To Kill or Cure

CHAPTER 10

The evening went from bad to worse. Cynric fetched Michael, and they took Motelete to Clare, where Bartholomew undertook the grim task of breaking the news to the lad’s friends. Kardington was shocked, the students distressed and Spaldynge suspicious that a physician should happen to discover the body. Michael tried to ask questions, but the Clare men were too overwrought for a sensible discussion, and he decided it would be better to return in the morning. By the time Bartholomew flopped exhaustedly into his bed, it was well past midnight.

The porter had forgotten to put his peacock to roost, and as a consequence it woke the entire College long before dawn the following day. The new scholars leapt from their straw mattresses in alarm, then grinned sheepishly at each other when they realised what had happened. The ungodly racket made even Bartholomew stir and open his eyes. When the students in his chamber began chatting and lighting a lamp, he saw there was no point in trying to go back to sleep, and forced himself to sit up. He rubbed his eyes, feeling sluggish and thick-headed from the lack of rest.

‘It is good of Michaelhouse to take us in,’ said a pleasant theologian called Simon Hemmysby, watching him step across two prone students to reach his bowl of washing water. Langelee had chosen Hemmysby from the many hopefuls because he held a post – and thus a stipend – in Waltham Abbey, and would be able to pay his fees and make the odd additional donation. ‘However, I did not think accommodation in a wealthy College would be quite so cramped.’

‘It is not a wealthy College,’ said Bartholomew. Water flew as he began to wash, making one lad leap from his mattress in shock. ‘King’s Hall is wealthy. We are always looking for ways to make ends meet.’

‘Wynewyk did his best,’ said Hemmysby, flinching when spray flew in his direction. ‘But he is a lawyer, and it would have been better if Michaelhouse had used a mathematician.’

Bartholomew regarded him blankly. ‘Wynewyk did his best at what?’

‘At the Dispensary,’ said Hemmysby, a little impatiently. ‘At winning money for his College.’

Bartholomew glanced at the other students and saw none seemed particularly surprised by the conversation. ‘Are Michael and I the only ones who did not know about Lynton’s little enterprise?’

Hemmysby raised his eyebrows. ‘If you are saying you were ignorant of its existence, then you are certainly in a minority. Did he never invite you? I thought you and he were friends.’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘I dislike gambling. I lose interest, because of the unpredictable nature of the wins and losses. They require no skill.’

Hemmysby regarded him in surprise. ‘But Lynton’s contests did require skill. With most games of chance, everything does depend on luck – you can be the cleverest man in the kingdom, but your chance of success is the same as the dunce sitting next to you. Lynton, however, introduced a degree of probability to his games, which meant people were challenged to crack his system.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused. ‘Were you one of these gamesters?’

‘I am in major orders,’ said Hemmysby primly. ‘Priests do not gamble.’

‘They do in Cambridge,’ muttered Bartholomew.

Hemmysby did not hear him. ‘Before I was awarded my post at Waltham Abbey, I was always short of money. Then Lynton offered to pay me for serving wine to his guests. I no longer need the work, but I have kept it up, because I like it – the company is erudite and always entertaining.’

Bartholomew tried to understand what Lynton had done. ‘He invented a game that allowed players to predict the outcome?’ He could see why that would have been popular – scholars liked exercising their minds, especially when they thought they might win something for correct answers.

Hemmysby nodded. ‘It did not involve dice, but imaginary horses. Participants had to guess how long a particular animal would take to travel across a certain amount of ground.’

Bartholomew stared at him as several facts snapped together. ‘The mean speed theorem! That is all about the time an object – in this case a horse – needs to cover a set distance, and it is a predictive formula. Did he base his games of chance around that?’

Hemmysby nodded again. ‘It was extremely complicated, and scholars loved it – Lynton would change variables and enter unknowns into the equation to make calculation more difficult – the size of the horse, the slope of the land, the weight of the rider, and so on. The sums had to be done very fast, too, which added an additional thrill to the proceedings.’

‘Had I known there was intricate arithmetic involved, I might have signed up myself,’ said Bartholomew, rather wistfully. ‘However, I fail to see the appeal for townsfolk – they will not know the formula. Yet a number of them played.’

‘They claimed they were any scholar’s equal, and were just as good at predicting the outcome of these horse races. Of course, they were not, and they lost more often than they won.’

Bartholomew recalled Blankpayn saying as much. ‘Why did Lynton admit laymen in the first place? He must have known it would cause trouble.’

‘There were rarely problems. The Dispensary operated for years without ill feeling, and Lynton did not mind who played, as long as he – or she – paid his debts.’

‘Paxtone said he disagreed with Lynton’s conclusions,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They argued.’

