To Kill or Cure

CHAPTER 3

Bartholomew did not want to share his findings with Michael until they were well away from Peterhouse, but returning to the town proved difficult. The soldier on duty at the Trumpington Gate claimed he did not recognise them, and refused to allow them through. Michael was first bemused, then indignant, and finally furious. He begged, cajoled and threatened, but the guard remained firm – they could not enter until someone came to vouch for them. They might have been stuck outside for hours, had Bartholomew’s brother-in-law not happened to ride by.

‘Stop playing the fool, man,’ ordered Stanmore sternly. ‘Of course you know Brother Michael – he fined you for relieving yourself against King’s Hall last Christmas.’

‘He looks different,’ mumbled the soldier, sullen now he was caught out in a lie. ‘Maybe he was not so fat then. Besides, he just tried to bribe me to let him in, and I got standards.’

‘He did not slip you enough?’ asked Stanmore. He turned to Michael. ‘Incentives are more costly in the current climate of unease, Brother. Next time, you had better offer double.’

‘He can offer triple, but I still would not take it,’ declared the guard. ‘Damned scholars! They invade our town, and start imposing rules that see us the poorer. I hope Candelby wins the rent war, because then we can start challenging all their other unjust laws, too.’

Stanmore leaned down from his horse to speak in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘The whole town is behind Candelby, so watch yourself. If you assume everyone is an enemy, you will not be far wrong.’

Bartholomew watched him canter away, feeling unease grow inside him. When he turned to look at Michael, he saw he was not the only one who was troubled.

‘Lord!’ muttered the monk. ‘I knew the rent war was serious, but I did not anticipate that its repercussions would be quite so far reaching. Guards do not often reject bribes on principle.’

‘Perhaps you should arrange another meeting with Candelby and the landlords, to try to resolve the situation before it grows any worse.’

Michael sighed his exasperation. ‘Do you think I have not tried? Candelby refuses even to sit in the same room with me unless I agree – in advance – to let him charge whatever he likes. And because what he likes is three times the current amount, I cannot comply.’

‘So you are at an impasse?’

Michael nodded, then sighed again. ‘Tell me what you learned from Lynton’s corpse. I hope it was something useful, because time is running out fast, and we desperately need answers.’

Bartholomew showed him the fragment of parchment he had recovered. ‘This.’

Michael angled it to catch the light. ‘This is part of one of our standard tenancy agreements. They outline the responsibility of a landlord to keep the building in good repair, and to stay out except for maintenance. And they order the leasing scholar to pay his dues on pain of excommunication. You have managed to acquire the bottom quarter. Where did you find it?’

Bartholomew told him.

‘Look at the names,’ he prompted. ‘The two signatures – tenant and landlord.’

Michael turned it this way and that as he attempted to decipher the small words. ‘One is Lynton’s – I would recognise that flowing hand anywhere. And the other is … I cannot read it.’

‘Ocleye.’

Michael looked first blank, then puzzled. ‘Ocleye is the murdered pot-boy from the Angel – Candelby’s inn. But this makes no sense. First, a pot-boy is unlikely to be rich enough to hire a house. Secondly, if he were, surely he would have signed an agreement with Candelby, his master?’

Bartholomew regarded him soberly. ‘Exactly, Brother. I imagine Candelby would feel betrayed if he knew what Ocleye had done. And now Lynton and Ocleye are dead.’

‘You think Candelby had something to do with their deaths? Hah! I knew it!’

Bartholomew was thoughtful as he considered what the find meant. ‘So, two men did something of which Candelby would disapprove, and now both are dead – one during an accident in which Candelby was the second party, and the other in a brawl arising from that accident. Of course, it may be coincidence. However, in that case, why was the document torn from Lynton’s dead hand?’

‘I do not understand the last part.’

‘It was snatched with enough vigour to rip it, which must have required a remarkable sleight of hand, given that the accident had attracted so many onlookers. That healer – Arderne – was there, and he has the air of a magician about him. Perhaps he took it.’

‘Why would he do that? I can see why he might have shot Lynton – he is now sans one rival medicus – but why would he steal writs from his victim’s hand?’

‘Perhaps he thought it was something else.’

Michael disagreed. ‘These particular documents are distinctive, even to the illiterate, because they are headed with red ink, and they all have that book motif at the top. They cannot possibly be mistaken for something different.’

‘Then whoever took that one from Lynton made a dismal blunder, because he left the important part – the bit containing the names – behind. He might just as well have left the whole thing.’

Michael nodded, eyes gleaming. ‘And his mistake means we have a clue. Of course, I have no idea why a rent agreement between Lynton and Ocleye should be important, but it gives us something to think about. Perhaps Arderne wanted to live in the house Lynton was about to lease to Ocleye.’

‘How would killing Lynton – the landlord – help him achieve that end?’

Michael shrugged. ‘Arderne was your suggestion as a culprit, not mine. Besides, there is nothing to say that the killer and the person who grabbed the agreement are one and the same. What else did you learn from Lynton’s corpse?’

‘That it was definitely the crossbow that killed him. The wound would have been instantly fatal. He fell from his horse as he died, and a hoof probably caught his head on the way down.’

