‘He can offer triple, but I still would not take it,’ declared the guard. ‘Damned scholars! They invade our town, and start imposing rules that see us the poorer. I hope Candelby wins the rent war, because then we can start challenging all their other unjust laws, too.’
Stanmore leaned down from his horse to speak in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘The whole town is behind Candelby, so watch yourself. If you assume everyone is an enemy, you will not be far wrong.’
Bartholomew watched him canter away, feeling unease grow inside him. When he turned to look at Michael, he saw he was not the only one who was troubled.
‘Lord!’ muttered the monk. ‘I knew the rent war was serious, but I did not anticipate that its repercussions would be quite so far reaching. Guards do not often reject bribes on principle.’
‘Perhaps you should arrange another meeting with Candelby and the landlords, to try to resolve the situation before it grows any worse.’
Michael sighed his exasperation. ‘Do you think I have not tried? Candelby refuses even to sit in the same room with me unless I agree – in advance – to let him charge whatever he likes. And because what he likes is three times the current amount, I cannot comply.’
‘So you are at an impasse?’
Michael nodded, then sighed again. ‘Tell me what you learned from Lynton’s corpse. I hope it was something useful, because time is running out fast, and we desperately need answers.’
Bartholomew showed him the fragment of parchment he had recovered. ‘This.’
Michael angled it to catch the light. ‘This is part of one of our standard tenancy agreements. They outline the responsibility of a landlord to keep the building in good repair, and to stay out except for maintenance. And they order the leasing scholar to pay his dues on pain of excommunication. You have managed to acquire the bottom quarter. Where did you find it?’
Bartholomew told him.
‘Look at the names,’ he prompted. ‘The two signatures – tenant and landlord.’
Michael turned it this way and that as he attempted to decipher the small words. ‘One is Lynton’s – I would recognise that flowing hand anywhere. And the other is … I cannot read it.’
‘Ocleye.’
Michael looked first blank, then puzzled. ‘Ocleye is the murdered pot-boy from the Angel – Candelby’s inn. But this makes no sense. First, a pot-boy is unlikely to be rich enough to hire a house. Secondly, if he were, surely he would have signed an agreement with Candelby, his master?’
Bartholomew regarded him soberly. ‘Exactly, Brother. I imagine Candelby would feel betrayed if he knew what Ocleye had done. And now Lynton and Ocleye are dead.’
‘You think Candelby had something to do with their deaths? Hah! I knew it!’
Bartholomew was thoughtful as he considered what the find meant. ‘So, two men did something of which Candelby would disapprove, and now both are dead – one during an accident in which Candelby was the second party, and the other in a brawl arising from that accident. Of course, it may be coincidence. However, in that case, why was the document torn from Lynton’s dead hand?’
‘I do not understand the last part.’
‘It was snatched with enough vigour to rip it, which must have required a remarkable sleight of hand, given that the accident had attracted so many onlookers. That healer – Arderne – was there, and he has the air of a magician about him. Perhaps he took it.’
‘Why would he do that? I can see why he might have shot Lynton – he is now sans one rival medicus – but why would he steal writs from his victim’s hand?’
‘Perhaps he thought it was something else.’
Michael disagreed. ‘These particular documents are distinctive, even to the illiterate, because they are headed with red ink, and they all have that book motif at the top. They cannot possibly be mistaken for something different.’
‘Then whoever took that one from Lynton made a dismal blunder, because he left the important part – the bit containing the names – behind. He might just as well have left the whole thing.’
Michael nodded, eyes gleaming. ‘And his mistake means we have a clue. Of course, I have no idea why a rent agreement between Lynton and Ocleye should be important, but it gives us something to think about. Perhaps Arderne wanted to live in the house Lynton was about to lease to Ocleye.’
‘How would killing Lynton – the landlord – help him achieve that end?’
Michael shrugged. ‘Arderne was your suggestion as a culprit, not mine. Besides, there is nothing to say that the killer and the person who grabbed the agreement are one and the same. What else did you learn from Lynton’s corpse?’
‘That it was definitely the crossbow that killed him. The wound would have been instantly fatal. He fell from his horse as he died, and a hoof probably caught his head on the way down.’
