‘Do you remember being dead?’ he asked.
Motelete shook his head. ‘People keep asking me that – did I see Christ, was I in Purgatory, was my soul weighed? All I recall is being very cold, and when Magister Arderne commanded me to rise, it was difficult, because I was stiff. He says all corpses undergo a phase of stiffness.’
They talked a while longer, mostly about the fact that Motelete was not wearing his prescribed uniform, and that even scholars newly risen from the grave were not exempt from the University’s rules. Motelete was not entirely won over by Michael’s logic, but agreed to go home to Clare – without his sweetheart – when the monk mentioned that he had the authority to demand a fine of up to six pence from students who preferred taverns to their schools.
As soon as Michael was satisfied that Motelete was heading in the right direction, Bartholomew headed for a stinking alley known as Butchery Row. It was behind the Market Square, identifiable by its rank stench and large population of bluebottles. Children sold rhubarb leaves at either end so customers could use them to keep buzzing flies from their faces as they browsed the wares on sale.
‘I want to find out whether any meat-sellers have hawked livers that were knobbly and green,’ he explained to Michael, ‘because the organ Falmeresham saw cannot possibly have been his own.’
‘This place always makes me glad I am not a woman,’ said Michael, holding his sleeve over his nose with one hand, and flapping furiously with the other. ‘They are obliged to come here every day, and it turns my stomach.’
‘There is Agatha, buying meat for your dinner. She does not seem to mind the flies or the smell.’
‘No fly would dare alight on her,’ retorted Michael, flailing harder as they ventured deeper inside the shadowy alley. ‘And nor would any smell.’
‘Arderne delivered my love-potion yesterday,’ Agatha announced as she approached. The sack hefted over her shoulder was huge, and probably contained the best part of a sheep. ‘It contains real mandrake, and we all know there is nothing like mandrake for making folk fall in love.’
‘It is also a powerful poison,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed for the man who might drink it. ‘It can induce wild fancies, but the dosage must be very carefully measured.’
‘Who is it for?’ asked Michael warily.
She grinned mischievously. ‘You will know soon enough. Do not worry, Matthew. I will not give him too much of it.’
‘I shall hold you to that,’ said Bartholomew, hoping her idea of ‘too much’ was the same as his own. ‘Edith told me you threw a hunk of bread at Arderne yesterday. If you dislike him enough to lob loaves, then why did you buy his remedy?’
Agatha was thoughtful. ‘I hurled the bread because he insulted you, and I was going to refuse his charm when it arrived. But when he delivered it, and looked at me with those eyes of his, I could not stop myself from reaching for my purse. He is a clever man, though, despite his sharp tongue. He cured Motelete and Falmeresham of death, and he healed Blankpayn’s leprosy.’
‘I have not seen a genuine case of leprosy in England for years,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully.
‘Arderne said it was leprosy. I know all about it, because Blankpayn is my cousin.’
‘Blankpayn?’ asked Michael in astonishment, while Bartholomew supposed he should not be surprised. Agatha was related to at least half the county.
Agatha became defensive. ‘I know he is not kin of which to be proud, but you cannot choose your relations, so I am stuck with him. He says he did not harm Falmeresham on purpose, though.’
‘We know,’ said Michael. ‘I was witness to the fact that it was an accident myself, and there was no need for him to have run away. However, that does not justify him neglecting to mention Falmeresham’s whereabouts when he knew we were worried.’
‘He is a spiteful fool,’ agreed Agatha venomously. ‘He has no wits, not like me.’
‘I do not suppose he told you anything else, did he?’ asked Michael hopefully. ‘Perhaps about Candelby and the crossbow he keeps to repel thieves and scholars? Blankpayn will never talk to me, but he might have confided in you.’
‘He does confide,’ acknowledged Agatha, liking the notion that she might possess information the monk did not. ‘But Candelby did not shoot anyone on Sunday. His crossbow is never loaded, and as they take a few moments to arm, I never bother with them personally. I prefer a sword.’
‘I see,’ said Michael, swallowing hard at the notion of Agatha armed. ‘Who is in the sack?’
