To Kill or Cure

CHAPTER 5

When the oil in the lamp ran out and the conclave was plunged into darkness, Langelee suggested his colleagues go to bed, because they could not afford to burn more fuel that night. Unusually, the students had retired before them, despite the fact that there was oil aplenty in their lantern, and Bartholomew supposed none of them had felt like talking after Kenyngham’s funeral. The Fellows walked in a silent procession through the hall, down the stairs and into the yard, where they stood in a circle, reluctant to relinquish each other’s company and be alone with their thoughts. The moon was out, dodging between clouds, and the buildings loomed black against the night sky. The College was strangely quiet, and there was none of the usual sniggering and arguing that could be heard most evenings as the students readied themselves for sleep.

‘We should not linger here,’ said Wynewyk, glancing around uneasily. ‘Arderne delivered a love-potion to Agatha today, and she is refusing to say which poor devil has attracted her interest.’

‘It will not be you,’ said William baldly. ‘You have always declared a preference for men.’

‘Is it you, then?’ asked Wynewyk archly. He eyed the friar in distaste, his gaze lingering on the filthy habit and unsanitary hands. ‘I would think she was more discerning.’

‘I would not take her anyway,’ declared William. ‘I am a man of God, and I have foresworn sinful relations. Besides, she is not my type – she is too opinionated.’

‘If it is me she wants, she will be disappointed,’ said Langelee. ‘I have a strong mind, and will resist Arderne’s concoctions with no trouble at all.’

‘What do you think is in it, Matthew?’ asked Wynewyk. ‘I have read that mandrake has the ability to make men fall passionately in love.’

‘It can also kill them, because it is poisonous,’ replied Bartholomew tartly. ‘However, it is expensive, and I do not see Arderne wasting it in potions that will not work anyway.’

Yet when the laundress appeared in the yard, hollering for the College cat to do its duty with a mouse, the Fellows bade each other a hasty goodnight and headed for their quarters at considerable speed. Langelee was the only one with a chamber to himself, although it was not much bigger than anyone else’s. Wynewyk roomed with three civil lawyers, and William had two Franciscan novices. Bartholomew would normally have had Falmeresham for company, but although Cynric had unrolled the lad’s mattress and set his blankets ready, the pallet remained empty and was a sharp and painful reminder that he was still missing.

The sight of it made the physician restless, so he lit a lamp, intending to work until he fell asleep. Most scholars could not afford the luxury of a private lantern, but Bartholomew’s travels in France the previous year had put him at the Battle of Poitiers. He had fought, although neither well nor badly enough to have attracted attention, but the King had been grateful for his services to the injured afterwards, and had paid him well. Unfortunately, his reward was rapidly dwindling, because he was in the habit of offering free remedies to his poorer patients. Falmeresham constantly warned him against the practice but Bartholomew thought there was no point in ministering to the sick if he did not also provide them with the means to facilitate their recovery. Langelee, of course, was delighted by the goodwill Bartholomew’s generosity was earning Michaelhouse, especially at a time when the town was beginning to rise up against the University.

The physician was writing a treatise on fevers. He had intended it to be a short guide for students, but it had expanded well beyond that, and was reaching mammoth proportions. He picked up a pen, but his thoughts kept returning to his absent student, and eventually he grabbed his cloak and set off across the yard.

‘Where are you going?’ asked his book-bearer, who was enjoying a cup of wine in the porters’ lodge with the morose Walter. Cynric was a small, compact Welshman with grey streaks in hair that had once been black. He had been with the physician ever since a chance encounter during a riot in Oxford, and was more friend than servant. ‘It must be almost nine o’clock – very late.’

‘To look for Falmeresham.’

‘Again? Then I had better come with you.’ Cynric’s voice told Bartholomew there was no point in saying he wanted to go alone. The Welshman excelled at sneaking around in the dark, and his eyes were already gleaming at the prospect of a nocturnal adventure.

Walter’s long, gloomy face was a mask of disapproval. ‘Master Langelee said not to let anyone out after dark, because the town is uneasy. He does not want trouble.’

‘There will be no trouble,’ said Cynric confidently. ‘Not as long as I am with him.’

Reluctantly, Walter opened the gate and ushered them out. Cynric waited just long enough to satisfy himself that it had been properly secured again, then raised enquiring eyebrows.

‘I was going to search the bushes in the graveyard of St John Zachary,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps he crawled there, to escape the mêlée.’

‘I have already looked, boy,’ said Cynric gently. ‘Twice. But we can do it again, if you like. We should be careful not to be seen, though. It will look odd if we are caught poking around in a cemetery at this time of night.’

Bartholomew sighed tiredly. ‘True. Perhaps this is not such a good idea.’

Cynric grinned conspiratorially. ‘Almost certainly, but why should we let that stop us?’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew weakly, wishing Cynric was not always so eager to do things that were either shady or downright illegal.

They spent an hour rooting through the moonlit undergrowth around the Church of St John Zachary, Cynric shoving the physician into the shadows when the night-watch passed, or when the last of the revellers emerged from the nearby taverns. Apart from them, the streets were deserted. When no sign of Falmeresham was forthcoming, Cynric suggested looking in Clare itself. The College had substantial grounds, and although Kardington claimed every inch had been scoured for the missing student, Cynric pointed out that the scholars would have been distracted by the news of Motelete’s death, and might not have searched very carefully.

Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. ‘Why would Falmeresham be inside Clare?’

‘Why would he be here?’ countered Cynric, gesturing at the cemetery. ‘You think he may have crawled into these bushes to escape the brawl, so perhaps he limped to Clare for the same reason. The gate was open, because all the scholars had rushed out to gawp at the accident – I saw it ajar myself. Anyone, including Falmeresham, could have gone through it.’

‘He would not have gone inside Clare,’ insisted Bartholomew. ‘He has no friends there.’

‘It was the nearest point of refuge – I would have gone there, had I been injured and there was a riot erupting around me. It may be a rival house, but you are all scholars, and he knew he would have been safe. He may have staggered into a thicket and lost consciousness.’

‘We could wake Kardington, and ask him to look again.’

‘At this hour?’ asked Cynric incredulously. ‘He would think you had gone stark raving mad! Besides, he will accuse you of questioning his honesty, because he told you he had searched every nook and cranny. No, boy. It is better that we take matters into our own hands.’

