To Kill or Cure: The Thirteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘I have nothing to say to you, monk – unless you have come to your senses, and are here to tell me that I may charge what rent I choose in my own properties?’

  ‘I do not own that sort of authority, as I have explained to you before,’ said Michael. ‘It would involve a change in the Statutes, and that would require a vote by the University’s Regent Masters.’

  ‘Then leave my tavern,’ said Candelby, beginning to walk away.

  Michael caught his arm. ‘I am here about another matter – nothing to do with rents.’

  ‘What?’ demanded Candelby. ‘The fact that I charge scholars more for my pies than I charge townsmen? Your Statues cover the price of ale and grain, but they do not mention the price of pies. I can do what I like as far as pies are concerned.’

  ‘How do you know what our Statutes allow?’ asked Michael, rather coldly.

  Candelby’s expression was hostile. ‘Because I have made myself familiar with them. They are keeping me from charging my tenants a fair rent, after all.’

  ‘I hear you lost a pot-boy in the brawl yesterday,’ said Michael, changing the subject abruptly in the hope of disconcerting him.

  Candelby glared. ‘Ocleye was a good fellow. I intend to offer a reward to anyone who provides information that exposes the vicious scholar who stabbed him.’

  Michael was horrified. ‘Please do not! It will result in a rash of unfounded accusations, because some folk will say anything for free pennies. You are almost certain to be led astray, and arresting the wrong man will lead to trouble. Your stance over the rents has already brought us to the brink of civil war, and this will make matters worse.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ snapped Candelby. ‘I am just standing up for what is right. I should be allowed to rent my own houses to whomsoever I like.’

  ‘I did not write the Statutes – they were composed more than a century ago, so do not blame me. If you do not like them, go and reside in some other town.’

  ‘I shall not!’ declared Candelby hotly. ‘It is your scholars who will leave, because either they will pay the rent I decide to charge, or they can live elsewhere. It is a straightforward choice. Personally, I hope they disappear – set up their nasty hostels in some other hapless town.’

  Michael changed the subject, because they had been over the same ground a dozen times, and nothing would be gained by doing it again. ‘I did not come here to fight,’ he said tiredly. ‘All I want is to gain a clear picture of what happened yesterday.’

  ‘I was lucky Arderne was on hand to heal me. It is good to see medical care in the hands of a man who has nothing to do with the University. Patients will flock to him, leaving your scholar–physicians with nothing.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Michael with an affected sigh.

  ‘Your colleagues are hypocrites, Brother. You order me to lease my buildings to scholars, but Lynton rented his to townsmen. Did you know that?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Michael, abruptly taking the wind out of his sails. Bartholomew was uneasy, though, wondering how Candelby was party to such information, when Michael had only just learned it himself. ‘And if he were alive, I would fine him for it. But let us discuss yesterday’s events. Can you tell me exactly what happened?’

  ‘I was in my cart, taking Maud Bowyer home after church. Ocleye was riding in the back. Suddenly, I heard a snap. I looked up, and there was Lynton, riding straight at me. The next thing I knew was that my wagon was in pieces, Maud and I were in the wreckage, and Ocleye was fussing over me like a hen. Then Arderne arrived, and—’

  ‘And he healed you with his feather,’ finished Michael. ‘I think we have heard that part enough times. Do you mind if my colleague inspects this miraculous cure?’

  Candelby proffered his arm. ‘He should see what lay-healers are capable of. Perhaps he will learn something. Ignore the discolouration, Bartholomew – Arderne says it will fade in two weeks.’

  ‘Did Lynton say anything when he rode at you?’ asked Michael. ‘Were his eyes open? Where were his hands? Clutching his chest or holding the reins of his horse?’

  Candelby shrugged. ‘I have no idea – it all happened too fast. Ask Maud. She may remember.’

  ‘We shall,’ said Michael. He sighed again. ‘Look, Candelby, Lynton was not the kind of man to commit murder, and anyone who knew him would say the same. I doubt he intended to harm you.’

