To Kill or Cure

CHAPTER 2

The conclave at Michaelhouse was a pleasant chamber adjoining the main hall. It was the undisputed domain of the Fellows, and they used it when they met to discuss College business or to relax in the evenings, leaving the hall free for students and commoners. It was an arrangement that suited everyone – the senior members had a place where they were safe from the demands of overenthusiastic students, and the junior ones were left to their own devices for a few hours, as long as they were not too unruly. Fortunately, the students liked being trusted, and were invariably better behaved when they were alone than when anyone was monitoring them. The upshot was that Michaelhouse had a reputation for harmony among its scholars, and Langelee had been asked by several envious masters for the secret of his success.

However, there was none of the usual laughter and music in the conclave or the hall that Easter. Kenyngham’s death created a pall of sadness that hung over everyone, and the College had never been so quiet. Langelee, who had been fretting over the fact that he would be three teachers short in the forthcoming term – with two away and one dead – asked his four remaining Fellows to join him in the conclave an hour before dawn the following day. They would hold an emergency meeting, during which a replacement for Kenyngham would be chosen. It was an unusual time for such a gathering, but Langelee was not a man to dither once his mind was made up.

Bartholomew was early, so he began to prepare the room while he waited for the others. He placed stools around the table, retrieved the College statutes and the Master’s sceptre from the wall-cupboard, and found parchment and ink so Wynewyk could make a record of the proceedings.

‘I did not sleep a wink,’ said Michael, when he arrived a few moments later. He took his customary seat near the window. ‘Neither did you. I heard you come home just moments ago.’

‘I was out all night, looking for Falmeresham,’ replied the physician tiredly. He had changed his wet, muddy clothes, but there had been no time to rest – not that he felt like sleeping anyway. Each time he closed his eyes, he could see the student falling to his knees, hand clasped to his bleeding side. ‘I cannot imagine where he might have gone – or where someone may have taken him.’

‘Does he have family in Cambridge? Or friends in another College?’

‘His family live in Norfolk. And you always advise against fraternising with scholars from other foundations, lest it leads to quarrels, so his closest friends are here, in Michaelhouse.’

‘How badly do you think he was injured? Perhaps he has collapsed somewhere.’

Bartholomew rubbed his eyes. ‘Cynric and I have searched every garden, lane and churchyard between here and the place he was attacked – and knocked on the door of every house. If he had wandered off and lost consciousness somewhere, we would have found him.’

Michael was worried. ‘Do you think Carton is right – that Blankpayn has done something to him? Blankpayn is Candelby’s henchman, and Candelby will do anything to harm the University.’

‘I tried to talk to Blankpayn, but he is mysteriously unavailable.’

‘Not so mysteriously. I would not linger if I had stabbed someone. It looked like an accident, but that may not save his neck if Falmeresham is found … harmed. I hope it does not mean he knows he killed the lad, and is lying low until the fuss dies down.’

Bartholomew refused to contemplate such an eventuality. ‘Blankpayn’s friends say he has gone to visit his mother in Madingley. She summoned me once, for a fever, so I know he has a mother.’

Agitated, Michael paced, his thoughts switching to another matter he was obliged to investigate. ‘After this meeting, I want you to examine Lynton’s body. I need to know exactly how he died.’

‘I have told you already – there is a crossbow quarrel embedded in his chest.’

‘That does not correspond to eyewitnesses’ accounts. The Carmelite novices – an unruly gaggle, but not one given to lying – say Lynton was riding down Milne Street when his mare began to buck. He tumbled off, and a hoof caught his head as he fell.’

‘Then perhaps the horse was frightened by the sound of the bolt impaling its victim. There is a cut on Lynton’s head, either from a flailing hoof or from him hitting the ground, so the Carmelites’ account is not entirely incompatible with the evidence. However, the fatal injury was caused by the missile, not the nag.’

Michael sighed. ‘If you say so. But who would want to kill Lynton? Other than you, that is.’

Bartholomew regarded him in astonishment. ‘Why would I want to kill him?’

Michael smiled wanly. ‘I am not accusing you. However, it may occur to others that Lynton challenged you to public debates on several occasions, because he thought your teaching was heretical. You must have found it a nuisance – I certainly would have done.’

‘On the contrary, I enjoyed the discussions. That is what a university is for, Brother – to pit wits against intellectual equals. I learned a lot from sparring with Lynton.’

‘I doubt he felt the same way. He was not very good at defending his preference for old-fashioned practices over your more efficacious new ones, and I suspect the reason you enjoyed these dialogues is because you always won.’

‘Medicine was not the only subject we aired,’ said Bartholomew, sure Michael was wrong. Lynton might have disagreed with his theories, but their many disputations had always been conducted without malice or anger. ‘At our last public debate, we talked about Heytesbury’s mean speed theorem – whether it is correct to assume that velocity is uniformly accelerated.’

‘I bet that had your audience on the edge of their seats,’ remarked Michael dryly.

Bartholomew nodded earnestly. ‘It did, actually. In fact, I was surprised by how much attention it generated. We were scheduled to use Merton Hall, but so many scholars wanted to listen we had to move to St Mary the Great instead.’

‘I remember. My beadles thought you and Lynton were up to no good, because they could not imagine why else so many men would be clamouring to hear a debate on such a subject.’

‘Is that why they were all standing at the back? To avert trouble? I assumed they were there for the theoretical physics.’

Michael struggled not to laugh. ‘We are getting away from the point – which is that Lynton held archaic beliefs, and that you were his intellectual superior. Ergo, you must prepare yourself for accusations. If he really was murdered, then his academic rivals are the obvious suspects.’

‘Then perhaps we should keep the truth about his death quiet until we know who did it.’ Bartholomew took the bloodstained missile from his medical bag, and studied it thoughtfully. ‘No one else saw the wound, and I have the bolt here.’