Bartholomew gazed at the high walls with some trepidation. ‘You expect me to scale those?’

‘They were built to repel invaders,’ acknowledged Cynric approvingly. ‘However, I know a place where the mortar has fallen away, affording plenty of good hand- and footholds.’

‘Why am I not surprised?’ muttered Bartholomew ungraciously. ‘Can we not find a way through St John Zachary instead? It backs on to Clare, and if we–’

‘Impossible,’ said Cynric with such conviction that Bartholomew was left in no doubt that he had already tried. He did not want to know why. ‘It is easy to get inside the church from Milne Street, but even a mouse could not go from it to Clare. Those scholars knew what they were doing when they blocked all the windows with such heavy shutters.’

He led Bartholomew to the back of the College, where the wall was lower and older, and cupped his hands to make a stirrup. With grave reservations, Bartholomew placed his foot in the cradle, then yelped in surprise when he was propelled upwards faster than he had anticipated.

‘Lower your voice,’ hissed Cynric sharply. ‘We do not want to be caught doing this – it would be difficult to explain. And watch yourself on the top of the wall. It has sharp metal spikes embedded in it, designed to make thieves think twice about scrambling over.’

Bartholomew smothered a curse when the warning came too late. ‘Have you done this before?’

There was no reply, and suddenly Cynric’s dark form was beside him. The Welshman clambered over the lethal spikes like a monkey, then swarmed down the other side. Bartholomew was slower and less agile, and by the time he reached the ground he had ripped a hole in his hose and skinned his knuckles. It was a small price to pay, he thought, if they found Falmeresham.

Clare’s benefactress had been generous. Not only had she provided her scholars with a fine hall and several houses, but she had also given them a large plot of land. Herbs were being cultivated in neat squares, and beds were dug over for onions, leeks, carrots and cabbages. Bartholomew was looking around uneasily, when Cynric gripped his arm and pointed. They were not the only ones to be invading Clare – someone else was creeping slowly towards the College buildings.

Bartholomew and Cynric watched the hooded figure skirt the vegetable gardens and aim for the main hall. The man was trying to move stealthily, but all the care in the world did not stop him from being perfectly visible in the bright light of the full moon.

‘Do you recognise him?’ asked Cynric, his breath hot against the physician’s ear.

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘He knows where he is going, though, because he has not stopped once to orientate himself. It must be a student, sneaking home after an illicit evening in a tavern.’

‘He has gone straight into the hall,’ whispered Cynric. ‘So you are probably right. But this is not helping Falmeresham, so you keep watch while I explore these fruit trees.’

While Cynric jabbed about with a stick, Bartholomew stared at the darkened College, waiting to see if the figure would reappear. It was late enough that even the most studious of scholars had given up his books for the night and had gone to sleep, although there was a lamp burning in the Master’s house. Kardington was evidently entertaining, because Bartholomew could hear two distinct voices. He went to investigate, wondering what topic could keep men from their beds until such an unsociable hour. Kardington was a skilled and entertaining disputant of theology, and the physician was sure that whatever he was saying would be well worth hearing. It occurred to him that they might be discussing Blood Relics, and that he might learn something to improve his understanding of the subject if he moved close enough to listen. Or perhaps they were talking about Falmeresham, and eavesdropping would yield some clue as to his whereabouts; he knew it was unlikely in the extreme, but he was tired and desperate, and could not stop himself from hoping.

He padded across the garden until he was directly under the window, and insinuated himself into the shrubs at the base of the wall. Kardington and his guest were in the solar on the upper floor. They were speaking softly, but the shutters were open, and their words carried on the still night air.

‘… had no right,’ came a voice that Bartholomew recognised as that of the Master. He was speaking Latin, of course. ‘It was not yours to sell, and the whole town knows it.’

‘It is unfortunate,’ said his companion apologetically. ‘And your ready forgiveness of me is giving rise to speculation and suspicion. I would not have harmed the College for the world, and I wish there was something I could do to remedy the situation.’

‘I know that, Spaldynge. But it is a pity you traded with Candelby, of all men. He is determined to destroy the University, and you have provided him with ammunition.’

‘Do you think Michael will win the fight?’ asked Spaldynge. His tone was uneasy.

‘I hope so, because if he loses, the University will cease to exist in a few years – or will be reduced to a few struggling Colleges. If that happens, Clare may be blamed, because you tipped the balance by selling Borden Hostel to the enemy. But what is done is done, and dwelling on the matter will help no one. How are your students settling in? Going from a small hostel to a large College must be difficult for them.’

‘They will be all right. I am sorry to say it, but it is easier without Wenden. He had a cruel tongue, and would have made them feel unwelcome.’

‘I would have ousted him years ago, had I known he was going to renege on our agreement and omit Clare from his will. The money you raised by selling Borden arrived just in time, or we would have been reduced to eating the kind of low-quality fare endured by Michaelhouse.’

‘It serves them right,’ said Spaldynge bitterly. ‘They train physicians, so I hope they starve.’

‘Speaking of physicians, Arderne’s miraculous healing of Motelete means we have attracted attention – and attention is something we do not want at the moment, given … well, you know.’

In the bushes below the window, Bartholomew grimaced, wishing Kardington would be more explicit. Then he happened to glance across the yard and saw a figure slinking stealthily towards him. He could tell, from the shape of the hood on the cloak, that it was the same person who had been lurking about earlier. So, he thought, it had not been an errant student after all. He watched the man edge closer, and began to feel uncomfortable. Kardington’s lamp and the full moon were throwing a fair amount of light into the garden, and he was not as invisible as he would have liked. Could the hooded intruder see him, and was coming to flush him out?

But the figure was moving furtively, and would surely have shouted for help if he intended to expose an invader. With a sudden flash of understanding, Bartholomew realised that the fellow’s intention was to hide among the shrubs and eavesdrop on Kardington, too. There was certainly not enough room for both of them, and the physician saw he was going to be caught. For a moment, he could do nothing but watch in alarm as the man advanced across the yard. Then a plan snapped into his mind. He cupped his hands and blew into the hollow between them, making a noise that roughly approximated the hoot of an owl. The shadow stopped dead in its tracks.

‘That was very close,’ said Kardington, puzzled. Bartholomew heard footsteps tap across wooden floorboards as the Master came to look out of the window.

‘It was not like any owl I have ever heard.’ Spaldynge’s voice suddenly became shrill as his finger stabbed the air above Bartholomew’s head. ‘Someone is there! We are being burgled again!’

