Tyrington shook his head wonderingly. ‘I chose Wenden because he was mean and did virtually no teaching. He hurt Clare in other ways, too, such as by leaving his money to the Bishop of Lincoln—’
‘Which precipitated another unhappy chain of events,’ said Michael accusingly. ‘The realisation that there would be no money from Wenden forced Clare to sell Borden Hostel before it needed expensive repairs. That served to strengthen Candelby’s hand against the University. You are a low, sly villain, Tyrington. You caused all manner of harm for your own selfish ends. You offered me twenty marks to find Kenyngham’s killer, then you wrote confessing to his murder. You penned them in different hands to confuse me.’
Tyrington shrugged. ‘You were paying too much attention to Lynton, so I decided to sidetrack you – to encourage you look into the death of a man you liked.’
‘We saw you,’ said Michael, watching Bartholomew scramble into the stairwell and wrestle with the fallen stones. ‘You delivered the so-called confession to Michaelhouse, and we saw you leave. You almost collided with a cart, but instead of yelling at the driver, like a normal man, you slunk away.’
‘I dislike drawing attention to myself.’
Bartholomew gave up on the stones, and dashed back to the Lady Chapel. The window was hot, and he knew it would not be long before it burst into flames. Then the students would push the smouldering wood inside the church, and the building would fill with smoke. Meanwhile, the door was beginning to yield, and it would not be long before the potters streamed in. He wondered whether they or the fire would get him first. He heard furious voices coming from Clare, loud and shrill with indignation, and strained to hear what was being said. It was not difficult. The speaker was almost howling in his rage.
‘Spaldynge has just found a letter in his room, bearing his forged signature,’ he said to Michael. ‘He says it was a suicide note, and there was a flask of wine with it.’
‘Poison,’ explained Tyrington. ‘My University would be better off without the likes of Spaldynge. He sold property belonging to his College and he argued against my admission to Clare. He said I spit, which is untrue. It is a pity he found the note before the wine. If it had been the other way around, he would have swallowed my anonymous gift without question.’
‘Now I see why you gave him the crossbow,’ said Michael in disgust. ‘I suppose this note contains a confession for killing Lynton, too – Spaldynge is in possession of the murder weapon, after all.’
A huge crash summoned Bartholomew back to the door. It bowed dramatically and, sensing they were almost in, the townsmen were redoubling their efforts. Meanwhile, smoke was billowing from the Lady Chapel. For the second time that day, Bartholomew began to cough.
‘You snatched the tenancy agreement from Lynton’s body,’ said Michael to Tyrington, while Bartholomew darted back to the staircase again. ‘You must have done it during the confusion of the ensuing skirmish, because no one has reported seeing you there.’
Tyrington smiled mirthlessly. ‘A lot of people had gathered that day, and I pride myself on blending in with a crowd. No one saw me – not watching the aftermath of Lynton’s shooting, and not taking the rent agreement, either.’
‘But why did you grab it?’ asked Michael, bemused.
‘Because there was no need to besmirch my new College – Peterhouse – by having Lynton’s sordid dealings exposed. But in the end I went to Michaelhouse. It is a strange world.’
‘And Ocleye?’ asked Michael. ‘We know he was spying for you.’
‘He provided me with information, but guessed what I was going to do. I predicted he would try to blackmail me, so I reloaded and killed him during the confusion of the brawl. I gashed his stomach, too, so you would think a knife, not a crossbow, was responsible.’
‘You seem remarkably calm for a man who is about to die,’ said Michael, narrowing his eyes.
The door gave a tearing groan that had the potters roaring encouragement to the fellows with the cart. Almost simultaneously, the Lady Chapel window collapsed inwards, and flames shot across the floor. They ignited a pile of leaves that had been swept into a corner, and something in the faint remains of the wall paintings began to smoulder.
‘I have wanted to be a Fellow all my adult life – to live in a College, and enjoy the companionship of like minds. Now I have lost it, I do not care what happens. But I shall die in good company, at least.’
Bartholomew was not interested in Tyrington’s confessions. When the door screamed on its failing hinges, panic gave him the strength he needed to move the stone that was blocking his way into the stairwell. It tumbled into the chancel with a resounding crash.
