Susanna GREGORY - A Vein of Deceit

‘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.’