Michael gaped in horror. ‘You hauled it out in the middle of the street? After I had just quelled a riot, and when Lynton’s colleagues were standing around him, bemoaning the tragedy of his death? My God, man! What were you thinking?’

‘That it seemed the right thing to do,’ said Bartholomew defensively. ‘The Peterhouse Fellows were distraught, and I did not want one to see the bolt and claim Candelby had put it there. If that had happened, you would have had your riot for certain.’

‘Why did you not tell me what you had done straight away?’ demanded Michael, unappeased.

‘Because I forgot in the race to find Falmeresham. There has been no time for chatting.’

Michael regarded him with round eyes. ‘Well, please do not do it again. I have more than enough to concern me, without worrying about what my Corpse Examiner might be doing behind my back. Do you know how I spent much of last night? Trying to persuade Candelby that Lynton did not ride at him on purpose. It was a difficult case to argue, because I could tell from the wreckage that Lynton was the one at fault. His mare did careen into the man’s cart.’

‘Perhaps he was already dead at that point.’

‘You think he was shot first, and then the horse panicked? It did not happen the other way around – Lynton rode at Candelby and was shot as a consequence?’

‘Medicine cannot tell you that, Brother. However, Lynton was gentle, and I do not see him using a horse as a weapon with which to batter people.’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘The obvious suspect for Lynton’s murder is Candelby.’

‘Why? He did not emerge unscathed from the encounter.’

‘Perhaps he did not anticipate the horse bucking in his direction. The rent war has turned him hostile to all scholars, and a wealthy one on a fine mare might well have inspired a murderous rage. However, crossbows are unwieldy objects – you do not whip one from under your cloak and slip a quick bolt into an enemy. It has to be wound first, and that would have attracted attention.’

Bartholomew showed him the missile. ‘It is a very small arrow, so I suspect it did come from a weapon that was easily concealed. However, the murder was committed on a main road in broad daylight, so some degree of stealth was needed, or someone would have seen him.’

Michael inspected it thoughtfully. ‘The Church of St John Zachary has a nice leafy churchyard – an ideal place to lurk with a bow.’

‘Then Candelby is not your culprit, because he was in a cart with Maud Bowyer when the weapon was discharged.’

Michael was becoming frustrated. ‘Who, then? One of Lynton’s Peterhouse colleagues?’

‘Peterhouse has its squabbles, but none are serious enough to warrant murder.’

‘A patient, then? Perhaps he killed one by mistake.’

Bartholomew considered the suggestion. ‘It is possible. There are so many illnesses that we cannot cure, and bereaved kin make for bitter enemies.’

‘That healer – Arderne – claims he can cure anything. He waved his feather at a man Paxtone said would die, and the fellow was up and strolling along the High Street yesterday.’

Bartholomew frowned, but declined to say what he thought of cures that required the waving of feathers. ‘There is a famous physician called John Arderne. He specialises in anal fistula – not a life-threatening condition, but an acutely uncomfortable one. Perhaps he and Richard Arderne are kin.’

‘My beadles tell me that our Arderne has already provoked public spats with Rougham, and we saw him denigrate Robin ourselves, so he is clearly intent on locking horns with the town’s medici. We cannot have a quarrel leading to a brawl, just because he wants a forum for advertising his skills, so stay away from him – no asking questions about his family, please.’

‘Did he quarrel with Lynton, too?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘We will have to find out. Did I tell you that two men died during yesterday’s fight? Their names were Motelete and Ocleye – a student from Clare and a pot-boy from the Angel tavern.’

‘Each side lost a man? Then we are even, so let us hope that marks the end of the matter.’

Michael was angry. ‘The unease is Candelby’s fault! He has paid a high price, though, because Ocleye was one of his own servants. But here are our colleagues, so I suppose we had better turn our minds to choosing a new Fellow. Whoever we elect cannot hope to step into Kenyngham’s shoes.’

‘No one can,’ said Bartholomew sombrely.

Statutory Fellows’ meetings had once been acrimonious events, when clever minds had clashed over petty details, and Bartholomew had resented the time they had taken. Fortunately, matters had improved since Langelee had been elected Master. Every man was permitted to have his say – although he was forbidden from repeating himself – and then a vote was taken. Because this limited opportunities to make derogatory remarks, meetings tended to finish with everyone still friends. It was a sober assembly that gathered in the conclave that morning, though, and even the rambunctious William was subdued. The Fellows took their seats, and Langelee tapped on the table with the sceptre, his symbol of authority, to declare the proceedings were under way.

‘Right,’ he said tiredly. ‘We should try to be brief this morning, because we all have a great deal to do, especially Michael and Bartholomew. There is only one item on the agenda–’

‘You forgot to say a grace, Master,’ said William reproachfully. The grubby Franciscan looked even more unkempt than usual; his face was grey with sorrow, he had not shaved, and his hair stood in a greasy ring around his untidy tonsure. ‘Kenyngham is scarcely cold, and our religious standards have already slipped.’

Langelee inclined his head. ‘Very well. Benedicimus Domino.’

‘Deo gratias,’ chorused the others automatically. Wynewyk reached for his pen.

Langelee looked around at his Fellows. ‘We need to appoint a Fellow who can teach grammar and rhetoric, but I do not think it matters if his speciality is law or theology.’

‘John Prestone would have been my first choice,’ said William. The others nodded approvingly. ‘But I sounded him out informally last night, and he declines to leave Pembroke.’

‘What about Robert Hamelyn, then?’ suggested Wynewyk. ‘He is an excellent teacher, and I happen to know he would like a College appointment.’

‘I wish we could,’ said Langelee. He nodded meaningfully in William’s direction. ‘But Hamelyn is a Dominican, and we cannot have one of those in Michaelhouse.’

‘Of course,’ said Wynewyk sheepishly. William hated Dominicans, and Dominicans were invariably not very keen on William; Michaelhouse would never know a moment’s peace if a Black Friar was elected to the Fellowship. ‘How foolish of me.’

