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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘We did some intelligent thinking about our books,’ said Langelee curtly. ‘We want them back, so they can be used by everyone. If you do not return them by noon, I shall order Cynric to smash the lock on your door and remove them by force.’

  Honynge glowered. ‘Very well – let your precious tomes be doused in spit, then. See if I care! However, I have a far more serious issue to bring before you today, one I find deeply disturbing.’

  ‘The breakfast dog had nothing to do with me,’ began Michael immediately. ‘It was a—’

  ‘This,’ said Honynge, waving a torn piece of parchment, ‘was in the Illeigh Hutch. You told me to do an inventory of its contents, Master, and I happened across it.’

  ‘It is a rent agreement,’ said Michael, puzzled. ‘Or the top half of one. What does it—’

  ‘It proves someone is breaking the Statutes – by charging a rent higher than that set by law,’ declared Honynge. ‘Since the document was found in Michaelhouse, I can only conclude that Michaelhouse men are engaged in illegal activities.’

  As the monk did not have his magnifying glass, Bartholomew took the fragment from Honynge. He stared at it in confusion, then spoke in a low voice, while Honynge continued to rail at Langelee. ‘I cannot be certain, Brother, but this looks like the other half of the document we found in Lynton’s hand. When we compare the two, I would be surprised if the torn edges do not match.’

  ‘What?’ asked Michael, astounded. ‘How does it come to be in the Illeigh Hutch?’

  Honynge overheard, and levelled an accusing finger at him. ‘You brokered an illicit agreement, and tore the names from the bottom to cover your tracks. Then you hid the document in the Illeigh Hutch, but forgot to reclaim it before the chest passed to me. It proves you are dishonest.’

  ‘It does not,’ said Tyrington. ‘It means someone is, but there is no proof that it is Michael.’

  ‘How is it proof of dishonesty?’ demanded Wynewyk. ‘There are no names on the thing, so it is invalid anyway. Someone probably kept it as scrap, intending to use the back for something else. Parchment is expensive, so we all re-use what we can.’

  ‘It proves Michael owns a High Street house, and that he rented it at an illegal rate,’ Honynge raged. ‘He must have won it at the Dispensary, and is intent on making his fortune from it.’

  ‘What makes you think Michael is the culprit?’ asked Langelee. ‘There is nothing to say—’

  ‘Because I saw the bottom half of that agreement in his room. I spotted it when I went to return a scroll I had borrowed recently. It is probably still there, on his desk.’

  ‘In that case, it is obvious someone is trying to get him into trouble,’ said Tyrington. ‘Well, it will not work. Michael might be a sly old fox, but he does not break the University’s rules.’

  Honynge sneered. ‘He spends more time in the Brazen George than at his lectures. I shall expect his resignation over this, because it is the decent thing to do. And Bartholomew’s.’

  ‘Why Bartholomew’s?’ asked Tyrington, puzzled. ‘He has nothing to do with this document.’

  ‘Because he concealed the fact that Lynton was murdered. Now why would he do that? There are only two reasons, and neither are pleasant. Either he killed Lynton himself, and was hoping to see him buried with no one any the wiser. Or he did it because he could not be bothered to investigate. Either way, I do not want him in my College.’

  He turned on his heel and stalked away, leaving the others staring after him in astonishment.

  ‘What was this rental agreement doing in the Illeigh Hutch, Brother?’ asked Wynewyk. ‘Is it part of your investigation, and you put it there to keep it safe?’

  ‘It is certainly part of my investigation,’ said Michael. ‘Although I cannot imagine how it comes to be in a place where Honynge could find it.’

  ‘I can,’ said Tyrington quietly. ‘He put it there for the sole purpose of damaging you. Is it true that Lynton was murdered? Then perhaps you need look no further for your killer.’

  Solutions and questions were coming so fast that Michael insisted on adjourning to the Brazen George to think. Bartholomew did not think it was a good idea, especially given that Honynge had commented on the monk’s rule-breaking, but Michael said he was not going to let petty accusations interfere with his daily pleasures. So they went to the tavern, although Bartholomew did so with grave misgivings.

