‘Are you saying Lynton sold houses to Candelby?’ asked the monk, finding his voice at last.
‘I do not know the details of his transactions,’ said Spaldynge. ‘And I doubt he would have confided them had I asked. Perhaps he sold them to Candelby; perhaps he bought them from Candelby; or perhaps he declined to have anything to do with Candelby – I would not have done, but he offered a price so far above that of his nearest competitor.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Michael in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘First we learn Lynton is a landlord, and now we discover that he bought and sold houses like a drover with cattle. I am amazed.’
‘He never expressed any interest in property to me,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘Do you think Spaldynge is telling the truth?’
‘Kardington supported his claims, and he is no liar. So, we have another link between my main suspect and his victim: money may have changed hands between Candelby and Lynton. And money invariably brings out the worst in people.’
The Clare refectory was a pleasant, purpose-built hall overlooking the vegetable gardens. The window shutters had been flung open, filling it with bright spring sunshine and the scent of warm earth. The students looked blank when Kardington lisped orders at them, and they only understood that they were to talk about Motelete when he repeated himself in Latin.
A tall, gangling youth stood, and introduced himself as Thomas Lexham. ‘Motelete was only here for a few weeks,’ he said, ‘but we all liked him.’
‘He cried for his mother at night, and I had to show him how to sharpen his pens,’ added Spaldynge. ‘He was too soft to have killed Ocleye – he would not have known how.’
‘Tell me what happened yesterday,’ said Michael. ‘From the beginning.’
‘We heard a monstrous crash,’ obliged Lexham. ‘We thought it was Rudd’s Hostel falling down at last, so we dashed outside to look. The only one who did not go was Spaldynge. He stayed behind, lest thieves used the opportunity as a diversion to burgle us.’
‘It happened once before,’ explained Kardington. ‘Now we never leave the College unattended.’
‘Rudd’s has been on the verge of collapse all term, and we have bets on which day it will go,’ Lexham went on. ‘However, it was Candelby’s cart that had made the noise – Lynton’s horse had smashed it to pieces. We watched Arderne cure Candelby. He examined Lynton, too, but said that although he can raise men from the dead, he does not consider physicians worth the effort.’
‘He said that?’ Bartholomew was shocked by the claim as much as the sentiment.
‘I do not like Arderne,’ confided Lexham. ‘He fixes you with those bright eyes, and you find yourself believing what he says, even though logic tells you it cannot be true.’
‘Just keep to the facts,’ prompted Kardington gently. ‘Brother Michael does not want unfounded opinions – they will not help him learn what happened to Motelete.’
Lexham nodded an apology. ‘So Arderne waved his feather, and Candelby said he was feeling better, but Maud Bowyer just sat and wept. Arderne tried to help her, but she pushed him away.’
‘Did you see Ocleye at all?’
‘We know him from the Angel–’ Lexham stopped speaking as a groan from his cronies told him that he had just let slip a detail that was best kept from the Senior Proctor.
Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Your fondness for that particular tavern is hardly a secret, and on Sunday evening, I caught you there myself, if you recall.’
‘You fined us,’ said Lexham resentfully. ‘It is not something we are likely to forget. We wanted to talk to Ocleye’s friends, to see if he had mentioned a plot to kill a scholar.’
Michael was angry. ‘That might have precipitated another brawl.’
‘But we had to do something!’ cried another lad. ‘Motelete was one of us! We could not sit at home and do nothing. We needed to know if his murder was planned or an accident.’
‘And which do you think it was?’ asked Bartholomew.
The student grimaced. ‘We still do not know. The Angel pot-boys said Candelby would dock their pay if they gossiped to us while they were working, and we did not like the sound of meeting them behind the Carmelite Friary after dark, like they suggested.’
‘Thank God for small mercies,’ muttered Michael. ‘At least you have some sense. But let us return to the accident. What happened after Arderne’s advances were rejected by Maud?’
‘A crowd had gathered, and we were worried by all the jostling that was going on,’ replied Lexham. ‘The Carmelites like a good squabble, and I was afraid they might bring one about. Then you arrived, and everything calmed down.’
‘The next thing I recall is Falmeresham,’ said Kardington, frowning. ‘He darted forward in a way that made me think he was going to punch that horrible Blankpayn.’
‘As soon as that happened, Master Kardington ordered us all home,’ Lexham went on. ‘Motelete and I were at the back. I thought he was behind me, but when I reached our gate, he was gone.’
‘Did he speak to anyone before he became separated from you?’ asked Bartholomew.
Lexham shook his head. ‘He did not know anyone outside Clare.’
‘Did he ever quarrel with any of you?’ asked Michael.
As one, the students laughed. ‘Never!’ said Lexham. ‘He was too polite. I cannot imagine how he would have managed his disputations, when he never wanted to tell anyone he was wrong.’
‘He was a child,’ elaborated Kardington. ‘Does he sound like the kind of fellow to dash into a brawl and go a-killing?’
‘No,’ admitted Michael. ‘So, we had better look at his body. Matt is good at finding clues invisible to the rest of us. He may discover something that points to Ocleye as the culprit.’
As they left the hall, Bartholomew spotted a scholar who had been one of his first patients in Cambridge – and Master Gedney had been old then. Gedney had been a brilliant theologian in his day, but now he spent his time eating, complaining or dozing by the fire. For the last decade, Bartholomew had been treating him for weak lungs, and was astonished the man had survived so long. Unfortunately, Gedney had grown forgetful as well as curmudgeonly, and had developed a habit of addressing his colleagues by the names of men who had died years before.
‘Babington,’ he said when he saw Bartholomew. ‘Do you still have that book I lent you? Holcot’s Postillae? I want it back.’
Michael and Kardington exchanged a grin – it was well-known in the University that the physician would never read a text on scripture when ones on natural philosophy were available.
‘How are you feeling today, Master Gedney?’ Bartholomew asked politely.
Gedney lowered his voice. ‘This College is full of madmen. They told me it was Easter the other day, when I know it is Harvest. Did you hear that one of our students was killed in a fight? His name was Tyd, a loud-mouthed fellow who drank too much.’
‘Was he?’ asked Michael. ‘Everyone else says he was quiet and gentle.’
‘Well, they are all senile,’ confided Gedney. ‘So you should take what they say with a pinch of salt. Is that a herring on your shoulder, Brother? I like herring, but I have not eaten one since the Death, because Babington here says they make you bald.’
‘Do herrings make you bald?’ asked Michael of Bartholomew. ‘I have noticed a certain thinning in front of my tonsure, so perhaps I should abstain from now on. I do not like herrings anyway.’
‘I looked up Holcot’s Postillae in our library records,’ said Kardington, leading the way across the yard. ‘Gedney loaned it to a man more than forty years ago, and it was never returned. It seems the matter still preys on his mind – such mind as he has left.’