‘Very foolish,’ agreed William venomously. ‘He would bring the ways of Satan to our–’

‘There are not many men in a position to drop all and join us immediately,’ interrupted Michael. ‘And we do need someone as quickly as possible.’

‘It will have to be Honynge or Tyrington, then,’ said Wynewyk unenthusiastically. ‘Both have their own hostels, but, like all Principals, they are worried about the outcome of this rent war – not all hostels will survive it. Thus they are currently looking for College appointments. I suppose I would opt for Honynge over Tyrington, because Tyrington spits.’

‘You mean he has an excess of phlegm?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I could devise a remedy–’

‘No, I mean he sprays,’ elaborated Wynewyk with a fastidious shudder. ‘If you stand too close to him when he is speaking, you come away drenched. And he leers, too.’

‘I have never noticed leering – the slobbering is hard to miss,’ said Langelee. ‘What do you think about Honynge?’

‘He does not leer,’ acknowledged Wynewyk. ‘He talks to himself, though.’

‘He certainly does,’ agreed William, picking at a stain on his habit. ‘I asked him about it once – I thought he might be communing with the Devil, and was going to offer him a free exorcism. But he told me he was conversing with the only man in Cambridge capable of matching his intellect.’

Bartholomew was taken aback by the immodest claim. ‘His scholarly reputation is formidable, but there are others who more than match it – Prestone and Hamelyn, to name but two.’

‘It is not Honynge’s vanity that disturbs me,’ said Michael. ‘It is his other gamut of unpleasant traits. I had occasion to deal with him over the death of Wenden – you will recall that Wenden was walking home from visiting Honynge when he was murdered by the tinker. I was obliged to interview Honynge, and I found him arrogant, rude and sly.’

‘He is a condescending ass,’ declared William. ‘However, I do not like the notion of leering, either, as we shall have if we elect Tyrington. It might frighten the students.’

‘We should consider Carton for the post,’ said Bartholomew, thinking of the shy Franciscan who was Falmeresham’s friend. ‘He has been a commoner for a whole term now, and we all know him.’

‘We all like him, too,’ mused Michael. ‘He is not overly argumentative, does not hold too many peculiar religious beliefs, and his keen intelligence will improve our academic standing in the University.’

‘I agree,’ said Langelee. ‘But, unfortunately, now is not a good time to appoint him – he is too upset about Falmeresham. He might skimp his academic duties to go hunting for shadows.’

‘Falmeresham is not a shadow,’ said Bartholomew, more sharply than he had intended. ‘He will return soon – I am sure of it.’

‘Yes, but he might return dead,’ said William baldly. ‘It is obvious that Blankpayn has hidden the body in order to avoid a charge of murder. I am sorry, Matthew, but we must be realistic.’

‘We can still hope for his safe return, though,’ said Wynewyk, seeing the stricken expression on the physician’s face. ‘I have a friend who drinks in Blankpayn’s tavern. I shall visit him this morning, and see if he has noticed signs of recent digging in the garden.’

‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew, aware that if Wynewyk really expected Falmeresham to come home, he would not be offering to look for shallow graves. Like William, he believed the worst.

‘Unfortunately, we are not in a position to be choosy, not if we want the post filled quickly,’ said Langelee, going to a window and peering into the yard below. ‘The students are waiting for us to lead them to church, so we had better take a vote. Who wants Carton, a man distracted by grief?’

Bartholomew raised his hand, but was the only one who did.

‘And Honynge?’ asked Langelee. ‘Said to be sly, with a preference for his own conversation?’

Wynewyk inclined his head, while William wagged his finger to indicate he was still thinking.

‘If you vote for Honynge, you will regret it,’ warned Michael. ‘When he arrives, and you become more familiar with his disagreeable habits, you will be sorry.’

He should have known better than try to sway William, because the friar rarely took advice, and his grimy paw immediately shot into the air in Honynge’s favour. ‘Some of my students are little more than children, and I do not like the notion of electing a man who might leer at them.’

‘And finally, Tyrington,’ said Langelee, raising his own hand. ‘Alleged to spit and leer.’

Michael lifted a plump arm to indicate his preference, although with scant enthusiasm. Langelee had made none of the candidates sound appealing.

‘Tyrington and Honynge have two votes each, Master,’ said William, lest Langelee could not count that high. ‘That means we are tied, so you must make the final determination.’

Langelee rubbed his jaw as he assessed his options. ‘I am not enamoured of either, to be frank, but we cannot procrastinate or our students will suffer. So, we shall appoint them both.’

‘You cannot do that!’ blurted William, startled. ‘You must make a decision.’

‘I have made a decision,’ snapped Langelee. ‘We were desperately busy last term, with Clippesby and Suttone away, and an extra Fellow will not go amiss.’

‘But admitting Honynge and Tyrington will raise our membership to nine,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘I thought the College statutes stipulated one Master and seven fellows.’

‘Actually, they do not,’ said Michael, who knew the rules backwards. ‘We have always had that number, but it is tradition, not law. Still, to break a time-honoured custom for Honynge–’

‘But the money,’ objected Wynewyk, more concerned with practical matters than legal ones. ‘How will we pay an additional teacher?’

‘By accepting twenty new students,’ replied Langelee. His prompt reply suggested he had already given the matter some thought. ‘Candelby’s antics have resulted in several hostels being dissolved, and dozens of good scholars are desperate for a home. I can fit four in my quarters, and Bartholomew can take five. The rest of you can divide the remaining nine between yourselves.’

‘It will be cosy,’ said Bartholomew, declining to comment on the Master’s dubious arithmetic.

‘I should say,’ muttered Michael. ‘There is not space in your chamber for a bed and five mattresses, so you will have to sleep in shifts. This is sheer lunacy!’

‘So, it is decided,’ said Langelee, banging his sceptre to indicate the meeting was at an end. ‘We elect Tyrington and Honynge, and we recruit a score of new students – hopefully very rich ones who might be inclined to make regular donations.’

