To Kill or Cure (3 page)

The monk
had
held forth about a ‘rent war’ on several occasions, but Bartholomew had taken scant notice. The previous term had been frantically
busy for him, because two Fellows on a sabbatical leave of absence meant a huge increase in his teaching load, and he had
not had time to think about much else. ‘Spaldynge’s is only one house, Brother.’

Michael regarded him balefully. ‘You clearly have
not
been listening to me, or you would not be making such an inane remark. The landlords are refusing to renew leases, and we
have dozens of homeless scholars already – scholars
I
need
to house. Thus
every
building is important at the moment. Did you know the one Spaldynge sold was Borden Hostel? He was its Principal.’

‘Borden?’ asked Bartholomew, a little shocked. ‘But that has been part of the University for decades. It is older than most
Colleges.’

Michael’s face was grim. ‘Quite. Unfortunately, the landlords have interpreted its sale to mean that if stable old Borden
can fall into their hands, then so can any other foundation. As I said, I am furious about it – Spaldynge has done the whole
University a disservice.’

Bartholomew was puzzled. ‘You say he sold his hostel to buy food, but where does he intend to eat it, if he has no home? He
has solved one problem by creating another.’

‘He is a Fellow of Clare, so he and his students have been given refuge there. He said he made the sale to underline the fact
that most hostels are desperately poor, but we collegians do not care.’

Bartholomew looked at the mounds of food on Michael’s trencher. ‘Perhaps he has a point.’

‘Perhaps he does, but it still does not give him the right to sell property that does not belong to him. Did I tell you that
these greedy landlords are demanding that all rents be
trebled
? As the law stands, it is the University that determines what constitutes a fair rent – and that rate was set years ago.
It means these treacherous landlords are questioning
the law itself
!’

‘But the rate was set before the plague,’ Bartholomew pointed out reasonably. ‘And times have changed since then. Perhaps
your “fair rent” is fair no longer.’

Michael did not hear him over the choir’s caterwauling. He speared a piece of roasted pork with uncharacteristic savagery.
‘If the landlords win this dispute, it could herald the end of the University, because only the very wealthy
will be able to afford accommodation here. At the moment, nearly
all
our students live in town-owned buildings; only a fraction of them are lucky enough to occupy a scholar-owned College like
ours.’

Bartholomew decided he had better change the subject before the monk became so weighed down with his concerns that it would
spoil his enjoyment of the feast. He said the first thing that came into his head, before realising it was probably not much
of an improvement. ‘Clare seems to be causing you all manner of problems at the moment. How is your investigation into the
death of that other Fellow of theirs – Wenden?’

‘Solved, thank God. Wenden was deeply unpopular when he was alive, but he is even more so now he is dead.’

‘How is that possible?’

‘His colleagues endured his unpleasant foibles for nigh on thirty years, on the understanding that Clare would be his sole
beneficiary when he died. However, when his will was read, it transpired that he had left everything to the Bishop of Lincoln
instead.’

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘He bequeathed his College nothing at all?’

‘Not a penny. I might have accused his colleagues of killing him, but for the testimony of the friend he had been visiting
that night. Wenden had forgotten his hat, and Honynge was chasing after him to give it back. Honynge saw a tinker lurking
about, and heard a bow loosed moments later.’

‘A tinker?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Not the one we fished from the river a few days ago?’

‘The very same. You ascertained that he fell in while he was drunk – an accident – and I found Wenden’s purse hidden among
his belongings. So, the case is closed.’

Michael turned his full attention to his food, and
Bartholomew winced when the choir attempted a popular dance tune, delivered in a ponderous bellow at half-speed. Meanwhile,
Kenyngham opened his eyes at last, and began to fill his trencher with slivers of roasted goose.

‘Our musicians are discordant today,’ he said, in something of an understatement. ‘Wait until they finish this song, then
offer them some ale. That should shut them up.’

