‘Thank you,’ said Michael flatly. ‘I wonder if Cynric would be prepared to break into his house and have a look around. He is bound to discover something incriminating.’
‘We have already thought of that,’ said Rougham, ‘but nothing gained from such a search could be used against him in a public trial.’
‘Who said anything about public? I was thinking of acquiring the evidence, then having a quiet word while we wave it at him. The aim is to make him leave of his own volition.’
‘I like the sound of this,’ said Rougham, nodding eager approval.
‘Well, I do not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘First, it is sly, and I do not want to stoop to his level. And secondly, he will just foist himself on some other hapless town, and start killing people there.’
‘Our first responsibility is to our own patients,’ said Rougham soberly. ‘Remember that.’
‘Forget Arderne, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, when Rougham had gone. ‘He is not your problem, and you have enough to worry about already – catching whoever killed Motelete, Lynton and Ocleye, outwitting Honynge, defeating Candelby, and preventing St Mary the Great from being set on fire.’
‘If you are right, then neutralising Arderne will relieve me of at least half of these problems.’
‘Oh, Lord,’ groaned Bartholomew. ‘There he is, and Candelby and Blankpayn are with him.’
‘Say nothing, Matt,’ warned Michael. ‘He may try to needle you into a confrontation, but you must resist. Is that Isabel clinging to his right arm?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘And Falmeresham is clinging just as hard to the left one.’
Arderne was grinning as he approached. He looked rich, smug and confident, and had clearly been spending the money he had earned from his new patients – his clothes were so new they were stiff. Isabel had also been treated, and expensive jewellery and a fur-trimmed cloak transformed her into a woman of whom any wealthy merchant would be proud. Falmeresham looked disreputable by comparison; he had not shaved, and clothes were slovenly. Behind them were Candelby and Blankpayn, several lesser burgesses, and a lame man Arderne was said to have cured. It was not much of a miracle, because Bartholomew knew there had been nothing wrong with the fellow in the first place – the disability had been fabricated to allow him to beg.
‘Easy, Matt,’ warned Michael. ‘You just said you do not want to stoop to his level. Remember that includes challenging him to duels and punching him, too.’
In the event, however, it was not Bartholomew who challenged Arderne, but Candelby who challenged Bartholomew. The taverner stamped up to the physician and shook a finger in his face, while Blankpayn stood behind him, hand on the hilt of his dagger.
‘You killed Maud,’ shouted Candelby furiously. ‘You tampered with her bandages and gave her potions, one of which killed her. And why? To stop me from marrying her!’
Isabel looked uncomfortable. ‘He gave her something to ease the pain, it is true, but I took a sip of it myself after he had gone. I suffered no ill effects, and—’
‘I base my accusation on what Arderne says,’ snapped Candelby, rounding on her. ‘Not you, so mind your own business, woman. If I say Bartholomew killed Maud, then that is what happened.’
Michael stepped forward. ‘Now, now,’ he said softly. ‘The High Street is no place for—’
‘I shall do what I like, where I like,’ yelled Candelby. ‘You cannot stop me.’
‘It is undignified,’ said Michael, in the same calm voice. ‘And folk expect more from a merchant of your standing. Go home, before you say something you may later regret.’
Candelby was too angry to listen to advice. ‘There are slayings galore in this town, but you do not care. Indeed, it is said that you perpetrated them, and even your own Michaelhouse colleagues complain about you to the Chancellor. What have you done about Ocleye’s murder? Nothing!’
‘He wants to break you, because you oppose him over the rents,’ whispered Blankpayn, keen to make matters worse. ‘And Bartholomew killed Maud to render you helpless with grief.’
‘Well, they misjudged me,’ snarled Candelby, ‘because I am far from being helpless. I will win this battle, and the whole town will be the richer for it.’
‘You are right to defy them, Candelby,’ said Arderne with his self-satisfied smile. ‘Look at me. I challenged the Cambridge medici, and I am all but victorious. Robin is destroyed, Lynton is dead, and Paxtone will leave the town this morning. He is loading a cart as we speak. If you do not believe me, go to King’s Hall and see for yourselves.’