‘Of course there were arguments. There were scholars involved, and arguing is what we do best. But Friday nights were good-natured occasions with discreet, well-behaved men who always parted friends. However, not all the merchants were as civil.’

‘Candelby?’ asked Bartholomew, more pieces of the puzzle falling into place.

‘He has an unattractive habit of gloating when he wins. In the end, he was banned.’

‘When?’ asked Bartholomew, thoughts whirling. No wonder Candelby had hated Lynton.

‘Good Friday. There was a fuss, and wine was spilled. Has no one told you about this?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew tartly. ‘Apparently, participants are bound by vows of secrecy.’

‘They are. And because most are decent men, they are unlikely to break that trust. I did not swear the oath, though, because I was not a player. I only served the wine.’

‘I cannot believe Lynton did this! We have been told wagers included houses, livestock, boats and money. With the stakes so high, it is not surprising that he might have attracted resentment.’

‘The stakes were high, but Lynton refused to let anyone ruin himself. He even restored goods to losers on occasion, when he felt it was warranted. There was no resentment – not from anyone.’

Bartholomew was not sure whether to believe him. ‘Was he magnanimous when Candelby lost?’

‘We never had occasion to find out, because Candelby rarely came up with the wrong answer. Why do you think he was so peeved when he was debarred? All his houses came from betting on Lynton’s races, you see.’

It was Father William’s turn to conduct the morning mass, and, as usual, it was finished in record time. Unfortunately, it was too early to ask questions about Lynton or Motelete, so Bartholomew and Michael sat in the conclave, and the physician described to Michael – yet again – what had transpired in the churchyard of St Mary the Great the previous night.

‘Are you sure Motelete was poisoned?’ the monk asked. ‘You told me toxins are difficult to detect, which is why you failed to notice one in Kenyngham. Yet you are able to pronounce a clear cause of death with Motelete?’

Bartholomew was too tired to argue about Kenyngham. ‘The substance was caustic enough to blister his mouth – not badly, but sufficient to tell me it would have damaged his innards, too.’

‘Yet someone was hovering over him with a dagger. Why would anyone want to stab a corpse?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Cynric thinks it had something to do with witchcraft.’

‘Are you sure Motelete was dead when all this was going on? You usually tell me it is impossible to pinpoint a time of death with any degree of accuracy.’

‘I can usually tell the difference between someone who has been a corpse for hours and someone who has only just breathed his last.’

‘And there was nothing in the two living figures that will allow you to identify them?’

‘It was too dark. However, Arderne has a penchant for meddling with the dead.’

‘I doubt Arderne is the killer – I imagine he would rather have Motelete alive, as a testament to his remarkable skills. However, if Motelete had changed from demure boy to belligerent womaniser, then perhaps he was not the kind of advertisement Arderne wanted for his handiwork.’

‘Had he changed? Do you remember what Gedney said? That the dead student was loud-mouthed and drank too much?’

‘Gedney is addled. However, he does have moments of clarity, and he was an astute man in his time. It is not impossible that vestiges of that brilliance still flash now and again.’

‘I imagine you would like the culprit for Motelete’s murder to be Candelby.’

‘Actually, Matt, I would rather it was Honynge – and I happen to know he went out yesterday evening. I set Meadowman to follow him, but the sly fellow gave him the slip.’

‘Unfortunately for you, Honynge was here when those two figures were with Motelete in the churchyard. He was arguing about the books he has spirited away to his room – and you are his alibi. He only went out later.’

Michael’s expression was triumphant. ‘But you said Motelete was dead hours before that. Honynge might have murdered him and deposited him in the churchyard, leaving Arderne to maul the corpse at a later time. That would be a convenient solution, because it would please us both.’

They left the conclave, and the monk showed Bartholomew the empty shelves in the hall, where the books had been. The severed chains dangled forlornly. Wynewyk joined them, and complained bitterly about the ‘theft’. Bartholomew thought they were overreacting.

‘Cynric said the tomes are in Honynge’s room – he wants to protect them. They are not stolen.’

‘Honynge claims he acted out of concern,’ said Michael. ‘But he has locked the door to his quarters, which means no one else can read anything unless he lets them in.’

Wynewyk snorted his disdain. ‘Honynge’s antics have nothing to do with caring for books. He is compiling an exemplar – a collection of readings – for third-year theologians. Its sale will make him rich.’

Michael blew out his cheeks in understanding. ‘And because his exemplar will include texts from a wide variety of sources, he wants our library readily to hand. His motive is selfish.’

‘Hateful man!’ said Wynewyk fervently. ‘I am glad William fed him dog again this morning.’