‘Someone must be pleased. He thinks the crime has gone undetected, because everyone is assuming the mare is to blame. What happens if the body-washer notices this wound?’

‘I disguised it, and Mistress Starre is not the curious type anyway. What shall we do now?’

‘Visit the Angel and ask questions about Ocleye. He is a townsman, so his death is none of my affair, but your discovery suggests the matter might bear some probing.’

‘Good,’ said Bartholomew, beginning to walk more briskly. ‘And while we are there, we can ask if anyone has seen Blankpayn.’

The Angel was set back from the road, separated from it by a pretty courtyard with a well. It was a substantial building, and offered rooms for travellers, as well as stabling for horses. It was known for clean bedding, sweet ale and generous breakfasts, as well as its famous pies, so was popular with visitors and locals alike. The main chamber was a large, busy place that smelled of pastry and woodsmoke. The flagstone floor was always scrupulously swept, and any spillages were immediately mopped up by Candelby’s army of polite, well-dressed pot-boys.

The tavern was full for a morning when there was work to be done, but Bartholomew soon saw why. Candelby was in a chair near the hearth, holding forth. Sitting across from him was another familiar figure. Arderne was looking pleased with himself. He wore his scarlet robes, and through a window Bartholomew could see his brightly painted cart parked in the yard at the back of the tavern.

‘You want a pie?’ asked a yellow-haired pot-boy. He spoke softly, so as not to disturb the listeners. ‘But be warned: Master Candelby says we cannot sell them to scholars any more, unless they pay triple.’

Michael grimaced. ‘I wondered how long it would be before he decided to use his pies against us. But I am here to see your master, not to eat. You can talk to me while we wait for him to finish his yarn. How well did you know Ocleye?’

‘Not very,’ admitted the lad. ‘He came to work here fairly recently, and tended to keep himself apart from the rest of us. He was decent, though, and always shared the pennies he got from our customers, so we all liked him. I am sorry he was murdered by one of your lot.’

‘And I am sorry he stabbed a scholar,’ retorted Michael. ‘But, as we have lost a man apiece, I hope the matter will end there. I do not suppose you have seen Blankpayn, have you? He seems to have gone missing – as has one of our students.’

‘Falmeresham,’ said the boy, nodding. ‘Carton came here last night, asking if we had seen him.’

‘And had you?’ asked Bartholomew.

The lad shook his head, starting to move away. ‘I saw him make a dive for Blankpayn, but then those Carmelite novices rushed me, and my attention was taken with fending them off.’

Bartholomew watched him go, then turned his attention to the gathering by the hearth. Candelby was still speaking, and his audience was listening in rapt admiration. Arderne looked like a cat that had swallowed the cream, relishing the awed looks that were continuously thrown in his direction.

‘So Magister Arderne took his feather and tapped it three times on my left hand,’ said Candelby. ‘At first, nothing happened. Then there was a great roaring, and my senses reeled. I heard a snap, and when I opened my eyes, there was my arm as whole and sound as it had ever been.’

‘Did it hurt?’ asked Isnard the bargeman. It was a tavern, so Bartholomew was not surprised to see Isnard there. The chorister-bargeman liked ale, and his missing leg meant work was not always available, so he often had time to squander in such places.

‘Not one bit,’ declared Candelby. ‘I thought it would – bone-setting is a painful process, as many of us can attest. But when Magister Arderne cured me with his feather, I felt nothing.’

‘Does he cure anything else?’ asked Agatha. Bartholomew was surprised to see Michaelhouse’s laundress in the Angel, because taverns tended to be the domain of men – and prostitutes – and she should not have been there. However, as she was larger than most male patrons, and infamous for her touchy temper and powerful fists, no one was likely to oust her.

‘I have remedies for all manner of ailments,’ announced Arderne grandly. ‘Why? Is there something you would like me to repair? Or does your question relate to my other skills – for example, my ability to restore beauty to those of mature years?’

‘I have no need of beauty potions,’ said Agatha, astonished by the implication that she might. There was absolute silence as men held their breaths, lest even the merest sigh be misinterpreted. No one wanted to be on the wrong side of Agatha. ‘But I would not mind a love potion.’

There was another taut silence, and the man sitting next to her gulped. He glanced at the door, as if assessing his chances of making a successful dash for it.

‘I can provide you with one of those,’ said Arderne, quickly regaining his composure. ‘Of course, it will be expensive. Good remedies always are, which is why you should distrust the low fees of men like Robin of Grantchester. You get what you pay for in the world of medicine.’

‘Is Robin cheap?’ asked Michael of Bartholomew. ‘I always thought him rather pricey.’

‘I would say he is about average. I wonder why Agatha wants this potion.’

‘It is for Father William,’ said Michael with a malicious snigger. His chortling stopped abruptly as another possibility occurred to him. ‘God and all His saints preserve us! I hope it is not for me!’

‘Do you see yourself as irresistible to portly matrons then, Brother?’

Michael pursed his lips. ‘I am irresistible to anyone. Powerful men always attract that sort of attention – just ask the King.’

Bartholomew laughed, appreciating a brief moment of levity in what had been a bleak few hours. Unfortunately, Arderne heard him. The healer stood suddenly and began to stalk towards them.

