To Kill or Cure (48 page)

‘Ignore him, Blankpayn,’ ordered Candelby. ‘You are no killer, so do not be stupid about—’

‘Kill them,’ hissed Honynge fiercely. The taper was burning, ready to ignite Candelby’s little bonfire. ‘Follow what your
instincts tell you to do. Do not obey a man who calls you stupid.’

‘Stop it, Honynge,’ snapped Candelby, when Blankpayn gripped his sword and prepared to follow the scholar’s suggestion. ‘We
have worked well together this far, so do not spoil everything now. No one needs to die. Put up your blade, Blankpayn. I should
have known better than to ask
you
to help with a matter that requires subtlety and discretion.’

It was the wrong thing to say, because Blankpayn’s expression darkened. With a sigh of annoyance that his normally submissive
henchman should dare defy him, Candelby tried to snatch Blankpayn’s weapon. At the same time, the blazing taper singed Honynge’s
fingers. He howled in pain and dropped it, so it fell on the documents, which immediately began to smoulder. Blankpayn ripped
his sword away from Candelby with a bellow of fury, and suddenly the two men were engaged in a desperate grappling match.
Michael darted towards the flames and began to flail at them with his cloak.

‘Michael, stop!’ yelled Bartholomew, trying to squeeze past the furious mêlée of arms, legs and sword that was Candelby and
Blankpayn. The desk was in the way, and he was trapped. ‘Smother them – do not
fan
them!’

Honynge was laughing wildly. He drew a knife and prepared to plunge it into the monk’s back.

Determined that Honynge should not succeed, Bartholomew flung himself across the table, scattering burning parchments as he
went. He crashed into the ex-Fellow, bowling him from his feet. Honynge scrambled away when the physician was still off balance,
and swiped at him with the dagger, a vicious blow that might have killed him had he not been wearing the jerkin. Bartholomew
fell back among the smouldering documents, and Honynge leapt on top of him, pummelling him with
his fists. The physician tried to push him off, but Honynge was stronger than he looked, and the smoke from the burning deeds
was making it difficult to breathe. Bartholomew tried to shout for Michael, but Honynge landed a punch that drove all the
breath from his body. Then Honynge’s hands were around his throat, squeezing as hard as they could.

Just when his senses were beginning to reel, Honynge went limp. Michael hauled the physician to his feet, and threw open a
window, allowing fresh, clean air to waft inside. The smoke swirled, then began to clear. Bartholomew’s throat hurt, his eyes
stung and he could not stop coughing. Michael went to the centre of the room, and began to swing a cloak around his head,
in an attempt to dissipate the fumes. Blankpayn lay near the door, blood seeping from under him; he was dead.

‘Are you all right, Matt?’ asked the monk, not stopping his exertions. ‘Damn these silly men! The whole place almost went
up – my office is full of old wood and dry parchment.’

‘What happened?’ asked Bartholomew hoarsely. He coughed again. ‘Blankpayn?’

‘Fell on his own dagger,’ replied Michael, still swinging vigorously. ‘Help me get rid of this smoke, before the Regents smell
it and there is a stampede. We do not want anyone crushed.’

‘And Honynge?’ asked Bartholomew, too shaken to comply.

Candelby was leaning against a wall, looking as though he might be sick. ‘I knocked him senseless with a doorstop after Blankpayn
had his mishap – he would have killed you otherwise. They were
both
deranged! I knew Blankpayn was growing dangerous, but I did not think he would actually
harm
anyone, especially me. That business with Falmeresham turned his wits.’

Michael regarded him with dislike. ‘Blankpayn
was
a dangerous man, while Honynge was going to ignite the University Church with all our Regents inside it. However,
you
recruited them, so
you
are complicit in their crimes.’

‘No!’ cried Candelby, appalled. ‘I admit I wanted to create confusion, so the Regents would not object when I tripled the
rents, but no one was going to be hurt. I was planning to offer money for repairs to the church, too, just to show you that
I bear no hard feelings.’

‘I do not believe you.’

‘But it is true,’ wailed Candelby. ‘Ask Honynge when he wakes up. He will tell you we discussed it, and that a box of coins
is in my house, ready to be offered as reparation.’

‘I am afraid Honynge will not be giving evidence in your favour,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘You hit him far too hard, and
he is no longer breathing.’

