A Vein of Deceit by Susanna Gregory Read Free Book Online Page A

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 situationwould 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, andFather 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