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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘You are in a tight corner, Brother,’ sneered Honynge gloatingly. ‘This search is legal, and Bukenham has no choice but to carry out his orders.’

  ‘I will have a choice if I resign,’ said Bukenham shakily. ‘In fact, I do, with immediate effect.’

  Honynge regarded him in disdain. ‘Do your duty, man. No one likes a coward.’

  ‘You may enter my chamber, Bukenham,’ said Michael, with the air of an injured martyr. ‘I have nothing to hide. Langelee – perhaps you and William will accompany him, to ensure it is done properly. I do not want my accuser to come back later, and say the first search was inadequate.’

  ‘Are you sure, Brother?’ asked Langelee uneasily. He lowered his voice. ‘Even under that loose floorboard, where we keep the you-know-what?’

  Cynric gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  ‘Even there,’ replied Michael haughtily. ‘Go. I shall be here, waiting for my apology.’

  ‘No!’ cried Tyrington. ‘Do not submit to this indignity. You are a senior member of the University, and Bukenham has no right to paw through your personal effects. It is not decent!’

  ‘No, it is not,’ agreed Michael gravely. ‘But if spiteful villains attack me with their false charges, then this is the best way to prove my innocence.’

  ‘Mind your own business, Tyrington,’ warned Honynge. His voice dropped to a mutter. ‘They are all united against you, Honynge, but you are cleverer than the lot of them put together. Hold your ground, and justice will prevail.’

  He turned and led the way to Michael’s room. Bukenham hesitated, but Michael nodded that he was to go, too, then ordered the beadles to do likewise. Langelee and William went to ensure Honynge did not attempt any sleights of hand that would see evidence planted, and because Wynewyk did not trust them to be sufficiently observant, he went as well. It was going to be crowded in Michael’s room. The students milled about uncertainly, so Bartholomew ordered them to the hall, where he asked Carton to keep them occupied by reading from Aristotle’s Topica.

  Eventually, the yard was empty of everyone but Bartholomew, Michael, Cynric and Tyrington. Distress was making Tyrington spit more than usual, and the others tried to stand back.

  ‘You should not have let them browbeat you,’ he said, rather accusingly. ‘Honynge will use anything he discovers to damage you – and he will damage Michaelhouse at the same time.’

  ‘You seem very sure there is incriminating evidence to find,’ said Michael coolly.

  Tyrington regarded him uncertainly. ‘You mean there is not? But you are Senior Proctor, and we all know you bend the rules in order to catch some of the cunning villains who pit themselves against you. I just drew the conclusion …’ He trailed off and stared at his feet, mortified.

  Michael smiled, amused by the fact that everyone seemed to assume he was guilty. ‘Normally, you would be right, but I am above reproach in this instance. Why did you speak in my favour, if you believe Honynge’s accusations might be true?’

  ‘It is a question of loyalty,’ replied Tyrington, sounding surprised by the question. ‘Langelee lectured Honynge and me about College allegiances the day we were admitted, and I applaud his sentiments. I like Michaelhouse, and I am glad I came here, not Clare.’

  Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘No wonder Honynge set out to make himself objectionable – he resented Langelee telling him how to behave. And who can blame him?’

  ‘I can,’ said Michael firmly. ‘And I shall enjoy his apology in a few moments. I will ask for it in writing, too. In fact, he can read it publicly at the Convocation. What do you think?’

  Tyrington leered voraciously. ‘Yes! That would teach him not to take against his colleagues.’

  It was not long before Bukenham emerged from Michael’s room, with Honynge and the others at his heels. Honynge’s face was black with fury, while Langelee and Wynewyk maintained a cool dignity. William was jabbing Honynge in the back with a dirty forefinger, crowing his delight.

  ‘Well?’ asked Michael archly. ‘What did you find?’

  ‘Well, there was this,’ hissed Honynge, holding up a piece of parchment. Bartholomew’s heart sank, supposing Cynric had not been as careful as he had thought. ‘It is a letter from a woman.’