‘Damn!’ muttered Michael, as the tavern’s patrons started to look around, to see where he was going. ‘I wanted to catch Candelby alone, and we cannot risk a confrontation with this arrogant peacock. Do not let him goad you into an indiscretion, Matt. Not here.’

‘Why would he want to argue with me?’

‘Because Beadle Meadowman told me last night that Arderne has engineered public quarrels with all your medical colleagues – Robin, Paxtone, Rougham and Lynton. You have only escaped his vitriol because you have been busy teaching. Of course, the others are easy targets, and you will be far more difficult to harm. That means he will probably strike you hardest of all.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Rougham is arrogant and objectionable, Lynton was narrow-minded, and Robin is a repellent creature, to put it mildly. Paxtone is competent – just – but the Cambridge medici are, on the whole, an unprepossessing shower. You are by far the best, so Arderne will see you as his most dangerous opponent. He will want to silence you as soon as possible.’

Bartholomew regarded him in surprise. ‘Silence me about what?’

‘About his dubious claims that a feather can mend broken bones, for a start. Here he comes. Be on your guard – and remember that we have a killer to catch. We have no time to waste on spats.’

‘Speak of the Devil and he will appear,’ drawled Arderne, as he approached. His unblinking eyes shone oddly, and his long black hair tumbled from under his red hat. ‘I was just saying how the people of Cambridge have been badly served by dirty surgeons and ignorant physicians since the plague, and here is one of them.’

‘Now just a moment,’ said Isnard, hobbling over to join them. ‘Bartholomew is a decent man. When my leg was crushed under a cart, he cut it off and saved my life.’

‘If I had been here, there would have been no need for amputation,’ declared Arderne. ‘My feather would have cured your leg, just as it did Candelby’s arm. Could you have salvaged Candelby’s limb, Bartholomew? Or would you have lopped it off?’

‘There is no way to know,’ replied Bartholomew calmly. ‘I did not examine Candelby’s injury, so I am not in a position to offer an opinion about it.’

‘That is a good point,’ said Agatha, elbowing her way through the listening patrons to stand next to him. ‘And the same might be said for Isnard’s leg. You were not there, Magister Arderne, so how can you pontificate on what was, or was not, the right thing to do?’

Arderne shot her a pained look. ‘I most certainly can pontificate, madam. I am a professional man with a wealth of experience. I do not hide behind excuses, but boldly offer my views when they are sought. And I could have saved your leg, Isnard. There is no doubt about it.’

‘Really?’ asked Isnard. ‘I do not suppose you can make it grow back again, can you? This wooden one is all very well, but it keeps falling off as I make my way home from the alehouse.’

‘I could try,’ replied Arderne. ‘My feather has worked miracles before, and will do so again. A cure will be expensive, but if you really want your leg back, you will not begrudge me the money.’

‘I do want it back!’ cried Isnard eagerly. ‘More than anything.’

Bartholomew fought to suppress the anger that was burning within him. It did not take a genius to see that Isnard was gullible, and it was cruel to prey on his weakness. ‘It has gone, Isnard,’ he said quietly. ‘And it will never come back. Do not squander your money on tricks.’

‘Tricks?’ echoed Arderne. ‘How dare you! You have never seen me work, so you have no idea what I can do. My brother is the great John Arderne. Surely you have heard of him?’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew tartly. ‘Is he in the habit of dispensing false hope, too?’

‘Are you calling me a liar?’ demanded Arderne, eyes blazing. ‘You are not even a surgeon, but a physician who has no right to perform amputations. You are a disgrace to your profession!’

‘Hey!’ snarled Agatha. ‘This is one of my Fellows, and anyone who insults him answers to me.’

‘My apologies, madam,’ said Arderne with a bow. He was not a fool, and knew when it was wiser to retreat. ‘I spoke out of turn.’

‘Yes, you did,’ agreed Agatha, still glaring. ‘I am going to finish my ale now, but I shall be keeping an eye on you, so you had better behave yourself.’

She stamped away, and most of the patrons followed, eager to discuss Arderne’s remarkable claims among themselves, so it was not long before the healer was left alone with Bartholomew, Michael and Isnard. Candelby was itching to join them, but Agatha had cornered him, and was demanding to know the whereabouts of Blankpayn. The taverner was shaking his head rather desperately, trying to convince her that he did not know.

‘Where did you earn your degree, Magister Arderne?’ asked Michael, before Bartholomew or Isnard could resume the subject of missing limbs. ‘Paris? Montpellier?’

‘I do not hold with book-learning,’ replied Arderne loftily. ‘My great body of knowledge comes through observation and experience.’

‘Why use the title, then? If you despise formal training, you should not need its trappings.’

‘It is a form of address that people like to bestow on me,’ replied Arderne smoothly. ‘I do not want to offend them by declining it.’

‘Are you really John Arderne’s brother?’ asked Bartholomew, changing the subject when he saw the man would have glib answers to account for all his deceits. ‘I met him once in Montpellier, at a lecture on bladder stones. He told me–’

‘I have not seen him in years,’ said Arderne, rather quickly. ‘However, I am his superior in the world of medicine. I am better than anyone in Cambridge, too.’