  Unexpectedly, Candelby relented. ‘It did seem out of character. Let me think about your questions for a moment. I do not think he was holding the reins, but good horsemen control their mounts with their knees, so that is no surprise. He did not say anything that I heard. And I was more concerned with that great stallion bearing down on me, so I cannot tell you about his eyes.’

  ‘It was a mare,’ said Michael. He knew a lot about horses. ‘And a comparatively docile beast. She must have been startled by this snap you said you heard.’

  ‘It is possible,’ acknowledged Candelby. ‘The whole incident was dreadful, made worse by the brutal murder of Ocleye. And now Maud refuses to see me. I have asked Arderne to give her a potion that will bring her to her senses.’

  ‘She refuses to see you?’ asked Bartholomew, finishing his inspection of the man’s arm. ‘Why?’

  ‘I wish I knew, but there is no fathoming the female mind. It is a pity you cannot ask Ocleye about the accident, but scholars certainly murdered him – probably that rabble from Clare. At least poor Ocleye took one of them with him.’

  Michael was thoughtful. ‘Yes, it is a pity we cannot speak to Ocleye. Tell me, does he have any family here, or close friends?’

  ‘No one. He arrived at Christmas, and he was lucky I offered him employment, or he would have been destitute. Still, he was a decent soul.’

  ‘Where did he live?’ asked Michael, a little carefully. He did not want to give too much away about the parchment his Corpse Examiner had recovered. ‘Here, or did he have his own lodgings?’

  Candelby’s face was inscrutable. ‘He was a pot-boy, Brother, so what do you think? Now, is there anything else, or can I go back to work?’

  ‘Just two more questions. First, how did Ocleye die?’

  ‘He was stabbed in the chest by a student. The poor fellow lies in St Bene’t’s Church, so go and inspect him, if you do not believe me. Take your Corpse Examiner – he will confirm what I say.’

  ‘Unfortunately, it is hard to distinguish between wounds made by townsmen and wounds made by scholars,’ said Michael ruefully. ‘If he could do it, it would make my work very much simpler. And secondly, have you seen your friend Blankpayn? He seems to have disappeared off the face of the Earth, along with one of our students.’

  Candelby retained his unreadable expression. ‘I have not seen either of them, although I understand the boy was grievously wounded when he raced to attack poor Blankpayn.’

  * * *

  Michael left the Angel tavern aware that they had learned nothing useful. Either Candelby was unaware that his pot-boy had signed a rental agreement with a scholar, or he was unwilling to admit to it. Meanwhile, Bartholomew seethed with frustrated anger at the taunt in the taverner’s parting comment, and it had taken all the monk’s diplomatic skills – and physical strength – to make him leave the tavern without throats being grabbed.

  ‘He knows where Blankpayn is hiding,’ the physician snarled, freeing the arm Michael held with rather more force than was necessary. Michael staggered backwards. ‘But he refuses to help us.’

  ‘Perhaps. However, I suspect he just wants you to think he does. He is trying to aggravate you.’

  ‘He has succeeded.’

  ‘Throttling him will help no one, satisfying though it might be. I will set Meadowman to watch him, and if Blankpayn visits, we shall know about it. You will have to be patient. I know it is difficult, but there is nothing else we can do. If we use force, it will cause trouble for certain.’

  Bartholomew supposed he was right, and took a deep breath in an attempt to calm down. Absently, he noticed that Bene’
t Street was not as busy as it should have been at that time of day, and he wondered whether Arderne had taken half the town with him when he went to magic Isnard’s leg back into place.

  ‘Would you mind examining Ocleye?’ asked Michael. He spoke tentatively. Bartholomew did not often lose his temper, and the monk was not sure how to react to it. ‘He is not a scholar, and he did not die on University property, so technically my Corpse Examiner can refuse to do it. I know Candelby said he was stabbed, but I need to be sure.’

  Bartholomew nodded, but his attention was still fixed on the tavern. ‘Is that Honynge, just going into the Angel?’

  ‘It is!’ Michael’s green eyes gleamed with delight at the notion of catching his future colleague flouting the rules. ‘The more I deal with him, the less I like him.’

