To Kill or Cure

CHAPTER 9

The tinkle of the College bell woke Bartholomew the following morning, and he sat up to find the students who now shared his room had risen, dressed, and left. A heavy sleeper, he had not heard a thing. He appreciated having the chamber to himself as he washed in the bowl of cold water Cynric had left for him, shaving quickly with one of his surgical blades. The clothes he had worn the day before were not too crumpled from where he had left them in a heap in the corner, so he donned them again, hopping from foot to foot in an effort to keep his bare feet off the cold stone floor.

He trotted into the yard, pulling his tabard over his head. It was not a pleasant day. There was a sleety drizzle in the air, and the wind whipped in from the Fens like a knife. There was not a student, commoner or Fellow who was not shivering as he waited for Langelee to lead the procession to the church for daily prayers, and the only warm person was Agatha, who watched the assembly from the comfort of her wicker throne next to the kitchen fire.

Suddenly, there was a piercing scream that had the new students exclaiming their alarm, but it was only the porter’s peacock being let out of its coop. It strutted boldly into the open, then scuttled inside again when it saw the state of the weather. The hens were made of sterner stuff, and were scratching about in the mud, scuttling diagonally every so often, as the wind caught them.

‘Who is still missing?’ demanded Langelee, looking round irritably. ‘Someone is not here. Who?’

‘Honynge and Carton,’ said William, looking around irritably. ‘Honynge was still in bed when I passed his door, but he said he was coming. Do you want me to hurry him up?’

‘Deynman will do it,’ said Langelee. ‘Where is Carton? He is not usually late.’

‘There,’ said Wynewyk, pointing towards the front gate. The porter had just opened it, and Carton was slipping quickly inside. ‘Where has he been?’

‘Reciting masses,’ replied the friar, when Langelee repeated the question to him. ‘In St Michael’s. I came back when I heard the bell.’

Yet he was very wet, and had clearly been out longer than the time it would have taken to walk from church to College. Bartholomew was about to demand the truth, but the Master was speaking.

‘Right,’ Langelee shouted. ‘The rest of you gather around me. Come on, hurry up!’

Everyone formed a tight huddle, with him in the centre, waiting expectantly for what sounded as though it was going to be an important announcement. Bartholomew wondered if he had found a way to dispense with Honynge, and was going to confide it while the man was not there.

‘What?’ asked Michael impatiently, after several moments of silence.

‘Nothing,’ said Langelee. ‘I just thought you could keep the rain off me while we wait.’

There was a chorus of weary groans. Bartholomew started to laugh, although William failed to see the humour in the situation, and began a litany of bitter grumbles that saw the Dominicans to blame for the Master’s jest and the foul weather at the same time.

‘I am glad I am not a Black Friar,’ said Tyrington, standing close to the physician and speaking in a low voice. ‘William is not entirely sane when he starts ranting about them, and I would not like that sort of venom directed at me. How can you let him spout such poison? The students will hear it, and might think it is true.’

‘I suppose we should tell him to moderate himself,’ said Bartholomew. He tried to edge away from the cascade of spit. ‘We take no notice of him, so we assume no one else does, either.’

‘You have twenty new members who do not know he should be ignored. I do not mean to be objectionable – finding fault with my new College so soon – but I am offended by these tirades and would like them to stop. Is that unreasonable?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Of course not, and you are right. I will talk to Langelee about it.’ He shivered. ‘It is freezing out here! Where is Honynge?’

‘He and I were invited to a debate in Bene’t College last night. It went on longer than we expected, and we came home very late.’

Bartholomew nodded, recalling how it had not been late enough to prevent Honynge from joining him and Wynewyk in the conclave afterwards. Wynewyk had been working on the accounts and Bartholomew had been reading, enjoying the remnants of the fire in companionable silence. Then Honynge had arrived and ordered them to move so he could warm himself. Wynewyk had objected, and Bartholomew had left when the ensuing argument had degenerated into an exchange of personal insults.

‘Honynge is imbued with great energy at night,’ Tyrington went on. ‘I was exhausted, but he was all for continuing the debate. I declined, so he tried to persuade others instead. All refused, because of the lateness of the hour, but he even approached Candelby in his desperation for a discussion.’

‘Candelby?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘I doubt he has much patience with scholarly pursuits.’

Tyrington shrugged. ‘I think Honynge was so keen for a disputation that it did not occur to him that a taverner might not be the man to ask. It did not take him long to find out, though. He had caught me up by the time I reached St Mary the Great, and we walked the rest of the way home together.’

‘Where is that man?’ demanded Michael. Rain had plastered his thin hair to his head, which looked very small atop the vast mountain of his body. ‘Does he not know he is keeping us out here in the wet?’

Tyrington pulled a phial from his scrip and handed it to Bartholomew. ‘Here is something that may occupy you while we wait. I bought it from Arderne – or rather, he forced it on me, then demanded a shilling. I was too taken aback to protest.’

‘What was ailing you?’ asked Bartholomew, taking it cautiously. The stopper did not fit very well, and it was leaking. He would never have dispensed medicine in such a container.

Tyrington looked indignant. ‘He told me I have too much saliva in my mouth, and that this potion would dry it out. What was he talking about? I do not spit!’

‘You will not be doing anything at all if you swallow too much of this,’ said Bartholomew, sniffing the flask warily. ‘I detect bryony in it, and that can be harmful in too concentrated a dose.’

Tyrington gaped at him, shocked. ‘You mean he was trying to poison me? Why? I have never done anything to him! In fact, I had never even spoken to him before yesterday.’

‘I suspect he just saw an opportunity to earn himself a shilling,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And bryony is used to clear the chest of phlegm, so it is not poison exactly.’

‘Just another example of Arderne’s incompetence,’ muttered Michael.

Eventually, Honynge arrived, and did not seem to care that he had kept his colleagues lingering in the wet while he made himself ready. He was clad in an expensive cloak, his hair was neatly brushed, and he was shaved so closely that Bartholomew imagined the procedure must have taken a very long time. Langelee was only willing to be pushed so far. He nodded to his Fellows, who stepped into formation behind him, and set off. Cynric whipped the gate open to ensure there was no delay, and Langelee stormed up St Michael’s Lane at a furious lick. As a consequence, Honynge was obliged to run to catch up. He was seething when he finally took his place, and glowered at Langelee in a way that made Bartholomew uneasy.

The physician put Honynge from his mind as Michael began the mass, enjoying the monk’s rich baritone as he intoned the sacred words. Although he was a Benedictine, Michael had been given special dispensation to perform priestly duties during the plague, and the shortage of ordained men since meant he had continued the practice. The psalm he had chosen was one of Kenyngham’s favourites, and Bartholomew found himself wishing with all his heart that the old man had not died. Even without Honynge’s malign presence, Michaelhouse was a poorer place without him.

