‘What makes you think Michael is the culprit?’ asked Langelee. ‘There is nothing to say–’
‘Because I saw the bottom half of that agreement in his room. I spotted it when I went to return a scroll I had borrowed recently. It is probably still there, on his desk.’
‘In that case, it is obvious someone is trying to get him into trouble,’ said Tyrington. ‘Well, it will not work. Michael might be a sly old fox, but he does not break the University’s rules.’
Honynge sneered. ‘He spends more time in the Brazen George than at his lectures. I shall expect his resignation over this, because it is the decent thing to do. And Bartholomew’s.’
‘Why Bartholomew’s?’ asked Tyrington, puzzled. ‘He has nothing to do with this document.’
‘Because he concealed the fact that Lynton was murdered. Now why would he do that? There are only two reasons, and neither are pleasant. Either he killed Lynton himself, and was hoping to see him buried with no one any the wiser. Or he did it because he could not be bothered to investigate. Either way, I do not want him in my College.’
He turned on his heel and stalked away, leaving the others staring after him in astonishment.
‘What was this rental agreement doing in the Illeigh Hutch, Brother?’ asked Wynewyk. ‘Is it part of your investigation, and you put it there to keep it safe?’
‘It is certainly part of my investigation,’ said Michael. ‘Although I cannot imagine how it comes to be in a place where Honynge could find it.’
‘I can,’ said Tyrington quietly. ‘He put it there for the sole purpose of damaging you. Is it true that Lynton was murdered? Then perhaps you need look no further for your killer.’
Solutions and questions were coming so fast that Michael insisted on adjourning to the Brazen George to think. Bartholomew did not think it was a good idea, especially given that Honynge had commented on the monk’s rule-breaking, but Michael said he was not going to let petty accusations interfere with his daily pleasures. So they went to the tavern, although Bartholomew did so with grave misgivings.
‘Do not let him bother you, Matt,’ said Michael, seeing Honynge’s remarks had cut deep.
‘He accused me of murder – or of concealing a crime. Of course I am bothered! He is the kind of man to share his thoughts with everyone he meets, and it is bad enough with Isnard’s friends lobbing rocks at me. I do not want scholars doing it, too.’
‘No one will believe him. He is objectionable and arrogant, and they would rather side with you.’
Bartholomew was not so sure. ‘People are fickle, and change allegiances fast. Honynge’s claims, coming so soon after Isnard’s, may lead folk to wonder whether there is smoke without fire.’
‘Then we must solve our mysteries as quickly as we can – either to prove Honynge is the guilty party, or to expose the real killer and prove your innocence. Let us start with the document Honynge found. Are you sure it was the upper half of the one in Lynton’s hand?’
‘Positive. Everything matched – the shape of the tear, the ink, the writing, and the parchment.’
‘Then someone at Michaelhouse must have put it there, because no one else has access. Our College is suddenly full of men we do not know, so perhaps one of them did it. Or do you think someone left it because it was likely to be found – as a way to get it into my hands? It is evidence in a murder, and he may have wanted me to have it without being obliged to say how he came by it.’
‘You are thinking of Falmeresham? That he found it when he was with Arderne?’
Michael nodded. ‘He worships Arderne, but he is not stupid. He may well have discovered something that disturbed him, so he decided to ease his conscience by passing it to me discreetly.’
‘The document was almost certainly ripped from Lynton’s hand by the man who killed him. If Falmeresham found it in Arderne’s possession, then it means Arderne is the killer.’
Michael touched his arm. ‘Do not fear for Falmeresham. If Arderne had meant him harm, he would not have healed him in the first place. Your errant student will be safe enough.’
Bartholomew rubbed his eyes, not sure of anything. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘Ask questions, Matt. Just as always.’
‘Then we should make a start,’ said Bartholomew, standing and pulling the monk to his feet. ‘We cannot waste time speculating.’
Michael snatched a piece of bread as he was hauled away from the table. ‘Clare first, to ask about Motelete. And then we shall enter the lion’s den and tackle Arderne.’
At Clare, they were admitted by Spaldynge, who was sombre, tired and pale. He admitted to staying up all night with some of the younger students, who had been too distraught to sleep.
‘I hope you catch the monster who did this,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Poor Motelete. He was just learning to enjoy himself, too. He was less shy than before he died – the first time.’
‘We saw him courting Siffreda Sago,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Is that what you mean?’
Spaldynge nodded. ‘I had no idea he was a lad for the ladies, and he surprised us all when he set his eyes on Siffreda. Do not look to her brother as the killer, though. Sago was working all yesterday – including last night – in the Angel, and a dozen men can confirm it.’
‘Including you?’ asked Michael archly.
‘I do not frequent taverns,’ replied Spaldynge coolly. ‘However, I did go to the Angel briefly to ask a few questions after you brought us Motelete’s body. They seemed the obvious suspects, and–’
‘So, you did not spend all night with weeping students,’ pounced Bartholomew. ‘You lied.’
Spaldynge regarded him with dislike. ‘You twist my words, physician, but that is to be expected. You are as sly and devious as the rest of the men in your profession.’
Michael tapped him sharply in the chest, making him step back in surprise. ‘Matt had nothing to do with what happened to your family during the plague, so do not vent your spleen on him.’
‘No,’ acknowledged Spaldynge bitterly. ‘It was Lynton – and Kenyngham gave them last rites when his feeble efforts failed. Now physicians have killed Motelete, too. They are jealous of the fact that Arderne can heal and they cannot, so they slaughtered Motelete to “prove” Arderne’s cures are only temporary. It is despicable!’
‘You think Rougham or Paxtone fed Motelete poison?’ asked Bartholomew, shocked. ‘Or me?’
‘Probably not you – you are more of a knife man.’ Bartholomew saw the anguish in Spaldynge’s eyes, so did not react to the insult. ‘You and your colleagues were useless during the Death, but Arderne said he cured hundreds of people. If only he had been here! But I do not want to talk about it any more, especially with you. Follow me. The others are waiting in the refectory.’
Bartholomew stared after him unhappily, and was not much cheered by the situation in Clare’s hall. One of the youngest students started to cry the moment he and Michael entered, and Kardington stood with his arm around the boy’s shoulders. Michael was kind and patient, but no one could tell him anything useful. When the monk finally accepted that he was wasting his time, Kardington escorted them out, leaving Spaldynge to console the sobbing child.
They met old Gedney, hobbling across the yard on his stick. He glared at Bartholomew. ‘Have you finished with my copy of Holcot’s Postillae yet? I want it back.’
‘I do not have it.’ Bartholomew looked at the gate and longed to be through it. He was tired of accusations from members of Clare.
‘That rascally Tyd must have pinched it, then,’ said Gedney, grimacing in annoyance. ‘Or his friend with the beard – the one who gambles at the Dispensary. What is his name?’