To Kill or Cure (46 page)

‘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.’

Honynge sighed, affecting boredom. ‘Prove it,’ he said in a chant. His voice dropped. ‘They are deeply stupid, Honynge, so
do not let them intimidate you.’

‘Did Candelby order you to kill Motelete, Lynton and Ocleye?’ asked Michael. ‘He had hired Ocleye to spy for him, but Ocleye
promptly turned traitor. Meanwhile, Lynton had just banned him from the Dispensary, and Motelete may have caught him doing
something untoward—’

‘I have not killed anyone, and if you make any more accusations, I shall take the matter to my lawyers. I feel well enough
to walk now, so I am leaving while I still can.’

‘You are not going anywhere until you have signed this,’ said Michael, pushing the letter of resignation towards him.

Honynge wrote his name with a flourish. ‘With pleasure.’

‘The man is right,’ said Michael wearily, after Honynge had gone. ‘We cannot prove any of this. He is a killer and a traitor
to his University, and he is going to walk away. Worse, he might kill again.’

‘You should not have cured him, Matthew,’ said Agatha, stepping out from behind the screen. The three scholars jumped, because
they had forgotten she was there.

‘Probably not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘However, it was that or seeing
you
hanged for murdering him.’

Langelee and Michael gaped at him. ‘
Agatha
is this deadly killer?’ asked Langelee in disbelief.

‘Now, just a moment—’ started Agatha dangerously.

‘No, but she did poison Honynge,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘She used the love-potion Arderne gave her. He told her it contains
mandrake, but it is actually white bryony, with which mandrake is often confused. Arderne does not know what he is doing,
so he made a basic mistake.’

‘You mean I really did poison Honynge?’ asked Agatha. She looked rather pleased with herself.

‘Yes, you really did. Perhaps Motelete swallowed one of these love-charms, too, because I am sure it was bryony that killed
him.’

‘Of course!’ exclaimed Michael. ‘Falmeresham saw him stealing one of Arderne’s remedies, and we know he was enamoured of Siffreda.
He took the draught in order to make her love him, but it killed him instead. He should have known better than to swallow
anything Arderne had concocted.’

‘He was desperate,’ explained Agatha. The scholars regarded her in surprise. She shrugged. ‘He once confided to me in the
Angel that Siffreda was taking too long to fall for him. Young men are impatient in love, and he was eager to speed matters
up.’

‘If Arderne’s potion is supposed to render its taker irresistible,’ said Bartholomew to Agatha, ‘then why did you give yours
to Honynge? Surely, you cannot have wanted to be in love with
him
?’

Agatha glared at him. ‘I most certainly did not! My intention was for Wynewyk to fall for him. Then Honynge would have been
so disturbed that he would have packed his bags and left my College.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, amused. ‘However, you purchased this remarkable concoction before Honynge came to Michaelhouse, so
he was not your original victim. Who—’

‘That is none of your business.’ Agatha raised her chin defiantly. ‘Everything you said earlier was right, by the way. Candelby
has
been paying Honynge for information about our University – my cousin Blankpayn mentioned it when he was in his cups last
night. I was going to tell you this morning, but you disappeared and I did not know where you had gone.’

Michael sighed. ‘So where does all this leave us?’

‘With Motelete’s death solved,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘It
was an accident – or a case of malpractice, depending on whether you think Arderne was right to leave dangerous substances
in a place where light-fingered, love-sick accomplices might get hold of them.’

‘I think we shall opt for the latter,’ said Michael. ‘It will go in my report to the sheriff in London. But we still do not
have the real culprit, and time is running out.’

It was late before Bartholomew, Michael and Langelee left the conclave. They went over the evidence again and again, and Michael
was frustrated when answers remained elusive. A crisis was looming, and he hated the fact that he was powerless to prevent
it. It was difficult to accept that whatever decision he made – to cancel the Convocation or let it go ahead – would bring
trouble, and he was full of bitter resentment that he had been placed in a position where he could not determine the lesser
of two evils.

When dawn broke, and the bell rang to wake scholars for church the next day, Bartholomew felt as though he had only just gone
to bed. A sense of foreboding led him to don a military jerkin of boiled leather under his academic tabard, although he sincerely
hoped such a precaution would prove unnecessary. He hurried into the yard, and found Michael already there. The monk was unshaven
and rumpled, and there was a wild look in his eye.

‘The Convocation starts in an hour,’ he said. ‘I should go to St Mary the Great as soon as possible, to brief my beadles before
the Regents begin to gather.’

‘You are relieved of College obligations, then,’ said Langelee promptly. ‘William can take mass, then we shall all come back
here and lock ourselves in. Cynric and his sword will escort the other Fellows to the Convocation, but my duty is here, protecting
Michaelhouse.’

‘Why should our College be a target?’ asked Bartholomew, alarmed by the Master’s precautions.

‘Because of you,’ replied Langelee bluntly. ‘I know you have made your peace with Isnard, but the legacy of his discontent
runs on, and there are rumours about you concealing murders. Furthermore, people are saying that you encouraged the proctors
to arrest Arderne.’

‘He is right, Matt,’ said Michael, when Bartholomew began to object. ‘Your precipitous action with crossbow bolts in Milne
Street last Sunday has had repercussions none of us could have predicted.’

The streets of Cambridge were growing light, but there were more people on them than was normal for such an early hour. They
gathered in small groups, or raced here and there with quick, scurrying movements. Scholars were out, too, and Bartholomew
noticed that some carried sticks and knives.

‘I cannot fine them for toting weapons,’ said Michael. ‘If they feel as uneasy as I do, then I do not blame them for wanting
to defend themselves. Let us hope tensions ease after the Convocation.’

‘They may get worse,’ warned Bartholomew. He walked faster, making a concerted effort not to look at anyone, lest it be seen
as a challenge. When one of his patients wished him a good morning, he was so unsettled that he failed to reply. ‘I had forgotten
what Cambridge can be like when its collective hackles are raised. Perhaps you
should
cancel the Convocation. It will prevent scholars from assembling in large numbers, and you can order them to stay inside
their hostels and Colleges instead.’

‘It is too late,’ said Michael, looking around. ‘Most are already on their way.’

The University’s senior members were indeed streaming towards St Mary the Great. A few were in twos or threes, but more were
in bigger groups, and some had brought armed students to protect them; these strutted along in a
way that was distinctly provocative. Only Regents were permitted in the church for the Convocation, so the escorts waited
outside in ever-increasing numbers. The door stood open, and Bartholomew walked through it to find the place already half
full. He was alarmed to note that they had organised themselves into opposing sides – or rather, someone had done it for them,
and it soon became apparent who that someone was.

‘All those who think Michael’s amendment should pass, stand to the south,’ Honynge was shouting. ‘And those who should think
it should not, go to the north. In other words, those who believe the town should win must slink to the south, while right-minded
men should come to the north.’