The sudden and unexpected death of Kenyngham had sent a ripple of shock through the College that affected everyone, from the most junior servant to the most senior Fellow, and the monk did not want to be with his Benedictine colleagues or haunt St Mary the Great that afternoon. Instead, he sat in Bartholomew’s chamber, perching on a stool that creaked under his enormous weight.
‘So Kenyngham just … died?’ he asked, holding out his goblet for more ‘medicinal’ wine.
‘People do,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘He was very old – well past seventy.’
‘But how could he? He was at a feast, for God’s sake! People do not die at feasts.’
As a physician, Bartholomew was used to being asked such questions by the bereaved, but that did not make them any easier to answer. ‘He closed his eyes to pray, and I suppose he just slipped away. He loved Easter, and was happy today. It is not a bad way to go.’
‘Are you sure it was natural? Perhaps he was poisoned.’
‘You have been a proctor too long – you see mischief everywhere, even when there is none.’
Michael was thoughtful. ‘I went to his room last night, and caught him swallowing some potion or other. When I asked what it was, he told me it was an antidote.’
‘An antidote for what?’ asked Bartholomew, mystified. He was Kenyngham’s physician, and he had prescribed nothing except a balm for an aching back in months.
‘He declined to say – he changed the subject when I tried to ask him about it. But supposing it was an antidote to poison, because he knew someone was going to do him harm?’
Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘You have a vivid imagination, Brother! Besides, you do not take antidotes before you are poisoned – you take them after, once you know what you have been given. But there was nothing strange about his death. He was obviously feeling unwell, because he said he was too tired to visit the Gilbertine convent today, and you know how he liked their chapel. Besides, who would want to harm Kenyngham?’
‘No one – but I cannot shake the feeling that a person is to blame for this. Kenyngham was a saint, and God would never have struck him down so suddenly.’
‘Good men are just as prone to death as wicked ones.’
Michael stood. ‘Come to his room with me – now. We shall find this antidote, and then you will see I am right to be suspicious.’
Bartholomew did not find it easy to open Kenyngham’s door and step inside his quarters. The Gilbertine’s familiar frayed cloak hung on the back of the door, and the pillow on the bed still held the hollow made by the old man’s head. Bartholomew stood by the window and thought of the many hours he had spent there, enjoying Kenyngham’s sweet-tempered, erudite company.
‘I cannot find it,’ said Michael after a while. He stood with his hands on his hips, perturbed.
‘We should not be here,’ said Bartholomew uncomfortably. ‘It feels wrong. He gave you an evasive, ambiguous answer when you asked him what he was swallowing, which tells me he did not want you to know. Can we not respect his wish for privacy?’
Michael sighed. ‘Very well – but just because I cannot find this antidote does not mean I imagined the whole incident. He really did take something, you know.’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘I believe you, but it could have been anything – a mild purge, a secret supply of wine. It does not have to be sinister.’
‘Right,’ said Michael in a way that suggested he would make up his own mind about that.
Once back in Bartholomew’s room they sat in silence for a long time. ‘We shall have to elect someone to take his place – and soon,’ said the monk eventually. ‘Suttone and Clippesby will be away again next term, and we cannot manage with a third Fellow gone.’
Bartholomew found he did not like the notion of someone else taking Kenyngham’s post. ‘He is barely cold, Brother,’ he said reproachfully.
‘I know, but he would not want us to be sentimental about this – and nor would he approve of us neglecting our students’ education by being tardy about appointing a replacement. Who will it be, do you think? Principal Honynge of Zachary Hostel is always sniffing around in search of a College post, so I suppose he will be calling tomorrow, to remind us of his academic prowess. Now there is someone who would harm Kenyngham. I have never liked him, and he strikes me as the kind of man who might resort to poison to further his own ends.’
‘And how did he commit this crime?’ asked Bartholomew, supposing distress was leading the monk to make wild and unfounded accusations. ‘We all ate the same food.’
