‘You cannot prove anything,’ said Honynge again, sitting back and folding his arms.
‘We can prove you spied on Clare, because Cynric saw you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You went to see what else you could learn to Candelby’s advantage. I imagine it was you I saw at Peterhouse, too, doing much the same thing – you ran away and hid in the woods behind the Gilbertine Friary.’
‘Meanwhile, Rougham and Paxtone have also complained that someone has been following them,’ said Michael. ‘And now we know who and why.’
Honynge sighed, affecting boredom. ‘Prove it,’ he said in a chant. His voice dropped. ‘They are deeply stupid, Honynge, so do not let them intimidate you.’
‘Did Candelby order you to kill Motelete, Lynton and Ocleye?’ asked Michael. ‘He had hired Ocleye to spy for him, but Ocleye promptly turned traitor. Meanwhile, Lynton had just banned him from the Dispensary, and Motelete may have caught him doing something untoward—’
‘I have not killed anyone, and if you make any more accusations, I shall take the matter to my lawyers. I feel well enough to walk now, so I am leaving while I still can.’
‘You are not going anywhere until you have signed this,’ said Michael, pushing the letter of resignation towards him.
Honynge wrote his name with a flourish. ‘With pleasure.’
‘The man is right,’ said Michael wearily, after Honynge had gone. ‘We cannot prove any of this. He is a killer and a traitor to his University, and he is going to walk away. Worse, he might kill again.’
‘You should not have cured him, Matthew,’ said Agatha, stepping out from behind the screen. The three scholars jumped, because they had forgotten she was there.
‘Probably not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘However, it was that or seeing you hanged for murdering him.’
Langelee and Michael gaped at him. ‘Agatha is this deadly killer?’ asked Langelee in disbelief.
‘Now, just a moment—’ started Agatha dangerously.
‘No, but she did poison Honynge,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘She used the love-potion Arderne gave her. He told her it contains mandrake, but it is actually white bryony, with which mandrake is often confused. Arderne does not know what he is doing, so he made a basic mistake.’
‘You mean I really did poison Honynge?’ asked Agatha. She looked rather pleased with herself.
‘Yes, you really did. Perhaps Motelete swallowed one of these love-charms, too, because I am sure it was bryony that killed him.’
‘Of course!’ exclaimed Michael. ‘Falmeresham saw him stealing one of Arderne’s remedies, and we know he was enamoured of Siffreda. He took the draught in order to make her love him, but it killed him instead. He should have known better than to swallow anything Arderne had concocted.’
‘He was desperate,’ explained Agatha. The scholars regarded her in surprise. She shrugged. ‘He once confided to me in the Angel that Siffreda was taking too long to fall for him. Young men are impatient in love, and he was eager to speed matters up.’
‘If Arderne’s potion is supposed to render its taker irresistible,’ said Bartholomew to Agatha, ‘then why did you give yours to Honynge? Surely, you cannot have wanted to be in love with him?’
Agatha glared at him. ‘I most certainly did not! My intention was for Wynewyk to fall for him. Then Honynge would have been so disturbed that he would have packed his bags and left my College.’
‘I see,’ said Michael, amused. ‘However, you purchased this remarkable concoction before Honynge came to Michaelhouse, so he was not your original victim. Who—’
‘That is none of your business.’ Agatha raised her chin defiantly. ‘Everything you said earlier was right, by the way. Candelby has been paying Honynge for information about our University – my cousin Blankpayn mentioned it when he was in his cups last night. I was going to tell you this morning, but you disappeared and I did not know where you had gone.’
Michael sighed. ‘So where does all this leave us?’
‘With Motelete’s death solved,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘It was an accident – or a case of malpractice, depending on whether you think Arderne was right to leave dangerous substances in a place where light-fingered, love-sick accomplices might get hold of them.’
‘I think we shall opt for the latter,’ said Michael. ‘It will go in my report to the sheriff in London. But we still do not have the real culprit, and time is running out.’