‘Like Lynton?’ asked Michael innocently. ‘You are better than him?’

‘Of course! He was a relic from a bygone age, and that made him dangerous.’

‘So, you think Cambridge is better off without him?’ pressed Michael.

Arderne regarded him with an expression that was impossible to interpret. ‘Without question. And now I must be about the business of healing. I have a patient who wants a leg.’

‘Make it grow back, then,’ challenged Bartholomew. He knew from the desperately hopeful expression on Isnard’s face that the bargeman would never listen to reason. ‘But he will not pay you a penny until you have succeeded – right down to the last toe.’

Arderne shot him a black look. ‘That is not how it works. Do you wait until every patient is fully recovered before demanding recompense?’

‘He does, actually,’ said Isnard. ‘And sometimes he forgets to ask altogether.’

‘Well, I am not so careless,’ declared Arderne in a voice loud enough to ring through the tavern like a bell. People stopped their own conversations to listen to him. ‘I am a professional. Do you have enough gold to pay me, Isnard? Miracles do not come cheap.’

Bartholomew was appalled. ‘Isnard will lose everything he has,’ he said to Michael. ‘Do something!’

‘Isnard’s greatest failing is his propensity to believe anything he hears, especially if it is something he wants to be true. I can no more stop him from making Arderne rich than I can make him sing a soft Te Deum.’

There was a babble of excited conversation as Arderne strutted from the Angel tavern with Isnard limping at his side. The miraculous saving of Candelby’s arm had captured public imagination, and folk wanted to be there when Arderne did it again. They started to follow him, and Bartholomew glimpsed the healer’s grin of satisfaction when he realised his self-promoting declarations had worked. It was not many moments before the tavern was deserted, except for Candelby and his pot-boys. The servants began to clean up the mess left by the abrupt exodus, and the taverner himself came to see why two scholars should dare linger in his domain.

‘I have nothing to say to you, monk – unless you have come to your senses, and are here to tell me that I may charge what rent I choose in my own properties?’

‘I do not own that sort of authority, as I have explained to you before,’ said Michael. ‘It would involve a change in the Statutes, and that would require a vote by the University’s Regent Masters.’

‘Then leave my tavern,’ said Candelby, beginning to walk away.

Michael caught his arm. ‘I am here about another matter – nothing to do with rents.’

‘What?’ demanded Candelby. ‘The fact that I charge scholars more for my pies than I charge townsmen? Your Statues cover the price of ale and grain, but they do not mention the price of pies. I can do what I like as far as pies are concerned.’

‘How do you know what our Statutes allow?’ asked Michael, rather coldly.

Candelby’s expression was hostile. ‘Because I have made myself familiar with them. They are keeping me from charging my tenants a fair rent, after all.’

‘I hear you lost a pot-boy in the brawl yesterday,’ said Michael, changing the subject abruptly in the hope of disconcerting him.

Candelby glared. ‘Ocleye was a good fellow. I intend to offer a reward to anyone who provides information that exposes the vicious scholar who stabbed him.’

Michael was horrified. ‘Please do not! It will result in a rash of unfounded accusations, because some folk will say anything for free pennies. You are almost certain to be led astray, and arresting the wrong man will lead to trouble. Your stance over the rents has already brought us to the brink of civil war, and this will make matters worse.’

‘Rubbish,’ snapped Candelby. ‘I am just standing up for what is right. I should be allowed to rent my own houses to whomsoever I like.’

‘I did not write the Statutes – they were composed more than a century ago, so do not blame me. If you do not like them, go and reside in some other town.’

‘I shall not!’ declared Candelby hotly. ‘It is your scholars who will leave, because either they will pay the rent I decide to charge, or they can live elsewhere. It is a straightforward choice. Personally, I hope they disappear – set up their nasty hostels in some other hapless town.’

Michael changed the subject, because they had been over the same ground a dozen times, and nothing would be gained by doing it again. ‘I did not come here to fight,’ he said tiredly. ‘All I want is to gain a clear picture of what happened yesterday.’

‘I was lucky Arderne was on hand to heal me. It is good to see medical care in the hands of a man who has nothing to do with the University. Patients will flock to him, leaving your scholar – physicians with nothing.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Michael with an affected sigh.

‘Your colleagues are hypocrites, Brother. You order me to lease my buildings to scholars, but Lynton rented his to townsmen. Did you know that?’

‘Yes,’ said Michael, abruptly taking the wind out of his sails. Bartholomew was uneasy, though, wondering how Candelby was party to such information, when Michael had only just learned it himself. ‘And if he were alive, I would fine him for it. But let us discuss yesterday’s events. Can you tell me exactly what happened?’

‘I was in my cart, taking Maud Bowyer home after church. Ocleye was riding in the back. Suddenly, I heard a snap. I looked up, and there was Lynton, riding straight at me. The next thing I knew was that my wagon was in pieces, Maud and I were in the wreckage, and Ocleye was fussing over me like a hen. Then Arderne arrived, and–’

‘And he healed you with his feather,’ finished Michael. ‘I think we have heard that part enough times. Do you mind if my colleague inspects this miraculous cure?’

Candelby proffered his arm. ‘He should see what lay-healers are capable of. Perhaps he will learn something. Ignore the discolouration, Bartholomew – Arderne says it will fade in two weeks.’

