To Kill or Cure (38 page)

Hemmysby regarded him in surprise. ‘But Lynton’s contests
did
require skill. With most games of chance, everything
does
depend on luck – you can be the cleverest man in the kingdom, but your chance of success is the same as the dunce sitting
next to you. Lynton, however, introduced a degree of probability to his games, which meant people were challenged to crack
his system.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused. ‘Were you one of these gamesters?’

‘I am in major orders,’ said Hemmysby primly. ‘Priests do not gamble.’

‘They do in Cambridge,’ muttered Bartholomew.

Hemmysby did not hear him. ‘Before I was awarded my post at Waltham Abbey, I was always short of money. Then Lynton offered
to pay me for serving wine to his guests. I no longer need the work, but I have kept it up, because I like it – the company
is erudite and always entertaining.’

Bartholomew tried to understand what Lynton had done. ‘He invented a game that allowed players to predict the outcome?’ He
could see why that would have been popular – scholars liked exercising their minds, especially when they thought they might
win something for correct answers.

Hemmysby nodded. ‘It did not involve dice, but imaginary horses. Participants had to guess how long a particular animal
would take to travel across a certain amount of ground.’

Bartholomew stared at him as several facts snapped together. ‘The mean speed theorem! That is all about the time an object
– in this case a horse – needs to cover a set distance, and it is a predictive formula. Did he base his games of chance around
that?’

Hemmysby nodded again. ‘It was extremely complicated, and scholars loved it – Lynton would change variables and enter unknowns
into the equation to make calculation more difficult – the size of the horse, the slope of the land, the weight of the rider,
and so on. The sums had to be done very fast, too, which added an additional thrill to the proceedings.’

‘Had I known there was intricate arithmetic involved, I might have signed up myself,’ said Bartholomew, rather wistfully.
‘However, I fail to see the appeal for townsfolk – they will not know the formula. Yet a number of them played.’

‘They claimed they were any scholar’s equal, and were just as good at predicting the outcome of these horse races. Of course,
they were not, and they lost more often than they won.’

Bartholomew recalled Blankpayn saying as much. ‘Why did Lynton admit laymen in the first place? He must have known it would
cause trouble.’

‘There were rarely problems. The Dispensary operated for years without ill feeling, and Lynton did not mind who played, as
long as he – or she – paid his debts.’

‘Paxtone said he disagreed with Lynton’s conclusions,’ said Bartholomew. ‘
They
argued.’

‘Of course there were
arguments
. There were scholars involved, and arguing is what we do best. But Friday nights were good-natured occasions with discreet,
well-behaved men who always parted friends. However, not all the merchants were as civil.’

‘Candelby?’ asked Bartholomew, more pieces of the puzzle falling into place.

‘He has an unattractive habit of gloating when he wins. In the end, he was banned.’

‘When?’ asked Bartholomew, thoughts whirling. No wonder Candelby had hated Lynton.

‘Good Friday. There was a fuss, and wine was spilled. Has no one told you about this?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew tartly. ‘Apparently, participants are bound by vows of secrecy.’

‘They are. And because most are decent men, they are unlikely to break that trust. I did not swear the oath, though, because
I was not a player. I only served the wine.’

‘I cannot believe Lynton did this! We have been told wagers included houses, livestock, boats and money. With the stakes so
high, it is not surprising that he might have attracted resentment.’

‘The stakes
were
high, but Lynton refused to let anyone ruin himself. He even restored goods to losers on occasion, when he felt it was warranted.
There was no resentment – not from anyone.’

Bartholomew was not sure whether to believe him. ‘Was he magnanimous when Candelby lost?’

‘We never had occasion to find out, because Candelby rarely came up with the wrong answer. Why do you think he was so peeved
when he was debarred? All his houses came from betting on Lynton’s races, you see.’

It was Father William’s turn to conduct the morning mass, and, as usual, it was finished in record time. Unfortunately, it
was too early to ask questions about Lynton or Motelete, so Bartholomew and Michael sat in the conclave, and the physician
described to Michael – yet again – what had transpired in the churchyard of St Mary the Great the previous night.