CHAPTER 12
It was late before Bartholomew, Michael and Langelee left the conclave. They went over the evidence again and again, and Michael was frustrated when answers remained elusive. A crisis was looming, and he hated the fact that he was powerless to prevent it. It was difficult to accept that whatever decision he made – to cancel the Convocation or let it go ahead – would bring trouble, and he was full of bitter resentment that he had been placed in a position where he could not determine the lesser of two evils.
When dawn broke, and the bell rang to wake scholars for church the next day, Bartholomew felt as though he had only just gone to bed. A sense of foreboding led him to don a military jerkin of boiled leather under his academic tabard, although he sincerely hoped such a precaution would prove unnecessary. He hurried into the yard, and found Michael already there. The monk was unshaven and rumpled, and there was a wild look in his eye.
‘The Convocation starts in an hour,’ he said. ‘I should go to St Mary the Great as soon as possible, to brief my beadles before the Regents begin to gather.’
‘You are relieved of College obligations, then,’ said Langelee promptly. ‘William can take mass, then we shall all come back here and lock ourselves in. Cynric and his sword will escort the other Fellows to the Convocation, but my duty is here, protecting Michaelhouse.’
‘Why should our College be a target?’ asked Bartholomew, alarmed by the Master’s precautions.
‘Because of you,’ replied Langelee bluntly. ‘I know you have made your peace with Isnard, but the legacy of his discontent runs on, and there are rumours about you concealing murders. Furthermore, people are saying that you encouraged the proctors to arrest Arderne.’
‘He is right, Matt,’ said Michael, when Bartholomew began to object. ‘Your precipitous action with crossbow bolts in Milne Street last Sunday has had repercussions none of us could have predicted.’
The streets of Cambridge were growing light, but there were more people on them than was normal for such an early hour. They gathered in small groups, or raced here and there with quick, scurrying movements. Scholars were out, too, and Bartholomew noticed that some carried sticks and knives.
‘I cannot fine them for toting weapons,’ said Michael. ‘If they feel as uneasy as I do, then I do not blame them for wanting to defend themselves. Let us hope tensions ease after the Convocation.’
‘They may get worse,’ warned Bartholomew. He walked faster, making a concerted effort not to look at anyone, lest it be seen as a challenge. When one of his patients wished him a good morning, he was so unsettled that he failed to reply. ‘I had forgotten what Cambridge can be like when its collective hackles are raised. Perhaps you should cancel the Convocation. It will prevent scholars from assembling in large numbers, and you can order them to stay inside their hostels and Colleges instead.’
‘It is too late,’ said Michael, looking around. ‘Most are already on their way.’
The University’s senior members were indeed streaming towards St Mary the Great. A few were in twos or threes, but more were in bigger groups, and some had brought armed students to protect them; these strutted along in a way that was distinctly provocative. Only Regents were permitted in the church for the Convocation, so the escorts waited outside in ever-increasing numbers. The door stood open, and Bartholomew walked through it to find the place already half full. He was alarmed to note that they had organised themselves into opposing sides – or rather, someone had done it for them, and it soon became apparent who that someone was.
‘All those who think Michael’s amen
dment should pass, stand to the south,’ Honynge was shouting. ‘And those who should think it should not, go to the north. In other words, those who believe the town should win must slink to the south, while right-minded men should come to the north.’
‘What are you doing?’ hissed Michael furiously. ‘I wanted them all mixed up together. Now they are gathered according to faction, they will be more inclined to quarrel.’
‘Then any bloodshed will be your fault, for calling this stupid Convocation in the first place,’ retorted Honynge viciously. ‘People will see you for the fool you are, and will call for your resignation.’
‘It is none of your damned business,’ snarled Michael. ‘You resigned your Fellowship last night, so you have no official standing in the University until you are installed in your new post.’
Honynge was seething. ‘So that is why you forced me to sign that deed in such haste. You sly old snake! I should have known you had an ulterior motive for acting so quickly.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I told you they were untrustworthy. Do not let them—’
‘Leave,’ ordered Michael contemptuously. ‘You have no place here.’
But Honynge knew the University rules. ‘That is untrue – anyone who has held a senior position owns the right to observe the proceedings. I shall remain and watch what happens.’
