To Kill or Cure

EPILOGUE

The sun was shining brightly and there was no wind, so it was pleasant in Michaelhouse’s orchard. A week had passed since the events that had left two apprentices and a student dead. Sheriff Tulyet had arrived just in time to quash what might have erupted into a serious disturbance, and once he had been rescued from the church roof, Michael had rallied his beadles and set about clearing the streets of scholars. Calm had reigned by nightfall, and the town had been quiet ever since. The Chancellor had decreed that term would begin early, and the undergraduates had been too busy with their books to think about brawling. The town had been restless at first, but the Mayor and his burgesses had been appeased by a gift of two houses from Peterhouse. Because the gift would last only as long as Cambridge was peaceful, any unruly factions had been told in no uncertain terms that they must behave themselves.

‘So,’ said Michael, luxuriating in the warmth of the sun. ‘We have succeeded in outwitting wicked villains yet again. Our killer was the spitting Tyrington, and although he left a trail of clues to lead us in the wrong direction, we cornered him in the end. No one can defeat the alliance of the Senior Proctor and his trusty Corpse Examiner.’

‘I suppose not,’ said Bartholomew, less ready to gloat. The entire episode had left an unpleasant flavour in his mouth, and he still grieved for Kenyngham. He was uncomfortable with the knowledge that Michaelhouse had been invaded by two such devious characters, and was concerned by the fact that Arderne had escaped during the commotion surrounding the attack on St John Zachary and the inferno at the Angel tavern. It had been Candelby’s inn that Cynric had seen in flames – the blaze had been set by his fellow landlords, who felt he had betrayed them. Afraid he might be the next victim of their ire, Candelby had packed up a cart and left the town while he was still in one piece. No one seemed to miss him.

‘And I even defeated Honynge,’ Michael continued, pleased with himself. ‘He thought he could best me with his sly tricks, but he failed. Did I tell you Deynman caught him poking about in my room? That is how he knew about the crossbow bolts you pulled from Lynton and Ocleye, and why he was astonished when the later search failed to locate them.’

‘What did Cynric take from under your loose floorboard?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘Langelee was worried about it.’

‘The alternative statutes,’ replied Michael breezily. ‘The ones Langelee and I use when we want to pass certain measures, and we anticipate trouble from you other Fellows – although you did not hear that from me. The game would have been up, had they been found.’

‘And you call Honynge sly,’ said Bartholomew, rather shocked. ‘I thought you were above that sort of thing.’

‘Why ever would you think that?’ Michael sighed. ‘I am happy, Matt. My College is a haven of peace again, and Carton will be a decent addition to our ranks. We should have listened to you in the first place, and then none of this would have happened.’

‘But Tyrington would have killed another Fellow to secure himself a post. Besides, Carton is not all he seems either, and there were a number of incidents that had us wondering whether he might have been the killer.’

‘But most of those have been explained. Falmeresham knew his friend would be beside himself with worry when he “disappeared”, so he asked Isabel to pass word that he was safe. Unkindly, Arderne then demanded recompense for Falmeresham’s care, which forced Carton to raise the money by various devious means. Carton was hurt when Falmeresham failed to show proper gratitude, but they have settled their differences now.’

Bartholomew was not entirely convinced, and there was a nagging doubt about Carton that would not go away. He hoped they had not repeated the mistake they had made with Tyrington and Honynge – rushing a decision because they were desperate for someone to teach before term began.

‘Do you mind the fact that Langelee has reinstated Falmeresham?’ asked Michael when he did not reply. ‘We should have sent him packing after what he did.’

‘England needs qualified physicians, regardless of what men like Spaldynge believe, so it is important that Falmeresham completes his degree. Besides, we misjudged Tyrington and Honynge, and it would be hypocritical of us to denounce Falmeresham for doing the same with Arderne.’

‘One good thing came from Honynge, though. He resolved the Deynman problem for us.’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, smiling at last. Honynge’s solution, suggested to Langelee before the events in St Mary the Great, was that Deynman should be ‘promoted’ to College librarian. The post was eagerly funded by the boy’s proud father, so would cost the College nothing, and it represented an effective end to the student’s studies in medicine. ‘I thought he would object, but he is delighted.’

