I have grown confused with all we have learned,’ said Michael, when he and Bartholomew had left the hall to continue their investigation into Lynton’s murder. ‘And I am not sure what to do next. Come to the Brazen George with me, and summarise everything.’
‘We have only just had breakfast,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘And I am not sure it is wise to frequent taverns, given what is happening in the town. We would do better to stay here.’
‘Nonsense, Matt. Candelby’s antics will not prevent me from walking about my own streets – or from enjoying my favourite alehouse.’
Cambridge was quieter that day, and the roads held fewer people, although Bartholomew suspected this was because a troupe of travelling players was performing in the Market Square, not from any lessening of hostility. He could hear cheers, and was glad the crowd was good-humoured.
Michael pointed along the High Street. ‘Candelby is heading our way. Can we reach the Brazen George before our paths converge? I am not in the mood for a spat.’
‘Not unless you pick up the pace, Brother.’
‘I am not running from the man. Very well, we shall bandy words, then. Perhaps he will be drunk, and I can persuade him to sign an agreement that will end our sordid squabble.’
Candelby was impeccably dressed, and the gold rings on his fingers glittered in the sunlight. He looked smug and prosperous, and Bartholomew wondered why he was making such an issue over rents, when it was clear he already had more money than he could spend; not being an acquisitive man himself, the physician failed to understand the bent in others. Blankpayn was with Candelby, although his clothes were dishevelled and he looked unkempt and unshaven.
‘Why does Candelby keep company with a disreputable rogue like him?’ asked Bartholomew, as the two taverners drew nearer. ‘Blankpayn is uncouth and stupid.’
‘But loyal. The other burgesses follow Candelby because he is powerful and influential; Blankpayn follows him because he thinks he can do no wrong.’
‘I hear you plan to hold a Convocation of Regents, Brother,’ said Candelby without preamble, as their paths converged. ‘To ask whether it is right to go on defrauding honest townsfolk.’
Michael was startled. ‘The Convocation is not public knowledge yet. My clerks have not finished drafting the official proclamation, so no one outside the University should know about it.’
‘I have my sources. Let us hope your colleagues see sense and rescind this ridiculous Statute once and for all.’
‘They may decide rents should remain as they are,’ warned Michael. ‘And if they do, I will lose the authority to raise them even by a small amount. You may find yourself worse off than ever.’
Candelby smirked. ‘If that happens, I shall tell my fellow landlords to evict all poor scholars from their houses, and lease them to wealthy townsmen instead. I will not be worse off, Brother.’
‘There cannot be that many rich citizens wanting to hire houses,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘If you decline to lease your buildings to students, you will have such a small pool of customers that competition will drive prices down. You will be poorer in the long term.’
Candelby’s expression was patronising. ‘I have never said I will not lease my properties to the University; I have only said I will not lease them for a pittance. There will always be a demand for accommodation in Cambridge, and academics will have to pay the market price for their lodgings in future, just like anyone else.’
Michael glared at him. ‘Is a heavier purse worth the trouble this dispute is causing? Men have died. Do you want more bloodshed on your conscience?’
‘Any fighting is the University’s fault, not mine,’ declared Candelby firmly. ‘Incidentally, I heard you visited Maud, Bartholomew. Do not do it again, because she is worse today. Arderne says it is because you touched her with your Corpse Examiner’s hands.’
‘Maud no longer cares for you,’ said Michael tartly. ‘So her health is none of your concern.’
Candelby eyed him with dislike. ‘She is feverish and does not know what she is saying. She will welcome my courtship when she is well again, and then I shall marry her.’
‘The accident exposed your real feelings towards her,’ said Michael contemptuously. ‘She sees now that you only want her for her money. She probably noticed your indifference towards your pot-boy, too – Ocleye is dead, and you do not seem to care.’
‘Ocleye was a spy,’ snapped Blankpayn, leaping to defend his friend. ‘You cannot blame Candelby for not being grieved about a man like that. Ocleye was not to be trusted.’
