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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘It was your feather I saw!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, in sudden understanding. ‘I thought it was a dagger, and that murder was about to be committed. But it was a long, blade-like feather.’

  ‘I wondered why you came at us so violently,’ said Falmeresham. He turned back to Arderne, his voice accusing. ‘You say you tried everything, but you did not use charcoal mixed with milk, even though it was obvious from the blisters on Motelete’s mouth that the substance was caustic.’

  ‘You know nothing,’ snapped Arderne. ‘Even I cannot cure everyone.’

  ‘You said you could,’ Falmeresham shot back. ‘And you used all the tricks at your disposal to help Motelete, but you were useless. Doctor Bartholomew has saved people who have swallowed too much bryony. You could not.’

  ‘So, I am fallible,’ snarled Arderne. ‘Welcome to the real world.’

  ‘You are worse than fallible,’ shouted Falmeresham. ‘You are an ignoramus. And I can prove it.’

  Arderne fingered his knife. ‘How?’ he asked dangerously.

  ‘Because of Isnard’s leg. After it was cut off, I was given the task of burying it. So I dug it up, to see for myself which one of you was right. It was hopelessly smashed, and would never have healed. Doctor Bartholomew was right to amputate, and I can show it to anyone who doubts him.’

  ‘You damned whelp!’ yelled Arderne, racing at him with his dagger. Bartholomew dived forward, but the ground was slippery and he lost his footing to fall flat on his face. Arderne tripped over him, and gave a great shriek of pain when he landed with his full weight on one arm.

  ‘Broken,’ said Bartholomew, extracting himself and inspecting it. ‘Would you like me to set it, or Robin?’

  ‘Stay away from me,’ howled Arderne. He looked for his knife, but it was lost in the grass.

  ‘All your “cures” come from a book written by witches,’ said Falmeresham accusingly. ‘I saw it last night. You are a heretic, and Motelete told me you have killed people before. He said you—’

  ‘Lies!’ shrieked Arderne.

  ‘He said you left Norwich and London because people died,’ finished Falmeresham. ‘And he said that is usually why you are obliged to move on. But you will not be going anywhere this time.’

  ‘Damn you!’ shouted Arderne furiously. ‘Damn you all!’

  Michael summoned his beadles, and ordered them to escort Arderne to the proctors’ gaol. Once there, Arderne demanded medical attention, on the grounds that he could hardly set his own arm. Bartholomew obliged when Arderne rejected Robin, then screeched and wailed through the entire procedure. His cries echoed down the High Street, and the townsmen who heard them – word had spread fast that the healer had been arrested – exchanged glances of disapproval.

  Afterwards, ears still ringing, Bartholomew visited Isnard, who was in too great a fever to know who was bathing his head and feeding him soothing tonics. Meanwhile, Michael went to Arderne’s lodgings, and when he returned to Michaelhouse that evening, he had plentiful evidence of illicit practices. A dirty boy who kept house for the healer, and who was greatly relieved when informed he would no longer be working for him, told Michael that Arderne had left London because he had murdered a rival leech. A hue and cry had been raised, but the healer and his servants had escaped. Arderne, Michael decided, would wait in gaol until he could be handed to the relevant authorities.

  ‘That is why he did nothing for the first few weeks after we arrived,’ the boy explained. ‘Partly to see who he needed to destroy before he started his work, but partly because he wanted to be sure he had not been followed. He only began when he was sure he was safe.’

  ‘Tell me,’ said the monk, his mind ranging along another avenue of thought, ‘did any scholars visit Arderne? Michaelhouse scholars, such as Honynge?’

  ‘Not Honynge,’ said the boy. ‘Arderne did not like him, because he is arrogant, but Carton came sometimes. He said it was to visit Falmeresham’s sickbed, but he spent more time with—’

  ‘Wait a moment,’ interrupted Michael. ‘Are you telling me Carton knew Falmeresham was alive before Falmeresham made his triumphant return to his College?’

  ‘Yes. It was Carton who paid for his treatment. Arderne does not work for free.’

  Isabel was disgusted to learn she was about to lose a second home within hours of the first, but packed her bags quickly when Michael said Arderne’s crimes might land her in hot water, too. She packed them even faster when he asked whether she had done anything to hasten Maud’s demise.