Because it was Saturday, the disputation was more lighthearted than the ones during the week, and was run by students, rather than Fellows. Falmeresham had been scheduled to take charge, but with his defection to Arderne, Langelee ordered Carton to take his place. The commoner was making for the back gate when he heard his name mentioned. He returned with a nervous grin.

‘Where were you going?’ demanded Langelee. ‘I gave an order for everyone to stay in today.’

Carton’s smile began to slip. ‘I did not have enough to eat this morning, because Agatha keeps putting dog in everything. I was going to buy a pie from the Angel.’

Michael glared at him; he knew a lie when he heard one. Nor was Langelee amused, and he had just begun to deliver a lecture about obedience, when Tyrington approached.

‘God help us,’ he breathed. ‘I do not mean to offend, but Deynman is no scholar.’

‘He is not,’ agreed Honynge, overhearing. ‘And if he is allowed to go and practise medicine he will kill someone. But Michaelhouse created the problem, so Michaelhouse must devise a solution.’

‘I would suggest inventing some nominal post here, to keep him out of mischief,’ said Tyrington. ‘But we have no money to pay him, and I certainly do not want him anywhere near my students.’

Honynge issued a weary sigh. ‘Leave it to me. I shall think of something. After all, it is an issue that requires intelligent thinking – something of which the current Fellowship seems incapable.’

‘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 dislike. ‘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.

‘Yes, magic,’ Falmeresham flashed back. ‘Science cannot explain everything – in fact, it does not explain much at all, and raises more questions than answers. You are always saying the workings of the human body are mysteries science has not yet unravelled, but Arderne has solutions to everything, and it is refreshing. Do you want to see him, or are you here to debate with me?’

‘What a shame,’ said Michael, watching him go. ‘Arderne will ruin him – fill his head with nonsense and superstition.’

‘I should have anticipated this,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is frustrated when he asks questions that I cannot answer, and it must be exhilarating to find someone with solutions at his fingertips.’

‘And that is the real pity,’ said Michael sadly. ‘His new source of knowledge runs foul and dark.’

Arderne kept Bartholomew and Michael waiting longer than was polite, and when he arrived, he was wiping his lips on the back of his hand, indicating that he had finished feeding before going to see what the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner wanted. Michael had been on the verge of leaving, but Bartholomew had persuaded him to stay, sensing that there were answers to be gleaned from the sinister healer. Both scholars were surprised to see Isabel St Ives behind Arderne. She was dressed, but her long hair cascaded freely down her shoulders, and looked tousled from sleep. Even Bartholomew, not the most observant of men when it came to romantic dalliances, could tell she had spent the night.

‘Should you not be with your mistress?’ Michael asked.

The smile faded from Isabel’s face. ‘She died yesterday, so I am now without a home. However, Magister Arderne has a vacancy for a good nurse, so we have been discussing terms.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, eyeing her disarrayed appearance pointedly. ‘Well, I am sorry about Maud. She was a good woman. She made lovers of our scholars, but at least she was discreet about it.’

‘What do you want, monk?’ asked Arderne coldly. ‘A cure for gluttony? A miracle that will melt away your fat and render you slim again?’

‘I am not a glutton,’ said Michael, startled. ‘And I am not fat, either. I just have big bones.’

‘Speaking of misdiagnoses, you gave Tyrington a remedy for spitting,’ said Bartholomew, cutting across Arderne’s bray of laughter. ‘It contained bryony.’

‘Mandrake,’ corrected Arderne, while Falmeresham frowned in puzzlement. ‘I would never use bryony, because it causes gripes. I used mandrake, which has secret properties, as we all know. Traditional medicine has not unlocked many of its marvels, but I know the plant well enough to be familiar with its benefits. It will cure Tyrington’s unseemly slobbering.’

‘You might have killed him,’ said Bartholomew, disgusted. ‘First you prescribe urine to Hanchach, and now some toxic potion to Tyrington.’

Falmeresham gaped at him. ‘Urine? But Hanchach’s health is too fragile for–’

‘What I do is none of your affair, physician,’ snarled Arderne. ‘Leave me and my patients alone, or I shall prescribe something that will make you wish you had never been born.’

‘Threats to cause harm?’ asked Michael archly. ‘That is hardly what one expects from a healer.’

‘You can take it how you will,’ grated Arderne. ‘Now get out of my house.’

Falmeresham was dismayed. ‘Please,’ he said, stepping forward and attempting a placatory grin. His frustration at Bartholomew’s inability to answer medical questions did not mean he was prepared to stand by while his former mentor was insulted. ‘There is no need for hostility. We are all interested in the same thing: making people well.’