Candelby shot him a pained look. ‘Thank you, Blankpayn; your support is greatly appreciated. Now perhaps you will deliver this letter to Maud. Arderne wrote it for me, and he has a way with words, so it will not be long before she invites me to visit.’
The taverner stamped away, clutching the missive in his grubby fingers.
‘You are lucky to have such a fine friend,’ said Michael ambiguously.
Candelby’s expression was blank. ‘Yes, I am. I missed him when he was in the Fens, hiding, because you accused him of murdering Falmeresham.’
‘According to Falmeresham, Blankpayn was ready to drop him down a well,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘Our accusations were not as far-fetched as you make out.’
‘I imagine you were very worried,’ said Candelby with a malicious grin. ‘I would have been.’
‘So, Ocleye was a spy, was he?’ mused Michael, before Bartholomew could take issue with him for keeping Falmeresham’s whereabouts secret. ‘I imagine your fellow burgesses will be very interested to know you hire such men – especially if you paid him to watch them.’
Candelby blanched. ‘I did not hire Ocleye to watch them,’ he said, licking his lips uneasily. ‘I employed him to watch you.’
Michael smiled, pleased to have nettled the man at last. ‘Then he cheated you, because my beadles would have noticed anyone spying on me. Obviously, he was not doing what he was told.’
Candelby grimaced. ‘It pains me to admit it, but you are right. At first, I assumed he was just not very good at his job, because he never had any intelligence worth reporting. It was only later that I came to realise he was actually in someone else’s pay – the rogue was taking my money, but instead of spying on you, he was spying on me!’
‘Yet he was riding in your cart on the day of your accident,’ said Michael, unconvinced. ‘If you knew he was betraying you, why did you permit such familiarity?’
‘He asked in front of Maud, and I was trying to impress her,’ replied Candelby sheepishly. ‘Telling him to pack his bags and leave the town would have made me look unmannerly. So I let him ride with us, but was going to dismiss him as soon as we had a moment alone.’
‘Who was he spying for?’
Candelby grimaced a second time. ‘I assumed it was you, but I can see from your reaction that it was not. It will be another scholar, although God alone knows which one. They all hate me.’
‘I wonder why,’ murmured Michael, as he walked away.
When the proprietor of the Brazen George came to greet Michael and Bartholomew, he expressed none of his usual pleasure in seeing old friends. His large, plum-shaped face was a mask of worry.
‘What is wrong, Master Lister?’ asked Michael, watching him secure the door behind them. ‘Surely you have not taken against me now?’
Lister winced. ‘Of course not, Brother. However, I have had warnings.’
‘Warnings?’ asked Michael, bemused. ‘What kind of warnings?’
‘Ones that tell me I would be wise to break off my association with scholars.’
‘Who has been saying such things?’ demanded Michael angrily.
‘The notes were anonymous, but Blankpayn is the obvious culprit. He and Candelby want to drive a wedge between the University and any townsfolk who provide it with essential services.’
Bartholomew tried not to smile at the notion that the Brazen George provided ‘essential services’. Michael saw nothing amusi
ng in the situation, though. ‘Lord!’ he breathed. ‘What next?’
‘If Candelby wins this war, he will pit himself against those of us who defied him,’ said Lister miserably. ‘I shall be ruined. So, you must defeat Candelby, Brother. My livelihood depends on it.’
‘I shall do my best,’ vowed Michael. ‘But you have quite destroyed my appetite. Instead of roasted chickens, I shall content myself with half a dozen Lombard slices. Matt will have the same.’
‘Matt does not want anything at all,’ countered Bartholomew, feeling slightly queasy at the thought of eating sticky date pastries so soon after breakfast.
Michael eyed him balefully as Lister left. ‘Please do not refer to yourself in the third person. It reminds me of Honynge. Do you think he is the scholar who hired Ocleye to spy on Candelby?’
‘What would he gain from doing that?’
‘He was living in one of Candelby’s hostels – a place that was seized the moment he moved into Michaelhouse. Obviously, he wanted information about the man who was planning to evict him.’