‘Ring the bell!’ shouted Kardington. ‘Hey, you! Stop where you are!’

The hooded figure turned abruptly, and broke into a run. He headed straight for the crumbling wall, moving even faster when Spaldynge’s hollers began to wake others. Two night-porters appeared at the far end of the College and started to give chase. Bartholomew grimaced. He had intended to drive the other man off, not initiate a hunt. What should he do? Try to lay hands on the intruder, on the grounds that the fellow’s business in Clare was clearly far from innocent? But then how would he explain his own presence? And what if he was captured and the hooded man escaped? Kardington would assume, not unreasonably, that it had been the physician he had seen tiptoeing towards his quarters.

Clamours and alarums in the middle of the night were not uncommon in Cambridge, and students had learned to respond quickly. They began to pour from their chambers, and some had had the presence of mind to bring pitch torches. Staying hidden was no longer an option, so Bartholomew abandoned the bushes and tore across the yard, also aiming for the crumbling section of wall. He almost lost his footing when Cynric suddenly appeared from behind a tree, and indicated they were to run in the opposite direction.

‘I told you to keep watch,’ hissed the book-bearer. ‘Why did you let Kardington see you?’

‘He did not see me,’ objected Bartholomew, racing after him. ‘He saw that hooded man.’

Cynric glanced around. ‘But unfortunately, he has escaped, and everyone is in hot pursuit of us. You should have stayed where you were, then walked away when the coast was clear.’

‘God’s teeth!’ muttered Bartholomew, risking a quick look behind and seeing at least a dozen yelling scholars on their heels. ‘Now we are in trouble! Shall we try to explain?’

‘I do not think so! They are not in the mood for listening.’

Bartholomew was unfamiliar with Clare’s grounds, and his progress through them was slower than that of the more fleet-footed students. They began to gain. He tried to run harder, heart pounding, chest heaving and leg muscles burning from the effort. Cynric was right: they were angry, and were going to vent their rage with fists and boots. He concentrated on running, aware that the ground was sloping downwards. They were at the back of the College, where a wall separated it from the river and the towpath.

Unerringly, Cynric aimed for a specific point, and was over in a trice. He straddled the top of the rampart, and leaned down to take Bartholomew’s hand, hauling him upwards with surprising strength for so small a man. But Spaldynge had arrived, and he laid hold of the physician’s leg. Bartholomew felt himself begin to slide back down again. He kicked out, and heard Spaldynge curse as he lost his grip. He clambered inelegantly over the wall, landing awkwardly on the other side. Cynric darted towards the nearest boat, and cut through the mooring rope with his dagger.

Bartholomew did not like the notion of adding theft to the charge of trespass. ‘Isnard,’ he gasped. ‘We will take refuge–’

‘Isnard has taken against you for severing his leg – Arderne said it was unnecessary, and Isnard believes him. He will give you up. Hurry!’

Reluctantly, Bartholomew jumped into the skiff and Cynric began to row. The Clare scholars milled about helplessly, shrieking their frustration and rage as they arrived to see the little craft bobbing away from them. Fortunately, it did not occur to them to steal a boat and follow, and no one was stupid enough to risk swimming, not when the river was swollen with recent rains. Cynric powered towards the opposite bank and jumped out. Before disappearing into the marshy meadows that lay to the west of the town, he turned and gave the enraged scholars an impertinent wave.

‘That jaunty little salute was unkind,’ Bartholomew remarked critically, when they were safely hidden among the bulrushes and reeds. ‘Was gloating really necessary?’

Cynric was laughing softly; he had thoroughly enjoyed the escapade. ‘Yes, because it was not something either of us would have done.’ He saw his master’s look of total incomprehension. ‘Now, if anyone accuses us of being the culprits, we can point out that we are not the gloating types.’

‘Did you see that hooded figure?’ Bartholomew asked, not entirely sure the book-bearer’s tactic would work. How could they claim they were not the ‘gloating types’ without admitting guilty knowledge of the gesture in the first place? ‘Did you recognise him at all?’

Cynric nodded. ‘Oh, yes. It was Honynge – our new Fellow.’

The following day was wet, and the dreary weather matched Bartholomew’s bleak mood. He had experienced an acute sense of loss that morning when he had glanced at the spot in the chancel where Kenyngham normally stood, and the sombre faces of his colleagues suggested he was not alone in grieving for the old man. Further, he was still in an agony of worry over Falmeresham, and the incident with Motelete had knocked his confidence more than he liked to admit. It was not that he objected to being proven wrong, but he was appalled that he should have been quite so badly mistaken. Two patients summoned him for consultations that morning, and he was so wary of making another misdiagnosis that even Deynman had commented on his excessive caution.

‘You have some explaining to do,’ said Michael sternly, when the physician eventually returned to Michaelhouse. ‘What were you thinking of, marauding through Clare’s cabbages last night?’

Bartholomew had more pressing matters on his mind. ‘William has offered to preside over the disputations today, because he knows I want to look for Falmeresham. But Langelee and Wynewyk are out, and I am loath to leave him in sole charge.’

His concern intensified when the friar announced the topic of the day would be Blood Relics, specifically that Bajulus of Barcelona’s arguments were so good that no evil Dominican would ever be able to refute them. His agitation increased further still when Deynman offered to help.

‘Christ!’ he muttered in dismay. ‘There will be a riot here, never mind the town.’

‘There is no call for blasphemy,’ said Michael sharply. ‘You are not on the battlefield now. Look, there is Carton. Perhaps he will supervise the proceedings.’

‘I am afraid I have a prior commitment,’ said Carton, overhearing. ‘I heard you come home very late last night, Doctor Bartholomew. Were you with a patient or looking for Falmeresham?’

‘Both,’ said Michael quickly. He did not want anyone to know what the physician had really been doing, lest it led to trouble with Clare.

‘But you learned nothing,’ surmised Carton, seeing the defeated expression on the physician’s face. ‘And I do not know where else to look – I have visited every College and hostel in Cambridge, but no one has seen anything. Perhaps it is time to give up.’

Bartholomew shook his head stubbornly. ‘Falmeresham knows how to look after himself. If his wound was not too serious, then he might have been able to–’

‘But it was serious,’ said Carton tearfully. ‘We all saw the blade slide into his innards.’

