To Kill or Cure (50 page)

‘It looks as though we shall all die together,’ came a soft voice from the chancel.

‘Tyrington!’ exclaimed Michael. ‘What are you doing here?’

A distant part of Bartholomew’s mind registered how odd it was that the little church should be so still inside, when there
was such a commotion outside. To the south, the potters were pounding the door with their cart, screaming their fury at the
men trapped within. To the north, the students of Clare and their Peterhouse guests were busily piling firewood against the
Lady Chapel window with the clear intent of setting it alight. They, too, were yelling.

‘One of two things is going to happen,’ said Tyrington in a low whisper. ‘Either the townsmen will break in and we shall be
torn to pieces – there will be no reasoning with them. Or the Clare boys will set the church alight and we shall die of smoke
and flames.’

‘Why would they destroy their own chapel?’ demanded Michael, not believing him.

‘Because
he
is in here,’ said Bartholomew, pointing at Tyrington. ‘And the Peterhouse students know he killed
Lynton, because
we
told their Master – their Clare friends are just enjoying a spot of mischief. Besides, who will miss this old building? It
is on the verge of collapse anyway.’

‘It was rash to blab about me to anyone who happened to be listening,’ said Tyrington. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
‘The Peterhouse lads saw me walking along Milne Street after they left Clare, and I only just managed to reach this church
before they caught me. I was about to bar the door when the potters arrived, and the students fled back to Clare. I decided
to wait it out – to stay here until the streets became calm. But then you two came along, and now we are all trapped, like
fish in a barrel.’

‘I am not going to die,’ declared Michael firmly. ‘Not after surviving that run.’

‘The students nailed the Lady Chapel window closed, to make sure I cannot escape, and they know that if I leave any other
way the townsmen will have me. I am doomed, and you will share my fate. It serves you right – you are my colleagues, but you
betrayed me by telling Peterhouse what I had done.’

Michael hammered on the window until his hands hurt, but no amount of shouting distracted the students from their bonfire.
They assumed it was Tyrington making the racket, and ignored it. Then came the smell of burning. The lad with the torch had
touched it to the wood, and it was already alight.

‘You see?’ asked Tyrington. ‘Is it hopeless.’

‘I should have known you were not the kind of man we wanted in Michaelhouse,’ shouted the monk furiously, while Bartholomew
prowled the church in search of another exit. It was not looking promising, and the bar keeping the door closed was beginning
to buckle under the potters’ battering.

‘And why is that?’ asked Tyrington, maddeningly calm.

‘Because of something Kenyngham said before he died,’ replied Bartholomew, looking at the ruins of the spiral stairway that
led to the roof. There had been another fall since his last visit, and it was now almost completely blocked with large stones.
‘He must have guessed you would apply for his post, because he told me to beware of crocodiles who made timely appearances.
We needed a theologian, and there you were. Crocodiles and shooting stars. You and Arderne. Dear, wise old Kenyngham.’

‘He was a fool,’ said Tyrington in disgust. ‘And he should have died years ago, so better, more able men could take his place.
I wish he
had
been poisoned, because it might have encouraged other useless ancients to resign and make way for new blood.’

‘Lynton was not the first man you killed in the hope of earning yourself a Fellowship, was he?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You shot
Wenden, too.’

Tyrington shrugged. ‘It was easy to convince everyone that a drowned and drunken tinker was responsible – all it took was
Wenden’s purse planted among his belongings. After all, I did not want anyone turning suspicious eyes on the man who stepped
into the dead man’s shoes. My plan worked perfectly – or would have done, had Clare bothered to appoint Wenden’s successor.’

‘His post was non-stipendiary,’ said Michael. ‘So Clare
could
not appoint a successor – there was no money to fund one. You should have been more careful with your selection of victims.’

Tyrington shook his head wonderingly. ‘I chose Wenden because he was mean and did virtually no teaching. He hurt Clare in
other ways, too, such as by leaving his money to the Bishop of Lincoln—’

‘Which precipitated
another
unhappy chain of events,’ said Michael accusingly. ‘The realisation that there would
be no money from Wenden forced Clare to sell Borden Hostel before it needed expensive repairs. That served to strengthen Candelby’s
hand against the University. You are a low, sly villain, Tyrington. You caused all manner of harm for your own selfish ends.
You offered me twenty marks to find Kenyngham’s killer, then you wrote confessing to his murder. You penned them in different
hands to confuse me.’

