To Kill or Cure (35 page)

‘Why?’ asked Wisbeche suspiciously. ‘So you can see what other University rules he flouted?’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘From that response, I assume there is yet more to learn about the man. However, my intention
is not to expose his transgressions, but to catch his killer. Will you help me? I know this is uncomfortable, but it is better
– for Lynton’s reputation and memory – if the information comes from you. I do not want to ask his colleagues or your servants.’

Wisbeche sighed. ‘I suppose you know by now that there were two Lyntons – the fastidious physician and the secret man. Ask
your questions, Brother. I shall answer them if I can.’

‘So far, we have discovered that he was once a knight, he owned property, and he had a lover.’

‘He and Maud Bowyer
were
friends,’ conceded Wisbeche. ‘But he only spent the night at her house when she was troubled by rats. He said it was preventative
medicine, because she would have swooned had she seen one.’

‘And you believed him?’ asked Michael incredulously. Bartholomew struggled not to smile.

‘Not really. But we were too polite to say anything, and the liaison was always conducted with the utmost discretion. He had
been protecting her from rats for years, and the only reason you know about it now is because he is dead.’

‘His talent for subterfuge is astounding,’ said Michael, awed. ‘When Matt had his dalliance with Matilde two years ago, he
thought
he
was careful, but every man, woman and child from here to Ely knew about it. Yet Lynton managed to carry on for
years
.’

‘He knew how to keep his business private. I am the executor of his will, and I am astonished by the amount of money he had
accrued – and by some of the financial arrangements he had in place.’

‘You mean such as renting his houses to laymen?’

Wisbeche nodded. ‘He bought and sold properties at an incredible rate. He was even doing business with Candelby, although
it pains me to admit it.’

Michael’s expression was grim. ‘Candelby has only recently come into possession of most of his houses. I do not suppose he
acquired them from Lynton, did he?’

Wisbeche rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘Yes, I believe he did. The last transaction was for three homes on the High Street, which
Lynton let him have a month ago.’

‘How did Lynton come by them in the first place?’ asked Michael.

‘I am not sure,’ replied Wisbeche shiftily. ‘His accounts are complicated, and it will take me months to sort through them.
However, I suspect he won them in a bet.’

‘A bet?’ echoed Michael in disbelief. ‘What sort of bet?’

‘Agatha said Lynton enjoyed games of chance with Maud on Sunday afternoons,’ Bartholomew reminded the monk. ‘We already know
about his fondness for dice.’

‘Actually,’ said Wisbeche sheepishly, ‘he was rather more fond of them than his weekly sessions with his lady. He held tournaments
in his Dispensary, and often returned with some very peculiar winnings. Once it was a cow, another time a boat. I suspect
he may have won these houses, too. Sometimes, the stakes were very high.’

Bartholomew regarded him in open-mouthed astonishment. ‘I do not believe you! Lynton would never have broken the University’s
rules on that sort of scale.’

‘I wish you were right,’ said Wisbeche fervently. ‘I really do.’

‘At least this explains the odd décor in his Dispensary,’ said Michael, finding his voice at last. ‘Why the windows were painted
shut, and why you found no medical equipment.’

‘Except the silver goblets in the attic,’ said Wisbeche. ‘For providing his guests with wine. It was all very civilised, naturally.
He never used the Dispensary for medical work.’

‘I suppose these games were on Fridays,’ said Michael, recalling that was the night Lynton had been unavailable for Maud.

Wisbeche nodded. ‘I know I should have stopped him, but he was always so generous to the College, and I did not want him to
take his patronage elsewhere. I made the right decision, too, because he left us a fortune in his will.’

‘All this cannot be true,’ said Bartholomew, feeling as though he was in a dream. ‘I mean no disrespect, Wisbeche, but Lynton
was a quiet, decent man, whose interests were medicine and natural philosophy. I do not see him tossing dice with hardened
gamblers.’

‘Would you like to see his accounts? That might convince you.’

Michael waved a hand to indicate he would like that very much, and they followed Wisbeche across the courtyard to a set of
rooms on an upper floor. Bartholomew had never been in Lynton’s private quarters before, because Lynton had always entertained
visitors in the College combination room. His jaw dropped when he saw the lavish opulence of his colleague’s chambers. There
was a bed draped with extravagant hangings, there were thick, expensive carpets
from Turkey, and Wisbeche opened a chest to reveal it full of silver coins.