‘Who?’ she echoed. ‘You mean what? It is a bit of mutton for your supper. I thought I might cook something special tonight, seeing as you have two new Fellows. Tyrington praised my pottage this morning, so I want to show him what one of my roasts is like.’
‘You never do that for me,’ said Michael plaintively.
She winked at him. ‘I might, if you were a bit more charming.’
‘Do you think she intends to feed her potion to Tyrington?’ asked Michael, after she had gone. ‘She seems enamoured of him.’
‘She is just flattered that someone has complimented her cooking at last,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘We take her for granted, and it must be a pleasant change to be appreciated.’
Michael gagged as they reached a particularly noxious section of Butchery Row. ‘Can we go now? The stench is making me nauseous.’
Bartholomew was obliged to approach three meat-merchants before he found one willing to talk to him. The first two gave him short shrift, informing him bluntly that they had no wish to be seen talking to scholars. The third owned the smallest shop, and was not noted for the freshness of his wares. As a consequence, ‘Putrid Peter’ tended to be patronised by those who could not afford the better stuff, and he and his family barely made ends meet.
‘Pay no heed to them,’ said Peter, flicking a thumb at his colleagues. ‘One owns a house that is used as a hostel, and the other is his nephew. They are both with Candelby against the University, and are going around telling everyone not to sell meat to scholars.’
‘They sold mutton to Agatha,’ Bartholomew pointed out.
Peter regarded him as though he was short of a few wits. ‘They support Candelby, but that does not make them madmen. No one refuses Agatha, not if he values his vitals. If you want an end to this rift, Brother, you should send her after Candelby. You would have peace quicker than you can say your pater nosters.’
‘I might do that,’ said Michael. ‘God knows, I am running out of other options.’
‘Does Magister Arderne ever buy meat from you?’ asked Bartholomew.
Peter shook his head. ‘Not meat, just entrails for his dog. I sold him the innards from a sheep on Monday. They were a bit past their best, but he said Rex would not mind.’
Bartholomew made his way out of the cluttered, reeking shambles, Michael stumbling behind him. One of the butchers chose the moment they passed to upend a bucket of bloody water into the street. Bartholomew was agile enough to jump out of the way, but the back of Michael’s habit ended up drenched. The physician was not quick enough to dodge the bone that was lobbed at him, however, and it caught him a painful blow on the elbow.
‘Was that escapade worthwhile?’ snapped the monk irritably, when they were away from the stalls and in the Market Square. ‘You learned that Arderne buys cheap meat for some animal he keeps, but at what cost? I am soaked and you are bruised.’
‘It was worthwhile,’ said Bartholomew, rubbing his arm. ‘Falmeresham was stabbed on Sunday. The next day, Arderne purchased sheep guts, and went to “operate”. Falmeresham was too dosed with potions to know what was really happening, and was deceived in the most appalling manner.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘First, if Falmeresham really had been badly wounded, he would not have survived being toted to the Angel and then to Arderne’s house. Secondly, the injury was in the wrong place to have affected a liver, as I have told you – something Falmeresham does not know, because I am not allowed to teach h
im anatomy. Thirdly, I doubt Arderne owns a dog, so he must have had another reason for wanting cheap entrails. Fourthly, Falmeresham said his liver was “knobbly and green”, which looks like no human liver that I have ever seen, but Putrid Peter sold Arderne entrails that were turning bad. And finally, you do not pull an organ from a body, suture it, and have the patient walking around in three days.’
Michael was thoughtful. ‘Do you think Arderne deceived young Motelete, too?’
Bartholomew nodded slowly. ‘But I cannot see how. Not yet, anyway.’
‘Are you sure you have not taken against him because his claims resulted in Edith being hurt?’
‘I have taken against him for that, yes. And for misleading Falmeresham, for making Hanchach drink urine, and for giving Isnard false hope and stealing his money. Shall I go on?’
‘There is no need,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘I see your point.’
Because they were passing, Bartholomew stopped at King’s Hall to ask after Paxtone, whose indisposition still confined him to his quarters. The large physician was lying down, but declared himself to be better. He rubbed his ample paunch ruefully.