‘Did Lynton say anything when he rode at you?’ asked Michael. ‘Were his eyes open? Where were his hands? Clutching his chest or holding the reins of his horse?’

Candelby shrugged. ‘I have no idea – it all happened too fast. Ask Maud. She may remember.’

‘We shall,’ said Michael. He sighed again. ‘Look, Candelby, Lynton was not the kind of man to commit murder, and anyone who knew him would say the same. I doubt he intended to harm you.’

Unexpectedly, Candelby relented. ‘It did seem out of character. Let me think about your questions for a moment. I do not think he was holding the reins, but good horsemen control their mounts with their knees, so that is no surprise. He did not say anything that I heard. And I was more concerned with that great stallion bearing down on me, so I cannot tell you about his eyes.’

‘It was a mare,’ said Michael. He knew a lot about horses. ‘And a comparatively docile beast. She must have been startled by this snap you said you heard.’

‘It is possible,’ acknowledged Candelby. ‘The whole incident was dreadful, made worse by the brutal murder of Ocleye. And now Maud refuses to see me. I have asked Arderne to give her a potion that will bring her to her senses.’

‘She refuses to see you?’ asked Bartholomew, finishing his inspection of the man’s arm. ‘Why?’

‘I wish I knew, but there is no fathoming the female mind. It is a pity you cannot ask Ocleye about the accident, but scholars certainly murdered him – probably that rabble from Clare. At least poor Ocleye took one of them with him.’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘Yes, it is a pity we cannot speak to Ocleye. Tell me, does he have any family here, or close friends?’

‘No one. He arrived at Christmas, and he was lucky I offered him employment, or he would have been destitute. Still, he was a decent soul.’

‘Where did he live?’ asked Michael, a little carefully. He did not want to give too much away about the parchment his Corpse Examiner had recovered. ‘Here, or did he have his own lodgings?’

Candelby’s face was inscrutable. ‘He was a pot-boy, Brother, so what do you think? Now, is there anything else, or can I go back to work?’

‘Just two more questions. First, how did Ocleye die?’

‘He was stabbed in the chest by a student. The poor fellow lies in St Bene’t’s Church, so go and inspect him, if you do not believe me. Take your Corpse Examiner – he will confirm what I say.’

‘Unfortunately, it is hard to distinguish between wounds made by townsmen and wounds made by scholars,’ said Michael ruefully. ‘If he could do it, it would make my work very much simpler. And secondly, have you seen your friend Blankpayn? He seems to have disappeared off the face of the Earth, along with one of our students.’

Candelby retained his unreadable expression. ‘I have not seen either of them, although I understand the boy was grievously wounded when he raced to attack poor Blankpayn.’

Michael left the Angel tavern aware that they had learned nothing useful. Either Candelby was unaware that his pot-boy had signed a rental agreement with a scholar, or he was unwilling to admit to it. Meanwhile, Bartholomew seethed with frustrated anger at the taunt in the taverner’s parting comment, and it had taken all the monk’s diplomatic skills – and physical strength – to make him leave the tavern without throats being grabbed.

‘He knows where Blankpayn is hiding,’ the physician snarled, freeing the arm Michael held with rather more force than was necessary. Michael staggered backwards. ‘But he refuses to help us.’

‘Perhaps. However, I suspect he just wants you to think he does. He is trying to aggravate you.’

‘He has succeeded.’

‘Throttling him will help no one, satisfying though it might be. I will set Meadowman to watch him, and if Blankpayn visits, we shall know about it. You will have to be patient. I know it is difficult, but there is nothing else we can do. If we use force, it will cause trouble for certain.’

Bartholomew supposed he was right, and took a deep breath in an attempt to calm down. Absently, he noticed that Bene’t Street was not as busy as it should have been at that time of day, and he wondered whether Arderne had taken half the town with him when he went to magic Isnard’s leg back into place.

‘Would you mind examining Ocleye?’ asked Michael. He spoke tentatively. Bartholomew did not often lose his temper, and the monk was not sure how to react to it. ‘He is not a scholar, and he did not die on University property, so technically my Corpse Examiner can refuse to do it. I know Candelby said he was stabbed, but I need to be sure.’

Bartholomew nodded, but his attention was still fixed on the tavern. ‘Is that Honynge, just going into the Angel?’

‘It is!’ Michael’s green eyes gleamed with delight at the notion of catching his future colleague flouting the rules. ‘The more I deal with him, the less I like him.’

Bartholomew had not taken to Honynge either, and sensed the man’s arrogance would create discord among the Fellows – William would take umbrage at his manner, and Michael would begin a war of attrition that would force everyone to take sides.

‘I had better follow him, to see what he is doing,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands as a plan took shape in his mind. ‘If he is buying ale, I shall advise Langelee to withdraw the offer we made this morning.’

‘You are too conspicuous – Candelby is sure to notice you. I will go.’

Michael reached out to stop him, sure it was an excuse to resume the conversation about Blankpayn, but the physician jigged away from his hand and began to trot back towards the inn. The monk started after him, but was no match for his more fleet-footed colleague.