  ‘If she did, then it would not have been by much,’ said Bartholomew. It was almost dark, and he and Michael were in the orchard at the back of the College. A fallen apple tree provided a rough bench, and although it was really too cold to be outside, it was better than sitting in the hall with noisy students, or sharing the conclave with Honynge. ‘Perhaps she did double the dose, but it would have been to bring a merciful release, not to escape into Arderne’s arms a day sooner.’

  The physician was exhausted, because after tending Arderne and Isnard, he had gone to Peterhouse, to see if any more could be learned about Lynton. He had spent hours with Wisbeche, trying in vain to unravel their colleague’s complex commercial transactions. Later, he had pulled his hood over his head and gone to sit in the Angel, to see if anyone was ready to gossip about Ocleye. It had been a rash thing to do, because Blankpayn caught him, and the situation might have turned violent had Carton not caused a diversion that had allowed the physician to escape. Bartholomew was keen to ask the commoner why he had been in the Angel in the first place, but Carton claimed he had pressing business elsewhere, and left without answering questions.

  ‘If Isabel did take matters into her own hands,’ said Michael, shivering as he pulled his cloak more closely around him, ‘it is murder.’

  ‘Some would call it compassion.’ Despite his weariness, Bartholomew was too agitated to sit, so paced back and forth. The killer or killers of Lynton, Ocleye and Motelete were still free, and he could not see a way through the maze of facts and information they had assembled. He was also worried about the next day’s Convocation, afraid that a gathering of scholars in one place might prove too great a temptation for the many people who wished the University harm. And finally, he was concerned for Isnard, suspecting Arderne might be about to claim yet another victim.

  Michael sighed. ‘Well, we have dramatically rid ourselves of one suspect – two, if we count Isabel – but we are still in the dark as regards the real killer. Do you think Falmeresham poisoned Motelete, as Arderne is claiming?’

  ‘Falmeresham would not have used bryony, because he knows it leaves detectable traces. Arderne is trying to avenge himself, because Falmeresham’s testimony saw him imprisoned.’

  ‘Then we are left with four suspects: Candelby, Blankpayn, Spaldynge and Honynge. Five, if we count Carton, who is guilty of some very odd behaviour. Which is the culprit, do you think?’

  Bartholomew shrugged, still pacing. ‘Is Blankpayn sufficiently clever to fool you? Meanwhile, Spaldynge does not seem the kind of man who would want the town awash with blood, although …’

  ‘Although he gambled at the Dispensary and sold his College’s property without permission,’ finished Michael. ‘And he despises physicians – like Lynton – because they were useless in the plague. And that is strange, is it not? Lynton was the medicus who could not save Spaldynge’s family from the Death, yet Spaldynge deigned to join him on Friday nights to gamble.’

  ‘I doubt Spaldynge wants to harm the entire University,’ said Bartholomew, although his tone was uncertain. ‘Blankpayn would, though. If anything horrible happens tomorrow, you can be sure he will be taking part.’

  ‘I do not know what to do for the best. Should I cancel the Convocation?’

  ‘If you do, the landlords will be furious, and may set light to St Mary the Great anyway.’

  ‘The culprit is Honynge,’ said Michael, after another pause. ‘I know it is. He took against me from the moment we met – w
hen I was obliged to investigate the death of Wenden.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Bartholomew tiredly.

  ‘The Clare Fellow who was stabbed by the tinker on Ash Wednesday. He was Honynge’s friend, if you recall, and had been walking home from Zachary Hostel when he was attacked. Wenden had forgotten his hat, and Honynge ran after him, to give it back. He saw the tinker, and he heard the sound of a bow being loosed. We found the tinker drowned a few days later.’

  Bartholomew stared at him. ‘I had forgotten Wenden was killed by a crossbow. Are you sure it was the tinker who shot him? Crossbow deaths are not very common.’

  ‘Wenden’s purse was found among the tinker’s belongings – it was clear evidence of his guilt.’

  ‘And it was Honynge’s testimony that allowed you to deduce all this?’

  ‘I see where you are going with this. Lord! I hope I have not made a terrible mistake.’

