A Vein of Deceit by Susanna Gregory Page B

me: money. We do not have any, and I have
     nigh on a hundred mouths to feed – students, Fellows, commoners, servants. I was a fool to have taken on those new pupils
     last Easter, because they have transpired to be more of an expense than a source of revenue.’
    Bartholomew was bemused. ‘But you have been concerned about funding for years. What is different now?’
    ‘I cannot talk about it,’ said Langelee miserably, turning away. ‘Not to you, and not to anyone. The burden is mine alone
     to bear.’
    Bartholomew would have been content to leave it at that, because he had no wish to become acquainted with the sort of business
     that could drive a resilient, insensitive man like Langelee to drink. But friendship compelled him to persist.
    ‘You do not have to worry alone. All the Fellows will help, especially if it concerns the College.’
    ‘It
does
concern the College,’ whispered Langelee, his expression agonised. ‘But I cannot …’
    ‘Perhaps we should talk tomorrow,’ suggestedBartholomew gently, when Langelee closed his eyes and seemed unable to continue. ‘When you are less overwrought.’
    ‘Overwrought,’ echoed Langelee bitterly. ‘That is a kinder word than drunk. And you are right: I did set out to drown my sorrows
     this evening, although it was a waste of time. They still plague me, only now I have a raging headache to go with them.’
    Bartholomew handed him a dose of the tonic he often dispensed to those who had overindulged. ‘We were appalled when we heard
     you had been attacked,’ he said. ‘We thought you were dead.’
    ‘Attacked?’ Langelee frowned, cup halfway to his lips, then understanding dawned in his eyes. ‘God’s blood! You are right!
     Someone emerged from the shadows and tried to stab me! Christ! I might have forgotten, if you had not jogged my memory.’
    ‘If whatever is worrying you is going to lead to murderous ambushes, then you should not keep it to yourself,’ said Bartholomew,
     concerned for him. ‘Some of us may be able to help, especially Michael.’
    Langelee gazed at him in confusion. ‘You think the assault on me is connected to my problem?’
    ‘Without knowing the problem, it is impossible to say,’ replied Bartholomew, supposing the Master’s wits must still be muddled,
     for the question was an inane one. ‘Did you see anything that might allow us to catch the culprit?’
    Langelee’s face creased into a scowl as memories began to resurface. ‘I saw someone – a skinny devil – lurking in a doorway,
     and when I walked past, he cowered away. I thought that was the end of it, but then I heard footsteps and the scoundrel was
     on me before I could act. I saw the flash of a knife and managed to turn, so the blade caught my armour. Then I heard him
     running away.’
    ‘Did you see his face?’
    Langelee shook his head. ‘I thought it was Osa Gosse at first, but he has a distinctive odour, and I have been trained to
     notice that sort of thing. It was not him. I think it was a scholar.’
    Bartholomew eyed him warily. ‘Are you sure?’
    ‘No, I am not sure,’ snapped Langelee testily. ‘I shall have to think about it. However, my purse seems to be missing, and
     as I am sure
you
did not steal it, it seems I was the victim of a robbery. Forget I mentioned scholars. I am unwell, and fever is making me
     spout nonsense.’ He raised the cup and downed the tonic, evidently aiming to emphasise the current fragile state of his health.
    ‘Rest now and talk to Michael in the morning,’ said Bartholomew kindly. ‘The Senior Proctor does not like it when masters
     are stabbed. Especially his own.’
    In a demonstration of his extraordinary capacity for recuperation, Langelee sat up the following morning and announced that
     he felt fighting fit. He was pale and his eyes were bloodshot, but he seemed otherwise unscathed, either by the attack or
     by the amount of wine he had swallowed. There was not even a bruise where the knife had