To Kill or Cure

CHAPTER 4

The next day was windy, and bright white clouds scudded across a pale blue sky with the sun dodging in and out between them. It was Bartholomew’s turn to preside over the morning debate, which he did with help from Carton, which was appreciated, and from Deynman, which was not. Meanwhile, Michael had persuaded several landlords to talk to him about the rent impasse, and was due to meet them in the Chancellor’s office at St Mary the Great. The monk intended to reiterate the fact that he did not have the authority to triple the hostels’ rents, and then inform the landlords that they would be considerably worse off if the King became involved – which he would, unless they came to their senses and agreed to negotiate a settlement.

Unfortunately for Michael, Candelby had got wind of the gathering, and was among the sheepish burgesses who were waiting at the church. Candelby refused to accept that he was breaking the law by ousting scholars from their hostels, and, in a calculated effort to annoy, repeated his ultimatum over and over again, simultaneously placing his hands over his ears so he could not hear anything the monk said. The meeting went nowhere, and Michael brought it to a close with a sigh of frustration. His agitation increased further still when Beadle Meadowman reported that he had made no headway in discovering Falmeresham’s fate, and Junior Proctor Bukenham described two brawls between scholars and townsmen the previous night, one of which had ended in a fatal stabbing.

He sent a message to Michaelhouse, asking his Corpse Examiner to meet him at St Edward’s Church the moment the disputation was over, and then struggled to find beds for scholars from Tyled Hostel and Cousin’s Place, rendered homeless when landlords had refused to renew their leases. Bartholomew was waiting at St Edward’s when he arrived, although it did not require an expert to tell him that the great slash in the student’s abdomen had been the cause of death, or that it had been made by a knife. Monk and physician stared unhappily at the body.

‘He was just a child,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘No more than fifteen.’

‘Old enough to shoot arrows at your brother-in-law’s apprentices, though. Thank God he missed! We arrested his killer this morning, but many are saying the fellow was right to rid the town of a student who is overly eager for a fight. I have a bad feeling I might be calling on your services more often than I would like in future. Damn Candelby and his greed!’

‘We should visit Clare,’ said Bartholomew, keen to resume their investigation. ‘It is all taking far too long, and I feel answers slipping away from us with every passing moment. Falmeresham …’

‘We will find him,’ said Michael, when he faltered into silence. But his voice lacked conviction, and it was obvious his hopes for a happy ending were fading fast.

‘I am sorry I could not come with you to see Maud Bowyer yesterday,’ said Bartholomew as they left the church. ‘Prior Morden was ill again, and I could not leave him until I was sure he was feeling better. What did she tell you about the accident?’

Michael rubbed a hand over his eyes, tired and disheartened. ‘Nothing. She was too ill to receive visitors, so I had a wasted journey. It seems answers are destined to elude us on this case, Matt, no matter how hard we try to find them.’

It was not far to Clare, but the journey took longer than it should have done, because people were worried about the escalating trouble, and kept stopping Michael to ask about it. It was not just scholars who were concerned. Bartholomew’s brother-in-law, Oswald Stanmore, demanded to know what was being done to defuse the situation, and the physician’s sister, Edith, begged him to leave Michaelhouse and stay with her in Trumpington until the matter was resolved.

‘He cannot leave me to fight this alone,’ objected Michael, indignant that he had not been invited, too. Edith kept a good table, and the monk disliked the notion that his friend might spend the holidays eating while he quelled riots.

‘He should,’ said Edith, a little curtly. She and Bartholomew had always been close, because as ten years his senior, she had cared for him after the early death of their parents. ‘The dispute is largely of your making. If you agreed to parley, then we might have some peace.’

Michael gaped at her. ‘I have agreed to parley! In fact, I wasted a good part of the morning trying to discuss terms, but no one would listen to me. I am not the problem here.’

Stanmore scratched his neat beard. ‘Candelby told us burgesses that he is willing to compromise, but you refuse to raise the rents by a single penny. And his henchman Blankpayn backs him up.’

‘Lies!’ cried Michael, incensed.

‘Did you know Magister Arderne claims to have healed Blankpayn’s leprous sores, Matt?’ asked Edith, while the monk furiously regaled her husband with a catalogue of Candelby’s misdeeds and shortcomings. ‘You told me leprosy was incurable.’

‘Blankpayn did not have leprosy,’ said Bartholomew, startled. ‘I would have noticed.’

‘Arderne said he did – and added that no medicus worth his salt should have missed it. It was a dig at you, of course. I detest that man!’

‘Have you seen Blankpayn recently?’ Bartholomew was more interested in soliciting information than hearing about the healer’s mad claims. ‘He has disappeared, along with Falmeresham.’

