To Kill or Cure (8 page)

‘Brother!’ Michael turned to see Langelee hurrying towards him. ‘I need you to deliver these for me. They are letters of appointment
for Honynge and Tyrington. Do not pull sour faces! I know you are busy, but this is important. We need to know as soon as
possible if they are going to accept.’

‘Honynge!’ spat Michael. ‘How could you all be so foolish? I wager I will be saying “I told you so” within a week of his admission.’

Langelee turned to Bartholomew. ‘And I am trusting
you
to make sure he does not accidentally “lose” Honynge’s letter along the way.’

They left, but Bartholomew refused to deliver the invitations until they had been to the Lilypot. He was acutely disappointed
to learn that Blankpayn was still away, and no one had any idea when he might be back. While Michael continued to quiz the
tavern’s occupants, Bartholomew’s eyes lit on a man who sat in a dark corner, bundled in a hooded cloak. He went to stand
next to him.

‘I am not fooled by that disguise, Carton,’ he said softly to the commoner Franciscan. ‘And that means neither will anyone
else. Michael’s beadles are looking for Falmeresham in the taverns this morning – they will catch you here, and you will be
fined for breaking University rules.’

‘They have already been in,’ replied Carton. ‘But they know I am not here to cause trouble.’

‘It will cause trouble if Blankpayn catches you spying in his domain. Leave the hunt to Michael’s men. They know what they
are doing.’

Reluctantly, the friar followed him outside. ‘A dozen witnesses – us included – saw Blankpayn stab Falmeresham. It is
vital
we talk to him as soon as possible.’

‘It is vital,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘And any clues he provides will be carefully investigated. But not by you. You do not have
the right kind of experience, and you may do more harm than good. If you care for Falmeresham, you will leave the matter to
others.’

Carton’s face was grim. ‘Blankpayn is Candelby’s lapdog, and may well hurt a student to please him. He is a
lout – all brawn and ale-belly, and not two wits to rub together.’

‘Even more reason to leave him to the beadles.’

The Franciscan glanced up at the sky. ‘I shall walk to Madingley, then, to visit his mother.’

‘Cynric has already been. She has not seen him in months.’

‘She would say that,’ said Carton. ‘He is her son. Of course she is going to help him hide.’

‘Yes, but we are talking about
Cynric
,’ said Bartholomew, not altogether approvingly. ‘A man who never allows locked doors to keep him out. He searched her home
from top to bottom – hopefully with her none the wiser – and says there is no sign of Blankpayn.’

Carton closed his eyes in despair. ‘Then what
can
I do? Falmeresham is my friend, and I cannot stop thinking that he might need my help.’

Bartholomew felt much the same way. ‘Go to the Carmelite Friary, and ask if any of the novices saw anything. If so, come back
and tell Michael – do not race off to investigate on your own.’

Carton shot him a wan smile. ‘I am not the kind of fellow who rushes headlong into danger without due thought. If the truth
be told, I am something of a coward.’

Bartholomew was watching him walk away when Michael emerged from the tavern, leaving behind a number of angry men. They had
resented his accusing questions.

‘Nothing,’ he said in disgust. ‘Blankpayn has disappeared into thin air, just like his victim.’

As Bartholomew walked along the High Street, he stared at the jumbled chimneys of the Angel tavern, famous for its pies and
for being owned by the University’s most vocal opponent. The inn was massive, with whitewashed walls
and well-maintained woodwork. It stood opposite the ancient church of St Bene’t, and recently Candelby had objected to the
fact that blossom from the graveyard blew into the street and became slippery when wet. Because the church was used mostly
by scholars, he claimed the flowers were a University plot to make him fall and break his neck. When the accusation became
common knowledge, students had raided the surrounding countryside for cherry saplings to plant.

‘I searched the Angel when I was hunting for Falmeresham last night,’ said Michael following the direction of his gaze. ‘A
group of lads from Clare was there, so I offered to waive the fine if they could tell me where Falmeresham had gone. None
could, so they are all a groat poorer.’

‘You said a Clare student was killed in yesterday’s brawl,’ said Bartholomew worriedly. ‘I doubt his friends were at a town
alehouse for peaceful reasons.’

