‘He and Maud Bowyer were friends,’ conceded Wisbeche. ‘But he only spent the night at her house when she was troubled by rats. He said it was preventative medicine, because she would have swooned had she seen one.’
‘And you believed him?’ asked Michael incredulously. Bartholomew struggled not to smile.
‘Not really. But we were too polite to say anything, and the liaison was always conducted with the utmost discretion. He had been protecting her from rats for years, and the only reason you know about it now is because he is dead.’
‘His talent for subterfuge is astounding,’ said Michael, awed. ‘When Matt had his dalliance with Matilde two years ago, he thought he was careful, but every man, woman and child from here to Ely knew about it. Yet Lynton managed to carry on for years.’
‘He knew how to keep his business private. I am the executor of his will, and I am astonished by the amount of money he had accrued – and by some of the financial arrangements he had in place.’
‘You mean such as renting his houses to laymen?’
Wisbeche nodded. ‘He bought and sold properties at an incredible rate. He was even doing business with Candelby, although it pains me to admit it.’
Michael’s expression was grim. ‘Candelby has only recently come into possession of most of his houses. I do not suppose he acquired them from Lynton, did he?’
Wisbeche rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘Yes, I believe he did. The last transaction was for three homes on the High Street, which Lynton let him have a month ago.’
‘How did Lynton come by them in the first place?’ asked Michael.
‘I am not sure,’ replied Wisbeche shiftily. ‘His accounts are complicated, and it will take me months to sort through them. However, I suspect he won them in a bet.’
‘A bet?’ echoed Michael in disbelief. ‘What sort of bet?’
‘Agatha said Lynton enjoyed games of chance with Maud on Sunday afternoons,’ Bartholomew reminded the monk. ‘We already know about his fondness for dice.’
‘Actually,’ said Wisbeche sheepishly, ‘he was rather more fond of them than his weekly sessions with his lady. He held tournaments in his Dispensary, and often returned with some very peculiar winnings. Once it was a cow, another time a boat. I suspect he may have won these houses, too. Sometimes, the stakes were very high.’
Bartholomew regarded him in open-mouthed astonishment. ‘I do not believe you! Lynton would never have broken the University’s rules on that sort of scale.’
‘I wish you were right,’ said Wisbeche fervently. ‘I really do.’
‘At least this explains the odd décor in his Dispensary,’ said Michael, finding his voice at last. ‘Why the windows were painted shut, and why you found no medical equipment.’
‘Except the silver goblets in the attic,’ said Wisbeche. ‘For providing his guests with wine. It was all very civilised, naturally. He never used the Dispensary for medical work.’
‘I suppose these games were on Fridays,’ said Michael, recalling that was the night Lynton had been unavailable for Maud.
Wisbeche nodded. ‘I know I should have stopped him, but he was always so generous to the College, and I did not want him to take his patronage elsewhere. I made the right decision, too, because he left us a fortune in his will.’
‘All this cannot be true,’ said Bartholomew, feeling as though he was in a dream. ‘I mean no disrespect, Wisbeche, but Lynton was a quiet, decent man, whose interests were medicine and natural philosophy. I do not see him tossing dice with hardened gamblers.’
‘Would you like to see his accounts? That might convince you.’
Michael waved a hand to indicate he would like that very much, and they followed Wisbeche across the courtyard to a set of rooms on an upper floor. Bartholomew had never been in Lynton’s private quarters before, because Lynton had always entertained visitors in the College combination room. His jaw dropped when he saw the lavish opulence of his colleague’s chambers. There was a bed draped with extravagant hangings, there were thick, expensive carpets from Turkey, and Wisbeche opened a chest to reveal it full of silver coins.
‘Christ Almighty!’ breathed Bartholomew before he could stop himself. For once, Michael did not berate him for blasphemy. ‘This must be the most sumptuous accommodation in Cambridge!’
‘In England,’ corrected Michael, wide-eyed. ‘I doubt even the King has anything this splendid.’
Bartholomew and Michael left Peterhouse in a daze. They had spent a few moments inspecting Lynton’s accounts, but concurred with Wisbeche that they would take months to unravel, and a cursory glance was unlikely to tell them much. The records had indicated, however, that Lynton had gambled in some very august company, and that his winnings had come from such powerful townsmen as the Sheriff, the Mayor, Candelby, Blankpayn and Bartholomew’s brother-in-law. The physician was even more shocked to learn that Paxtone had enjoyed the odd game, too, as had Honynge, Kardington, Spaldynge, Carton and even Robin of Grantchester.
Towards the end of the list was Ocleye’s name, and Bartholomew saw he had won three goats. If the ‘pot-boy’ had been able to gamble and rent fine houses, then spying was obviously a lucrative business. Michael stabbed at the entry with his finger, and his look told Bartholomew to remember that it was another connection between two men killed by crossbow bolts. At the bottom of the register, indicating he was a fairly recent addition to the Dispensary’s membership, was Arderne.
‘Do you recall how furtive Paxtone became when we mentioned the Dispensary?’ asked Bartholomew as they walked along the High Street. ‘Now we know why.’
‘You and I are about the only men in Cambridge Lynton did not dice with,’ said Michael, stunned by the scale of the operation. ‘Why? Was our money not good enough for him?’
‘He did once ask if I liked games of chance,’ recalled Bartholomew. ‘I thought it was an idle question, and did not imagine for a moment that it might be an invitation. I told him I did not, and he never mentioned it again. But he was hardly likely to have included you, Brother – you turn a blind eye to the occasional indiscretion, but this was breaking the rules on a massive scale.’
Michael began to count Lynton’s crimes on fat and rather grimy fingers. ‘He fraternised with townsmen – and women. He gambled. He carried arms. He owned more property than the rest of the University put together. God save us, Matt! We are lucky his antics did not cause a riot – wealthy townsmen suffering such huge financial losses to a scholar.’
‘Wisbeche said Lynton acted as a kind of banker – most of the winnings went to the other players, and Lynton only took a percentage of what was gambled.’
‘You can portray it how you like, but it was sordid, no matter how genteel the surroundings and the company. Of course, it is yet another motive for his murder – he might have been shot by someone who objected to losing. Candelby remains high on my list – according to Lynton’s accounts, he lost a good cloak and a hunting dog last Friday.’
‘Good Friday,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The rest of us were keeping vigil while Lynton diced. I am surprised Candelby was involved, though – and that Lynton would entertain him in the first place. Candelby hates everything to do with the University, and Lynton was a prominent scholar.’
‘It is peculiar,’ agreed Michael. ‘And it is something we must explore. The odds are stacking up against Candelby, if you will forgive the allusion.’
Bartholomew was more interested in another name that had been prominent in Lynton’s most recent records. ‘Arderne lost forty marks on Good Friday – just two days before Lynton was shot. That is four years’ pay for some of us. But we had better hurry home, Brother. Langelee told us to be back in an hour.’