‘I am so sorry.’ Edith touched his arm in a gesture of sympathy. ‘I know you were fond of Falmeresham, and he was close to graduating, too. It is a great pity.’

‘He is not dead,’ said Bartholomew sharply, not liking her use of the past tense.

She smiled sympathetically. ‘Of course not. I will light a candle for him this afternoon.’

‘You will need her prayers for yourselves soon,’ said Stanmore, speaking through Michael’s tirade. ‘I understand you have elected Honynge and Tyrington to your Fellowship. You must have been desperate, because neither are men I would choose for company at the dinner table. Tyrington would spit all over the food, and Honynge would rather talk to himself than the person sitting next to him.’

Edith was more willing to see the good in people. ‘Honynge is patient with his students, and Tyrington is amiable company.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Stanmore suddenly, beginning to pull his wife away. ‘Here comes Robin of Grantchester. I can smell him from here, so forgive us for not lingering to greet him.’

Robin was looking even more disreputable than usual, because he had been drinking. He held a wine flask in his hand, his eyes were bloodshot, and his hair was lank and unkempt. When he saw Bartholomew, he staggered forward and grabbed his hand. The physician struggled not to recoil from the warm, moist palm and the stink of old blood that hovered around the man.

‘Arderne will ruin us unless we make a stand,’ the surgeon slurred. ‘So you, Paxtone, Rougham and I must present a united front. Such tactics are working for Candelby – he has enticed other landlords to his side, and now the University is squealing like a stuck pig.’

Bartholomew freed his wrist. ‘Arderne is a fraud, so it is only a matter of time before he–’

‘You are wrong,’ snapped Robin. ‘He has already destroyed my practice, and it will not be long before he starts on yours. I am all but finished – and so will you be, if you do not resist him.’

Bartholomew was bemused. ‘How can you be finished? He has only been here a week.’

‘Seven weeks,’ corrected Robin. ‘He did nothing but sit in taverns at first, listening to gossip. Then he went into action. He cured two people I said would die, and that was just the beginning.’

‘You do tend to make overly gloomy prognoses.’ Bartholomew had ‘cured’ people Robin had said would not survive himself. ‘You should consider being a little more optimistic.’

‘But most of my patients do die,’ wailed Robin. ‘I only treat them as a last resort, when I might as well earn a bit of money from a lost cause. The latest disaster was over that Clare boy – Motelete. I saw him stabbed and went to help, but I failed. Publicly.’

‘Did you see who killed him?’ asked Michael eagerly.

Robin shook his head. ‘All I saw was Motelete drop to the ground with his hand to his neck, blood spurting everywhere. I am a surgeon, and spurting blood is my cue, so I rushed forward to see if I could stem the flow. As you know, clean wounds can often be mended, and I was hopeful of a fee.’

‘The good Samaritan,’ murmured Michael.

‘Motelete was gurgling and gasping, and I saw there was no hope. So I moved away, lest anyone think I had injured him because I was desperate for work. Well, I am desperate for work, but I–’

‘Motelete died almost instantly?’ asked Bartholomew.

Robin nodded unhappily. ‘He twitched a while, then lay still. But all of a sudden, Arderne was looming over me. He had taken Candelby home, and had come out to buy tallow grease – something to do with waxing his feather. He ordered me to heal Motelete.’

‘I thought you said Motelete was dead.’ Bartholomew was becoming confused.

‘He was dead,’ cried Robin. ‘But Arderne said he could have been saved if I had been any good at my job.’

There was a very real possibility that Arderne was correct. Robin was not skilled at his trade, and another surgeon might well have saved the boy’s life. But it was not the time to say so.

‘Buy a new coat, Robin,’ suggested Michael kindly. ‘People like a smart medicus, because he inspires confidence. Invest in some shiny new implements, and see what happens to your practice then.’

The surgeon looked ready to cry, but sensed he had been dismissed and slunk away. When Bartholomew looked back a few moments later, he saw two potters pick up some mud and lob it. Robin scuttled down the nearest alley like a frightened rat, and Bartholomew suspected they were kin to someone who had suffered the surgeon’s clumsy ministrations. If word was spreading that Robin was incompetent, then he could expect reprisals from a good many people. Perhaps he had been right when he predicted he was finished in Cambridge.

Ralph Kardington, Master of Clare, was a sallow-faced lawyer with a huge gap between his front teeth that made him lisp. It meant he was difficult to understand unless he spoke Latin, which he tended to annunciate more carefully than English or French. As a consequence, most scholars used Latin when they were with him, and because he seldom conversed with townsmen, he was left with the impression that every Englishman employed it all of the time. He often bemoaned the loss of the vernacular, and was invariably surprised when no one agreed with him.

