’s activities until the first rush of indignation had passed and his Fellows were in more reflective frames of mind. ‘We must conceal our erstwhile colleague’s thievery at all costs.’

The Master was presiding over the assembly. He toyed restlessly with his sceptre, a hefty piece of brassware that symbolised his authority: it was tapped on the table in front of him to announce the beginning and end of official gatherings. Suttone and Hemmysby, who sat nearest to him, flinched as it was tossed recklessly from hand to hand, while Thelnetham had already moved, making it clear he was not going to be brained by Langelee’s agitated fidgeting. Meanwhile, Clippesby was more interested in the hedgehog in his lap than in anything his colleagues were saying, and Bartholomew was struggling to stay awake after spending so much of the previous night with patients.

‘Why must we hide what Wynewyk did, Brother?’ asked Hemmysby, calm and reasonable. ‘What can be gained from dissembling? Surely it is better to be truthful?’

‘Being truthful would make us a laughing stock for trusting our coffers to a villain,’ Michael pointed out tartly. ‘The other Colleges would never let us forget our gullibility.’

‘That is true,’ agreed Suttone. ‘No good can come out of making this public.’

‘Wynewyk did one decent thing, though,’ said Thelnetham. ‘He died – he fell on his sword, as the Romans would have said. Of course, it would have been polite to leave us with an explanation.’

‘Wynewyk was not a thief,’ said Bartholomew, for at least the fourth time since the meeting had started. Clippesby nodded agreement, but the others merely rolled their eyes or shook their heads. ‘I cannot imagine why you are all so ready to condemn him.’

‘We are ready to condemn him because the evidence says we should,’ snapped Thelnetham. ‘I do not think I have ever encountered a more clear-cut case of a man defrauding his friends.’

‘Thelnetham is right, Matt,’ said Michael, more kindly. ‘Wynewyk’s death is convenient for all concerned. It means he is not obliged to suffer our hurt indignation, and we are free to deal with his crimes as we see fit – which is by ensuring that no one outside this room ever comes to hear about them. It sounds callous, but his demise is a blessing in many ways.’

Bartholomew tried not to look at Langelee. The Master’s previous life as the Archbishop of York’s henchman meant he was used to finding permanent solutions to sticky problems, and while there was no evidence that he had taken matters into his own hands, Bartholomew did not understand why – or even how – Wynewyk had died, and was confused and unhappy about the whole affair.

Unfortunately, Langelee guessed what he was thinking, and an offended expression crossed his face. ‘You suspect I had something to do with his end! Well, I did not. If I had, we would not be sitting here talking about his misdeeds, because you would know nothing about them – I would have kept them from you, so you would never know I had a motive for his murder.’

Thelnetham frowned as he tried to grasp the convoluted logic. He shrugged when he found he could not, and turned to Bartholomew. ‘I do not think the Master harmed Wynewyk, Matthew – not when he has the most to lose from this death.’

Langelee’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘I do? And why is that, pray?’

‘Because you are the one who gave him the keys to our coffers. Now he is roasting in Hell, you bear the responsibility for what he did – his wicked betrayal of our College.’

Langelee scowled, and the sceptre was tossed a little higher. ‘As I recall, we all voted for him to take over the finances. It was a joint decision.’

‘Yes, but it was on the understanding that he would discuss everything with you first,’ said Michael. ‘By relinquishing all control, as you did, you virtually invited him to defraud us.’

‘I disagree,’ said Bartholomew hastily, seeing Langelee’s face darken. ‘We all trusted Wynewyk, and I still think we were right to do so. There will be an explanation–’

‘Oh, there will be an explanation,’ interrupted Thelnetham bitterly. ‘And I can tell you what it is right now: Wynewyk was a greedy dog who feathered his own nest at our expense.’

‘Then where is the money?’ demanded Bartholomew, resenting the fact that Thelnetham was so eager to condemn Wynewyk; he was, after all, the Fellow who had known him for the least amount of time. ‘It is not in his room, because you have all searched it.’

‘He gave it to a friend,’ Thelnetham snapped back. ‘One of his lovers. God knows, I like the company of a gentleman myself, but at least I do not favour ruffians. I was appalled by some of the louts he entertained – men I would not have deigned to notice.’