‘The same is true of Tyrington. However, I suspect Arderne employed Ocleye. We know he did nothing but listen and watch during his first few weeks in Cambridge, learning the lie of the land before he made his presence known. Hiring a spy is an easy way to amass knowledge.’
Michael gave a grim smile. ‘We are both allowing personal dislike to colour our judgement. So, let us review what we know without taking Arderne and Honynge into account, and see what other suspects emerge.’
Bartholomew knew he was right. ‘You start, then.’
‘First we have Lynton, murdered with a crossbow in the middle of Milne Street, in broad daylight. Ocleye was killed the same way, at more or less the same time. It seems obvious that he saw the archer, and was killed to ensure his silence. Do you agree?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘It cannot have been the other way around – Lynton killed because he saw Ocleye’s killer – because Ocleye was fussing about Candelby after Lynton had been shot.’
‘Ocleye was a spy, not a pot-boy,’ continued Michael. ‘That explains three things: why he was older than most tavern scullions; why he made scant effort to socialise with the other lads from the Angel; and why he seems to have appeared out of nowhere.’
‘Four things,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘Spies are better paid than pot-boys, and he probably could afford to rent his own house, rather than live in the inn where he ostensibly worked.’
‘And the man he chose as his landlord was Lynton. Perhaps he was Lynton’s spy, then.’
‘It is possible. Lynton had the rent agreement in his hand, and was probably reading it when he died. I wonder who took it from him.’
‘Ocleye?’ suggested Michael. ‘He would not have wanted any links between him and a man who was unlawfully slain – spies do not like that sort of attention. Then he was murdered in his turn.’
‘Carton!’ exclaimed Bartholomew suddenly, recalling something that had happened. ‘He knelt next to Lynton’s body and was straightening the cloak that covered him. Perhaps he removed it.’
‘He would have given it to us, had that been the case – he has no reason to steal such a thing and keep it quiet. Perhaps I am wrong to dismiss Candelby in favour of Honynge. Candelby was present when the crime occurred, and he owns a crossbow. Unfortunately, Maud does not recall him pulling it out and committing murder, and no other witnesses have come forward. How can I catch him? I need real evidence, or he will claim I am just accusing him because of the rent war.’
‘Meanwhile, we have learned facts about Lynton that have surprised us. He kept a long-term lover; he owned a Dispensary near the Trumpington Gate; he was a knight in all but name; and he was a landlord, raking in lucrative profits by renting his houses to wealthy townsmen.’
‘Do you think a disgruntled student shot him? Scholars are losing their homes all over the town, yet Lynton still preferred to lease his properties to rich civilians.’ Michael did not wait for an answer. ‘And what did he do on Fridays, when he never visited Maud?’
‘There is a motive for Candelby wanting Lynton dead: Lynton was Maud’s lover – the woman Candelby still intends to marry.’
Michael was uncertain. ‘Isabel said the affair was a secret, and I have never heard any gossip, so perhaps they did manage to keep it to themselves. Further, Agatha knew they played games of chance together on Sundays, but did not guess the real nature of their relationship – and she knows just about everything in the town, given the number of folk she counts among her kin.’
‘Perhaps Candelby was suspicious about Lynton and Maud, and sent Ocleye to find out what they were doing together.’
Michael nodded slowly. ‘You are right – and that is a good motive for murder. So, we have Candelby as our chief suspect, with a resentful student second. What about Kenyngham?’
‘Kenyngham was not murdered,’ said Bartholomew adamantly.
‘Yes, he was,’ said Michael, equally firmly. ‘I am not blaming you for missing clues, Matt. A mistake is understandable under the circumstances, and we were all upset by his death.’
‘I did not make a mistake,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘I was concerned I might have done, which is why I examined him a second time. However, there is nothing to suggest his death was unnatural.’
‘Poisons are difficult to detect – you said so yourself. You may have overlooked something, because you were not expecting to find it. We shall know after the exhumation. Rougham will—’
Bartholomew was becoming exasperated. ‘I was very careful – both times. And if I could not detect anything amiss, then neither will Rougham. I concede you might learn something if you open him up, but I doubt Rougham will agree to that.’
