‘Did Candelby order you to kill Motelete, Lynton and Ocleye?’ asked Michael. ‘He had hired Ocleye to spy for him, but Ocleye promptly turned traitor. Meanwhile, Lynton had just banned him from the Dispensary, and Motelete may have caught him doing something untoward–’
‘I have not killed anyone, and if you make any more accusations, I shall take the matter to my lawyers. I feel well enough to walk now, so I am leaving while I still can.’
‘You are not going anywhere until you have signed this,’ said Michael, pushing the letter of resignation towards him.
Honynge wrote his name with a flourish. ‘With pleasure.’
‘The man is right,’ said Michael wearily, after Honynge had gone. ‘We cannot prove any of this. He is a killer and a traitor to his University, and he is going to walk away. Worse, he might kill again.’
‘You should not have cured him, Matthew,’ said Agatha, stepping out from behind the screen. The three scholars jumped, because they had forgotten she was there.
‘Probably not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘However, it was that or seeing you hanged for murdering him.’
Langelee and Michael gaped at him. ‘Agatha is this deadly killer?’ asked Langelee in disbelief.
‘Now, just a moment–’ started Agatha dangerously.
‘No, but she did poison Honynge,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘She used the love-potion Arderne gave her. He told her it contains mandrake, but it is actually white bryony, with which mandrake is often confused. Arderne does not know what he is doing, so he made a basic mistake.’
‘You mean I really did poison Honynge?’ asked Agatha. She looked rather pleased with herself.
‘Yes, you really did. Perhaps Motelete swallowed one of these love-charms, too, because I am sure it was bryony that killed him.’
‘Of course!’ exclaimed Michael. ‘Falmeresham saw him stealing one of Arderne’s remedies, and we know he was enamoured of Siffreda. He took the draught in order to make her love him, but it killed him instead. He should have known better than to swallow anything Arderne had concocted.’
‘He was desperate,’ explained Agatha. The scholars regarded her in surprise. She shrugged. ‘He once confided to me in the Angel that Siffreda was taking too long to fall for him. Young men are impatient in love, and he was eager to speed matters up.’
‘If Arderne’s potion is supposed to render its taker irresistible,’ said Bartholomew to Agatha, ‘then why did you give yours to Honynge? Surely, you cannot have wanted to be in love with him?’
Agatha glared at him. ‘I most certainly did not! My intention was for Wynewyk to fall for him. Then Honynge would have been so disturbed that he would have packed his bags and left my College.’
‘I see,’ said Michael, amused. ‘However, you purchased this remarkable concoction before Honynge came to Michaelhouse, so he was not your original victim. Who–’
‘That is none of your business.’ Agatha raised her chin defiantly. ‘Everything you said earlier was right, by the way. Candelby has been paying Honynge for information about our University – my cousin Blankpayn mentioned it when he was in his cups last night. I was going to tell you this morning, but you disappeared and I did not know where you had gone.’
Michael sighed. ‘So where does all this leave us?’
‘With Motelete’s death solved,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘It was an accident – or a case of malpractice, depending on whether you think Arderne was right to leave dangerous substances in a place where light-fingered, love-sick accomplices might get hold of them.’
‘I think we shall opt for the latter,’ said Michael. ‘It will go in my report to the sheriff in London. But we still do not have the real culprit, and time is running out.’
CHAPTER 12
It was late before Bartholomew, Michael and Langelee left the conclave. They went over the evidence again and again, and Michael was frustrated when answers remained elusive. A crisis was looming, and he hated the fact that he was powerless to prevent it. It was difficult to accept that whatever decision he made – to cancel the Convocation or let it go ahead – would bring trouble, and he was full of bitter resentment that he had been placed in a position where he could not determine the lesser of two evils.
When dawn broke, and the bell rang to wake scholars for church the next day, Bartholomew felt as though he had only just gone to bed. A sense of foreboding led him to don a military jerkin of boiled leather under his academic tabard, although he sincerely hoped such a precaution would prove unnecessary. He hurried into the yard, and found Michael already there. The monk was unshaven and rumpled, and there was a wild look in his eye.
‘The Convocation starts in an hour,’ he said. ‘I should go to St Mary the Great as soon as possible, to brief my beadles before the Regents begin to gather.’
‘You are relieved of College obligations, then,’ said Langelee promptly. ‘William can take mass, then we shall all come back here and lock ourselves in. Cynric and his sword will escort the other Fellows to the Convocation, but my duty is here, protecting Michaelhouse.’
‘Why should our College be a target?’ asked Bartholomew, alarmed by the Master’s precautions.
‘Because of you,’ replied Langelee bluntly. ‘I know you have made your peace with Isnard, but the legacy of his discontent runs on, and there are rumours about you concealing murders. Furthermore, people are saying that you encouraged the proctors to arrest Arderne.’
‘He is right, Matt,’ said Michael, when Bartholomew began to object. ‘Your precipitous action with crossbow bolts in Milne Street last Sunday has had repercussions none of us could have predicted.’
The streets of Cambridge were growing light, but there were more people on them than was normal for such an early hour. They gathered in small groups, or raced here and there with quick, scurrying movements. Scholars were out, too, and Bartholomew noticed that some carried sticks and knives.
‘I cannot fine them for toting weapons,’ said Michael. ‘If they feel as uneasy as I do, then I do not blame them for wanting to defend themselves. Let us hope tensions ease after the Convocation.’
‘They may get worse,’ warned Bartholomew. He walked faster, making a concerted effort not to look at anyone, lest it be seen as a challenge. When one of his patients wished him a good morning, he was so unsettled that he failed to reply. ‘I had forgotten what Cambridge can be like when its collective hackles are raised. Perhaps you should cancel the Convocation. It will prevent scholars from assembling in large numbers, and you can order them to stay inside their hostels and Colleges instead.’
‘It is too late,’ said Michael, looking around. ‘Most are already on their way.’
The University’s senior members were indeed streaming towards St Mary the Great. A few were in twos or threes, but more were in bigger groups, and some had brought armed students to protect them; these strutted along in a way that was distinctly provocative. Only Regents were permitted in the church for the Convocation, so the escorts waited outside in ever-increasing numbers. The door stood open, and Bartholomew walked through it to find the place already half full. He was alarmed to note that they had organised themselves into opposing sides – or rather, someone had done it for them, and it soon became apparent who that someone was.
‘All those who think Michael’s amendment should pass, stand to the south,’ Honynge was shouting. ‘And those who should think it should not, go to the north. In other words, those who believe the town should win must slink to the south, while right-minded men should come to the north.’