‘Michael!’ he shouted, squeezing through the resulting gap. ‘This way.’
The monk, keeping a wary eye on Tyrington, hurried over. He stared in dismay at the small space the physician had cleared. ‘I cannot cram myself through that!’
The door gave another monstrous groan. ‘Come on!’ yelled Bartholomew, holding out his hand. ‘You, too, Tyrington. You will not hang under canon law, and you may find your like-minded community in some remote convent in the Fens.’
The door was being held by splinters, and one more blow from the cart would see it collapse. Michael inserted his bulk into the opening. He blotted out all light, so it was pitch dark. Bartholomew grabbed his flailing arm and hauled. Michael yelped as masonry tore his habit. There was a resounding crack as the door flew open. Then the church was full of yells and screams. Bartholomew heaved with all his might, and the monk shot upwards. They were past the worst of the rubble.
Bartholomew groped his way up the stairs, trying not to inhale the smoke that wafted around him. Below, Michael was hacking furiously. Then the steps ended, and with a shock, the physician realised what had caused the debris: the upper stairs no longer existed. Appalled, he scrabbled around in the dark, and ascertained that small parts of the steps had survived, jutting from the central pillar like rungs on a one-sided ladder. Michael wailed his horror when his outstretched fingers encountered the void.
‘What is left is too narrow for me,’ he screeched. ‘I will fall!’
‘They are wider up here,’ called Bartholomew encouragingly. He coughed. ‘Hurry, Michael! Someone is coming after us.’
‘Tyrington,’ gasped the monk. ‘He has had second thoughts about dying in the nave.’
Suddenly, Michael lost his footing, his downward progress arrested only because Tyrington was in the way. He shrieked his alarm, and Tyrington made no sound at all. Bartholomew leaned down and pulled with all his might, trying to lift Michael into a position where he would be able to climb on his own. The sinews in his shoulder cracked as they took the monk’s full weight.
Then the pressure eased, and Michael was ascending again. The stairs were in better condition nearer the top, although they were littered with fallen masonry, and perilously dark. Bartholomew slipped and fell, colliding with Michael behind him. Michael gave him a hard shove that propelled him upwards, faster than he had anticipated, and he slipped again.
‘Hurry, Matt! I cannot breathe!’
Bartholomew reached the door that led to the roof, only to find it locked. His arms were heavy, and he knew he was making no impact as he pounded ineffectually on it. Michael shoved him out of the way, and his bulk made short work of the rotten wood. The door flew into pieces, and clean air and daylight flooded into the stairwell.
‘They have lit a fire at the bottom,’ Tyrington croaked. ‘I can hear it crackling. Help me!’
Michael scrambled out on to the roof, while Bartholomew retraced his steps to rescue his terrified colleague. Tyrington gripped his outstretched hand, but then started to pull, dragging the physician back down towards the nave. Bartholomew tried to free himself, but his shoulder burned from where he had lifted Michael, and he found he did not have the strength to resist. The smoke was thick, and he could not breathe. Through the haze, he could see Tyrington grinning wildly.
‘Come with me,’
he crooned. ‘The two of us will die side by side. Fellows together in adversity.’
Bartholomew fell another three steps. He was dizzy from a lack of air, and his eyes smarted so much that Tyrington’s smile began to blur. Suddenly, there was an immense pressure around his middle, and his hand shot out of Tyrington’s grasp.
‘No!’ wailed Tyrington. ‘Come back! Michaelhouse men should—’
‘—not try to incinerate each other,’ finished Michael, grunting as he heaved the physician upwards by his belt. ‘I shall make sure I add it to the Statutes.’
Then they were at the door and out into the cool, fresh air. Bartholomew coughed, trying to catch his breath, and it occurred to him that their situation was not much improved. A rank stench of singed flesh wafted upwards, and he could hear victorious yells from the church. Meanwhile, the students of Clare and Peterhouse were peering upwards. Spaldynge was among them, and he held his crossbow. He took aim, but something was wrong with the mechanism, and he lowered it in puzzlement.