‘Well, save him then,’ ordered Candelby, shocked. ‘Flick feathers at him, like Arderne does. I need him alive, so he can tell
you I am speaking the truth.’

Michael was unmoved. ‘You have just murdered a member of my University – not one I liked, it is true, but Honynge was a colleague
nonetheless.’

‘I did it to save your friend,’ cried Candelby, becoming frightened. ‘You know I did.’

‘Do I? It is still unlawful homicide, and thus a hanging offence.’ Candelby’s jaw dropped, and Michael went on. ‘However,
I might be prepared to broker an agreement, if certain conditions are met. One is that you use this box of coins to repair
the mess you have made of my office. And the other is that you agree to new terms about the rent.’

‘What new terms?’ squeaked Candelby, thoroughly rattled. ‘You mean to let them stay as they are?’

‘I could say that,’ replied Michael. ‘And you are hardly
in a position to quibble. But it would be ungracious, and I would like this dispute resolved amicably. So, we shall offer
a rise of five per cent for this year, with the promise of a review next winter. I think that is fair – to both sides.’

‘It is not …’ began Candelby. His face was grey, although Bartholomew was not sure whether it was the notion of being charged
with murder or the prospect of losing money that dismayed him more.

‘The alternative is standing trial for Honynge’s death, arson, destroying University property, and whatever other charges
I care to bring against you,’ said Michael coldly. ‘You may win, of course, and so save your life. Would you take
that
gamble, Candelby?’

‘No,’ said Candelby weakly. ‘I do not like these odds. You University men are all the same. Honynge claimed he was keeping
me informed of University business, but his information was often inaccurate. He told me Borden Hostel was an excellent business
opportunity, but it was not. The roof is unstable, and there are huge cracks in the walls. It will cost me a fortune to repair.’

Michael shot him a look that said it served him right. ‘The rent settlement?’ he prompted.

Candelby sighed. ‘Very well. I accept your offer, but you had better not mention this unhappy business with Honynge again
– not ever.’

‘Agreed,’ said Michael. ‘Now, I suggest we go into the church and announce that we no longer need the Regents to vote. We
shall both smile and claim to be delighted.’

‘I am pleased you have won your war, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, before Michael could follow the dejected landlord through
the door. ‘But if Honynge and Candelby did not kill Lynton, then who did?’

‘Spaldynge,’ replied Michael. ‘He is our killer.’

* * *

The announcement that the rent conflict was over was something of an anticlimax, and Gedney was not the only one to grumble
that he had missed breakfast for a debate about puddings. Unhappily, Michael watched the Regents file out of the church. Some
were laughing at the stupid things William and Morden had said, but others were deeply disappointed that the disagreement
had ended peacefully.

‘Many of our scholars cannot believe the dispute is finished, and nor will the town,’ he said worriedly. ‘Wheels have been
set in motion, and there is nothing we can do to slow them down.’

Bartholomew rubbed his sore eyes. ‘There must be something.’

‘We can catch the man who killed Lynton and Ocleye,’ said Michael grimly. ‘It may be too late, but we must try.’

Bartholomew followed him out through the great west door and on to the High Street, where they headed towards Clare. ‘You
really think Spaldynge is responsible?’

Michael nodded. ‘It is obvious now. He was a regular guest at the Dispensary, but he dislikes physicians – and he told us
himself that it was
Lynton
who failed to save his family during the plague. Further, he probably sold Borden to Candelby because he knew it was about
to become very expensive to repair, which goes to show he is sly.’

‘All scholars are sly,’ said Bartholomew, not sure Michael’s logic was as sound as it might have been. The physician was not
the only one who was exhausted and not thinking clearly.

When they reached Clare and knocked on the gate, Bartholomew stood with his back to it, aware that a group of potters was
loitering nearby. One shouted something about the multilation of Isnard, and another offered to amputate the physician’s head.

‘We had better arrest Spaldynge now,’ said Michael. ‘Then, when everyone sees we have solved the murders at last, they will
all calm down.’

Bartholomew regarded him in alarm. ‘Arrest him how, exactly? Storm inside and grab him, while all Clare looks on? Are you
insane?’

‘We cannot use my beadles, because marching around with an army would not be wise this morning. We cannot afford to be seen
behaving in a provocative manner.’

