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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘You mean you won something at one of Lynton’s gaming sessions,’ said Michael. ‘Honynge told me you are a regular visitor to the Dispensary.’

  ‘That was low of him,’ said Wynewyk disapprovingly. ‘We all swore oaths to keep it secret.’

  ‘Perhaps you did, but you still should have mentioned it to me after Lynton died,’ said Michael reproachfully. He looked hard at Langelee, because the Master was one of few who knew the truth. ‘You know I am investigating his … the circumstances of his death.’

  Langelee was unapologetic. ‘I take vows seriously, Brother – I am no Honynge, to break trust at the first hurdle. However, I knew you would find out about the Dispensary anyway, and I was right. It has taken you less than a week.’

  ‘How long has Lynton been running these games?’ asked Bartholomew, when Michael shook his head speechlessly.

  ‘Long before I came to Cambridge,’ replied Wynewyk. ‘He was good at keeping them quiet, and we shall all miss the Dispensary now he has gone. He maintained discretion by inviting just nine or ten people at any one time, so the events were always quiet and comradely. Never debauched.’

  ‘He held a session on Good Friday,’ said Michael acidly.

  Wynewyk nodded. ‘But not for scholars or priests – only townsfolk. The likes of Candelby and Arderne attended on Good Friday; we were at our vigils.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ asked William, looking from one to the other with a pained expression. He disliked being in the dark, and the discussion had piqued his interest. ‘Dispensary?’

  ‘Do not ask,’ said Michael, regarding Wynewyk and Langelee coolly. ‘You would be shocked.’

  ‘It was a gaming house,’ explained Tyrington. ‘Lynton invited me once, saying it was a place where mathematical probabilities were discussed. I took him at his word, and was appalled when I discovered what really went on. I considered reporting him, but my students pointed out that such a course of action would make me unpopular, and damage my chances of being elected a Fellow.’

  ‘An ethical decision, then,’ muttered Michael, moving his stool away from Tyrington and wiping spit from his sleeve. ‘Not one based on self-interest.’

  ‘I only went twice,’ said Langelee. ‘I was bored rigid and lost three shillings, so I decided not to go again. But let us turn to the business at hand. We have waited long enough for Honynge, so you can record his absence for posterity, Wynewyk.’

  Wynewyk was already scribbling. ‘The motion proposed by the absent Junior Fellow is that Kenyngham should be left where he is.’

  ‘Right,’ said Langelee. ‘Hands up if you agree with Honynge.’

  Bartholomew shrugged an apology at Michael as he voted.

  So did Tyrington. ‘I am sorry, Brother, but I think Honynge is right. A man’s grave should not be disturbed once he is in it. It is not decent.’

  ‘And those who want to know the truth about Kenyngham’s death?’ asked Langelee, raising his own hand. Michael’s shot up, too, and so did William’s. Everyone looked at Wynewyk.

  ‘Damn!’ he muttered. ‘Can I abstain?’

  ‘You can,’ said Tyrington, ‘but then Michael will win, which means you are essentially voting with him. If you stand with Bartholomew and me, there will be a draw, and we will have to discuss the issue again when Honynge is here.’

  ‘But you know what Honynge thinks,’ said Michael. ‘So you will make me lose the fight for justice if you do not abstain. Besides, remember that Honynge has just betrayed your gambling to the Senior Proctor, and here is your chance to exact revenge – by thwarting his motion.’

  Tyrington turned to Langelee. ‘Brother Michael’s commentary is manipulative. Do you usually allow such brazen coercion?’

  Langelee nodded. ‘My Fellows are free to say what they like in meetings, although I fine them if they say it more than once. Come on, Wynewyk, make up your mind. I have a filly waiting.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Wynewyk. ‘I vote with Michael, then. I dislike the notion of exhumation, but I dislike the notion of Kenyngham’s killer evading justice even more.’

  Bartholomew groaned, but Michael’s smile was victorious.

  Tyrington offered to supervise the disputation in the hall, which left Langelee free for equine pursuits, and Michael and Bartholomew able to continue their enquiries into Lynton’s murder. Bartholomew was disappointed in the outcome of the vote, not just because he hated what was going to happen to Kenyngham, but because the Fellows tended to agree on most issues, and the College was happier for it. He supposed the time for concord was over.