  ‘Do not let him bother you, Matt,’ said Michael, seeing Honynge’s remarks had cut deep.

  ‘He accused me of murder – or of concealing a crime. Of course I am bothered! He is the kind of man to share his thoughts with everyone he meets, and it is bad enough with Isnard’s friends lobbing rocks at me. I do not want scholars doing it, too.’

  ‘No one will believe him. He is objectionable and arrogant, and they would rather side with you.’

  Bartholomew was not so sure. ‘People are fickle, and change allegiances fast. Honynge’s claims, coming so soon after Isnard’s, may lead folk to wonder whether there is smoke without fire.’

  ‘Then we must solve our mysteries as quickly as we can – either to prove Honynge is the guilty party, or to expose the real killer and prove your innocence. Let us start with the document Honynge found. Are you sure it was the upper half of the one in Lynton’s hand?’

  ‘Positive. Everything matched – the shape of the tear, the ink, the writing, and the parchment.’

  ‘Then someone at Michaelhouse must have put it there, because no one else has access. Our College is suddenly full of men we do not know, so perhaps one of them did it. Or do you think someone left it because it was likely to be found – as a way to get it into my hands? It is evidence in a murder, and he may have wanted me to have it without being obliged to say how he came by it.’

  ‘You are thinking of Falmeresham? That he found it when he was with Arderne?’

  Michael nodded. ‘He worships Arderne, but he is not stupid. He may well have discovered something that disturbed him, so he decided to ease his conscience by passing it to me discreetly.’

  ‘The document was almost certainly ripped from Lynton’s hand by the man who killed him. If Falmeresham found it in Arderne’s possession, then it means Arderne is the killer.’

  Michael touched his arm. ‘Do not fear for Falmeresham. If Arderne had meant him harm, he would not have healed him in the first place. Your errant student will be safe enough.’

  Bartholomew rubbed his eyes, not sure of anything. ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘Ask questions, Matt. Just as always.’

  ‘Then we should make a start,’ said Bartholomew, standing and pulling the monk to his feet. ‘We cannot waste time speculating.’

  Michael snatched a piece of bread as he was hauled away from the table. ‘Clare first, to ask about Motelete. And then we shall enter the lion’s den and tackle Arderne.’

  At Clare, they were admitted by Spaldynge, who was sombre, tired and pale. He admitted to staying up all night with some of the younger students, who had been too distraught to sleep.

  ‘I hope you catch the monster who did this,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Poor Motelete. He was just learning to enjoy himself, too. He was less shy than before he died – the first time.’

  ‘We saw him courting Siffreda Sago,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Is that what you mean?’

  Spaldynge nodded. ‘I had no idea he was a lad for the ladies, and he surprised us all when he set his eyes on Siffreda. Do not look to her brother as the killer, though. Sago was working all yesterday – including last night – in the Angel, and a dozen men can confirm it.’

  ‘Including you?’ asked Michael archly.

  ‘I do not frequent taverns,’ replied Spaldynge coolly. ‘However, I did go to the Angel briefly to ask a few questions after you brought us Motelete’s body. They seemed the obvious suspects, and—’

  ‘So, you did not spend all night with weeping students,’ pounced Bartholomew. ‘You lied.’

  Spaldynge regarded him with di
slike. ‘You twist my words, physician, but that is to be expected. You are as sly and devious as the rest of the men in your profession.’

  Michael tapped him sharply in the chest, making him step back in surprise. ‘Matt had nothing to do with what happened to your family during the plague, so do not vent your spleen on him.’

  ‘No,’ acknowledged Spaldynge bitterly. ‘It was Lynton – and Kenyngham gave them last rites when his feeble efforts failed. Now physicians have killed Motelete, too. They are jealous of the fact that Arderne can heal and they cannot, so they slaughtered Motelete to “prove” Arderne’s cures are only temporary. It is despicable!’

  ‘You think Rougham or Paxtone fed Motelete poison?’ asked Bartholomew, shocked. ‘Or me?’

