To Kill or Cure

CHAPTER 11

When Bartholomew arrived home, he found Michaelhouse in an uproar. Junior Proctor Bukenham had arrived with six beadles, and they were standing in the yard. Michael was shouting, Langelee was trying to calm him, and Honynge was looking on with gleeful malice. The other Fellows were in a huddle, lost and confused; Carton nursed a bruised nose, and Deynman was limping.

‘What is happening?’ demanded Bartholomew, going to help Deynman sit on a bench.

‘An accusation has been levelled against Brother Michael,’ explained Carton. He was pale and angry, an expression that was reflected in the face of every College member – except Honynge. ‘He is said to be concealing evidence of murder, and his rooms are going to be searched.’

‘An accusation made by whom?’

Carton glared in Honynge’s direction. ‘I tried to stop the beadles, but one punched me, and when Deynman came to my aid, he was hit with a cudgel.’

‘You tried to fight beadles?’ Bartholomew was horrified.

‘Just one,’ said Carton. ‘The lout who seems to think Bukenham is right. The others did not raise a hand against us, because they are loyal to Michael.’

Bartholomew glanced at the beadles and saw none were happy about the situation. Meadowman and four friends stood apart from the remaining one, and it was obvious a division had formed. They looked from the monk to Bukenham with wary eyes, waiting to see what would happen.

‘The Chancellor says that because an official challenge has been issued, Michael must submit to having his quarters searched.’ Tyrington was incensed on the monk’s behalf. ‘How dare he treat a Fellow of a respected College – and his own Senior Proctor – like this!’

‘There are guidelines for dealing with such eventualities, and Chancellor Tynkell is right to follow them,’ said Langelee, the practical voice of reason. ‘I recommend we go to the hall until–’

‘I certainly shall not,’ declared Michael, shooting his deputy a look of pure venom.

Bukenham cringed. ‘It was not my idea,’ he wailed. ‘Tynkell ordered me to do it.’

‘Then fetch him,’ challenged Michael. ‘Let us hear it from his own lips.’

‘I wish I could, but he has locked himself in his room, in case you storm over to St Mary the Great and shout at him. But, like me, he has no choice but to follow the proper procedures.’

‘Of course he has a choice,’ raged Michael. ‘He could tell this malicious complainant where to shove his filthy lies!’

‘But then people would be suspicious of him as well as you,’ Bukenham pointed out. ‘And they will call for his resignation. By searching your room, we can prove nothing is amiss and Hon … the complainant will have to retract his accusation.’

Michael was so angry, his large frame quaked like jelly. ‘I will not give you permission to touch my belongings, and if you try, I shall sue you for trespass.’

The beadles exchanged more uncomfortable glances, and Bukenham’s expression was one of agony. He did not know what to do, and Bartholomew suspected he was far more frightened of Michael than the Chancellor, Honynge and the rest of the University put together.

‘If the monk has nothing to hide, he would not mind obliging you,’ said Honynge quickly, when he saw the force of Michael’s personality and the loyalty he inspired in most of his beadles was about to win the day. ‘His ire is a sign of a guilty conscience.’

Langelee eyed his new Fellow with disdain. ‘It has come to this, has it? Not content with making silly accusations over documents in the Illeigh Chest, you run to the Chancellor as well?’

Honynge’s expression was dangerous. ‘I dislike corruption, and I will not tolerate it in my own College. When Michael is found guilty, I shall be calling for your resignation, too. There,’ he added in a whisper, ‘that told them you will not turn a blind eye to shabby morals.’

‘Ignore him, Master,’ said William coldly. ‘He is a petty man, unfit for Michaelhouse. I knew it the moment I heard him supporting the wrong side in the Blood Relics debate.’

As Honynge and William began a nasty, sniping squabble and Langelee tried to stop them, Bartholomew turned to Michael. ‘I do not understand. How has this come about?’

The monk spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Obviously, Honynge has been listening to the rumours started by Wisbeche – before the man agreed to keep his mouth shut – about Lynton’s wound being disguised. I told you it was a bad idea, and now look what has happened.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, shocked that his hasty action should have caused such trouble. ‘I thought I was doing the right thing – I did not imagine the repercussions would be so dire.’

‘Well, they are,’ snapped Michael. ‘Bukenham will find the bloodstained crossbow bolts you took from our two victims. They will be used to prove I concealed Lynton’s murder, Honynge will call for my resignation, and I shall be hard-pressed to find reasons why I should not oblige him.’

‘Do you mean these crossbow bolts, Brother?’ whispered Cynric, sidling up to him and flashing something that was mostly hidden up his sleeve.

Michael stared at them in astonishment. ‘God and all His saints preserve us! How did you get those with no one seeing? I thought you had been here the whole time.’

‘Then let us hope everyone else thinks so, too,’ said Cynric comfortably. ‘As soon as I heard what Bukenham had come to do, I went round the back, and climbed through your bedroom window. Meanwhile, Carton and Deynman kindly staged a diversion – they tackled your beadles and kept everyone occupied for a few moments.’

‘Thank God for friends,’ said Michael fervently.