‘Christ Almighty!’ breathed Bartholomew before he could stop himself. For once, Michael did not berate him for blasphemy.
‘This must be the most sumptuous accommodation in Cambridge!’

‘In England,’ corrected Michael, wide-eyed. ‘I doubt even the King has anything this splendid.’

Bartholomew and Michael left Peterhouse in a daze. They had spent a few moments inspecting Lynton’s accounts, but concurred
with Wisbeche that they would take months to unravel, and a cursory glance was unlikely to tell them much. The records had
indicated, however, that Lynton had gambled in some very august company, and that his winnings had come from such powerful
townsmen as the Sheriff, the Mayor, Candelby, Blankpayn and Bartholomew’s brother-in-law. The physician was even more shocked
to learn that Paxtone had enjoyed the odd game, too, as had Honynge, Kardington, Spaldynge, Carton and even Robin of Grantchester.

Towards the end of the list was Ocleye’s name, and Bartholomew saw he had won three goats. If the ‘pot-boy’ had been able
to gamble and rent fine houses, then spying was obviously a lucrative business. Michael stabbed at the entry with his finger,
and his look told Bartholomew to remember that it was another connection between two men killed by crossbow bolts. At the
bottom of the register, indicating he was a fairly recent addition to the Dispensary’s membership, was Arderne.

‘Do you recall how furtive Paxtone became when we mentioned the Dispensary?’ asked Bartholomew as they walked along the High
Street. ‘Now we know why.’

‘You and I are about the only men in Cambridge Lynton
did
not
dice with,’ said Michael, stunned by the scale of the operation. ‘Why? Was our money not good enough for him?’

‘He did once ask if I liked games of chance,’ recalled Bartholomew. ‘I thought it was an idle question, and did not imagine
for a moment that it might be an invitation. I told him I did not, and he never mentioned it again. But he was hardly likely
to have included
you
, Brother – you turn a blind eye to the occasional indiscretion, but this was breaking the rules on a massive scale.’

Michael began to count Lynton’s crimes on fat and rather grimy fingers. ‘He fraternised with townsmen – and women. He gambled.
He carried arms. He owned more property than the rest of the University put together. God save us, Matt! We are lucky his
antics did not cause a riot – wealthy townsmen suffering such huge financial losses to a scholar.’

‘Wisbeche said Lynton acted as a kind of banker – most of the winnings went to the other players, and Lynton only took a percentage
of what was gambled.’

‘You can portray it how you like, but it was sordid, no matter how genteel the surroundings and the company. Of course, it
is yet another motive for his murder – he might have been shot by someone who objected to losing. Candelby remains high on
my list – according to Lynton’s accounts, he lost a good cloak and a hunting dog last Friday.’

‘Good Friday,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The rest of us were keeping vigil while Lynton diced. I am surprised Candelby was involved,
though – and that Lynton would entertain him in the first place. Candelby hates everything to do with the University, and
Lynton was a prominent scholar.’

‘It is peculiar,’ agreed Michael. ‘And it is something we must explore. The odds are stacking up against Candelby, if you
will forgive the allusion.’

Bartholomew was more interested in another name that
had been prominent in Lynton’s most recent records. ‘Arderne lost forty marks on Good Friday – just two days before Lynton
was shot. That is four years’ pay for some of us. But we had better hurry home, Brother. Langelee told us to be back in an
hour.’

Michael seized his arm and jerked him to a halt. ‘Look over there! Candelby is talking to Honynge. Now what can they have
to say to each other? It seems Lynton is not the only scholar with a dubious private life. Honynge sneaks around the grounds
of rival Colleges in the depths of the night, he gambles, and now we learn he fraternises with evil-hearted burgesses.’

‘Candelby is just selling him a pie,’ said Bartholomew, watching. ‘It is hardly fraternising.’

‘Then let us hope it chokes him,’ said Michael uncharitably. ‘And I will be saved the bother of finding a bloodless way of
ousting him from Michaelhouse. I am none too happy with Tyrington, either. Wynewyk was right to object to his leering – it
is
sinister.’

‘At least they are both good academics.’

