Eventually, the yard was empty of everyone but Bartholomew, Michael, Cynric and Tyrington. Distress was making Tyrington spit more than usual, and the others tried to stand back.
‘You should not have let them browbeat you,’ he said, rather accusingly. ‘Honynge will use anything he discovers to damage you – and he will damage Michaelhouse at the same time.’
‘You seem very sure there is incriminating evidence to find,’ said Michael coolly.
Tyrington regarded him uncertainly. ‘You mean there is not? But you are Senior Proctor, and we all know you bend the rules in order to catch some of the cunning villains who pit themselves against you. I just drew the conclusion …’ He trailed off and stared at his feet, mortified.
Michael smiled, amused by the fact that everyone seemed to assume he was guilty. ‘Normally, you would be right, but I am above reproach in this instance. Why did you speak in my favour, if you believe Honynge’s accusations might be true?’
‘It is a question of loyalty,’ replied Tyrington, sounding surprised by the question. ‘Langelee lectured Honynge and me about College allegiances the day we were admitted, and I applaud his sentiments. I like Michaelhouse, and I am glad I came here, not Clare.’
Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘No wonder Honynge set out to make himself objectionable – he resented Langelee telling him how to behave. And who can blame him?’
‘I can,’ said Michael firmly. ‘And I shall enjoy his apology in a few moments. I will ask for it in writing, too. In fact, he can read it publicly at the Convocation. What do you think?’
Tyrington leered voraciously. ‘Yes! That would teach him not to take against his colleagues.’
It was not long before Bukenham emerged from Michael’s room, with Honynge and the others at his heels. Honynge’s face was black with fury, while Langelee and Wynewyk maintained a cool dignity. William was jabbing Honynge in the back with a dirty forefinger, crowing his delight.
‘Well?’ asked Michael archly. ‘What did you find?’
‘Well, there was this,’ hissed Honynge, holding up a piece of parchment. Bartholomew’s heart sank, supposing Cynric had not been as careful as he had thought. ‘It is a letter from a woman.’
Langelee snatched it from him, then started to laugh. ‘It is a note from Bartholomew’s sister, thanking Michael for his prayers after she was hit by a stone. I hardly think that constitutes a crime, Honynge. Now you owe the good Brother two apologies: one for thinking he was concealing evidence of murder, and one for reading private correspondence addressed to a priest.’
‘Well, come on, then,’ said Michael, in the ensuing silence. ‘I am waiting.’
‘I am sorry, Brother,’ said Bukenham immediately. ‘I never believed you were guilty, and–’
‘I was not talking to you,’ said Michael contemptuously. ‘Well, Honynge? You maligned me and you were wrong. I am purer than the driven snow, and I demand you acknowledge it.’
‘Do not push it, Brother,’ said Bartholomew in a low voice. ‘There is a big difference between innocent and pure. Kenyngham was pure. You are not even innocent – thanks to me.’
‘I will not apologise,’ snarled Honynge. ‘The Chancellor or one of the beadles must have warned you, and you removed the evidence before it could be found. They are as corrupt as you are.’
‘And now you owe him even more apologies,’ shouted Tyrington, as Honynge stamped away.
It was not a pleasant evening, because a wickedly cold wind was slicing down from the north, carrying with it the dank odour of the Fens. Bartholomew wanted to sit in his chamber and write his treatise on fevers, but that was impossible, because all five of his roommates were home, and there was barely space to move. Two sat on his bed. Another pair occupied the desks in the window – they offered to yield, but he was not a man to pull rank over students with upcoming examinations – and the last was sitting cross-legged on the floor.
‘You cannot work – we have too much to do,’ said Michael, when Bartholomew went to see if there was a spare corner in the monk’s quarters. ‘I have a terrible feeling that Honynge plans to make a hostile move at the Convocation on Monday – one that might divide the University even further.’
‘And we need it united against the town,’ said William, who had also come looking for a vacant spot. He had four students in his room, and they were chanting a tract they were obliged to learn by rote. It meant he could not concentrate on what Bajulus had to say about Blood Relics. Or so he claimed. Bartholomew suspected he had reached a difficult section, and was making excuses not to tackle it. Tyrington was there, too, drinking some wine he had brought with him.
‘A divided University will be a weaker one,’ agreed Michael. ‘I must solve these murders, before rumours about them cause even more harm.’
‘At least you do not have to look for Kenyngham’s killer,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Paxtone’s testimony proves his death was a natural one, and the “antidote” you saw him swallow had nothing to do with poison. The letters you received are hoaxes.’
‘Two letters from two different men,’ said William, taking them from the desk and studying them. ‘The handwriting of the man who offered you twenty marks is not the same as that of the man who claimed he had poisoned Kenyngham.’
‘Or woman,’ added Tyrington. ‘Some ladies can write – or hire scribes to do it for them.’
Michael acknowledged his point with a nod. ‘I wonder why anyone would want to confess to such a horrid crime in the first place?’
‘I expect Honynge did it,’ said William, ‘so you would make a fool of yourself with an unnecessary exhumation. It is exactly the kind of scheme he would concoct, because he is stupid.’
‘Unfortunately, he is not stupid,’ said Michael. ‘If he were, I would have bested him by now.’
‘Is Honynge the only suspect for the crimes you are investigating?’ asked Tyrington. ‘I dislike speaking in his favour, but he does not seem the kind of man to break the law in so vile a manner.’
‘I beg to differ,’ said Michael. ‘But no, he is not our only suspect. Matt still favours Arderne as the culprit, and there are several curious facts about Isabel that add her to my list. Then, of course, Candelby and Blankpayn are obvious candidates, given what we now know about Lynton.’
‘What about Lynton?’ asked William, using Michael’s glass to examine the two documents.
‘He ran this dispensary. Candelby won a lot of houses there, but was recently banned for gloating. He is said to be furious, and the abrupt loss of substantial winnings is a powerful motive for murder.’
‘And Candelby does carry a crossbow,’ said William. ‘I have seen it. It is always wound, too.’
‘Is it?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Maud said it was not.’
‘Then she is mistaken,’ said William. ‘I have taken to searching his cart since he started this business with the rents – I live in hope of discovering incriminating writs that will make him leave our University alone. He always carries a bow, and it is always ready to be whipped out and used.’
Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Maud seemed very certain–’