‘Relieved,’ corrected Michael. ‘Deep down, he knew he would never pass his disputations. It is a perfect solution, and one we should have devised ourselves. It will not be too intellectually taxing for him, because we do not own many books.’

Bartholomew changed the subject. ‘Paxtone’s blockage returned, by the way. Arderne’s cure was only temporary, so now Paxtone feels he won the wager and is no longer compelled to leave.’

‘He is a fool for accepting the challenge in the first place.’

‘He says he was bewitched by the man’s eyes – Arderne offered the cure, and he found himself powerless to resist it. Arderne is a dangerous villain, and I wish he had not escaped.’

‘Can you cure Paxtone? I do not like seeing the poor man waddling about town with his hand clasped to his stomach.’

Bartholomew smiled again, thinking that Michael was far more of a waddler than Paxtone would ever be. ‘The cause of his discomfort is his taste for greasy pies. Still, now the Angel is no longer there to sell them, perhaps the problem will rectify itself. Did I tell you I visited Isnard today? All he talks about is whether you will let him back in the Michaelhouse Choir. Will you?’

‘No. I do not take kindly to men who believe the worst of us at the drop of a hat.’

‘Let him be, Brother. You will break his heart if you stop him singing.’

‘So, all is well,’ said Michael, after a few more moments of silence. ‘Tyrington shot Wenden and Lynton because he expected to occupy their Fellowships – and he left Wenden’s purse with a drowned tinker to ensure someone else was blamed for that crime. Ocleye was Tyrington’s spy, but Tyrington thought he might try to blackmail him – and given that Paxtone saw him grinning after Lynton’s murder, I suspect he was right – so he was dispatched, too.’

‘Meanwhile, Honynge had forged a dubious alliance with Candelby, and was providing him with information in return for free accommodation. It was a pity his dislike of you sent him off on a wild spree of revenge in St Mary the Great. He did not care that he might kill half our Regents – he just wanted you discredited.’

‘I suppose I had better make myself more amenable in the future,’ said Michael. ‘Enduring that sort of hatred was unpleasant. And you will have your work cut out for you, as you try to regain the trust of your patients. They are trickling back now the Sheriff’s independent investigation has proved Arderne responsible for several deaths. Some of the damage caused by that leech will never heal, though. Spaldynge’s dislike of physicians has intensified, for example.’

‘Have you managed to learn whom Agatha intended to dose with her love-potion?’ asked Bartholomew. He did not want to think about the legacy Arderne had left the Cambridge medici, knowing it would be a long time before the situation returned to normal – if it ever did. ‘You made a bet that you would have it out of her in a week, and your time is almost up. If you do not have the answer by tomorrow, you will owe William a groat.’

‘I prised it from her this morning,’ said Michael. ‘She bought it for Blankpayn, her cousin.’

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘Why?’

‘She thought being in love would keep him away from Candelby, whom she considered a bad influence. It is a good thing she did not give it to him, or we might never have solved this case. We would have assumed Blankpayn’s demise from the potion was related to Lynton’s death, when it would have been nothing of the kind.’

Bartholomew stood. ‘It is getting cold out here. Carton is going to play his lute, and William has offered to set the Blood Relic dispute to song. He says it is something that should not be missed.’

‘I am sure he does,’ laughed Michael, following him across the orchard towards the comfortable warmth of their home. ‘And it certainly promises to be entertaining, although I doubt we will learn much in the way of theology.’

‘Crocodiles and shooting stars,’ said Bartholomew suddenly. ‘Kenyngham was right, but I wish his last words had been more readily understandable. He would have saved us a lot of trouble.’

Michael clapped a hand on his shoulder. ‘But solving the mystery would not have been nearly as much fun.’

A few miles away, in the Fens, a man sat at the side of a mere, staring across the sunset-stained water. Arderne was angry at the way matters had ended at Cambridge. He missed his faithful Motelete, he had been forced to abandon all his belongings – including the star-spangled cart of which he had been so proud – and he had grown tired of Isabel. He looked dispassionately at the spread of her hair just below the wind-ruffled surface. She had willingly – eagerly – imbibed the potion he said would give her eternal youth, and then he had slid her into the icy pond when the poison had rendered her immobile. It had been a relatively painless death, and he knew her body would not be found easily, if ever. And by then, Arderne would be long gone, safely plying his trade in another city. Perhaps Bristol this time. Or Oxford.