‘They are adequate,’ replied Michael haughtily. He stalked towards the two men, but Candelby was already striding briskly
up the High Street. The monk grimaced – he wanted to question Candelby about his dealings with Lynton, but not at the expense
of an undignified sprint. He vented his spleen on his new colleague instead. ‘You keep some very disreputable company, Honynge.’

Honynge took a bite of the pie. It was enormous, and looked heavy with suet. Bartholomew regarded it with disapproval, thinking
that if Honynge ate it all, it would sit badly in his stomach, and bring about an excess of the yellow bile that would exacerbate
his choleric temper.

‘I am hungry,’ replied Honynge. ‘There was not enough to eat this morning.’

‘Now there is something upon which we
can
agree,’ said Michael. ‘Although there might have been more had
some
Fellows not availed themselves of more than their share of egg-mess.’

‘You refer to Langelee,’ said Honynge, evidently deciding it could not be his own hoggishness that was in question. His voice
dropped until it was barely audible. ‘Michaelhouse is full of gluttons, and you were a fool to accept their offer. You should
have gone to Lucy’s instead.’

Commenting adversely on his colleagues’ eating habits meant Honynge was skating on some very thin ice. Michael’s eyes narrowed,
and he went on the offensive. ‘I have it on good authority that you were slinking around the grounds of Clare late the other
night. Exactly why would you do that?’

‘I did nothing of the kind,’ replied Honynge firmly. ‘Who has been telling lies about me?’

‘My witness saw your face,’ pressed Michael, rather taken aback by the bald untruth.

‘You said it was late, which means it was dark. How could your “witness” have seen me? The fellow is either a liar or a drunkard.’
Honynge glared at Bartholomew, indicating he had his own suspicions about the identity of the witness; and the physician supposed
he must have heard who Spaldynge claimed to have spotted burgling his College.

Michael changed the subject before it became awkward for his friend. ‘Do you like gambling?’

Honynge regarded the monk with open dislike. ‘Why? Do
you
want to become a member of the Dispensary? I doubt the sessions will continue now Lynton is dead.’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘You do not deny it?’

‘Why should I deny it? I did not bet on holy days, and any winnings I earned went towards books for Zachary Hostel. What will
you do? Prosecute me? If so, I will name
all the others I met at these gatherings – Paxtone, Kardington, Wynewyk—’

‘Wynewyk?’ asked Michael incredulously. That was a name he had missed on Lynton’s register.

‘Yes, and he took Langelee and Carton once, although our Master is a man of brutal wits, who does not possess the necessary
finesse for Lynton’s games. Carton was better.’

‘Finesse?’ echoed Michael disdainfully. ‘For betting on the outcome of the roll of a die?’

Honynge sneered at him. ‘If you attempt to make an example of me, Brother, I will see you are obliged to fine half the University.
I strongly advise you to let sleeping dogs lie.’

‘I shall make up my own mind about that. Where are you going? To Michaelhouse? Did Langelee not tell you the meeting has been
postponed for another hour?’

Honynge looked annoyed. ‘No, he did not.’ His voice dropped again. ‘Langelee wants you to waste your time waiting for him,
because you were late for his procession today. Go to the Market Square and buy yourself some victuals, lest they serve you
dog again this evening.’

Michael sniggered as he left. ‘William
did
feed him dog today, actually – Agatha put it in the egg-mess. It was just as well he took it all before you got to it, given
that I forgot to warn you.’

Bartholomew was disgusted. ‘Does this mean I need to inspect everything that appears on the table from now on? Honynge is
not the only one who would rather not eat dog.’

‘It was just the once. And as he did not notice, there was no fun in it – it will not happen again.’

‘It had better not. I notice you lied about the time of the meeting. You have just ensured he will miss it, and as he is opposing
you, you will probably win the vote to exhume Kenyngham.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael innocently. ‘The thought never crossed my mind.’

Langelee was waiting when Bartholomew and Michael entered the conclave. Wynewyk was next to him, pen poised to take notes,
and William was humming as he chewed something stolen from the kitchens. It was a Lombard slice, heavy with dates and honey.
Michael eyed it longingly.

‘You should watch yourself, Father. Agatha might put her love-potion in anything, and she knows you are in the habit of sneaking
into her domain and availing yourself of whatever happens to be lying around. You do not want to develop a passion for her.
Give it to me.’