‘What did you do to him?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘Threaten to cure his blockage with one of your deadly remedies?’
Arderne’s pale eyes bored into him, and Bartholomew was unsettled to find he did not like meeting the stare. He forced himself not to look away, and it was the healer who backed down first.
‘Paxtone has been constipated for a week,’ explained Falmeresham, looking from one to the other uncomfortably. ‘So Magister Arderne offered to cure him – on condition that Paxtone leave Cambridge the moment the medicine worked. Paxtone accepted the challenge, and Magister Arderne’s purge saw him racing to the latrines within the hour.’
‘I pointed out that to renege on our agreement would cast a shadow of shame over the whole University,’ added Arderne. ‘And he did not want colleagues besmirched with his oath-breaking, so he is packing – and good riddance!’
‘What was in this purge?’ demanded Bartholomew, supposing that Arderne had bewitched Paxtone with one of his looks, and the poor man had been too unwell to resist.
‘I have told you before – I do not share professional secrets. And Rougham will be no trouble from now on, either. He treated Mayor Harleston for stones in the bladder, but his remedies failed. I cured Harleston and recommended he take out a lawsuit against Rougham for incompetence.’
‘Harleston was ill,’ acknowledged Falmeresham, when Arderne turned to him for confirmation. ‘And now he is not.’
Bartholomew glanced at his former student. He was pale, and uncomfortable with Arderne’s declarations. Isabel was also uneasy, despite the transformation wrought by her new finery. She gripped Arderne’s arm as if her life depended on it.
‘You think this is amusing?’ demanded Candelby, when Michael laughed derisively. ‘You will not be sniggering tomorrow, when the town rises up against its oppressor. Of course, you can avoid unnecessary carnage by agreeing to my ultimatum with the rents.’
Michael treated him to a contemptuous sneer before turning on his heel. ‘I do not discuss such matters on public highways, because I am a gentleman.’
‘Come back here!’ yelled Candelby furiously. ‘I am talking to you.’
‘You are yelling at me,’ corrected Michael, pulling Bartholomew away with him.
Bartholomew risked a glance backwards. ‘Candleby is making no move to follow us, although Blankpayn and Arderne are encouraging him not to let you leave. Why is Blankpayn always so eager for bloodshed? Arderne I understand – a physical fight will result in wounds, and people will pay him to have them mended. But Blankpayn?’
‘He is one of those who thrives on the misfortunes of others. No one had heard of him before the rent war began. Now, as Candelby’s firmest ally, his name is on everyone’s lips.’
‘He is losing popularity fast, though. His pot-boys did not like his attitude towards Isnard, and when he lost his shoe in the mud, no one helped him. People sense he is dangerous, and—’
Suddenly, Bartholomew felt his arm seized, and he was hauled around so fast that he almost fell. He staggered, struggling to keep his balance. It was Arderne.
‘You can turn your back on merchants,’ snarled Arderne in a low, menacing voice, ‘but you will not do it to me. I am no mere townsman, and I have things I want to say to you.’
‘But I do not want to hear them.’ Bartholomew started to walk away, but Arderne grabbed him a second time, and jerked him hard enough to rip his tabard.
Falmere
sham hurried forward, intent on pulling the two men apart, but Arderne shot him a basilisk stare that had him backing away mutely.
‘Your friends are leaving,’ said Michael, nodding down the High Street to where Candelby, Blankpayn and the other merchants were beginning to walk in the opposite direction. Isabel went with them, although she did so reluctantly, throwing anxious glances over her shoulder.
‘They are going to the requiem for Maud Bowyer,’ explained Falmeresham. He turned to Arderne. ‘They do not want to be late – and neither do we.’
‘I shall see you hang for Maud’s murder, Bartholomew,’ Arderne hissed, ignoring the student. ‘So I advise you to leave Cambridge before I take my accusations to the Sheriff.’
‘He did not—’ began Falmeresham, shocked. Arderne’s hand flicked out and struck the student in the mouth. It was not a hard blow, but it was enough to shock him into silence.