‘Is that so?’ said Arderne. ‘Then why do University physicians lose so many patients? A dozen deaths have occurred in the few weeks since I arrived, all of which could have been prevented. Cambridge will be better off when these academics pack their bags and leave me in charge.’

‘Where were you last night?’ asked Bartholomew, not deigning to reply. He thought of Edith, and itched to punch the man. He was not often given to violent urges and was astonished by the strength of the rage he felt towards Arderne.

‘Here,’ said Arderne, reaching out to touch Isabel’s hair. She blushed furiously at the display of public affection, and pulled away awkwardly. Then he fixed her with his pale eyes, and she gazed back, like a rabbit caught in the glare of a lantern.

‘We were all here,’ elaborated Falmeresham. ‘Magister Arderne taught me a new way to cure infections of the eyes, and Isabel was listening. Why do you ask?’

‘Because Motelete is dead,’ said Michael.

Arderne shrugged. ‘So I heard, but I am not his keeper. What does it have to do with me?’

Michael found his attitude irritating. ‘Someone was pawing his corpse in the churchyard of St Mary the Great, and I wondered whether anyone here might have something to say about it.’

‘Such as what?’ asked Arderne, affecting a bored look.

‘Such as whether you poisoned him,’ Michael flashed back. ‘Or whether you tried to raise him from the dead a second time, and ran away like a coward when you were almost caught.’

‘It is all right, lad,’ said Arderne, when Falmeresham stepped forward angrily. The ex-student might dislike Arderne insulting Bartholomew, but that did not mean he was willing to remain silent while Michael hurled accusations at his new master. ‘I am used to enduring this sort of rubbish from disbelievers, and I usually treat them with the contempt they deserve by ignoring them.’

‘You had better go,’ said Falmeresham to the scholars. He was struggling to control his temper. ‘I would not have let you in, had I known you were going to be rude.’

‘What about the people outside?’ asked Bartholomew of Arderne. ‘Are you going to leave them there all day? It is raining, and none are dressed for standing around in the cold.’

‘I have suggested they go home,’ replied Arderne, ‘but they remain hopeful of one of my cures. I do not mind them there, because they advertise my trade nicely, and I may deign to heal one later. I do not usually bother with the poor, but they are doing me a service, after all.’

He turned and walked away. Isabel trotted after him like an obedient dog, without so much as a nod to the scholars as she left. Bartholomew wondered whether Arderne had put her in some sort of trance; certainly her behaviour was not normal.

‘I am pleased you are learning so many new things,’ he said to Falmeresham, as the student escorted them to the door. He felt no resentment towards the lad, only sadness that he had proved to be so gullible. He supposed he should have trained him to be less credulous of men who claimed to have all the answers. ‘However, I hope Arderne’s attitude to the poor is not one of them.’

‘You could learn from him, too, if you would open your mind. You have no idea of the extent of his powers. I admit he has his faults, but I am willing to overlook them in the pursuit of knowledge.’

‘Was Arderne telling us the truth about last night?’ asked Bartholomew, declining to discuss it. ‘Was he really in the whole time?’

‘Yes,’ said Falmeresham. ‘He really was. We sat by the fire with Isabel, and he held forth about ailments of the eyes. Did you know that lost sight can be restored simply by licking the eyeball?’

‘I know it is a remedy favoured by witches, but it does not work. And neither does rubbing a gold ring across the eye’s surface, if he included that particular trick in his discourse, too.’

Falmeresham sighed irritably. ‘You do not know what you are missing by refusing to acknowledge his skills.’ He slammed the door with considerable vigour, thus ending the discussion.

‘And was Falmeresham telling the truth?’ asked Michael, as he and Bartholomew walked back along the High Street. ‘He knows his new master is not perfect, but that is a long way from seeing through him. He may well fabricate tales to ensure Arderne is not charged with Motelete’s murder.’

Bartholomew shrugged, not sure what to think. ‘He has never lied to me before.’

‘Then what about Falmeresham as the killer? He poisoned Motelete because he resented the attention Arderne gave him – and because he stole from his hero. Despite his claim that the pots in Arderne’s dispensary are empty, there are still toxic substances to hand, because you said there was bryony in the remedy he gave Tyrington. Could bryony have killed Motelete?’

‘Yes – it would be in keeping with the blisters I saw. But it is not difficult to come by, and I imagine most households have a supply of it, to cure coughs, spots and wounds.’

‘So the visit to Arderne did not tell us much?’ asked Michael, disappointed.

‘It told me I would like to make him try some of his remedies.’