Tyrington shrugged. ‘You were paying too much attention to Lynton, so I decided to sidetrack you – to encourage you look into
the death of a man you liked.’

‘We saw you,’ said Michael, watching Bartholomew scramble into the stairwell and wrestle with the fallen stones. ‘You delivered
the so-called confession to Michaelhouse, and we saw you leave. You almost collided with a cart, but instead of yelling at
the driver, like a normal man, you slunk away.’

‘I dislike drawing attention to myself.’

Bartholomew gave up on the stones, and dashed back to the Lady Chapel. The window was hot, and he knew it would not be long
before it burst into flames. Then the students would push the smouldering wood inside the church, and the building would fill
with smoke. Meanwhile, the door was beginning to yield, and it would not be long before the potters streamed in. He wondered
whether they or the fire would get him first. He heard furious voices coming from Clare, loud and shrill with indignation,
and strained to hear what was being said. It was not difficult. The speaker was almost howling in his rage.

‘Spaldynge has just found a letter in his room, bearing his forged signature,’ he said to Michael. ‘He says it was a suicide
note, and there was a flask of wine with it.’

‘Poison,’ explained Tyrington. ‘My University would be better off without the likes of Spaldynge. He sold property
belonging to his College
and
he argued against my admission to Clare. He said I spit, which is untrue. It is a pity he found the note before the wine.
If it had been the other way around, he would have swallowed my anonymous gift without question.’

‘Now I see why you gave him the crossbow,’ said Michael in disgust. ‘I suppose this note contains a confession for killing
Lynton, too – Spaldynge is in possession of the murder weapon, after all.’

A huge crash summoned Bartholomew back to the door. It bowed dramatically and, sensing they were almost in, the townsmen were
redoubling their efforts. Meanwhile, smoke was billowing from the Lady Chapel. For the second time that day, Bartholomew began
to cough.

‘You snatched the tenancy agreement from Lynton’s body,’ said Michael to Tyrington, while Bartholomew darted back to the staircase
again. ‘You must have done it during the confusion of the ensuing skirmish, because no one has reported seeing you there.’

Tyrington smiled mirthlessly. ‘A lot of people had gathered that day, and I pride myself on blending in with a crowd. No one
saw me – not watching the aftermath of Lynton’s shooting, and not taking the rent agreement, either.’

‘But why did you grab it?’ asked Michael, bemused.

‘Because there was no need to besmirch my new College – Peterhouse – by having Lynton’s sordid dealings exposed. But in the
end I went to Michaelhouse. It is a strange world.’

‘And Ocleye?’ asked Michael. ‘We know he was spying for you.’

‘He provided me with information, but guessed what I was going to do. I predicted he would try to blackmail me, so I reloaded
and killed him during the confusion of the
brawl. I gashed his stomach, too, so you would think a knife, not a crossbow, was responsible.’

‘You seem remarkably calm for a man who is about to die,’ said Michael, narrowing his eyes.

The door gave a tearing groan that had the potters roaring encouragement to the fellows with the cart. Almost simultaneously,
the Lady Chapel window collapsed inwards, and flames shot across the floor. They ignited a pile of leaves that had been swept
into a corner, and something in the faint remains of the wall paintings began to smoulder.

‘I have wanted to be a Fellow all my adult life – to live in a College, and enjoy the companionship of like minds. Now I have
lost it, I do not care what happens. But I shall die in good company, at least.’

Bartholomew was not interested in Tyrington’s confessions. When the door screamed on its failing hinges, panic gave him the
strength he needed to move the stone that was blocking his way into the stairwell. It tumbled into the chancel with a resounding
crash.

‘Michael!’ he shouted, squeezing through the resulting gap. ‘This way.’

The monk, keeping a wary eye on Tyrington, hurried over. He stared in dismay at the small space the physician had cleared.
‘I cannot cram myself through that!’

The door gave another monstrous groan. ‘Come
on
!’ yelled Bartholomew, holding out his hand. ‘You, too, Tyrington. You will not hang under canon law, and you may find your
like-minded community in some remote convent in the Fens.’

The door was being held by splinters, and one more blow from the cart would see it collapse. Michael inserted his bulk into
the opening. He blotted out all light, so it was pitch dark. Bartholomew grabbed his flailing arm and hauled. Michael yelped
as masonry tore his habit. There
was a resounding crack as the door flew open. Then the church was full of yells and screams. Bartholomew heaved with all his
might, and the monk shot upwards. They were past the worst of the rubble.