When the monk had finished, the scholars trooped back to the College at a more sedate pace than they had left it, and waited in the yard until the bell announced that breakfast was ready. Michael was first to reach the door, thundering up the spiral stairs that led to the hall, then pacing restlessly until everyone else had arrived. Honynge was last, because he had found something else to do along the way, and Langelee said grace before he had reached his seat. Pointedly, Honynge murmured his own prayer before he sat, and then took so much of the communal egg-mess that there was none left for Bartholomew and Tyrington. When Tyrington voiced his objection, the hands of the Fellows sitting near him immediately adopted the Michaelhouse Manoeuvre.

‘I am concerned about this exhumation you propose to conduct,’ said Honynge, when the meal was over and the Fellows were in the conclave, deciding who should invigilate the disputations. The comment was somewhat out of the blue. ‘Are you sure it is necessary?’

‘I must know how Kenyngham died,’ said Michael. ‘Besides, I always investigate odd deaths.’

‘Is Kenyngham’s death odd?’ asked Tyrington. ‘I thought he died of old age.’

‘He was poisoned.’ Michael brandished the parchments he had been sent. ‘This confession proves it, and so does the letter offering me twenty marks for finding his killer.’

‘Perhaps they are pranks,’ suggested Wynewyk, studying them thoughtfully. ‘Or a plot devised by someone who wants to hurt you because of the rent war.’

‘Why would anyone confess to a murder he did not commit?’ demanded Michael.

‘Why would a killer want you to know what he had done?’ countered Honynge. ‘If Kenyngham really was poisoned, the culprit would be grateful that his crime had gone undetected. He would not brag about it, and risk having you launch an investigation that might see him exposed. Of course these missives are hoaxes! And anyone who cannot see it is a fool.’

‘The killer wants me to know how clever he is,’ Michael shot back.

‘Piffle,’ declared Honynge. ‘If you disturb a man’s corpse after it has been buried, you are agents of the Devil. I strongly urge you to reconsider this distasteful course of action, Brother.’

‘I cannot,’ said Michael shortly. ‘It would not be right to turn a blind eye to murder.’

‘Then I want my objections made public,’ said Honynge. ‘I want it recorded in the College annals that I consider this exhumation wicked and unnecessary.’

‘Honynge is right,’ said Tyrington shyly. ‘Although I would not have phrased my reservations quite so baldly. The whole business does not seem proper, somehow.’

Langelee sighed. ‘We had better vote on it. We shall meet back here in an hour, which will give us all time to reflect. It is not something that should be decided without proper consideration.’

‘You can vote,’ said Michael. ‘But I am Senior Proctor, and I shall do what I think is right.’

‘You may be Senior Proctor, but you are also a Fellow of Michaelhouse,’ said Langelee quietly. ‘And I assert my authority over you to bide by the decision of your colleagues.’

Michael was furious as he stamped from the conclave.

‘I cannot believe you are against me, Matt!’ The monk was almost shouting as he and Bartholomew walked towards Peterhouse, aiming to ascertain whether there were other aspects to Lynton’s character that had been kept from the general populace.

‘And I cannot believe you are contemplating exhumation,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘It is horrible.’

‘You have done it before.’

‘Not to someone close to me.’

‘He has only been dead six days. I do not think you will see anything too distressing.’

‘That is not the point. Kenyngham was laid to rest. That does not mean hauled out of his tomb a few days later because you are beguiled by some lunatic letter.’

‘It bragged about the murder of a colleague. How can you remain dispassionate about it?’

‘For two reasons. First, the confession is false – Wynewyk is right, someone is trying to hurt you because of the rent war. And secondly, you will not learn anything by unearthing Kenyngham anyway. I examined him twice and saw nothing amiss.’

Michael looked sly. ‘The fact that you went back for a second paw means there was something about the first examination that bothered you. You are not as sure about this as you claim to be.’

‘Motelete,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘I thought he was dead, and was shocked when he sat up in his coffin. It made me question myself – especially after Arderne’s claims about my competence.’

Michael’s anger faded when he saw the unhappiness in his friend’s face. ‘I would not take his criticism to heart. He is a … oh, Lord! Here comes Isnard. He is holding a sword, so I recommend you stand behind me. He will not strike a man of God – especially one who is his choirmaster.’

‘Let me at him!’ shouted Isnard, hobbling faster than was safe for a man with one leg. ‘I said I would kill him the next time we met. Well, we have met.’

His voice was loud, and people hurried to see what was happening. Before Michael could stop them, Kardington, Spaldynge and a group of students from Clare had come to stand next to him, while three pot-boys and Blankpayn hastened to show their solidarity with Isnard.

‘You are out a lot these days, Master Kardington,’ remarked Michael coolly. ‘In fact, this is the third time since Sunday that you have been present at a confrontation.’

‘There are confrontations at every turn these days, Brother,’ said Kardington with a shrug. ‘You cannot take two steps without town louts forming battle lines.’

Fortunately, he spoke Latin, so the ‘town louts’ did not understand. They knew it was nothing pleasant though, and Blankpayn scowled. Meanwhile, Isnard was more concerned with carrying out his threat against Bartholomew. He was not drunk, but he was not sober either, and there was a fierce light in his eyes. He took a step forward, gripping his sword two-handed, like an axe.

‘Put that down at once,’ ordered Michael sternly. ‘Brawling may damage your throat, and I need you for the solo on Sunday.’

Isnard stopped dead in his tracks. ‘Solo?’

‘Never mind singing, Isnard,’ hissed Blankpayn. ‘Think about your leg – the one that was sawn off when you were too ill to prevent it. The Bible says an eye for an eye, and a leg for a leg.’

‘Does it?’ asked Isnard, disconcerted. The weapon wavered. ‘I do not think I can bring myself to chop off a limb. It is too … well, too personal.’

‘Kill him then,’ whispered Blankpayn. ‘He has all but killed you.’

‘If you do, I shall make sure you never sing in a choir again,’ said Michael, interposing himself between physician and bargeman. Bartholomew tried to stop him, not wanting the monk to bear the consequences for something he had done, but it was not easy to step around the Benedictine’s bulk.

Isnard’s sword drooped a little more. The Michaelhouse ensemble was one of the greatest joys in his life. Not only did it let him bellow at the top of his lungs with people he liked, but the College provided food and treats after performances, and he enjoyed those, too. ‘But my leg …’

‘It was crushed beyond repair,’ said Bartholomew, finally succeeding in moving out from behind Michael. ‘You saw it yourself, and I do not understand why you refuse to believe me.’

‘But I cannot remember,’ cried Isnard. ‘You gave me wine, to dull my senses.’

‘There!’ muttered Blankpayn. ‘He rendered you insensible before doing his evil work. Listen to what Arderne tells you. Make the physician pay for what he did.’

‘I am no lover of physicians myself,’ said Spaldynge, shooting Bartholomew an unpleasant look. ‘But I do not recommend slaughtering them in broad daylight. They are not worth hanging for.’

‘You seem very keen for someone to commit a capital crime, Blankpayn,’ lisped Kardington. He spoke English, so no one understood him. ‘Why is that?’

‘Do not swear at us,’ snarled one of Blankpayn’s pot-boys, fingering his dagger meaningfully.