That afternoon, when the rain stopped and the sun came out, Bartholomew went to visit patients. There were two cases of fever among the ragged folk who inhabited makeshift shacks in the north of the town, but other than Blankpayn howling abuse, his journey was mercifully uneventful. He prescribed his usual tonic for agues, and then walked to the Dominican convent, where the prior was complaining of backache. The Black Friars were a hospitable group, and plied him with wine and cakes, so by the time he left, he had overeaten and was slightly drunk. It was not a pleasant sensation, and he wondered how Michael and Paxtone could bear doing it day after day. He returned home via the Barnwell Gate, keeping his temper admirably when the soldier on duty pretended not to recognise him and demanded proof of his identity.

‘You know me, John Shepherd,’ he said mildly, aware that a queue was building behind him and that the delay was being perceived as his fault. ‘I set your mother’s broken wrist last year.’

Shepherd glanced around furtively, then spoke in a testy whisper. ‘Of course I know you, but we are under orders to question everyone in a scholar’s tabard or a religious habit. If I do not do as I am told, I will be reported.’

‘Orders from whom? The Sheriff is away.’

‘And that is the problem,’ said Shepherd in disgust. ‘Tulyet would never have issued such a stupid instruction. It comes from the burgesses, led by Candelby. They are making a point.’

‘What point is that?’

‘That the town has control over some matters, and will make a nuisance of itself if scholars do not yield to its demands. But I have delayed you enough to make it look good, so you are free to go.’ Shepherd lowered his voice further still. ‘I could lose my job for telling you this, but warn Brother Michael that there is a move afoot to set fire to the University Church.’

Bartholomew groaned. ‘Not again! We have only just finished repairing it from the last time it was attacked, and a big building like that is expensive. Do you know when it will happen?’

‘Monday, probably. Stop it if you can. My house backs on to its cemetery, and when it goes up in flames, soot lands on my wife’s best cushions. She is getting a bit tired of it.’

Unsettled, Bartholomew went on his way. When he reached the High Street, he saw Paxtone and Rougham. Paxtone was looking unwell again, and was rubbing his stomach. Bartholomew knew how he felt, because he was suffering from the same heavy, bloated feeling himself.

‘You two are in each other’s company a good deal these days,’ he remarked as they approached.

‘They are in my company a good deal, too,’ said Robin, peering out from behind Paxtone. The surgeon was small, and Bartholomew had not noticed him behind the physician’s bulk. ‘It is safer that way, and if you had any sense, you would join us.’

‘We have formed an alliance,’ explained Paxtone. ‘Cambridge practitioners versus Arderne – or, to put it another way, honest medici against a leech.’

‘Arderne attacked us without provocation or cause,’ added Rougham. ‘So, we have decided the best way to combat him is by standing together. Did you know he claims to have cured Hanchach of laboured breathing when you had failed?’

‘He did not cure Hanchach – Hanchach was getting better anyway,’ replied Bartholomew tartly. ‘However, he might relapse if he declines to take his lungwort and colt’s-foot. The phlegm will rebuild in his chest, and he will be back where he started.’

‘I heard Arderne donated some of his own urine for Hanchach’s remedy,’ said Robin. ‘He claims all his bodily fluids contain healing powers, so he hoards them up and charges high prices for their sale. Why did I not think of such a ruse? I could have been rich beyond my wildest dreams.’

There was a short pause, during which Paxtone and Rougham regarded the surgeon with distaste, and Bartholomew thought he might be sick.

‘The fact that we are prepared to join forces with Robin should tell you how seriously we take the threat of Arderne,’ said Paxtone to Bartholomew.

‘Here!’ said Robin, offended. ‘This alliance was my idea.’

‘True,’ said Rougham. ‘And we were none too keen when you first mooted it, but we see now that we have no choice. This is no place to talk, though. Come to the Angel, and I shall buy us all something to eat.’

‘The Angel?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I do not think we should go there.’

‘Michael does not mind us purchasing food, just as long as we do not drink,’ argued Rougham. ‘Besides, you can always tell him you were investigating Ocleye’s death. I can tell you something that will lend credence to the lie, if you like. It is not much, though, just a snippet.’

‘What?’

‘The day before he died, I saw Ocleye in conversation with a man who wore a hood to conceal his face. Ocleye was eating a pie, but his companion did not touch his, so something had robbed the fellow of his appetite. Ocleye was a spy, so he was obviously conducting some shady business.’

‘He was a shady man,’ agreed Paxtone. ‘I also saw him meeting with an unusual array of people – Spaldynge from Clare, and Carton of Michaelhouse, to name but two.’

‘Carton is not shady,’ objected Bartholomew.