  Langelee snatched it from him, then started to laugh. ‘It is a note from Bartholomew’s sister, thanking Michael for his prayers after she was hit by a stone. I hardly think that constitutes a crime, Honynge. Now you owe the good Brother two apologies: one for thinking he was concealing evidence of murder, and one for reading private correspondence addressed to a priest.’

  ‘Well, come on, then,’ said Michael, in the ensuing silence. ‘I am waiting.’

  ‘I am sorry, Brother,’ said Bukenham immediately. ‘I never believed you were guilty, and—’

  ‘I was not talking to you,’ said Michael contemptuously. ‘Well, Honynge? You maligned me and you were wrong. I am purer than the driven snow, and I demand you acknowledge it.’

  ‘Do not push it, Brother,’ said Bartholomew in a low voice. ‘There is a big difference between innocent and pure. Kenyngham was pure. You are not even innocent – thanks to me.’

  ‘I will not apologise,’ snarled Honynge. ‘The Chancellor or one of the beadles must have warned you, and you removed the evidence before it could be found. They are as corrupt as you are.’

  ‘And now you owe him even more apologies,’ shouted Tyrington, as Honynge stamped away.

  It was not a pleasant evening, because a wickedly cold wind was slicing down from the north, carrying with it the dank odour of the Fens. Bartholomew wanted to sit in his chamber and write his treatise on fevers, but that was impossible, because all five of his roommates were home, and there was barely space to move. Two sat on his bed. Another pair occupied the desks in the window – they offered to yield, but he was not a man to pull rank over students with upcoming examinations – and the last was sitting cross-legged on the floor.

  ‘You cannot work – we have too much to do,’ said Michael, when Bartholomew went to see if there was a spare corner in the monk’s quarters. ‘I have a terrible feeling that Honynge plans to make a hostile move at the Convocation on Monday – one that might divide the University even further.’

  ‘And we need it united against the town,’ said William, who had also come looking for a vacant spot. He had four students in his room, and they were chanting a tract they were obliged to learn by rote. It meant he could not concentrate on what Bajulus had to say about Blood Relics. Or so he claimed. Bartholomew suspected he had reached a difficult section, and was making excuses not to tackle it. Tyrington was there, too, drinking some wine he had brought with him.

  ‘A divided University will be a weaker one,’ agreed Michael. ‘I must solve these murders, before rumours about them cause even more harm.’

  ‘At least you do not have to look for Kenyngham’s killer,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Paxtone’s testimony proves his death was a natural one, and the “antidote” you saw him swallow had nothing to do with poison. The letters you received are hoaxes.’

  ‘Two letters from two different men,’ said William, taking them from the desk and studying them. ‘The handwriting of the man who offered you twenty marks is not the same as that of the man who claimed he had poisoned Kenyngham.’

  ‘Or woman,’ added Tyrington. ‘Some ladies can write – or hire scribes to do it for them.’

  Michael acknowledged his point with a nod. ‘I wonder why anyone would want to confess to such a horrid crime in the first place?’

  ‘I expect Honynge did it,’ said William, ‘so you would make a fool of yourself with an unnecessary exhumation. It is exactly the kind of scheme he would concoct, because he is stupid.’

  ‘Unfortunately, he is not stupid,’ said Michael. ‘If he were, I would have bested him by now.’

  ‘Is Honynge the only suspect for the crimes you are investigating?’ asked Tyrington. ‘I dislike speaking in his favour, but he does not seem the kind of man to
break the law in so vile a manner.’

  ‘I beg to differ,’ said Michael. ‘But no, he is not our only suspect. Matt still favours Arderne as the culprit, and there are several curious facts about Isabel that add her to my list. Then, of course, Candelby and Blankpayn are obvious candidates, given what we now know about Lynton.’

  ‘What about Lynton?’ asked William, using Michael’s glass to examine the two documents.

  ‘He ran this dispensary. Candelby won a lot of houses there, but was recently banned for gloating. He is said to be furious, and the abrupt loss of substantial winnings is a powerful motive for murder.’

  ‘And Candelby does carry a crossbow,’ said William. ‘I have seen it. It is always wound, too.’

  ‘Is it?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Maud said it was not.’