  Honynge was strolling across the yard as the Fellows emerged from the conclave, and Michael, chortling maliciously, hastened to make himself scarce. He slipped into the kitchens, to see whether Agatha had left any more Lombard slices lying around. Bartholomew followed him, not wanting to bear the brunt of Honynge’s ire when he realised he had been deceived.

  ‘So,’ said Michael, stealing a pastry when Agatha’s back was turned. ‘Honynge desperately wants Kenyngham left alone.’

  ‘So does Tyrington.’ Bartholomew started to reach for a cake himself, but Agatha whipped around suddenly, and he thought better of it. ‘And so do I.’

  ‘But you two are not murder suspects,’ said Michael. ‘Honynge is. He could have shot Lynton and Ocleye, perhaps over a dispute arising from all this gambling, and he could have poisoned Kenyngham. And because he knows I was fond of Kenyngham, he then sent me these horrible notes. One was to taunt me with the offer of a reward, and the other was to gloat.’

  Bartholomew took the letters and examined them. ‘They have different styles of writing. One is neat and careful, and the other is a scrawl. I do not think they were penned by the same person.’

  ‘He wrote them under different circumstances,’ said Michael, grabbing another cake when Agatha was distracted by the cat leaping on to her shoulder. She screeched and tried to dislodge it, but it merely applied claws to the situation, and clung on gamely. ‘He penned one when he had plenty of time, and he scribbled the other when he was in a hurry.’

  ‘Why would Honynge kill Kenyngham?’ asked Bartholomew reasonably, going to remove the cat while it and Agatha were still relatively unscathed. ‘It makes no sense.’

  ‘We have already been through this: because he wanted to be a Fellow. And he has succeeded. Lord, I detest that man! I know it is not something a monk should admit, but I am only human, and he has pushed me too far. I will see him ousted from my College.’

  ‘Good,’ said Agatha, overhearing. ‘I do not like him, either, and I am glad he ate all that dog this morning. I heard he was a pig for eggs, and it is true.’

  ‘Heard where?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘The Angel,’ replied Agatha. ‘When I went in for a drink, Candelby was telling my cousin Blankpayn that the best way to hurt the University is to prevent its scholars from buying food. He was itemising what various individuals would least like to lose – Chancellor Tynkell would miss honey, Honynge would die without eggs, William would mourn fish-giblet soup. And so on.’

  ‘These are odd details for a taverner to know,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘How does he come to be in possession of such personal information?’

  Agatha shrugged. ‘Inn-keepers listen to gossip. Incidentally, you might want to stay away from the mutton stew tomorrow. It could come with a dog sauce.’

  ‘Will Candelby do it?’ asked Michael uneasily. ‘Deprive us of victuals, I mean? That would certainly bring about an abrupt end to the rent crisis.’

  ‘It would,’ agreed Agatha. ‘You would sign any solution Candelby proposed if you thought the alternative might be a tightening of the belts. The food merchants are waiting to see what happens to the rents before committing themselves, though. If Candelby wins and the rents rise, then they will form a guild to force up the price of food. If Candelby loses, they will do nothing.’

  ‘Lord!’ groaned Michael. ‘If the Convocation of Regents passes my amendment, we will have peace wit
h the landlords, but another war with the food merchants. If the Convocation rejects the clause, we will remain at an impasse over rents for ever. I cannot win no matter what happens!’

  ‘Have a Lombard slice, Brother,’ said Agatha consolingly, passing him the plate when she saw the agitation her tale had occasioned. ‘It will make you feel better.’

  ‘No,’ said Michael piteously. ‘I am too upset for eating.’

  ‘Have two, then,’ coaxed Agatha, waving the plate.

  With the air of a martyr, Michael accepted. ‘Do you have that love-potion? Can we slip Honynge a few drops? He might fall for Langelee, who would break his neck. Or William, who might succeed in infecting him with some horrible disease from his festering habit.’

  ‘Can we give some to Tyrington, too?’ asked Agatha. ‘His leers makes me want to punch him.’

  ‘Do not punch him,’ begged Bartholomew, having seen what one of the laundress’s swipes could do. ‘He cannot help it.’

  ‘There is a commotion going on outside,’ said Agatha, going to the window and throwing open the shutter. ‘It concerns Honynge, of course. He is waving our gold crown about – the one from the Stanton Hutch. What is he doing with that? He is supposed to be managing the Illeigh Hutch.’

