Honynge was laughing wildly. He drew a knife and prepared to plunge it into the monk’s back.
Determined that Honynge should not succeed, Bartholomew flung himself across the table, scattering burning parchments as he went. He crashed into the ex-Fellow, bowling him from his feet. Honynge scrambled away when the physician was still off balance, and swiped at him with the dagger, a vicious blow that might have killed him had he not been wearing the jerkin. Bartholomew fell back among the smouldering documents, and Honynge leapt on top of him, pummelling him with his fists. The physician tried to push him off, but Honynge was stronger than he looked, and the smoke from the burning deeds was making it difficult to breathe. Bartholomew tried to shout for Michael, but Honynge landed a punch that drove all the breath from his body. Then Honynge’s hands were around his throat, squeezing as hard as they could.
Just when his senses were beginning to reel, Honynge went limp. Michael hauled the physician to his feet, and threw open a window, allowing fresh, clean air to waft inside. The smoke swirled, then began to clear. Bartholomew’s throat hurt, his eyes stung and he could not stop coughing. Michael went to the centre of the room, and began to swing a cloak around his head, in an attempt to dissipate the fumes. Blankpayn lay near the door, blood seeping from under him; he was dead.
‘Are you all right, Matt?’ asked the monk, not stopping his exertions. ‘Damn these silly men! The whole place almost went up – my office is full of old wood and dry parchment.’
‘What happened?’ asked Bartholomew hoarsely. He coughed again. ‘Blankpayn?’
‘Fell on his own dagger,’ replied Michael, still swinging vigorously. ‘Help me get rid of this smoke, before the Regents smell it and there is a stampede. We do not want anyone crushed.’
‘And Honynge?’ asked Bartholomew, too shaken to comply.
Candelby was leaning against a wall, looking as though he might be sick. ‘I knocked him senseless with a doorstop after Blankpayn had his mishap – he would have killed you otherwise. They were both deranged! I knew Blankpayn was growing dangerous, but I did not think he would actually harm anyone, especially me. That business with Falmeresham turned his wits.’
Michael regarded him with dislike. ‘Blankpayn was a dangerous man, while Honynge was going to ignite the University Church with all our Regents inside it. However, you recruited them, so you are complicit in their crimes.’
‘No!’ cried Candelby, appalled. ‘I admit I wanted to create confusion, so the Regents would not object when I tripled the rents, but no one was going to be hurt. I was planning to offer money for repairs to the church, too, just to show you that I bear no hard feelings.’
‘I do not believe you.’
‘But it is true,’ wailed Candelby. ‘Ask Honynge when he wakes up. He will tell you we discussed it, and that a box of coins is in my house, ready to be offered as reparation.’
‘I am afraid Honynge will not be giving evidence in your favour,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘You hit him far too hard, and he is no longer breathing.’
‘Well, save him then,’ ordered Candelby, shocked. ‘Flick feathers at him, like Arderne does. I need him alive, so he can tell you I am speaking the truth.’
Michael was unmoved. ‘You have just murdered a member of my University – not one I liked, it is true, but Honynge was a colleague nonetheless.’
‘I did it to save your friend,’ cried Candelby, becoming frightened. ‘You know I did.’
‘Do I? It is still unlawful homicide, and thus a hanging offence.’ Candelby’s jaw dropped, and Michael went on. ‘However, I might be prepared to broker an agreement, if certain conditions are met. One is that you use this box of coins to repair the mess you have made of my office. And the other is that you agree to new terms about the rent.’
‘What new terms?’ squeaked Candelby, thoroughly rattled. ‘You mean to let them stay as they are?’
‘I could say that,’ replied Michael. ‘And you are hardly in a position to quibble. But it would be ungracious, and I would like this dispute resolved amicably. So, we shall offer a rise of five per cent for this year, with the promise of a review next winter. I think that is fair – to both sides.’
‘It is not …’ began Candelby. His face was grey, although Bartholomew was not sure whether it was the notion of being charged with murder or the prospect of losing money that dismayed him more.
‘The alternative is standing trial for Honynge’s death, arson, destroying University property, and whatever other charges I care to bring against you,’ said Michael coldly. ‘You may win, of course, and so save your life. Would you take that gamble, Candelby?’
‘No,’ said Candelby weakly. ‘I do not like these odds. You University men are all the same. Honynge claimed he was keeping me informed of University business, but his information was often inaccurate. He told me Borden Hostel was an excellent business opportunity, but it was not. The roof is unstable, and there are huge cracks in the walls. It will cost me a fortune to repair.’
Michael shot him a look that said it served him right. ‘The rent settlement?’ he prompted.
Candelby sighed. ‘Very well. I accept your offer, but you had better not mention this unhappy business with Honynge again – not ever.’
‘Agreed,’ said Michael. ‘Now, I suggest we go into the church and announce that we no longer need the Regents to vote. We shall both smile and claim to be delighted.’
‘I am pleased you have won your war, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, before Michael could follow the dejected landlord through the door. ‘But if Honynge and Candelby did not kill Lynton, then who did?’
‘Spaldynge,’ replied Michael. ‘He is our killer.’
The announcement that the rent conflict was over was something of an anticlimax, and Gedney was not the only one to grumble that he had missed breakfast for a debate about puddings. Unhappily, Michael watched the Regents file out of the church. Some were laughing at the stupid things William and Morden had said, but others were deeply disappointed that the disagreement had ended peacefully.
‘Many of our scholars cannot believe the dispute is finished, and nor will the town,’ he said worriedly. ‘Wheels have been set in motion, and there is nothing we can do to slow them down.’
Bartholomew rubbed his sore eyes. ‘There must be something.’
‘We can catch the man who killed Lynton and Ocleye,’ said Michael grimly. ‘It may be too late, but we must try.’
Bartholomew followed him out through the great west door and on to the High Street, where they headed towards Clare. ‘You really think Spaldynge is responsible?’
Michael nodded. ‘It is obvious now. He was a regular guest at the Dispensary, but he dislikes physicians – and he told us himself that it was Lynton who failed to save his family during the plague. Further, he probably sold Borden to Candelby because he knew it was about to become very expensive to repair, which goes to show he is sly.’
‘All scholars are sly,’ said Bartholomew, not sure Michael’s logic was as sound as it might have been. The physician was not the only one who was exhausted and not thinking clearly.
When they reached Clare and knocked on the gate, Bartholomew stood with his back to it, aware that a group of potters was loitering nearby. One shouted something about the multilation of Isnard, and another offered to amputate the physician’s head.
‘We had better arrest Spaldynge now,’ said Michael. ‘Then, when everyone sees we have solved the murders at last, they will all calm down.’