The next phase of the academic year was not due to begin for another ten days, so technically the scholars who had remained in Cambridge during the break between the Lent and summer terms were free to do as they pleased. However, the University did not like groups of bored young men wandering around the town with time on their hands, so hostels and Colleges were expected to find ways to keep them occupied. Michaelhouse’s method was to hold mock disputations in the hall, which were intended to hone the students’ debating skills. The Fellows were obliged to supervise the proceedings, but they were not all needed at once, so they took it in turns.

Bartholomew was scheduled for ‘disputation duty’ that grey Monday, but as he had agreed to examine Lynton’s body for Michael, he asked his colleagues whether they would stand in for him. When he went to tell the monk that they could not help – William was taking part in a vigil for Kenyngham, while Wynewyk and Langelee were due to meet a potential benefactor – he found him holding a letter. Michael’s expression was one of deep concern, and the physician hoped it was not bad news about the rent war.

‘Worse. It arrived a few moments ago, although the porter does not recall how it was delivered. It offers me the sum of twenty marks for uncovering the identity of Kenyngham’s killer.’

Bartholomew snatched it from him, and read it himself. The author claimed that Kenyngham’s death had not been natural, and that it should be investigated immediately. The reward money would be delivered to Michaelhouse as soon as the monk had made an arrest. The parchment was the cheap kind that might have been purchased by anyone, and the style of writing was undistinguished.

‘But Kenyngham was not murdered,’ objected Bartholomew, distressed.

Michael nodded unhappily. ‘I reflected on what you said yesterday, and I have decided to accept your reasoning. The business with the “antidote” was nothing – I was reading too much into a casual remark made by a man who later said odd things to you, too. So, I imagine this letter was written by someone who grieves – a way of refusing to acknowledge that death comes to us all, even to saintly men like Kenyngham.’

He put the document in his scrip, but Bartholomew wished he had tossed it in the latrine pit, where he felt it belonged.

‘I told Langelee that Lynton was shot,’ the monk went on. ‘He can be trusted to keep quiet, and he needs to know why we may be out a lot in the coming days. He says we are excused nursemaid duties at these wretched disputations, as long as we find someone to take our places.’

Bartholomew watched the students file into the hall, full of eager anticipation. The Fellows might find the debates a chore, but the junior members loved them. ‘No one is free to help us today, so you will have to start the investigation alone,’ he said to Michael. ‘I will join you as soon as I can.’

‘But I need you to inspect Lynton now. And I want your help at Peterhouse, too. I am determined to solve this crime. Lynton was an impossible old traditionalist, but he was decent and kind-hearted, and I will not let his killer evade justice. To do that I require your wits, as well as my own.’

‘Falmeresham would have supervised the disputations for me,’ said Bartholomew dejectedly.

‘Deynman can do it, then,’ decided Michael. ‘He is our oldest undergraduate by a considerable margin, and even he should be able to sit at the back of the hall and make sure no one escapes.’

Bartholomew was doubtful, but in the absence of a choice – he also wanted Lynton’s killer under lock and key as soon as possible – he beckoned the lad over.

‘You can trust me, sir,’ Deynman declared, delighted to be put into a position of power at last. ‘I shall make sure they stay in, and do not slip out later to join the lads from Clare in the Angel inn.’

Bartholomew regarded him sharply, and found himself staring into a pair of guileless eyes; it had not occurred to Deynman that he had just betrayed his classmates’ plans.

‘Come, Matt,’ said Michael, taking his arm before the physician could have second thoughts about leaving his home in the care of such a man. ‘We have a lot to do today, and there is not a moment to lose.’

‘The Lilypot first,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I want to see if Blankpayn is back yet.’

‘Brother!’ Michael turned to see Langelee hurrying towards him. ‘I need you to deliver these for me. They are letters of appointment for Honynge and Tyrington. Do not pull sour faces! I know you are busy, but this is important. We need to know as soon as possible if they are going to accept.’

‘Honynge!’ spat Michael. ‘How could you all be so foolish? I wager I will be saying “I told you so” within a week of his admission.’

Langelee turned to Bartholomew. ‘And I am trusting you to make sure he does not accidentally “lose” Honynge’s letter along the way.’

They left, but Bartholomew refused to deliver the invitations until they had been to the Lilypot. He was acutely disappointed to learn that Blankpayn was still away, and no one had any idea when he might be back. While Michael continued to quiz the tavern’s occupants, Bartholomew’s eyes lit on a man who sat in a dark corner, bundled in a hooded cloak. He went to stand next to him.

‘I am not fooled by that disguise, Carton,’ he said softly to the commoner Franciscan. ‘And that means neither will anyone else. Michael’s beadles are looking for Falmeresham in the taverns this morning – they will catch you here, and you will be fined for breaking University rules.’

‘They have already been in,’ replied Carton. ‘But they know I am not here to cause trouble.’

‘It will cause trouble if Blankpayn catches you spying in his domain. Leave the hunt to Michael’s men. They know what they are doing.’

Reluctantly, the friar followed him outside. ‘A dozen witnesses – us included – saw Blankpayn stab Falmeresham. It is vital we talk to him as soon as possible.’

‘It is vital,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘And any clues he provides will be carefully investigated. But not by you. You do not have the right kind of experience, and you may do more harm than good. If you care for Falmeresham, you will leave the matter to others.’

Carton’s face was grim. ‘Blankpayn is Candelby’s lapdog, and may well hurt a student to please him. He is a lout – all brawn and ale-belly, and not two wits to rub together.’

‘Even more reason to leave him to the beadles.’

The Franciscan glanced up at the sky. ‘I shall walk to Madingley, then, to visit his mother.’

‘Cynric has already been. She has not seen him in months.’

‘She would say that,’ said Carton. ‘He is her son. Of course she is going to help him hide.’

