‘And how did he commit this crime?’ asked Bartholomew, supposing distress was leading the monk to make wild and unfounded accusations. ‘We all ate the same food.’
‘Kenyngham’s age made him frail, rendering him more susceptible to toxins than the rest of us.’
‘You should watch where you express that sort of theory,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘Our students are upset, and a rumour that Kenyngham was deliberately harmed is likely to ignite a fire that does not need to be lit. Besides, Honynge is not a killer.’
‘What about Tyrington of Piron Hostel as a culprit, then?’ persisted Michael. ‘He has been its Principal for three years now, and he told me only last week that he would rather be a collegian.’
‘No one killed Kenyngham,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘And he would be appalled to hear you say so – of all the men in the University, he was the last who would want trouble on his behalf.’
‘That is true, but I cannot stop thinking about this “antidote”…’
‘Perhaps he used the wrong word. Some of what he said to me today made no sense, either – talk of crocodiles and shooting stars. You are reading too much into an idle remark, and we should discuss something else before you convince yourself that a crime has been committed and go off to investigate. Tell me about your rent war. I could not hear what you were saying once the choir was under way with its repertoire.’
Michael grimaced. ‘It is growing ever more serious, and I am struggling to maintain the peace. The landlords’ spokesman – Candelby – has recently purchased several new houses. He objects to the fact that the law insists they should be used as hostels for scholars.’
‘He owns these buildings?’ asked Bartholomew. Michael nodded. ‘Then I can see his point. Why should he rent them to us for a pittance, when he could lease them to wealthy merchants for a good deal more?’
Michael regarded him icily. ‘Not you, too! That is what he says, and he is encouraging the other landlords to think the same. The reason is that it is the law, Matt. Once a house has been rented to scholars, it must remain rented to scholars until the University no longer needs it.’
‘It may be the law, but it is hardly fair.’
‘What does fairness have to do with anything? The law has never made any pretence of being fair, and nor will it, I imagine. However, the real problem is that I find myself unable to enforce this particular statute. I could fine Candelby, but what would I do if he refuses to pay? Send beadles to his house and take the money by force? Put him in prison? If I did either, the University would be in flames within an hour, and every scholar would be ready to fight. There would be a bloodbath, and I do not want that.’
‘Does Candelby?’
‘Yes – he is a greedy, selfish villain, who would willingly squander lives for personal gain. But I want the matter settled amicably. I have offered to negotiate a slightly higher rate – I cannot triple it, as he demands, because even I do not own that sort of authority – but he refuses to treat with me.’
‘Then ask the Sheriff to intervene. He will force Candelby to talk to you, because he will not want a riot, either.’
‘I wish I could, but he is away, summoned to Huntingdon on shire business.’
‘Then can you send to the King for help? He set his seal to the University Statutes – the laws you are trying to enforce – and will not want them flouted.’
‘That would see His Majesty descending on the town in a fury, fining anything that moves. We are unpopular enough as it is, and I do not want to exacerbate the situation by telling tales. Damn Candelby! Most people had never heard of him before he whipped his fellow landlords into a frenzy, but now his name is on everyone’s lips.’
‘Not mine, Brother. I know very little about him.’
‘He is a taverner by trade. He runs the Angel Inn on Bene’t Street and, much as I detest the man, he does sell excellent pies. Have you tried one?’
‘If I had, then I would not tell you – the Senior Proctor! You would fine me.’
The University had decided years before that taverns were not for scholars. Not only did such establishments provide strong drink, which encouraged riotous behaviour, but they were frequented by townsmen. Inebriated students and drunken laymen were to be kept apart at all costs, and Michael’s beadles patrolled the alehouses every night in search of anyone breaking the rules.
Michael smiled. ‘I shall assume the answer is yes, then.’
‘Just once – a month ago. Carton took me, because he said I was the only man in Cambridge who had not eaten one.’
Michael nodded. ‘He was probably right. Candelby hired a Welsh cook at the beginning of Lent, and it is common knowledge that his wares are a vast improvement on anything else on offer in the town.’
‘What are you going to do about him?’ Bartholomew was concerned by the way his friend’s face had become pale with worry. ‘Candelby, I mean, not the cook.’
‘What can I do? I do not want to be heavy handed and spoil University–town relations for ever. Yet I represent scholars, and cannot let burgesses ride roughshod over them. However, my first duty is to avert the riot I sense brewing, so I shall continue to be calm and reasonable – and hope Sheriff Tulyet comes home while we are all still in one piece. Lord, I miss him!’
‘We do not want a riot,’ agreed Bartholomew fervently. He was the University’s Corpse Examiner, which meant he was obliged to inspect the body of any dead scholar – and he disliked seeing people killed by violence. He was about to add more when the door was flung open and Falmeresham burst in, the commoner Carton at his heels. Falmeresham and Carton had struck up a friendship that had surprised everyone, because their personalities meant they had little in common. Falmeresham was fun-loving and reckless; Carton was a sober, quiet friar who was something of an enigma.
‘There has been an accident,’ declared Falmeresham. ‘Master Lynton was riding down the road when he collided with a cart driven by Candelby. The messenger said there is blood everywhere.’
‘Lord!’ groaned Michael, putting his head in his hands. ‘A spat between the landlords’ spokesman and a high-ranking scholar. Now there will be trouble!’
‘Do you mean Lynton the physician?’ asked Bartholomew alarmed. ‘My colleague from Peterhouse?’
Falmeresham nodded. ‘I am glad I did not study with him. He is dogmatic and narrow-minded, and refuses to embrace new ideas.’
‘That is unkind,’ said Bartholomew reprovingly. Falmeresham was only a term away from graduating, but Bartholomew had still not cured him of his habit of speaking his mind. ‘He does prefer traditional medicine, but he is a good man.’
Falmeresham snorted in a way that suggested he disagreed, but there was no time to argue.
Michael heaved himself upright. ‘I suppose I should see what can be done to avert trouble.’
‘You are right to be worried,’ said Carton. ‘The messenger also said the onlookers have taken sides, and your beadles are hard-pressed to keep them apart. You are both needed on Milne Street.’
Easter Sunday was a time of feasting and celebration, and even the town’s poorest inhabitants marked the occasion by decking themselves out in their best clothes and strolling along the town’s main thoroughfares. It was a time for visiting family and friends, for enjoying bright sunshine and street performers. Strictly speaking, entertainment was forbidden on such a holy day, but neither the University nor the town made any effort to enforce the rule, and the narrow lanes were full of singers, dancers, magicians, fire-eaters and jugglers. The streets echoed with rattling drums, trilling pipes and the babble of excited conversation.