‘Kenyngham’s age made him frail, rendering him more susceptible to toxins than the rest of us.’
‘You should watch where you express that sort of theory,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘Our students are upset, and a rumour that Kenyngham was deliberately harmed is likely to ignite a fire that does not need to be lit. Besides, Honynge is not a killer.’
‘What about Tyrington of Piron Hostel as a culprit, then?’ persisted Michael. ‘He has been its Principal for three years now, and he told me only last week that he would rather be a collegian.’
‘No one killed Kenyngham,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘And he would be appalled to hear you say so – of all the men in the University, he was the last who would want trouble on his behalf.’
‘That is true, but I cannot stop thinking about this “antidote”…’
‘Perhaps he used the wrong word. Some of what he said to me today made no sense, either – talk of crocodiles and shooting stars. You are reading too much into an idle remark, and we should discuss something else before you convince yourself that a crime has been committed and go off to investigate. Tell me about your rent war. I could not hear what you were saying once the choir was under way with its repertoire.’
Michael grimaced. ‘It is growing ever more serious, and I am struggling to maintain the peace. The landlords’ spokesman – Candelby – has recently purchased several new houses. He objects to the fact that the law insists they should be used as hostels for scholars.’
‘He owns these buildings?’ asked Bartholomew. Michael nodded. ‘Then I can see his point. Why should he rent them to us for a pittance, when he could lease them to wealthy merchants for a good deal more?’
Michael regarded him icily. ‘Not you, too! That is what he says, and he is encouraging the other landlords to think the same. The reason is that it is the law, Matt. Once a house has been rented to scholars, it must remain rented to scholars until the University no longer needs it.’
‘It may be the law, but it is hardly fair.’
‘What does fairness have to do with anything? The law has never made any pretence of being fair, and nor will it, I imagine. However, the real problem is that I find myself unable to enforce this particular statute. I could fine Candelby, but what would I do if he refuses to pay? Send beadles to his house and take the money by force? Put him in prison? If I did either, the University would be in flames within an hour, and every scholar would be ready to fight. There would be a bloodbath, and I do not want that.’
‘Does Candelby?’
‘Yes – he is a greedy, selfish villain, who would willingly squander lives for personal gain. But I want the matter settled amicably. I have offered to negotiate a slightly higher rate – I cannot triple it, as he demands, because even I do not own that sort of authority – but he refuses to treat with me.’
‘Then ask the Sheriff to intervene. He will force Candelby to talk to you, because he will not want a riot, either.’
‘I wish I could, but he is away, summoned to Huntingdon on shire business.’
‘Then can you send to the King for help? He set his seal to the University Statutes – the laws you are trying to enforce – and will not want them flouted.’
‘That would see His Majesty descending on the town in a fury, fining anything that moves. We are unpopular enough as it is, and I do not want to exacerbate the situation by telling tales. Damn Candelby! Most people had never heard of him before he whipped his
fellow landlords into a frenzy, but now his name is on everyone’s lips.’
‘Not mine, Brother. I know very little about him.’
‘He is a taverner by trade. He runs the Angel Inn on Bene’t Street and, much as I detest the man, he does sell excellent pies. Have you tried one?’
‘If I had, then I would not tell you – the Senior Proctor! You would fine me.’
The University had decided years before that taverns were not for scholars. Not only did such establishments provide strong drink, which encouraged riotous behaviour, but they were frequented by townsmen. Inebriated students and drunken laymen were to be kept apart at all costs, and Michael’s beadles patrolled the alehouses every night in search of anyone breaking the rules.
Michael smiled. ‘I shall assume the answer is yes, then.’
‘Just once – a month ago. Carton took me, because he said I was the only man in Cambridge who had not eaten one.’
Michael nodded. ‘He was probably right. Candelby hired a Welsh cook at the beginning of Lent, and it is common knowledge that his wares are a vast improvement on anything else on offer in the town.’
‘What are you going to do about him?’ Bartholomew was concerned by the way his friend’s face had become pale with worry. ‘Candelby, I mean, not the cook.’
