Bartholomew regarded him in alarm. ‘Arrest him how, exactly? Storm inside and grab him, while all Clare looks on? Are you insane?’
‘We cannot use my beadles, because marching around with an army would not be wise this morning. We cannot afford to be seen behaving in a provocative manner.’
‘Then we should leave this until later. Arresting him now is more likely to inflame than soothe.’
‘He might claim another victim if we do not act at once. Do you want that on your conscience?’
But Bartholomew was growing increasingly uneasy. ‘Spaldynge – if he is our man – is an experienced killer. He is not going to let you escort him away without a fuss. This is madness!’
It was Spaldynge who answered the door, and he carried a small crossbow in his hand. Michael glanced meaningfully at Bartholomew, but the physician was more concerned with how the potters were reacting to the sight of such a deadly weapon. They made themselves scarce before it could be used on them, but he had the feeling they had not gone far.
Spaldynge smirked his satisfaction. ‘Did you see that rabble slink away? That showed them we are not all helpless priests without the wherewithal to defend ourselves.’
‘That is a handsome implement,’ said Michael, flinching when it started to come around to point at him. ‘How long have you had it?’
‘About a week,’ replied Spaldynge. ‘It was a gift.’
‘Very nice,’ said Bartholomew, backing away and trying to drag Michael with him. ‘You are clearly busy, so we will come back later.’
‘A gift from whom?’ demanded Michael, pulling himself free.
‘From someone who said I might need to defend myself,’ replied Spaldynge. ‘Because of Borden.’
He gestured that they were to enter his College. Bartholomew baulked, but Michael strode confidently across the threshold. Loath to leave his friend alone, the physician followed, fumbling for one of his surgical knives as he did so. Spaldynge barred the door behind them, and Bartholomew swallowed hard, aware that it would make escape that much more difficult. He glanced at Michael, who did not seem to care that his rash determination to seize his culprit was putting them both in danger.
‘What about Borden?’ demanded Bartholomew, nervousness making him speak more curtly than he had intended. He braced himself, half-expecting to be shot there and then.
‘I sold it to Candelby,’ said Spaldynge impatiently. ‘You know that. My benefactor said I might need to defend myself against colleagues who may accuse me of wrongdoing.’
‘Your colleagues will applaud your actions,’ countered Michael. ‘You hawked Candelby a house that is structurally unsound, and that will cost him a fortune to renovate.’
Spaldynge regarded him coolly. ‘Kardington asked me not to tell anyone that, because he said it would make us look deceitful. We do not want anyone assuming we rid ourselves of a burden …’
‘I see,’ said Michael, when he faltered. ‘Borden was sold because it was about to become a millstone around Clare’s neck, and the transaction was made with the full support of the Master and Fellows. No wonder you have remained on such good terms with them! Far from doing something to damage your College, you have acted in their best interests, and nobly shouldered the blame.’
‘You cannot prove it, and we will deny everything.’
‘I am sure you will,’ said Michael. He sighed, tiring of games. ‘Who gave you the bow?’
‘I decline to say. It is none of your business, and you should be out quelling riots or hunting Motelete’s killer, not strutting around in company with a physician.’ He almost spat the last word.
‘Brother Michael,’ said Kardington, striding across the yard towards them. Master Wisbeche of Peterhouse was at his side. ‘I do not like the feel of the town today.’
‘Neither do I,’ agreed Wisbeche. ‘So Kardington offered my students and me refuge until it is safe to go home. It was clever of you to reach that last-minute agreement with Candelby, and thus avoid a vote that would have split the University, but it has done little to ease the tension with the town.’
Bartholomew saw the scholars of Peterhouse talking to the members of Clare, and hoped none would remember that they had been going to stand against each other at the Convocation. Wisbeche and Kardington were civilised, but that did not mean their flocks would be equally well behaved.
‘Well, you know Cambridge,’ said Spaldynge, toting his bow. ‘Any excuse for a riot.’
‘Put that down,’ ordered Kardington crossly. ‘It is against the rules for scholars to carry weapons, and if you do it in front of the Senior Proctor, he will hit you where it hurts – in the purse.’
‘It is not illegal inside my own College,’ objected Spaldynge. ‘And I do not … Oh, Christ! I am sorry, Master Wisbeche. Are you hurt?’
‘You have ruined my tabard!’ exclaimed Wisbeche. He was angry, but aware that he was a guest in someone else’s College, and so not in a position to say what he really thought. ‘There is a hole in it!’
‘You are a menace, Spaldynge,’ snapped Kardington, mortified. ‘Either take that thing to the orchard and learn how to shoot properly, or I shall confiscate it. I do not feel safe as long as you are unfamiliar with its workings.’
‘Whoever killed Lynton and Ocleye was an excellent shot,’ said Bartholomew to Michael, when Spaldynge had gone to do as he was told. ‘He hid in a place where he could not be seen – which means he was probably some distance away – and his bolts went through their hearts. Once may have been luck, but twice suggests he knew what he was doing.’
Wisbeche looked from one to the other. ‘If you suspect Spaldynge of Lynton’s murder, you must think again. He could not hit a bull if it was standing on his own toes. He brandishes the wretched thing as if he means business, but he barely knows one end from the other, and I had to show him how to wind it.’ He inspected his damaged tabard, and gave the impression that he wished he had not bothered.
‘Spaldynge did not kill Lynton,’ lisped Kardington, bemused. ‘He was Lynton’s patient, and appreciated the tactful way he treated a rather embarrassing condition. Now Lynton is dead, he will have to explain everything to another medicus, something he is dreading.’
‘But he hated Lynton,’ said Michael, not sure whether to believe him. ‘Because of the plague.’
‘He does despise physicians,’ agreed Kardington. ‘But he is still obliged to avail himself of their services on occasion.’
‘The relationship between Spaldynge and Lynton could be described as coolly civil,’ added Wisbeche. ‘Spaldynge came to Peterhouse for consultations, but although they did not like each other, there was never any hint of hostility. Lynton would not have kept him as a patient, if there had been.’
‘Spaldynge was our last suspect,’ said Michael, defeated. ‘I do not know where to go from here.’
‘Go home, Brother,’ said Kardington kindly. ‘The Colleges are the only safe places to be today, and at least you are relieved of Honynge’s objectionable presence. If you could be rid of Tyrington, too, Michaelhouse would be a delightful foundation.’
The monk agreed, frustration and disappointment making him bitter. ‘If Tyrington spits at me one more time, I am going to empty my wine goblet over him. I wish we had not been so efficient at offering him a place. He would have been your problem, had we dallied.’
Kardington was startled. ‘Mine?’
‘He was invited to take a Fellowship here, at Clare. You had a narrow escape. However, we will willingly part with him, if you find yourselves in need of a slobbering theologian.’