Michael regarded Arderne with dislike. ‘You are distasteful company, Arderne, but perhaps we should take this opportunity to talk. Shall we step into the churchyard for privacy, or shall we screech at each other here, like fishwives?’
Arderne gestured that Michael was to lead the way. Bartholomew was appalled when he glimpsed a flash of steel in the healer’s palm – the man kept a dagger concealed in his sleeve, and it was ready for use. He reached inside his own medical bag for one of his surgical blades. Uncertain what else to do, Falmeresham trailed after them, dabbing at the blood that oozed from a split lip.
Michael led the way through the churchyard of St Mary the Great, aiming for the secluded spot where Motelete’s body had been found. Bartholomew watched Arderne intently for some flicker of unease at the choice of venue, but the man’s expression was bland and betrayed nothing.
‘I am glad you have decided to listen to reason, Brother,’ said Arderne, when the monk finally turned to face him. ‘You can persuade your colleague to leave my town before he hangs for—’
‘You will hang long before him,’ said the monk coldly. ‘It is only fair to tell you that you are currently under investigation for murder yourself.’
‘Murder?’ Arderne was grinning, confident in his belief that Michael had no proof of wrongdoing. ‘I did nothing but try to help Maud Bowyer. And I did not harm Lynton, either, before you think to blame me for that. Bartholomew concealed the—’
‘I am not talking about Maud’s death or Lynton’s murder,’ said Michael in the same icy tones. ‘I refer to Motelete. I have a witness who saw you with his body. I am going to take his sworn testimony now, and in an hour I shall have enough to send you to the gallows.’
Bartholomew tried not to show his surprise at the lie; Falmeresham’s expression turned uneasy.
‘I did not kill Motelete!’ Arderne was aghast, smug satisfaction evaporating quickly. ‘I liked him – I raised him from the dead, remember? Why would I have done that, if I intended to kill him later?’
Michael regarded him intently. ‘Now there is an interesting remark. Motelete’s friends say he seldom ventured outside the College before his death, yet you claim to have known him well enough to like him. That was a careless slip, Arderne, because it tells me that you – unlike virtually anyone else in the town – were acquainted with him before his throat was cut.’
Bartholomew smiled slowly. The monk was right. ‘You and Motelete came to Cambridge at about the same time, Arderne. Were your arrivals coincidence, or was there a prior friendship?’
‘Of course we did not know each other before I cured him.’ Arderne’s voice dripped contempt, but his fingers tightened around the blade in his hand. He was beginning to be worried. ‘I do not fraternise with boys.’
‘You do,’ countered Bartholomew, taking a firmer grip on his own knife. ‘Falmeresham proves it. You poached him from his studies. Why? So you could learn about the activities of a rival?’
‘I would never spy on you,’ objected Falmeresham. He glanced uncomfortably at Arderne, and Bartholomew saw the favour had been asked. And refused.
‘Falmeresham hovers about me, because I saved him, too,’ snapped Arderne. ‘I cannot help it if the people I cure see me as a hero. And nor can I help the fact that your inadequate teaching has left him longing for better answers.’
‘You did not save him. You sutured a minor cut in his side. And if you understood anything about anatomy, you would know that a liver cannot possibly have been extracted from that angle. You gave him strong medicines to befuddle him, and performed a bogus operation with entrails purchased from a butcher. Obviously, you wanted him seen as another of your triumphs.’
‘Then you saw you could use him further still,’ continued Michael. ‘He could be your informant. You made him all manner of promises, using his passion for healing, to turn him against Matt. He ran to you eagerly – too eagerly, because he was not much use once he had left Michaelhouse.’
‘Take him,’ said Arderne, regarding the student in disdain. ‘He is a nuisance with all his stupid questions, and he is beginning to annoy me. Take him – he is all yours.’
Falmeresham did not seem overly dismayed. He shot Bartholomew a hopeful look.
‘Meanwhile, Motelete was never dead – he was not even badly wounded,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘He just lay in St John Zachary, biding his time, waiting for his master to come. How many times have you two amazed gullible onlookers before, Arderne?’
Arderne’s eyes bored into his, and the physician saw the intense rage that burned in them. ‘I did raise him from the dead, and even you were a witness. You cannot deny what you saw.’