‘Do not to go in,’ he called urgently, giving up when he saw it was hopeless. ‘Just poke your head around the door and then come back and tell me what he is doing.’

Bartholomew ducked behind the courtyard well when he saw Honynge had not gone very far inside the inn. The cold fury he had felt towards Candelby was already subsiding, and his natural common sense was telling him that another confrontation would do nothing to help Falmeresham – and might even do some harm. With a sigh, he realised that shaking the truth out of the taverner would not be a good idea, and that Michael’s plan to set Meadowman to watch him was far more likely to yield results. Immediately, he began to wish he had not offered to spy on the man who was to be his colleague. It was hardly ethical, and he sincerely hoped Honynge would not catch him.

Honynge and Candelby were near the entrance, talking. Unfortunately, a chicken chose that moment to announce the laying of an egg, and taverner and scholar turned instinctively at the abrupt frenzy of squawks. Bartholomew did not think they had seen him, but could not be sure. The two resumed their discussion, and after a moment Honynge’s voice began to rise. Words quickly became audible.

‘… an outrage,’ he snapped. ‘And I will not endure such remarks.’

‘I do not care,’ said Candelby. ‘It is true. Michaelhouse is full of second-rate scholars.’

‘Well, your pies are rancid,’ retorted Honynge childishly. ‘You probably make them with dog.’

He turned and stalked away, leaving Candelby to mimic his stiff-backed gait in a flash of juvenile petulance. The pot-boys grinned, but their smiles vanished when the taverner began to bark orders at them. Bartholomew moved further behind the well as the furious Honynge stamped past him, and was disconcerted to hear the man talking quite loudly to himself.

‘You do not have to put up with his insults, not even for a pie. In fact, you should tell him his ale is not up to scratch, either.’ He stopped, glared back at the Angel, but then resumed walking. ‘No, you have more dignity than that. Go home and prepare for your removal to Michaelhouse.’

Bartholomew waited until he had gone, then set off to find Michael. He faltered when he saw the monk talking to Honynge himself, but Honynge did not linger long. He growled something, then continued on his way, anger radiating from him like heat from the sun.

‘What did he say?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

Michael was bemused. ‘He suggested I use my powers as Senior Proctor to stop the Angel from trading. It seems Candelby said something rude about Michaelhouse, and he took it as a personal affront. Well? Was he buying ale?’

‘Food – although I think he squabbled with Candelby before he could get any. He is an odd man. I would not have thought him the kind of person to leap to our defence – he made disparaging comments about Michaelhouse himself this morning – yet it seems he feels some spark of loyalty.’

Michael groaned. ‘Lord! Now here comes Tyrington, grinning at us like a gargoyle. Will we never be allowed to investigate these murders? All I want is to concentrate on finding out what happened to Lynton and Falmeresham. Is that too much to ask? Tyrington is eating, by the way. This could be dangerous.’

‘Good morning, colleagues,’ gushed Tyrington. Bartholomew did not step away quickly enough, and found himself liberally splattered with cake. ‘I cannot wait to be installed in your – our – College. Oh, the debates we shall have, on all subjects from theology to alchemy!’

‘What about natural philosophy?’ probed Bartholomew, prepared to overlook a few missiles of oral origin if the reward was a discussion on one of his favourite subjects.

Tyrington simpered at him. ‘I have a great interest in anything that necessitates complex arithmetic and geometry, especially if it can be used to define our universe.’

‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What do you think of the work of the Oxford calculatores, who use mathematics to measure the increase and decrease in intensity of qualities–’

‘Not much, if he has any sense,’ muttered Michael.

Tyrington’s leer threatened to split his face in half. ‘It fascinates me deeply, particularly as it applies to what happens in the first and last instants of potentially infinite processes.’

‘I hope you two will not spend all your evenings calculating together,’ said Michael coolly. ‘There are other issues to debate, besides mathematics.’

Tyrington laughed uneasily, sensing he had annoyed the monk. He hastened to be conciliatory. ‘There will be plenty of time for discourses on all manner of exciting matters, and I shall grant them all equal attention, I promise.’

Bartholomew watched him walk away. ‘Lynton lectured on the work of the Oxford calculatores last term, and Tyrington made several intelligent contributions. Honynge was not there, though – I would have remembered him. I hope Honynge does not transpire to be one of those scholars only interested in discussing his own speciality, because he is a theologian and therefore dull–’

He faltered when he recalled that Michael’s academic expertise was also in the ‘Queen of Sciences’, and shot him a sheepish glance. The monk smothered a smile. ‘We have wasted too much time already today. Let us see what Ocleye can tell us.’

St Bene’t’s thick walls immediately quelled the clamour from the street, and the scholars’ footsteps echoed softly through the ancient arches as they walked up the nave. The building smelled of the fresh rushes that had been scattered in the chancel, and of the flowers that had been placed along the windowsills in celebration of Easter. Bartholomew looked around appreciatively – he had always liked St Bene’t’s – but Michael was more interested in his investigation. He frowned when he removed the pall that had been placed over the coffin.

‘Ocleye seems rather old to be called “boy” – he must be nearing sixty! I was expecting an apprentice. Are you sure he is the right one?’