‘We are doing all we can to find him,’ said Michael soothingly. ‘My beadles hunted for him all last night, and they will not stop the search until I say so – which will not be as long as there is even a remote chance that he might still be alive.’

‘They are more experienced in such matters than me,’ said the Franciscan, with a dejected sigh. ‘So, I shall go to the church, and pray to St Michael instead. Perhaps he will spare one of his angels to watch over Falmeresham.’

‘Carton is an odd fellow,’ said Michael, watching the commoner walk away. ‘I cannot help but wonder whether he has a reason for constantly letting us know the depth of his concern – lest evidence ever comes to light that says Falmeresham was actually killed by a friend, not an enemy.’

Bartholomew gazed at him. ‘That is an unpleasant thing to say.’

Michael grimaced ruefully. ‘Yes, it is, so ignore me. I am overly tired, and cannot think straight. However, I have a feeling we may never find out what happened to Falmeresham – we may spend the rest of our lives pondering his fate.’

Bartholomew rubbed his eyes. He knew the chances of finding the student alive were decreasing as time went by, but he refused to give up hope. ‘He will come home.’

‘Is that what led you to invade Clare last night – a dogged belief that he might still be awaiting rescue? Did you know Spaldynge claims to have recognised you?’

‘Does he?’ Bartholomew supposed it was not surprising; the man had been close enough to grab his leg, and the moon had been very bright.

‘Fortunately for you, Kardington maintains that such a notion is ludicrous – that the University’s senior physician would never stoop to such behaviour. Meanwhile, the Clare students think Spaldynge is picking on you because you are a medicus. They have dismissed his testimony, and are so certain of your innocence that Spaldynge’s own convictions have begun to waver.’

‘Thank God!’ breathed Bartholomew in relief.

‘Of course, it will be difficult to explain why your hands are grazed,’ Michael went on. ‘We shall have to say you fell over in our yard. It is certainly slick enough today, with all this rain.’

‘Kardington did not sound as angry with Spaldynge as he should have been,’ said Bartholomew, attempting to change the subject and discuss what he had overheard instead. In the cold light of day, the previous night’s adventure had been hopelessly misguided, and he did not blame Michael for being angry with him. ‘Over selling Borden Hostel, I mean. I wonder why.’

‘Because Kardington is a good and forgiving man,’ replied Michael. ‘He has advised his students to forget about the “burglary” last night – he believes the culprit was just someone who wanted to glimpse the miraculous Motelete.’

Bartholomew began to feel vaguely ashamed of himself. ‘I see.’

Michael glared at him. ‘How could you think Falmeresham might be in Clare’s grounds? Kardington has already assured you that they have been thoroughly searched.’

‘But he must be somewhere, Brother, whether he is dead or alive – and Cynric had a point when he said the Clare students might have been distracted when they performed the original hunt.’

‘I am upset about Falmeresham, too, but it does not give me the right to invade rival foundations whenever I feel the urge.’ Michael gave a sudden grin, suggesting his irritation was not as great as he would have his friend believe. ‘Tell me about Honynge.’

‘He was just a hooded shadow to me. It was Cynric who identified him.’

‘Cynric says he is quite sure of what he saw, so I visited Honynge this morning, while you were with your patients. His knuckles are even more mangled than yours. Unfortunately, I could not think of a way to broach the subject without revealing your role in the debacle.’

Bartholomew was puzzled. ‘Why would a senior scholar be lurking in the grounds of Clare in the depths of the night?’

Michael regarded him askance. ‘And you ask this question?’

‘Honynge was not looking for a missing student.’

‘No,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘Did he see you during all the confusion last night?’

‘Cynric says not.’

‘Then you are probably safe – Cynric is usually right about such things. Do you think Honynge was trying to follow in your footsteps, and eavesdrop on the Master?’

‘I was not eavesdropping,’ said Bartholomew indignantly. He reconsidered. ‘Well, I suppose I was, actually. I heard him talking and I admire his scholarship, so I went to see if I could hear what sort of topic kept him up so late.’

Michael regarded him with round eyes. ‘You have been enrolled in universities for more than two decades, and you have some of the sharpest wits of anyone I know. You have fought deadly battles at the side of the Black Prince, and you have travelled to all manner of remote and exotic places. Yet sometimes you are so blithely naïve that you take my breath away. You went to eavesdrop on Kardington for academic reasons?’

Bartholomew felt defensive. ‘He is a famous disputant, and William’s mention of Blood Relics last night put me in the mood for a theological discussion.’

‘Well, next time you experience such a compulsion, come to me and I will debate with you. It would be a good deal safer for everyone concerned. But let us return to Honynge.’

‘Perhaps he was visiting a lover,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Wynewyk scales walls when his latest fancy lives in another foundation. However, Honynge did not look as though he was trysting.’

‘I think he prefers women, anyway. I saw him smile at Agatha yesterday.’

‘I smiled at her, too, but it does not mean I entertain a fancy for her.’

‘You might,’ warned Michael, ‘if she doses you with this love-potion from Arderne. We shall have to watch what we eat and drink from now on. I have asked Cynric to stay in the kitchen when meals are being prepared, just in case she tries to slip this mixture into something I might consume.’

‘Such draughts are fictions, invented by the cunning and accepted by the gullible. Agatha can slip it into whatever she likes, and it still will not see her surrounded by suitors.’

‘I hope you are right, because I believe she has me in her sights.’

Bartholomew laughed, appreciating his friend’s attempt to cheer him up. Michael was not smiling, however, and the physician saw he was serious. ‘She does not! She would never seduce a monk in holy orders. Besides, I suspect you are too large, even for her tastes.’

Michael glared at him. ‘Many women tell me I am a handsome specimen, and the fact that I am unavailable just serves to make me more appealing. And I am not fat. I just have big bones.’

Bartholomew had suspected for some time that Michael was unfaithful to his vows, although he had never actually caught him in flagrante delicto. But suspicions did not equal evidence, and Bartholomew certainly had no proof that Michael had ever availed himself of the many ladies he claimed were always clamouring for his manly attentions, so perhaps he was doing the monk an injustice.

‘Honynge,’ he prompted, loath to speculate on matters that were none of his concern. ‘Perhaps he was going to steal some clothes from Clare. He is about to take up a new appointment, and he will not want to appear shabby in front of his future colleagues.’