  ‘Then she is mistaken,’ said William. ‘I have taken to searching his cart since he started this business with the rents – I live in hope of discovering incriminating writs that will make him leave our University alone. He always carries a bow, and it is always ready to be whipped out and used.’

  Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Maud seemed very certain—’

  ‘Her eyes!’ exclaimed Bartholomew suddenly, making them all jump. ‘Watching William with the glass has just reminded me. She suffered from a clouding of her vision, and Lynton summoned me for a second opinion. But there was nothing we could do.’

  ‘You mean she would not have been able to tell whether it was loaded or not?’ asked Tyrington.

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘Candelby probably told her it was not, because I doubt she would have been impressed by him toting such a deadly weapon. She must have believed him.’

  William was disapproving. ‘A number of lies and misunderstandings seem to be flowing from her household. Did you know there is a rumour that you killed her, Matthew? Apparently, you touched her face and poked about in her bandages. Then you gave her a potion that you said would ease her pain, but that actually hastened her end.’

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘Arderne has been spreading that tale, to prove to his new patients that anyone who puts faith in my medicine is likely to pay a high price.’

  Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘How did Arderne know you touched her face and looked under her bandages? He was not there. One person was, though: Isabel must have told him what you did.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is Maud herself. Arderne came to see her after we left, and she might have mentioned our visit.’

  Michael continued as though he had not spoken. ‘Isabel must have told him about the pain-killing potion, too, giving him yet more ammunition to use against you. And do you know why? Because she is enamoured of Arderne and will do anything for him. Look at Falmeresham. I always thought him a sensible, rational fellow, but he fell for Arderne’s charm like a brainless fool. Arderne attracts followers like flies swarm towards rotten meat.’

  ‘It is his eyes,’ explained William. ‘They drill into you, and you find yourself going along with what he is saying whether you want to or not. It is uncanny.’

  ‘Paxtone said the same thing,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And I saw Isabel go quiet and submissive when Arderne fixed her with a stare, too.’

  ‘It must be witchcraft,’ said William censoriously. ‘Like this love-potion he made for Agatha.’

  ‘Actually, I think he can just exert power over a certain kind of mind,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He possesses an ability to transfix people, if they let him do it.’

  ‘You might be right,’ mused Tyrington. ‘I saw him with Carton earlier today, and he was gazing at our hapless commoner as though he was trying to put him in some sort of trance.’

  ‘What was Carton doing?’ asked Michael uneasily.

  Tyrington shrugged. ‘Nothing. He was just listening. Then he nodded and sped away.’

  The monk turned his attention back to the matter of Candelby’s loaded crossbow. ‘Ocleye must have been in on it, because Paxtone saw him smiling and nodding in a way that suggested a plan had just come right. Doubtless Ocleye was astonished when Candelby decided a spy did not make for a very reliable accomplice, and killed him to ensure his silence.’

  No matter how hard Bartholomew and Michael tried to see patterns in the evidence they had collected, they still could not reach any satisfactory conclusions regarding the identity of the killer, and both admitted that their suspicions were coloured by personal prejudices. Michael was even more keen for Honynge to be the culprit, because he wanted to avenge himself on the man who had publicly questioned his integrity, while Bartholomew wanted Arderne away from his patients.

  Later that night, Bartholomew was summoned to tend Hanchach. Unfortunately, Arderne had been there first, and the ‘tonic’ he had prescribed had induced such violent vomiting that it had exhausted the glover’s scant reserves of strength. Bartholomew watched helplessly as his patient slipped into an unnatural sleep, then stayed with him until he died quietly at dawn. Michael came to give last rites, and listened to the physician rail against Arderne until it was time for the Sunday morning mass. The peaceful ceremony did nothing to soothe Bartholomew’s temper, and he was still angry when they sat in the hall for breakfast.

  ‘Arderne is responsible for Hanchach’s death for three reasons,’ he said, refusing the egg-mess Langelee offered. He could not be sure what was in it, and he had no appetite anyway. Honynge, who had stationed himself at the very end of the table, away from his colleagues, ate his share.

  ‘You are better off up here,’ the scholar muttered to himself. ‘The company is more civil.’

  ‘It is a pity he does not feel that way all the time,’ said Tyrington, regarding Honynge with dislike.