  Bartholomew had not taken to Honynge either, and sensed the man’s arrogance would create discord among the Fellows – William would take umbrage at his manner, and Michael would begin a war of attrition that would force everyone to take sides.

  ‘I had better follow him, to see what he is doing,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands as a plan took shape in his mind. ‘If he is buying ale, I shall advise Langelee to withdraw the offer we made this morning.’

  ‘You are too conspicuous – Candelby is sure to notice you. I will go.’

  Michael reached out to stop him, sure it was an excuse to resume the conversation about Blankpayn, but the physician jigged away from his hand and began to trot back towards the inn. The monk started after him, but was no match for his more fleet-footed colleague.

  ‘Do not to go in,’ he called urgently, giving up when he saw it was hopeless. ‘Just poke your head around the door and then come back and tell me what he is doing.’

  Bartholomew ducked behind the courtyard well when he saw Honynge had not gone very far inside the inn. The cold fury he had felt towards Candelby was already subsiding, and his natural common sense was telling him that another confrontation would do nothing to help Falmeresham – and might even do some harm. With a sigh, he realised that shaking the truth out of the taverner would not be a good idea, and that Michael’s plan to set Meadowman to watch him was far more likely to yield results. Immediately, he began to wish he had not offered to spy on the man who was to be his colleague. It was hardly ethical, and he sincerely hoped Honynge would not catch him.

  Honynge and Candelby were near the entrance, talking. Unfortunately, a chicken chose that moment to announce the laying of an egg, and taverner and scholar turned instinctively at the abrupt frenzy of squawks. Bartholomew did not think they had seen him, but could not be sure. The two resumed their discussion, and after a moment Honynge’s voice began to rise. Words quickly became audible.

  ‘… an outrage,’ he snapped. ‘And I will not endure such remarks.’

  ‘I do not care,’ said Candelby. ‘It is true. Michaelhouse is full of second-rate scholars.’

  ‘Well, your pies are rancid,’ retorted Honynge childishly. ‘You probably make them with dog.’

  He turned and stalked away, leaving Candelby to mimic his stiff-backed gait in a flash of juvenile petulance. The pot-boys grinned, but their smiles vanished when the taverner began to bark orders at them. Bartholomew moved further behind the well as the furious Honynge stamped past him, and was disconcerted to hear the man talking quite loudly to himself.

  ‘You do not have to put up with his insults, not even for a pie. In fact, you should tell him his ale is not up to scratch, either.’ He stopped, glared back at the Angel, but then resumed walking. ‘No, you have more dignity than that. Go home and prepare for your removal to Michaelhouse.’

  Bartholomew waited until he had gone, then set off to find Michael. He faltered when he saw the monk talking to Honynge himself, but Honynge did not linger long. He growled something, then continued on his way, anger radiating from him like heat from the sun.

  ‘What did he say?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

  Michael was bemused. ‘He suggested I use my powers as Senior Proctor to stop the Angel from trading. It seems Candelby said something rude about Michaelhouse, and he took it as a personal affront. Well? Was he buying ale?’

  ‘Food – although I think he squabbled with Candelby before he could get any. He is an odd man. I would not have thought him the kind of person to leap to our defence – he made disparaging comments about Michaelhouse himself this morning – yet it seems he feels some spark of loyalty.’

  Michael groaned. ‘Lord! Now here comes Tyrington, grinning at us like a gargoyle. Will we never be allowed to investigate these murders? All I want is to concentrate on finding out what happened to Lynton and Falmeresham. Is that too much to ask? Tyrington is eating, by the way. This could be dangerous.’

  ‘Good morning, colleagues,’ gushed Tyrington. Bartholomew did not step away quickly enough, and found himself liberally splattered with cake. ‘I cannot wait to be installed in your – our – College. Oh, the debates we shall have, on all subjects from theology to alchemy!’

  ‘What about natural philosophy?’ probed Bartholomew, prepared to overlook a few missiles of oral origin if the reward was a discussion on one of his favourite subjects.