There was an uncomfortable silence, and Bartholomew was not sure whether the observation said more about Wynewyk’s choice of partners, or Thelnetham’s unappealing snobbery.

‘Well, I do not believe it,’ said Clippesby eventually, setting the hedgehog on the table and scratching his hands. Bartholomew recalled reading somewhere that hedgehogs were full of fleas, and felt himself grow itchy. ‘Wynewyk’s dishonesty, I mean. Could it be poor accounting? His arithmetic was lacking?’

‘Unfortunately not,’ replied Michael. ‘He definitely used College money to purchase goods we never received. For example, since August he has passed Henry Elyan eighteen marks for coal.’

‘But we never use coal,’ Suttone pointed out, puzzled. ‘And eighteen marks is enough to fuel a furnace – which we do not have.’

‘Exactly,’ said Michael. ‘And he gave Hugh d’Audley, Elyan’s neighbour, seven marks for wood.’

‘That is a lot of timber,’ mused Thelnetham. ‘But our sheds are virtually empty, and he told me only last week that we need to fill them before winter sets in. He said he was worried about where the money would come from, and I was sympathetic. What a scoundrel!’

‘And finally,’ said Michael, ‘he paid Roger Luneday of Withersfield five marks for pigs.’

‘Are there any other irregularities?’ asked Suttone.

‘One or two,’ replied Michael. ‘But the payments to Elyan, d’Audley and Luneday make up the bulk of the missing money. Those transactions total thirty marks.’

‘Does anyone know these men?’ asked Thelnetham. ‘I have never heard of them.’

‘I met Elyan and d’Audley when they came to collect Elyan’s dead wife,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘I do not know Luneday, though. Do you think they were blackmailing Wynewyk for–’

‘You are grasping at straws,’ interrupted Thelnetham curtly. ‘No one was blackmailing him. However, it would not surprise me to learn that he did not provide these Suffolk men with anything – that he has been pocketing the money for himself.’

Uncomfortably, Bartholomew recalled Paxtone’s tale about Wynewyk’s plan to buy new law books. But he did not believe the two could be connected, and stubbornly pushed it from his mind.

‘Perhaps he chose Haverhill and Withersfield because they are so far away,’ suggested Suttone tentatively. ‘They are difficult to visit, so it will not be easy to verify what is going on. If I am right, I imagine he was horrified when Elyan arrived in Cambridge to claim a dead wife.’

‘Hah!’ exclaimed Thelnetham triumphantly. ‘Now I understand what happened.’

‘What?’ asked Langelee warily, when the Gilbertine paused for dramatic effect.

‘Think about it for a moment,’ said Thelnetham. ‘Elyan collected Joan’s body on Saturday, which is the day Wynewyk died. So, I put it to you that our felonious Fellow spotted Elyan in town, and was terrified that he was about to be exposed. He attended the debate, but was so agitated that he began to laugh wildly – and this false hilarity brought on the seizure that killed him.’

‘It is medically possible, I suppose,’ conceded Bartholomew, when everyone turned to look at him. ‘But–’

‘Damn the man!’ cried Langelee suddenly, bringing his sceptre down with such force that splinters flew. All his scholars jumped in alarm, and Hemmysby, who was closest, put his head in his hands and made a whimpering sound. ‘How could he leave us in such a wretched mess?’

‘Because he was a selfish brute,’ said Thelnetham, before anyone else could speak. ‘And I am glad he is dead, for we are well rid of him. But we should not squander any more of our precious time debating what happened to him, because I, for one, do not care. We should concentrate on deciding what to do about our missing thirty marks.’

‘Oh, I know how to resolve that,’ said Langelee, inspecting the damage to the table with a puzzled frown, as if he could not imagine how it had happened. ‘Michael and Bartholomew will go to Suffolk, meet Elyan, d’Audley and Luneday, and ask if they have our money. And if they do, they will demand it back again.’

That evening, Bartholomew went to visit Isnard the bargeman, to see whether he had recovered from the bad ale that had made him so sick the night before. He took Risleye, Valence and Tesdale with him, because the rota said it was their turn, although they were not very pleased – they were hoping to win a rather more interesting case.