Isnard was confused and unhappy. ‘Falmeresham – your own student – said this morning that if he knew then what he knows now, he would have stopped you from operating. How could you do this to me?’

The last part was delivered in an accusing wail that made Bartholomew wince; so did the notion that Falmeresham had turned against him. He rubbed his eyes, tired of the whole business. There was nothing he could say to make Isnard believe him, and he did not think he could bear weeks of accusing glances and angry High Street encounters until Isnard managed to do what he threatened.

‘Do what?’ demanded Michael, when Bartholomew made no attempt to defend himself. ‘Save your life? Sometimes I ask myself the same question. But I have had enough of this unedifying spectacle. Go home and practise the Magnificat, or I shall ask someone else to sing instead.’

Isnard started to obey – he had never been honoured with a solo before, and dispatching physicians could wait a day – but Blankpayn was furious that a brawl was going to be averted. ‘You are a coward, Isnard! A stupid cripple. He should have amputated you head, not your foot.’

There was a collective murmur of distaste at this remark, including from Blankpayn’s own pot-boys. They exchanged uneasy glances and started to move away. The other townsmen were also loath to be associated with Blankpayn when he was of a mind to insult the popular Isnard, and began to follow suit. In a matter of moments, Blankpayn found himself left with only scholars for company; he did not like being outnumbered, and hastily made himself scarce.

‘I shall be voting against your proposal at the Convocation on Monday,’ said Spaldynge, when the taverner had gone. ‘I am sorry, Brother – I know you are doing what you think is right, but the University must stand firm against these demands, because they are the thin end of the wedge.’

‘Once landlords are free to charge high prices, bakers and brewers will do the same,’ elaborated Kardington. ‘We will be driven away by rising costs – hostels first, and eventually the Colleges.’

‘Most hostels are poor,’ Spaldynge went on bitterly. ‘And my sale of Borden was intended to highlight that fact. But what is the University’s response? To arrange a gathering of Regents, and ask them to give the Senior Proctor permission to raise the rents even higher!’ He looked disgusted.

‘I am sorry you will not have Clare’s support, Brother,’ said Kardington apologetically, ‘but your letter of notification did say we should all vote as our consciences dictate.’

Bartholomew was not deceived by their so-called moral stance. ‘Your conscience tells you to vote against the amendment because Clare no longer owns any houses to lease out. Borden is sold, so you are no longer in a position to benefit from charging higher rates.’

‘That is true,’ said Kardington, rather coldly. ‘However, my decision also happens to coincide with what I believe to be ethical.’

‘Damn!’ murmured Michael, as the Clare men walked away. ‘I thought I phrased that letter in a way that made it clear that voting with one’s conscience meant voting for my proposal.’

‘You did – and it was not subtle.’ Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘I have said this before, but considering Spaldynge sold a house that did not belong to him, he seems very good friends with the victims of his crime.’

Michael nodded. ‘Suspiciously so. I have a feeling there is something we are not being told about that College. I wonder how well Spaldynge and Kardington knew Lynton.’

Bartholomew was silent as they walked the rest of the way to Peterhouse. An innate sense of survival made him turn sharply when he sensed something behind him, and he managed to avoid the stone that was lobbed at his head. He looked around, but could not see who had thrown it, although he heard running footsteps.

‘Perhaps we should ask Wisbeche if we can borrow one of Lynton’s knightly shields,’ said the monk facetiously. He saw Bartholomew’s unhappy expression. ‘Do not worry about Isnard. He will not stay angry with you for long.’

‘It is not him I am concerned about – it is the people taking up his cause. If I knew where Falmeresham had buried Isnard’s leg, I would excavate it, to prove it was beyond repair.’

Michael regarded him in askance. ‘You would do that, but you will not look at Kenyngham?’

Bartholomew sighed. ‘Actually, I will do neither. Arderne would claim it was someone else’s limb anyway, so there would be no point.’

Peterhouse’s door was answered by Master Wisbeche himself. He did not look pleased to see them, and was reluctant to invite them in. Bartholomew wondered if it was because of Isnard.

‘No,’ said Wisbeche shortly. ‘It is about Lynton. The woman who came to wash him has a habit of making off with body parts for magic charms, so I decided to watch her, to make sure she did not do it to Lynton. While she was cleaning him I noticed a wound in his chest. My colleague Estmed, who fought with the old King in Scotland, said it was made by a crossbow bolt. Ergo, Lynton did not die because he fell from his horse and hurt his head – he was shot.’

‘I know,’ said Michael quietly. He raised his hand when Wisbeche started to object. ‘We were afraid of what might happen if we made the truth public. You can see for yourself how the town and the University are at each other’s throats, and a rumour that a high-ranking scholar was murdered would have led to all manner of mischief. Our students would have rioted.’

‘I would not have rioted,’ said Wisbeche coldly. ‘You could have confided in me. However, not only did you choose to be secretive, but you attempted to conceal the evidence – you plugged the wound with bandages. It is unconscionable, and everyone I have told agrees with me.’

‘My apologies,’ snapped Michael, not sounding at all contrite. ‘But we did what we thought was best. I have a responsibility to the University, you know, as well as to its individuals.’

‘Your actions show you do not trust me,’ Wisbeche went on accusingly.

‘And I am right,’ snarled Michael, temper finally breaking. ‘You cannot be trusted. The words “everyone I have told” suggest you have been gossiping to all and sundry. If you cannot see that flapping tongues are the last thing we need, then I was wise to keep you in the dark.’

Wisbeche stared at him. ‘I was angry with you. I spoke in rancour.’

‘And that gives you the right to bray murder?’ demanded Michael. ‘Now, when we stand on the brink of some major civil unrest?’

Wisbeche swallowed uncomfortably. ‘I suppose my response may have been precipitous.’

Michael struggled to control himself; alienating the Master of a prestigious College would do no one any good. ‘You could say that. But the damage is done, and there is no point in recriminations.’

Wisbeche regarded him coolly. ‘In that case, we shall say no more about your failure to tell me my senior Fellow was murdered – or about the fact that you stuffed Lynton’s wound with rags, although I still think it is a ghoulish thing to have done.’

‘Yes, it was,’ said Michael, looking nowhere in particular. ‘So, we have a truce, then?’

‘We do. And just so you know I have the University’s best interests at heart, I shall vote for your proposal at the Convocation of Regents on Monday. My Fellows will do likewise. I do not want a war with the town, and your measures to raise the rents make sense to me.’

‘Thank you,’ said Michael. ‘How many of you are there?’

‘With commoners and pensioners, we number sixteen. Kardington says he will vote against you, but Clare is only fourteen, so our support puts you two men ahead.’

‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘Of course, you have a vested interest in seeing me win. You will inherit all Lynton’s houses, so my amendment will see you considerably richer.’

Wisbeche was about to argue, but he caught Michael’s eye and settled for a shrug. ‘You are right – higher rents will suit us. However, we have already made the decision not to follow Lynton’s policy of leasing to townsmen. All our houses will be loaned to scholars.’

‘While we are on the subject of Lynton, I would like to ask you a few questions about him.’

