‘He is a merchant – that is what they do,’ said Wisbeche. ‘He says the low rents we pay mean he and his fellow landlords are effectively subsidising the University. I can see his point – if he could lease to laymen, he could earn three times the amount he gets from scholars.’
Michael pulled a disagreeable face. ‘Do not tell me you take Candelby’s side? I am acting for the whole University here – indeed, there will not be a University if the rents are raised to the level Candelby demands. A little support from my colleagues would be appreciated.’
‘You have it, Brother. I am just pointing out that there is another side to the argument – I am a scholar, after all, and that is what we are trained to do. Lynton was very vocal about the unfairness of the situation, and he never offered any of his houses to students. Why should he, when he could make far more money from townsfolk?’
Michael gaped at him. ‘Are you telling me Lynton was a landlord? He owned buildings?’
Wisbeche looked disconcerted. ‘I thought you knew. It was not a secret, although it was obviously not something he advertised. However, Lynton and Bartholomew were fellow physicians, so I assumed he would have told you about it.’
‘I did not know,’ said Bartholomew, when Michael spun around to glare at him. ‘We never discussed houses – just medicine and the mean speed theorem.’
‘Lynton was a successful practitioner,’ said Wisbeche, when the monk’s glower returned to him. ‘And therefore wealthy. He owned three houses on the High Street, and two on the Trumpington road, all of which he leased to laymen. Students did come and demand that he lend the properties to them, but we have good lawyers at Peterhouse, and they helped him decline these requests legally.’
Michael was outraged. ‘The Statutes say scholars have a right to use any available house. Lynton’s refusal represents an offence against the University, no matter how the law was twisted to say otherwise.’
‘We knew he was sailing close to the wind,’ admitted Wisbeche sheepishly. ‘But he did it for years, and no one ever objected.’
‘No one objected because no one knew!’ exploded Michael. ‘What a time for me to find this out! Can you imagine what Candelby will say if he learns our own scholars prefer to loan their houses to laymen? And besides, Fellows – of any College – are not supposed to be awash with money and property. It is against the rules to earn more than ten marks a year.’
Wisbeche raised a laconic eyebrow. ‘Oh, come now, Brother! Surely, you do not believe anyone obeys that antiquated decree?’
Michael rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘Who will inherit all these buildings?’ he asked, declining to pursue the matter. He did not have time.
‘Peterhouse, of course. However, I can probably persuade the Fellows to donate one to the University. Would that compensate for Lynton’s past misdemeanours?’
‘It would be a start. Do you think his decision to lease his houses to wealthy townsmen made him enemies?’
Wisbeche was aghast. ‘No! I do not think it was common knowledge that he was so rich – you did not know, and you are aware of most of what happens in the University. Why do you ask? Do you have reason to think someone deliberately startled the horse that killed him?’
‘Of course not,’ said Michael hastily. ‘I imagine he was well liked in your College?’
‘Oh, very well liked,’ averred Wisbeche, nodding earnestly. ‘We enjoy a harmonious Fellowship at Peterhouse, and our students loved him. We will never replace him – not that we intend to try.’
‘You will not appoint another physician?’ asked Bartholomew. It was not good news. The town population was growing, and losing a practitioner would mean more work for those remaining.
‘We will not,’ replied Wisbeche. ‘And a public announcement to that effect will be made this morning. We are strapped for cash, you see, because rebuilding the church cost more than we anticipated, so we cannot afford to renew the post. We only have six medical students, anyway, and I am sure you will not mind taking two. For Lynton’s sake.’
‘I have too many already.’ Bartholomew saw Wisbeche’s reproachful face, and thought how he would feel if someone had refused Kenyngham’s students. ‘But there is always room for a couple of Lynton’s boys.’
Wisbeche took his hand, rather tearfully. ‘Thank you. I shall not forget your kindness.’
‘Can we see Lynton’s corpse?’ asked Michael, watching them coolly. He was angry, and felt betrayed. The Peterhouse physician had been a quiet, doddering fellow, and the monk would never have imagined him to be knee-deep in houses – nor would he have imagined him to be the kind of man who ignored University Statutes in order to make himself rich. He sincerely hoped no one else would find out, because it would weaken the case against Candelby so seriously that the University might have no choice but to capitulate to the landlords’ demands.
Wisbeche eyed him with sudden suspicion. ‘Why would you want to do that?’
‘Because I need to record an official cause of death,’ replied Michael. ‘So Matt must ascertain whether a hoof struck his head, or whether his neck was broken by the fall.’
Wisbeche did not look entirely convinced. ‘Very well, although I think I shall come with you.’
‘Damn,’ whispered Michael, as Wisbeche led the way across the cobbled yard. ‘I shall have to divert his attention while you go about your business.’
The Church of St Mary the Less, so named to avoid confusion with the bigger, grander St Mary’s on the High Street, boasted windows that allowed daylight to flood inside, and its churchyard was a haven of leafy peace, full of spring flowers. There was a large mound at the eastern end, where Peterhouse’s scholars had been buried during the plague, but the bare earth had been claimed by grass and primroses, and it no longer stood as such a stark reminder of grimmer times.
Lynton was in the vestry. He occupied the College coffin, and his face was covered by a richly embroidered cloth. Wisbeche removed it gently, revealing the blood-matted hair underneath.
‘A woman is coming to wash him this morning,’ he said, to explain the apparent lack of care. ‘But she was hired to do Kenyngham first, and then the tavern boy who died yesterday – Ocleye.’
‘This is the first time I have been in your chapel since it fell down and you had to rebuild it,’ said Michael, beginning to move away. ‘It has been very tastefully remodelled.’
Wisbeche was flattered by the praise. ‘Do you like the windows? I designed them myself.’
‘Did you?’ asked the monk, immediately heading for the one that was farthest from the bier. ‘Is that a vulture or a woodpecker on the left?’
‘A dove,’ explained Wisbeche, evidently seeing nothing suspicious in the monk’s sudden fascination with stained glass. ‘It represents peace.’
Deftly, Bartholomew began his work, suspecting he would not have much time before Michael ran out of things to say – or Wisbeche realised the monk had staged a diversion. There was a cut on Lynton’s temple, but the bone underneath appeared to be sound. It confirmed the conclusion he had drawn the day before – that Lynton would probably have survived the blow to his head.
Next, he pushed aside the fine clothes and inspected the wound in the chest. It was not large, but a prod with one of his metal probes told him that the missile had gone deep. He wondered whether the woman who was coming to clean the body would notice it, and point it out to Lynton’s colleagues. But Wisbeche said she was the same crone who had been hired to tend Kenyngham, and Bartholomew knew Mistress Starre was unlikely to notice anything amiss, because she only ever washed the bits that showed. Yet he was unwilling to take the risk that she might decide to be thorough for once, so he took a piece of cloth and fashioned it into a plug. He slid it quickly into the hole, packing it down as tightly as he could. Then he smothered it with a thick, glue-like salve. When he had finished, the injury looked like something Lynton might have physicked himself, and was certainly not a blemish Mistress Starre would inspect. It was not a deception of which he approved – and he did not like to imagine what Lynton would have said about it – but if it prevented another brawl, then he supposed it was worthwhile.