‘Someone must be pleased. He thinks the crime has gone undetected, because everyone is assuming the mare is to blame. What happens if the body-washer notices this wound?’
‘I disguised it, and Mistress Starre is not the curious type anyway. What shall we do now?’
‘Visit the Angel and ask questions about Ocleye. He is a townsman, so his death is none of my affair, but your discovery suggests the matter might bear some probing.’
‘Good,’ said Bartholomew, beginning to walk more briskly. ‘And while we are there, we can ask if anyone has seen Blankpayn.’
The Angel was set back from the road, separated from it by a pretty courtyard with a well. It was a substantial building, and offered rooms for travellers, as well as stabling for horses. It was known for clean bedding, sweet ale and generous breakfasts, as well as its famous pies, so was popular with visitors and locals alike. The main chamber was a large, busy place that smelled of pastry and woodsmoke. The flagstone floor was always scrupulously swept, and any spillages were immediately mopped up by Candelby’s army of polite, well-dressed pot-boys.
The tavern was full for a morning when there was work to be done, but Bartholomew soon saw why. Candelby was in a chair near the hearth, holding forth. Sitting across from him was another familiar figure. Arderne was looking pleased with himself. He wore his scarlet robes, and through a window Bartholomew could see his brightly painted cart parked in the yard at the back of the tavern.
‘You want a pie?’ asked a yellow-haired pot-boy. He spoke softly, so as not to disturb the listeners. ‘But be warned: Master Candelby says we cannot sell them to scholars any more, unless they pay triple.’
Michael grimaced. ‘I wondered how long it would be before he decided to use his pies against us. But I am here to see your master, not to eat. You can talk to me while we wait for him to finish his yarn. How well did you know Ocleye?’
‘Not very,’ admitted the lad. ‘He came to work here fairly recently, and tended to keep himself apart from the rest of us. He was decent, though, and always shared the pennies he got from our customers, so we all liked him. I am sorry he was murdered by one of your lot.’
‘And I am sorry he stabbed a scholar,’ retorted Michael. ‘But, as we have lost a man apiece, I hope the matter will end there. I do not suppose you have seen Blankpayn, have you? He seems to have gone missing – as has one of our students.’
‘Falmeresham,’ said the boy, nodding. ‘Carton came here last night, asking if we had seen him.’
‘And had you?’ asked Bartholomew.
The lad shook his head, starting to move away. ‘I saw him make a dive for Blankpayn, but then those Carmelite novices rushed me, and my attention was taken with fending them off.’
Bartholomew watched him go, then turned his attention to the gathering by the hearth. Candelby was still speaking, and his audience was listening in rapt admiration. Arderne looked like a cat that had swallowed the cream, relishing the awed looks that were continuously thrown in his direction.
‘So Magister Arderne took his feather and tapped it three times on my left hand,’ said Candelby. ‘At first, nothing happened. Then there was a gre
at roaring, and my senses reeled. I heard a snap, and when I opened my eyes, there was my arm as whole and sound as it had ever been.’
‘Did it hurt?’ asked Isnard the bargeman. It was a tavern, so Bartholomew was not surprised to see Isnard there. The chorister–bargeman liked ale, and his missing leg meant work was not always available, so he often had time to squander in such places.
‘Not one bit,’ declared Candelby. ‘I thought it would – bone-setting is a painful process, as many of us can attest. But when Magister Arderne cured me with his feather, I felt nothing.’
‘Does he cure anything else?’ asked Agatha. Bartholomew was surprised to see Michaelhouse’s laundress in the Angel, because taverns tended to be the domain of men – and prostitutes – and she should not have been there. However, as she was larger than most male patrons, and infamous for her touchy temper and powerful fists, no one was likely to oust her.
‘I have remedies for all manner of ailments,’ announced Arderne grandly. ‘Why? Is there something you would like me to repair? Or does your question relate to my other skills – for example, my ability to restore beauty to those of mature years?’
‘I have no need of beauty potions,’ said Agatha, astonished by the implication that she might. There was absolute silence as men held their breaths, lest even the merest sigh be misinterpreted. No one wanted to be on the wrong side of Agatha. ‘But I would not mind a love potion.’
