Susanna GREGORY - A Vein of Deceit

‘Because he wants us to take his sister’s friend to the church,’ said Valence quietly. ‘Which we must do with the minimum of fuss, to avoid unnecessary distress.’

‘Very well,’ said Tesdale with a huge yawn. ‘And then we should go home – I am exhausted.’

Edith watched in distaste as Risleye, Cynric and Valence lifted Joan on to the bier. Tesdale did not help, and confined himself to issuing instructions. ‘I cannot imagine how you put up with them,’ she said.

There were times – and they were becoming increasingly frequent as term went on – when the physician wondered the same thing.

‘You are needed at Michaelhouse,’ said Cynric to Bartholomew, as he and the students carried the body out of Edith’s house. ‘Wynewyk is ill.’

Bartholomew was surprised – his colleague had seemed well enough earlier. Leaving Cynric and the students to deal with Joan, he hurried back to the College, his footsteps echoing hollowly along the empty lanes. He was not sure how much time had passed since he had arrived at his sister’s home, but it was still dark and there was no sign of daybreak.

He knocked on the gate and was admitted by Walter the porter, who greeted him with a scowl. Recently, a prankster had relieved Walter’s beloved pet peacock of its tail, and because the incident occurred shortly after Bartholomew had given a lecture on superstitious beliefs – including one that said peacock feathers could cure aching bones – Walter held the physician personally responsible.

‘How long until dawn?’ Bartholomew asked pleasantly. He disliked discord and wanted peace.

‘How should I know?’ snapped Walter. ‘Do you think I have nothing better to do than watch an hour candle burn?’

The physician did not feel like berating him for his insolence – and Walter’s surly rejoinders were likely to wake half the College if he tried – so he headed towards Wynewyk’s room without another word. As he walked across the yard, he looked around at the place that was his home.

Michaelhouse was a medium-sized foundation, and part of the University at Cambridge. It boasted a handsome hall, two accommodation wings that joined it at right angles, and a range of outbuildings. All were protected by a high wall and a gatehouse that contained the porters’ lodge. Unfortunately, time had taken its toll, and the College was starting to look decidedly shabby. Moss and lichen grew over its roofs, most of which leaked, and its honey-coloured stone was in desperate need of scrubbing. The courtyard was a morass of churned mud, mixed with the fallen leaves from a scrawny cherry tree.

It currently housed about sixty students, more than could comfortably be taught by its Master and eight Fellows. One reason they were overworked was because one of their number, Father William, was on a sabbatical leave of absence – which everyone knew was a nice way of saying he had been exiled to a remote part of the Fens for being a zealot. Bartholomew missed William, although he was not sure why: it was certainly not for his dogmatic opinions and argumentative personality.

Wynewyk lived in the same building as Bartholomew, the older and more leak-prone of the two accommodation wings. Like all Fellows, he shared his chamber with students, and it was a tight squeeze at night when they all spread their mattresses on the floor. Bartholomew stepped over the slumbering forms, straining his eyes in the darkness to make sure he did not tread on any. Wynewyk had lit a candle, but he had muted the light with a shade, so as not to disturb his room-mates.

‘Thank you for coming, Matt,’ he whispered. He was a small, neat man who taught law. He had been at Michaelhouse for about three years, and Bartholomew liked him and considered him a friend. ‘I have been feeling wretched all night, although I cannot imagine why – my stars are in perfect alignment, so I should be in fine fettle.’

‘What did you eat at supper?’ Bartholomew asked, to change the subject. Unusually for a physician, he placed scant trust in the movements of the celestial bodies, but this was a controversial stance, and he took care to keep his opinion to himself; rejecting the ancient and much-revered art of astrology would result in more accusations of witchcraft, for certain.

‘The same as you: bread and cheese. I also had a mouthful of posset, but there were nuts in it, and I have an aversion to them, so I spat it out. My tongue still burns, though.’

The posset had contained almonds, but supper had been hours ago, so any reaction Wynewyk might have experienced from his brief contact with them should have been past its worst. Bartholomew examined his colleague, but could find nothing wrong except a reddening in the mouth. He prepared a tonic of soothing herbs that would help him sleep.

‘Where have you been?’ asked Wynewyk. ‘You took ages to come. Were you out?’

Bartholomew nodded absently as he worked. ‘Seeing a friend of Edith’s, but I was called too late.’

‘Dead?’ asked Wynewyk uneasily. He crossed himself. ‘Then I hope you have better luck with me.’

‘You are not going to die,’ said Bartholomew, helping him sit up so he could sip the remedy. ‘You will be perfectly well again tomorrow.’

‘Have any of your patients heard news of Kelyng?’ Wynewyk asked, pushing away the cup when the physician put it to his lips. ‘You promised you would find out.’

Kelyng was Michaelhouse’s Bible Scholar, who had failed to arrive when term had started. He owed a fortune in unpaid fees, and even the salary he earned from reading the scriptures aloud during meals had failed to reduce the debt to a reasonable level. It would not be the first time a student had elected to abscond rather than pay, and Bartholomew, like the other Fellows, thought Kelyng had done so. Kind-hearted Wynewyk was rather less willing to believe the worst of the lad.

‘They saw him leave Cambridge in August,’ replied Bartholomew, ‘but no one has seen him since.’

Wynewyk grimaced at the unhelpful news, and began to drink the medicine. ‘Did you hear what happened yesterday?’ he asked between sips. ‘I had a run-in with that horrible Osa Gosse. He accused me of trying to seduce him.’

‘And did you?’ asked Bartholomew, knowing that while Wynewyk was usually discreet, there were occasionally misunderstandings in his quest for willing partners.

‘No!’ Wynewyk sounded horrified. ‘He is a revolting fellow – a liar and a thief. You look as though you have not heard of him, which amazes me. He is an inveterate felon, always being accused of some crime or other. He hails from Clare in Suffolk, but has recently taken up residence in our town.’

‘How do you know him?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. Wynewyk owned a great weakness for ruffians, but he usually drew the line at criminals.

‘Everyone knows him – or everyone who does not wander around with his mind full of medicine, at least. I had the misfortune to make his acquaintance about a week ago, when he spat at me. I objected, and he drew a dagger. Fortunately, Paxtone of King’s Hall saw what was happening, and shouted for help. Gosse’s servant was killed when the Carmelite novices rushed to my rescue.’

‘I know who you mean,’ said Bartholomew in understanding. Besides being a physician and a Doctor of Medicine, he was also the University’s Corpse Examiner, which meant he was obliged to provide an official cause of death for anyone who died on University property. The man in question had been stabbed on land belonging to King’s Hall, so Bartholomew had been asked to give a verdict.

‘I wish Gosse would go back to Clare,’ said Wynewyk unhappily. ‘He blames me for the death of this servant, even though I was not the one who knifed him.’