‘Can a slow-acting poison kill a man in the way Kenyngham died?’ demanded Michael. ‘He said he was too weary to walk to the Gilbertine Friary, then he closed his eyes and you made the assumption that he was lost in prayer. Of course, he was actually breathing his last.’
Bartholomew nodded unhappily. ‘Yes, but he did not complain of being ill. I thought he was just tired after all the fasting and praying of Lent.’
‘You might have been able to help him,’ said Michael, stricken, ‘had you paid more attention.’
‘No,’ said Cynric, coming to his master’s defence. ‘Once some poisons have been swallowed, there is nothing anyone can do, no matter how diligently they watch.’
Michael relented. He rubbed a hand across his face. ‘I am sorry, Matt – I did not mean to sound accusing. It is not your fault he died, but this vile killer’s.’
Bartholomew did not hear him: he was thinking about Kenyngham’s last words, when he had talked about crocodiles and shooting stars. Had the old man been in the grip of a deadly substance that had made him delusional? And what about the potion Michael had seen him imbibe, which he had called an antidote? Had he known his life was in danger? And if so, had Bartholomew – his own physician – missed signs and symptoms that should have told him something was wrong? Perhaps folk were right to distrust his skills and call him a charlatan.
The news that someone had elbowed Kenyngham into his grave had shocked Bartholomew deeply, and he kept replaying the Gilbertine’s last day through in his mind. He sat in his room, staring out of the window, not seeing the rain that slanted across the courtyard and turned hard earth into a morass of mud and wet chicken droppings. The College hens and the porter’s peacock huddled under a tree, balls of saturated feathers looking sorry for themselves, while Agatha’s cat stretched gloatingly on the kitchen windowsill, luxuriating in the only warm room at Michaelhouse.
Michael was finishing a cake Edith had sent Bartholomew for Easter. He picked up the plate, carefully poured the crumbs into his hand, then slapped them into his mouth. While he chewed, he took the confession in his hand and stared at it.
‘Why do people use such tiny writing these days? The purpose of letters is to communicate, and you cannot do that if you scribe your message too small for normal men to read.’
Bartholomew went to the chest where he kept his belongings, and rummaged for a few moments, eventually emerging with a rectangular piece of glass that had been set into a leather frame. ‘This belonged to the Arab physician I studied under in Paris. He said I might want it one day, but I think your need is greater than mine.’
Michael’s face broke into a grin of delight as he passed the item across the letter. ‘It magnifies the words so I can see them! This is a clever notion, Matt. Your Arab master was a genius.’
Bartholomew sat and stared across the courtyard again. ‘It is obvious, when you think about it. The exact science of optics asserts that a convex lens will reflect the ratio of the width of an image to the width of an object–’
‘Never mind that,’ said Michael, studying the text intently. ‘Who penned this letter? Do you recognise the writing? Whose scrawl is so minute that a glass is required to make sense of it?’
‘Virtually everyone in the University, according to you. However, an equally important question to ask is why did someone write it? Is it to boast, because the culprit knows you will never catch him? Is it because he feels guilty, and wants his crime unveiled?’
‘And why would anyone harm Kenyngham?’ Michael flicked the letter with his finger to indicate distaste. ‘He was the last man to accumulate enemies.’
‘I would have said the same about Lynton.’
‘Not so, Matt. Kenyngham was a saint. However, we have discovered that Lynton leased houses to wealthy burgesses rather than to his fellow scholars. And there is an odd association between him and Ocleye – both shot with crossbows and both with their signatures on a rent agreement. Nothing like that will ever be discovered about Kenyngham.’
‘No,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘He and Lynton were very different men.’
‘Of course, there is nothing to say they were not dispatched by the same person. One killed by an arrow and the other by insidious poison. Neither method allows for second thoughts.’
‘No one disliked Kenyngham.’ Bartholomew turned away from the window and met the monk’s eyes. Having had time to reflect and consider, he was now sure his initial conclusions had been right after all. ‘And no one poisoned him, either. I think someone is playing a prank on you – confessing to a crime that was never committed.’
Michael regarded him suspiciously. ‘That is not what you said when this missive first arrived. You were as stunned and distressed as I was. Now you say you do not believe it?’
‘Yes – because logic dictates that it would not have been possible to poison Kenyngham.’
‘But you said yourself that he was alone for part of Saturday night and early Sunday, because he insisted on keeping the Easter vigil. Someone could have given him something then.’
‘And that is exactly why harming him would have been impossible. First, it was a vigil, and so a time of fasting – and you know how seriously Kenyngham took acts of penitence. And secondly, he would not have accepted victuals from strangers, anyway.’
Michael considered his points. ‘All right, I agree that he would not have eaten anything, but what about water? He may have been thirsty or faint. The poison was fed to him, then he walked home, where it gnawed away at his innards while we all enjoyed our Easter dinner.’
‘He was happy, Brother. He may have been tired, but I do not think he was in pain.’
‘He was happy because he knew he was going to die. He was a religious man, and not afraid. Indeed, he probably welcomed death as his first step towards Paradise, which is why he said nothing to the physician at his side.’
‘That would have been tantamount to suicide, and thus a sin. He would not have risked his immortal soul in such a way. He did say some odd things before he died, though. He told me to stand firm against false prophets, which he called shooting stars, and he said you were to be wary of timely men with long teeth – crocodiles.’
‘Crocodiles,’ mused Michael. ‘What was he talking about? Who has long teeth?’
‘I imagine it was a metaphor.’
Michael scratched his chin, nails rasping against the bristles. ‘He was right about the false prophet – it is Arderne, making fraudulent claims. It is apt to call him a shooting star, because that is what he is: a passing phenomenon whose fame will fade the moment people see through him.’
‘We are moving away from the point. I do not believe what this letter claims, because Kenyngham would not have swallowed anything during his vigil, not even water. And after that, he was with us, and we all ate and drank the same things. I stand by my initial diagnosis – that he died because he was old and it was his time.’
‘Well, I do believe it now,’ said Michael, equally firm. ‘And I should not have let myself be persuaded otherwise. He told me he was taking an antidote, and I shall never forgive myself for not pressing him on the matter. I might have been able to save him. However, while I might have failed him in life, I shall not fail him in death. I will unmask the villain that deprived Cambridge of its best inhabitant, even if it is the last thing I do. If I apply for an exhumation order from the Bishop’s palace in Ely, will you inspect the body for me?’
Bartholomew stared at him. ‘I have examined it twice already, and there was nothing to see. Please do not do this Michael. Investigate, if you must, but do not drag him from his final resting place. He would not approve of that at all.’