‘What can I do? I do not want to be heavy handed and spoil University–town relations for ever. Yet I represent scholars, and cannot let burgesses ride roughshod over them. However, my first duty is to avert the riot I sense brewing, so I shall continue to be calm and reasonable – and hope Sheriff Tulyet comes home while we are all still in one piece. Lord, I miss him!’
‘We do not want a riot,’ agreed Bartholomew fervently. He was the University’s Corpse Examiner, which meant he was obliged to inspect the body of any dead scholar – and he disliked seeing people killed by violence. He was about to add more when the door was flung open and Falmeresham burst in, the commoner Carton at his heels. Falmeresham and Carton had struck up a friendship that had surprised everyone, because their personalities meant they had little in common. Falmeresham was fun-loving and reckless; Carton was a sober, quiet friar who was something of an enigma.
‘There has been an accident,’ declared Falmeresham. ‘Master Lynton was riding down the road when he collided with a cart driven by Candelby. The messenger said there is blood everywhere.’
‘Lord!’ groaned Michael, putting his head in his hands. ‘A spat between the landlords’ spokesman and a high-ranking scholar. Now there will be trouble!’
‘Do you mean Lynton the physician?’ asked Bartholomew alarmed. ‘My colleague from Peterhouse?’
Falmeresham nodded. ‘I am glad I did not study with him. He is dogmatic and narrow-minded, and refuses to embrace new ideas.’
‘That is unkind,’ said Bartholomew reprovingly. Falmeresham was only a term away from graduating, but Bartholomew had still not cured him of his habit of speaking his mind. ‘He does prefer traditional medicine, but he is a good man.’
Falmeresham snorted in a way that suggested he disagreed, but there was no time to argue.
Michael heaved himself upright. ‘I suppose I should see what can be done to avert trouble.’
‘You are right to be worried,’ said Carton. ‘The messenger also said the onlookers have taken sides, and your beadles are hard-pressed to keep them apart. You are both needed on Milne Street.’
Easter Sunday was a time of feasting and celebration, and even the town’s poorest inhabitants marked the occasion by decking themselves out in their best clothes and strolling along the town’s main thoroughfares. It was a time for visiting family and friends, for enjoying bright sunshine and street performers. Strictly speaking, entertainment was forbidden on such a holy day, but neither the University nor the town made any effort to enforce the rule, and the narrow lanes were full of singers, dancers, magicians, fire-eaters and jugglers. The streets echoed with rattling drums, trilling pipes and the babble of excited conversation.
It was not just townsmen who were making the best of a mild spring day and some free time. Students wearing the distinctive uniforms of their foundations were out in force. Normally, the presence of so many liveries would have resulted in brawls, as ancient grievances between Colleges and hostels were resurrected. This year, however, the scholars had laid aside their differences to concentrate on a common enemy: the town. The rent war was seen as an attempt to suppress their studium generale, and the more alarmist among them were braying that it was the greatest threat academia had yet faced. If the town won, they said, and rents were indeed trebled, other privileges would disappear, too – such as affordable ale, bread and fuel, the prices of which were also kept artificially low by the University Statutes. Michael did his best to control the rumours, but it was like trying to stem the flow of a river. The scholars believed they were under attack, and the uncompromising stance taken by the landlords was doing nothing to dispel the illusion.
The hostels were bearing the brunt of the dispute. Landlords declined to carry out essential repairs until their tenants agreed to the new terms, so students were forced to leave when conditions became intolerable. Alternatively, when leases expired, the owners refused to renew them, so scholars suddenly found themselves ousted from houses they had inhabited for years. Naturally, the University fined the landlords for their audacity, but the landlords were refusing to pay up – and the University was astonished to learn that it did not know how to make them.
‘Look at the way those lads from King’s Hall are glaring at the mason’s apprentices,’ panted Michael as he waddled along at Bartholomew’s side. The fat monk was not built for moving at speed. ‘They would dearly love to fight.’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘And the students of Rudd’s and Margaret’s hostels, who have hated each other for years, have joined forces to menace those pot-boys from the Angel.’
