To Kill or Cure: The Thirteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘You are a menace, Spaldynge,’ snapped Kardington, mortified. ‘Either take that thing to the orchard and learn how to shoot properly, or I shall confiscate it. I do not feel safe as long as you are unfamiliar with its workings.’

  ‘Whoever killed Lynton and Ocleye was an excellent shot,’ said Bartholomew to Michael, when Spaldynge had gone to do as he was told. ‘He hid in a place where he could not be seen – which means he was probably some distance away – and his bolts went through their hearts. Once may have been luck, but twice suggests he knew what he was doing.’

  Wisbeche looked from one to the other. ‘If you suspect Spaldynge of Lynton’s murder, you must think again. He could not hit a bull if it was standing on his own toes. He brandishes the wretched thing as if he means business, but he barely knows one end from the other, and I had to show him how to wind it.’ He inspected his damaged tabard, and gave the impression that he wished he had not bothered.

  ‘Spaldynge did not kill Lynton,’ lisped Kardington, bemused. ‘He was Lynton’s patient, and appreciated the tactful way he treated a rather embarrassing condition. Now Lynton is dead, he will have to explain everything to another medicus, something he is dreading.’

  ‘But he hated Lynton,’ said Michael, not sure whether to believe him. ‘Because of the plague.’

  ‘He does despise physicians,’ agreed Kardington. ‘But he is still obliged to avail himself of their services on occasion.’

  ‘The relationship between Spaldynge and Lynton could be described as coolly civil,’ added Wisbeche. ‘Spaldynge came to Peterhouse for consultations, but although they did not like each other, there was never any hint of hostility. Lynton would not have kept him as a patient, if there had been.’

  ‘Spaldynge was our last suspect,’ said Michael, defeated. ‘I do not know where to go from here.’

  ‘Go home, Brother,’ said Kardington kindly. ‘The Colleges are the only safe places to be today, and at least you are relieved of Honynge’s objectionable presence. If you could be rid of Tyrington, too, Michaelhouse would be a delightful foundation.’

  The monk agreed, frustration and disappointment making him bitter. ‘If Tyrington spits at me one more time, I am going to empty my wine goblet over him. I wish we had not been so efficient at offering him a place. He would have been your problem, had we dallied.’

  Kardington was startled. ‘Mine?’

  ‘He was invited to take a Fellowship here, at Clare. You had a narrow escape. However, we will willingly part with him, if you find yourselves in need of a slobbering theologian.’

  ‘He was never offered a post,’ said Kardington, astonished. ‘We do not need any theologians at the moment, and we would not have chosen him if we had. We do not want our books soaked in saliva.’

  ‘He said you were keen to have him,’ said Michael.

  ‘He offered us his services when Wenden died, but we declined. He applied to Peterhouse, King’s Hall and Gonville, too, but they also rejected him. I imagine he was delighted when poor Kenyngham’s demise opened a position at Michaelhouse.’

  ‘He might just as easily have gone to Peterhouse,’ said Michael, turning to Wisbeche. ‘Lynton’s death meant an opening in your Fellowship, too.’

  ‘We had decided the next vacancy would remain unfilled long before Lynton died,’ replied Wisbeche. ‘I told you – we need to conserve funds, and a senior member’s salary is a lot of money.’

  Bartholomew frowned. ‘But you did not tell anyone that until after Lynton was dead.’

  ‘True,’ acknowledged Wisbeche. ‘Of course, Tyrington was desperate. The lease on Piron Hostel expired this week, and he had nowhere else to go.’

  ‘No, it was due to run out in September,’ corrected Michael. ‘He told us so the day Langelee wrote inviting him to join us at Michaelhouse.’

  ‘It expired this week,’ repeated Wisbeche firmly. ‘Why do you think Candelby spent so much money on making it nice? Because a goldsmith was ready to occupy it the moment Tyrington left. It is a lovely house, in a pleasant part of town, and Candelby was eager to charge a princely rent as soon as possible.’

  ‘Wisbeche is right,’ said Kardington, seeing Michael look sceptical. ‘I overheard the goldsmith and Candelby talking myself. Tyrington is a meek, amiable fellow, who let Candelby enter the house and effect inconvenient renovations whenever he wanted, even when he was teaching.’