‘Beadle Meadowman will eject you if you make a sound.’ Michael decided not to make a scene. The altercation had already attracted attention, and he did not want a fight between Regents who supported their Senior Proctor, and those who thought Honynge was right. Meadowman heard his name mentioned and came to oblige.
‘Chancellor Tynkell has asked me to tell you that he is indisposed this morning,’ Meadowman whispered in the monk’s ear. ‘He says you should proceed without him.’
‘You mean he is too frightened to show his face,’ said Michael in disgust. ‘And he has left me to bear the brunt of this alone.’
‘Actually, he swallowed a remedy Arderne gave him for indigestion, and has been in the latrines all night. He says he dare not come here, lest he is obliged to race out at an awkward moment.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Michael, turning away and eyeing the assembling scholars. They were pouring into the church, and Bartholomew could see the two sides were fairly evenly matched. The nave and aisles were alive with the blues, browns and greens of academic uniforms, mixed with the more sober greys, creams, browns and blacks of the religious Orders. Some of the Colleges had wheeled out elderly members who were either too infirm or too addled to teach, but who were still entitled to vote.
‘No, no, Master Gedney,’ called Kardington patiently. ‘You want to be over here, not over there.’
‘Let him choose for himself,’ shouted Wisbeche. ‘Do not tell him what to do.’
‘Very well,’ said Gedney. ‘I shall have the middle, then. Where is my stool?’
Reluctantly, Spaldynge stepped forward and handed it over. Gedney placed it in the exact centre of the nave, and sat, his toothless jaw jutting out defiantly.
‘Some of these men do not have voting rights,’ said Michael, looking around in dismay. ‘Such as Spaldynge, who lost his Fellowship when he sold Borden Hostel. They are here to make sure a particular side receives a sly boost in numbers. What shall I do? If my beadles attempt to oust them, there will be a skirmish. Or they will leave in a resentful frame of mind, and pick a fight with the first apprentice who makes an obscene gesture at them.’
‘What is Honynge doing now?’ asked Bartholomew in alarm. The ex-Fellow had climbed on to the dais normally occupied by the Chancellor, and was clearing his throat. ‘You should stop him, Brother.’
But it was too late. Honynge had grabbed Gedney’s walking stick, and he banged it on the floor until he had everyone’s attention. ‘We have half an hour before the Convocation is officially scheduled to begin,’ he announced. ‘So, I propose we use that time constructively, in scholarly disputation.’
‘That is actually a good idea,’ said Michael to Bartholomew, startled. ‘It will stop everyone from throwing taunts at each other in the interim.’
‘We shall talk about Blood Relics,’ announced Honynge. Michael closed his eyes in despair as half the scholars groaned, while the remainder cheered. ‘It is a subject worthy of clever minds.’
‘Boring!’ called Gedney. ‘Christmas is almost upon us, so we should discuss the virtues of nice plum puddings, as opposed to these new-fangled fig things we were given last year.’
‘Prior Morden of the Dominicans will argue the case for Blood Relics,’ said Honynge, ignoring him. ‘And Father William, Franciscan of Michaelhouse, will argue the case against.’
‘Stop him, Brother,’ urged Bartholomew. ‘Pitting a Grey Friar against a Black will cause trouble for certain – as well he knows.’
‘I cannot – not now,’ whispered Michael, appalled. ‘Those Regents who think this is a good idea will lynch me, and the rest will race to my defence. Then Honynge will have what he wants anyway.’
‘You want me to take a leading role?’ asked Morden, aghast. He was not the University’s most skilled debater, and did not like the notion of propounding a case publicly, not even against William. Honynge knew it, and Bartholomew marvelled at the depth of his malice.
‘I would rather talk about puddings,’ said William. The Franciscan rarely acknowledged his own shortcomings, but even he was wary of tackling such a contentious issue in front of some of the best minds in the country. ‘Fig ones are superior to plum, because figs come from the Holy Land. Ergo, fig puddings are holy, and thus better.’ He folded his arms and looked triumphantly at Morden.
