‘Have a Lombard slice, Brother,’ said Agatha consolingly, passing him the plate when she saw the agitation her tale had occasioned. ‘It will make you feel better.’
‘No,’ said Michael piteously. ‘I am too upset for eating.’
‘Have two, then,’ coaxed Agatha, waving the plate.
With the air of a martyr, Michael accepted. ‘Do you have that love-potion? Can we slip Honynge a few drops? He might fall for Langelee, who would break his neck. Or William, who might succeed in infecting him with some horrible disease from his festering habit.’
‘Can we give some to Tyrington, too?’ asked Agatha. ‘His leers makes me want to punch him.’
‘Do not punch him,’ begged Bartholomew, having seen what one of the laundress’s swipes could do. ‘He cannot help it.’
‘There is a commotion going on outside,’ said Agatha, going to the window and throwing open the shutter. ‘It concerns Honynge, of course. He is waving our gold crown about – the one from the Stanton Hutch. What is he doing with that? He is supposed to be managing the Illeigh Hutch.’
‘Damn,’ said Michael softly, watching Honynge hand the diadem to a bemused Langelee. William stood with his arms folded, looking utterly disgusted. ‘He wants it returned to its rightful place. So much for our attempt to catch him out in dishonest behaviour.’
‘You planted the crown?’ asked Agatha. She grimaced. ‘That was too crude. You should have tempted him with something more easily saleable. After all, that is how Lynton caught my cousin. Blankpayn was too sensible to steal Lynton’s expensive gold goblets, but small silver rings were another matter entirely.’
‘What is this?’ asked Michael, turning to face her.
‘Blankpayn used to help Lynton count his Dispensary profits, but Lynton suspected my cousin was cheating him, so he set a trap. Yet it was not a large prize that was my kinsman’s undoing, but tiny rings.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully.
‘I was there,’ replied Agatha. ‘I like to flirt with Lady Luck on occasion, and when my cousin told me about the Dispensary, I decided to attend a session or two.’
‘I bet that pleased Lynton,’ muttered Michael. ‘What did Blankpayn do when he was caught?’
‘Nothing – but Lynton exposed him in front of Mayor Harleston, and it has hurt his chances of being elected as a burgess. No one wants town officials who are known thieves.’
‘I see,’ mused Michael. ‘That is a powerful motive for putting a crossbow bolt in a man’s chest.’
Honynge was not a stupid man, and guessed exactly why the diadem had been left in the Hutch he had been instructed to manage. He was angry and offended, and berated William furiously. So did Langelee, who thought the plan might have resulted in the loss of a valuable heirloom. William was not very good at thinking on his feet, and was slow to devise an excuse that would have exonerated himself, so he had no choice but to bow his head and let them rail at him. Afterwards, the atmosphere in the conclave was acrimonious, and Bartholomew was more than happy to use Michael’s investigations as an excuse to escape.
‘I want to talk to Candelby,’ said Michael, hurrying to leave before Langelee spotted him. ‘And Blankpayn. I must learn more about their relationship with Lynton.’
‘In the Angel? I do not think we should go there.’
‘Candelby will not be in his tavern now; he will be in the Church of St John Zachary, lighting candles for the brother who died in the plague. And if you are wondering how I am so intimately acquainted with his habits, it is because he is not the only man who spies on his enemies. Beadle Meadowman has been shadowing him, and so has Cynric, when his other duties allow.’
As usual, the little church was damp and dark. The main door stood open to allow parishioners to see what they were doing inside, but the window shutters that bordered Clare were firmly locked. The recent rains had caused puddles to form on the flagstone floor, and Michael swore softly when he discovered one was ankle deep.
Bartholomew glanced towards the Lady Chapel, recalling that the last time he had been there, Motelete had sat up in his coffin. He thought about the student, and how he had gone from shy youth to a man with a lover who could defend himself in brawls. Bartholomew rubbed his chin. Had Motelete’s brush with death really caused him to undergo a transformation? Or had defects in his character been conveniently forgotten when he had become the victim of violence? He recalled what the addled old master called Gedney had said – that the ‘dead’ student had been loud-mouthed and drank too much. Was Gedney’s sharp-tongued portrait more accurate than that of Motelete’s friends, who had been shocked by his murder and so willing to overlook his faults?
A sudden low rumble made Bartholomew turn quickly towards the spiral staircase that led to the roof. A billow of dust belched through the doorway, and he glanced up at the rafters uneasily, noting that several of the supporting beams were at very odd angles. He was not the only one to be concerned. Candelby was regarding the joists with considerable trepidation, and Blankpayn was already heading for the exit.
‘If you want to talk to me, do it outside,’ said Candelby to the monk. ‘It is disgusting that scholars have let this poor place decay, and I do not want to be inside when it tumbles apart.’
‘We would not mind you being in here though, Brother,’ called Blankpayn, from the comparative safety of the porch. ‘That would be divine justice.’
Michael ignored him. ‘I would like to talk to you about Lynton,’ he said to Candelby, once they were in the churchyard. ‘I understand you were one of the Dispensary’s most faithful customers.’
‘So?’ asked Candelby, with a shrug. ‘A lot of men liked Lynton’s games.’
‘I did not,’ growled Blankpayn. ‘They were too complicated, and for some reason, scholars always won more often than me. And Lynton wondered why I decided to help myself to a bauble or two! It was because those rings were mine in the first place – I lost them when I placed a bet.’
‘Scholars win a lot because they have sly minds,’ explained Candelby matter-of-factly. ‘What do you want to know, Brother? Normally, I would object to being quizzed by you, but I have nothing to hide about my association with Lynton, so you can ask what you like.’
‘Why did you not mention your gambling to me sooner?’
Candelby shrugged again. ‘Because it was none of your business and, like all participants, I was sworn to secrecy. I did not want to besmirch Lynton’s reputation by blabbing to you.’
Michael snorted his disbelief. ‘You did not care about his reputation when you accused him of riding his horse at you last Sunday.’
‘I was angry and in pain – not thinking clearly. Of course he did not ride at me deliberately. I have apologised to Wisbeche for my intemperate remarks, so let that mark the end of the matter.’
‘How much did you lose at these sessions?’ asked Michael.
‘Actually, I won more than I lost. Why do you think I own so many houses? I was good at Lynton’s games – better than many scholars.’
Something occurred to Michael. ‘Is that why you are so well acquainted with the University’s private affairs? You gossiped with my colleagues when you were gaming?’
Candelby’s smile was enigmatic. ‘I am a good listener, and scholars are naturally verbose. Thus I knew Lynton preferred to lease his properties to merchants, not students; I was told all about a debate in Peterhouse, in which the Fellows elected to charge high rents on the houses they will inherit from Lynton; and I was aware that Spaldynge was desperate to sell Borden Hostel. I made him an offer he could not refuse.’