However, there was none of the usual laughter and music in the conclave or the hall that Easter. Kenyngham’s death created a pall of sadness that hung over everyone, and the College had never been so quiet. Langelee, who had been fretting over the fact that he would be three teachers short in the forthcoming term – with two away and one dead – asked his four remaining Fellows to join him in the conclave an hour before dawn the following day. They would hold an emergency meeting, during which a replacement for Kenyngham would be chosen. It was an unusual time for such a gathering, but Langelee was not a man to dither once his mind was made up.
Bartholomew was early, so he began to prepare the room while he waited for the others. He placed stools around the table, retrieved the College statutes and the Master’s sceptre from the wall-cupboard, and found parchment and ink so Wynewyk could make a record of the proceedings.
‘I did not sleep a wink,’ said Michael, when he arrived a few moments later. He took his customary seat near the window. ‘Neither did you. I heard you come home just moments ago.’
‘I was out all night, looking for Falmeresham,’ replied the physician tiredly. He had changed his wet, muddy clothes, but there had been no time to rest – not that he felt like sleeping anyway. Each time he closed his eyes, he could see the student falling to his knees, hand clasped to his bleeding side. ‘I cannot imagine where he might have gone – or where someone may have taken him.’
‘Does he have family in Cambridge? Or friends in another College?’
‘His family live in Norfolk. And you always advise against fraternising with scholars from other foundations, lest it leads to quarrels, so his closest friends are here, in Michaelhouse.’
‘How badly do you think he was injured? Perhaps he has collapsed somewhere.’
Bartholomew rubbed his eyes. ‘Cynric and I have searched every garden, lane and churchyard between here and the place he was attacked – and knocked on the door of every house. If he had wandered off and lost consciousness somewhere, we would have found him.’
Michael was worried. ‘Do you think Carton is right – that Blankpayn has done something to him? Blankpayn is Candelby’s henchman, and Candelby will do anything to harm the University.’
‘I tried to talk to Blankpayn, but he is mysteriously unavailable.’
‘Not so mysteriously. I would not linger if I had stabbed someone. It looked like an accident, but that may not save his neck if Falmeresham is found … harmed. I hope it does not mean he knows he killed the lad, and is lying low until the fuss dies down.’
Bartholomew refused to contemplate such an eventuality. ‘Blankpayn’s friends say he has gone to visit his mother in Madingley. She summoned me once, for a fever, so I know he has a mother.’
Agitated, Michael paced, his thoughts switching to another matter he was obliged to investigate. ‘After this meeting, I want you to examine Lynton’s body. I need to know exactly how he died.’
‘I have told you already – there is a crossbow quarrel embedded in his chest.’
‘That does not correspond to eyewitnesses’ accounts. The Carmelite novices – an unruly gaggle, but not one given to lying – say Lynton was riding down Milne Street when his mare began to buck. He tumbled off, and a hoof caught his head as he fell.’
‘Then perhaps the horse was frightened by the sound of the bolt impaling its victim. There is a cut on Lynton’s head, either from a flailing hoof or from him hitting the ground, so the Carmelites’ account is not entirely incompatible with the evidence. However, the fatal injury was caused by the missile, not the nag.’
Michael sighed. ‘If you say so. But who would want to kill Lynton? Other than you, that is.’
Bartholomew regarded him in astonishment. ‘Why would I want to kill him?’
Michael smiled wanly. ‘I am not accusing you. However, it may occur to others that Lynton challenged you to public debates on several occasions, because he thought your teaching was heretical. You must have found it a nuisance – I certainly would have done.’
‘On the contrary, I enjoyed the discussions. That is what a university is for, Brother – to pit wits against intellectual equals. I learned a lot from sparring with Lynton.’
‘I doubt he felt the same way. He was not very good at defending his preference for old-fashioned practices over your more efficacious new ones, and I suspect the reason you enjoyed these dialogues is because you always won.’
‘Medicine was not the only subject we aired,’ said Bartholomew, sure Michael was wrong. Lynton might have disagreed with his theories, but their many disputations had always been conducted without malice or anger. ‘At our last public debate, we talked about Heytesbury’s mean speed theorem – whether it is correct to assume that velocity is uniformly accelerated.’
‘I bet that had your audience on the edge of their seats,’ remarked Michael dryly.