‘I do not like the taste of figs,’ began the Dominican nervously. ‘And their seeds get trapped between the teeth. Then they come out at awkward moments. The seeds, I mean, not the teeth.’
There was a smattering of laughter, from both sides of the church.
‘Wasps like plums,’ continued William. ‘So there is always a danger that you might find one baked in your pudding. I do not eat wasps as a rule, so it is better to opt for fig pies whenever possible.’
When he could make himself heard above the guffaws, Morden replied to this contention, and the debate began in earnest. The Regents began to enjoy themselves, and called out theories to help the disputants, many of them extremely witty. Honynge’s face was a mask of rage when he saw his ploy to cause dissent was failing. He tried to change the subject, but was shouted down as a killjoy.
‘Where did he go?’ asked Bartholomew after a while, tearing his attention from the dais. ‘He has vanished, and I do not think he has finished causing harm. Meadowman is nowhere to be seen, either.’
It was impossible to locate Honynge among the seething masses, and it was some time before they were able to deduce that he was not in the nave, the aisles or the Lady Chapel. They moved cautiously, aware that jostling the wrong person might undo all the goodwill that Morden and William had created.
‘Meadowman was obliged to help Gedney,’ reported Michael after talking to the beadle. ‘Apparently, the old man fell off his stool laughing. When Meadowman looked round, Honynge had gone. He must have decided to go home.’
‘Your other beadles told me that no one has left, so he is still in here. But where? The tower is locked.’
‘My office!’ exclaimed Michael in alarm. ‘Lord! There are sensitive documents in there.’
He broke into a waddle, hurrying to the chamber off the south aisle from which he conducted University affairs. He flung open the door and raced inside, Bartholomew at his heels. Honynge stood there, but he was not alone. The door slammed behind them, and Bartholomew whipped around to see Candelby and Blankpayn. Blankpayn waved a heavy sword and his grin was malevolent.
‘How timely,’ said Honynge coldly. ‘Here are the pair who found out about our arrangement, Candelby. They think I killed Lynton and Ocleye, but I assure you I did not.’
‘Honynge is certainly innocent of Lynton’s death,’ said Candelby to Michael.
‘He was going to attend the Dispensary on my behalf – to use his wits to predict winners, while I provided money for bets. We were going share the proceeds, and Lynton’s demise ruined a perfectly good plan.’
‘You have not mentioned this before,’ said Michael suspiciously.
‘Why would we? It is none of your business. However, we were both furious when Lynton died.’ Candelby went to Michael’s desk and began to make a pile of the scrolls that were lying out on it. Outraged, the monk stepped forward to stop him, but Blankpayn brandished his weapon menacingly.
‘We do not have time for this.’ Bartholomew started towards the door, but Blankpayn took a firmer grip on his sword, and the physician was left in no doubt that he would very much like to use it. He stopped dead in his tracks. ‘Please! Michael needs to supervise the Regents, or there may be trouble.’
‘Good,’ said Honynge. ‘I hope there is trouble, and that you two will be blamed. His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘With luck, some of those arrogant Fellows will die, and you can accept one of the resulting vacancies – if there is a foundation that meets your exacting standards, of course.’
‘No one is going to die,’ said Candelby, going to a shelf for more of the University’s records.
‘What are you doing with those?’ asked Michael uneasily. ‘Be careful. Some are very valuable.’
‘We are going to have a fire,’ said Honynge, waving an unlit taper at him.
‘A fire?’ Michael was appalled. ‘But these deeds are irreplaceable! What are you thinking of? Put them down and get out of my office. And tell your ape to stop pointing his sword at me.’
‘Easy, Blankpayn,’ crooned Candelby soothingly, when his henchman lurched forward. Bartholomew quickly interposed himself between taverner and monk; his leather jerkin would afford greater protection than Michael’s woollen habit. Candelby glared at the monk. ‘And you should settle down, too, Brother, because you are not going anywhere until I say so.’
Michael glared. ‘But Matt does not need to be—’
‘If I let him go, he will summon your beadles,’ snapped Candelby. ‘Stand against the wall, where we can see you. Hurry up! We do not have all day.’
To Kill or Cure: The Thirteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 36