‘We already know he is shabby,’ said Michael disapprovingly. ‘However, I do not see him as a thief, despite my antipathy towards him. What other reason could he have had for being there?’

‘None that I can think of – at least, nothing that does not involve burglary.’

‘I shall think of a way to ask him later. However, he is not as important as discovering what happened to Lynton or asking how my beadles are faring with Falmeresham. And we should visit Maud Bowyer, too. She is still not recovered, and Candelby remains banished from her presence.’

‘If she is angry with him, then perhaps she will not mind telling us what transpired in Milne Street on Sunday. However, I need to see the vicar of St Botolph’s first. He has a swollen knee.’

‘Robert Florthe?’ asked Michael. ‘I am sorry to hear that, because he is a friend. We shall visit him together, then, and you can cure his leg while he entertains me with gossip.’

As soon as Bartholomew and Michael stepped through the College gates, they were confronted by a strange sight. There was a queue of students standing outside, all waiting patiently in the rain. Those who were leaning against the walls straightened up when the two Fellows emerged, while others brushed down their tabards, hastening to make themselves look as presentable as possible. Some wore oiled cloaks against the inclement weather, but most were wet through.

‘Word has spread that Langelee intends to accept twenty new scholars,’ explained Michael. ‘And these are the hopeful applicants. But Honynge has bagged seven places for Zachary, Tyrington wants three, and you need two for Lynton’s boys, which means there are only eight places left.’

‘But there must be a hundred students here,’ said Bartholomew, shocked. ‘Why so many?’

‘Because the rent war has rendered the hostels’ situation precarious, and Colleges offer reliable accommodation, regular meals and decent masters. Do you understand now why we cannot let Candelby win this dispute? Eighty per cent of our scholars live in town-owned houses, and most of them are on the brink of poverty as it is – they cannot afford what he wants to charge.’

‘All these men are from hostels?’ Bartholomew was astounded.

Michael nodded. ‘I recognise most – many came to beg me to save their foundations from closure. All these – and more – will be permanently homeless if Candelby prevails.’

Bartholomew was moved to pity by the pinched, hungry expressions on the hopefuls’ faces, and began to usher them to St Michael’s Church, where they could wait out of the rain. The monk gave a long-suffering sigh, but then secretly slipped Cynric coins to buy them ale and bread. Carton, who was not petitioning the angels for Falmeresham’s safe return, but dozing in the Stanton Chapel, agreed to watch them until Langelee and Wynewyk were ready to begin interviewing.

The clamour of voices disturbed the two men who were kneeling at the high altar. Honynge and Tyrington turned in surprise, then came to see what was happening. When Michael explained, Honynge said the students’ mettle should have been tested by leaving them where they were – ‘only the keenest would have stayed the course’ – and Tyrington asked what he could do to help.

‘You should not have accepted this appointment,’ Honynge muttered. ‘Michaelhouse will prove to be a mistake, you mark my words.’

‘I beg to differ,’ cried Tyrington. ‘I think it is the best decision I have ever made.’

‘I was not talking to you,’ said Honynge coldly. ‘I was addressing myself, so kindly keep your nose out of my private discussions.’

‘Oh,’ said Tyrington, taken aback by the explanation. ‘My apologies.’

‘We came to say a mass for Kenyngham’s soul,’ said Honynge to Michael. ‘It was Tyrington’s idea, although I shall complete my devotions alone in future. He has a habit of spitting when he prays, which I find distracting.’

‘I do not spit,’ objected Tyrington indignantly. ‘What a horrible thing to say!’

‘You can make yourselves useful by helping Carton with these students,’ said Michael. ‘I doubt there will be trouble, given that they are eager to make a good impression, but there must be representatives from twenty different hostels here, and the competition is very intense.’

‘Surely Carton can manage alone?’ said Honynge with an irritable sigh. ‘I have plans for today.’

‘Carton is a commoner,’ said Michael, startled by the response. ‘He does not have the authority of Fellows-elect.’

‘And what will you be doing while we undertake these menial duties?’ asked Honynge unpleasantly. ‘Eating a second breakfast?’

Michael glared at him, deeply offended. ‘Looking for our missing student and trying to learn exactly what happened to Lynton.’

‘“What happened to Lynton?”’ echoed Honynge. ‘I thought he fell off his horse.’

‘He did,’ replied Michael cagily, aware that he had said more than he should and that others were listening. ‘But even accidents must be investigated.’

‘Well, I shall not stay – I am a theologian, not a beadle.’ Honynge began to walk away, adding under his breath, ‘There! That told them you cannot be treated like a servant.’

‘He is a strange fellow,’ said Tyrington, watching him leave. He treated Michael to a leer that had the monk stepping away in alarm. ‘But Carton and I can manage without him.’

‘Distribute the bread and ale as soon as it arrives,’ instructed Michael. ‘And I will ask Agatha to bring pies from the Angel later. You may be here for some time, so bag one for yourself.’

‘I do not eat the Angel’s pies,’ said Tyrington with a shudder. ‘They are far too greasy.’

‘Well, at least that is something he will not be gobbing at me,’ said Michael, wiping the front of his habit as they left. ‘But even so, I prefer his company to that of the loathsome Honynge.’

As Bartholomew and Michael walked along the High Street, they became aware of a commotion ahead. Michael groaned when he saw it comprised scholars from Clare and a number of apprentice leatherworkers from the nearby tannery.

‘Motelete cheated Death,’ one apprentice was yelling. ‘But Death does not yield his prey so readily, and Motelete will soon be seized and dragged down to Hell, where he belongs.’

‘Is that a threat?’ demanded the student called Lexham.

‘No, it is not,’ said Michael, thrusting his way between them. Knowing he had the power to fine, the apprentices did not linger. They stalked away, muttering a litany of insults that were not quite loud enough for the monk to take action on. The Clare students understood the sentiments, though, and their expressions were cold and angry.

‘They will not leave us alone,’ explained Lexham sullenly, when Michael regarded him with raised eyebrows. ‘Every time we go out, they try to fight us. It is not our fault.’

A small, slight figure stepped from their midst, and Bartholomew recognised the elfin features of the lad Arderne had cured. Motelete looked fit and well, and the grim pallor that had afflicted him the day before had gone. He appeared to have recovered from his ordeal, but Bartholomew looked away, not liking to imagine what would have happened had he been buried.