  Bartholomew was appalled. How could he and Michael have been so wrong? ‘Who gave Spaldynge the crossbow, Master Kardington?’ he demanded. ‘This is important.’

  ‘It is funny you should ask,’ replied Kardington. ‘Because we have just been talking about him. It was Tyrington. He said he no longer had need of it.’

  Bartholomew ran all the way back to Michaelhouse, Michael trotting behind him. The monk was panting like a cow in labour, and Bartholomew itched to go behind him and give him a push, to make him move faster. They did not have time for such stately progress.

  ‘How could we have been so blind?’ he groaned, disgusted with himself.

  ‘It is only obvious now we have all the facts,’ gasped Michael. ‘Tyrington shot Lynton because he wanted a place at a College, not knowing that Peterhouse was going to freeze the post to save money. And he killed Ocleye because he was a witness to the murder.’

  ‘No, that does not work. Ocleye knew what was going to happen, because Paxtone said he was smiling in a way that suggested the shooting was no surprise. However, do you recall what Rougham told me? He saw Ocleye conducting shady business with a hooded man who drank his ale, but did not eat his pie. Rougham assumed it was the nature of their business that made the man lose his appetite, but he was wrong.’

  ‘Tyrington, alone of everyone we know, dislikes the Angel’s pies,’ finished Michael. ‘Do you recall how easily he hit Carton with his balls of parchment in the hall the other day? Lobbing missiles does not equate to accuracy with a crossbow, but it goes to show a reasonable dexterity.’

  ‘So, he must have written the letters about Kenyngham,’ added Bartholomew. ‘He decided to distract you away from Lynton – his victim – by claiming Kenyngham was murdered. And when you wanted to exhume Kenyngham, he argued violently against it.’

  ‘Because he knew the death was natural,’ completed Michael. ‘And he did not want us to find out, because it would mean I would stop wasting time on a murder that never happened.’

  ‘So, when you were refused permission to exhume, he put the top half of the rent agreement – the one he had taken from Lynton’s body – in the Illeigh Hutch. He intended you to think Honynge was the killer, another ruse to draw attention away from himself. We suspected the culprit was a Michaelhouse man, because only we have access to the College’s money chests.’

  ‘Why did he part with the deed at all, when he must have taken a considerable risk to acquire it in the first place?’

  ‘Because he had inadvertently left the most important part – the section with the signatures – behind anyway. The top half was essentially useless, which must have alarmed him when he reached home and inspected it.’

  ‘Why did he want it at all? It was not his name on the thing.’

  ‘I imagine because Ocleye was his spy, and he did not want anyone learning that Ocleye could afford houses on the High Street – it would have led to questions. Tyrington dislikes attention, which is why he was always punctilious at paying his rent. He did not want trouble. Hurry, Brother!’

  They finally reached the College, only to have Langelee report that Tyrington had not returned after the Convocation.

  ‘Where is he?’ demanded Michael, grabbing the master’s arm for support. ‘Is anyone else missing?’

  ‘Just him,’ replied Langelee. ‘Why? Is this about the fact that the Angel pot-boys have just delivered a scroll they found among Ocleye’s possessions? It is inscribed with Tyrington’s name. I think they brought it as an excuse to get inside Michaelhouse, and I do not believe their tale about finding it in Ocleye’s bags. But Tyri
ngton’s name is on it nonetheless. Ocleye must have stolen it from him.’

  ‘Ocleye and Tyrington knew each other well,’ said Wynewyk, overhearing. ‘I saw them together at the Dispensary several times. They were on good terms, although they pretended otherwise in company. I watched Tyrington lend Ocleye money once, when he wanted to place a bet.’

  ‘Come quickly,’ shouted Cynric suddenly. He was standing on top of the main gate. ‘I thought I could smell burning, so I came up here to look. Something is on fire.’

  ‘Well?’ called Michael, when Bartholomew and Langelee had scrambled up to stand at Cynric’s side. The monk was far too large for that sort of caper. ‘It is not Gonville, because the flames are too far away. Is it Trinity Hall? One of the hostels?’

  ‘It is impossible to say,’ said Langelee. ‘You and Bartholomew check; I will stay here.’