‘Salve, Brother,’ he said, hurrying to greet his visitors. ‘I assume you are here about Motelete? His body lies in the Church of St John Zachary. You must find the villain who dispatched him. First Wenden, now Motelete. What is the world coming to?’

‘He refers to the Clare Fellow who died on Lady Day,’ explained Michael in a low voice to Bartholomew. ‘Wenden was killed by that drunken tinker, if you recall.’

‘It is a pity Wenden’s murderer fell in the river and drowned,’ Kardington went on. ‘It meant the affair was quickly forgotten, because no example was made of him. And now look what has happened – Clare has lost a second scholar to a townsman’s spiteful blade.’

‘I believe Motelete was killed by a pot-boy named Ocleye,’ said Michael hastily, alarmed by the way the Master was blaming the town. If his students felt the same – or they heard Kardington hold forth about it – there would be bloody reprisals for certain. ‘But Motelete made an end of his attacker before he breathed his last, so vengeance has already been had.’

‘I heard these rumours, too,’ replied Kardington, ‘but they cannot be true. Motelete was a gentle, timid lad, and would never have harmed anyone.’

‘He was killed during a brawl,’ Michael pointed out. ‘Gentle, timid lads tend to avoid those.’

Kardington was indignant. ‘Lynton died right by our gates, so of course we all rushed out to see what was happening – it is human nature to be curious. Unfortunately, the situation turned violent faster than any one could have predicted. You were there, Brother. You know I am right.’

‘Matters did spiral out of control rather quickly,’ the monk acknowledged cautiously.

‘Poor Motelete! He was by far the quietest of my lads. Ask his friends – they will all tell the same thing. Are you sure Ocleye was his killer?’

‘No,’ admitted Michael. ‘Not completely.’

Kardington sighed and some of the ire went out of him. ‘If you conduct a thorough investigation, and at the end of it you say you are satisfied that Ocleye was the culprit, then that will mark the end of the affair for us. We trust you, Brother. You did track down Wenden’s killer, after all.’

Michael was touched by his faith. ‘Then I promise to do all in my power to find the truth. Do you mind answering a few questions about Motelete?’

‘You may ask me, my Fellows or my students anything you like.’

‘Did Motelete know Ocleye, or did he ever visit the Angel tavern?’

‘No – to both questions. I know our undergraduates defy the ban on alehouses and sneak out to partake of the Angel’s excellent pies, but not Motelete. He was too new and too wary, and had so far resisted his friends’ attempts to include him in their rule-breaking.’

‘How long had he been enrolled?’

‘Two months or so. He hailed from near Ely, and this was his first time away from home. He was lonely and frightened, and was lucky we happened to have a vacancy. I do not think he would have fared well in a hostel – they can be rough places. Colleges tend to be more genteel.’

‘So, the only people he knew were at Clare?’ asked Michael, ignoring the gross generalisation.

‘Yes. However, before you start thinking that one of us might have dispatched him, consider this: the moment punches started to fly, I ordered all my scholars home. The only one missing when we arrived was Motelete.’

‘Will your students confirm this?’ asked Michael.

‘Ask them – they are in the hall with their Latin grammars. We can go there now if you wish.’ Kardington shook his head sadly. ‘Our boys must be fluent in Latin if they are to live in England. I spoke to Tyrington in English the other day, and he did not understand a word I said.’

‘How did you resolve the situation regarding Spaldynge?’ asked Michael conversationally, as they walked towards the hall. ‘He sold a hostel that belonged to your College, which was remiss of him.’

‘Remiss is one word for it,’ replied Kardington. ‘Borden Hostel was Clare property, and Spaldynge should have asked our permission before he hawked it.’

‘He should not have sold it at all – with your permission or without it,’ said Michael coolly. ‘I issued a writ, requesting that all University foundations should hold on to any property until the rent dispute is resolved. But that is not what I asked: my question was what did you do about it? Did you send him down? Order him to repurchase the building?’

‘It was too late for the latter,’ said Kardington ruefully. ‘Candelby declined to give it back to us.’

‘Candelby?’ Michael was aghast. ‘Spaldynge disposed of Borden to Candelby? How could he, when every scholar knows Candelby is intent on destroying us? This is outrageous!’

Kardington looked pained. ‘I know, and we are very sorry. Spaldynge has been reprimanded, and we have rescinded his Fellowship – he only holds the post of commoner now.’

Michael was unappeased. ‘Is that all? He should be excommunicated! I doubt he got a fair price for this hostel if Candelby was the buyer.’