‘I am to blame, Brother,’ Motelete said shyly. ‘If I had not been cured, no one would be angry. It is a pity Magister Arderne could not heal Ocleye, too.’

‘He said it was because of you, Doctor Bartholomew,’ elaborated Lexham guilelessly. ‘He maintains that physicians who examine cadavers accumulate the taint of death on their hands; this rottenness is then passed to living patients, like a contagion.’

‘Then his logic is flawed,’ said Michael immediately. ‘Matt touched Motelete, too.’

‘Actually, I did not,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Only the clothes near his neck.’

Michael was never very patient with superstition. He turned to Motelete, ignoring the way the Clare students gave Bartholomew a wide berth. ‘Do you recall what happened the day you …’

‘The day I died?’ asked Motelete with a wry smile. ‘I watched Magister Arderne heal Candelby, but the situation began to turn ugly after they left. Master Kardington ordered us all home, but I tripped over Candelby’s broken cart, and by the time I had picked myself up, the others had gone. Everyone was fighting around me.’

‘It must have been unpleasant,’ said Michael encouragingly when the lad faltered.

Motelete nodded. ‘I do not like violence. Then I saw Falmeresham, lying on the ground and bleeding. I tried to help him up, but he was too weak. Almost immediately, I felt a searing pain in my neck, and blood cascaded everywhere. The next thing I recall was waking up in the church.’

‘Falmeresham was unable to stand on his own?’ asked Bartholomew worriedly. It was the only account he had had of his student after the brawl had started, and it did not sound promising.

Motelete stared at the ground. ‘I think he was dying,’ he said in a choking whisper. ‘I am so sorry.’

Michael gave him time to compose himself. ‘Did you see Ocleye?’ he asked eventually.

‘It might have been him who attacked me,’ said Motelete. He seemed close to tears, and Lexham put a comforting arm around his shoulders. ‘It is all a blur, but I vaguely recall him being close by.’

‘You did not attack him, though,’ pressed Michael.

Motelete was horrified. ‘No, of course not! I was trying to help Falmeresham.’

‘How do you know Falmeresham?’ asked Bartholomew. His stomach was churning, and for the first time he began to think perhaps Falmeresham had not survived the incident. ‘He did not fraternise with scholars from other Colleges.’

‘I fell into a pothole on my first day here,’ said Motelete, flushing scarlet with mortification. ‘He helped me out, then carried my bag to Clare. He said I was too clumsy to be left alone.’

Michael ordered the students home, afraid that Motelete’s presence on the streets might spark more trouble, then he and Bartholomew resumed their walk to St Botolph’s.

‘I think Motelete is telling the truth,’ said the monk. ‘He is gangling and inept, exactly the kind of lad Falmeresham might take pity on. I do not think he harmed Ocleye, either. He would not know what to do with a crossbow – and he did not have one with him on the day of the murders anyway, because his friends would have noticed.’

‘I hope he is mistaken about Falmeresham,’ said Bartholomew. ‘About him being weak …’

Michael patted his shoulder. ‘Motelete is not a physician Matt. He saw blood and assumed a fatal wound. Do not put too much store in the observations of a layman.’

‘Unfortunately, they are the only observations we have been given.’

Many churches located near city gates were dedicated to St Botolph, a saint said to be sympathetic to travellers. His chapels allowed people to ask for his protection before they began their journeys, and recite prayers of deliverance when they came back. Cambridge’s St Botolph’s was a pleasant building, although it suffered from its proximity to the odorous King’s Ditch. It was seldom empty – England’s roads were dangerous, and few folk used them without petitioning the saints first. That morning, a party of wealthy nuns was going to London. They sang psalms in the chancel, while their servants inserted pennies into an oblations box, hoping to encourage Botolph to watch over them until they reached their distant destination.

Robert Florthe was in the cemetery, pulling brambles from the primrose-clad mound that contained those of his parishioners who had died during the plague. He was humming, oblivious to the fact that it was raining, and his priestly robes were stained with mud. He was pleased to see visitors, and insisted they join him in his house for a cup of warmed ale.

‘You should rest,’ advised Bartholomew, palpating the hot, puffy knee with his fingers. ‘It will not mend if you do not keep your weight off it.’

‘So you said last time,’ said Florthe with a grin. ‘But those brambles were annoying me and I like being outside. I was sorry about Kenyngham, by the way – and sorry about Lynton, too. He and I were neighbours, and we saw a lot of each other.’

Michael sipped his ale. ‘I would hardly call Peterhouse a neighbour. It is some distance away.’

‘I mean his Dispensary,’ said Florthe, wincing when Bartholomew’s examination reached a spot that hurt. ‘Where he saw some of his patients.’

‘I thought he saw his patients in his College,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Or visited them at home.’

Florthe pointed through the window, to the smart cottage next to his own modest dwelling. Its main door opened on to the lane that bordered the churchyard, and it looked like the kind of house that would be owned by a moderately wealthy merchant.

‘People came to see him there in the evenings – perhaps his colleagues objected to townsmen and scholars from other foundations descending on them at night. He gave me a key once, to keep in case he ever locked himself out. Would you return it to Peterhouse for me? They probably do not know I have it, and poor Lynton will not be needing it now.’

Michael held out his hand. ‘They will not mind if I look inside first. It might serve as a hostel, and the University needs every building it can lay its hands on at the moment, what with Candelby ousting scholars from places we have occupied for decades.’

Florthe nodded sadly. ‘The students of Rudd’s evacuated this morning – the building is no longer safe, and Candelby refuses to effect repairs. Ovyng has taken them in, although it will be cramped. And Garrett’s lease expired today, so that returns to Candelby, too.’

Michael insisted on inspecting Lynton’s Dispensary before they did anything else, so he could ask the Master and Fellows of Peterhouse – the sole beneficiaries of Lynton’s will – to make it available for homeless scholars. He unlocked the door with Florthe’s key, and he and Bartholomew entered.

The house comprised one room on the ground floor, and a pair of attics above. The lower chamber was substantial, with a hearth, a huge table and a number of cushion-strewn benches. It smelled sweet and clean, but there was not the slightest indication that medical consultations ever took place in it. Bartholomew wondered where Lynton had kept the items he had ‘dispensed’, and climbed the ladder to the upper floor to look for urine flasks, astrological tables, medicines and other equipment. All he found was a large collection of silver goblets.