  Tyrington simpered at him. ‘I have a great interest in anything that necessitates complex arithmetic and geometry, especially if it can be used to define our universe.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What do you think of the work of the Oxford calculatores, who use mathematics to measure the increase and decrease in intensity of qualitie s—’

  ‘Not much, if he has any sense,’ muttered Michael.

  Tyrington’s leer threatened to split his face in half. ‘It fascinates me deeply, particularly as it applies to what happens in the first and last instants of potentially infinite processes.’

  ‘I hope you two will not spend all your evenings calculating together,’ said Michael coolly. ‘There are other issues to debate, besides mathematics.’

  Tyrington laughed uneasily, sensing he had annoyed the monk. He hastened to be conciliatory. ‘There will be plenty of time for discourses on all manner of exciting matters, and I shall grant them all equal attention, I promise.’

  Bartholomew watched him walk away. ‘Lynton lectured on the work of the Oxford calculatores last term, and Tyrington made several intelligent contributions. Honynge was not there, though – I would have remembered him. I hope Honynge does not transpire to be one of those scholars only interested in discussing his own speciality, because he is a theologian and therefore dull—’

  He faltered when he recalled that Michael’s academic expertise was also in the ‘Queen of Sciences’, and shot him a sheepish glance. The monk smothered a smile. ‘We have wasted too much time already today. Let us see what Ocleye can tell us.’

  St Bene’t’s thick walls immediately quelled the clamour from the street, and the scholars’ footsteps echoed softly through the ancient arches as they walked up the nave. The building smelled of the fresh rushes that had been scattered in the chancel, and of the flowers that had been placed along the windowsills in celebration of Easter. Bartholomew looked around appreciatively – he had always liked St Bene’t’s – but Michael was more interested in his investigation. He frowned when he removed the pall that had been placed over the coffin.

  ‘Ocleye seems rather old to be called “boy” – he must be nearing sixty! I was expecting an apprentice. Are you sure he is the right one?’

  ‘I thought you knew him,’ said Bartholomew, surprised. ‘He was standing near Candelby after the accident – obviously, given that he had been riding in the back of Candelby’s cart.’

  ‘Candelby is a demanding master and servants tend not to stay with him long. Hence I know very few of them. But my point remains: Ocleye is old for such an occupation.’

  ‘He was a newcomer, so probably took whatever work was offered.’ Bartholomew began his examination. ‘It explains why he wanted his own accommodation, though – a man of his years will not want to share an a
ttic with a dozen rowdy youths. Yet Ocleye could not have been earning much, so I wonder how he intended to pay the elevated rent Lynton would have charged.’

  ‘That is a question to which we must find the answer. It cannot be coincidence that Lynton was holding the agreement signed by him and Ocleye, and both end up dead on the same day. Do you mind hurrying? I know we have Candelby’s permission to be here, but I would rather we were not caught pawing the body of a townsman – not in this current climate of unrest. What can you tell me? Where was he stabbed?’

  ‘He was not stabbed,’ replied Bartholomew. Michael looked sharply at him. ‘I know Candelby said he was, but he is mistaken. This wound is too small and the wrong shape to have been made by a blade. It was caused by a crossbow bolt, just like the one in Lynton.’

  Michael stared at him. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course – and I can prove it.’

  The monk averted his eyes when Bartholomew took a pair of pliers from his bag and began to do something to Ocleye’s chest. There was an unpleasant grating sound that made him feel queasy, and when he plucked up the courage to glance back, Bartholomew was inspecting something bloody that lay in the palm of his hand. It was the sharp end of a crossbow bolt, about the length of his little finger.

  ‘It snapped off inside him,’ explained the physician. ‘I suspect someone tried to retrieve the whole thing, but this part was embedded in bone, and it broke as it was tugged out.’

  ‘Are you sure it was not that injury which killed him?’ asked Michael, pointing to a gash across Ocleye’s ribs. He took several steps backwards when Bartholomew began to examine it, then squeezed his eyes tightly closed. ‘Please do not put your fingers inside corpses when I am looking! I missed your company when you took that sabbatical leave of absence last year, but I certainly did not miss this kind of thing!’