‘I made a few enquiries about your missing pennyroyal,’ announced Risleye, as they walked along the towpath towards Isnard’s house. ‘You were alarmed when you first learned it had gone, but you have paid it scant attention since, and it is too important a matter to neglect.’

Bartholomew felt his jaw drop. The lad was right: he should have spent more time assessing what had happened to the stuff – but it was not for a student to scold him about it, and he was on the verge of issuing a sharp reprimand when Valence spoke.

‘Your “enquiries” are nothing of the sort, Risleye. They are accusations without foundation.’

‘They are conclusions based on logic,’ Risleye flashed back. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘I have deduced that a servant is responsible. They have free access to every part of the College, and some of the substances in your room are worth a lot of money.’

‘Servants would not steal from a master,’ countered Tesdale. Then he frowned. ‘Would they?’

‘Sadly, some people will do anything for money,’ said Risleye. He glanced archly at his classmate. ‘Including you, Tesdale, so do not look so shocked. I know who made a whole two shillings from the sale of a remedy that had peacock feathers as a key ingredient.’

‘That was you?’ asked Bartholomew, dismayed.

‘No, it was not!’ declared Tesdale, but his face was red and he would not meet his teacher’s eyes. ‘I would never touch that nasty, greasy creature. It bites, for a start.’

‘You wore gloves,’ flashed Risleye. ‘I saw you.’

‘How could you, Tesdale?’ cried Valence, appalled. ‘That poor bird! How could you?’

Bartholomew closed his eyes, and supposed he would have to apologise to Walter for mentioning the superstitious cure, thus encouraging a callous student to profit from it.

‘They will grow again,’ said Tesdale sullenly. ‘No harm was done – and it was an experiment, in the name of science. I wanted to conduct an empirical test, to ascertain the efficacy of–’

‘You wanted the two shillings,’ interjected Risleye. ‘And you cannot–’

‘Stop,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘If you persist in squabbling, you can go home.’

‘Really?’ asked Risleye keenly. ‘Does this mean we can claim the next case on the rota instead, then? It must – we have not seen Isnard yet, so this “visit” cannot count.’

‘Not so fast,’ ordered Bartholomew, as all three young men started back the way they had come. ‘I want you to take a sample of Isnard’s urine, and assess whether you think he needs more charcoal to balance his excess of yellow bile.’

The students rolled their eyes, but followed him to the bargeman’s riverside cottage without further complaint. Isnard had made a miraculous recovery, given that he had been so wretchedly sick the night before. He was up and talking to Yolande de Blaston, who was known to supplement the family income by working as a Frail Sister. Bartholomew often wondered whether she might not have had fourteen children had she confined herself to the marriage bed.

Yolande was cooking something over the hearth, although the rumpled bedcovers suggested she had provided her professional services first. Bartholomew marvelled at the bargeman’s capacity for regeneration, certain such violent vomiting would have laid most other men low for days.

‘Good evening, Doctor,’ smiled Yolande. ‘Would you like some stew? It contains real meat – something Michaelhouse rarely sees these says, according to Agatha. She says you are destitute.’

‘You seem better, Isnard,’ said Bartholomew, ignoring the remark. He had gone out to escape College affairs, and did not want to discuss them with Yolande.

‘Much better,’ affirmed Isnard with a contented grin. ‘I am a little weak, but Yolande knows how to cope with a fellow’s temporary shortcomings. She is far more inventive than the other whores.’

‘Even though the twins are not long born, I am forced to work again,’ explained Yolande, while Bartholomew hoped she would not notice the way the students were sniggering at the bargeman’s blunt confidences. She had a fiery temper. ‘Food is dear, and we are worried about the winter.’

‘I will help,’ offered Isnard. ‘Especially if you do that again. I have never experienced anything quite like it. It is expensive, of course, but quality always costs, does it not, Doctor?’

‘I suppose it does,’ said Bartholomew, wondering what she had done.

Isnard seemed to think he knew anyway, because he addressed the three pupils. ‘Never think you can keep secrets from your master, because he can read your innermost thoughts.’

‘Can he?’ asked Tesdale uncomfortably. He blushed furiously, and Bartholomew supposed he had allowed his imagination free rein as the bargeman had waxed lyrical about Yolande’s talents.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Isnard. ‘If I tell him I was in church when I was in a tavern, he always knows.’