Bartholomew groped his way up the stairs, trying not to inhale the smoke that wafted around him. Below, Michael was hacking
furiously. Then the steps ended, and with a shock, the physician realised what had caused the debris: the upper stairs no
longer existed. Appalled, he scrabbled around in the dark, and ascertained that small parts of the steps had survived, jutting
from the central pillar like rungs on a one-sided ladder. Michael wailed his horror when his outstretched fingers encountered
the void.

‘What is left is too narrow for me,’ he screeched. ‘I will fall!’

‘They are wider up here,’ called Bartholomew encouragingly. He coughed. ‘Hurry, Michael! Someone is coming after us.’

‘Tyrington,’ gasped the monk. ‘He has had second thoughts about dying in the nave.’

Suddenly, Michael lost his footing, his downward progress arrested only because Tyrington was in the way. He shrieked his
alarm, and Tyrington made no sound at all. Bartholomew leaned down and pulled with all his might, trying to lift Michael into
a position where he would be able to climb on his own. The sinews in his shoulder cracked as they took the monk’s full weight.

Then the pressure eased, and Michael was ascending again. The stairs were in better condition nearer the top, although they
were littered with fallen masonry, and perilously dark. Bartholomew slipped and fell, colliding with Michael behind him. Michael
gave him a hard shove that propelled him upwards, faster than he had anticipated, and he slipped again.

‘Hurry, Matt! I cannot breathe!’

Bartholomew reached the door that led to the roof, only to find it locked. His arms were heavy, and he knew he was making
no impact as he pounded ineffectually on it. Michael shoved him out of the way, and his bulk made short work of the rotten
wood. The door flew into pieces, and clean air and daylight flooded into the stairwell.

‘They have lit a fire at the bottom,’ Tyrington croaked. ‘I can hear it crackling. Help me!’

Michael scrambled out on to the roof, while Bartholomew retraced his steps to rescue his terrified colleague. Tyrington gripped
his outstretched hand, but then started to pull, dragging the physician back down towards the nave. Bartholomew tried to free
himself, but his shoulder burned from where he had lifted Michael, and he found he did not have the strength to resist. The
smoke was thick, and he could not breathe. Through the haze, he could see Tyrington grinning wildly.

‘Come with me,’ he crooned. ‘The two of us will die side by side. Fellows together in adversity.’

Bartholomew fell another three steps. He was dizzy from a lack of air, and his eyes smarted so much that Tyrington’s smile
began to blur. Suddenly, there was an immense pressure around his middle, and his hand shot out of Tyrington’s grasp.

‘No!’ wailed Tyrington. ‘Come back! Michaelhouse men should—’

‘—not try to incinerate each other,’ finished Michael, grunting as he heaved the physician upwards by his belt. ‘I shall make
sure I add it to the Statutes.’

Then they were at the door and out into the cool, fresh air. Bartholomew coughed, trying to catch his breath, and it occurred
to him that their situation was not much improved. A rank stench of singed flesh wafted upwards,
and he could hear victorious yells from the church. Meanwhile, the students of Clare and Peterhouse were peering upwards.
Spaldynge was among them, and he held his crossbow. He took aim, but something was wrong with the mechanism, and he lowered
it in puzzlement.

‘Look,’ shouted Michael suddenly, grabbing Bartholomew’s shoulder and pointing. ‘You can see the Trumpington Gate from here.
Guess who has just ridden through it.’

‘I cannot think,’ Bartholomew croaked. ‘And I can barely see you, let alone the Trumpington Gate,’

‘It is Sheriff Tulyet. And not a moment too soon.’

The sun was shining brightly and there was no wind, so it was pleasant in Michaelhouse’s orchard. A week had passed since
the events that had left two apprentices and a student dead. Sheriff Tulyet had arrived just in time to quash what might have
erupted into a serious disturbance, and once he had been rescued from the church roof, Michael had rallied his beadles and
set about clearing the streets of scholars. Calm had reigned by nightfall, and the town had been quiet ever since. The Chancellor
had decreed that term would begin early, and the undergraduates had been too busy with their books to think about brawling.
The town had been restless at first, but the Mayor and his burgesses had been appeased by a gift of two houses from Peterhouse.
Because the gift would last only as long as Cambridge was peaceful, any unruly factions had been told in no uncertain terms
that they must behave themselves.