  Michael regarded him with round eyes. ‘We take the risks while you have dinner?’

  ‘You are the Senior Proctor,’ said Langelee impatiently. ‘As you never cease to remind us. It is your duty to investigate trouble – and people may have need of a physician. Meanwhile, I shall improve our defences. If there is a fracas today, we will not go up in flames.’

  Bartholomew and Michael hurried along Milne Street. Bartholomew closed his eyes in relief when he saw Trinity Hall safe, and was pleased the smoke was not coming from Clare, either. They ran on, past the Church of St John Zachary, and towards the Carmelite Friary.

  The smell of burning had encouraged others out, too, and because fire was feared in any town where buildings were made of wood and thatch, there was a good deal of panic. There was a good deal of menace, too, and the situation suddenly took a turn for the worse when the group of potters they had seen outside Clare earlier appeared on the road ahead of them. Bartholomew staggered when one collided with him, although the lad who tried the same with Michael bounced off the rotund figure and fell in a ditch.

  ‘Not my fault,’ wheezed Michael. ‘A man my size takes a while to stop once he is on the move.’

  ‘You have no right to arrest Arderne,’ the apprentice yelled. He picked up a stone and hurled it. The physician ducked and it cracked into the wall above his head.

  ‘We should turn back,’ whispered Michael. ‘It is not safe out here. Tyrington can wait.’

  More missiles flew, and Bartholomew covered his head with his hands. When he glanced up, the potters were racing towards them en masse. ‘Run, Michael! Now!’

  Michael did not need to be told a second time. He set off at a furious waddle. ‘Run where?’

  ‘St John Zachary,’ yelled Bartholomew. The monk would never make it to Michaelhouse, and the church was the closest available building. ‘It should be open, and they will not attack us if we claim sanctuary.’

  The potters were gaining. Bartholomew grabbed Michael’s arm and hauled him along at a speed that threatened to have them both over, but the monk made no complaint. He did his best to move at the pace Bartholomew was dictating, but he was too fat and too slow. Bartholomew saw they were going to be caught. He increased his efforts, muscles burning with the strain.

  When they reached the chapel, he took his childbirth forceps and brandished them, to give Michael time to stumble through the graveyard. The monk flung open the door, and Bartholomew turned and dashed inside. He had only just slammed it closed when the potters crashed against it, trying to shove it open with the weight of their bodies. Michael snatched up a heavy wooden bar and rammed it into two slots on either side of the doorframe. Then he collapsed in a breathless heap on the floor.

  ‘So much for sanctuary,’ muttered Bartholomew, as the church echoed with the sound of angrily pounding fists and kicking feet.

  ‘Check the windows,’ gasped Michael. ‘Hurry! Make sure they are all barred, or these louts will be inside in a trice. God help us, Matt, but they mean business!’

  ‘… Senior Proctor and his physician,’ Bartholomew heard someone holler. ‘We have them trapped.’

  ‘Storm the gaol!’ cried someone else. ‘Let Arderne out.’

  Bartholomew dashed down the south aisle, but the windows in the dilapidated little church had long-since rotted away and had been replaced by solid boards. All seemed secure, so he ran to the north aisle, which was in a better state of repair, because it formed part of Clare’s boundary wall. None of the shutters could be opened from the inside, and the single opening in the Lady Chapel was locked shut.

  ‘Damn,’ muttered Bartholomew, although he was not surprised. Cynric had once told him it was impossible to go from church to Clare once the windows were closed. ‘I was hoping we could take refuge with Kardington.’

  Michael’s chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath. His face was scarlet, and Bartholomew hoped he would not have a seizure. ‘Can you see anything? What are the potters doing?’ he gasped.

  Bartholomew peered through a crack in the wood. ‘There must be a dozen of them. They seem intent on—’ He jerked back as something heavy was hurled at the window through which he had been looking. Fragments of plaster showered down from the wall.

  ‘The two most hated men in Cambridge,’ said Michael ruefully. ‘The physician who helped arrest Arderne, and the University proctor who crushed the alliance of the landlords. We are not good company for each other today – too tempting a target.’

  There was a colossal thump on the door.