  ‘Damn,’ said Michael softly, watching Honynge hand the diadem to a bemused Langelee. William stood with his arms folded, looking utterly disgusted. ‘He wants it returned to its rightful place. So much for our attempt to catch him out in dishonest behaviour.’

  ‘You planted the crown?’ asked Agatha. She grimaced. ‘That was too crude. You should have tempted him with something more easily saleable. After all, that is how Lynton caught my cousin. Blankpayn was too sensible to steal Lynton’s expensive gold goblets, but small silver rings were another matter entirely.’

  ‘What is this?’ asked Michael, turning to face her.

  ‘Blankpayn used to help Lynton count his Dispensary profits, but Lynton suspected my cousin was cheating him, so he set a trap. Yet it was not a large prize that was my kinsman’s undoing, but tiny rings.’

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully.

  ‘I was there,’ replied Agatha. ‘I like to flirt with Lady Luck on occasion, and when my cousin told me about the Dispensary, I decided to attend a session or two.’

  ‘I bet that pleased Lynton,’ muttered Michael. ‘What did Blankpayn do when he was caught?’

  ‘Nothing – but Lynton exposed him in front of Mayor Harleston, and it has hurt his chances of being elected as a burgess. No one wants town officials who are known thieves.’

  ‘I see,’ mused Michael. ‘That is a powerful motive for putting a crossbow bolt in a man’s chest.’

  Honynge was not a stupid man, and guessed exactly why the diadem had been left in the Hutch he had been instructed to manage. He was angry and offended, and berated William furiously. So did Langelee, who thought the plan might have resulted in the loss of a valuable heirloom. William was not very good at thinking on his feet, and was slow to devise an excuse that would have exonerated himself, so he had no choice but to bow his head and let them rail at him. Afterwards, the atmosphere in the conclave was acrimonious, and Bartholomew was more than happy to use Michael’s investigations as an excuse to escape.

  ‘I want to talk to Candelby,’ said Michael, hurrying to leave before Langelee spotted him. ‘And Blankpayn. I must learn more about their relationship with Lynton.’

  ‘In the Angel? I do not think we should go there.’

  ‘Candelby will not be in his tavern now; he will be in the Church of St John Zachary, lighting candles for the brother who died in the plague. And if you are wondering how I am so intimately acquainted with his habits, it is because he is not the only man who spies on his enemies. Beadle Meadowman has been shadowing him, and so has Cynric, when his other duties allow.’

  As usual, the little church was damp and dark. The main door stood open to allow parishioners to see what they were doing inside, but the window shutters that bordered Clare were firmly locked. The recent rains had caused puddles to form on the flagstone floor, and Michael swore softly when he discovered one was ankle deep.

  Bartholomew glanced towards the Lady Chapel, recalling that the last time he had been there, Motelete had sat up in his coffin. He thought about the student, and how he had gone from shy youth to a man with a lover who could defend himself in brawls. Bartholomew rubbed his chin. Had Motelete’s brush with death really caused him to undergo a transformation? Or had defects in his character been conveniently forgotten when he had become the victim of violence? He recalled what the addled old master called Gedney had said – that the ‘dead’ student had been loud-mouthed and drank too much. Was Gedney’s sharp-tongued portrait more accurate than that of Motelete’s friends, who had been shocked by his murder and so willing to overlook his faults?

  A sudden low rumble made Bartholomew turn quickly towards the spiral staircase that led to the roof. A billow of dust belched through the doorway, and he glanced up at the rafters uneasily, noting that several of the supporting beams were at very odd angles. He was not the only one to be concerned. Candelby was regarding the joists with considerable trepidation, and Blankpayn was already heading for the exit.

  ‘If you want to talk to me, do it outside,’ said Candelby to the monk. ‘It is disgusting that scholars have let this poor place decay, and I do not want to be inside when it tumbles apart.’

  ‘We would not mind you being in here though, Brother,’ called Blankpayn, from the comparative safety of the porch. ‘That would be divine justice.’

  Michael ignored him. ‘I would like to talk to you about Lynton,’ he said to Candelby, once they were in the churchyard. ‘I understand you were one of the Dispensary’s most faithful customers.’