‘Open him up?’ echoed Michael, round-eyed. ‘You mean dissect him? Oh, Matt!’
‘It is a discussion you started. Tearing him from his final resting place is just as distasteful as anatomising him.’
Michael’s expression was flinty. ‘You have become very ghoulish since you returned from those foreign schools. They have reignited your desire to be controversial and heretical, which is a habit I thought you had grown out of.’
Bartholomew changed the subject before they could annoy each other any further. ‘At least we have Falmeresham home.’
‘What do you think of Arderne’s claim to have cured him?’
‘He cannot possibly have pulled Falmeresham’s liver through that hole in his side. It would be like pulling a heart through a shoulder. Arderne was lying to him.’
‘Arderne did cure Motelete, though. I accept your contention that the lad may not have been fully dead in the first place, but he certainly lay in a corpse-like state for two days. There are dozens of witnesses to that fact.’
Bartholomew nodded towards the Brazen George’s small, but secluded garden. It was a pleasant space with a tiny pond and the kind of vegetation that benefited from a sheltered, sunny position. The tavern had the luxury of glazed windows, and although it was not easy to see through them, he recognised Clare’s personal Lazarus, even so.
‘Motelete is out there. Shall we ask him about his resurrection again?’
‘Why not?’ asked Michael with a weary sigh. ‘I cannot see any other way through the ungodly maze of facts we have accumulated.’
Motelete had abandoned the academic tabard that identified him as a scholar of Clare, and was wearing a surcoat of dark green with multicoloured hose. He was in company with a fair-headed girl and a youth who looked so much like her that Bartholomew assumed they were siblings. The lad looked bored and resentful, but Motelete and the woman seemed to be enjoying themselves.
‘Motelete’s companion is named Will Sago,’ said Michael, watching them. ‘He is one of the Angel’s pot-boys. Now why would Motelete be in such company?’
‘It is not Sago he is interested in,’ said Bartholomew dryly. ‘It is Sago’s sister.’
When Lister brought more Lombard slices, Michael asked why he was allowing a student
and a pot-boy to drink together, when it might bring trouble. Lister pulled a resentful face.
‘Candelby’s lads have taken to patronising my inn of late – they come to spy, of course. How else would Candelby know the occasional academic visits my humble establishment?’
Everyone in Cambridge knew the Brazen George catered to scholars, and Bartholomew suspected Candelby had ordered his servants to frequent the place as a way to intimidate Lister into banishing them, rather than to gather intelligence.
‘The lass is Siffreda Sago,’ Lister went on. ‘And the student is Motelete, who was raised from the dead by that remarkable Arderne. Sago is there to make sure she does not lose her virtue, although Motelete will have her soon, watchful brother or no.’
Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘Motelete courts townswomen, bloodies noses in brawls, and outwits chaperons. He does not sound like the quiet, timid student described to us at Clare – the one who would never have harmed Ocleye, who never visited taverns, and who cried for his mother.’
‘He is said to have changed since his resurrection,’ explained Lister. ‘I am not surprised – it must have been an eerie experience.’
Bartholomew and Michael walked outside, where Motelete hurriedly removed his hand from down the back of Siffreda’s gown.
‘Wine is good for me,’ he said, gesturing to the jug on the table in front of him. ‘Magister Arderne said I should drink lots of it, to make sure I do not fall into death again.’
‘That is the kind of physician any man would be pleased to own,’ said Michael smoothly. ‘Mine is always telling me to abstain, which is a wretched bore.’
Motelete smiled. ‘I would rather have Arderne than any medicus alive. He is a genius, and I shall always be in debt to him for saving me. Would you like to see my neck? You will recall it was marred by a great gash that saw me lose all my blood, but now there is virtually no mark at all.’
It was an offer no physician could decline. Bartholomew examined the bared throat, and saw a cut that had scabbed over and was healing nicely. In a few days, it would fade to a faint pink line, and a month might see it vanish altogether.
To Kill or Cure: The Thirteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 23