‘Actually, he struck an extremely good bargain. He used some money to feed his students, but the rest is in our coffers. Had we known his lads were starving, we would have helped him out, but we thought he was exaggerating when he made his reports. The disaster was partly our fault.’

‘Perhaps I should fine you, then, because someone should bear the consequences of his actions. That sale put me in a very awkward position, and Candelby–’

‘So, you are minus two teachers now – Spaldynge demoted and Wenden dead,’ interrupted Bartholomew, to prevent Michael from scolding the Master of a powerful foundation like an errant schoolboy. ‘How do you manage with lessons?’

‘Wenden actually did very little tutoring,’ explained Kardington, shooting Michael an unpleasant look. ‘And this is not generally known, but he held a non-stipendiary post anyway – we did not pay him to be here. So, we cannot appoint another Fellow in his place, because we do not have the funds for a salary – not that it really matters, given that his death did not rob us of a master, anyway.’

‘When he was killed,’ began Michael, regarding Kardington disapprovingly, ‘you admitted that he had no students and did not contribute to College life. You also told me that he was tolerated because he had promised to leave Clare all his money when he died. Unfortunately for you, when his will was read, you learned he had reneged on the agreement and left it all to the Bishop of Lincoln instead. Have I recalled the situation accurately?’

Kardington grimaced. ‘That will was a vile shock, I can tell you! Still, it cannot be helped. Spaldynge is a better man, though. He continues to lecture, even though we have rescinded his Fellowship.’

‘How noble,’ said Michael acidly. ‘Most men in his position would have slunk away with their tail between their legs.’

‘There he is,’ said Kardington, pointing to where a man with an unfashionable, shovel-shaped beard was ushering a group of students towards the refectory. ‘You can berate him yourself, Brother, because I dislike being held responsible for what he did.’

Michael did berate the disgraced scholar. Spaldynge stood with his head bowed while the monk railed, but his jaw muscles worked furiously, and Bartholomew suspected he was more angry than chagrined by the reprimand. When Michael asked what he had to say for himself, Spaldynge made the pointed remark that the monk had no idea what it was like to be hungry.

‘I have made my peace with Master Kardington and our Fellows,’ said Spaldynge, rather defiantly. ‘The sale of Borden is our business, and none of yours.’

Michael glared. ‘If we want a University, then we must work together – we will not survive as an ad hoc collection of foundations. Your colleagues here may be willing to overlook your actions, but what about your colleagues in Ovyng Hostel or Peterhouse? What you have done affects them, too.’

Spaldynge grimaced. ‘I have said I am sorry, and the sale cannot be undone. Besides, Lynton sold his properties when he felt like it, and you never subjected him to a torrent of abuse.’

‘Lynton did no such thing,’ said Bartholomew, when Michael seemed too astonished to speak. ‘We know he owned houses, and that he rented them to laymen, but he did not sell them.’

‘Of course he sold them,’ snapped Spaldynge, while Kardington nodded agreement. ‘Who do you think gave me the idea in the first place? I saw what Lynton was doing and followed his example. I should have known better. Physicians are reprehensible creatures, and to copy one was stupid.’

In a sudden flash of memory, Bartholomew recalled that Spaldynge had lost his entire family to the plague, and that he had never forgiven the medici who had taken his money for a cure but had failed to provide one. He reviled physicians at every opportunity, and Bartholomew was glad their paths seldom crossed. It occurred to him that Spaldynge’s antipathy to members of the medical profession might have led him to dispatch one with a crossbow.

‘Are you saying Lynton sold houses to Candelby?’ asked the monk, finding his voice at last.

‘I do not know the details of his transactions,’ said Spaldynge. ‘And I doubt he would have confided them had I asked. Perhaps he sold them to Candelby; perhaps he bought them from Candelby; or perhaps he declined to have anything to do with Candelby – I would not have done, but he offered a price so far above that of his nearest competitor.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Michael in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘First we learn Lynton is a landlord, and now we discover that he bought and sold houses like a drover with cattle. I am amazed.’

‘He never expressed any interest in property to me,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘Do you think Spaldynge is telling the truth?’

‘Kardington supported his claims, and he is no liar. So, we have another link between my main suspect and his victim: money may have changed hands between Candelby and Lynton. And money invariably brings out the worst in people.’

The Clare refectory was a pleasant, purpose-built hall overlooking the vegetable gardens. The window shutters had been flung open, filling it with bright spring sunshine and the scent of warm earth. The students looked blank when Kardington lisped orders at them, and they only understood that they were to talk about Motelete when he repeated himself in Latin.

A tall, gangling youth stood, and introduced himself as Thomas Lexham. ‘Motelete was only here for a few weeks,’ he said, ‘but we all liked him.’

