Susanna GREGORY - A Vein of Deceit

‘That was different,’ flashed Risleye. ‘An emergency. I bandaged his grazed arm really carefully, but then he refused to pay me. It took me a while to argue my case.’

Bartholomew was aghast. ‘You charged one of our own servants for medical treatment?’

‘Of course,’ replied Risleye, unabashed. ‘He was a patient and I cared for him. That equals a fee.’

‘Give it back,’ ordered Bartholomew. He cut across Risleye’s indignant objections. ‘Have any of you let anyone else in the storeroom?’

The assembled students shook their heads, and Bartholomew sighed when he saw his interrogation was not going to provide him with answers. And he could hardly berate Risleye and Tesdale for leaving the storeroom unattended when he was guilty of doing the same thing himself.

Unfortunately, their combined negligence meant that virtually anyone could have slipped in and stolen the oil. But who would want it? And who would know what it was capable of doing? He supposed the answer to the second question was obvious: the red cross on its jar warned students that it could be harmful, so anyone with a modicum of sense would know the pot held something to be used with caution.

‘Perhaps the thief did not want pennyroyal,’ suggested Valence, voicing what Bartholomew was already thinking. ‘You keep far more potent items than that: henbane, dog mercury, cuckoopint.’

‘And poppy juice,’ added Risleye. ‘People are always asking me to give them poppy juice, because it makes them feel happy.’

‘And do you oblige?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking of the stain on the bench.

Risleye was outraged. ‘Of course not! The last time I touched it was days ago, when I helped you prepare that pain remedy for Isnard. You were hurrying me, and would not answer questions, which was wrong, because my education is far more important than the well-being of some non-paying rogue.’

Bartholomew had rushed Risleye, because Isnard’s need was urgent. Had haste resulted in a spillage that was overlooked and not cleaned up? Yet there was something about Risleye’s denial that made the physician uneasy – he had caught Risleye out in lies before. Or was he allowing personal dislike to cloud his judgement?

‘If the thief came for something else and ended up with pennyroyal, then it means he cannot read,’ said Tesdale, rather pompously. ‘Every jar is clearly labelled, after all. Perhaps we can assume it was filched by a servant. Or by one of the men who came to mend the roof.’

Bartholomew was not sure what to think, and only knew he had been inexcusably careless. If it transpired that his pennyroyal had found its way to Joan, he was not sure Edith would ever forgive him. And she would have every right to be angry.

By the time he had finished the interrogation, a number of people had sent word that they needed to see him. Medical training at universities was largely book-based, but he wanted his students to see real diseases and wounds, too, so he usually took the more senior pupils with him when he went to tend patients. In the past, this had meant two or three lads, but Langelee’s decision to accept more scholars, along with Paxtone’s inability to teach Tesdale, meant he currently had eight. It was an absurdly high number, and clients tended to be alarmed when they all trooped into the sickroom. Because of this, he had been compelled to devise a rota, which was unsatisfactory for a number of reasons.

‘I got landed with a case of toothache last time,’ whined Risleye. ‘And Tesdale got the venery distemper. Now I get toothache again , while he has a strangury. It is not fair!’

‘I will exchange my bloody flux for your strangury, Tesdale,’ offered Valence. ‘And then Yaxley will take the bloody flux in return for his rhagades. You have not had rhagades yet.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, listening to the haggling in distaste.

He set off before they could involve him in it, leaving them to scurry to catch up. They pursued him in a gaggle, drawing attention to themselves with their lively good humour – except Risleye, who remained sullen. Then, when they reached the house of a patient, two would detach themselves from the mob and follow him inside.

He rarely rushed consultations, always trying to ensure both patient and pupils understood exactly what he was doing – although the students itched to be done with the mundane cases and on to the more interesting ones. As a result, the visits filled the rest of the day, and by the time they returned to Michaelhouse, it was dark and they had missed supper.

‘I do not care,’ said Risleye smugly. ‘I have fine bread and fresh cheese in my room, so I will not starve.’

He strode away without offering to share, and Bartholomew thought it no surprise that he was unpopular. Not all his classmates could afford the luxury of ‘commons’, and would go hungry that night. Fortunately, the rest were better friends, and agreed to a pooling of resources.

‘It will be better than College food,’ crowed Tesdale gleefully, on seeing the fine fare that was going to be available to him that night. ‘The meals are terrible these days – no meat, and peas galore.’

Bartholomew could only nod agreement. The situation would not have been so bad if Agatha – College laundress and self-appointed overseer of the kitchens – knew how to render pulses more interesting. But she only boiled them to a glue-like consistency, and when the Fellows complained, she retaliated by sending some very nasty concoctions to their table; she was not very good at accepting criticism. The previous noon had seen cabbage mixed with a variety of fish-heads.

‘I am sorry I was careless with the storeroom door, sir,’ said Tesdale, when the other students had gone. ‘But do not worry about the pennyroyal. There will be an innocent explanation for it.’

‘Such as what?’ asked Bartholomew.

Tesdale shrugged. ‘Cynric says it puts a lovely shine on metal, so perhaps one of the servants took it to buff the College silver. Or, as it has a strong but not unpleasant aroma, perhaps someone filched it to sweeten the latrines or to drop into his wet boots. Its loss is not necessarily sinister.’

Bartholomew sincerely hoped he was right.

During the evenings, it was the Fellows’ wont to gather in the comfortable room called the conclave, next to the hall. Candles and lamps were lit after dark, and on cold nights there was a fire in the hearth. Some Fellows read, some marked exercises prepared by students, and others enjoyed the opportunity for erudite conversation. The atmosphere was always convivial, which was something they all treasured – academics, being blessed with sharp minds, often had sharp tongues to go with them, and many members of other Colleges were barely on speaking terms. Michaelhouse, though, was a haven of peace, and although there were disagreements, they were rarely acrimonious.

When Bartholomew arrived, the room was unusually empty. Wynewyk was still unwell, Langelee was out, and Father William was languishing in the Fens. He sat at the table, and was pleasantly surprised to discover that Michael, unhappy with the supper Agatha had created, had provided his colleagues with something edible instead.

‘She gave me a beetroot, Matt,’ explained the monk, his green eyes full of righteous indignation. ‘A hard, barely cooked one. It was reclining in a dish of melted butter, with a soggy leek for garnish.’

Bartholomew took a slice of meat pie. ‘Did you send it back?’

‘Only after he had drained the butter into a cup, and quaffed it,’ replied Suttone, a plump Carmelite who fervently believed that the plague would return at any moment. ‘I wish I had thought of that. I like butter, and there was a lot of it.’