‘Why?’ asked Wisbeche suspiciously. ‘So you can see what other University rules he flouted?’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘From that response, I assume there is yet more to learn about the man. However, my intention is not to expose his transgressions, but to catch his killer. Will you help me? I know this is uncomfortable, but it is better – for Lynton’s reputation and memory – if the information comes from you. I do not want to ask his colleagues or your servants.’

Wisbeche sighed. ‘I suppose you know by now that there were two Lyntons – the fastidious physician and the secret man. Ask your questions, Brother. I shall answer them if I can.’

‘So far, we have discovered that he was once a knight, he owned property, and he had a lover.’

‘He and Maud Bowyer were friends,’ conceded Wisbeche. ‘But he only spent the night at her house when she was troubled by rats. He said it was preventative medicine, because she would have swooned had she seen one.’

‘And you believed him?’ asked Michael incredulously. Bartholomew struggled not to smile.

‘Not really. But we were too polite to say anything, and the liaison was always conducted with the utmost discretion. He had been protecting her from rats for years, and the only reason you know about it now is because he is dead.’

‘His talent for subterfuge is astounding,’ said Michael, awed. ‘When Matt had his dalliance with Matilde two years ago, he thought he was careful, but every man, woman and child from here to Ely knew about it. Yet Lynton managed to carry on for years.’

‘He knew how to keep his business private. I am the executor of his will, and I am astonished by the amount of money he had accrued – and by some of the financial arrangements he had in place.’

‘You mean such as renting his houses to laymen?’

Wisbeche nodded. ‘He bought and sold properties at an incredible rate. He was even doing business with Candelby, although it pains me to admit it.’

Michael’s expression was grim. ‘Candelby has only recently come into possession of most of his houses. I do not suppose he acquired them from Lynton, did he?’

Wisbeche rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘Yes, I believe he did. The last transaction was for three homes on the High Street, which Lynton let him have a month ago.’

‘How did Lynton come by them in the first place?’ asked Michael.

‘I am not sure,’ replied Wisbeche shiftily. ‘His accounts are complicated, and it will take me months to sort through them. However, I suspect he won them in a bet.’

‘A bet?’ echoed Michael in disbelief. ‘What sort of bet?’

‘Agatha said Lynton enjoyed games of chance with Maud on Sunday afternoons,’ Bartholomew reminded the monk. ‘We already know about his fondness for dice.’

‘Actually,’ said Wisbeche sheepishly, ‘he was rather more fond of them than his weekly sessions with his lady. He held tournaments in his Dispensary, and often returned with some very peculiar winnings. Once it was a cow, another time a boat. I suspect he may have won these houses, too. Sometimes, the stakes were very high.’

Bartholomew regarded him in open-mouthed astonishment. ‘I do not believe you! Lynton would never have broken the University’s rules on that sort of scale.’

‘I wish you were right,’ said Wisbeche fervently. ‘I really do.’

‘At least this explains the odd décor in his Dispensary,’ said Michael, finding his voice at last. ‘Why the windows were painted shut, and why you found no medical equipment.’

‘Except the silver goblets in the attic,’ said Wisbeche. ‘For providing his guests with wine. It was all very civilised, naturally. He never used the Dispensary for medical work.’

‘I suppose these games were on Fridays,’ said Michael, recalling that was the night Lynton had been unavailable for Maud.

Wisbeche nodded. ‘I know I should have stopped him, but he was always so generous to the College, and I did not want him to take his patronage elsewhere. I made the right decision, too, because he left us a fortune in his will.’

‘All this cannot be true,’ said Bartholomew, feeling as though he was in a dream. ‘I mean no disrespect, Wisbeche, but Lynton was a quiet, decent man, whose interests were medicine and natural philosophy. I do not see him tossing dice with hardened gamblers.’

‘Would you like to see his accounts? That might convince you.’

Michael waved a hand to indicate he would like that very much, and they followed Wisbeche across the courtyard to a set of rooms on an upper floor. Bartholomew had never been in Lynton’s private quarters before, because Lynton had always entertained visitors in the College combination room. His jaw dropped when he saw the lavish opulence of his colleague’s chambers. There was a bed draped with extravagant hangings, there were thick, expensive carpets from Turkey, and Wisbeche opened a chest to reveal it full of silver coins.

‘Christ Almighty!’ breathed Bartholomew before he could stop himself. For once, Michael did not berate him for blasphemy. ‘This must be the most sumptuous accommodation in Cambridge!’

‘In England,’ corrected Michael, wide-eyed. ‘I doubt even the King has anything this splendid.’

Bartholomew and Michael left Peterhouse in a daze. They had spent a few moments inspecting Lynton’s accounts, but concurred with Wisbeche that they would take months to unravel, and a cursory glance was unlikely to tell them much. The records had indicated, however, that Lynton had gambled in some very august company, and that his winnings had come from such powerful townsmen as the Sheriff, the Mayor, Candelby, Blankpayn and Bartholomew’s brother-in-law. The physician was even more shocked to learn that Paxtone had enjoyed the odd game, too, as had Honynge, Kardington, Spaldynge, Carton and even Robin of Grantchester.

Towards the end of the list was Ocleye’s name, and Bartholomew saw he had won three goats. If the ‘pot-boy’ had been able to gamble and rent fine houses, then spying was obviously a lucrative business. Michael stabbed at the entry with his finger, and his look told Bartholomew to remember that it was another connection between two men killed by crossbow bolts. At the bottom of the register, indicating he was a fairly recent addition to the Dispensary’s membership, was Arderne.

‘Do you recall how furtive Paxtone became when we mentioned the Dispensary?’ asked Bartholomew as they walked along the High Street. ‘Now we know why.’

‘You and I are about the only men in Cambridge Lynton did not dice with,’ said Michael, stunned by the scale of the operation. ‘Why? Was our money not good enough for him?’

‘He did once ask if I liked games of chance,’ recalled Bartholomew. ‘I thought it was an idle question, and did not imagine for a moment that it might be an invitation. I told him I did not, and he never mentioned it again. But he was hardly likely to have included you, Brother – you turn a blind eye to the occasional indiscretion, but this was breaking the rules on a massive scale.’

Michael began to count Lynton’s crimes on fat and rather grimy fingers. ‘He fraternised with townsmen – and women. He gambled. He carried arms. He owned more property than the rest of the University put together. God save us, Matt! We are lucky his antics did not cause a riot – wealthy townsmen suffering such huge financial losses to a scholar.’

‘Wisbeche said Lynton acted as a kind of banker – most of the winnings went to the other players, and Lynton only took a percentage of what was gambled.’

‘You can portray it how you like, but it was sordid, no matter how genteel the surroundings and the company. Of course, it is yet another motive for his murder – he might have been shot by someone who objected to losing. Candelby remains high on my list – according to Lynton’s accounts, he lost a good cloak and a hunting dog last Friday.’

‘Good Friday,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The rest of us were keeping vigil while Lynton diced. I am surprised Candelby was involved, though – and that Lynton would entertain him in the first place. Candelby hates everything to do with the University, and Lynton was a prominent scholar.’