‘I am a devil for pigeon, but I shall limit myself to three of them next time we have a feast.’
‘I like pigeon, too,’ said Michael conversationally. ‘Although Agatha does not always remove all the feathers. They get stuck in my throat and make me choke.’
‘Our cooks are the same,’ sympathised Paxtone. ‘I choke, too.’
‘If you took time to look at what you were eating, instead of gobbling, these problems would not arise.’ Bartholomew became aware that Paxtone and Michael were regarding him in astonishment, unused to him giving such tart advice. He relented. ‘I am sorry. It is Arderne – we have good evidence that he is defrauding people, but I do not know how to stop him. And my arm hurts.’
While Paxtone smeared Bartholomew’s elbow with an ointment of elder leaves and marjoram, Michael summarised what they had deduced about Arderne’s treatment of Falmeresham.
‘I am not surprised,’ said Paxtone. ‘And Blankpayn does not have leprosy – his skin flakes when he eats too many eggs. He always mends in a few days, and if Arderne is claiming that as one of his successes, then he is deluded – and so is Blankpayn for believing him.’
‘Can you think of a way to expose him?’ asked Bartholomew, watching Paxtone replace his salve on a shelf. ‘We must do something, because it is only a matter of time before someone dies.’
‘Even if someone does perish, he will deny responsibility,’ said Paxtone gloomily. ‘Maud Bowyer is sinking fast, but he declines to accept the fact that he failed to clean her wound properly. He is blaming her illness on you, because you gave her something to swallow.’
‘Poppy juice and henbane.’
Paxtone raised his hands in a shrug. ‘A powerful elixir for a painful condition. It is what I would have prescribed myself. Wretched man! To catch him will be like laying hold of a snake – whichever end you grab will result in a bite. But you know all this, so there is no point in me harping on it. Have you come any closer to learning why Lynton rode his horse at Candelby?’
Michael shook his head. ‘Although we are certainly learning a lot about Lynton himself. Did you know he trained as a knight, and that he owned buildings all along the High Street?’
Paxtone raised his eyebrows. ‘I knew about the properties, but not about his military expertise, although it does not surprise me. He was elegance itself astride a horse.’
‘He was murdered,’ said Michael baldly. ‘Shot. We have not told anyone else, except Langelee, because we fear reprisals. However, Matt believes Arderne may be responsible, so you may be in danger, too. I tell you for your own safety, although I would appreciate you keeping it to yourself.’
Paxtone was appalled. ‘But this is dreadful! I had no idea!’
‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘That is what we intended.’
Paxtone took a gulp of wine, straight from a container that looked suspiciously like a urine flask. ‘You must do all you can to catch this monster – whether it is Arderne or someone else. But, of course, that is what you have been doing. Forgive me. It is the shock. Poor Lynton!’
‘You must look out for Rougham, too,’ said Michael. ‘Do not confide in him, because he is fiery, and outrage may lead him to confront Arderne, which will help no one.’
‘I shall be discreet,’ vowed Paxtone. He paled suddenly. ‘I have noticed someone watching me several times recently. Lord! It might have been an assassin hired by Arderne.’
‘Watching you how?’ asked Bartholomew.
Paxtone raised his hands. ‘Sometimes he is in the street opposite our gatehouse, sometimes I see him at the apothecary’s shop, and he was at Kenyngham’s funeral. I mentioned him to Rougham, and he said the fellow had been dogging him, too. Have you noticed anyone following you?’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I am usually accompanied by Michael, Cynric or students. They would have noticed something amiss, even if I did not.’
‘We did notice something amiss,’ said Michael. ‘You chased a hooded figure who was lurking outside Peterhouse, but lost him in the woods nearby.’ He turned to Paxtone. ‘Can you describe this person?’
Paxtone shook his head. ‘He is always bundled up in his cloak, and I have never seen his face. Neither has Rougham.’
Michael was concerned. ‘You must be on your guard.’
Paxtone’s malaise seemed to have evaporated now he had something more serious to worry about. He stood and headed for the door, tottering slightly on his tiny feet. ‘I shall walk to Gonville Hall now, and make sure Rougham is in one piece. Poor Lynton! Did I tell you we had a disagreement last week?’