Bartholomew tended to know about Isnard’s drunken revelries because either they were the talk of the town, or he reeked of ale; there were certainly no uncanny abilities involved. But he saw his students would learn no new medicine now the bargeman was on the mend, so he indicated they could go. Risleye had the audacity to wink conspiratorially on the way out, clearly of the opinion that they were being dismissed so the physician could learn what Yolande had done for Isnard. Bartholomew did not know whether to be amused or irritated by the presumption.

‘I was sorry to hear about Wynewyk, Doctor,’ said Yolande, when the students had gone. She ladled stew into three bowls, and indicated that Isnard and Bartholomew were to join her at the table; evidently, her contract with the bargeman entailed being fed for her labours. ‘He was a good man, although he was never one of my regulars – I only saw him occasionally.’

‘Did you?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘I thought he preferred men.’

‘Oh, he did,’ said Yolande. ‘But we all like a bit of a change from time to time.’

To stop himself wondering whether Wynewyk had financed his frolics with Yolande by cheating Michaelhouse, Bartholomew concentrated on the stew instead. It was delicious, and he realised how much he missed decent food. Matilde had been an excellent cook, and had often fed him when the College was going through one of its lean phases. As usual, thoughts of his lost love deprived him of his appetite. He set down his spoon.

‘I have never heard of anyone dying of laughter before,’ said Isnard, grabbing the physician’s bowl and finishing it himself. ‘Does Brother Michael not think Wynewyk’s death suspicious?’

‘It brought on a seizure,’ explained Bartholomew hastily, aware that Isnard and Yolande were both rather keen on gossip. ‘It is sad when it happens to a man in his prime, but it is not unknown.’

‘It is odd he talked to that priest, though,’ said Yolande. ‘Now he is dead, too.’

‘What priest?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘The Dominican,’ replied Yolande. ‘He called himself Carbo, although it was not his real name.’

Isnard looked interested. ‘Do you know his real name? Only Brother Michael came to ask if I knew it yesterday, and I wish I could have told him. I like helping the man who conducts my choir.’

‘Your choir?’ asked Yolande, amused. Then she frowned as a thought occurred to her. ‘Can my husband join? He cannot sing, but the free bread after rehearsals would be very welcome.’

‘I will speak to Brother Michael,’ promised Isnard grandly. ‘I am sure there will be a place for Robert among the tenors. They cannot sing, either, so he will be in good company.’

Bartholomew had no doubt at all that Blaston would be accepted, regardless of his musical abilities or lack thereof. Michael had a soft heart when it came to the poor, and it was common knowledge that the choir’s entire membership comprised men and boys – and even a few women – who desperately needed the post-practice refreshments. It was not common knowledge that he often paid for the victuals himself, however.

‘Tell me about Carbo and Wynewyk,’ prompted Bartholomew.

‘I saw them chatting together,’ obliged Yolande. ‘They were with Powys, Shropham and Paxtone from King’s Hall. Do you think Shropham killed Carbo, by the way? I do not – he is too meek.’

Bartholomew’s thoughts were a chaotic jumble as he tried to make sense of what she was telling him. ‘The King’s Hall men said they had never met Carbo.’

‘Then they were not telling you the truth,’ said Yolande firmly. ‘Although they were talking like acquaintances who meet by chance, not like friends. I was touting for business, hoping Paxtone might hire me, and I edged quite close to them – close enough to hear what they were saying. They were going on about the weather and the price of coal. It was rather stilted, actually.’

‘Did Shropham look as though he knew Carbo? asked Bartholomew. ‘Address him by name? Or did Wynewyk?’

‘Not that I heard. Later that day, I saw Wynewyk with your sister’s friend, too – Joan. He was flirting with her in the Market Square, and they were laughing over ribbons.’

Bartholomew was about to say that Wynewyk would not have flirted with a woman, but then he recalled Edith telling him the same thing. And there was Yolande’s earlier testimony to take into account – that Wynewyk liked the company of a lady on occasion. It made Bartholomew question how well he really had known his colleague, despite all the time they had spent confiding in each other.

‘Carbo and Joan travelled here together from Haverhill,’ Yolande was saying.