‘Yes, but we are talking about Cynric,’ said Bartholomew, not altogether approvingly. ‘A man who never allows locked doors to keep him out. He searched her home from top to bottom – hopefully with her none the wiser – and says there is no sign of Blankpayn.’

Carton closed his eyes in despair. ‘Then what can I do? Falmeresham is my friend, and I cannot stop thinking that he might need my help.’

Bartholomew felt much the same way. ‘Go to the Carmelite Friary, and ask if any of the novices saw anything. If so, come back and tell Michael – do not race off to investigate on your own.’

Carton shot him a wan smile. ‘I am not the kind of fellow who rushes headlong into danger without due thought. If the truth be told, I am something of a coward.’

Bartholomew was watching him walk away when Michael emerged from the tavern, leaving behind a number of angry men. They had resented his accusing questions.

‘Nothing,’ he said in disgust. ‘Blankpayn has disappeared into thin air, just like his victim.’

As Bartholomew walked along the High Street, he stared at the jumbled chimneys of the Angel tavern, famous for its pies and for being owned by the University’s most vocal opponent. The inn was massive, with whitewashed walls and well-maintained woodwork. It stood opposite the ancient church of St Bene’t, and recently Candelby had objected to the fact that blossom from the graveyard blew into the street and became slippery when wet. Because the church was used mostly by scholars, he claimed the flowers were a University plot to make him fall and break his neck. When the accusation became common knowledge, students had raided the surrounding countryside for cherry saplings to plant.

‘I searched the Angel when I was hunting for Falmeresham last night,’ said Michael following the direction of his gaze. ‘A group of lads from Clare was there, so I offered to waive the fine if they could tell me where Falmeresham had gone. None could, so they are all a groat poorer.’

‘You said a Clare student was killed in yesterday’s brawl,’ said Bartholomew worriedly. ‘I doubt his friends were at a town alehouse for peaceful reasons.’

‘That did cross my mind, Matt,’ said Michael dryly. ‘Especially as the other victim was a pot-boy from the Angel. We shall have to stop at Clare on our way home, to make sure no one is planning revenge. Then we must do the same with the Angel.’

‘I do not suppose they killed each other, did they? That would be a neat solution for you.’

‘The bodies were found near each other, so it is possible. I have certainly encouraged my beadles to tell everyone that is the case.’

‘But it may not be true.’

Michael regarded him soberly. ‘No, it may not. However, I do not want more deaths on either side, and if a few timely lies can ease the tension, then I shall encourage them. Neither faction can justify a killing spree if both perpetrators are dead, and I must do all I can to avert strife.’

‘Yet you plan to investigate Lynton’s murder. That might ignite the situation.’

‘You said we should keep details of Lynton’s demise to ourselves. Ergo, no one will know I am investigating his murder, because no one will know he was murdered in the first place. It will require considerable skill to maintain discretion, but we can do it. We must do it.’

They walked in silence, cutting down several nameless alleys, until Michael stopped outside a pair of timber-framed houses. Both were hostels, although such foundations came and went with such bewildering rapidity that it took Bartholomew a moment to recall their names. Piron was a large establishment, built on three floors with a cellar below for storage. Its smaller neighbour was Zachary, named for the nearby church. Their principals were Tyrington and Honynge, respectively.

‘I know we are desperate for another teacher,’ said Michael. ‘But I would rather be worked off my feet than appoint the wrong person – and I am not happy with either of these two.’

‘You should have made more of a fuss at the meeting, then,’ said Bartholomew tartly. He also thought his colleagues were making a mistake by opting to take whoever happened to be available, and was sure Carton would have been the better choice. ‘It is too late now.’

‘It is Honynge who is the problem,’ Michael went on. ‘Supposing he cheats us?’

Bartholomew was startled. ‘There has never been any suggestion of dishonesty on his part, and you malign him unjustly. Besides, I have heard him in the debating hall, and he is impressive. He will improve Michaelhouse’s academic reputation, and that is what counts.’

‘You may not think so when he makes off with the College silver,’ warned Michael coolly.

Bartholomew thought he was overreacting. ‘Do you want to visit him or Tyrington first?’

‘Tyrington. I am not ready for Honynge yet. Remember to stand well back when he speaks, and do not allow him to entice you into a scholarly disputation. We must make a start on this Lynton business as soon as possible, and have no time to waste on scholastic debates. Did you know both these houses are owned by Candelby?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I thought they belonged to Mayor Harleston.’

‘He sold them. As you know, the University compels landlords to keep any buildings rented by scholars in good repair. But Harleston said he would rather sell his properties than pay for their upkeep when the only people to benefit would be University men.’

Bartholomew studied them. ‘Piron is well-maintained, and it looks as though the work has been carried out recently. Zachary is shabby, though. Why has Candelby spent money on one building, but neglected its neighbour?’

Michael shrugged. ‘Who knows what a man like Candelby thinks? Still, Honynge and Tyrington will not have to worry about him in the future. They will be comfortably installed at Michaelhouse.’

Their knock on Piron Hostel’s door was opened by a well-dressed youth who wore a heavy purse on his belt. Bartholomew could see a blazing fire in the room beyond, and several books lay open on a table. Books were expensive, so it was clear that Piron was occupied by wealthy students who could afford such luxuries.

‘Doctor Bartholomew,’ said the student with a courtly bow. ‘How kind of you to call. However, I am fully recovered now, and have no further need of your services.’

Bartholomew regarded him blankly, before recalling that the lad had consulted him about a troublesome rash. He had prescribed a decoction of chickweed, which was usually effective against such conditions.

‘I was actually cured by Magister Arderne,’ the lad chatted on. ‘He made me an electuary. I swallowed it all, and woke up with fading spots the very next day.’

‘An electuary?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. It was an odd thing to prescribe. ‘What was in it?’

‘Arderne declined to tell me, but it cost a fortune, so it must have been full of expensive herbs.’