‘Look,’ shouted Michael suddenly, grabbing Bartholomew’s shoulder and pointing. ‘You can see the Trumpington Gate from here. Guess who has just ridden through it.’
‘I cannot think,’ Bartholomew croaked. ‘And I can barely see you, let alone the Trumpington Gate,’
‘It is Sheriff Tulyet. And not a moment too soon.’
EPILOGUE
The sun was shining brightly and there was no wind, so it was pleasant in Michaelhouse’s orchard. A week had passed since the events that had left two apprentices and a student dead. Sheriff Tulyet had arrived just in time to quash what might have erupted into a serious disturbance, and once he had been rescued from the church roof, Michael had rallied his beadles and set about clearing the streets of scholars. Calm had reigned by nightfall, and the town had been quiet ever since. The Chancellor had decreed that term would begin early, and the undergraduates had been too busy with their books to think about brawling. The town had been restless at first, but the Mayor and his burgesses had been appeased by a gift of two houses from Peterhouse. Because the gift would last only as long as Cambridge was peaceful, any unruly factions had been told in no uncertain terms that they must behave themselves.
‘So,’ said Michael, luxuriating in the warmth of the sun. ‘We have succeeded in outwitting wicked villains yet again. Our killer was the spitting Tyrington, and although he left a trail of clues to lead us in the wrong direction, we cornered him in the end. No one can defeat the alliance of the Senior Proctor and his trusty Corpse Examiner.’
‘I suppose not,’ said Bartholomew, less ready to gloat. The entire episode had left an unpleasant flavour in his mouth, and he still grieved for Kenyngham. He was uncomfortable with the knowledge that Michaelhouse had been invaded by two such devious characters, and was concerned by the fact that Arderne had escaped during the commotion surrounding the attack on St John Zachary and the inferno at the Angel tavern. It had been Candelby’s inn that Cynric had seen in flames – the blaze had been set by his fellow landlords, who felt he had betrayed them. Afraid he might be the next victim of their ire, Candelby had packed up a cart and left the town while he was still in one piece. No one seemed to miss him.
‘And I even defeated Honynge,’ Michael continued, pleased with himself. ‘He thought he could best me with his sly tricks, but he failed. Did I tell you Deynman caught him poking about in my room? That is how he knew about the crossbow bolts you pulled from Lynton and Ocleye, and why he was astonished when the later search failed to locate them.’
‘What did Cynric take from under your loose floorboard?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘Langelee was worried about it.’
‘The alternative statutes,’ replied Michael breezily. ‘The ones Langelee and I use when we want to pass certain measures, and we anticipate trouble from you other Fellows – although you did not hear that from me. The game would have been up, had they been found.’
‘And you call Honynge sly,’ said Bartholomew, rather shocked. ‘I thought you were above that sort of thing.’
‘Why ever would you think that?’ Michael sighed. ‘I am happy, Matt. My College is a haven of peace again, and Carton will be a decent addition to our ranks. We should have listened to you in the first place, and then none of this would have happened.’
‘But Tyrington would have killed another Fellow to secure himself a post. Besides, Carton is not all he seems either, and there were a number of incidents that had us wondering whether he might have been the killer.’
‘But most of those have been explained. Falmeresham knew his friend would be beside himself with worry when he “disappeared”, so he asked Isabel to pass word that he was safe. Unkindly, Arderne then demanded recompense for Falmeresham’s care, which forced Carton to raise the money by various devious means. Carton was hurt when Falmeresham failed to show proper gratitude, but they have settled their differences now.’
Bartholomew was not entirely convinced, and there was a nagging doubt about Carton that would not go away. He hoped they had not repeated the mistake they had made with Tyrington and Honynge – rushing a decision because they were desperate for someone to teach before term began.
‘Do you mind the fact that Langelee has reinstated Falmeresham?’ asked Michael when he did not reply. ‘We should have sent him packing after what he did.’
‘England needs qualified physicians, regardless of what men like Spaldynge believe, so it is important that Falmeresham completes his degree. Besides, we misjudged Tyrington and Honynge, and it would be hypocritical of us to denounce Falmeresham for doing the same with Arderne.’