‘Carbo was Elyan’s priest?’ asked Isnard. ‘Then I do know his name! It is Neubold – Carbo Neubold, perhaps. I met him in the Brazen George, and we chatted for a while. You had better tell Brother Michael right away, Doctor. He is going to be pleased with me.’

‘He is,’ agreed Bartholomew, although the discovery raised more questions than answers. How could Elyan have employed such a fellow to represent him to King’s Hall? Or place his heavily pregnant wife in such hands? Of course, it explained why Joan was so eager to stay with Edith: Carbo had reeked, and would not have made for pleasant company. And that was before the lingering symptoms of his head injury were taken into account.

‘Carbo – it suits him better than Neubold – gave Paxtone some lovely little rocks,’ said Yolande chattily. ‘Paxtone told me they ease the pain of childbirth, so I filched one when he was not looking.’

‘You stole from him?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, watching her rummage in her purse for it.

‘Borrowed,’ she corrected. She shrugged when she saw his expression. ‘He rarely treats pregnant women, whereas I encounter them all the time. Who do you think will get more use out of it?’

The stone she showed him was similar to the ones Bartholomew had inadvertently knocked out of Paxtone’s cupboard, and he wondered why the King’s Hall physician should have felt the need to lie when asked whether he had ever met the man Shropham was accused of killing.

He walked home in a thoughtful frame of mind. Carbo’s real name was Neubold, the letter in his habit said he was from Withersfield, and he was Elyan’s priest and possibly Gosse’s lawyer. He had coal secreted in his robes, and Wynewyk had bought coal from Elyan. He had been seen talking to Shropham, who had later killed him. Connections were beginning to form thick and fast, and Bartholomew only hoped Michael would be able to make sense of them all, because he could not.

The next day saw an improvement in the weather. The heaviest clouds lifted, and a frail, silvery light trickled through the few that remained. Bartholomew was heartened by the watery rays that illuminated the east window of St Michael’s Church, and began to hope that the rain and wind of the last few weeks were coming to an end.

‘I do not want to go to Suffolk,’ grumbled Michael, as Langelee led the procession back to the College for breakfast.

‘I do,’ said Bartholomew. He found he was looking forward to a respite from demanding students and too many patients. And there was the added bonus that he would be able to ask questions about Joan for Edith, which might make her less inclined to launch an investigation of her own.

‘But Suffolk is such a long way,’ moaned the monk.

‘Seventeen miles – half a day’s ride.’

‘Only if the roads are good, and they are probably knee deep in mud after all this rain. I know thirty marks is a lot of money, but is it worth our lives? Langelee wants us to leave today, you know.’

‘Tomorrow,’ corrected Clippesby, coming to walk next to them. He had the College cat in his arms, which looked none too pleased to have been plucked from its domain and forced to spend part of its morning in church. ‘He has hired you horses from the Brazen George – stronger and younger than the College nags – but they are not available today.’

‘I suppose it gives us time to organise our teaching,’ said Michael. He glanced at Bartholomew. ‘And for you to warn your more grubby patients not to inflict themselves on Paxtone or Rougham in your absence. It would be a kindness – and not just to your colleagues.’

‘The Brazen George horses are experts on financial matters,’ said Clippesby. His hair was on end that morning, and his habit was not very clean. Wynewyk’s death had upset him badly, and Bartholomew suspected he was likely to be odder than usual until the shock had worn off. ‘They will advise you on the best way to reclaim the lost money. They told me.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Michael, as the Dominican stopped to exchange pleasantries with a dog. The cat decided this was too much, and freed itself with a hiss. ‘Should we really let him loose on students? God knows what he might teach them – he told me the other day that there is a good chance that St Paul was a donkey, and that he wrote his Letters in a stable. That is verging on heresy.’

‘He was amusing himself at your expense,’ said Bartholomew, hoping it was true and that the unpleasantness of the last few days was not going to precipitate a more serious ‘episode’.

‘If you say so,’ said Michael, unconvinced.

‘I am taking Risleye, Valence and Tesdale to Suffolk, by the way,’ the physician went on. ‘Risleye is too quarrelsome to leave unsupervised, while Tesdale is too lazy – at least if he is with me, I can make sure he learns something to help him through his disputations.’

‘And Valence?’