‘I thought you knew him,’ said Bartholomew, surprised. ‘He was standing near Candelby after the accident – obviously, given that he had been riding in the back of Candelby’s cart.’

‘Candelby is a demanding master and servants tend not to stay with him long. Hence I know very few of them. But my point remains: Ocleye is old for such an occupation.’

‘He was a newcomer, so probably took whatever work was offered.’ Bartholomew began his examination. ‘It explains why he wanted his own accommodation, though – a man of his years will not want to share an attic with a dozen rowdy youths. Yet Ocleye could not have been earning much, so I wonder how he intended to pay the elevated rent Lynton would have charged.’

‘That is a question to which we must find the answer. It cannot be coincidence that Lynton was holding the agreement signed by him and Ocleye, and both end up dead on the same day. Do you mind hurrying? I know we have Candelby’s permission to be here, but I would rather we were not caught pawing the body of a townsman – not in this current climate of unrest. What can you tell me? Where was he stabbed?’

‘He was not stabbed,’ replied Bartholomew. Michael looked sharply at him. ‘I know Candelby said he was, but he is mistaken. This wound is too small and the wrong shape to have been made by a blade. It was caused by a crossbow bolt, just like the one in Lynton.’

Michael stared at him. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course – and I can prove it.’

The monk averted his eyes when Bartholomew took a pair of pliers from his bag and began to do something to Ocleye’s chest. There was an unpleasant grating sound that made him feel queasy, and when he plucked up the courage to glance back, Bartholomew was inspecting something bloody that lay in the palm of his hand. It was the sharp end of a crossbow bolt, about the length of his little finger.

‘It snapped off inside him,’ explained the physician. ‘I suspect someone tried to retrieve the whole thing, but this part was embedded in bone, and it broke as it was tugged out.’

‘Are you sure it was not that injury which killed him?’ asked Michael, pointing to a gash across Ocleye’s ribs. He took several steps backwards when Bartholomew began to examine it, then squeezed his eyes tightly closed. ‘Please do not put your fingers inside corpses when I am looking! I missed your company when you took that sabbatical leave of absence last year, but I certainly did not miss this kind of thing!’

‘I cannot determine the depth of a wound simply by staring at it. However, probing tells me this one is not serious enough to have caused death. The bolt in the chest was what killed Ocleye. No one could have been shot there and survived.’

‘So, whoever killed Lynton killed Ocleye, too?’ asked Michael. ‘The murderer used the same weapon on both?’

‘It looks that way. Ocleye died later than Lynton, though. I saw him after the accident myself, and he was definitely alive. Also, Candelby said Ocleye was fussing over him when he regained his wits after being thrown from the cart, so he is another witness. And finally, crossbows take time to rewind, so there would have been a delay. The brawl provided the killer with a perfect opportunity to claim his second victim.’

‘So, we were right: Lynton’s death and Ocleye’s are connected. But how did Ocleye come by that other cut? Do you think the Clare student stabbed himself a corpse?’

‘Or the killer scored the wound in an attempt to disguise the real nature of Ocleye’s demise – to make people think he died from a dagger attack.’

‘How could anyone expect to deceive you?’

‘Ocleye was not a scholar, and he did not die on University property. Ergo, your Corpse Examiner has no reason to inspect him – and the body-washer has obviously noticed nothing amiss. Further, Ocleye has no family or close friends – no one to demand detailed answers.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Michael. ‘I do not like this at all – not least because of what we have done.’

‘What is that?’

‘If the killer went to all this trouble with Ocleye, then it stands to reason that he does not want anyone to know what happened to Lynton, either. And what did you do? Steal the crossbow bolt from Lynton’s corpse and later disguise the wound. Meanwhile, I am encouraging his colleagues to believe he died when the horse kicked his head.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘We have helped a killer to cover his tracks.’

Bartholomew left St Bene’t’s full of anxious questions. Who had shot Ocleye and Lynton? How could a pot-boy afford to enter a rent agreement with a man who charged princely prices for his houses? Bartholomew’s concerns returned to Falmeresham. What had happened to him? What did Candelby know that he was not telling? Was Michael right, and the man was just pretending to possess information in order to provoke a member of the hated University?

‘I do not like Candelby’s role in all this,’ said Michael, when the physician voiced his concerns aloud. ‘I think he might be the killer.’

‘We know he is not – he was in his cart when Lynton was shot, and we believe the murderer hid in St John Zachary’s churchyard.’

‘You said the weapon was small, so perhaps Candelby concealed it under his cloak. Then he whipped it out and loosed a bolt as Lynton rode towards him.’

‘Without Maud and Ocleye noticing?’

Michael shot him a triumphant look. ‘Perhaps Ocleye did notice, and either threatened to tell, or demanded payment for his silence. And do not forget that Candelby said Maud is refusing to see him. Maybe she is uncomfortable with murder committed under her nose.’

‘Even if all that is true, and Candelby did kill Lynton, he could not have shot Ocleye, too. Arderne had taken him away by the time the brawl started. He was not there.’

‘He must have come back,’ countered Michael. ‘It was a perfect opportunity to blame a violent death on a street disturbance. And, not content with that, he now wants the town to believe Ocleye was killed by a scholar – to make him a martyr, so people will fight over it.’