‘Are you sure Motelete was poisoned?’ the monk asked. ‘You told me toxins are difficult to detect, which is why you failed
to notice one in Kenyngham. Yet you are able to pronounce a clear cause of death with Motelete?’

Bartholomew was too tired to argue about Kenyngham. ‘The substance was caustic enough to blister his mouth – not badly, but
sufficient to tell me it would have damaged his innards, too.’

‘Yet someone was hovering over him with a dagger. Why would anyone want to stab a corpse?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Cynric thinks it had something to do with witchcraft.’

‘Are you sure Motelete was dead when all this was going on? You usually tell me it is impossible to pinpoint a time of death
with any degree of accuracy.’

‘I can usually tell the difference between someone who
has been a corpse for hours and someone who has only just breathed his last.’

‘And there was nothing in the two living figures that will allow you to identify them?’

‘It was too dark. However, Arderne has a penchant for meddling with the dead.’

‘I doubt Arderne is the killer – I imagine he would rather have Motelete alive, as a testament to his remarkable skills. However,
if Motelete
had
changed from demure boy to belligerent womaniser, then perhaps he was not the kind of advertisement Arderne wanted for his
handiwork.’

‘Had he changed? Do you remember what Gedney said? That the dead student was loud-mouthed and drank too much?’

‘Gedney is addled. However, he does have moments of clarity, and he was an astute man in his time. It is not impossible that
vestiges of that brilliance still flash now and again.’

‘I imagine you would like the culprit for Motelete’s murder to be Candelby.’

‘Actually, Matt, I would rather it was Honynge – and I happen to know he went out yesterday evening. I set Meadowman to follow
him, but the sly fellow gave him the slip.’

‘Unfortunately for you, Honynge was here when those two figures were with Motelete in the churchyard. He was arguing about
the books he has spirited away to his room – and
you
are his alibi. He only went out later.’

Michael’s expression was triumphant. ‘But you said Motelete was dead
hours
before that. Honynge might have murdered him and deposited him in the churchyard, leaving Arderne to maul the corpse at a
later time. That would be a convenient solution, because it would please us both.’

They left the conclave, and the monk showed Bartholomew the empty shelves in the hall, where the books had been. The severed
chains dangled forlornly. Wynewyk joined them, and complained bitterly about the ‘theft’. Bartholomew thought they were overreacting.

‘Cynric said the tomes are in Honynge’s room – he wants to protect them. They are not stolen.’

‘Honynge
claims
he acted out of concern,’ said Michael. ‘But he has locked the door to his quarters, which means no one else can read anything
unless he lets them in.’

Wynewyk snorted his disdain. ‘Honynge’s antics have nothing to do with caring for books. He is compiling an exemplar – a collection
of readings – for third-year theologians. Its sale will make him rich.’

Michael blew out his cheeks in understanding. ‘And because his exemplar will include texts from a wide variety of sources,
he wants our library readily to hand. His motive is selfish.’

‘Hateful man!’ said Wynewyk fervently. ‘I am glad William fed him dog again this morning.’

Because it was Saturday, the disputation was more lighthearted than the ones during the week, and was run by students, rather
than Fellows. Falmeresham had been scheduled to take charge, but with his defection to Arderne, Langelee ordered Carton to
take his place. The commoner was making for the back gate when he heard his name mentioned. He returned with a nervous grin.

‘Where were you going?’ demanded Langelee. ‘I gave an order for everyone to stay in today.’

Carton’s smile began to slip. ‘I did not have enough to eat this morning, because Agatha keeps putting dog in everything.
I was going to buy a pie from the Angel.’

Michael glared at him; he knew a lie when he heard
one. Nor was Langelee amused, and he had just begun to deliver a lecture about obedience, when Tyrington approached.

‘God help us,’ he breathed. ‘I do not mean to offend, but Deynman is no scholar.’

‘He is not,’ agreed Honynge, overhearing. ‘And if he is allowed to go and practise medicine he will kill someone. But Michaelhouse
created the problem, so Michaelhouse must devise a solution.’

‘I would suggest inventing some nominal post here, to keep him out of mischief,’ said Tyrington. ‘But we have no money to
pay him, and I certainly do not want him anywhere near
my
students.’