‘Then we should leave this until later. Arresting him now is more likely to inflame than soothe.’

‘He might claim another victim if we do not act at once. Do you want that on your conscience?’

But Bartholomew was growing increasingly uneasy. ‘Spaldynge –
if
he is our man – is an experienced killer. He is not going to let you escort him away without a fuss. This is madness!’

It was Spaldynge who answered the door, and he carried a small crossbow in his hand. Michael glanced meaningfully at Bartholomew,
but the physician was more concerned with how the potters were reacting to the sight of such a deadly weapon. They made themselves
scarce before it could be used on them, but he had the feeling they had not gone far.

Spaldynge smirked his satisfaction. ‘Did you see that rabble slink away? That showed them we are not all helpless priests
without the wherewithal to defend ourselves.’

‘That is a handsome implement,’ said Michael, flinching when it started to come around to point at him. ‘How long have you
had it?’

‘About a week,’ replied Spaldynge. ‘It was a gift.’

‘Very nice,’ said Bartholomew, backing away and trying to drag Michael with him. ‘You are clearly busy, so we will come back
later.’

‘A gift from whom?’ demanded Michael, pulling himself free.

‘From someone who said I might need to defend myself,’ replied Spaldynge. ‘Because of Borden.’

He gestured that they were to enter his College. Bartholomew baulked, but Michael strode confidently across the threshold.
Loath to leave his friend alone, the physician followed, fumbling for one of his surgical knives as he did so. Spaldynge barred
the door behind them, and Bartholomew swallowed hard, aware that it would make escape that much more difficult. He glanced
at Michael, who did not seem to care that his rash determination to seize his culprit was putting them both in danger.

‘What about Borden?’ demanded Bartholomew, nervousness making him speak more curtly than he had intended. He braced himself,
half-expecting to be shot there and then.

‘I sold it to Candelby,’ said Spaldynge impatiently. ‘You know that. My benefactor said I might need to defend myself against
colleagues who may accuse me of wrongdoing.’

‘Your colleagues will applaud your actions,’ countered Michael. ‘You hawked Candelby a house that is structurally unsound,
and that will cost him a fortune to renovate.’

Spaldynge regarded him coolly. ‘Kardington asked me not to tell anyone that, because he said it would make us look deceitful.
We do not want anyone assuming we rid ourselves of a burden …’

‘I see,’ said Michael, when he faltered. ‘Borden was sold because it was about to become a millstone around Clare’s neck,
and the transaction was made with the full support of the Master and Fellows. No wonder you have remained on such good terms
with them! Far from doing something
to damage your College, you have acted in their best interests, and nobly shouldered the blame.’

‘You cannot prove it, and we will deny everything.’

‘I am sure you will,’ said Michael. He sighed, tiring of games. ‘Who gave you the bow?’

‘I decline to say. It is none of your business, and you should be out quelling riots or hunting Motelete’s killer, not strutting
around in company with a physician.’ He almost spat the last word.

‘Brother Michael,’ said Kardington, striding across the yard towards them. Master Wisbeche of Peterhouse was at his side.
‘I do not like the feel of the town today.’

‘Neither do I,’ agreed Wisbeche. ‘So Kardington offered my students and me refuge until it is safe to go home. It was clever
of you to reach that last-minute agreement with Candelby, and thus avoid a vote that would have split the University, but
it has done little to ease the tension with the town.’

Bartholomew saw the scholars of Peterhouse talking to the members of Clare, and hoped none would remember that they had been
going to stand against each other at the Convocation. Wisbeche and Kardington were civilised, but that did not mean their
flocks would be equally well behaved.

‘Well, you know Cambridge,’ said Spaldynge, toting his bow. ‘Any excuse for a riot.’

‘Put that down,’ ordered Kardington crossly. ‘It is against the rules for scholars to carry weapons, and if you do it in front
of the Senior Proctor, he will hit you where it hurts – in the purse.’

‘It is not illegal inside my own College,’ objected Spaldynge. ‘And I do not … Oh, Christ! I am sorry, Master Wisbeche. Are
you hurt?’

‘You have ruined my tabard!’ exclaimed Wisbeche. He
was angry, but aware that he was a guest in someone else’s College, and so not in a position to say what he really thought.
‘There is a hole in it!’