It was a good idea, and the physician supposed someone should have thought of it before they had started in the first place.
He went to oblige, assisted by a commoner called Roger Carton. Carton was a short, plump, serious Franciscan, and had come
to Michaelhouse to help Wynewyk teach the burgeoning numbers of law students – lawyers tended to make more money than men
in other vocational professions, so law was currently the University’s most popular subject. When Bartholomew and Carton approached
the choir with jugs of ale, the clamour stopped mid-sentence, and the singers clustered eagerly around them. A blissful peace
settled across the hall.

‘Will you visit your Gilbertine colleagues later?’ Bartholomew asked of Kenyngham, when he was back in his place. ‘You usually
spend at least part of Easter at their convent.’

‘Not this time.’ Kenyngham patted his hand, and Bartholomew noticed for the first time that the friar’s skin had developed
the soft, silky texture of the very elderly. ‘I am too tired. Your students are laughing – what a pleasant sound!’

The source of the lads’ amusement was a medical student named Falmeresham, who was intelligent but mischievous and unruly.
Bartholomew doubted Kenyngham would be amused if he was let in on the joke, because it was almost certain to be lewd, malicious
or both.

‘Michael is pale,’ said Kenyngham in a low voice. ‘The rent war is worrying him more deeply than you appreciate, so you must
help him resolve it.’

‘Me?’ asked Bartholomew, startled by the suggestion. ‘It is the proctors’ business, and none of mine. He has a deputy to manage
that sort of thing for him.’

‘Yes, but his current assistant is neither efficient nor perspicacious, and Michael will only win the dispute if he is helped
by his friends. Good friends, not crocodiles.’

‘Crocodiles?’ echoed Bartholomew, bemused.

‘Crocodiles,’ repeated Kenyngham firmly. ‘Timely men with teeth. And
you
must oppose false prophets. Like shooting stars, they dazzle while they are in flight, but they burn out and are soon forgotten.
Crocodiles and shooting stars, Matthew. Crocodiles and shooting stars.’

Bartholomew had no idea what he was talking about, but Kenyngham had closed his eyes and his face was suffused with the beatific
expression that indicated he was praying again. There was no point trying to question him when he was in conversation with
God, and Bartholomew did not try. He turned to Michael, and was about to comment on the baked apples, when the choir resumed
their programme. Fuelled by ale, they were rowdier than ever. Gradually, they veered away from the staid ballads Michael had
taught them, and began to range into the uncharted territory of tavern ditties. The lyrics grew steadily more bawdy until
even the liberal-minded Langelee was compelled to act. He stood to say grace, and Fellows and students hastened to follow
his example. There was a collective scraping of benches and chairs, and then everyone was on his feet. Except one man.

‘Give Kenyngham a poke, Bartholomew,’ said Langelee. ‘He seems to have fallen asleep again. It must be the wine.’

‘Or the restful music,’ added Wynewyk caustically.

The physician obliged, then caught the old man as he started to slide backwards off his seat. After a moment, he looked up.
‘I cannot wake him this time,’ he said softly. ‘He is dead.’

Space was in short supply for University scholars, and only the very wealthy could afford the luxury of a room to themselves
– and sometimes even then, no purse was heavy enough to overcome the need to cram several men into a single chamber. Bartholomew
was uncommonly lucky in his living arrangements. He was obliged to share his room with only one student – and Falmeresham
preferred to be with his friends than with his teacher, so was nearly always out. It meant the physician had a privacy that
was almost unprecedented among his peers.

He occupied a pleasant ground-floor chamber with two small arched windows looking across the courtyard, and had a tiny cupboard-like
room across the stairwell where he kept his remedies and medical equipment. The bedchamber was sparsely furnished: it contained
a single bed, with a straw mattress for Falmeresham that was rolled up each morning and stored underneath it; a row of pegs
and a chest for spare clothes; and a pair of writing desks.

Michael, meanwhile, shared his quarters with two Benedictines from his Mother House at Ely, but spent most of his daylight
hours at the proctors’ office in the University Church, commonly called St Mary the Great. It was generally acknowledged that
he was by far the most powerful scholar in Cambridge, because Chancellor Tynkell was a spineless nonentity who let him do
what he liked. The monk’s friends often asked why he did not have himself elected as Chancellor, and claim the glory as well
as the power, but Michael pointed out that the current arrangement allowed him to make all the important decisions,
while Tynkell was there to take the blame if anything went wrong.