‘He is not someone I would want as a colleague, though. He is complex – like Lynton, a man of many layers.’ Paxtone turned to Rougham. ‘But Matthew is right – we should be wary of breaking University rules. We shall eat these victuals in St Bene’t’s Churchyard. A man cannot live without a decent pie, and I would not be the man I am today, were it not for the Angel.’

Bartholomew looked him up and down, and considered telling him the Angel had a lot to answer for, but a sober voice at the back of his mind reminded him that these were friends, and he should not insult them because he was tipsy. He took a deep breath to clear his wits, and followed them through a series of back alleys to Bene’t Street. They stepped into the leafy churchyard, where Paxtone sank on to a lichen-glazed tombstone. He clutched his stomach, and seemed to be in pain.

‘Are you sure you should be eating?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps we should take you home.’

Paxtone shook his head. ‘This is more important – I will have no home if Arderne gets his way.’

‘Robin can fetch the pies while we wait here,’ said Rougham, handing the surgeon a coin. ‘Make sure you ask for the chicken, Robin, because Honynge told me the mutton ones contain dog.’

‘Get me two,’ ordered Paxtone. ‘I find eating helps me think, and we shall need our wits if we are to devise an effective strategy against this vile leech.’

When Robin had gone, Bartholomew and Rougham joined Paxtone on the tomb. Fortunately, trees concealed them from the folk who walked along Bene’t Street, because Bartholomew was sure three physicians sitting in a row on someone’s grave would be considered very peculiar behaviour. He heard two scholars discussing the Convocation of Regents as they passed, and learned that Trinity Hall planned to support Michael, but Bene’t College would oppose him.

‘Michael has discovered that Lynton ran gambling sessions in his Dispensary,’ he said. He glanced at Paxtone, trying not to sound accusing. ‘And you were one of his guests.’

‘What?’ exploded Rougham. ‘I do not believe you!’

Paxtone sighed mournfully. ‘I am afraid it is true. I enjoyed my Friday nights with Lynton – until he started to invite townsmen, at which point I withdrew my custom. So did a number of others.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, while Rougham sat with his mouth open.

‘Because I felt I could not rely on a townsman’s discretion as I might a fellow scholar’s – it was in my colleagues’ interests to keep quiet, but laymen have nothing to lose by blabbing. Besides, while I enjoyed the intellectual exercise – it was great fun predicting the relative speeds of these fictitious horses – the townsmen were noisy in their excitement, and they ruined the genteel atmosphere. Your brother-in-law was all right, but I disliked Candelby’s company.’

‘Candelby was noisy?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘When he won – which was often – he was a dreadful gloat. He was quick with his sums, so he acquired a small fortune, including several houses. The games have had unforeseen consequences, though, because it is these very same buildings that lie at the heart of the rent war.’

‘Here we are,’ said Robin, arriving with the pies. Rougham was still digesting the news that Lynton owned a gaming house as he bit into his, but the rich flavours soon pushed the matter from his mind. Bartholomew remained overloaded with the Dominicans’ cakes, and declined the greasy offering, so Paxtone had it when he had eaten his own two. Then he finished Robin’s as well.

‘It will force out the blockage that is causing me pain,’ he explained, when he became aware that all three of his colleagues were regarding him askance. ‘It worked the other day.’

‘Let us turn to the business at hand,’ said Rougham, brushing crumbs from his hands and declining to comment. ‘Robin’s practice is finished – Arderne has ensured he has not a single patient left. Paxtone is now accused of seducing Mayor Harleston’s wife–’

‘Did you?’ asked Robin with considerable interest.

Paxtone was indignant. ‘Of course not! She is far too old for me.’

‘Townsfolk judge us by their own corrupt standards,’ said Rougham consolingly. ‘Meanwhile, Arderne has been telling my patients that my special digestive tonics do not work. Then he set Isnard against Bartholomew, and now he has initiated that horrible rumour concerning Lynton.’

‘What rumour?’ asked Bartholomew, although he suspected he already knew.

‘He said you shot Lynton, then concealed the wound when you examined the body for Michael. He claims he heard it from Wisbeche, although I doubt Wisbeche would have invented such a tale.’

‘Actually, Lynton was shot, and I did hide the evidence,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. Rougham and Robin stared at him in disbelief. ‘I did not kill him, though. Obviously.’

‘But I saw the wound on Lynton’s head,’ objected Robin. ‘I went to see if I could help him, but his skull was bruised, and he was not breathing.’

Rougham was appalled. ‘Why did you not mention sooner that Lynton was murdered, Bartholomew? Arderne might be responsible, and we could all be in grave danger.’

‘He mentioned it to me,’ said Paxtone. ‘And I have been on my guard since – for you two as well as for myself. Why do you think I have spent so much time with you? Brother Michael did not want details made public, lest word leaked out, and there was trouble.’