‘I need him to keep the peace between the other two. Besides, he has worked hard since that exploding-book incident, and it would be unfair to take Risleye and Tesdale, but leave him behind.’

‘But they are your most senior students.’ said Michael. ‘Who will mind the others?’

‘Deynman. He is quite capable of keeping a class in order, and Clippesby has offered to do the reading. It will do them good to spend a few days re-hearing some basic texts.’

‘It is a bad time for me to leave,’ said Michael, more interested in his own concerns. ‘I still do not know who attacked Langelee. I have failed to discover who took your pennyroyal, although Risleye assures me it was a servant. The Stanton Cups remain missing. And Bene’t College was burgled last night – Gosse, most likely, although I cannot prove it. Again.’

‘We will not be gone long, Brother. Three days at the most.’

‘Moreover, King’s Hall is not happy about me keeping Shropham in gaol,’ Michael went on, declining to be appeased. ‘But what else can I do? I can hardly release him, when he will not speak to defend himself. What message would that send to criminals?’

‘Yolande said she saw Carbo talking to three King’s Hall men on the High Street.’ Bartholomew hesitated before adding, ‘She said Wynewyk was with them.’

Michael gazed at him. ‘What do you think that means?’

‘That King’s Hall is keeping something from you – something relating to why Shropham killed Carbo. However, Wynewyk had taken to socialising with Paxtone and Warden Powys in the last few weeks, so I do not think his presence at this gathering was significant.’

‘He cheated his College in the last few weeks, too,’ Michael pointed out. ‘Do not be too ready to dismiss the facts, Matt. But this means I should visit King’s Hall today. I understand Shropham lying – felons do that when they are in a tight corner – but it is unacceptable for his colleagues to indulge their penchant for fabrication at such a time.’

‘Perhaps you should wait. Your various investigations – Carbo’s murder, Wynewyk’s business, and even Joan’s death – have links to Suffolk. Our journey there may provide answers, and it would be a pity to have made accusatory remarks to members of a rival foundation if it transpires to be unnecessary: King’s Hall’s association with Carbo may be innocent.’

Michael did not look as though he thought it would, but he accepted the physician’s point about acquiring ammunition. ‘Carbo is puzzling. I find it strange that he should know two people – Joan and Wynewyk – who are both suddenly dead. And that he is Gosse’s lawman.’

‘Coal,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘Wynewyk bought some we never saw; Carbo had a piece sewn in his habit; Joan’s husband sells it; and it was discussed by Carbo, the King’s Hall men and Wynewyk before any of them were dead. Coal is a clue, I am sure of it. And this coal is supposed to come from Haverhill. It is something else we must investigate while we are there.’

When they reached the College, Michael waited like a vulture for Cynric to ring the breakfast bell, and Bartholomew went to talk to his students. They had gathered outside the hall, jostling Deynman and some theologians and clearly intent on being the first in. He wondered why they always felt compelled to race, when meals never started until everyone was standing at his place anyway.

His announcement that he would be away for a few days was met with a variety of reactions. The more studious lads were disappointed, the lazy ones looked relieved, Risleye was angry that he had paid for teaching that would now not be given, and Tesdale was concerned.

‘It is a long and dangerous journey,’ he said. ‘You may not come back, and then what will happen to us? Paxtone will not accept us, because he might think we are all like Risleye, while Rougham is too sharp and impatient a master for my taste.’

‘You are coming with me,’ said Bartholomew, a little dismayed that Tesdale should see his demise only in terms of the inconvenience to himself; he had thought his students liked him. ‘So is Risleye–’

‘Me?’ cried Tesdale in dismay. ‘I cannot go! I do not want to!’

‘More importantly, neither can I,’ declared Risleye self-importantly. ‘I do not like travelling.’

Bartholomew was taken aback by their responses, recalling that his master had dragged him as far as Greece and Africa when he had been a student. Suffolk was hardly in the same league.

‘You are coming,’ he said in the tone of voice that made it clear it was not a matter for debate. ‘So is Valence. And the rest of you will learn–’

‘Really?’ interrupted Valence, his face alight with pleasure. ‘When do we leave? Is there time for me to say goodbye to my grandfather? Shall I pack a medicine bag, like the one you carry? You never know when additional supplies might come in useful. Can I borrow your spare cloak, Risleye?’