  ‘Probably not you – you are more of a knife man.’ Bartholomew saw the anguish in Spaldynge’s eyes, so did not react to the insult. ‘You and your colleagues were useless during the Death, but Arderne said he cured hundreds of people. If only he had been here! But I do not want to talk about it any more, especially with you. Follow me. The others are waiting in the refectory.’

  Bartholomew stared after him unhappily, and was not much cheered by the situation in Clare’s hall. One of the youngest students started to cry the moment he and Michael entered, and Kardington stood with his arm around the boy’s shoulders. Michael was kind and patient, but no one could tell him anything useful. When the monk finally accepted that he was wasting his time, Kardington escorted them out, leaving Spaldynge to console the sobbing child.

  They met old Gedney, hobbling across the yard on his stick. He glared at Bartholomew. ‘Have you finished with my copy of Holcot’s Postillae yet? I want it back.’

  ‘I do not have it.’ Bartholomew looked at the gate and longed to be through it. He was tired of accusations from members of Clare.

  ‘That rascally Tyd must have pinched it, then,’ said Gedney, grimacing in annoyance. ‘Or his friend with the beard – the one who gambles at the Dispensary. What is his name?’

  ‘Spaldynge,’ said Kardington shortly, walking on before the old man could say anything else. He addressed Michael and Bartholomew in his careful Latin. ‘I am sorry we have not been of more help. We are united in our hope that you will catch the person who poisoned Motelete.’

  ‘Spaldynge thinks Matt did it,’ said Michael bluntly.

  ‘He is just upset,’ said Kardington apologetically. ‘And he does not like physicians. It is a shock, learning that a student is murdered, then he is alive, and now he is slain again.’

  ‘I saw Motelete in several taverns,’ said Michael. ‘Yet when we first started asking questions about him, everyone said he avoided them, because he was afraid of being fined.’

  Kardington sniffed. ‘He liked the Angel, but who does not? Even the most rigorous adherent of the University’s rules cannot resist those lovely pies.’

  ‘He was not eating; he was drinking. Claret, no less.’

  Kardington was sheepish. ‘Well, perhaps he did have a fondness for it, which became more noticeable after his resurrection. And I admit he was not the scholar we thought him to be, either.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We all wanted to get to know him better after he had that miraculous cure, but he was not the lad we remembered. He must have concealed his true character before. To be honest, I found I did not like him much, although that does not mean to say I am pleased that he is dead.’

  ‘Did you see him with anyone who might mean him harm?’ asked Michael.

  ‘His free time was spent either with Siffreda or Arderne,’ said Kardington. ‘But Arderne had saved him, so it is no surprise that they struck up a friendship. Your lad Falmeresham was jealous, though – I saw him glaring enviously myself. And he knows about poisons—’

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew immediately. ‘Falmeresham is not a killer.’

  ‘I hope not,’ said Kardington softly. ‘I really do.’

  ‘I understand you visited the Dispensary,’ said Michael coolly. ‘Did you win much?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Kardington. He blushed guiltily, and could not meet Michael’s eyes. ‘I am not very good at calculating mean speed, although I enjoyed the exercise. Are you going to fine me?’

  ‘I wish I could, because you are supposed to be setting an example to those in your care. But why pick on you, when virtually every member of the University took part at one time or another? Even Matt admits that he would have joined in, had he known complex arithmetic was on offer.’

  Kardington smiled, more in relief than amusement. ‘You would have been good, Bartholomew. I recall your performance at that debate in St Mary the Great, and it was highly entertaining. It is a pity you seem to have learned too late what was involved.’

  ‘It is a pity for all of us,’ said Michael ambiguously.

  * * *

  Bartholomew insisted on going to see Arderne next, so they trudged through the rain to the High Street, where the healer rented a house that had once been a hostel. Since its scholars had moved out, it had been given a new pink wash, and some of its rotting timbers had been replaced. Its thatch had been repaired, too, so it had gone from a rather seedy place to a home that any wealthy citizen would be pleased to inhabit. It raised the tone of the southern end of the High Street.

  ‘Do you think the town resents the fact that most buildings occupied by scholars tend to be shabby?’ mused Bartholomew.

