‘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 leas
e 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 symboli
sm, 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.
CHAPTER 3
Bartholomew did not want to share his findings with Michael until they were well away from Peterhouse, but returning to the town proved difficult. The soldier on duty at the Trumpington Gate claimed he did not recognise them, and refused to allow them through. Michael was first bemused, then indignant, and finally furious. He begged, cajoled and threatened, but the guard remained firm – they could not enter until someone came to vouch for them. They might have been stuck outside for hours, had Bartholomew’s brother-in-law not happened to ride by.
‘Stop playing the fool, man,’ ordered Stanmore sternly. ‘Of course you know Brother Michael – he fined you for relieving yourself against King’s Hall last Christmas.’
‘He looks different,’ mumbled the soldier, sullen now he was caught out in a lie. ‘Maybe he was not so fat then. Besides, he just tried to bribe me to let him in, and I got standards.’
‘He did not slip you enough?’ asked Stanmore. He turned to Michael. ‘Incentives are more costly in the current climate of unease, Brother. Next time, you had better offer double.’
To Kill or Cure: The Thirteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 7