‘But they are still outnumbered,’ said Michael. He heaved a sigh of relief when the scholars backed down and moved away. Immediately, the pot-boys broke into a chorus of jeers and catcalls, but the students showed admirable restraint, perhaps because the Senior Proctor was watching.
He and Bartholomew, with Falmeresham and Carton in tow, hurried along Milne Street, a major thoroughfare named after the mills that thumped and creaked at its southernmost end. First, they passed Ovyng Hostel with its rotting timbers and dirty plaster, then the back of Gonville Hall, a small but wealthy institution that specialised in training lawyers. Then came Trinity Hall and Clare, both with high walls protecting them from the ravages of resentful townsmen – and the ravages of rival foundations. Beyond Clare lay the little church of St John Zachary, and in the distance were the thatched roofs and gables of the Carmelite Friary.
Sandwiched between the University’s property, mostly on the eastern side of the road, were the homes and shops of merchants. Elegant pargeting and glazed windows indicated that Cambridge was a thriving commercial centre, as well as a place of learning and education. Bartholomew’s brother-in-law, Oswald Stanmore, owned one of the grandest, although he preferred to live outside the town, using his Milne Street premises as a place of business. However, when Cambridge was uneasy he liked to be on hand to protect his assets, and he was in residence that day. He and his wife Edith – Bartholomew’s sister – were in the yard, handing out Easter treats to their apprentices. They waved as their kinsman raced past.
The accident had occurred outside Clare’s main gate, and had attracted a large crowd – scholars as well as the men who worked for the Milne Street traders. Michael’s beadles moved among them, but it was clear they were struggling to keep the peace. Bartholomew saw one student push a jeweller hard enough to make him stumble, then dart away when the fellow whipped around to reciprocate. The student’s cronies raised their hands to indicate they had not been responsible, but there was a jeering, gloating quality to the gesture that was designed to aggravate, not pacify.
‘I am glad you are here, Brother,’ said Beadle Meadowman,
stepping forward to greet the man who paid his wages. ‘But Doctor Bartholomew’s services are no longer needed. Robin of Grantchester and the new healer are already here.’
‘What new healer?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.
It was Carton who replied. ‘He means Richard Arderne, who arrived on the first day of Lent.’
‘I am surprised you have not come across him, sir,’ added Falmeresham helpfully. ‘He did nothing for the first few weeks, then last Saturday he made his debut with some very public cures.’
‘Matt was busy on Saturday, trying to rectify that unhappy business Deynman precipitated,’ said Michael. ‘He did not have time to wander around and watch other medical men at work.’
Falmeresham rolled his eyes. ‘I had forgotten. Deynman misread the dosage on old Master Hanchach’s medicine, and Doctor Bartholomew was obliged to spend hours making sure the poor man did not die as a result.’
Bartholomew winced. Deynman was becoming a major liability, and he had been appalled to learn that the lad could not be trusted to follow even the most simple of instructions. It told him more than ever that Deynman should never be let loose on the general populace, and he lived in constant fear that the student would decide to abandon his training and go into practice without the qualification that was taking so long to acquire.
‘Arderne has been saying some very rude things about Surgeon Robin,’ said Carton, changing the subject when he saw the cloud pass across the physician’s face. ‘He says his methods are outmoded and dangerous, and that people would be wise to avoid him.’
‘It is true,’ said Falmeresham bluntly. ‘Robin is a menace, and everyone knows it.’
Robin of Grantchester had been in Cambridge for as long as anyone could remember, and held a surgical monopoly. Unfortunately, he was not very good at his trade, and a large number of his patients died. Some perished while he was wielding his filthy instruments, while others expired later, of the fevers that were an inevitability after encounters with Robin. He was summoned only by the desperate or the uninformed, although he was said to be a master at trimming beards.
To Kill or Cure: The Thirteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 3