‘It is peculiar,’ agreed Michael. ‘And it is something we must explore. The odds are stacking up against Candelby, if you will forgive the allusion.’

Bartholomew was more interested in another name that had been prominent in Lynton’s most recent records. ‘Arderne lost forty marks on Good Friday – just two days before Lynton was shot. That is four years’ pay for some of us. But we had better hurry home, Brother. Langelee told us to be back in an hour.’

Michael seized his arm and jerked him to a halt. ‘Look over there! Candelby is talking to Honynge. Now what can they have to say to each other? It seems Lynton is not the only scholar with a dubious private life. Honynge sneaks around the grounds of rival Colleges in the depths of the night, he gambles, and now we learn he fraternises with evil-hearted burgesses.’

‘Candelby is just selling him a pie,’ said Bartholomew, watching. ‘It is hardly fraternising.’

‘Then let us hope it chokes him,’ said Michael uncharitably. ‘And I will be saved the bother of finding a bloodless way of ousting him from Michaelhouse. I am none too happy with Tyrington, either. Wynewyk was right to object to his leering – it is sinister.’

‘At least they are both good academics.’

‘They are adequate,’ replied Michael haughtily. He stalked towards the two men, but Candelby was already striding briskly up the High Street. The monk grimaced – he wanted to question Candelby about his dealings with Lynton, but not at the expense of an undignified sprint. He vented his spleen on his new colleague instead. ‘You keep some very disreputable company, Honynge.’

Honynge took a bite of the pie. It was enormous, and looked heavy with suet. Bartholomew regarded it with disapproval, thinking that if Honynge ate it all, it would sit badly in his stomach, and bring about an excess of the yellow bile that would exacerbate his choleric temper.

‘I am hungry,’ replied Honynge. ‘There was not enough to eat this morning.’

‘Now there is something upon which we can agree,’ said Michael. ‘Although there might have been more had some Fellows not availed themselves of more than their share of egg-mess.’

‘You refer to Langelee,’ said Honynge, evidently deciding it could not be his own hoggishness that was in question. His voice dropped until it was barely audible. ‘Michaelhouse is full of gluttons, and you were a fool to accept their offer. You should have gone to Lucy’s instead.’

Commenting adversely on his colleagues’ eating habits meant Honynge was skating on some very thin ice. Michael’s eyes narrowed, and he went on the offensive. ‘I have it on good authority that you were slinking around the grounds of Clare late the other night. Exactly why would you do that?’

‘I did nothing of the kind,’ replied Honynge firmly. ‘Who has been telling lies about me?’

‘My witness saw your face,’ pressed Michael, rather taken aback by the bald untruth.

‘You said it was late, which means it was dark. How could your “witness” have seen me? The fellow is either a liar or a drunkard.’ Honynge glared at Bartholomew, indicating he had his own suspicions about the identity of the witness; and the physician supposed he must have heard who Spaldynge claimed to have spotted burgling his College.

Michael changed the subject before it became awkward for his friend. ‘Do you like gambling?’

Honynge regarded the monk with open dislike. ‘Why? Do you want to become a member of the Dispensary? I doubt the sessions will continue now Lynton is dead.’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘You do not deny it?’

‘Why should I deny it? I did not bet on holy days, and any winnings I earned went towards books for Zachary Hostel. What will you do? Prosecute me? If so, I will name all the others I met at these gatherings – Paxtone, Kardington, Wynewyk–’

‘Wynewyk?’ asked Michael incredulously. That was a name he had missed on Lynton’s register.

‘Yes, and he took Langelee and Carton once, although our Master is a man of brutal wits, who does not possess the necessary finesse for Lynton’s games. Carton was better.’

‘Finesse?’ echoed Michael disdainfully. ‘For betting on the outcome of the roll of a die?’

Honynge sneered at him. ‘If you attempt to make an example of me, Brother, I will see you are obliged to fine half the University. I strongly advise you to let sleeping dogs lie.’

‘I shall make up my own mind about that. Where are you going? To Michaelhouse? Did Langelee not tell you the meeting has been postponed for another hour?’

Honynge looked annoyed. ‘No, he did not.’ His voice dropped again. ‘Langelee wants you to waste your time waiting for him, because you were late for his procession today. Go to the Market Square and buy yourself some victuals, lest they serve you dog again this evening.’

Michael sniggered as he left. ‘William did feed him dog today, actually – Agatha put it in the egg-mess. It was just as well he took it all before you got to it, given that I forgot to warn you.’

Bartholomew was disgusted. ‘Does this mean I need to inspect everything that appears on the table from now on? Honynge is not the only one who would rather not eat dog.’

‘It was just the once. And as he did not notice, there was no fun in it – it will not happen again.’

‘It had better not. I notice you lied about the time of the meeting. You have just ensured he will miss it, and as he is opposing you, you will probably win the vote to exhume Kenyngham.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael innocently. ‘The thought never crossed my mind.’

Langelee was waiting when Bartholomew and Michael entered the conclave. Wynewyk was next to him, pen poised to take notes, and William was humming as he chewed something stolen from the kitchens. It was a Lombard slice, heavy with dates and honey. Michael eyed it longingly.

‘You should watch yourself, Father. Agatha might put her love-potion in anything, and she knows you are in the habit of sneaking into her domain and availing yourself of whatever happens to be lying around. You do not want to develop a passion for her. Give it to me.’

Bartholomew laughed when William did as he suggested.

‘And what is to stop you from falling under this spell, Brother?’ asked Wynewyk, also amused.

Michael stuffed the cake into his mouth. ‘I am immune. And this cake is free of potions anyway. If it had been otherwise, my innate sense of godliness would have told me to spit it out.’

Bartholomew laughed again.

‘Where is Honynge?’ demanded Langelee irritably, when Tyrington entered and there was only one empty seat remaining. ‘Is he going to be late again?’

‘I saw him walking towards the Market Square a few moments ago,’ replied Michael guilelessly. ‘He does not like College food, so has gone to lay in some personal supplies.’

William gave a triumphant cackle, and Wynewyk’s small, secret smile indicated he had also been party to the egg-mess incident. Tyrington looked from one to the other in puzzlement.

‘Well, we cannot wait,’ said Langelee. ‘I have other business to attend today – Mayor Harleston is selling a rather fine filly, and I want to put a bid on it before Candelby does. He has wanted that horse for a long time, but she will be a good breeder and I intend to build up our stables.’

‘How will we pay for it?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.

‘Wynewyk won a–’ began Langelee.

‘I was named in the will of an elderly aunt,’ interrupted Wynewyk, while Langelee leaned down to rub the ankle that had been kicked.

‘You mean you won something at one of Lynton’s gaming sessions,’ said Michael. ‘Honynge told me you are a regular visitor to the Dispensary.’

‘That was low of him,’ said Wynewyk disapprovingly. ‘We all swore oaths to keep it secret.’

‘Perhaps you did, but you still should have mentioned it to me after Lynton died,’ said Michael reproachfully. He looked hard at Langelee, because the Master was one of few who knew the truth. ‘You know I am investigating his … the circumstances of his death.’

