Wisbeche was holding forth about eschatological symbolism, and although Michael’s eyes were beginning to glaze, Bartholomew saw he had a few moments yet. A graze on Lynton’s cheek – but a corresponding absence of marks on his hands – suggested he had not tried to break his fall. It made the physician even more certain that Lynton had been dead before the horse had bucked out of control and he had toppled from the saddle. Whoever had murdered him had been an excellent shot. It was not easy to hit moving targets, and suggested the killer owned considerable skill with his weapon of choice.
He was just setting all to rights when he saw something in Lynton’s hand. Gently, he prised open the fingers to reveal a scrap of parchment – the old physician had been holding a document when he had died, and someone had apparently snatched it from him after his death, leaving a fragment behind. The fact that it had torn suggested it had been retrieved quickly, perhaps furtively, and that it had probably not been taken by anyone who had a right to it. Puzzled, Bartholomew peered at the letters in the faint light that filtered through Wisbeche’s stained-glass windows. What he read made his stomach churn in alarm.
CHAPTER 3
Bartholomew did not want to share his findings with Michael until they were well away from Peterhouse, but returning to the town proved difficult. The soldier on duty at the Trumpington Gate claimed he did not recognise them, and refused to allow them through. Michael was first bemused, then indignant, and finally furious. He begged, cajoled and threatened, but the guard remained firm – they could not enter until someone came to vouch for them. They might have been stuck outside for hours, had Bartholomew’s brother-in-law not happened to ride by.
‘Stop playing the fool, man,’ ordered Stanmore sternly. ‘Of course you know Brother Michael – he fined you for relieving yourself against King’s Hall last Christmas.’
‘He looks different,’ mumbled the soldier, sullen now he was caught out in a lie. ‘Maybe he was not so fat then. Besides, he just tried to bribe me to let him in, and I got standards.’
‘He did not slip you enough?’ asked Stanmore. He turned to Michael. ‘Incentives are more costly in the current climate of unease, Brother. Next time, you had better offer double.’
‘He can offer triple, but I still would not take it,’ declared the guard. ‘Damned scholars! They invade our town, and start imposing rules that see us the poorer. I hope Candelby wins the rent war, because then we can start challenging all their other unjust laws, too.’
Stanmore leaned down from his horse to speak in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘The whole town is behind Candelby, so watch yourself. If you assume everyone is an enemy, you will not be far wrong.’
Bartholomew watched him canter away, feeling unease grow inside him. When he turned to look at Michael, he saw he was not the only one who was troubled.
‘Lord!’ muttered the monk. ‘I knew the rent war was serious, but I did not anticipate that its repercussions would be quite so far reaching. Guards do not often reject bribes on principle.’
‘Perhaps you should arrange another meeting with Candelby and the landlords, to try to resolve the situation before it grows any worse.’
Michael sighed his exasperation. ‘Do you think I have not tried? Candelby refuses even to sit in the same room with me unless I agree – in advance – to let him charge whatever he likes. And because what he likes is three times the current amount, I cannot comply.’
‘So you are at an impasse?’
Michael nodded, then sighed again. ‘Tell me what you learned from Lynton’s corpse. I hope it was something useful, because time is running out fast, and we desperately need answers.’
Bartholomew showed him the fragment of parchment he had recovered. ‘This.’
Michael angled it to catch the light. ‘This is part of one of our standard tenancy agreements. They outline the responsibility of a landlord to keep the building in good repair, and to stay out except for maintenance. And they order the leasing scholar to pay his dues on pain of excommunication. You have managed to acquire the bottom quarter. Where did you find it?’
Bartholomew told him.
‘Look at the names,’ he prompted. ‘The two signatures – tenant and landlord.’
Michael turned it this way and that as he attempted to decipher the small words. ‘One is Lynton’s – I would recognise that flowing hand anywhere. And the other is … I cannot read it.’
‘Ocleye.’
Michael looked first blank, then puzzled. ‘Ocleye is the murdered pot-boy from the Angel – Candelby’s inn. But this makes no sense. First, a pot-boy is unlikely to be rich enough to hire a house. Secondly, if he were, surely he would have signed an agreement with Candelby, his master?’
Bartholomew regarded him soberly. ‘Exactly, Brother. I imagine Candelby would feel betrayed if he knew what Ocleye had done. And now Lynton and Ocleye are dead.’
‘You think Candelby had something to do with their deaths? Hah! I knew it!’
Bartholomew was thoughtful as he considered what the find meant. ‘So, two men did something of which Candelby would disapprove, and now both are dead – one during an accident in which Candelby was the second party, and the other in a brawl arising from that accident. Of course, it may be coincidence. However, in that case, why was the document torn from Lynton’s dead hand?’
‘I do not understand the last part.’
‘It was snatched with enough vigour to rip it, which must have required a remarkable sleight of hand, given that the accident had attracted so many onlookers. That healer – Arderne – was there, and he has the air of a magician about him. Perhaps he took it.’
‘Why would he do that? I can see why he might have shot Lynton – he is now sans one rival medicus – but why would he steal writs from his victim’s hand?’
‘Perhaps he thought it was something else.’
Michael disagreed. ‘These particular documents are distinctive, even to the illiterate, because they are headed with red ink, and they all have that book motif at the top. They cannot possibly be mistaken for something different.’
‘Then whoever took that one from Lynton made a dismal blunder, because he left the important part – the bit containing the names – behind. He might just as well have left the whole thing.’
Michael nodded, eyes gleaming. ‘And his mistake means we have a clue. Of course, I have no idea why a rent agreement between Lynton and Ocleye should be important, but it gives us something to think about. Perhaps Arderne wanted to live in the house Lynton was about to lease to Ocleye.’
‘How would killing Lynton – the landlord – help him achieve that end?’
Michael shrugged. ‘Arderne was your suggestion as a culprit, not mine. Besides, there is nothing to say that the killer and the person who grabbed the agreement are one and the same. What else did you learn from Lynton’s corpse?’