‘Worse. It arrived a few moments ago, although the porter does not recall how it was delivered. It offers me the sum of twenty marks for uncovering the identity of Kenyngham’s killer.’
Bartholomew snatched it from him, and read it himself. The author claimed that Kenyngham’s death had not been natural, and that it should be investigated immediately. The reward money would be delivered to Michaelhouse as soon as the monk had made an arrest. The parchment was the cheap kind that might have been purchased by anyone, and the style of writing was undistinguished.
‘But Kenyngham was not murdered,’ objected Bartholomew, distressed.
Michael nodded unhappily. ‘I reflected on what you said yesterday, and I have decided to accept your reasoning. The business with the “antidote” was nothing – I was reading too much into a casual remark made by a man who later said odd things to you, too. So, I imagine this letter was written by someone who grieves – a way of refusing to acknowledge that death comes to us all, even to saintly men like Kenyngham.’
He put the document in his scrip, but Bartholomew wished he had tossed it in the latrine pit, where he felt it belonged.
‘I told Langelee that Lynton was shot,’ the monk went on. ‘He can be trusted to keep quiet, and he needs to know why we may be out a lot in the coming days. He says we are excused nursemaid duties at these wretched disputations, as long as we find someone to take our places.’
Bartholomew watched the students file into the hall, full of eager anticipation. The Fellows might find the debates a chore, but the junior members loved them. ‘No one is free to help us today, so you will have to start the investigation alone,’ he said to Michael. ‘I will join you as soon as I can.’
‘But I need you to inspect Lynton now. And I want your help at Peterhouse, too. I am determined to solve this crime. Lynton was an impossible old traditionalist, but he was decent and kind-hearted, and I will not let his killer evade justice. To do that I require your wits, as well as my own.’
‘Falmeresham would have supervised the disputations for me,’ said Bartholomew dejectedly.
‘Deynman can do it, then,’ decided Michael. ‘He is our oldest undergraduate by a considerable margin, and even he should be able to sit at the back of the hall and make sure no one escapes.’
Bartholomew was doubtful, but in the absence of a choice – he also wanted Lynton’s killer under lock and key as soon as possible – he beckoned the lad over.
‘You can trust me, sir,’ Deynman declared, delighted to be put into a position of power at last. ‘I shall make sure they stay in, and do not slip out later to join the lads from Clare in the Angel inn.’
Bartholomew regarded him sharply, and found himself staring into a pair of guileless eyes; it had not occurred to Deynman that he had just betrayed his classmates’ plans.
‘Come, Matt,’ said Michael, taking his arm before the physician could have second thoughts about leaving his home in the care of such a man. ‘We have a lot to do today, and there is not a moment to lose.’
‘The Lilypot first,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I want to see if Blankpayn is back yet.’
‘Brother!’ Michael turned to see Langelee hurrying towards him. ‘I need you to deliver these for me. They are letters of appointment for Honynge and Tyrington. Do not pull sour faces! I know you are busy, but this is important. We need to know as soon as possible if they are going to accept.’
‘Honynge!’ spat Michael. ‘How could you all be so foolish? I wager I will be saying “I told you so” within a week of his admission.’
Langelee turned to Bartholomew. ‘And I am trusting you to make sure he does not accidentally “lose” Honynge’s letter along the way.’
They left, but Bartholomew refused to deliver the invitations until they had been to the Lilypot. He was acutely disappointed to learn that Blankpayn was still away, and no one had any idea when he might be back. While Michael continued to quiz the tavern’s occupants, Bartholomew’s eyes lit on a man who sat in a dark corner, bundled in a hooded cloak. He went to stand next to him.
‘I am not fooled by that disguise, Carton,’ he said softly to the commoner Franciscan. ‘And that means neither will anyone else. Michael’s beadles are looking for Falmeresham in the taverns this morning – they will catch you here, and you will be fined for breaking University rules.’
‘They have already been in,’ replied Carton. ‘But they know I am not here to cause trouble.’
‘It will cause trouble if Blankpayn catches you spying in his domain. Leave the hunt to Michael’s men. They know what they are doing.’
Reluctantly, the friar followed him outside. ‘A dozen witnesses – us included – saw Blankpayn stab Falmeresham. It is vital we talk to him as soon as possible.’
‘It is vital,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘And any clues he provides will be carefully investigated. But not by you. You do not have the right kind of experience, and you may do more harm than good. If you care for Falmeresham, you will leave the matter to others.’
Carton’s face was grim. ‘Blankpayn is Candelby’s lapdog, and may well hurt a student to please him. He is a lout – all brawn and ale-belly, and not two wits to rub together.’
‘Even more reason to leave him to the beadles.’
The Franciscan glanced up at the sky. ‘I shall walk to Madingley, then, to visit his mother.’
‘Cynric has already been. She has not seen him in months.’
‘She would say that,’ said Carton. ‘He is her son. Of course she is going to help him hide.’
‘Yes, but we are talking about Cynric,’ said Bartholomew, not altogether approvingly. ‘A man who never allows locked doors to keep him out. He searched her home from top to bottom – hopefully with her none the wiser – and says there is no sign of Blankpayn.’
Carton closed his eyes in despair. ‘Then what can I do? Falmeresham is my friend, and I cannot stop thinking that he might need my help.’
Bartholomew felt much the same way. ‘Go to the Carmelite Friary, and ask if any of the novices saw anything. If so, come back and tell Michael – do not race off to investigate on your own.’
Carton shot him a wan smile. ‘I am not the kind of fellow who rushes headlong into danger without due thought. If the truth be told, I am something of a coward.’
Bartholomew was watching him walk away when Michael emerged from the tavern, leaving behind a number of angry men. They had resented his accusing questions.
‘Nothing,’ he said in disgust. ‘Blankpayn has disappeared into thin air, just like his victim.’
As Bartholomew walked along the High Street, he stared at the jumbled chimneys of the Angel tavern, famous for its pies and for being owned by the University’s most vocal opponent. The inn was massive, with whitewashed walls and well-maintained woodwork. It stood opposite the ancient church of St Bene’t, and recently Candelby had objected to the fact that blossom from the graveyard blew into the street and became slippery when wet. Because the church was used mostly by scholars, he claimed the flowers were a University plot to make him fall and break his neck. When the accusation became common knowledge, students had raided the surrounding countryside for cherry saplings to plant.
‘I searched the Angel when I was hunting for Falmeresham last night,’ said Michael following the direction of his gaze. ‘A group of lads from Clare was there, so I offered to waive the fine if they could tell me where Falmeresham had gone. None could, so they are all a groat poorer.’
‘You said a Clare student was killed in yesterday’s brawl,’ said Bartholomew worriedly. ‘I doubt his friends were at a town alehouse for peaceful reasons.’