Rougham was unappeased, and glared at Bartholomew. ‘You could have trusted me. We have shared deeper and darker secrets in the past, and you know you can count on my discretion.’

‘It was not his secret to tell,’ argued Paxtone. ‘It is Michael’s.’

‘We cannot let Bartholomew’s reticence damage our alliance,’ said Robin reasonably. ‘Paxtone was watching out for us, Rougham, so no harm was done. The real question we should be considering is, who killed Lynton? Was it Arderne?’

‘I am inclined to think so,’ replied Bartholomew, ‘but we have no evidence. Michael and I have been asking questions all week, and although we have uncovered some startling facts about Lynton, we have discovered nothing to incriminate Arderne.’

Paxtone was thoughtful. ‘I was on Milne Street when Lynton died, too – as I told you before – and, like Robin, I assumed he died because the horse kicked him. But since you told me he was shot, I have recalled two odd things. They are probably nothing …’

‘Tell him,’ ordered Rougham. ‘It is not for you to decide what is important and what is not. That clever monk has a way with small clues, as I saw when I worked as his Corpse Examiner last year.’

‘I heard a couple of loud snaps,’ said Paxtone. ‘One just before Lynton’s horse collided with Candelby’s cart, and the other some time after, when people had started fighting.’

‘The first was the bolt that killed Lynton,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘Then the weapon was rewound to dispatch Ocleye. But there is a problem with that: if Ocleye saw Lynton shot – which is why I believe he was killed – then why did he not run away? Why did he wait to be picked off?’

‘And that is the second thing I recall,’ said Paxtone. ‘After Lynton died and the cart was smashed, I saw Ocleye pick himself up, unharmed. Everyone was gazing in horror at the carnage, but he was looking in the opposite direction. And he was grinning.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘He was not surprised? But that suggests he knew Lynton was going to be shot. In advance.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Paxtone soberly. ‘I believe it does.’

The three physicians and Robin continued to discuss Lynton’s death, until Rougham pointed out that they had better devise a plan to make sure the same thing did not happen to them. He did not want to be shot while riding down Milne Street and, as Brother Michael was having no luck in bringing the slippery Arderne to justice, then it was up to Cambridge’s medici to think of a solution.

‘We tried to get the better of Arderne yesterday, by playing him at his own game.’ Rougham looked pained. ‘Unfortunately, it went wrong.’

‘You did not provide him with a second chance to raise Motelete from the dead, did you?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘By poisoning him?’

Rougham glared. ‘Be serious, man! This is no time for jests. One of Paxtone’s fourth-years pretended to be afflicted with leprous sores, and went – well armed with money – to buy a cure. Our plan was to force Arderne to make a diagnosis, then publicly wash off the paints to reveal him as a fraud. But Arderne got wind of it and sent him packing.’

It was not a clever idea, and Bartholomew was not surprised it had failed. He began to have second thoughts about joining ranks with men who would stoop to such transparent tricks.

Rougham sensed his reservations. ‘I heard Edith was hurt the other day – she came between you and a rock. Unless you want this sort of thing to continue, you cannot refuse to stand with us.’

‘Arderne probably killed Kenyngham, too,’ said Robin, trying another tactic to earn the physician’s support. ‘I heard Michael plans to exhume him, and look for signs of poisoning, but–’

‘I examined him twice,’ said Bartholomew. ‘No one killed him, but Michael refuses to listen.’

Rougham was thoughtful. ‘Many poisons are impossible to detect. Some are obvious – like the one that killed Motelete, given your description of his blistered mouth – but most are insidious substances, invisible to mere mortals like us. I doubt you will discover anything on Kenyngham’s body that will help convict Arderne, so the poor man will have been disturbed for nothing.’

‘I will not be doing the disturbing,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You will.’

‘There is not–’ began Robin.

‘Then Michael is going to be disappointed,’ interrupted Rougham. ‘I would go a long way for him – including voting for his stupid amendment to the Statutes – but I will not defile Kenyngham.’

‘And do not look at me, either,’ said Paxtone with a shudder. ‘I dislike corpses, and never touch them if I can help it. And I certainly refuse to inspect one that should be in the ground.’

‘So will I,’ said Robin, although Bartholomew doubted Michael would stoop that low. ‘But–’

‘Kenyngham was not murdered anyway,’ said Paxtone. He grimaced, wrestling with some inner conflict. ‘I promised I would never tell anyone this, but I think he would not mind under the circumstances. Kenyngham had been unwell for a week or so – his pulses had begun to beat oddly.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘He was my patient, and he said nothing to me.’