‘One good thing came from Honynge, though. He resolved the Deynman problem for us.’
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, smiling at last. Honynge’s solution, suggested to Langelee before the events in St Mary the Great, was that Deynman should be ‘promoted’ to College librarian. The post was eagerly funded by the boy’s proud father, so would cost the College nothing, and it represented an effective end to the student’s studies in medicine. ‘I thought he would object, but he is delighted.’
‘Relieved,’ corrected Michael. ‘Deep down, he knew he would never pass his disputations. It is a perfect solution, and one we should have devised ourselves. It will not be too intellectually taxing for him, because we do not own many books.’
Bartholomew changed the subject. ‘Paxtone’s blockage returned, by the way. Arderne’s cure was only temporary, so now Paxtone feels he won the wager and is no longer compelled to leave.’
‘He is a fool for accepting the challenge in the first place.’
‘He says he was bewitched by the man’s eyes – Arderne offered the cure, and he found himself powerless to resist it. Arderne is a dangerous villain, and I wish he had not escaped.’
‘Can you cure Paxtone? I do not like seeing the poor man waddling about town with his hand clasped to his stomach.’
Bartholomew smiled again, thinking that Michael was far more of a waddler than Paxtone would ever be. ‘The cause of his discomfort is his taste for greasy pies. Still, now the Angel is no longer there to sell them, perhaps the problem will rectify itself. Did I tell you I visited Isnard today? All he talks about is whether you will let him back in the Michaelhouse Choir. Will you?’
‘No. I do not take kindly to men who believe the worst of us at the drop of a hat.’
‘Let him be, Brother. You will break his heart if you stop him singing.’
‘So, all is well,’ said Michael, after a few more moments of silence. ‘Tyrington shot Wenden and Lynton because he expected to occupy their Fellowships – and he left Wenden’s purse with a drowned tinker to ensure someone else was blamed for that crime. Ocleye was Tyrington’s spy, but Tyrington thought he might try to blackmail him – and given that Paxtone saw him grinning after Lynton’s murder, I suspect he was right – so he was dispatched, too.’
‘Meanwhile, Honynge had forged a dubious alliance with Candelby, and was providing him with information in return for
free accommodation. It was a pity his dislike of you sent him off on a wild spree of revenge in St Mary the Great. He did not care that he might kill half our Regents – he just wanted you discredited.’
‘I suppose I had better make myself more amenable in the future,’ said Michael. ‘Enduring that sort of hatred was unpleasant. And you will have your work cut out for you, as you try to regain the trust of your patients. They are trickling back now the Sheriff’s independent investigation has proved Arderne responsible for several deaths. Some of the damage caused by that leech will never heal, though. Spaldynge’s dislike of physicians has intensified, for example.’
‘Have you managed to learn whom Agatha intended to dose with her love-potion?’ asked Bartholomew. He did not want to think about the legacy Arderne had left the Cambridge medici, knowing it would be a long time before the situation returned to normal – if it ever did. ‘You made a bet that you would have it out of her in a week, and your time is almost up. If you do not have the answer by tomorrow, you will owe William a groat.’
‘I prised it from her this morning,’ said Michael. ‘She bought it for Blankpayn, her cousin.’
Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘Why?’
‘She thought being in love would keep him away from Candelby, whom she considered a bad influence. It is a good thing she did not give it to him, or we might never have solved this case. We would have assumed Blankpayn’s demise from the potion was related to Lynton’s death, when it would have been nothing of the kind.’
Bartholomew stood. ‘It is getting cold out here. Carton is going to play his lute, and William has offered to set the Blood Relic dispute to song. He says it is something that should not be missed.’
‘I am sure he does,’ laughed Michael, following him across the orchard towards the comfortable warmth of their home. ‘And it certainly promises to be entertaining, although I doubt we will learn much in the way of theology.’
‘Crocodiles and shooting stars,’ said Bartholomew suddenly. ‘Kenyngham was right, but I wish his last words had been more readily understandable. He would have saved us a lot of trouble.’
To Kill or Cure: The Thirteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 39
