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 wel
l 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.’
To Kill or Cure: The Thirteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 6