‘That did cross my mind, Matt,’ said Michael dryly. ‘Especially as the other victim was a pot-boy from the Angel. We shall
have to stop at Clare on our way home, to make sure no one is planning revenge. Then we must do the same with the Angel.’

‘I do not suppose they killed each other, did they? That would be a neat solution for you.’

‘The bodies were found near each other, so it is possible. I have certainly encouraged my beadles to tell everyone that is
the case.’

‘But it may not be true.’

Michael regarded him soberly. ‘No, it may not. However, I do not want more deaths on either side, and if a few timely lies
can ease the tension, then I shall encourage them. Neither faction can justify a killing spree if both perpetrators are dead,
and I must do all I can to avert strife.’

‘Yet you plan to investigate Lynton’s murder. That might ignite the situation.’

‘You said we should keep details of Lynton’s demise to ourselves.
Ergo
, no one will know I am investigating his murder, because no one will know he was murdered in the first place. It will require
considerable skill to maintain discretion, but we can do it. We
must
do it.’

They walked in silence, cutting down several nameless alleys, until Michael stopped outside a pair of timber-framed houses.
Both were hostels, although such foundations came and went with such bewildering rapidity that it took Bartholomew a moment
to recall their names. Piron was a large establishment, built on three floors with a cellar below for storage. Its smaller
neighbour was Zachary, named for the nearby church. Their principals were Tyrington and Honynge, respectively.

‘I know we are desperate for another teacher,’ said Michael. ‘But I would rather be worked off my feet than appoint the wrong
person – and I am not happy with either of these two.’

‘You should have made more of a fuss at the meeting, then,’ said Bartholomew tartly. He also thought his colleagues were making
a mistake by opting to take whoever happened to be available, and was sure Carton would have been the better choice. ‘It is
too late now.’

‘It is Honynge who is the problem,’ Michael went on. ‘Supposing he cheats us?’

Bartholomew was startled. ‘There has never been any suggestion of dishonesty on his part, and you malign him unjustly. Besides,
I have heard him in the debating hall, and he is impressive. He will improve Michaelhouse’s academic reputation, and that
is what counts.’

‘You may not think so when he makes off with the College silver,’ warned Michael coolly.

Bartholomew thought he was overreacting. ‘Do you want to visit him or Tyrington first?’

‘Tyrington. I am not ready for Honynge yet. Remember to stand well back when he speaks, and do not allow him to entice you
into a scholarly disputation. We must make a start on this Lynton business as soon as possible, and have no time to waste
on scholastic debates. Did you know both these houses are owned by Candelby?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I thought they belonged to Mayor Harleston.’

‘He sold them. As you know, the University compels landlords to keep any buildings rented by scholars in good repair. But
Harleston said he would rather sell his properties than pay for their upkeep when the only people to benefit would be University
men.’

Bartholomew studied them. ‘Piron is well-maintained, and it looks as though the work has been carried out recently. Zachary
is shabby, though. Why has Candelby spent money on one building, but neglected its neighbour?’

Michael shrugged. ‘Who knows what a man like Candelby thinks? Still, Honynge and Tyrington will not have to worry about him
in the future. They will be comfortably installed at Michaelhouse.’

Their knock on Piron Hostel’s door was opened by a well-dressed youth who wore a heavy purse on his belt. Bartholomew could
see a blazing fire in the room beyond, and several books lay open on a table. Books were expensive, so it was clear that Piron
was occupied by wealthy students who could afford such luxuries.

‘Doctor Bartholomew,’ said the student with a courtly bow. ‘How kind of you to call. However, I am fully recovered now, and
have no further need of your services.’

Bartholomew regarded him blankly, before recalling that
the lad had consulted him about a troublesome rash. He had prescribed a decoction of chickweed, which was usually effective
against such conditions.

‘I was actually cured by Magister Arderne,’ the lad chatted on. ‘He made me an electuary. I swallowed it all, and woke up
with fading spots the very next day.’

‘An electuary?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. It was an odd thing to prescribe. ‘What was in it?’

‘Arderne declined to tell me, but it cost a fortune, so it must have been full of expensive herbs.’

‘Indeed it must,’ murmured Bartholomew. ‘We are actually here to see your Principal. Is he in?’