Michael followed him down the stairs. ‘What about?’
‘The mean speed theorem. He made an assumption that I considered erroneous.’
‘In what way?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘The basis of the theory is that a body will traverse a specific distance in a given amount of time. However, I see no evidence that the speed should be constant, and I disagreed with him about his mathematical assumptions.’
‘I see your point,’ said Bartholomew. ‘However, if that same body were to move during the same interval of time with a uniform velocity equal to the instantaneous speed acquired at the middle instant of its uniform acceleration, it would traverse a predictable distance. Would it not?’
Paxtone paused at the bottom of the stairs to catch his breath. ‘He kept varying his definition of “uniform”, which meant his deductions were difficult to predict. I was right more often than not, but a man of my standing does not like to be proven wrong. All this happened in his Dispensary.’
Bartholomew was surprised Paxtone had taken the matter so much to heart. Being wrong was part of the learning process, and anyone who minded having his conclusions questioned had no right to be a scholar. ‘You visited his Dispensary? I did not even know he had one until yesterday, although it is like no Dispensary I have ever seen – there is nothing in it to dispense, for a start.’
‘Just wine,’ said Paxtone, leading the way across the yard. He looked a little furtive. ‘Lynton liked to give wine to the patients who visited him. It was a very popular habit.’
‘I am sure it was,’ said Bartholomew.
Michael lowered his voice when they reached King’s Hall’s mighty gatehouse. ‘While I am in the mood for confidences, I have received a letter saying that Kenyngham was poisoned. And there was another note offering me twenty marks for bringing the culprit to justice.’
Paxtone regarded him uncertainly. ‘Kenyngham was old. I imagine he died of natural causes, and the writer of these letters – I assume they are one and the same – is playing a nasty game with you.’
‘That is what I have been telling him,’ said Bartholomew.
‘I am unwilling to take the chance,’ said Michael. ‘So, I shall take the matter seriously until a proper examination of Kenyngham tells me otherwise. Besid
es, these missives cannot have been written by the same man. He is hardly likely to offer me a reward for his own capture, is he?’
‘But Kenyngham is buried,’ said Paxtone. ‘How can you examine him? Unless … surely, you cannot mean to exhume him?’ He rounded on Bartholomew. ‘Are you party to this outrage?’
‘No. Michael intends to ask Rougham to help him.’
‘Rougham will have nothing to do with it – and rightly so. I strongly urge you reconsider, Brother.’
Michael watched him waddle away, a frown creasing his fat features. ‘Perhaps he killed Kenyngham. He certainly objected very strongly to my determination to learn the truth.’
‘He objected to you digging up a dead colleague,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘As do I.’
As Bartholomew and Michael walked home to Michaelhouse, they met Father William. He was talking to the Warden of the town’s Franciscan Friary, an austere, unsmiling man named Pechem. Pechem was one of Bartholomew’s patients, and regularly consulted him about the poor state of his digestion. He usually blamed his discomfort on a bad alignment of stars, although the physician was more inclined to think a penchant for pickled rhubarb might have something to do with it.
‘The Grey Friars will stand with you at the Convocation next Monday, Brother,’ said Pechem, as they approached. ‘William has been telling me how it is your attempt to avert trouble, so we shall support your proposal to change the Statutes.’
‘Thank you,’ said Michael, pleased.
‘The Dominicans are being awkward, though,’ said William gloomily. ‘I went to see them today, but Prior Morden said he intended to vote for whatever I voted against.’
‘Damn!’ muttered Michael. ‘I shall have to visit Morden later, then.’
‘Do not bother,’ said Pechem. ‘The Black Friars have eighteen Regents, but we have nineteen. As we cannot possibly be expected to vote for the same side, you are better accepting our pledge.’
Michael sighed crossly. ‘Surely you can put your differences aside, just this once?’
‘We have been happily opposing Dominicans on everything for nigh on two hundred years,’ said Pechem indignantly. ‘Why should we change now?’
To Kill or Cure: The Thirteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 24