  ‘They would not be shabby if the landlords were willing to effect repairs,’ retorted Michael. ‘Did you hear Rudd’s Hostel finally fell down yesterday, thanks to its landlord’s years of neglect?’

  Rain had turned the High Street into a bog, and a foetid ooze of grey-brown mud squelched around their feet as they walked. Michael lost a shoe, and had to balance on one foot until the physician had retrieved it for him. It came free with a sucking plop, and while he waited for the monk to put it back on again, Bartholomew saw Blankpayn in a similar predicament. The taverner bellowed for someone to help him, but no one seemed much inclined to oblige.

  There was a line of people standing outside Arderne’s door, shivering as the wind blew drizzle into their faces. Some had crutches or propelled themselves along on wheeled pallets, while others had bandages covering a variety of sores and afflictions.

  ‘They are here in the hope that Arderne will dispense one of his miracles,’ explained Michael. ‘He hinted the other day that he might take one or two charity cases, and this is the result.’

  ‘I know most of these people,’ said Bartholomew sadly. ‘Arderne will not be able to help them, because most are incurable.’

  Several nodded to him as he passed, but more looked away and refused to meet his eyes, ashamed and uncomfortable that they were trying to defect after accepting his charity. Bartholomew did not blame them for wanting a miracle, and was only sorry that most would be disappointed. When they reached the front of the queue, they found the door open and Falmeresham standing in it. The student looked harried and unhappy.

  ‘He will not see you,’ he was saying wearily. ‘He only cures paupers on Fridays. At other times, he will only tend you if you can pay.’

  ‘We did come Friday,’ said the sightless beggar who was first in line. ‘But he only examined Will and Eudo – and he said they could not be healed because their souls were impure.’

  ‘How convenient,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘Blaming the patient for his own failures.’

  ‘It is a good idea. You should do it – tell Isnard it is his own fault his leg has not grown back.’

  ‘I do not like Falmeresham involved in this sort of thing. I thought I trained him better than that.’

  ‘You did,’ said Michael soothingly. ‘He is not easy in his new role – you can see it in his eyes. It pains him to turn these people away.’

  ‘How much does a cure for blindness cost, Falmeresham?’ asked Bartholomew, approaching his student and regarding him rather accusingly.

  ‘Forty marks.’ Bartholomew gaped
and Falmeresham shrugged. ‘Effective treatment costs. Are you here to see Magister Arderne? He is at breakfast, but I will tell him you are here.’

  Arderne had converted one of his ground-floor rooms into a dispensary, which had pots on shelves around the wall, and a wide variety of surgical and medical equipment on a bench under the window. Bartholomew looked in one or two of the containers, and was not surprised to find them empty. Nor was he surprised to note that the surgical implements either did not work or were too blunt to be effective. The man used hot air and feathers more often than proper tools and medicines.

  ‘We heard Motelete spent a lot of time here,’ said Michael, taking the opportunity to speak to Falmeresham before Arderne arrived. ‘Before his sudden death last night, of course.’

  ‘He and Magister Arderne became fast friends quite quickly,’ replied Falmeresham. He stared out of the window. ‘Arderne has a way of making people want to be with him.’

  ‘Were you envious of the attention he gave Motelete?’ asked Michael baldly.

  ‘At first,’ admitted Falmeresham. ‘Especially because Motelete did not deserve it. He was just a common thief – I saw him shove one of Arderne’s phials in his purse when he thought no one was looking. But Arderne is astute, and would have seen through him in time. I did not poison Motelete, though, if that is what you are thinking. I have not been out of Arderne’s sight for a moment.’

  ‘You do not need to be alone to poison someone,’ Michael pointed out. ‘If Motelete visited Arderne yesterday, he was doubtless offered refreshments, and it is easy to slip something into a cup. After all, your medical training means you do know about dangerous substances.’

  ‘Well, I did no such thing,’ said Falmeresham firmly. ‘Besides, Arderne says the best way to heal is by tapping into the natural forces that lie within a person. He does not have many poisons to hand – most of the pots you see here are for show, and are empty.’

  ‘You mean magic?’ asked Bartholomew in distaste.