‘That did cross my mind, Matt,’ said Michael dryly. ‘Especially as the other victim was a pot-boy from the Angel. We shall have to stop at Clare on our way home, to make sure no one is planning revenge. Then we must do the same with the Angel.’
‘I do not suppose they killed each other, did they? That would be a neat solution for you.’
‘The bodies were found near each other, so it is possible. I have certainly encouraged my beadles to tell everyone that is the case.’
‘But it may not be true.’
Michael regarded him soberly. ‘No, it may not. However, I do not want more deaths on either side, and if a few timely lies can ease the tension, then I shall encourage them. Neither faction can justify a killing spree if both perpetrators are dead, and I must do all I can to avert strife.’
‘Yet you plan to investigate Lynton’s murder. That might ignite the situation.’
‘You said we should keep details of Lynton’s demise to ourselves. Ergo, no one will know I am investigating his murder, because no one will know he was murdered in the first place. It will require considerable skill to maintain discretion, but we can do it. We must do it.’
They walked in silence, cutting down several nameless alleys, until Michael stopped outside a pair of timber-framed houses. Both were hostels, although such foundations came and went with such bewildering rapidity that it took Bartholomew a moment to recall their names. Piron was a large establishment, built on three floors with a cellar below for storage. Its smaller neighbour was Zachary, named for the nearby church. Their principals were Tyrington and Honynge, respectively.
‘I know we are desperate for another teacher,’ said Michael. ‘But I would rather be worked off my feet than appoint the wrong person – and I am not happy with either of these two.’
‘You should have made more of a fuss at the meeting, then,’ said Bartholomew tartly. He also thought his colleagues were making a mistake by opting to take whoever happened to be available, and was sure Carton would have been the better choice. ‘It is too late now.’
‘It is Honynge who is the problem,’ Michael went on. ‘Supposing he cheats us?’
Bartholomew was startled. ‘There has never been any suggestion of dishonesty on his part, and you malign him unjustly. Besides, I have heard him in the debating hall, and he is impressive. He will improve Michaelhouse’s academic reputation, and that is what counts.’
‘You may not think so when he makes off with the College silver,’ warned Michael coolly.
Bartholomew thought he was overreacting. ‘Do you want to visit him or Tyrington first?’
‘Tyrington. I am not ready for Honynge yet. Remember to stand well back when he speaks, and do not allow him to entice you into a scholarly disputation. We must make a start on this Lynton business as soon as possible, and have no time to waste on scholastic debates. Did you know both these houses are owned by Candelby?’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I thought they belonged to Mayor Harleston.’
‘He sold them. As you know, the University compels landlords to keep any buildings rented by scholars in good repair. But Harleston said he would rather sell his properties than pay for their upkeep when the only people to benefit would be University men.’
Bartholomew studied them. ‘Piron is well-maintained, and it looks as though the work has been carried out recently. Zachary is shabby, though. Why has Candelby spent money on one building, but neglected its neighbour?’
Michael shrugged. ‘Who knows what a man like Candelby thinks? Still, Honynge and Tyrington will not have to worry about him in the future. They will be comfortably installed at Michaelhouse.’
Their knock on Piron Hostel’s door was opened by a well-dressed youth who wore a heavy purse on his belt. Bartholomew could see a blazing fire in the room beyond, and several books lay open on a table. Books were expensive, so it was clear that Piron was occupied by wealthy students who could afford such luxuries.
‘Doctor Bartholomew,’ said the student with a courtly bow. ‘How kind of you to call. However, I am fully recovered now, and have no further need of your services.’
Bartholomew regarded him blankly, before recalling that the lad had consulted him about a troublesome rash. He had prescribed a decoction of chickweed, which was usually effective against such conditions.
‘I was actually cured by Magister Arderne,’ the lad chatted on. ‘He made me an electuary. I swallowed it all, and woke up with fading spots the very next day.’
‘An electuary?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. It was an odd thing to prescribe. ‘What was in it?’
‘Arderne declined to tell me, but it cost a fortune, so it must have been full of expensive herbs.’
‘Indeed it must,’ murmured Bartholomew. ‘We are actually here to see your Principal. Is he in?’
They were led along an airy corridor that was paved with coloured tiles, and into a large room that boasted wood panelling and a pleasant view of the garden. It was elegant compared to anything available at Michaelhouse, and it occurred to Bartholomew that Tyrington would be taking a step in the wrong direction as far as personal comfort was concerned.
Tyrington was sitting at a desk, reading. He was a large, squat man with a low forehead and thick dark hair. He stood when the visitors were shown in, and smiled. Or rather, leered, because there was something about the expression that was not very nice. An image of a lizard Bartholomew had seen in France came unbidden into his mind, and he half expected a long tongue to flick out. When one did, he took an involuntary step backwards.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Tyrington affably. ‘All our rashes are healed, so we no longer need the services of a medicus. My student hired Magister Arderne to do the honours in the end.’
‘Everyone calls him Magister,’ said Michael, going to the window to escape the saliva that gushed in his direction. None too subtly he ran a hand down the front of his habit to wipe it off. ‘But does he actually hold such a degree? He did not earn it from Cambridge, and our records show he did not get it from Oxford, either.’
‘Probably Montpellier, then,’ sprayed Tyrington. ‘May I offer you wine? A pastry? We can always find victuals for men from a fine foundation like Michaelhouse.’
Michael was about to accept when it occurred to him that anything provided was likely to arrive with a coating of spittle. ‘Actually, we came to ask whether you would consider becoming one of our Fellows. Unless you have had a better offer, of course, in which case we understand.’
‘But we hope you have not,’ said Bartholomew quickly. Fellows often stayed in post for years, and he did not want what might be a lengthy association to start off on the wrong foot because Michael was having such obvious second thoughts. ‘It would be an honour to accept you.’
Tyrington flushed red with pleasure, and the tongue shot out again. ‘You are inviting me to take Kenyngham’s place?’
‘To fill the vacancy he left,’ corrected Michael pedantically, handing over the letter.
‘Yes!’ cried Tyrington. ‘Of course I accept! May I bring my students? There are three of them – all wealthy and well able to pay a College’s fees.’
‘Three? In this huge building?’ asked Michael. ‘You could have twice that number.’
Tyrington leered. ‘Yes, but I was loath to supervise more when I was on my own. Education is a sacred trust, and I have always refused to accept funds from students if I cannot offer them my very best. A College will be different, of course, because teaching is shared.’
‘Perhaps Michaelhouse is not the right place for you after all,’ said Bartholomew uneasily. Langelee and Wynewyk accepted funds any way they could get them, and the quality of the teaching provided in exchange was invariably deemed immaterial.