‘He said he did not want you distressed during his last few days on Earth,’ replied Paxtone. ‘That is why he sought me out, and not you – his normal physician.’

Bartholomew was aghast. ‘He was ill, and he felt he could not tell me?’

Paxtone’s expression was kindly. ‘He wanted to spare you the anguish of not being able to save him. He was more fond of you than you know.’

‘Perhaps he was being poisoned slowly,’ suggested Robin gratuitously. ‘By Arderne.’

‘It was his pulses,’ said Paxtone firmly. ‘I felt them myself, fluttering and pounding. He said it had been happening for some time, but the condition had suddenly worsened. I told him there was nothing I could do, but he was not concerned. I think he was looking forward to seeing Heaven.’

‘Well, he was a saint,’ said Rougham, laying a compassionate hand on Bartholomew’s shoulder.

‘I prescribed a potion to alleviate his discomfort – henbane is an excellent antidote to pain. He made me write “antidote” on the pot, lest you should happen across it and quiz him. He really did not want anyone to know what was happening, and said the word was vague enough to forestall any unwanted questions.’

‘Antidote,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Will you tell Michael all this? Before he digs him up?’

‘There is no need,’ said Robin, loud enough to block Paxtone’s reply. ‘I have been trying to tell you, but you keep interrupting. He heard from the Bishop’s palace this afternoon. Permission to exhume is denied.’

‘How do you know?’ demanded Rougham.

‘Because I saw the Episcopal messenger arrive at the town gate. Langelee asked for news, and I overheard him say that Kenyngham is to be left in peace.’

‘Well, then,’ prompted Rougham, after a short silence. ‘We must decide what to do about Arderne.’

Bartholomew pulled his thoughts from Kenyngham. Even to the last, the elderly Gilbertine had been thinking of others, and Paxtone’s description of his symptoms matched what Bartholomew himself had observed of Kenyngham’s final hours – his weariness and peace.

‘Arderne’s eyes are the main problem,’ said Paxtone. ‘They bore into you, and you are powerless to resist. You find yourself believing what he says, even though you know it to be rubbish.’

‘Then you must steel yourself against them,’ ordered Rougham. ‘He tried using them on me, but I met his gaze, and it was he who looked away first. You must be strong.’

‘I know what to do,’ said Robin brightly. ‘Burgle his house, and hunt for his hoax potions. We shall lay hold of them, then display them on the High Street for all to see.’

‘He would deny they were his,’ Paxtone pointed out. ‘And I dislike breaking the law, anyway.’

‘I suggest we fight him on his own terms,’ said Rougham. ‘I shall pay one of my students to play dead, and we can raise him. Then people’s faith in us will be restored.’

‘But Arderne would subject him to the most dreadful tests, to ensure he was really gone,’ said Paxtone. ‘The poor fellow would flinch or scream, and then we would look like the charlatans.’

‘Then you think of something,’ said Robin exasperated. ‘You have pulled our ideas to pieces.’

‘I could ask him for a remedy for these griping pains in my innards,’ suggested Paxtone. ‘Then I could swallow his cure and pretend it makes me worse.’

‘He will say it is because you have an evil heart, or some such nonsense,’ said Rougham. ‘He will not accept responsibility for the failure himself. Bartholomew, do you have any ideas?’

‘We could challenge him to a public debate,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We can ask an audience to present questions, and see who provides the best answers.’

‘Yes!’ said Rougham, eyes blazing in triumph. ‘It will soon become clear that he does not know what he is talking about!’

‘But they might ask questions we cannot answer,’ said Robin uneasily. ‘Like how to prevent the bloody flux.’

‘Just because there is no cure does not mean there is nothing we can do,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There are remedies to alleviate these conditions, and we can all quote our sources.’

‘Some of you might be able to,’ muttered Robin.

‘Bartholomew is right,’ said Rougham. ‘This will not be a debate to see who can devise the wildest cures, but to assess who has the greatest knowledge of his subject. And obviously, that is going to be us. However, we must remember not to contradict each other. We can argue in private, but at this debate, we must maintain a united front. Agreed, Bartholomew?’

‘You must, Matthew,’ said Paxtone, seeing him hesitate. ‘You are overly fond of disputation, and will start doing it with us. Arderne will take advantage of any perceived dissent.’

‘We can challenge him to perform the perfect amputation, too,’ said Robin, brightening. ‘I wager he does not know how to cauterise blood vessels before sewing up the wound, and onlookers will see that we know what we are doing and he does not.’

‘I think we had better to stick to the theoretical side of things to start with, Robin,’ said Paxtone with a shudder. ‘I am not sure I want to witness that sort of thing, and I am used to a little blood.’