Susanna GREGORY - To Kill or Cure

‘He was invited to take a Fellowship here, at Clare. You had a narrow escape. However, we will willingly part with him, if you find yourselves in need of a slobbering theologian.’

‘He was never offered a post,’ said Kardington, astonished. ‘We do not need any theologians at the moment, and we would not have chosen him if we had. We do not want our books soaked in saliva.’

‘He said you were keen to have him,’ said Michael.

‘He offered us his services when Wenden died, but we declined. He applied to Peterhouse, King’s Hall and Gonville, too, but they also rejected him. I imagine he was delighted when poor Kenyngham’s demise opened a position at Michaelhouse.’

‘He might just as easily have gone to Peterhouse,’ said Michael, turning to Wisbeche. ‘Lynton’s death meant an opening in your Fellowship, too.’

‘We had decided the next vacancy would remain unfilled long before Lynton died,’ replied Wisbeche. ‘I told you – we need to conserve funds, and a senior member’s salary is a lot of money.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘But you did not tell anyone that until after Lynton was dead.’

‘True,’ acknowledged Wisbeche. ‘Of course, Tyrington was desperate. The lease on Piron Hostel expired this week, and he had nowhere else to go.’

‘No, it was due to run out in September,’ corrected Michael. ‘He told us so the day Langelee wrote inviting him to join us at Michaelhouse.’

‘It expired this week,’ repeated Wisbeche firmly. ‘Why do you think Candelby spent so much money on making it nice? Because a goldsmith was ready to occupy it the moment Tyrington left. It is a lovely house, in a pleasant part of town, and Candelby was eager to charge a princely rent as soon as possible.’

‘Wisbeche is right,’ said Kardington, seeing Michael look sceptical. ‘I overheard the goldsmith and Candelby talking myself. Tyrington is a meek, amiable fellow, who let Candelby enter the house and effect inconvenient renovations whenever he wanted, even when he was teaching.’

Bartholomew was appalled. How could he and Michael have been so wrong? ‘Who gave Spaldynge the crossbow, Master Kardington?’ he demanded. ‘This is important.’

‘It is funny you should ask,’ replied Kardington. ‘Because we have just been talking about him. It was Tyrington. He said he no longer had need of it.’

Bartholomew ran all the way back to Michaelhouse, Michael trotting behind him. The monk was panting like a cow in labour, and Bartholomew itched to go behind him and give him a push, to make him move faster. They did not have time for such stately progress.

‘How could we have been so blind?’ he groaned, disgusted with himself.

‘It is only obvious now we have all the facts,’ gasped Michael. ‘Tyrington shot Lynton because he wanted a place at a College, not knowing that Peterhouse was going to freeze the post to save money. And he killed Ocleye because he was a witness to the murder.’

‘No, that does not work. Ocleye knew what was going to happen, because Paxtone said he was smiling in a way that suggested the shooting was no surprise. However, do you recall what Rougham told me? He saw Ocleye conducting shady business with a hooded man who drank his ale, but did not eat his pie. Rougham assumed it was the nature of their business that made the man lose his appetite, but he was wrong.’

‘Tyrington, alone of everyone we know, dislikes the Angel’s pies,’ finished Michael. ‘Do you recall how easily he hit Carton with his balls of parchment in the hall the other day? Lobbing missiles does not equate to accuracy with a crossbow, but it goes to show a reasonable dexterity.’

‘So, he must have written the letters about Kenyngham,’ added Bartholomew. ‘He decided to distract you away from Lynton – his victim – by claiming Kenyngham was murdered. And when you wanted to exhume Kenyngham, he argued violently against it.’

‘Because he knew the death was natural,’ completed Michael. ‘And he did not want us to find out, because it would mean I would stop wasting time on a murder that never happened.’

‘So, when you were refused permission to exhume, he put the top half of the rent agreement – the one he had taken from Lynton’s body – in the Illeigh Hutch. He intended you to think Honynge was the killer, another ruse to draw attention away from himself. We suspected the culprit was a Michaelhouse man, because only we have access to the College’s money chests.’

‘Why did he part with the deed at all, when he must have taken a considerable risk to acquire it in the first place?’

‘Because he had inadvertently left the most important part – the section with the signatures – behind anyway. The top half was essentially useless, which must have alarmed him when he reached home and inspected it.’

‘Why did he want it at all? It was not his name on the thing.’

‘I imagine because Ocleye was his spy, and he did not want anyone learning that Ocleye could afford houses on the High Street – it would have led to questions. Tyrington dislikes attention, which is why he was always punctilious at paying his rent. He did not want trouble. Hurry , Brother!’

They finally reached the College, only to have Langelee report that Tyrington had not returned after the Convocation.

‘Where is he?’ demanded Michael, grabbing the master’s arm for support. ‘Is anyone else missing?’

‘Just him,’ replied Langelee. ‘Why? Is this about the fact that the Angel pot-boys have just delivered a scroll they found among Ocleye’s possessions? It is inscribed with Tyrington’s name. I think they brought it as an excuse to get inside Michaelhouse, and I do not believe their tale about finding it in Ocleye’s bags. But Tyrington’s name is on it nonetheless. Ocleye must have stolen it from him.’

‘Ocleye and Tyrington knew each other well,’ said Wynewyk, overhearing. ‘I saw them together at the Dispensary several times. They were on good terms, although they pretended otherwise in company. I watched Tyrington lend Ocleye money once, when he wanted to place a bet.’

‘Come quickly,’ shouted Cynric suddenly. He was standing on top of the main gate. ‘I thought I could smell burning, so I came up here to look. Something is on fire.’

‘Well?’ called Michael, when Bartholomew and Langelee had scrambled up to stand at Cynric’s side. The monk was far too large for that sort of caper. ‘It is not Gonville, because the flames are too far away. Is it Trinity Hall? One of the hostels?’

‘It is impossible to say,’ said Langelee. ‘You and Bartholomew check; I will stay here.’

Michael regarded him with round eyes. ‘We take the risks while you have dinner?’

‘You are the Senior Proctor,’ said Langelee impatiently. ‘As you never cease to remind us. It is your duty to investigate trouble – and people may have need of a physician. Meanwhile, I shall improve our defences. If there is a fracas today, we will not go up in flames.’

Bartholomew and Michael hurried along Milne Street. Bartholomew closed his eyes in relief when he saw Trinity Hall safe, and was pleased the smoke was not coming from Clare, either. They ran on, past the Church of St John Zachary, and towards the Carmelite Friary.

The smell of burning had encouraged others out, too, and because fire was feared in any town where buildings were made of wood and thatch, there was a good deal of panic. There was a good deal of menace, too, and the situation suddenly took a turn for the worse when the group of potters they had seen outside Clare earlier appeared on the road ahead of them. Bartholomew staggered when one collided with him, although the lad who tried the same with Michael bounced off the rotund figure and fell in a ditch.