  ‘Kardington used the window in the Lady Chapel as a door into Clare,’ said Bartholomew, darting towards it. ‘We must open it somehow – we cannot stay here, because those potters mean to break in. They are using a cart as a battering ram.’

  There was a sudden crack on the window in question. Bartholomew peered through a gap at the bottom of it, and saw a score of students milling outside. They were piling old wood against the shutter, and one was standing by with a lighted torch. The physician turned to Michael in bewilderment.

  ‘It looks as though we shall all die together,’ came a soft voice from the chancel.

  ‘Tyrington!’ exclaimed Michael. ‘What are you doing here?’

  A distant part of Bartholomew’s mind registered how odd it was that the little church should be so still inside, when there was such a commotion outside. To the south, the potters were pounding the door with their cart, screaming their fury at the men trapped within. To the north, the students of Clare and their Peterhouse guests were busily piling firewood against the Lady Chapel window with the clear intent of setting it alight. They, too, were yelling.

  ‘One of two things is going to happen,’ said Tyrington in a low whisper. ‘Either the townsmen will break in and we shall be torn to pieces – there will be no reasoning with them. Or the Clare boys will set the church alight and we shall die of smoke and flames.’

  ‘Why would they destroy their own chapel?’ demanded Michael, not believing him.

  ‘Because he is in here,’ said Bartholomew, pointing at Tyrington. ‘And the Peterhouse students know he killed Lynton, because we told their Master – their Clare friends are just enjoying a spot of mischief. Besides, who will miss this old building? It is on the verge of collapse anyway.’

  ‘It was rash to blab about me to anyone who happened to be listening,’ said Tyrington. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. ‘The Peterhouse lads saw me walking along Milne Street after they left Clare, and I only just managed to reach this church before they caught me. I was about to bar the door when the potters arrived, and the students fled back to Clare. I decided to wait it out – to stay here until the streets became calm. But then you two came along, and now we are all trapped, like fish in a barrel.’

  ‘I am not going to die,’ declared Michael firmly. ‘Not after surviving that run.’

  ‘The students nailed the Lady Chapel window closed, to make sure I cannot escape, and they know that if I leave any other way the townsmen will have me. I am doomed, and you will share my fate. It serves you right – you are my colleagues, but you betrayed me by telling Peterhouse what I ha
d done.’

  Michael hammered on the window until his hands hurt, but no amount of shouting distracted the students from their bonfire. They assumed it was Tyrington making the racket, and ignored it. Then came the smell of burning. The lad with the torch had touched it to the wood, and it was already alight.

  ‘You see?’ asked Tyrington. ‘Is it hopeless.’

  ‘I should have known you were not the kind of man we wanted in Michaelhouse,’ shouted the monk furiously, while Bartholomew prowled the church in search of another exit. It was not looking promising, and the bar keeping the door closed was beginning to buckle under the potters’ battering.

  ‘And why is that?’ asked Tyrington, maddeningly calm.

  ‘Because of something Kenyngham said before he died,’ replied Bartholomew, looking at the ruins of the spiral stairway that led to the roof. There had been another fall since his last visit, and it was now almost completely blocked with large stones. ‘He must have guessed you would apply for his post, because he told me to beware of crocodiles who made timely appearances. We needed a theologian, and there you were. Crocodiles and shooting stars. You and Arderne. Dear, wise old Kenyngham.’

  ‘He was a fool,’ said Tyrington in disgust. ‘And he should have died years ago, so better, more able men could take his place. I wish he had been poisoned, because it might have encouraged other useless ancients to resign and make way for new blood.’

  ‘Lynton was not the first man you killed in the hope of earning yourself a Fellowship, was he?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You shot Wenden, too.’

  Tyrington shrugged. ‘It was easy to convince everyone that a drowned and drunken tinker was responsible – all it took was Wenden’s purse planted among his belongings. After all, I did not want anyone turning suspicious eyes on the man who stepped into the dead man’s shoes. My plan worked perfectly – or would have done, had Clare bothered to appoint Wenden’s successor.’

  ‘His post was non-stipendiary,’ said Michael. ‘So Clare could not appoint a successor – there was no money to fund one. You should have been more careful with your selection of victims.’