  Bartholomew flopped down next to him. ‘Perhaps you should reopen the case.’

  ‘Perhaps I should.’ The monk shivered again. ‘I cannot believe I am sitting out here in the cold, while Honynge enjoys the fire in my conclave. What am I thinking?’

  ‘That you prefer my company to his – and I do not want to be anywhere near him. He is too argumentative. Take the fire if you will, but I am staying here.’

  ‘We must do something – and soon, because I have never known the town more uneasy than when I was walking home this evening. The inevitable has happened: folk are muttering that we arrested Arderne to keep the medical business in University hands.’

  Bartholomew tensed suddenly. ‘Look! There is someone in the trees! Grab that branch, Brother! You may need it to defend yourself.’

  ‘It is only Cynric,’ said Michael, peering through the gloom. ‘God’s blood, Matt! You frightened me!’

  ‘Come quickly,’ called Cynric, hurrying towards them. ‘Honynge has been poisoned.’

  * * *

  Bartholomew and Michael raced to the hall to find Honynge sitting on a bench with one hand clasped to his mouth and the other to his stomach. An upturned cup lay beside him, and virtually every member of the College stood in a silent semicircle nearby. The students looked frightened, Wynewyk concerned, William pleased, and Tyrington shocked. Carton stood slightly apart, his face oddly blank. The servants, who had been in the process of preparing a light supper of ale and oatcakes, formed a line by the screen, watching the proceedings uneasily. Agatha was among them, scowling, because she disliked her College torn by rifts and divisions. Langelee came to explain what had happened.

  ‘Honynge was holding forth about the dog in this morning’s egg-mess when he complained of a pain in his mouth. Then he said he had gripes in his belly. And then he claimed he had been poisoned.’

  ‘He was struck down by God, for blaming the dog incident on me,’ announced William, not even trying to disguise his delight with the situation. ‘It is divine justice.’

  ‘It is not!’ cried Honynge. ‘I have been poisoned by someone who wants me to die.’

  ‘Doctor Bartholomew will save you,’ said Deynman with touching confidence. ‘Do not worry.’

  ‘He may have been the one who tried to kill me,’ wailed Honynge.

  ‘This will not be an easy murder to solve,’ whispered Wynewyk in the monk’s ear. ‘The students like him well enough, but the Fellows and commoners think him an ass.’

  Bartholomew picked up the cup, noting that most of its contents lay splattered across the floor, so Honynge had probably ingested very little. He sniffed it gingerly, then inspected Honynge’s mouth. It was covered in small blisters. He turned to the watching throng.

  ‘Agatha, will you bring me some milk and eggs?’

  ‘Are you hungry, then?’ she asked, startled. ‘Should you not see to Honynge first?’

  ‘Fetch the pressed charcoal from my storeroom,’ he ordered Deynman, loath to take the time to explain to her. ‘And the emetic in the red flask.’

  ‘But that is a powerful purge,’ said Deynman, wide-eyed. ‘It will make someone violently sick.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Bartholomew patiently. ‘That is the intention.’

  ‘I had better find a bucket as well, then,’ said Deynman practically.

  When Deynman and Agatha returned, Bartholomew fed the emetic to a protesting Honynge, then sat with the new Fellow while he emptied the contents of his stomach into a pail. Next, he prepared a mixture of charcoal, raw eggs and milk, and forced Honynge to drink as much as possible, explaining it would absorb any remaining toxins. Meanwhile, Michael cleared the hall of spectators, so the sick man would not have to perform to an audience. Eventually, only he, Honynge, Bartholomew and Langelee remained. Agatha pretended to be busy behind the serving screen, and although it was obvious that she was only doing it to eavesdrop, no one had the courage to ask her to leave.

  ‘Thank God I was out when this happened,’ whispered Michael fervently to Langelee, ‘or Honynge would certainly have had me as his prime suspect for the crime. Who did it, do you think?’

  ‘William was hanging around the wine a lot,’ replied Langelee. ‘But then he always does. Meanwhile, Wynewyk was pouring, because Honynge claimed he had a sore back, and Tyrington and Carton were distributing the cups. Any one of them could have poisoned him – as could I.’