‘He cried for his mother at night, and I had to show him how to sharpen his pens,’ added Spaldynge. ‘He was too soft to have killed Ocleye – he would not have known how.’

‘Tell me what happened yesterday,’ said Michael. ‘From the beginning.’

‘We heard a monstrous crash,’ obliged Lexham. ‘We thought it was Rudd’s Hostel falling down at last, so we dashed outside to look. The only one who did not go was Spaldynge. He stayed behind, lest thieves used the opportunity as a diversion to burgle us.’

‘It happened once before,’ explained Kardington. ‘Now we never leave the College unattended.’

‘Rudd’s has been on the verge of collapse all term, and we have bets on which day it will go,’ Lexham went on. ‘However, it was Candelby’s cart that had made the noise – Lynton’s horse had smashed it to pieces. We watched Arderne cure Candelby. He examined Lynton, too, but said that although he can raise men from the dead, he does not consider physicians worth the effort.’

‘He said that?’ Bartholomew was shocked by the claim as much as the sentiment.

‘I do not like Arderne,’ confided Lexham. ‘He fixes you with those bright eyes, and you find yourself believing what he says, even though logic tells you it cannot be true.’

‘Just keep to the facts,’ prompted Kardington gently. ‘Brother Michael does not want unfounded opinions – they will not help him learn what happened to Motelete.’

Lexham nodded an apology. ‘So Arderne waved his feather, and Candelby said he was feeling better, but Maud Bowyer just sat and wept. Arderne tried to help her, but she pushed him away.’

‘Did you see Ocleye at all?’

‘We know him from the Angel–’ Lexham stopped speaking as a groan from his cronies told him that he had just let slip a detail that was best kept from the Senior Proctor.

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Your fondness for that particular tavern is hardly a secret, and on Sunday evening, I caught you there myself, if you recall.’

‘You fined us,’ said Lexham resentfully. ‘It is not something we are likely to forget. We wanted to talk to Ocleye’s friends, to see if he had mentioned a plot to kill a scholar.’

Michael was angry. ‘That might have precipitated another brawl.’

‘But we had to do something!’ cried another lad. ‘Motelete was one of us! We could not sit at home and do nothing. We needed to know if his murder was planned or an accident.’

‘And which do you think it was?’ asked Bartholomew.

The student grimaced. ‘We still do not know. The Angel pot-boys said Candelby would dock their pay if they gossiped to us while they were working, and we did not like the sound of meeting them behind the Carmelite Friary after dark, like they suggested.’

‘Thank God for small mercies,’ muttered Michael. ‘At least you have some sense. But let us return to the accident. What happened after Arderne’s advances were rejected by Maud?’

‘A crowd had gathered, and we were worried by all the jostling that was going on,’ replied Lexham. ‘The Carmelites like a good squabble, and I was afraid they might bring one about. Then you arrived, and everything calmed down.’

‘The next thing I recall is Falmeresham,’ said Kardington, frowning. ‘He darted forward in a way that made me think he was going to punch that horrible Blankpayn.’

‘As soon as that happened, Master Kardington ordered us all home,’ Lexham went on. ‘Motelete and I were at the back. I thought he was behind me, but when I reached our gate, he was gone.’

‘Did he speak to anyone before he became separated from you?’ asked Bartholomew.

Lexham shook his head. ‘He did not know anyone outside Clare.’

‘Did he ever quarrel with any of you?’ asked Michael.

As one, the students laughed. ‘Never!’ said Lexham. ‘He was too polite. I cannot imagine how he would have managed his disputations, when he never wanted to tell anyone he was wrong.’

‘He was a child,’ elaborated Kardington. ‘Does he sound like the kind of fellow to dash into a brawl and go a-killing?’

‘No,’ admitted Michael. ‘So, we had better look at his body. Matt is good at finding clues invisible to the rest of us. He may discover something that points to Ocleye as the culprit.’

As they left the hall, Bartholomew spotted a scholar who had been one of his first patients in Cambridge – and Master Gedney had been old then. Gedney had been a brilliant theologian in his day, but now he spent his time eating, complaining or dozing by the fire. For the last decade, Bartholomew had been treating him for weak lungs, and was astonished the man had survived so long. Unfortunately, Gedney had grown forgetful as well as curmudgeonly, and had developed a habit of addressing his colleagues by the names of men who had died years before.

‘Babington,’ he said when he saw Bartholomew. ‘Do you still have that book I lent you? Holcot’s Postillae? I want it back.’

Michael and Kardington exchanged a grin – it was well-known in the University that the physician would never read a text on scripture when ones on natural philosophy were available.