He smiled when he thought about his revenge on the men who had foiled his plans. He had sent a barrel of fine wine to the scholars of Michaelhouse, thanking them for their part in solving Lynton’s murder. They would assume it came from a grateful colleague, and would never question it. Of course, when they came to drink they would be in for a shock. Arderne’s famous love-potions were good for a lot more than making the fanciful swoon. The Fellows would toast each other’s health, and by the following morning, they would all be dead. Rougham and Paxtone would never work out what had happened, because they were too stupid.

The thought of his enemies choking on blistered throats made him grin, and he felt the need to make yet another toast of his own. He took his flask and upended it, draining what was left. But was there a bitter taste that should not have been present? He frowned and sniffed it. The claret seemed all right. He looked in the jar where he kept his ‘mandrake root’ – white bryony looked similar and did much the same thing, but was a fraction of the price. He did not see why should he waste money on people who could not tell the difference anyway. He regarded the pot in puzzlement. Had he really used that much on Isabel?

He was still pondering the question when he became aware of a numbness in his mouth, followed by a burning pain. He shot to his feet. That woman! She must have detected his growing coldness towards her and tampered with his powders, trying to prepare her own love-potion that would see him fall at her feet. How could she? He tried to recall what Bartholomew had done when Honynge had swallowed the poison. People had talked about it afterwards, but he had paid scant attention. He wracked his brains.

Charcoal! He staggered to his campfire and began to gnaw on singed twigs. It was not helping. He was feeling worse – dizzier, and the burning was almost unbearable. He dropped to his hands and knees and crawled towards the pool. Water would soothe him. He leaned forward but lost his balance. An icy coldness enveloped him, and Isabel’s white face loomed close. Flailing in fright, he grabbed the grass at the edge of the pond. He would feel better soon, and then he would pull himself out. He did not notice the weeds sliding through his fingers, but he did see the brown Fenland waters closing over his head.

Back at Michaelhouse, the scholars were pleased when Cynric announced the unexpected delivery of a cask of French wine. Deynman went to collect it. He broached it himself, but earned Cynric’s dismayed disapproval when he declined to let the book-bearer taste it, to make sure it was good.

‘Servants always taste gifts of wine, boy,’ said Cynric indignantly. ‘It is tradition.’

Deynman wavered. As College Librarian, tradition was something he felt obliged to uphold. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Cynric. ‘Kenyngham said it was one of Michaelhouse’s most sacred customs.’

‘I miss him,’ said Deynman sadly. ‘And Doctor Bartholomew should have asked me what he meant by crocodiles and shooting stars – I could have told him straight away. There is a crocodile carved on the cover of the book Tyrington gave the library – although Master Langelee called it a serpent. It is very distinctive and Kenyngham must have seen it when he visited him once. Meanwhile, Arderne’s personal carriage has shooting stars painted on the side.’

Cynric regarded him askance. ‘You are right! Why did I not notice them?’

Deynman shrugged nonchalantly. ‘It takes a Librarian, I suppose.’

‘Hurry up, Deynman,’ called William. ‘I am ready to start singing, and it would be good to loosen my throat with a mouthful of good claret first.’

With an apologetic grin at Cynric, Deynman grabbed the barrel and set off across the yard, but the peacock chose that moment to launch itself at the College cat. Librarian and bird became hopelessly entangled, and the barrel flew from Deynman’s hands to smash on the cobbles.

‘Oh, Deynman!’ cried William. He crouched down, and might have considered lapping some of it up – it was not every day Michaelhouse was sent extravagant gifts from grateful colleagues – but the peacock had been there and so had the chickens. He thought better of it.

‘It was sour, Father,’ said Cynric soothingly. ‘I tasted it, see. Peterhouse presented us with spoiled wine.’

‘Then we shall not send them our thanks,’ declared William, offended and indignant. ‘We shall pretend it never arrived.’