Langelee was unapologetic. ‘I take vows seriously, Brother – I am no Honynge, to break trust at the first hurdle. However, I knew you would find out about the Dispensary anyway, and I was right. It has taken you less than a week.’

‘How long has Lynton been running these games?’ asked Bartholomew, when Michael shook his head speechlessly.

‘Long before I came to Cambridge,’ replied Wynewyk. ‘He was good at keeping them quiet, and we shall all miss the Dispensary now he has gone. He maintained discretion by inviting just nine or ten people at any one time, so the events were always quiet and comradely. Never debauched.’

‘He held a session on Good Friday,’ said Michael acidly.

Wynewyk nodded. ‘But not for scholars or priests – only townsfolk. The likes of Candelby and Arderne attended on Good Friday; we were at our vigils.’

‘What are you talking about?’ asked William, looking from one to the other with a pained expression. He disliked being in the dark, and the discussion had piqued his interest. ‘Dispensary?’

‘Do not ask,’ said Michael, regarding Wynewyk and Langelee coolly. ‘You would be shocked.’

‘It was a gaming house,’ explained Tyrington. ‘Lynton invited me once, saying it was a place where mathematical probabilities were discussed. I took him at his word, and was appalled when I discovered what really went on. I considered reporting him, but my students pointed out that such a course of action would make me unpopular, and damage my chances of being elected a Fellow.’

‘An ethical decision, then,’ muttered Michael, moving his stool away from Tyrington and wiping spit from his sleeve. ‘Not one based on self-interest.’

‘I only went twice,’ said Langelee. ‘I was bored rigid and lost three shillings, so I decided not to go again. But let us turn to the business at hand. We have waited long enough for Honynge, so you can record his absence for posterity, Wynewyk.’

Wynewyk was already scribbling. ‘The motion proposed by the absent Junior Fellow is that Kenyngham should be left where he is.’

‘Right,’ said Langelee. ‘Hands up if you agree with Honynge.’

Bartholomew shrugged an apology at Michael as he voted.

So did Tyrington. ‘I am sorry, Brother, but I think Honynge is right. A man’s grave should not be disturbed once he is in it. It is not decent.’

‘And those who want to know the truth about Kenyngham’s death?’ asked Langelee, raising his own hand. Michael’s shot up, too, and so did William’s. Everyone looked at Wynewyk.

‘Damn!’ he muttered. ‘Can I abstain?’

‘You can,’ said Tyrington, ‘but then Michael will win, which means you are essentially voting with him. If you stand with Bartholomew and me, there will be a draw, and we will have to discuss the issue again when Honynge is here.’

‘But you know what Honynge thinks,’ said Michael. ‘So you will make me lose the fight for justice if you do not abstain. Besides, remember that Honynge has just betrayed your gambling to the Senior Proctor, and here is your chance to exact revenge – by thwarting his motion.’

Tyrington turned to Langelee. ‘Brother Michael’s commentary is manipulative. Do you usually allow such brazen coercion?’

Langelee nodded. ‘My Fellows are free to say what they like in meetings, although I fine them if they say it more than once. Come on, Wynewyk, make up your mind. I have a filly waiting.’

‘Very well,’ said Wynewyk. ‘I vote with Michael, then. I dislike the notion of exhumation, but I dislike the notion of Kenyngham’s killer evading justice even more.’

Bartholomew groaned, but Michael’s smile was victorious.

Tyrington offered to supervise the disputation in the hall, which left Langelee free for equine pursuits, and Michael and Bartholomew able to continue their enquiries into Lynton’s murder. Bartholomew was disappointed in the outcome of the vote, not just because he hated what was going to happen to Kenyngham, but because the Fellows tended to agree on most issues, and the College was happier for it. He supposed the time for concord was over.

Honynge was strolling across the yard as the Fellows emerged from the conclave, and Michael, chortling maliciously, hastened to make himself scarce. He slipped into the kitchens, to see whether Agatha had left any more Lombard slices lying around. Bartholomew followed him, not wanting to bear the brunt of Honynge’s ire when he realised he had been deceived.

‘So,’ said Michael, stealing a pastry when Agatha’s back was turned. ‘Honynge desperately wants Kenyngham left alone.’

‘So does Tyrington.’ Bartholomew started to reach for a cake himself, but Agatha whipped around suddenly, and he thought better of it. ‘And so do I.’

‘But you two are not murder suspects,’ said Michael. ‘Honynge is. He could have shot Lynton and Ocleye, perhaps over a dispute arising from all this gambling, and he could have poisoned Kenyngham. And because he knows I was fond of Kenyngham, he then sent me these horrible notes. One was to taunt me with the offer of a reward, and the other was to gloat.’

Bartholomew took the letters and examined them. ‘They have different styles of writing. One is neat and careful, and the other is a scrawl. I do not think they were penned by the same person.’

‘He wrote them under different circumstances,’ said Michael, grabbing another cake when Agatha was distracted by the cat leaping on to her shoulder. She screeched and tried to dislodge it, but it merely applied claws to the situation, and clung on gamely. ‘He penned one when he had plenty of time, and he scribbled the other when he was in a hurry.’

‘Why would Honynge kill Kenyngham?’ asked Bartholomew reasonably, going to remove the cat while it and Agatha were still relatively unscathed. ‘It makes no sense.’

‘We have already been through this: because he wanted to be a Fellow. And he has succeeded. Lord, I detest that man! I know it is not something a monk should admit, but I am only human, and he has pushed me too far. I will see him ousted from my College.’

‘Good,’ said Agatha, overhearing. ‘I do not like him, either, and I am glad he ate all that dog this morning. I heard he was a pig for eggs, and it is true.’

‘Heard where?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘The Angel,’ replied Agatha. ‘When I went in for a drink, Candelby was telling my cousin Blankpayn that the best way to hurt the University is to prevent its scholars from buying food. He was itemising what various individuals would least like to lose – Chancellor Tynkell would miss honey, Honynge would die without eggs, William would mourn fish-giblet soup. And so on.’

‘These are odd details for a taverner to know,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘How does he come to be in possession of such personal information?’

Agatha shrugged. ‘Inn-keepers listen to gossip. Incidentally, you might want to stay away from the mutton stew tomorrow. It could come with a dog sauce.’

‘Will Candelby do it?’ asked Michael uneasily. ‘Deprive us of victuals, I mean? That would certainly bring about an abrupt end to the rent crisis.’

‘It would,’ agreed Agatha. ‘You would sign any solution Candelby proposed if you thought the alternative might be a tightening of the belts. The food merchants are waiting to see what happens to the rents before committing themselves, though. If Candelby wins and the rents rise, then they will form a guild to force up the price of food. If Candelby loses, they will do nothing.’

‘Lord!’ groaned Michael. ‘If the Convocation of Regents passes my amendment, we will have peace with the landlords, but another war with the food merchants. If the Convocation rejects the clause, we will remain at an impasse over rents for ever. I cannot win no matter what happens!’