‘He was never one for physical intervention,’ he said, more to explain to himself the lack of basic tools than to enlighten Michael. ‘And he may have committed essential celestial charts to memory. I consult them when I prepare horoscopes, because they are a waste of time and I cannot be bothered to learn them, but Lynton was a firm believer and probably knew them by heart.’

‘This is a pleasant chamber,’ said Michael, frowning. ‘But the window shutters are painted closed, and I cannot open them. Why would that be?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘So no one could look in and watch him with his patients, I imagine. Some will have had embarrassing conditions, and would have wanted – demanded – privacy.’

‘I thought he had fewer patients than you, but these benches suggest they came to him in droves.’

‘He never seemed busy to me – at least, not with medicine. He did not accept just anyone as a patient, and tended to enrol folk who were not actually ill – ones who wanted preventative treatment rather than curative. He took some charity cases, but not nearly as many as Paxtone and Rougham.’

‘Or you,’ said Michael. ‘Almost all yours are poor.’

Bartholomew looked around him, trying to equate what he saw to the practical application of healing. ‘Perhaps Lynton examined his patients en masse – ordered everyone with ailments of the lungs, for example, to come at a specific time. Then he could purchase the appropriate remedies in bulk, and dispense them all at once. It is quite common for Arab physicians to specialise in particular ailments or specific parts of the body.’

‘Lynton would never have embraced a practice favoured by foreigners. And what did you mean when you said he was busy, but not with medicine? Was he busy with something else, then?’

‘He was interested in the kinetics of motion; I think he might have been writing a treatise about it. He was always asking to borrow my copy of Bradwardine’s Tractatus de continuo and he knew the subject extremely well.’

‘The mean speed theorem,’ mused Michael. ‘You have talked about it before, and I can see it is an important advance in natural philosophy, although it is dull stuff with its “uniform velocities” and “moving bodies”. I would rather talk about Blood Relics, and that should tell you something, because William has beaten the subject to death and I am bored of it. However, a complex notion like mean speed seems an odd subject to attract Lynton.’

‘The mean speed theorem is not dull,’ argued Bartholomew irritably. ‘Nicole Oresme’s account of the intension and remission of qualities is–’

‘Another time,’ interrupted Michael. He elbowed the physician outside, and locked the door behind them. ‘I am too worried about Lynton, Falmeresham and the rent war to give it my full attention. Do you mind if we take a moment to visit Wisbeche, and ask if he will lend me the Dispensary to house some of these homeless scholars? It will not take a moment.’

Bartholomew followed him the short distance to Peterhouse. As they approached, a flicker of movement caught his eye. Someone was running, heading quickly towards the Gilbertine Friary. He frowned, puzzled.

‘That person was watching Peterhouse, Brother. He was sheltering in the doorway opposite, but his attention was fixed on the College. When he saw us coming, he made a dash for it.’

‘It is not Honynge, is it?’ asked Michael, screwing up his eyes as he peered up the road. ‘He lurks around Clare at odd times, so perhaps he spies on other Colleges, too. You had better give chase while I speak to Wisbeche. It will be the most efficient use of our time.’

‘For you, maybe,’ grumbled Bartholomew, objecting to racing after shadows in the rain, while Michael would probably be feted with cakes and warm wine. He raised his hands when Michael started to point out that a Corpse Examiner was not authorised to make arrangements for new accommodation – and the Senior Proctor could not move fast enough to catch up with the figure that was rapidly dwindling into the distance, anyway.

‘And not because I am fat,’ said Michael, anticipating the next objection. ‘My heavy bones mean that the velocity of my mean speed is lower than yours. Go, before you lose him.’

Despite a spirited effort, Bartholomew did not succeed. The man glanced behind him once, and when he saw he was being followed, ducked into the woods behind the Gilbertine Friary. He had had too great a start, and although Bartholomew explored several paths and even climbed a tree, he was forced to concede defeat. Michael was waiting for him outside Peterhouse, wiping crumbs from his face with his piece of linen.

‘I had better luck,’ he said. ‘Wisbeche agreed to loan me the Dispensary for as long as I need it.’

‘Did you ask where Lynton kept his medical equipment?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And why his attics are full of silver goblets?’

‘I did, but he said I should consult a physician for answers to those sorts of questions.’

Maud Bowyer occupied a handsome house on Bridge Street, near the equally fine home that was owned by the Sheriff. Michael was bitterly disappointed when servants told him that Dick Tulyet was still away, and that he was not expected home any time soon. He needed the Sheriff’s calming hand to quell the growing unrest, and was not sure he could do it alone.

‘I shall write to him again this evening, and tell him to come as soon as he can,’ said the monk unhappily. ‘I do not like the atmosphere – people keep glaring at me.’

Bartholomew was concerned. ‘It is because everyone knows you – not Chancellor Tynkell – run the University. Perhaps you should take Cynric with you when you go out in future.’

‘I would rather he watched where Agatha put her love-potion. A town full of angry men does not hold nearly the same terror as being caught in an amorous embrace by Agatha.’ Michael sighed. ‘Three days have passed, and I still have no idea who killed Lynton. Do you?’

‘Arderne,’ said Bartholomew, surprising himself with the speed of his reply and the conviction in his voice. ‘He has the most to gain. He has virtually destroyed Robin, and with Lynton dead, there are only three others left to tell folk he is a fraud.’

‘But Paxtone and Rougham also benefit from Lynton’s demise, because several wealthy patients are now looking for a new physician. And I cannot help but think that Peterhouse is withholding information. Did Wisbeche really lend me the Dispensary out of charity, or did he just want me gone from his College without asking too many questions? Ouch!’

Bartholomew looked sharply at him, and saw a clod of mud had hit him in the chest. The physician turned quickly, and spotted two men who worked at the Lilypot. They were cronies of Isnard, and were racing away as if their lives depended on it. One stopped when he reached the corner. He saw the physician watching and raised his fist.

‘Charlatan!’ he yelled, before disappearing down the lane.

‘That is certainly true,’ declared a heavyset woman with a moustache. Her name was Rosalind fitz-Eustace, and she and her husband had a reputation for being gossips. ‘Damned scholars.’

‘We should oust the lot of them,’ agreed fitz-Eustace. ‘When they are not bleeding us dry with demands for cheap rents, cheap ale and cheap flour, they kill and maim us with bad medicine.’

‘Magister Arderne was wrong to have saved Motelete,’ whispered Rosalind, although it was clear she intended people to hear. ‘He should have raised Ocleye instead.’