‘I even took that flask of wine you stole from Father William,’ Cynric went on, pleased with himself. ‘And one or two other items I thought you might prefer to keep from prying eyes.’

Michael sighed his relief. ‘Thank you, Cynric. I shall never forget this. And I shall never forget what my enemies have done, either.’ He glowered in Honynge’s direction.

‘If Cynric has removed anything sensitive, you may as well let Bukenham do his duty,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Then you can demand an apology from Honynge for the trouble he has caused.’

‘You can demand more than that,’ said Cynric. ‘You can call for his resignation for slandering you. I doubt Master Langelee would object.’

A grin of malicious satisfaction flashed across the monk’s face. ‘I am sure he will not. Perhaps Michaelhouse will be rid of its viper sooner than I anticipated.’

Bukenham swallowed hard as Michael stalked towards him. Meadowman and his four friends immediately stepped behind the monk, to show where their allegiance lay, and, after a moment of hesitation, the last beadle did likewise. The Junior Proctor was alone.

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

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

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

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

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

Cynric gave an almost imperceptible nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What was Carton doing?’ asked Michael uneasily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘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.

Falmeresham 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 any 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.’

‘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 – when 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, startled. ‘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.’

‘You cannot prove anything,’ said Honynge again, sitting back and folding his arms.

‘We can prove you spied on Clare, because Cynric saw you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You went to see what else you could learn to Candelby’s advantage. I imagine it was you I saw at Peterhouse, too, doing much the same thing – you ran away and hid in the woods behind the Gilbertine Friary.’

‘Meanwhile, Rougham and Paxtone have also complained that someone has been following them,’ said Michael. ‘And now we know who and why.’

Honynge sighed, affecting boredom. ‘Prove it,’ he said in a chant. His voice dropped. ‘They are deeply stupid, Honynge, so do not let them intimidate you.’

‘Did Candelby order you to kill Motelete, Lynton and Ocleye?’ asked Michael. ‘He had hired Ocleye to spy for him, but Ocleye promptly turned traitor. Meanwhile, Lynton had just banned him from the Dispensary, and Motelete may have caught him doing something untoward–’

‘I have not killed anyone, and if you make any more accusations, I shall take the matter to my lawyers. I feel well enough to walk now, so I am leaving while I still can.’

‘You are not going anywhere until you have signed this,’ said Michael, pushing the letter of resignation towards him.

Honynge wrote his name with a flourish. ‘With pleasure.’

‘The man is right,’ said Michael wearily, after Honynge had gone. ‘We cannot prove any of this. He is a killer and a traitor to his University, and he is going to walk away. Worse, he might kill again.’

‘You should not have cured him, Matthew,’ said Agatha, stepping out from behind the screen. The three scholars jumped, because they had forgotten she was there.

‘Probably not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘However, it was that or seeing you hanged for murdering him.’

Langelee and Michael gaped at him. ‘Agatha is this deadly killer?’ asked Langelee in disbelief.

‘Now, just a moment–’ started Agatha dangerously.

‘No, but she did poison Honynge,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘She used the love-potion Arderne gave her. He told her it contains mandrake, but it is actually white bryony, with which mandrake is often confused. Arderne does not know what he is doing, so he made a basic mistake.’

‘You mean I really did poison Honynge?’ asked Agatha. She looked rather pleased with herself.

‘Yes, you really did. Perhaps Motelete swallowed one of these love-charms, too, because I am sure it was bryony that killed him.’

‘Of course!’ exclaimed Michael. ‘Falmeresham saw him stealing one of Arderne’s remedies, and we know he was enamoured of Siffreda. He took the draught in order to make her love him, but it killed him instead. He should have known better than to swallow anything Arderne had concocted.’

‘He was desperate,’ explained Agatha. The scholars regarded her in surprise. She shrugged. ‘He once confided to me in the Angel that Siffreda was taking too long to fall for him. Young men are impatient in love, and he was eager to speed matters up.’

‘If Arderne’s potion is supposed to render its taker irresistible,’ said Bartholomew to Agatha, ‘then why did you give yours to Honynge? Surely, you cannot have wanted to be in love with him?’

Agatha glared at him. ‘I most certainly did not! My intention was for Wynewyk to fall for him. Then Honynge would have been so disturbed that he would have packed his bags and left my College.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, amused. ‘However, you purchased this remarkable concoction before Honynge came to Michaelhouse, so he was not your original victim. Who–’

‘That is none of your business.’ Agatha raised her chin defiantly. ‘Everything you said earlier was right, by the way. Candelby has been paying Honynge for information about our University – my cousin Blankpayn mentioned it when he was in his cups last night. I was going to tell you this morning, but you disappeared and I did not know where you had gone.’

Michael sighed. ‘So where does all this leave us?’

‘With Motelete’s death solved,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘It was an accident – or a case of malpractice, depending on whether you think Arderne was right to leave dangerous substances in a place where light-fingered, love-sick accomplices might get hold of them.’

‘I think we shall opt for the latter,’ said Michael. ‘It will go in my report to the sheriff in London. But we still do not have the real culprit, and time is running out.’