  ‘Are you feeling better?’ asked Bartholomew of Honynge. ‘The burning should have eased by now.’

  ‘It has, I suppose,’ said Honynge begrudgingly. ‘Although I am sure there was no need to have prescribed me quite such a violent emetic. You wanted everyone to see me in that undignified position.’

  ‘I wanted the poison out before it was too late,’ said Bartholomew tartly. ‘Motelete swallowed bryony, and no one helped him vomit, so he died. You, however, will survive to insult your colleagues another day.’

  ‘I resign,’ said Honynge. He started to stand, but was not strong enough, and sank back down again. He began to mutter to himself. ‘Michaelhouse’s Fellows are either sly or stupid, the meals are dismal, there is never enough wine, and the accommodation is overcrowded. Tell them to go to Hell, and accept the offer you should have taken in the first place: to be Principal of Lucy’s.’

  ‘I shall draw up the papers, then,’ said Michael, reaching for a pen. ‘You can be gone tomorrow.’

  ‘Do not spend another night here to be murdered,’ hissed Honynge to himself. ‘Go to the Angel.’

  ‘The Angel?’ asked Michael. ‘That is owned by the man determined to see our University flounder.’

  ‘Candelby wants fair rents,’ snapped Honynge. ‘What is wrong with that?’

  ‘But earlier you said you were going to vote against my amendment,’ said Michael, setting down the pen and concentrating on his prey. ‘Have you changed your mind, and think I am right, after all?’

  ‘I think Honynge is better friends with Candelby than he wants us to know,’ said Bartholomew, when the new Fellow did not reply. ‘We have seen them together twice now. Once was in the Angel—’

  ‘Arguing,’ interrupted Honynge. ‘You heard us yourself – it was not as if we were enjoying a tête-à-tête. He attacked Michaelhouse and I was defending it, although I should have saved my breath.’

  ‘You spoke loudly when you saw me listening, but I think the discussion had been rather more amiable before that. You engineered that row, to make us believe you and Candelby are hostile, but the reality is quite different. The second time we saw you with him, you were buying pies.’

  Honynge sighed wearily. ‘All right: I admit I am wrong to frequent his tavern. However, if you fine me, you will have to fine every other scholar in Cambridge, too. We all eat his pies.’

  ‘Yours was a very heavy pie,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And you only took one bite before shoving the rest in your scrip. Who puts oily food in his clean leather purse? No one. So, I conclude this pie contained something other than meat – such as money for services rendered.’

  ‘There was money in it,’ said Langelee, startle
d. ‘I happened to visit him in his room when he was cracking it open. He shoved it under a book when I arrived, but I saw the gleam of silver inside it first. I assumed it was his own peculiar hiding place, like you use that loose floorboard, Brother.’

  ‘I do not have to listen to this,’ said Honynge, starting to stand. ‘I am a sick man, and it is despicable that you are taking advantage of the fact to browbeat me.’

  ‘And there was a third time, too, although we did not witness it,’ said Michael, resting a heavy hand on his shoulder, so he was obliged to sit again. ‘Tyrington saw you. He thought you just wanted someone to debate with on your way home from the disputation at Bene’t College, and you were more than happy to let him believe it.’

  Honynge was glaring. ‘So? You cannot prove anything untoward in my speaking to Candelby.’

  ‘No,’ sighed Michael. ‘That has been the problem all along – shady activities but no proof.’

  I know what you sell Candelby,’ said Bartholomew, when the answer came to him, as clear as day.

  ‘You do not,’ said Honynge, his eyes glittering with triumph. ‘And Candelby will never tell you, so do not think you will use him as a witness against me.’

  ‘You spy on the University,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That is why he is always so well informed. He knew about the Convocation before Michael made it public. He has intimate knowledge of the Statutes and what they do and do not cover. He has information about the food preferences of some Fellows …’

  ‘These are hardly matters of life and death,’ sneered Honynge. ‘He could have gleaned them from listening to gossip in his tavern or the Dispensary, which is what I am sure he told you.’

  ‘He did tell us that,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘And the fact that you know it suggests it is an excuse you told him to give, should anyone question his sources. However, it was not all innocent. I suspect he used the information you provided to pressure Spaldynge into selling Borden Hostel.’