‘Have a Lombard slice, Brother,’ said Agatha consolingly, passing him the plate when she saw the agitation her tale had occasioned. ‘It will make you feel better.’

‘No,’ said Michael piteously. ‘I am too upset for eating.’

‘Have two, then,’ coaxed Agatha, waving the plate.

With the air of a martyr, Michael accepted. ‘Do you have that love-potion? Can we slip Honynge a few drops? He might fall for Langelee, who would break his neck. Or William, who might succeed in infecting him with some horrible disease from his festering habit.’

‘Can we give some to Tyrington, too?’ asked Agatha. ‘His leers makes me want to punch him.’

‘Do not punch him,’ begged Bartholomew, having seen what one of the laundress’s swipes could do. ‘He cannot help it.’

‘There is a commotion going on outside,’ said Agatha, going to the window and throwing open the shutter. ‘It concerns Honynge, of course. He is waving our gold crown about – the one from the Stanton Hutch. What is he doing with that? He is supposed to be managing the Illeigh Hutch.’

‘Damn,’ said Michael softly, watching Honynge hand the diadem to a bemused Langelee. William stood with his arms folded, looking utterly disgusted. ‘He wants it returned to its rightful place. So much for our attempt to catch him out in dishonest behaviour.’

‘You planted the crown?’ asked Agatha. She grimaced. ‘That was too crude. You should have tempted him with something more easily saleable. After all, that is how Lynton caught my cousin. Blankpayn was too sensible to steal Lynton’s expensive gold goblets, but small silver rings were another matter entirely.’

‘What is this?’ asked Michael, turning to face her.

‘Blankpayn used to help Lynton count his Dispensary profits, but Lynton suspected my cousin was cheating him, so he set a trap. Yet it was not a large prize that was my kinsman’s undoing, but tiny rings.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully.

‘I was there,’ replied Agatha. ‘I like to flirt with Lady Luck on occasion, and when my cousin told me about the Dispensary, I decided to attend a session or two.’

‘I bet that pleased Lynton,’ muttered Michael. ‘What did Blankpayn do when he was caught?’

‘Nothing – but Lynton exposed him in front of Mayor Harleston, and it has hurt his chances of being elected as a burgess. No one wants town officials who are known thieves.’

‘I see,’ mused Michael. ‘That is a powerful motive for putting a crossbow bolt in a man’s chest.’

Honynge was not a stupid man, and guessed exactly why the diadem had been left in the Hutch he had been instructed to manage. He was angry and offended, and berated William furiously. So did Langelee, who thought the plan might have resulted in the loss of a valuable heirloom. William was not very good at thinking on his feet, and was slow to devise an excuse that would have exonerated himself, so he had no choice but to bow his head and let them rail at him. Afterwards, the atmosphere in the conclave was acrimonious, and Bartholomew was more than happy to use Michael’s investigations as an excuse to escape.

‘I want to talk to Candelby,’ said Michael, hurrying to leave before Langelee spotted him. ‘And Blankpayn. I must learn more about their relationship with Lynton.’

‘In the Angel? I do not think we should go there.’

‘Candelby will not be in his tavern now; he will be in the Church of St John Zachary, lighting candles for the brother who died in the plague. And if you are wondering how I am so intimately acquainted with his habits, it is because he is not the only man who spies on his enemies. Beadle Meadowman has been shadowing him, and so has Cynric, when his other duties allow.’

As usual, the little church was damp and dark. The main door stood open to allow parishioners to see what they were doing inside, but the window shutters that bordered Clare were firmly locked. The recent rains had caused puddles to form on the flagstone floor, and Michael swore softly when he discovered one was ankle deep.

Bartholomew glanced towards the Lady Chapel, recalling that the last time he had been there, Motelete had sat up in his coffin. He thought about the student, and how he had gone from shy youth to a man with a lover who could defend himself in brawls. Bartholomew rubbed his chin. Had Motelete’s brush with death really caused him to undergo a transformation? Or had defects in his character been conveniently forgotten when he had become the victim of violence? He recalled what the addled old master called Gedney had said – that the ‘dead’ student had been loud-mouthed and drank too much. Was Gedney’s sharp-tongued portrait more accurate than that of Motelete’s friends, who had been shocked by his murder and so willing to overlook his faults?

A sudden low rumble made Bartholomew turn quickly towards the spiral staircase that led to the roof. A billow of dust belched through the doorway, and he glanced up at the rafters uneasily, noting that several of the supporting beams were at very odd angles. He was not the only one to be concerned. Candelby was regarding the joists with considerable trepidation, and Blankpayn was already heading for the exit.

‘If you want to talk to me, do it outside,’ said Candelby to the monk. ‘It is disgusting that scholars have let this poor place decay, and I do not want to be inside when it tumbles apart.’

‘We would not mind you being in here though, Brother,’ called Blankpayn, from the comparative safety of the porch. ‘That would be divine justice.’

Michael ignored him. ‘I would like to talk to you about Lynton,’ he said to Candelby, once they were in the churchyard. ‘I understand you were one of the Dispensary’s most faithful customers.’

‘So?’ asked Candelby, with a shrug. ‘A lot of men liked Lynton’s games.’

‘I did not,’ growled Blankpayn. ‘They were too complicated, and for some reason, scholars always won more often than me. And Lynton wondered why I decided to help myself to a bauble or two! It was because those rings were mine in the first place – I lost them when I placed a bet.’

‘Scholars win a lot because they have sly minds,’ explained Candelby matter-of-factly. ‘What do you want to know, Brother? Normally, I would object to being quizzed by you, but I have nothing to hide about my association with Lynton, so you can ask what you like.’

‘Why did you not mention your gambling to me sooner?’

Candelby shrugged again. ‘Because it was none of your business and, like all participants, I was sworn to secrecy. I did not want to besmirch Lynton’s reputation by blabbing to you.’

Michael snorted his disbelief. ‘You did not care about his reputation when you accused him of riding his horse at you last Sunday.’

‘I was angry and in pain – not thinking clearly. Of course he did not ride at me deliberately. I have apologised to Wisbeche for my intemperate remarks, so let that mark the end of the matter.’

‘How much did you lose at these sessions?’ asked Michael.

‘Actually, I won more than I lost. Why do you think I own so many houses? I was good at Lynton’s games – better than many scholars.’

Something occurred to Michael. ‘Is that why you are so well acquainted with the University’s private affairs? You gossiped with my colleagues when you were gaming?’

Candelby’s smile was enigmatic. ‘I am a good listener, and scholars are naturally verbose. Thus I knew Lynton preferred to lease his properties to merchants, not students; I was told all about a debate in Peterhouse, in which the Fellows elected to charge high rents on the houses they will inherit from Lynton; and I was aware that Spaldynge was desperate to sell Borden Hostel. I made him an offer he could not refuse.’

‘You must really hate scholars,’ said Michael wonderingly.

Candelby shook his head. ‘I am quite happy to lease my buildings to your comrades – if they pay me a competitive market price.’

‘The University will not wield power for much longer,’ gloated Blankpayn. ‘When we win the right to charge what rent we like, it will flounder.’