‘How are you feeling today, Master Gedney?’ Bartholomew asked politely.

Gedney lowered his voice. ‘This College is full of madmen. They told me it was Easter the other day, when I know it is Harvest. Did you hear that one of our students was killed in a fight? His name was Tyd, a loud-mouthed fellow who drank too much.’

‘Was he?’ asked Michael. ‘Everyone else says he was quiet and gentle.’

‘Well, they are all senile,’ confided Gedney. ‘So you should take what they say with a pinch of salt. Is that a herring on your shoulder, Brother? I like herring, but I have not eaten one since the Death, because Babington here says they make you bald.’

‘Do herrings make you bald?’ asked Michael of Bartholomew. ‘I have noticed a certain thinning in front of my tonsure, so perhaps I should abstain from now on. I do not like herrings anyway.’

‘I looked up Holcot’s Postillae in our library records,’ said Kardington, leading the way across the yard. ‘Gedney loaned it to a man more than forty years ago, and it was never returned. It seems the matter still preys on his mind – such mind as he has left.’

The Church of St John Zachary, where Motelete’s body lay, was a small building that stood on the corner of Milne Street and one of the many lanes that led down to the river. It served as chapel to Clare and Trinity Hall, but was closer to Clare. It stood in a leafy graveyard that was in desperate need of pruning, but that was unlikely ever to see a pair of shears. It was technically a parish church, and therefore the responsibility of the town, but most of its congregation had died during the plague, and the few who remained objected to spending vast sums on a place that was used mostly by the University. Meanwhile, the two Colleges saw no reason to divert their own resources to repair someone else’s property.

The lack of care showed not only in the wilderness of the cemetery, but in the building itself. Its stained glass had been broken long ago, and the stone tracery in its windows had crumbled. The only way to keep weather and thieves out was to board them up, so all the south-facing windows were permanently sealed with thick wooden planks. The north side was in a better state of repair because it formed part of Clare’s boundary wall, and the scholars did not want a ruin in their grounds. Here all the windows had shutters, although they were sturdy and could only be opened from the outside – the Fellows were worried about townsmen gaining access to their compound, and the shutters protected their College, not the church. The only exception was the window in the Lady Chapel, which was left open when the scholars were at their prayers, to allow light into what was otherwise a very dark place.

The roof also needed urgent attention, but the spiral stairs that gave access to it had collapsed the previous winter, meaning repairs were out of the question. The fall had resulted in a chaos of rubble in the stairwell, which no one had bothered to remove. The churchwardens had placed ropes across the entrance, to stop anyone from trying to use it, then put the mess from their minds. It was not uncommon to hear the hiss and patter of falling plaster during services, and Bartholomew often wondered how long it would be before the rest of the building gave up the ghost, too.

Kardington did not bother with the main door, which stood on Milne Street, but used the window in the Lady Chapel to enter the church. Crude wooden steps had been built to allow Clare scholars to climb up to the chest-high windowsill from their garden, but there was only a table on the other side, and some major leaps downwards were required. Michael objected vociferously, first about the height of the jump, and then about the fact that the opening was rather narrow for a man of his girth. In the end, he decided the manoeuvre could not be safely accomplished, so Spaldynge was obliged to escort him to the front door instead.

While he waited for the monk to arrive, Bartholomew looked around him. It was cold in the building – far colder than outside – and he shivered. The roof leaked so badly that there was barely a dry spot in the whole chapel, and the once-bright wall paintings were all but indistinguishable. There was a smell of rotting thatch, damp and incense, and the physician found it hard to imagine what the place had looked like in its heyday.

Motelete was in the Lady Chapel, which was in a slightly better state of repair than the rest of the building. He lay in the parish coffin, covered by thick blankets, as if some sensitive soul had not wanted him to be cold. Bartholomew stared down at the still, pale face, and felt an overwhelming sorrow that someone so young should have died. The clothes around Motelete’s neck were stained with so much blood that it was clear one of the great vessels in the throat had been severed. His skin was white and waxy, too, another sign of death by exsanguination.

‘I doubt we will find a crossbow bolt here,’ said Michael softly in the physician’s ear. ‘Even I can see that he died from his throat being cut. Do you agree?’

Bartholomew nodded, and pulled back the clothes to inspect the wound. It was difficult to see much, because the chapel was gloomy and gore had dried around the boy’s neck. He was about to ask for a lamp when there was a rattle of brisk footsteps, and he glanced up to see Arderne striding towards them. The healer was not alone; Candelby and several burgesses were at his heels, while Robin of Grantchester hovered tipsily at the rear.