There was another taut silence, and the man sitting next to her gulped. He glanced at the door, as if assessing his chances of making a successful dash for it.
‘I can provide you with one of those,’ said Arderne, quickly regaining his composure. ‘Of course, it will be expensive. Good remedies always are, which is why you should distrust the low fees of men like Robin of Grantchester. You get what you pay for in the world of medicine.’
‘Is Robin cheap?’ asked Michael of Bartholomew. ‘I always thought him rather pricey.’
‘I would say he is about average. I wonder why Agatha wants this potion.’
‘It is for Father William,’ said Michael with a malicious snigger. His chortling stopped abruptly as another possibility occurred to him. ‘God and all His saints preserve us! I hope it is not for me!’
‘Do you see yourself as irresistible to portly matrons then, Brother?’
Michael pursed his lips. ‘I am irresistible to anyone. Powerful men always attract that sort of attention – just ask the King.’
Bartholomew laughed, appreciating a brief moment of levity in what had been a bleak few hours. Unfortunately, Arderne heard him. The healer stood suddenly and began to stalk towards them.
‘Damn!’ muttered Michael, as the tavern’s patrons started to look around, to see where he was going. ‘I wanted to catch Candelby alone, and we cannot risk a confrontation with this arrogant peacock. Do not let him goad you into an indiscretion, Matt. Not here.’
‘Why would he want to argue with me?’
‘Because Beadle Meadowman told me last night that Arderne has engineered public quarrels with all your medical colleagues – Robin, Paxtone, Rougham and Lynton. You have only escaped his vitriol because you have been busy teaching. Of course, the others are easy targets, and you will be far more difficult to harm. That means he will probably strike you hardest of all.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Rougham is arrogant and objectionable, Lynton was narrow-minded, and Robin is a repellent creature, to put it mildly. Paxtone is competent – just – but the Cambridge medici are, on the whole, an unprepossessing shower. You are by far the best, so Arderne will see you as his most dangerous opponent. He will want to silence you as soon as possible.’
Bartholomew regarded him in surprise. ‘Silence me about what?’
‘About his dubious claims that a feather can mend broken bones, for a start. Here he comes. Be on your guard – and remember that we have a killer to catch. We have no time to waste on spats.’
‘Speak of the Devil and he will appear,’ drawled Arderne, as he approached. His unblinking eyes shone oddly, and his long black hair tumbled from under his red hat. ‘I was just saying how the people of Cambridge have been badly served by dirty surgeons and ignorant physicians since the plague, and here is one of them.’
‘Now just a moment,’ said Isnard, hobbling over to join them. ‘Bartholomew is a decent man. When my leg was crushed under a cart, he cut it off and saved my life.’
‘If I had been here, there would have been no need for amputation,’ declared Arderne. ‘My feather would have cured your leg, just as it did Candelby’s arm. Could you have salvaged Candelby’s limb, Bartholomew? Or would you have lopped it off?’
‘There is no way to know,’ replied Bartholomew calmly. ‘I did not examine Candelby’s injury, so I am not in a position to offer an opinion about it.’
‘That is a good point,’ said Agatha, elbowing her way through the listening patrons to stand next to him. ‘And the same might be said for Isnard’s leg. You were not there, Magister Arderne, so how can you pontificate on what was, or was not, the right thing to do?’
Arderne shot her a pained look. ‘I most certainly can pontificate, madam. I am a professional man with a wealth of experience. I do not hide behind excuses, but boldly offer my views when they are sought. And I could have saved your leg, Isnard. There is no doubt about it.’
‘Really?’ asked Isnard. ‘I do not suppose you can make it grow back again, can you? This wooden one is all very well, but it keeps falling off as I make my way home from the alehouse.’
‘I could try,’ replied Arderne. ‘My feather has worked miracles before, and will do so again. A cure will be expensive, but if you really want your leg back, you will not begrudge me the money.’
‘I do want it back!’ cried Isnard eagerly. ‘More than anything.’