‘It was too late – the Corpse Examiner had been at him.’ Fitz-Eustace cast a malicious glance in Bartholomew’s direction before stalking away, his wife at his side.

‘The insults were directed at us both, but the dirt was meant for you,’ grumbled Michael, trying without success to remove the stain from his habit. ‘Damn it! This was clean on at Christmas. And now here come two more alleged charlatans – Paxtone and Rougham, your medical colleagues. Paxtone is looking seedy today.’

Michael was right: the King’s Hall physician was pale, and there were bags under his eyes. The monk started to mutter something about a guilty conscience for putting a crossbow bolt in a rival, and Bartholomew was obliged to silence him with an elbow in the ribs.

‘What is wrong, Paxtone?’ he asked, concerned. ‘Can I help?’

‘I offered my services, too, but he says it is nothing,’ said Rougham.

‘You have not accepted tonics from Arderne, have you?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, suddenly afraid that the healer might have started work on his next victim.

Paxtone grimaced. ‘Of course not! The man is a trickster, and I would no more swallow his potions than I would let Robin perform surgery on me. Credit me with some sense, Matthew.’

‘You should not be out,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You should be lying down, resting.’

‘I told him that, too,’ muttered Rougham.

Paxtone sighed. ‘There is nothing wrong that a good purge will not cure. I am afraid I was something of a glutton with the roasted pigeon last night. I ate eight.’

‘Did you?’ asked Michael, impressed. ‘Were they cooked in any kind of sauce?’

‘Stones were thrown at me twice yesterday,’ said Rougham, changing the subject before two fat men could begin to share the delights of the dinner table. ‘It is because of Arderne. He is spreading tales about our competence as physicians. He has a convincing manner, and people believe him.’

‘I have received threatening letters from the family of a man I failed to save last term,’ added Paxtone miserably. ‘The case was hopeless – you two saw him, and you agreed with my diagnosis – but Arderne told his kin that he would have survived, had I known what I was doing.’

‘You mean Constantine Mortimer?’ asked Rougham. ‘The one who fell from his horse and cracked his skull so badly that he never awoke?’

Paxtone nodded. ‘Arderne claims he could have been woken by inserting a hot iron in his anus.’

Bartholomew winced. ‘We followed a course of treatment that was humane. Of course we could have induced a reaction by causing him pain, but that is a long way from making him better.’

Rougham glowered. ‘Arderne is a menace. Today, Mayor Harleston informed me that he no longer requires my services, which makes the fifth wealthy patient to abandon me this week alone.’

‘I lost Chancellor Tynkell this morning,’ added Paxtone, ‘and he is a very lucrative source of income, because of his appalling hygiene. We should form a united front to combat this wretched leech and his slanderous accusations.’

‘That is what Robin said,’ said Bartholomew.

‘I do not want to be associated with Robin,’ said Rougham in distaste. ‘However, he is a medical man – after a fashion – and he has been ruined by Arderne, so I feel a certain empathy with him.’

‘We may be losing patients, but your situation is far more perilous, Matthew,’ said Paxtone. ‘Arderne told Isnard his leg need not have been amputated, and Isnard believes it. Isnard is popular in Cambridge, and people are angry with you. I fear their resentment may erupt into violence.’

‘I agree,’ said Rougham. ‘Perhaps you should confine yourself to Michaelhouse until all this blows over. And blow over it will, because Arderne cannot possibly keep all the promises he has made, and it is only a matter of time before he is exposed.’

‘I cannot stay in!’ exclaimed Bartholomew. ‘What about my patients?’

‘You still have some?’ asked Paxtone bleakly. He turned suddenly. ‘I thought I could sense malevolence behind me – and there he is! Arderne himself. Look at him, strutting around the town as if he owns it.’

‘He is beginning to,’ said Rougham bitterly. ‘That is the problem.’

‘Cambridge’s infamous physicians,’ said Arderne amiably, when he spotted the three medical men standing with Michael. ‘How is business, gentlemen? If you are doing as well as I am, you must be very pleased with yourselves.’

‘Pleased enough,’ replied Rougham, unwilling to let the man know the extent of the damage he was causing. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because Sir Robert Ufford – your former patient – wants me to cure his swollen veins,’ said Arderne smugly. His eyes held a hard gleam of spite. ‘I shall eradicate his ailment with my feather and a decoction of grease.’

‘What manner of decoction?’ asked Bartholomew, while Rougham’s jaw dropped.

‘I never share professional secrets,’ replied Arderne. ‘Besides, only I can attempt these treatments – you do not have the necessary skills.’

‘Try him,’ challenged Michael. ‘He has been to Montpellier, where they study anatomy and surgery. You may find he is better at these exotic techniques than you.’

‘I do not compete with men who try to bury their patients alive,’ said Arderne contemptuously. ‘It is fortunate I was on hand to effect one of my miraculous cures, or Motelete would have suffered the most dreadful fate imaginable.’

‘Very fortunate,’ muttered Paxtone venomously.

‘It is not just Rougham’s patients who are flocking to me, either,’ said Arderne, rounding on the portly physician. ‘Master Powys – Warden of your own College – asked me for a remedy today.’

Paxtone gaped at him. ‘I do not believe you.’

Arderne shrugged, and fixed Paxtone with his pale eyes; Paxtone gazed back mutely, as though it was beyond his strength to break the stare. ‘Who cares what you believe? In a few weeks, I shall have all your wealthy customers, and you will be left with the ones who cannot pay.’

‘I refuse to sit still while that fellow damages my reputation – perhaps permanently,’ snarled Rougham, when the healer had gone. ‘We must act.’

‘And do what?’ asked Bartholomew. He glanced at Paxtone, whose expression was rather blank. ‘Launch into a slandering match, which will show us to be as petty and despicable as him?’

‘It would be demeaning,’ blurted Paxtone when Bartholomew poked him with his finger. He shook himself and took a deep breath.

‘I was thinking of employing more devious tactics,’ said Rougham. ‘How about tampering with his feather – putting some substance on it that will make his patients ill?’

‘We cannot do that!’ Bartholomew was shocked. ‘It would break all the oaths we have sworn.’

‘It is a case of expediency,’ argued Rougham. ‘Would you rather have a couple of folk with rashes, or some real deaths, when needy patients go to him for a cure and he fails them?’