To Kill or Cure (7 page)

‘Did he quarrel with Lynton, too?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘We will have to find out. Did I tell you that two men died during yesterday’s fight? Their names were Motelete and Ocleye
– a student from Clare and a pot-boy from the Angel tavern.’

‘Each side lost a man? Then we are even, so let us hope that marks the end of the matter.’

Michael was angry. ‘The unease is Candelby’s fault! He has paid a high price, though, because Ocleye was one of his own servants.
But here are our colleagues, so I suppose we had better turn our minds to choosing a new Fellow. Whoever we elect cannot hope
to step into Kenyngham’s shoes.’

‘No one can,’ said Bartholomew sombrely.

Statutory Fellows’ meetings had once been acrimonious events, when clever minds had clashed over petty details, and Bartholomew
had resented the time they had taken. Fortunately, matters had improved since Langelee had
been elected Master. Every man was permitted to have his say – although he was forbidden from repeating himself – and then
a vote was taken. Because this limited opportunities to make derogatory remarks, meetings tended to finish with everyone
still friends. It was a sober assembly that gathered in the conclave that morning, though, and even the rambunctious William
was subdued. The Fellows took their seats, and Langelee tapped on the table with the sceptre, his symbol of authority, to
declare the proceedings were under way.

‘Right,’ he said tiredly. ‘We should try to be brief this morning, because we all have a great deal to do, especially Michael
and Bartholomew. There is only one item on the agenda—’

‘You forgot to say a grace, Master,’ said William reproachfully. The grubby Franciscan looked even more unkempt than usual;
his face was grey with sorrow, he had not shaved, and his hair stood in a greasy ring around his untidy tonsure. ‘Kenyngham
is scarcely cold, and our religious standards have already slipped.’

Langelee inclined his head. ‘Very well.
Benedicimus Domino.
’

‘
Deo gratias
,’ chorused the others automatically. Wynewyk reached for his pen.

Langelee looked around at his Fellows. ‘We need to appoint a Fellow who can teach grammar and rhetoric, but I do not think
it matters if his speciality is law or theology.’

‘John Prestone would have been my first choice,’ said William. The others nodded approvingly. ‘But I sounded him out informally
last night, and he declines to leave Pembroke.’

‘What about Robert Hamelyn, then?’ suggested Wynewyk. ‘He is an excellent teacher, and I happen to know he would like a College
appointment.’

‘I wish we could,’ said Langelee. He nodded meaningfully in William’s direction. ‘But Hamelyn is a Dominican, and we cannot
have one of
those
in Michaelhouse.’

‘Of course,’ said Wynewyk sheepishly. William hated Dominicans, and Dominicans were invariably not very keen on William; Michaelhouse
would never know a moment’s peace if a Black Friar was elected to the Fellowship. ‘How foolish of me.’

‘Very foolish,’ agreed William venomously. ‘He would bring the ways of Satan to our—’

‘There are not many men in a position to drop all and join us immediately,’ interrupted Michael. ‘And we do need someone as
quickly as possible.’

‘It will have to be Honynge or Tyrington, then,’ said Wynewyk unenthusiastically. ‘Both have their own hostels, but, like
all Principals, they are worried about the outcome of this rent war – not all hostels will survive it. Thus they are currently
looking for College appointments. I suppose I would opt for Honynge over Tyrington, because Tyrington spits.’

‘You mean he has an excess of phlegm?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I could devise a remedy—’

‘No, I mean he
sprays
,’ elaborated Wynewyk with a fastidious shudder. ‘If you stand too close to him when he is speaking, you come away drenched.
And he leers, too.’

‘I have never noticed leering – the slobbering is hard to miss,’ said Langelee. ‘What do you think about Honynge?’

‘
He
does not leer,’ acknowledged Wynewyk. ‘He talks to himself, though.’

‘He certainly does,’ agreed William, picking at a stain on his habit. ‘I asked him about it once – I thought he might be communing
with the Devil, and was going to
offer him a free exorcism. But he told me he was conversing with the only man in Cambridge capable of matching his intellect.’

Bartholomew was taken aback by the immodest claim. ‘His scholarly reputation is formidable, but there are others who more
than match it – Prestone and Hamelyn, to name but two.’

‘It is not Honynge’s vanity that disturbs me,’ said Michael. ‘It is his other gamut of unpleasant traits. I had occasion to
deal with him over the death of Wenden – you will recall that Wenden was walking home from visiting Honynge when he was murdered
by the tinker. I was obliged to interview Honynge, and I found him arrogant, rude and sly.’

‘He is a condescending ass,’ declared William. ‘However, I do not like the notion of leering, either, as we shall have if
we elect Tyrington. It might frighten the students.’

‘We should consider Carton for the post,’ said Bartholomew, thinking of the shy Franciscan who was Falmeresham’s friend. ‘He
has been a commoner for a whole term now, and we all know him.’

‘We all
like
him, too,’ mused Michael. ‘He is not overly argumentative, does not hold too many peculiar religious beliefs, and his keen
intelligence will improve our academic standing in the University.’

‘I agree,’ said Langelee. ‘But, unfortunately, now is not a good time to appoint him – he is too upset about Falmeresham.
He might skimp his academic duties to go hunting for shadows.’

‘Falmeresham is not a shadow,’ said Bartholomew, more sharply than he had intended. ‘He will return soon – I am sure of it.’

‘Yes, but he might return dead,’ said William baldly. ‘It is obvious that Blankpayn has hidden the body in order
to avoid a charge of murder. I am sorry, Matthew, but we must be realistic.’

‘We can still hope for his safe return, though,’ said Wynewyk, seeing the stricken expression on the physician’s face. ‘I
have a friend who drinks in Blankpayn’s tavern. I shall visit him this morning, and see if he has noticed signs of recent
digging in the garden.’

‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew, aware that if Wynewyk really expected Falmeresham to come home, he would not be offering to
look for shallow graves. Like William, he believed the worst.

‘Unfortunately, we are not in a position to be choosy, not if we want the post filled quickly,’ said Langelee, going to a
window and peering into the yard below. ‘The students are waiting for us to lead them to church, so we had better take a vote.
Who wants Carton, a man distracted by grief?’

Bartholomew raised his hand, but was the only one who did.

‘And Honynge?’ asked Langelee. ‘Said to be sly, with a preference for his own conversation?’

Wynewyk inclined his head, while William wagged his finger to indicate he was still thinking.

‘If you vote for Honynge, you will regret it,’ warned Michael. ‘When he arrives, and you become more familiar with his disagreeable
habits, you will be sorry.’

He should have known better than try to sway William, because the friar rarely took advice, and his grimy paw immediately
shot into the air in Honynge’s favour. ‘Some of my students are little more than children, and I do not like the notion of
electing a man who might leer at them.’

‘And finally, Tyrington,’ said Langelee, raising his own hand. ‘Alleged to spit and leer.’

Michael lifted a plump arm to indicate his preference, although with scant enthusiasm. Langelee had made none of the candidates
sound appealing.

‘Tyrington and Honynge have two votes each, Master,’ said William, lest Langelee could not count that high. ‘That means we
are tied, so
you
must make the final determination.’

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.’