Bartholomew fought to suppress the anger that was burning within him. It did not take a genius to see that Isnard was gullible, and it was cruel to prey on his weakness. ‘It has gone, Isnard,’ he said quietly. ‘And it will never come back. Do not squander your money on tricks.’
‘Tricks?’ echoed Arderne. ‘How dare you! You have never seen me work, so you have no idea what I can do. My brother is the great John Arderne. Surely you have heard of him?’
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew tartly. ‘Is he in the habit of dispensing false hope, too?’
‘Are you calling me a liar?’ demanded Arderne, eyes blazing. ‘You are not even a surgeon, but a physician who has no right to perform amputations. You are a disgrace to your profession!’
‘Hey!’ snarled Agatha. ‘This is one of my Fellows, and anyone who insults him answers to me.’
‘My apologies, madam,’ said Arderne with a bow. He was not a fool, and knew when it was wiser to retreat. ‘I spoke out of turn.’
‘Yes, you did,’ agreed Agatha, still glaring. ‘I am going to finish my ale now, but I shall be keeping an eye on you, so you had better behave yourself.’
She stamped away, and most of the patrons followed, eager to discuss Arderne’s remarkable claims among themselves, so it was not long before the healer was left alone with Bartholomew, Michael and Isnard. Candelby was itching to join them, but Agatha had cornered him, and was demanding to know the whereabouts of Blankpayn. The taverner was shaking his head rather desperately, trying to convince her that he did not know.
‘Where did you earn your degree, Magister Arderne?’ asked Michael, before Bartholomew or Isnard could resume the subject of missing limbs. ‘Paris? Montpellier?’
‘I do not hold with book-learning,’ replied Arderne loftily. ‘My great body of knowledge comes through observation and experience.’
‘Why use the title, then? If you despise formal training, you should not need its trappings.’
‘It is a form of address that people like to bestow on me,’ replied Arderne smoothly. ‘I do not want to offend them by declining it.’
‘Are you really John Arderne’s brother?’ asked Barthol
omew, changing the subject when he saw the man would have glib answers to account for all his deceits. ‘I met him once in Montpellier, at a lecture on bladder stones. He told me—’
‘I have not seen him in years,’ said Arderne, rather quickly. ‘However, I am his superior in the world of medicine. I am better than anyone in Cambridge, too.’
‘Like Lynton?’ asked Michael innocently. ‘You are better than him?’
‘Of course! He was a relic from a bygone age, and that made him dangerous.’
‘So, you think Cambridge is better off without him?’ pressed Michael.
Arderne regarded him with an expression that was impossible to interpret. ‘Without question. And now I must be about the business of healing. I have a patient who wants a leg.’
‘Make it grow back, then,’ challenged Bartholomew. He knew from the desperately hopeful expression on Isnard’s face that the bargeman would never listen to reason. ‘But he will not pay you a penny until you have succeeded – right down to the last toe.’
Arderne shot him a black look. ‘That is not how it works. Do you wait until every patient is fully recovered before demanding recompense?’
‘He does, actually,’ said Isnard. ‘And sometimes he forgets to ask altogether.’
‘Well, I am not so careless,’ declared Arderne in a voice loud enough to ring through the tavern like a bell. People stopped their own conversations to listen to him. ‘I am a professional. Do you have enough gold to pay me, Isnard? Miracles do not come cheap.’
Bartholomew was appalled. ‘Isnard will lose everything he has,’ he said to Michael. ‘Do something!’
‘Isnard’s greatest failing is his propensity to believe anything he hears, especially if it is something he wants to be true. I can no more stop him from making Arderne rich than I can make him sing a soft Te Deum.’
There was a babble of excited conversation as Arderne strutted from the Angel tavern with Isnard limping at his side. The miraculous saving of Candelby’s arm had captured public imagination, and folk wanted to be there when Arderne did it again. They started to follow him, and Bartholomew glimpsed the healer’s grin of satisfaction when he realised his self-promoting declarations had worked. It was not many moments before the tavern was deserted, except for Candelby and his pot-boys. The servants began to clean up the mess left by the abrupt exodus, and the taverner himself came to see why two scholars should dare linger in his domain.
To Kill or Cure: The Thirteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 8