  ‘First,’ Bartholomew went on, ‘he told Hanchach to decline medicine that would have cured him. Second, he prescribed a potion containing urine, which damaged a weakened body. And third, he dispensed a strong purgative – something even Deynman would have known not to do.’

  ‘I know, Matt,’ said Michael gently. ‘But you were the one Hanchach summoned in the end.’

  ‘When it was too late. Cynric says Isnard has a fever now, although I doubt he will call for me. And a beggar Arderne “cured” was found dead last night. How many more people will he kill?’

  ‘Tell the Chancellor,’ suggested William. ‘He has the authority to ban anyone from his town.’

  ‘The Senior Proctor, who is Chancellor in all but name, says he cannot oust people on the grounds that I do not like them,’ said Bartholomew acidly. ‘And Arderne is currently popular with everyone except his medical rivals.’

  ‘If we expel Arderne, he will make a fuss,’ elaborated Michael, ‘and the town will be even more set against the University. We cannot afford that – not at the moment.’

  Langelee was more concerned by the looming crisis of the Convocation and, never a man to sit still when there was action to be taken, he stood to intone a final grace. This was the sign for servants to begin clearing away dishes, despite the fact that some students had not yet started eating.

  ‘I am off to King’s Hall,’ he announced, ‘to see if I can persuade a few friends to vote for your amendment tomorrow, Brother. Meanwhile, benedicimus Domino and good morning to you all.’

  ‘Deo gratias,’ replied Bartholomew, the only one not desperately cramming food into his mouth.

  ‘I hate it when he does that,’ grumbled Michael, grabbing bread with one hand and smoked pork with the other.

  ‘So do I, usually,’ said William. He grinned and jerked a grimy thumb over his shoulder to where Honynge was trying to gobble as much as he could in the short moments left to him. ‘But not when I am rewarded with the sight of him eating his dog-flavoured egg-mess from the pan.’

  Michael chuckled, then turned to Bartholomew. ‘There is a lot to do today, and I want you with me. I am afraid you might tackle Arderne if I leave you alone, and that will do no one any good.’

  ‘I will not tackle him,’ said Bartholomew gloomily. ‘It would be like t
rying to catch an eel on the back of a shovel – far too slippery. And he will only lie and deny the allegations anyway.’

  ‘First, we shall corner Isabel alone, to see if she can recall anything new about Lynton and her mistress. Next, we shall go to Peterhouse, and ask if Wisbeche has unravelled any more of Lynton’s business dealings. Then I should speak to Candelby, to see if I can learn more about Ocleye.’

  Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘Their rent agreement was torn violently from Lynton’s hand, so it looks as though the killer did not want you to know about the association between the two victims.’

  ‘Perhaps it is the house Ocleye was to have had that is the source of the trouble. There is a desperate shortage of accommodation in Cambridge – for scholars and townsmen. Did Edmund Mildenale, one of our commoners, tell you he was planning to start a hostel of his own, but decided to stay at Michaelhouse when he saw how rapidly the rent war was escalating? Candelby’s greed is not only damaging hostels already in existence, but those in the future, too.’

  The High Street was busy with people going to and from their Sunday devotions, and because they were all wearing their best clothes and the sun was shining, the town was ablaze with colour. The first person Bartholomew and Michael met was Rougham, who said he had invited Arderne to take part in a public debate, but the healer had only laughed derisively. When Rougham had demanded to share the joke, Arderne had replied that he had no wish to hear academics theorise when he could be out in the real world, curing real people and making real money.

  ‘Now what?’ asked Rougham, deflated. ‘The other plans we devised were not as good as that one, and left too much room for disaster, but we cannot let this continue. Not only did he kill Hanchach and that beggar, but Isnard is likely to die now, too.’

  Michael was alarmed. For all the bargeman’s failings, he was still a member of the Michaelhouse Choir. ‘I did not know his condition was that serious. What is wrong with him?’

  ‘He drank one of Arderne’s decoctions. Visit him, Bartholomew; he is frightened and desperate, and I doubt he will threaten to kill you now. But what shall we do about Arderne? Surely you can think of something, Brother. You are a devious sort of man.’