‘Indeed it must,’ murmured Bartholomew. ‘We are actually here to see your Principal. Is he in?’

They were led along an airy corridor that was paved with coloured tiles, and into a large room that boasted wood panelling and a pleasant view of the garden. It was elegant compared to anything available at Michaelhouse, and it occurred to Bartholomew that Tyrington would be taking a step in the wrong direction as far as personal comfort was concerned.

Tyrington was sitting at a desk, reading. He was a large, squat man with a low forehead and thick dark hair. He stood when the visitors were shown in, and smiled. Or rather, leered, because there was something about the expression that was not very nice. An image of a lizard Bartholomew had seen in France came unbidden into his mind, and he half expected a long tongue to flick out. When one did, he took an involuntary step backwards.

‘Gentlemen,’ said Tyrington affably. ‘All our rashes are healed, so we no longer need the services of a medicus. My student hired Magister Arderne to do the honours in the end.’

‘Everyone calls him Magister,’ said Michael, going to the window to escape the saliva that gushed in his direction. None too subtly he ran a hand down the front of his habit to wipe it off. ‘But does he actually hold such a degree? He did not earn it from Cambridge, and our records show he did not get it from Oxford, either.’

‘Probably Montpellier, then,’ sprayed Tyrington. ‘May I offer you wine? A pastry? We can always find victuals for men from a fine foundation like Michaelhouse.’

Michael was about to accept when it occurred to him that anything provided was likely to arrive with a coating of spittle. ‘Actually, we came to ask whether you would consider becoming one of our Fellows. Unless you have had a better offer, of course, in which case we understand.’

‘But we hope you have not,’ said Bartholomew quickly. Fellows often stayed in post for years, and he did not want what might be a lengthy association to start off on the wrong foot because Michael was having such obvious second thoughts. ‘It would be an honour to accept you.’

Tyrington flushed red with pleasure, and the tongue shot out again. ‘You are inviting me to take Kenyngham’s place?’

‘To fill the vacancy he left,’ corrected Michael pedantically, handing over the letter.

‘Yes!’ cried Tyrington. ‘Of course I accept! May I bring my students? There are three of them – all wealthy and well able to pay a College’s fees.’

‘Three? In this huge building?’ asked Michael. ‘You could have twice that number.’

Tyrington leered. ‘Yes, but I was loath to supervise more when I was on my own. Education is a sacred trust, and I have always refused to accept funds from students if I cannot offer them my very best. A College will be different, of course, because teaching is shared.’

‘Perhaps Michaelhouse is not the right place for you after all,’ said Bartholomew uneasily. Langelee and Wynewyk accepted funds any way they could get them, and the quality of the teaching provided in exchange was invariably deemed immaterial.

‘I understand this house is owned by Candelby,’ said Michael, looking around appreciatively. ‘It is very well maintained – unlike most of his scholar-occupied buildings.’

‘Our lease expires in September,’ explained Tyrington. ‘So he keeps the place in good order, because he wants to rent it to a rich merchant the moment we go.’

‘Does that mean Honynge’s lease expires at the end of the next century, then?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘His building is tatty compared to yours.’

‘I believe it is due to lapse at the beginning of the upcoming term,’ replied Tyrington. ‘Perhaps Candelby wants it vacant before beginning a major restoration. We had to endure noisy builders last month, when we were trying to study, and it was very inconvenient.’

‘Honynge will be pleased when he hears our invitation, then,’ said Michael. ‘He and you will be appointed at the same time.’

‘He is a good choice,’ said Tyrington sincerely. ‘One of the best teachers in the University. His students are a bright crowd, too.’

‘What about your three?’ asked Michael. ‘I assume you are willing to vouch for their academic merit? We are Michaelhouse, after all, and do not accept just anyone. We have standards.’

‘Do you?’ asked Tyrington. ‘I thought Deynman was one of yours, and he is barely literate.’

‘He is an anomaly,’ said Michael icily. ‘Carton and Falmeresham have won prizes for their disputations. Are you ready, Matt? We should deliver the news to Honynge before I lose courage.’

Tyrington grabbed Bartholomew’s hand, tears in his eyes as he wrung it. ‘Thank you! I cannot tell you what this means to me, and I promise you will never have cause to regret your offer. I shall strive to be the best teacher in Cambridge, and will make you proud to own me as a colleague.’

Bartholomew tried not to flinch from the deluge. ‘Then let us hope you feel the same about us.’

The door to Zachary Hostel was opened by a student who was eating a pie that looked as though it came from the Angel. Although the building was unprepossessing on the outside, its occupants had made it comfortable inside. It was scrupulously clean, and there were bowls of crushed mint on the windowsills to mask the smell of cabbage. Someone had polished the furniture to a rich sheen, and the walls had been given a wash of pale gold, which lent each room a warm, cosy feel. There were prettily woven rugs on the floor, and an abundance of home-made cushions on the benches.

Roger Honynge was tall, thin and aloof. He had a narrow face and a long nose; his bony fingers were covered in ink, indicating he had been hard at work that morning. He was cool when Michael presented Langelee’s letter, and did not smile when he opened it and read the contents.

‘Well?’ demanded Michael, when Honynge did nothing but stare out of the window. The visitors had not been offered a seat, and the monk disliked being obliged to stand while Honynge ruminated.

‘I shall think about it,’ replied Honynge. ‘I know you are desperate for someone to teach the Trivium now Kenyngham is dead, but I never leap into such breaches without due consideration.’

‘Very well,’ said Michael. ‘You can please yourself, because there are others who–’

‘There are others,’ agreed Honynge. ‘But the best ones have commitments, and cannot come to you immediately. The only scholars of quality available at this instant are Tyrington and me – and I can see why you offered me the post first.’

‘Actually, we spoke to him first,’ said Michael, seizing the opportunity to wound the man’s pride. ‘And we are not as desperate as you seem to think, because there are several monks at my abbey who would be willing to help us out for a term or so.’