  ‘So?’ asked Candelby, with a shrug. ‘A lot of men liked Lynton’s games.’

  ‘I did not,’ growled Blankpayn. ‘They were too complicated, and for some reason, scholars always won more often than me. And Lynton wondered why I decided to help myself to a bauble or two! It was because those rings were mine in the first place – I lost them when I placed a bet.’

  ‘Scholars win a lot because they have sly minds,’ explained Candelby matter-of-factly. ‘What do you want to know, Brother? Normally, I would object to being quizzed by you, but I have nothing to hide about my association with Lynton, so you can ask what you like.’

  ‘Why did you not mention your gambling to me sooner?’

  Candelby shrugged again. ‘Because it was none of your business and, like all participants, I was sworn to secrecy. I did not want to besmirch Lynton’s reputation by blabbing to you.’

  Michael snorted his disbelief. ‘You did not care about his reputation when you accused him of riding his horse at you last Sunday.’

  ‘I was angry and in pain – not thinking clearly. Of course he did not ride at me deliberately. I have apologised to Wisbeche for my intemperate remarks, so let that mark the end of the matter.’

  ‘How much did you lose at these sessions?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Actually, I won more than I lost. Why do you think I own so many houses? I was good at Lynton’s games – better than many scholars.’

  Something occurred to Michael. ‘Is that why you are so well acquainted with the University’s private affairs? You gossiped with my colleagues when you were gaming?’

  Candelby’s smile was enigmatic. ‘I am a good listener, and scholars are naturally verbose. Thus I knew Lynton preferred to lease his properties to merchants, not students; I was told all about a debate in Peterhouse, in which the Fellows elected to charge high rents on the houses they will inherit from Lynton; and I was aware that Spaldynge was desperate to sell Borden Hostel. I made him an offer he could not refuse.’

  ‘You must really hate scholars,’ said Michael wonderingly.

  Candelby shook his head. ‘I am quite happy to lease my buildings to your comrades – if they pay me a competitive market price.’

&nbs
p; ‘The University will not wield power for much longer,’ gloated Blankpayn. ‘When we win the right to charge what rent we like, it will flounder.’

  ‘I do not care about that,’ said Candelby, walking away. ‘I just want to make some money.’

  That evening, as lamps were beginning to gleam through the twilight, and the Michaelhouse men were preparing to retire to bed or repair to the communal rooms for company, conversation or warmed ale, Cynric slipped up to Bartholomew.

  ‘Grab your cloak, boy,’ he whispered. ‘I want to show you something.’

  ‘I am not going out now,’ said Bartholomew, amazed that the book-bearer should think he might. ‘It is madness to wander the streets after dark these days.’

  ‘Come on,’ wheedled Cynric. ‘Please? It will be fun, and I will not enjoy it nearly as much alone. Normally, I would invite Carton, but he is out somewhere, and I cannot find him.’

  ‘Out?’ echoed Bartholomew. ‘This late? Does Michael know?’

  Cynric grinned, teeth flashing white in the gloom. ‘I doubt it! Hurry up, or you will miss it.’

  ‘Miss what?’ demanded Bartholomew, not liking Cynric’s mysterious manner.

  But the book-bearer could not be persuaded to tell, so Bartholomew followed him down the darkening lane and on to the High Street. A religious office was under way in St Michael’s Church; Michael and William were singing vespers, and their chanting voices carried on the still evening air. Stars twinkled in a dark blue sky, and Bartholomew shivered – the clear weather had brought with it a snapping cold, and there would be a frost that night.

  A blackbird sang its evening song, and the air was rich with the scents of the day – manure from horses and donkeys, the sulphurous reek of the river and the nearby marshes, the smell of spring flowers, and a delicious aroma from a meat stew that was someone’s supper. The town was quiet, the clatter of hoofs and footsteps stilled for the night, as folk prepared for sleep.

  When they reached St Mary the Great, Cynric slid into the shadows of the churchyard. Bartholomew was slow in following, because a cemetery was not somewhere he wanted to be at that time of night, and there was always the danger that a group of townsmen might be there. Since the plague, some folk had abandoned traditional religion, and haunted graveyards after dark. They performed sinister rites in the hope that the denizens of Hell would protect them against future outbreaks. After all, God and His saints had done nothing to help them, had they?