‘I do not care about that,’ said Candelby, walking away. ‘I just want to make some money.’

That evening, as lamps were beginning to gleam through the twilight, and the Michaelhouse men were preparing to retire to bed or repair to the communal rooms for company, conversation or warmed ale, Cynric slipped up to Bartholomew.

‘Grab your cloak, boy,’ he whispered. ‘I want to show you something.’

‘I am not going out now,’ said Bartholomew, amazed that the book-bearer should think he might. ‘It is madness to wander the streets after dark these days.’

‘Come on,’ wheedled Cynric. ‘Please? It will be fun, and I will not enjoy it nearly as much alone. Normally, I would invite Carton, but he is out somewhere, and I cannot find him.’

‘Out?’ echoed Bartholomew. ‘This late? Does Michael know?’

Cynric grinned, teeth flashing white in the gloom. ‘I doubt it! Hurry up, or you will miss it.’

‘Miss what?’ demanded Bartholomew, not liking Cynric’s mysterious manner.

But the book-bearer could not be persuaded to tell, so Bartholomew followed him down the darkening lane and on to the High Street. A religious office was under way in St Michael’s Church; Michael and William were singing vespers, and their chanting voices carried on the still evening air. Stars twinkled in a dark blue sky, and Bartholomew shivered – the clear weather had brought with it a snapping cold, and there would be a frost that night.

A blackbird sang its evening song, and the air was rich with the scents of the day – manure from horses and donkeys, the sulphurous reek of the river and the nearby marshes, the smell of spring flowers, and a delicious aroma from a meat stew that was someone’s supper. The town was quiet, the clatter of hoofs and footsteps stilled for the night, as folk prepared for sleep.

When they reached St Mary the Great, Cynric slid into the shadows of the churchyard. Bartholomew was slow in following, because a cemetery was not somewhere he wanted to be at that time of night, and there was always the danger that a group of townsmen might be there. Since the plague, some folk had abandoned traditional religion, and haunted graveyards after dark. They performed sinister rites in the hope that the denizens of Hell would protect them against future outbreaks. After all, God and His saints had done nothing to help them, had they?

‘Come on,’ hissed Cynric from the bushes. ‘You should see what goes on in your own town.’

Bartholomew was acutely uneasy. ‘Someone will catch us, and demand to know what we are doing. And as I have absolutely no idea, how am I supposed to reply?’

Cynric beckoned him towards the back of the church. Bartholomew strained his eyes, and saw a figure lying motionless on the ground, hands folded across his chest. After a moment, a second person emerged from the trees that separated the churchyard from the Market Square, and started to move around him. It was too dark to identify faces or distinguishing features, and all the physician could see was that the second man – or woman – was swathed in a cloak. As virtually everyone in the town owned such a garment, it was impossible to say who it might be. The figure knelt, and there was a brief flicker as a candle was lit. It guttered in the evening breeze, but was too feeble to illuminate the face of either person. Bartholomew grew even more uncomfortable.

‘I do not like this,’ he whispered. ‘Why did you drag me all the way here, when witches probably do this sort of thing every night?’

‘Not in St Mary the Great,’ replied Cynric confidently. ‘St John Zachary and All Saints-next-the-Castle are favourites with warlocks, but they leave St Mary the Great alone. Too holy, see.’

Bartholomew tried to read his expression in the darkness. ‘Do you witness these rites often?’

Cynric nodded. ‘They happen more frequently than you might think, and I like to keep an eye on these Satan-lovers. You never know when they might decide to stage a rebellion, and drive out honest, God-fearing citizens like me.’ He crossed himself.

‘You watch with Carton?’

Cynric nodded a second time. ‘He is the only one interested.’

Bartholomew supposed his colleagues had been right after all, when they had declined to elect Carton to take Kenyngham’s place. He gestured to the two figures. ‘What are they doing? The one lying down will catch his death. It is freezing, and the ground is wet.’

‘They are casting spells,’ explained Cynric darkly. ‘And I brought you here because Honynge has sawn through the chains on the books in the hall, and has taken them all to his room – to protect them from Tyrington’s drool, he says. The other Fellows are furious, and things are being said that will be regretted tomorrow. I thought you would be better off here.’

Bartholomew was exasperated. ‘Surely the kitchen would have sufficed? Or my room? Or even the porters’ lodge. You did not have to lure me out to this …’ He waved his hand, not sure how to describe what he was witnessing.

Cynric shook his head firmly. ‘You are best well out of the place. Besides, I have a feeling this is more sinister than witchcraft.’

Bartholomew did not bother to make the point that witchcraft was more than sinister enough for him. He was about to abandon his hiding place and go home, when he became aware that the cloaked figure had stood, and was looming over the one on the ground. It was not easy to see what he was doing, but the faint light from the candle certainly illuminated the fact that the person held something long and sharp. It was a dagger, and it was descending towards the man on the ground.

Bartholomew reacted instinctively, launching himself from behind the buttress and towards the would-be killer as fast as he could. He did not stop to rationalise what he was doing – all he knew was that he was not about to stand by and do nothing while murder was committed. The cloaked figure leapt in alarm at the sound of sudden footsteps, and whipped around to face him. Then everything happened very quickly.

The cloaked figure lunged at Bartholomew, but his deadly swipe missed. Unusually slow on the uptake, Cynric took a moment to join the affray, but when he did, it was with one of his bloodcurdling battle cries. He tore towards the knifeman, but another shadow emerged from the bushes, and a well-placed foot sent the Welshman sprawling on to his face. While Cynric shook his head to clear it, the newcomer shoved Bartholomew hard enough to make him crash back against the buttress, and dragged his cloaked comrade into the undergrowth.

‘After them, Cynric,’ shouted Bartholomew, trying to climb to his feet, but he could see it was too late. The mysterious pair had melted away, using bushes and darkness to mask where they had gone. Cynric took a few steps after them, but knew a lost cause when he saw one, and soon abandoned the chase.

‘That was rash,’ he said, unimpressed. ‘You flew at them without bothering to draw a weapon – or telling me what you were going to do. I thought your experiences in France had cured you of antics like that.’

‘He had a knife,’ said Bartholomew. He looked around uneasily, afraid the pair might return with reinforcements. Wanting to be done with the business, so he could go home to Michaelhouse, he knelt next to the prostrate figure, using the abandoned candle to see what he was doing.

‘It is Motelete from Clare!’ exclaimed Cynric, when light flickered across the face.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘And this time, he really is dead.’

Cynric regarded him in shock. ‘No! He is just part of whatever game the others were playing.’

‘Obviously. But his role is that of corpse.’

Cynric continued to stare. ‘You mean we have been watching a rite involving a real body! When I saw him lying like that, I just assumed … I would never have brought you here to watch …’

‘He is growing stiff,’ said Bartholomew, feeling Motelete’s jaw. ‘I know it is not a reliable indicator for a time of death, but it suggests he has been dead hours, not minutes. And, judging by the blisters around his mouth and the scent from his mouth, I would say he has been poisoned.’