‘Do not let him leave,’ whispered Honynge, as the monk headed for the door. ‘It will be inconvenient, because you will have to go to Michaelhouse and deliver your acceptance yourself.’

‘What?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled. He glanced behind him, wondering if a student had entered without him noticing, but no one was there.

‘You can tell Langelee I accept his offer,’ said Honynge. He brandished the letter in a way that was vaguely threatening. ‘I have it in writing, so you cannot renege. However, there are three conditions. I am a light sleeper, so I must have my own bedchamber. I do not teach on Mondays, because that is reserved for my erudite research. And I do not eat dog.’

‘Dog?’ blurted Bartholomew. ‘What makes you think dog forms part of the Michaelhouse diet?’

‘Because it is not a wealthy College,’ replied Honynge superiorly. ‘Why do you think I am wary about accepting your invitation? However, I shall know if you give me dog and try to pass it off as mutton, so do not even attempt it.’

‘We shall bear it in mind,’ said Bartholomew, not sure how else to respond.

‘Good,’ said Honynge, adding in a mutter, ‘That told them! They will not try to trick you now.’

‘God’s Blood!’ swore Michael, as soon as they were outside. ‘What has Langelee done?’

‘Foisted a lunatic on us,’ replied Bartholomew worriedly. He had not taken to Honynge at all. ‘He spent more time talking to himself than to you and me.’

‘My poor College,’ groaned Michael. ‘Invaded by drooling sycophants and madmen.’

When Bartholomew and Michael passed through the Trumpington Gate – Peterhouse stood outside the town’s defences – the physician had the uncomfortable feeling that they might not be allowed back in again. The soldiers sided with Candelby in the rent war, and without Sheriff Tulyet to keep them in order, they were apt to be awkward and surly with scholars. He felt the purse that hung on his belt. It was all but empty, and he hoped Michael had enough for bribery, should the need arise.

Peterhouse was the oldest of the Colleges, a handsome foundation with a beautiful hall and pleasant living accommodation. Its chapel was the ancient Church of St Peter, which had been partly rebuilt and rededicated to the Blessed Virgin Mary after the plague. Michael knocked at the gate, and they followed a student across the cobbled courtyard to a house where the Master, Richard de Wisbeche, resided. Wisbeche was a scholarly man, famous for his skill in theological debates. He was growing old – Bartholomew recalled a time when he had sported a head of thick brown curls; now he was stooped, and his hair was grey. The physician thought about Kenyngham, and was unpleasantly reminded that everyone he knew was slowly heading towards the grave.

‘Yesterday was a black day,’ said Wisbeche softly, when his visitors were settled on a bench in his airy solar. ‘You lost Kenyngham, and we lost Lynton. The world is a poorer place without them in it. Did you find your wounded student? Carton was here last night, asking if any of us had seen him. He was distressed when no one had.’

‘Unfortunately not,’ replied Michael. ‘Falmeresham seems to have disappeared without a trace.’

‘Have you considered the possibility that he may have fallen in the river or the King’s Ditch? Both are swollen from spring rains, and will carry a body some distance before depositing it. I know, because I lost a favourite cat that way two weeks ago.’

‘Cynric is searching the waterways as we speak,’ said Michael. He saw the stricken expression on Bartholomew’s face; no one had told him what the book-bearer was doing. ‘I am sorry, Matt.’

‘I understand a student from Clare was killed yesterday, too,’ said Wisbeche. ‘In that brawl.’

‘And all because of this wretched rent dispute,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘It is getting way out of hand. Candelby does not care about averting riots, of course – all he wants is to make himself rich.’

‘He is a merchant – that is what they do,’ said Wisbeche. ‘He says the low rents we pay mean he and his fellow landlords are effectively subsidising the University. I can see his point – if he could lease to laymen, he could earn three times the amount he gets from scholars.’

Michael pulled a disagreeable face. ‘Do not tell me you take Candelby’s side? I am acting for the whole University here – indeed, there will not be a University if the rents are raised to the level Candelby demands. A little support from my colleagues would be appreciated.’

‘You have it, Brother. I am just pointing out that there is another side to the argument – I am a scholar, after all, and that is what we are trained to do. Lynton was very vocal about the unfairness of the situation, and he never offered any of his houses to students. Why should he, when he could make far more money from townsfolk?’

Michael gaped at him. ‘Are you telling me Lynton was a landlord? He owned buildings?’

Wisbeche looked disconcerted. ‘I thought you knew. It was not a secret, although it was obviously not something he advertised. However, Lynton and Bartholomew were fellow physicians, so I assumed he would have told you about it.’

‘I did not know,’ said Bartholomew, when Michael spun around to glare at him. ‘We never discussed houses – just medicine and the mean speed theorem.’

‘Lynton was a successful practitioner,’ said Wisbeche, when the monk’s glower returned to him. ‘And therefore wealthy. He owned three houses on the High Street, and two on the Trumpington road, all of which he leased to laymen. Students did come and demand that he lend the properties to them, but we have good lawyers at Peterhouse, and they helped him decline these requests legally.’

Michael was outraged. ‘The Statutes say scholars have a right to use any available house. Lynton’s refusal represents an offence against the University, no matter how the law was twisted to say otherwise.’

‘We knew he was sailing close to the wind,’ admitted Wisbeche sheepishly. ‘But he did it for years, and no one ever objected.’

‘No one objected because no one knew!’ exploded Michael. ‘What a time for me to find this out! Can you imagine what Candelby will say if he learns our own scholars prefer to loan their houses to laymen? And besides, Fellows – of any College – are not supposed to be awash with money and property. It is against the rules to earn more than ten marks a year.’

Wisbeche raised a laconic eyebrow. ‘Oh, come now, Brother! Surely, you do not believe anyone obeys that antiquated decree?’

Michael rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘Who will inherit all these buildings?’ he asked, declining to pursue the matter. He did not have time.