‘Magister Arderne,’ said Kardington in surprise. He spoke Latin. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I heard the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner were going to inspect the body of the boy Robin failed to save,’ boomed Arderne, once Spaldynge had translated. ‘So, I came to watch.’

‘I did my best,’ bleated Robin. Several Clare students exchanged grim looks, and Bartholomew suspected more clods of mud were likely to be flying the surgeon’s way. ‘But the cut was fatal, and the situation hopeless.’

Arderne sneered. ‘You could have tried to stem the bleeding. You did not bother, so you killed him with your ineptitude. Tell him, Bartholomew.’

‘Robin may have arrived too late to make a difference,’ hedged Bartholomew, unwilling to be used as a weapon to attack a colleague. ‘Patients can die very quickly with these sorts of–’

‘Rubbish!’ snapped Arderne. ‘You are siding with him because he is your friend. Robin was there the moment this lad was viciously assaulted, because he was hoping to earn a fee. He claims to be a surgeon, so he should know how to stop a wound from bleeding.’

‘You see?’ said Spaldynge to his colleagues, his voice thick with disgust. ‘What did I tell you? There is not a medical practitioner in Cambridge who knows what he is doing.’

‘There is now,’ declared Arderne. ‘If you can afford me, of course. I do not come cheap.’

Disgusted with the man’s self-aggrandisement, Bartholomew turned his attention to the corpse, and was about to resume his examination when Arderne elbowed him out of the way.

‘Let me,’ ordered the healer. He leaned down. ‘Here is the gash that caused his demise – you can see the incised vessels quite clearly. However, I have rescued men from a state of death before. I may be able to bring this lad back to life.’

‘Do not play games, Arderne,’ said Bartholomew sharply, aware of the hopeful looks that were being exchanged between Motelete’s classmates.

Arderne ignored him. He removed a feather from his bag, and passed it several times up and down the body. ‘Yes, I sense life here.’

Bartholomew was too exasperated to contradict him.

The healer tapped Motelete sharply on the chest. ‘Open your eyes,’ he commanded. ‘I know you can hear me, so show us you are alive. Come on, lad. Wake up!’

Bartholomew gaped in shock when the corpse’s eyes flew open and Motelete sat up.

Thomas Kenyngham, founding Fellow of Michaelhouse and one of its most popular Masters, was buried that afternoon. He went into a vault in St Michael’s chancel, to join several other scholars who rested there. It started to rain the moment the funeral procession began, a heavy, drenching downpour that turned the streets into rivers of mud and soaked through the mourners’ clothes. The church was bursting at the seams, because many people had loved Kenyngham’s quiet gentleness, and it was not only Michaelhouse scholars who wanted to pay their last respects.

Before the ceremony began, Bartholomew had slipped away to the old man’s bier. Motelete’s return from the dead had unsettled him so much that he performed a small, discreet examination while his colleagues greeted the many guests who had been invited to attend. Only when he was absolutely certain that Kenyngham was truly dead did he leave the coffin and return to his other duties. Michael regarded him with raised eyebrows.

‘No blisters in the mouth?’ he whispered. ‘Or tiny wounds in the head or chest?’

Bartholomew did not like to admit that it was the possibility that he misdiagnosed death that had driven him back to the old man’s body.

‘Of course not,’ he snapped, his distress over Kenyngham and his unease over the Motelete affair making him uncharacteristically irritable. ‘No one harmed him.’

Michael frowned unhappily. ‘So you said, but I cannot put that letter from my mind. Supposing it is not a hoax – that the writer has good reason to urge me to look into the matter?’

‘Then why does he not come forward openly? As I said at the time, Brother, it is just someone trying to cause trouble. Do not let him succeed.’

Michael did not look entirely convinced, but he forced a smile. ‘Then let us hope you are right. There is bitterness enough already, without one of Cambridge’s most-loved residents being brutally slain.’

‘Bitterness? Over what?’

‘Over the fact that Motelete could be raised from the dead, but Ocleye could not. Candelby asked Arderne what could be done for his pot-boy after he had finished with Motelete. I followed them to St Bene’t’s, where Arderne said the only reason he could do nothing to help Ocleye was because a Corpse Examiner had laid tainted hands on him first.’

‘Surely people do not believe such nonsense?’

‘Townsmen do, because it is another reason to be angry with us. But regardless of what people think about that claim, Motelete is powerful proof that Arderne possesses talents you do not. Bringing someone to life after two nights in a coffin is a remarkable achievement.’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘Spaldynge mentioned that, too, in one of his vicious diatribes against physicians. Arderne told Spaldynge that he could have saved the whole town from the plague, and Spaldynge believes him. He hates us more than ever now.’