They were led along an airy corridor that was paved with coloured tiles, and into a large room that boasted wood panelling
and a pleasant view of the garden. It was elegant compared to anything available at Michaelhouse, and it occurred to Bartholomew
that Tyrington would be taking a step in the wrong direction as far as personal comfort was concerned.

Tyrington was sitting at a desk, reading. He was a large, squat man with a low forehead and thick dark hair. He stood when
the visitors were shown in, and smiled. Or rather, leered, because there was something about the expression that was not very
nice. An image of a lizard Bartholomew had seen in France came unbidden into his mind, and he half expected a long tongue
to flick out. When one did, he took an involuntary step backwards.

‘Gentlemen,’ said Tyrington affably. ‘All our rashes are healed, so we no longer need the services of a
medicus
. My student hired Magister Arderne to do the honours in the end.’

‘Everyone calls him Magister,’ said Michael, going to the window to escape the saliva that gushed in his direction. None too
subtly he ran a hand down the front of his habit
to wipe it off. ‘But does he actually hold such a degree? He did not earn it from Cambridge, and our records show he did not
get it from Oxford, either.’

‘Probably Montpellier, then,’ sprayed Tyrington. ‘May I offer you wine? A pastry? We can always find victuals for men from
a fine foundation like Michaelhouse.’

Michael was about to accept when it occurred to him that anything provided was likely to arrive with a coating of spittle.
‘Actually, we came to ask whether you would consider becoming one of our Fellows. Unless you have had a better offer, of course,
in which case we understand.’

‘But we hope you have not,’ said Bartholomew quickly. Fellows often stayed in post for years, and he did not want what might
be a lengthy association to start off on the wrong foot because Michael was having such obvious second thoughts. ‘It would
be an honour to accept you.’

Tyrington flushed red with pleasure, and the tongue shot out again. ‘You are inviting
me
to take Kenyngham’s place?’

‘To fill the vacancy he left,’ corrected Michael pedantically, handing over the letter.

‘Yes!’ cried Tyrington. ‘Of course I accept! May I bring my students? There are three of them – all wealthy and well able
to pay a College’s fees.’

‘Three? In this huge building?’ asked Michael. ‘You could have twice that number.’

Tyrington leered. ‘Yes, but I was loath to supervise more when I was on my own. Education is a sacred trust, and I have always
refused to accept funds from students if I cannot offer them my very best. A College will be different, of course, because
teaching is shared.’

‘Perhaps Michaelhouse is not the right place for you after all,’ said Bartholomew uneasily. Langelee and Wynewyk accepted
funds any way they could get them, and
the quality of the teaching provided in exchange was invariably deemed immaterial.

‘I understand this house is owned by Candelby,’ said Michael, looking around appreciatively. ‘It is very well maintained –
unlike most of his scholar-occupied buildings.’

‘Our lease expires in September,’ explained Tyrington. ‘So he keeps the place in good order, because he wants to rent it to
a rich merchant the moment we go.’

‘Does that mean Honynge’s lease expires at the end of the next century, then?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘His building is tatty compared
to yours.’

‘I believe it is due to lapse at the beginning of the upcoming term,’ replied Tyrington. ‘Perhaps Candelby wants it vacant
before beginning a major restoration. We had to endure noisy builders last month, when we were trying to study, and it was
very inconvenient.’

‘Honynge will be pleased when he hears our invitation, then,’ said Michael. ‘He and you will be appointed at the same time.’

‘He is a good choice,’ said Tyrington sincerely. ‘One of the best teachers in the University. His students are a bright crowd,
too.’

‘What about your three?’ asked Michael. ‘I assume you are willing to vouch for their academic merit? We are Michaelhouse,
after all, and do not accept just anyone. We have standards.’

‘Do you?’ asked Tyrington. ‘I thought Deynman was one of yours, and he is barely literate.’

‘He is an anomaly,’ said Michael icily. ‘Carton and Falmeresham have won prizes for their disputations. Are you ready, Matt?
We should deliver the news to Honynge before I lose courage.’

Tyrington grabbed Bartholomew’s hand, tears in his eyes as he wrung it. ‘Thank you! I cannot tell you what this
means to me, and I promise you will never have cause to regret your offer. I shall strive to be the best teacher in Cambridge,
and will make you proud to own me as a colleague.’