‘What I saw was a lad who was cold and stiff – as would I be, had I been obliged to lie still for two days. However, Motelete was not left entirely to the mercy of the elements, because someone had covered him with blankets. When I saw them, I thought one of the Clare students had put them there for sentimental reasons, but now I see that you did it – or he did it himself.’
Arderne’s eyes continued to blaze. ‘His throat was cut. Even you could not fail to see that!’
‘How could I see it? You appeared before I had conducted a proper examination. Your arrival was perfectly timed – doubtless you had been watching the church, making sure no one did anything to spoil your pending performance.’
Michael took up the tale. ‘When you saw a Corpse Examiner about to begin his work, you knew you had to act quickly – you could fool laymen, but not a qualified physician. Doubtless you originally intended to raise Motelete at his requiem mass, when there would have been a large audience to admire your skill, but you settled for performing to Clare and a few burgesses instead.’
‘You do not know what you are talking about,’ snarled Arderne.
‘After your miracle, I saw a superficial injury to Motelete’s throat, but there was no evidence of a gaping wound,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There was blood aplenty, but you are a man who frequents butchers’ stalls, and pigs’ blood is cheap. If you and Motelete are the experienced fraudsters I believe you to be, then you both know how to scatter the stuff around to make a convincing case.’
‘I was with Candelby when Motelete was killed,’ said Arderne. ‘I was nowhere near Motelete.’
‘You did not need to be near him,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘He knew exactly what to do. You engineered the brawl with your confrontational statements, and he swallowed some potion to slow his heart and breathing. Before he swooned, he made the scratch, and doused himself in blood.’
‘Meanwhile, there is Motelete himself,’ added Michael. ‘After his “cure” he let his guard down, and the shy scholar became a thing of the past. He took a lover, drank in taverns, and Falmeresham caught him stealing from you. His duties were over, and he was waiting for his next assignment.’
‘Old Gedney saw through him, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He detected a wildness the others missed. What happened, Arderne? Did he demand more money? Is that why you poisoned him?’
‘You have vivid imaginations,’ declared Arderne coldly. ‘You cannot prove an
y of this.’
‘Actually, they can,’ said Falmeresham quietly, ‘because I will be their witness. You are a fraud, and I should never have let myself be deceived. You played on my hopes that there might be more to medicine than watching patients die, but you have no more answers than anyone else.’
‘Go away, boy,’ said Arderne contemptuously. ‘This does not concern you.’
Falmeresham addressed the monk. ‘You are right in that Arderne’s association with Motelete pre-dates Cambridge. They were together in Norwich and London, too. Their servants told me.’
‘There is the killer!’ Arderne jabbed an accusing finger. ‘Falmeresham was jealous of Motelete.’
Falmeresham’s cheeks burned, and his expression turned vengeful. ‘It was Arderne in the graveyard with Motelete’s corpse, Brother. He ordered me to lie, because—’
‘Shut up!’ roared Arderne. His dagger was out. ‘Still your tongue or I will cut it out.’
‘Fetch your beadles, Michael,’ said Bartholomew, brandishing his own knife and intending to keep the healer occupied until the monk returned with reinforcements. Arderne had backed down from a physical encounter with Lynton, so was clearly no warrior. ‘Go!’
‘Wait!’ shouted Arderne, when the monk tried to sidle past him. ‘No beadles. Let me explain. I was trying to help Motelete. I had nothing to do with his death. Tell him, Falmeresham.’
Falmeresham hesitated, giving the impression that he would rather like to land Arderne in trouble with a lie. Michael fixed him with a glare.
‘Arderne and I were home with Isabel that night,’ he admitted, rather ruefully. ‘Then Motelete came in, gasping and retching. Arderne waved his feather, chanted spells and even provided some of his precious urine, but nothing worked. Then he made me carry the body here, to this graveyard.’
‘Cemeteries are imbued with power, because they are haunted by the dead,’ explained Arderne. ‘Not that I expect you to understand such mysteries. I did all in my power to save Motelete.’
To Kill or Cure: The Thirteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 34