The sudden and unexpected death of Kenyngham had sent a ripple of shock through the College that affected everyone, from the
most junior servant to the most senior Fellow, and the monk did not want to be with his Benedictine colleagues or haunt St
Mary the Great that afternoon. Instead, he sat in Bartholomew’s chamber, perching on a stool that creaked under his enormous
weight.

‘So Kenyngham just … died?’ he asked, holding out his goblet for more ‘medicinal’ wine.

‘People do,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘He was very old – well past seventy.’

‘But how could he? He was at a feast, for God’s sake! People do not die at feasts.’

As a physician, Bartholomew was used to being asked such questions by the bereaved, but that did not make them any easier
to answer. ‘He closed his eyes to pray, and I suppose he just slipped away. He loved Easter, and was happy today. It is not
a bad way to go.’

‘Are you sure it was natural? Perhaps he was poisoned.’

‘You have been a proctor too long – you see mischief everywhere, even when there is none.’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘I went to his room last night, and caught him swallowing some potion or other. When I asked what
it was, he told me it was an antidote.’

‘An antidote for what?’ asked Bartholomew, mystified. He was Kenyngham’s physician, and he had prescribed nothing except a
balm for an aching back in months.

‘He declined to say – he changed the subject when I tried to ask him about it. But supposing it was an antidote to poison,
because he knew someone was going to do him harm?’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘You have a vivid
imagination, Brother! Besides, you do not take antidotes
before
you are poisoned – you take them after, once you know what you have been given. But there was nothing strange about his death.
He was obviously feeling unwell, because he said he was too tired to visit the Gilbertine convent today, and you know how
he liked their chapel. Besides, who would want to harm Kenyngham?’

‘No one – but I cannot shake the feeling that a
person
is to blame for this. Kenyngham was a saint, and God would never have struck him down so suddenly.’

‘Good men are just as prone to death as wicked ones.’

Michael stood. ‘Come to his room with me – now. We shall find this antidote, and then you will see I am right to be suspicious.’

Bartholomew did not find it easy to open Kenyngham’s door and step inside his quarters. The Gilbertine’s familiar frayed cloak
hung on the back of the door, and the pillow on the bed still held the hollow made by the old man’s head. Bartholomew stood
by the window and thought of the many hours he had spent there, enjoying Kenyngham’s sweet-tempered, erudite company.

‘I cannot find it,’ said Michael after a while. He stood with his hands on his hips, perturbed.

‘We should not be here,’ said Bartholomew uncomfortably. ‘It feels wrong. He gave you an evasive, ambiguous answer when you
asked him what he was swallowing, which tells me he did not want you to know. Can we not respect his wish for privacy?’

Michael sighed. ‘Very well – but just because I cannot find this antidote does not mean I imagined the whole incident. He
really did take something, you know.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘I believe you, but it could have been anything – a mild purge, a secret supply of wine. It does not have
to be sinister.’

‘Right,’ said Michael in a way that suggested he would make up his own mind about that.

Once back in Bartholomew’s room they sat in silence for a long time. ‘We shall have to elect someone to take his place – and
soon,’ said the monk eventually. ‘Suttone and Clippesby will be away again next term, and we cannot manage with a third Fellow
gone.’

Bartholomew found he did not like the notion of someone else taking Kenyngham’s post. ‘He is barely cold, Brother,’ he said
reproachfully.

‘I know, but he would not want us to be sentimental about this – and nor would he approve of us neglecting our students’ education
by being tardy about appointing a replacement. Who will it be, do you think? Principal Honynge of Zachary Hostel is always
sniffing around in search of a College post, so I suppose he will be calling tomorrow, to remind us of his academic prowess.
Now
there
is someone who would harm Kenyngham. I have never liked him, and he strikes me as the kind of man who might resort to poison
to further his own ends.’

‘And how did he commit this crime?’ asked Bartholomew, supposing distress was leading the monk to make wild and unfounded
accusations. ‘We all ate the same food.’