Susanna GREGORY - To Kill or Cure

‘It is not!’ cried Honynge. ‘I have been poisoned by someone who wants me to die.’

‘Doctor Bartholomew will save you,’ said Deynman with touching confidence. ‘Do not worry.’

‘He may have been the one who tried to kill me,’ wailed Honynge.

‘This will not be an easy murder to solve,’ whispered Wynewyk in the monk’s ear. ‘The students like him well enough, but the Fellows and commoners think him an ass.’

Bartholomew picked up the cup, noting that most of its contents lay splattered across the floor, so Honynge had probably ingested very little. He sniffed it gingerly, then inspected Honynge’s mouth. It was covered in small blisters. He turned to the watching throng.

‘Agatha, will you bring me some milk and eggs?’

‘Are you hungry, then?’ she asked, startled. ‘Should you not see to Honynge first?’

‘Fetch the pressed charcoal from my storeroom,’ he ordered Deynman, loath to take the time to explain to her. ‘And the emetic in the red flask.’

‘But that is a powerful purge,’ said Deynman, wide-eyed. ‘It will make someone violently sick.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Bartholomew patiently. ‘That is the intention.’

‘I had better find a bucket as well, then,’ said Deynman practically.

When Deynman and Agatha returned, Bartholomew fed the emetic to a protesting Honynge, then sat with the new Fellow while he emptied the contents of his stomach into a pail. Next, he prepared a mixture of charcoal, raw eggs and milk, and forced Honynge to drink as much as possible, explaining it would absorb any remaining toxins. Meanwhile, Michael cleared the hall of spectators, so the sick man would not have to perform to an audience. Eventually, only he, Honynge, Bartholomew and Langelee remained. Agatha pretended to be busy behind the serving screen, and although it was obvious that she was only doing it to eavesdrop, no one had the courage to ask her to leave.

‘Thank God I was out when this happened,’ whispered Michael fervently to Langelee, ‘or Honynge would certainly have had me as his prime suspect for the crime. Who did it, do you think?’

‘William was hanging around the wine a lot,’ replied Langelee. ‘But then he always does. Meanwhile, Wynewyk was pouring, because Honynge claimed he had a sore back, and Tyrington and Carton were distributing the cups. Any one of them could have poisoned him – as could I.’

‘Are you feeling better?’ asked Bartholomew of Honynge. ‘The burning should have eased by now.’

‘It has, I suppose,’ said Honynge begrudgingly. ‘Although I am sure there was no need to have prescribed me quite such a violent emetic. You wanted everyone to see me in that undignified position.’

‘I wanted the poison out before it was too late,’ said Bartholomew tartly. ‘Motelete swallowed bryony, and no one helped him vomit, so he died. You, however, will survive to insult your colleagues another day.’

‘I resign,’ said Honynge. He started to stand, but was not strong enough, and sank back down again. He began to mutter to himself. ‘Michaelhouse’s Fellows are either sly or stupid, the meals are dismal, there is never enough wine, and the accommodation is overcrowded. Tell them to go to Hell, and accept the offer you should have taken in the first place: to be Principal of Lucy’s.’

‘I shall draw up the papers, then,’ said Michael, reaching for a pen. ‘You can be gone tomorrow.’

‘Do not spend another night here to be murdered,’ hissed Honynge to himself. ‘Go to the Angel.’

‘The Angel?’ asked Michael. ‘That is owned by the man determined to see our University flounder.’

‘Candelby wants fair rents,’ snapped Honynge. ‘What is wrong with that?’

‘But earlier you said you were going to vote against my amendment,’ said Michael, setting down the pen and concentrating on his prey. ‘Have you changed your mind, and think I am right, after all?’

‘I think Honynge is better friends with Candelby than he wants us to know,’ said Bartholomew, when the new Fellow did not reply. ‘We have seen them together twice now. Once was in the Angel–’

‘Arguing,’ interrupted Honynge. ‘You heard us yourself – it was not as if we were enjoying a tête-à-tête. He attacked Michaelhouse and I was defending it, although I should have saved my breath.’

‘You spoke loudly when you saw me listening, but I think the discussion had been rather more amiable before that. You engineered that row, to make us believe you and Candelby are hostile, but the reality is quite different. The second time we saw you with him, you were buying pies.’

Honynge sighed wearily. ‘All right: I admit I am wrong to frequent his tavern. However, if you fine me, you will have to fine every other scholar in Cambridge, too. We all eat his pies.’

‘Yours was a very heavy pie,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And you only took one bite before shoving the rest in your scrip. Who puts oily food in his clean leather purse? No one. So, I conclude this pie contained something other than meat – such as money for services rendered.’

‘There was money in it,’ said Langelee, startled. ‘I happened to visit him in his room when he was cracking it open. He shoved it under a book when I arrived, but I saw the gleam of silver inside it first. I assumed it was his own peculiar hiding place, like you use that loose floorboard, Brother.’

‘I do not have to listen to this,’ said Honynge, starting to stand. ‘I am a sick man, and it is despicable that you are taking advantage of the fact to browbeat me.’

‘And there was a third time, too, although we did not witness it,’ said Michael, resting a heavy hand on his shoulder, so he was obliged to sit again. ‘Tyrington saw you. He thought you just wanted someone to debate with on your way home from the disputation at Bene’t College, and you were more than happy to let him believe it.’

Honynge was glaring. ‘So? You cannot prove anything untoward in my speaking to Candelby.’

‘No,’ sighed Michael. ‘That has been the problem all along – shady activities but no proof.’

‘ I know what you sell Candelby,’ said Bartholomew, when the answer came to him, as clear as day.

‘You do not,’ said Honynge, his eyes glittering with triumph. ‘And Candelby will never tell you, so do not think you will use him as a witness against me.’

‘You spy on the University,’ said Bartholomew. ‘ That is why he is always so well informed. He knew about the Convocation before Michael made it public. He has intimate knowledge of the Statutes and what they do and do not cover. He has information about the food preferences of some Fellows …’

‘These are hardly matters of life and death,’ sneered Honynge. ‘He could have gleaned them from listening to gossip in his tavern or the Dispensary, which is what I am sure he told you.’

‘He did tell us that,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘And the fact that you know it suggests it is an excuse you told him to give, should anyone question his sources. However, it was not all innocent. I suspect he used the information you provided to pressure Spaldynge into selling Borden Hostel.’

‘You cannot prove anything,’ said Honynge again, sitting back and folding his arms.

‘We can prove you spied on Clare, because Cynric saw you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You went to see what else you could learn to Candelby’s advantage. I imagine it was you I saw at Peterhouse, too, doing much the same thing – you ran away and hid in the woods behind the Gilbertine Friary.’

‘Meanwhile, Rougham and Paxtone have also complained that someone has been following them,’ said Michael. ‘And now we know who and why.’