Bartholomew nodded earnestly. ‘It did, actually. In fact, I was surprised by how much attention it generated. We were scheduled to use Merton Hall, but so many scholars wanted to listen we had to move to St Mary the Great instead.’
‘I remember. My beadles thought you and Lynton were up to no good, because they could not imagine why else so many men would be clamouring to hear a debate on such a subject.’
‘Is that why they were all standing at the back? To avert trouble? I assumed they were there for the theoretical physics.’
Michael struggled not to laugh. ‘We are getting away from the point – which is that Lynton held archaic beliefs, and that you were his intellectual superior. Ergo, you must prepare yourself for accusations. If he really was murdered, then his academic rivals are the obvious suspects.’
‘Then perhaps we should keep the truth about his death quiet until we know who did it.’ Bartholomew took the bloodstained missile from his medical bag, and studied it thoughtfully. ‘No one else saw the wound, and I have the bolt here.’
Michael gaped in horror. ‘You hauled it out in the middle of the street? After I had just quelled a riot, and when Lynton’s colleagues were standing around him, bemoaning the tragedy of his death? My God, man! What were you thinking?’
‘That it seemed the right thing to do,’ said Bartholomew defensively. ‘The Peterhouse Fellows were distraught, and I did not want one to see the bolt and claim Candelby had put it there. If that had happened, you would have had your riot for certain.’
‘Why did you not tell me what you had done straight away?’ demanded Michael, unappeased.
‘Because I forgot in the race to find Falmeresham. There has been no time for chatting.’
Michael regarded him with round eyes. ‘Well, please do not do it again. I have more than enough to concern me, without worrying about what my Corpse Examiner might be doing behind my back. Do you know how I spent much of last night? Trying to persuade Candelby that Lynton did not ride at him on purpose. It was a difficult case to argue, because I could tell from the wreckage that Lynton was the one at fault. His mare did careen into the man’s cart.’
‘Perhaps he was already dead at that point.’
‘You think he was shot first, and then the horse panicked? It did not happen the other way around – Lynton rode at Candelby and was shot as a consequence?’
‘Medicine cannot tell you that, Brother. However, Lynton was gentle, and I do not see him using a horse as a weapon with which to batter people.’
Michael was thoughtful. ‘The obvious suspect for Lynton’s murder is Candelby.’
‘Why? He did not emerge unscathed from the encounter.’
‘Perhaps he did not anticipate the horse bucking in his direction. The rent war has turned him hostile to all scholars, and a wealthy one on a fine mare might well have inspired a murderous rage. However, crossbows are unwieldy objects – you do not whip one from under your cloak and slip a quick bolt into an enemy. It has to be wound first, and that would have attracted attention.’
Bartholomew showed him the missile. ‘It is a very small arrow, so I sus
pect it did come from a weapon that was easily concealed. However, the murder was committed on a main road in broad daylight, so some degree of stealth was needed, or someone would have seen him.’
Michael inspected it thoughtfully. ‘The Church of St John Zachary has a nice leafy churchyard – an ideal place to lurk with a bow.’
‘Then Candelby is not your culprit, because he was in a cart with Maud Bowyer when the weapon was discharged.’
Michael was becoming frustrated. ‘Who, then? One of Lynton’s Peterhouse colleagues?’
‘Peterhouse has its squabbles, but none are serious enough to warrant murder.’
‘A patient, then? Perhaps he killed one by mistake.’
Bartholomew considered the suggestion. ‘It is possible. There are so many illnesses that we cannot cure, and bereaved kin make for bitter enemies.’
‘That healer – Arderne – claims he can cure anything. He waved his feather at a man Paxtone said would die, and the fellow was up and strolling along the High Street yesterday.’
Bartholomew frowned, but declined to say what he thought of cures that required the waving of feathers. ‘There is a famous physician called John Arderne. He specialises in anal fistula – not a life-threatening condition, but an acutely uncomfortable one. Perhaps he and Richard Arderne are kin.’
‘My beadles tell me that our Arderne has already provoked public spats with Rougham, and we saw him denigrate Robin ourselves, so he is clearly intent on locking horns with the town’s medici. We cannot have a quarrel leading to a brawl, just because he wants a forum for advertising his skills, so stay away from him – no asking questions about his family, please.’
‘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.’
To Kill or Cure: The Thirteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 5