Honynge issued a weary sigh. ‘Leave it to me.
I
shall think of something. After all, it is an issue that requires intelligent thinking – something of which the current Fellowship
seems incapable.’

‘We did some intelligent thinking about our books,’ said Langelee curtly. ‘We want them back, so they can be used by everyone.
If you do not return them by noon, I shall order Cynric to smash the lock on your door and remove them by force.’

Honynge glowered. ‘Very well – let your precious tomes be doused in spit, then. See if I care! However, I have a far more
serious issue to bring before you today, one I find deeply disturbing.’

‘The breakfast dog had nothing to do with me,’ began Michael immediately. ‘It was a—’

‘This,’ said Honynge, waving a torn piece of parchment, ‘was in the Illeigh Hutch. You told me to do an inventory of its contents,
Master, and I happened across it.’

‘It is a rent agreement,’ said Michael, puzzled. ‘Or the top half of one. What does it—’

‘It proves
someone
is breaking the Statutes – by charging
a rent higher than that set by law,’ declared Honynge. ‘Since the document was found in Michaelhouse, I can only conclude
that Michaelhouse men are engaged in illegal activities.’

As the monk did not have his magnifying glass, Bartholomew took the fragment from Honynge. He stared at it in confusion, then
spoke in a low voice, while Honynge continued to rail at Langelee. ‘I cannot be certain, Brother, but this looks like the
other half of the document we found in Lynton’s hand. When we compare the two, I would be surprised if the torn edges do not
match.’

‘What?’ asked Michael, astounded. ‘How does it come to be in the Illeigh Hutch?’

Honynge overheard, and levelled an accusing finger at him. ‘
You
brokered an illicit agreement, and tore the names from the bottom to cover your tracks. Then you hid the document in the
Illeigh Hutch, but forgot to reclaim it before the chest passed to me. It proves you are dishonest.’

‘It does not,’ said Tyrington. ‘It means
someone
is, but there is no proof that it is Michael.’

‘How is it proof of dishonesty?’ demanded Wynewyk. ‘There are no names on the thing, so it is invalid anyway. Someone probably
kept it as scrap, intending to use the back for something else. Parchment is expensive, so we all re-use what we can.’

‘It proves Michael owns a High Street house, and that he rented it at an illegal rate,’ Honynge raged. ‘He must have won it
at the Dispensary, and is intent on making his fortune from it.’

‘What makes you think Michael is the culprit?’ asked Langelee. ‘There is nothing to say—’

‘Because I saw the
bottom
half of that agreement in his room. I spotted it when I went to return a scroll I had borrowed recently. It is probably still
there, on his desk.’

‘In that case, it is obvious someone is trying to get him into trouble,’ said Tyrington. ‘Well, it will not work. Michael
might be a sly old fox, but he does not break the University’s rules.’

Honynge sneered. ‘He spends more time in the Brazen George than at his lectures. I shall expect his resignation over this,
because it is the decent thing to do. And Bartholomew’s.’

‘Why Bartholomew’s?’ asked Tyrington, puzzled. ‘He has nothing to do with this document.’

‘Because he concealed the fact that Lynton was murdered. Now why would he do that? There are only two reasons, and neither
are pleasant. Either he killed Lynton himself, and was hoping to see him buried with no one any the wiser. Or he did it because
he could not be bothered to investigate. Either way, I do not want him in my College.’

He turned on his heel and stalked away, leaving the others staring after him in astonishment.

‘What
was
this rental agreement doing in the Illeigh Hutch, Brother?’ asked Wynewyk. ‘Is it part of your investigation, and you put
it there to keep it safe?’

‘It is certainly part of my investigation,’ said Michael. ‘Although I cannot imagine how it comes to be in a place where Honynge
could find it.’

‘I can,’ said Tyrington quietly. ‘
He
put it there for the sole purpose of damaging you. Is it true that Lynton was murdered? Then perhaps you need look no further
for your killer.’

Solutions and questions were coming so fast that Michael insisted on adjourning to the Brazen George to think. Bartholomew
did not think it was a good idea, especially given that Honynge had commented on the monk’s rule-breaking, but Michael said
he was not going to let petty
accusations interfere with
his
daily pleasures. So they went to the tavern, although Bartholomew did so with grave misgivings.