Bartholomew considered Candelby as the culprit. ‘I suppose he may have hired an accomplice, which would account for him being elsewhere when Ocleye was killed.’

‘This rent agreement makes no sense, though,’ mused Michael. ‘Even if Ocleye did have hidden riches, why elect to do business with Lynton? Why not Candelby, his master? Candelby has vacant lodgings aplenty, because our students are beginning to move out – either he has declined to make repairs so the buildings have become uninhabitable, or he has refused to renew their leases.’

Bartholomew was becoming frustrated by the questions that tumbled unanswered in his mind. ‘Why does Candelby want the streets running with blood? Surely he must know that if the dispute escalates, rioting scholars are likely to target his properties? He might find himself with burned-out shells in place of his handsome mansions.’

‘If our scholars do destroy his houses, we will be forced to pay him compensation. He is bound to claim a higher value than their actual worth; he may even come out ahead.’

‘I am not unsympathetic to his grievances,’ said Bartholomew, earning himself a glare. ‘The University has kept rents artificially low for decades, and it is hard on the town.’

‘If we allowed landlords free rein, they would charge a fortune. Scholars would spend all their money on housing, and would be unable to pay their academic fees. The University would founder and die. But I see we will not agree about this, so we had better discuss something else. What did you make of Arderne’s miraculous cure? Candelby’s arm looked horribly bruised to me.’

‘Bruising is all that is wrong with it – Arderne did not knit shattered bones. I imagine it was numb immediately after the accident, which accounts for why it could be pulled around without pain. The “discolouration” Arderne says will fade in two weeks would have done so anyway.’

Michael grimaced. ‘Even I can tell Arderne is a fraud, and it is clear that he intends to have Cambridge to himself, medically speaking. I only hope people see through his tricks before he does some serious harm – and not only to his hapless patients. He clearly wants to hurt you, too.’

‘He can try. Leeches have invaded the town before, but they make promises they cannot keep, and it is not long before people turn against them.’

‘You are underestimating the risk,’ warned Michael. ‘There is something charismatic about Arderne that makes people more inclined to listen – something to do with his eyes. But I see we will not agree on this, either, so we had better return to the subject of murder.’

Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘You are right to be suspicious of Candelby. He does have a powerful motive.’

Michael nodded. ‘Jealousy – because Lynton was making money hand over fist by leasing his houses to townsmen, while Candelby himself is forced to accept pittances from scholars.’

‘Is he your only suspect?’

‘No. Lynton may have accumulated some dissatisfied patients. Plus we only have Wisbeche’s word that Peterhouse is a peaceful College – we must ask others if there were private disputes among the Fellowship. And then, of course, there are Lynton’s rival physicians.’

Bartholomew gazed at him in horror. ‘You think Paxtone or Rougham might be responsible?’

Michael nodded slowly. ‘Suddenly, a lucrative post is available–’

‘It is not available. Wisbeche intends to keep it vacant, to save money.’

‘But that decision has only been made public today,’ argued Michael. ‘Until then, we all assumed Lynton would be replaced. Peterhouse Fellows have a far more luxurious existence than those of us who live in most other Colleges, and it would not surprise me to learn someone had killed him for his post. Obviously, I know you are innocent, but I certainly hope no one saw you whip that bolt from Lynton’s body or finds out that you later disguised the wound.’

‘On reflection, they were stupid things to have done – at the time, I just wanted to avert trouble.’ Bartholomew turned his thoughts back to Michael’s distressing contention. ‘But no one will think we physicians killed Lynton, Brother! I am happy at Michaelhouse, Paxtone is extremely well looked after at King’s Hall, and Rougham is one of Gonville’s founding Fellows, and will never leave it for another College. Of course, Arderne might fancy himself a University man.’

‘He might – and it does not take a genius to see he is a ruthless villain who will stop at nothing to get what he wants. However, my favourite suspect remains Candelby. What did you think of his claim that he saw nothing suspicious when Lynton died?’

‘He might have been telling the truth. Maud was with him, and he has been courting her for months. It is possible that he had no eyes for anything but the woman he loves.’

‘Piffle! A man like him has eyes everywhere, even when his lady of choice sits at his side. We shall visit Maud this afternoon, and have her version of events.’

‘We are due to attend Lynton’s requiem mass in an hour, so it will have to be after that.’

Michael glanced up at the sky. ‘Lynton puts me in mind of Kenyngham. I know you say his death was natural – and I said I believe you – but the letter offering me that reward keeps preying on my mind. Will you look at him again before he goes in the ground, just to be sure?’

Bartholomew suppressed a sigh. ‘If you like, but I will find nothing amiss. He just died, Brother. People do. You should know that by now.’

‘Yes, but they do it rather too often in Cambridge. I sometimes wonder whether I would be safer back at my abbey in Ely. I could be prior in a couple of years, and then I would have myself appointed as bishop somewhere. Not London – too many people. Ely or Durham would be best.’

Bartholomew struggled not to gape at him. ‘Those are lofty ambitions.’

‘Do you not think me capable? I have been running the University for years, and the Church is not so different.’

‘I suppose not,’ said Bartholomew, declining to comment further. ‘And you are right about one thing – it will almost certainly be safer than life in Cambridge.’