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

wish I had thought of that. I like butter, and there was a lot of it.’
    Bartholomew felt slightly queasy. ‘Where is Langelee?’ he asked, to change the subject.
    ‘Dining at King’s Hall,’ said Michael with a grimace. ‘He found out what Agatha planned to give us, and hastened to make other
     arrangements. He should have warned us, too.’
    ‘
I
warned you,’ said Clippesby. He was a Dominican friar who taught theology and grammar. The College cat was in his lap, and
     he held a frog in one hand and a mouse in the other. ‘The wren saw what Agatha had cooked, and I came immediately to tell
     you. But you ignored me.’
    ‘That wren is unreliable,’ retorted Michael. It was widely accepted that Clippesby was insane, although he had been at Michaelhouse
     long enough for his colleagues to overlook all but his most brazen idiosyncrasies. ‘If you had heard it from the peacock,
     I might have been more willing to listen.’
    The two newest Fellows sat near the window, and Bartholomew was disconcerted to note that Thelnetham was filing Hemmysby’s
     nails. It was a curious thing to bedoing, especially as Hemmysby was not very interested in personal appearances. He was a quiet theologian, who divided his
     time between Cambridge and Waltham Abbey, where he held a lucrative post.
    Thelnetham, on the other hand,
was
interested in what he looked like, and was never anything short of immaculate. He was a brilliant Gilbertine, an expert in
     both canon and civil law, and a demon in the debating chamber. Like Wynewyk, he had a penchant for male lovers, although where
     Wynewyk was discreet, Thelnetham sported brightly coloured accessories to his religious habit and indulged in flamboyantly
     effeminate conversation. The students liked him, because his lectures were boisterously entertaining, although he could be
     brutally incisive, too.
    ‘What are you doing?’ Bartholomew asked him.
    ‘Hemmysby’s nails,’ replied Thelnetham, as if the answer were obvious. Bartholomew supposed it was, and realised he had asked
     the wrong question. Thelnetham smiled, and elaborated anyway. ‘They are a disgrace, and a man is nothing without smart nails.
     You always keep yours nice, which is considerate, given that you use them for clawing about in people’s innards.’
    Bartholomew winced at the image. ‘I do nothing of the kind.’
    Thelnetham wagged his file admonishingly. ‘Now Robin the surgeon no longer practises his unsavoury trade – for which we all
     thank God – you are free to hack and saw to your heart’s content. You should be careful, though. Physicians are not supposed
     to demean themselves with cautery.’
    ‘Leave him alone, Thelnetham,’ said Michael mildly. ‘Robin’s retirement means all the Cambridge physicians are forced to dabble
     in surgery these days. Even Paxtone is obliged to bleed his own patients, although word is that he is not very good at it.’
    Bartholomew was astonished to hear this. He knew Paxtone was a firm believer in the benefits of phlebotomy, but he had not
     imagined him to be enthusiastic enough about the procedure to open his patients’ veins himself. The King’s Hall physician
     disliked getting his hands dirty, and preferred his treatments to revolve around the inspection of urine and the calculation
     of personal horoscopes.
    ‘There, I have finished, Hemmysby,’ said Thelnetham, sitting back in satisfaction. ‘You now have fingers any lady would be
     proud to own. Can I tempt anyone else to a little beautification?’
    ‘Not if you turn us into girls,’ said Suttone in distaste. ‘That nasty Osa Gosse mocked me today, shouting that my habit was
     womanly. I cannot have feminine hands, or he may do it again.’
    ‘Very well,’ said Thelnetham, slipping the rasp into the enormous purse that hung at his side. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Has
     Wynewyk spoken to you about Tesdale yet?’
    ‘No,’ replied Bartholomew warily. ‘Why? What has he done?’
    ‘His