‘I suppose,’ replied Risleye unenthusiastically. ‘But what about your classes, sir? Who will teach the others, if we three senior students are kicking our heels in some Godforsaken village?’

‘I will,’ offered Deynman eagerly. ‘I was a physician-in-training before I abandoned medicine in favour of librarianship, so I know what needs to be done. I shall ensure they stay at their studies.’

Bartholomew grabbed his arm and pulled him to one side, so the others would not hear. ‘I understand you still demand access to my storeroom. Why?’

Deynman looked annoyed. ‘Did Tesdale tell you that? The little rat! He said he would keep it to himself if I gave him a shilling. I shall demand the money back, since he reneged.’

‘Never mind that. Tell me what you wanted in there.’

‘Pennyroyal,’ confessed Deynman reluctantly. ‘Cynric told me it puts a lovely shine on metal, and I wanted to polish the hasps on my books. Of course, he was wrong.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Your useless pennyroyal did nothing for my hasps. However, I did not take much, because there was not much left, and I did not think you would mind, as you know I will replace it. I would have bought my own, but the apothecary said there was a sudden demand for it, and he ran out. But I am to return there on Monday, when your supply will be replenished in full.’

‘Why did you not tell me all this when I first asked?’ Bartholomew distinctly recalled Deynman being with his students the morning he had noticed its disappearance.

Deynman’s expression was sheepish. ‘I was going to, but you looked so irked that I decided to wait for a better moment. You were furious when Valence borrowed ingredients to make that book explode, and I did not want you to rail at me like you hollered at him.’

He grinned happily, clearly thinking the explanation was enough to see him forgiven. And he was right: the physician was too relieved to be angry. He ordered him not to do it again, although the Librarian was not very good at remembering instructions and was sure to forget. It made Bartholomew all the more determined to improve security in the future. He turned his mind back to his students and teaching.

‘Here are the texts I want my students to have heard by the time I return,’ he said, handing Deynman an unreasonably ambitious schedule. ‘Clippesby has volunteered to read them aloud.’

Deynman scanned the list. ‘I have most of these in my library, and the rest I can borrow from King’s Hall. Do not worry: your pupils will be safe with me – and with Clippesby.’

Bartholomew hoped so, and decided to ask Wynewyk to keep an eye on them as well. He experienced a sharp pang of grief when he realised that would not be possible.

He saw Valence standing alone and went to speak to him, keen to think about something else. ‘I understand you saw Gosse lob a stone at my sister,’ he said.

‘Mud, not a stone,’ corrected Valence. ‘And she ordered me not to tell you, because she said you would be upset. I went with her to see Constable Muschett afterwards, but he said my testimony was inadmissible – that I would lie to get Gosse into trouble because he stole our Stanton Cups.’

‘He said that to you?’ asked Bartholomew.

Valence grinned. ‘He did – but he is right: I would do anything to get the chalices back. Gosse is a terrifying man, but it would not stop me from fabricating stories to convict him.’

‘The Sheriff will be home soon, and he will put an end to such antics,’ said Bartholomew, declining to comment on the lad’s ethics. ‘Do you know why Gosse threw mud at Edith?’

‘Well, he was in the Market Square, and Joan started to chat to him. Your sister asked how she knew him, and Joan said Gosse hailed from Clare, which is near her home village of Haverhill.’

‘Then what?’

‘Then he started to hint that he would like some ribbon, and your sister thought he should buy his own. When she pulled Joan away, he grabbed a handful of mud from the ground and threw it. I wanted to punch him, but she said you would not approve. Personally, I thought you would not have minded.’

‘I would have minded,’ said Bartholomew. He softened. ‘Although I appreciate you looking out for her.’

‘Who will do it while we are away?’ asked Valence, worriedly. ‘Her husband has gone to Lincolnshire, and I dislike the notion of her being unprotected. Perhaps I should forgo this exciting journey, and make sure Gosse does not hurl anything else in her direction.’

‘Cynric will stay with her.’

‘Then who will look after us?’ Valence’s expression was deeply anxious, but then it cleared. ‘You will! I had forgotten that you are a seasoned warrior who fought at Poitiers. Cynric is always talking about it. Of course we will be safe with you!’