‘Peterhouse, of course. However, I can probably persuade the Fellows to donate one to the University. Would that compensate for Lynton’s past misdemeanours?’

‘It would be a start. Do you think his decision to lease his houses to wealthy townsmen made him enemies?’

Wisbeche was aghast. ‘No! I do not think it was common knowledge that he was so rich – you did not know, and you are aware of most of what happens in the University. Why do you ask? Do you have reason to think someone deliberately startled the horse that killed him?’

‘Of course not,’ said Michael hastily. ‘I imagine he was well liked in your College?’

‘Oh, very well liked,’ averred Wisbeche, nodding earnestly. ‘We enjoy a harmonious Fellowship at Peterhouse, and our students loved him. We will never replace him – not that we intend to try.’

‘You will not appoint another physician?’ asked Bartholomew. It was not good news. The town population was growing, and losing a practitioner would mean more work for those remaining.

‘We will not,’ replied Wisbeche. ‘And a public announcement to that effect will be made this morning. We are strapped for cash, you see, because rebuilding the church cost more than we anticipated, so we cannot afford to renew the post. We only have six medical students, anyway, and I am sure you will not mind taking two. For Lynton’s sake.’

‘I have too many already.’ Bartholomew saw Wisbeche’s reproachful face, and thought how he would feel if someone had refused Kenyngham’s students. ‘But there is always room for a couple of Lynton’s boys.’

Wisbeche took his hand, rather tearfully. ‘Thank you. I shall not forget your kindness.’

‘Can we see Lynton’s corpse?’ asked Michael, watching them coolly. He was angry, and felt betrayed. The Peterhouse physician had been a quiet, doddering fellow, and the monk would never have imagined him to be knee-deep in houses – nor would he have imagined him to be the kind of man who ignored University Statutes in order to make himself rich. He sincerely hoped no one else would find out, because it would weaken the case against Candelby so seriously that the University might have no choice but to capitulate to the landlords’ demands.

Wisbeche eyed him with sudden suspicion. ‘Why would you want to do that?’

‘Because I need to record an official cause of death,’ replied Michael. ‘So Matt must ascertain whether a hoof struck his head, or whether his neck was broken by the fall.’

Wisbeche did not look entirely convinced. ‘Very well, although I think I shall come with you.’

‘Damn,’ whispered Michael, as Wisbeche led the way across the cobbled yard. ‘I shall have to divert his attention while you go about your business.’

The Church of St Mary the Less, so named to avoid confusion with the bigger, grander St Mary’s on the High Street, boasted windows that allowed daylight to flood inside, and its churchyard was a haven of leafy peace, full of spring flowers. There was a large mound at the eastern end, where Peterhouse’s scholars had been buried during the plague, but the bare earth had been claimed by grass and primroses, and it no longer stood as such a stark reminder of grimmer times.

Lynton was in the vestry. He occupied the College coffin, and his face was covered by a richly embroidered cloth. Wisbeche removed it gently, revealing the blood-matted hair underneath.

‘A woman is coming to wash him this morning,’ he said, to explain the apparent lack of care. ‘But she was hired to do Kenyngham first, and then the tavern boy who died yesterday – Ocleye.’

‘This is the first time I have been in your chapel since it fell down and you had to rebuild it,’ said Michael, beginning to move away. ‘It has been very tastefully remodelled.’

Wisbeche was flattered by the praise. ‘Do you like the windows? I designed them myself.’

‘Did you?’ asked the monk, immediately heading for the one that was farthest from the bier. ‘Is that a vulture or a woodpecker on the left?’

‘A dove,’ explained Wisbeche, evidently seeing nothing suspicious in the monk’s sudden fascination with stained glass. ‘It represents peace.’

Deftly, Bartholomew began his work, suspecting he would not have much time before Michael ran out of things to say – or Wisbeche realised the monk had staged a diversion. There was a cut on Lynton’s temple, but the bone underneath appeared to be sound. It confirmed the conclusion he had drawn the day before – that Lynton would probably have survived the blow to his head.

Next, he pushed aside the fine clothes and inspected the wound in the chest. It was not large, but a prod with one of his metal probes told him that the missile had gone deep. He wondered whether the woman who was coming to clean the body would notice it, and point it out to Lynton’s colleagues. But Wisbeche said she was the same crone who had been hired to tend Kenyngham, and Bartholomew knew Mistress Starre was unlikely to notice anything amiss, because she only ever washed the bits that showed. Yet he was unwilling to take the risk that she might decide to be thorough for once, so he took a piece of cloth and fashioned it into a plug. He slid it quickly into the hole, packing it down as tightly as he could. Then he smothered it with a thick, glue-like salve. When he had finished, the injury looked like something Lynton might have physicked himself, and was certainly not a blemish Mistress Starre would inspect. It was not a deception of which he approved – and he did not like to imagine what Lynton would have said about it – but if it prevented another brawl, then he supposed it was worthwhile.

Wisbeche was holding forth about eschatological symbolism, and although Michael’s eyes were beginning to glaze, Bartholomew saw he had a few moments yet. A graze on Lynton’s cheek – but a corresponding absence of marks on his hands – suggested he had not tried to break his fall. It made the physician even more certain that Lynton had been dead before the horse had bucked out of control and he had toppled from the saddle. Whoever had murdered him had been an excellent shot. It was not easy to hit moving targets, and suggested the killer owned considerable skill with his weapon of choice.

He was just setting all to rights when he saw something in Lynton’s hand. Gently, he prised open the fingers to reveal a scrap of parchment – the old physician had been holding a document when he had died, and someone had apparently snatched it from him after his death, leaving a fragment behind. The fact that it had torn suggested it had been retrieved quickly, perhaps furtively, and that it had probably not been taken by anyone who had a right to it. Puzzled, Bartholomew peered at the letters in the faint light that filtered through Wisbeche’s stained-glass windows. What he read made his stomach churn in alarm.