Michael rested a sympathetic hand on his arm. ‘We should discuss this later – the Gilbertine Friars have just arrived, and we must go and talk to them.’

The rain had stopped by the time the rite was over, and people milled in the churchyard. They ranged from the Mayor and his burgesses, all wearing at least one garment of black to indicate not only their sense of loss but their adherence to courtly fashion, to a small army of beggars who had benefited from Kenyngham’s generosity. Isnard was there, too, tears flowing down his leathery cheeks as he told people how Kenyngham had sent him money for food when he had been too ill to work. He led the Michaelhouse Choir in an impromptu Requiem, which came to a sudden and merciful end when Langelee whispered that free ale was waiting for them back at the College.

Bartholomew did not feel like going home, and lingered in the cemetery talking to his medical colleagues, Rougham of Gonville and Paxtone of King’s Hall. Rougham was a bulky, belligerent man who had once opposed Bartholomew’s methods violently, but who had since buried the hatchet. They were not friends, but they rubbed along amiably enough, and even consulted on difficult cases. Paxtone was kinder, friendlier and much more likeable, although he was firmly of the belief that no medical theory was worthwhile unless it had been written down for at least three hundred years; newer ideas were regarded with deep suspicion before being summarily disregarded. Paxtone was not as fat as Michael, but he was still a very large man, who looked even more so because his bulk was balanced atop a pair of impossibly tiny feet.

‘I do not feel well,’ said Paxtone, rubbing his stomach. It was the wrong thing to say to two physicians, because they immediately began to ask questions, Bartholomew about the nature of his diet, and Rougham about his horoscope. It occurred to Bartholomew that he should be concerned about one physician being unwell so soon after the murder of another, but he pushed the notion from his mind. Paxtone was a glutton, and had probably overeaten again. His malady was nothing sinister.

‘You need a clyster,’ said Robin. His soft voice made them all jump because they had not seen him approach, and had no idea he had been listening. ‘I have devised a new recipe that includes extra lard, and I rinsed my pipes in the river only last month. I will perform the operation, if you like.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Paxtone, unable to suppress a shudder. The notion of having an enema from the unsavoury Robin was the stuff of nightmares. ‘It is kind of you to offer, but I ate a bag of raisins last night, and we all know what Galen says they do to the digestive tract.’

‘Do we?’ asked Robin warily. ‘What?’

‘I am more sorry about Kenyngham than I can say,’ said Rougham to Bartholomew. ‘And I am sorry about Lynton, too. He was not an innovative practitioner, but I shall miss him nonetheless.’

‘So will I,’ said Paxtone, grateful to be talking about something other than clysters. ‘He was studying Heytesbury’s writings, and was going to deliver a special lecture on them next term. It is a pity we will never hear what more he had to say on the matter.’

‘What matter?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘The mean speed theorem?’

Paxtone nodded. ‘You and he discussed it a month ago in St Mary the Great, and he enjoyed it so much, that he was going to ask you to meet him at the Disputatio de Quodlibet. Did he tell you?’

Bartholomew shook his head. Only the very best thinkers were invited to take part in the Disputatio de Quodlibet, the University’s most prestigious forum for scholastic debate, and he was flattered that Lynton had chosen him as a sparring partner – or would have done, had someone not put a crossbow quarrel in his heart.

‘The mean speed theorem is a popular subject these days,’ Paxtone went on. ‘But unfortunately, I cannot see men wanting to pursue it now Lynton is dead. It is a great pity.’

‘Arderne is not here, thank God,’ said Robin, looking around at the other mourners. ‘I thought he might put in an appearance, given that he sees every gathering as an excuse to promote himself at the expense of the rest of us.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Rougham sharply.

‘He has been telling folk that none of us are any good,’ elaborated Robin. ‘He has even gone as far as whispering to some people that their loved ones would still be alive had I not intervened.’

‘He has made derogatory remarks,’ acknowledged Paxtone, graciously not pointing out that they were probably accurate in Robin’s case, ‘but I ignore them. Besides, his claims about his own skills are rash and stupid – he cannot possibly achieve some of the things he says he can do.’

‘He claimed he could raise Motelete from the dead, and look what happened,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Are you sure the boy was really a corpse?’ asked Rougham sceptically. ‘I have my doubts.’

‘He was dead,’ said Robin firmly. ‘I put a glass against his mouth to test for misting, I looked in his eyes, and I saw the wound on his neck. Arderne must have used witchcraft to raise him.’

‘Do not say that!’ cried Paxtone in alarm. ‘Once one medicus is accused of being a warlock, it is only a matter of time before we all join him on the pyre. Keep such thoughts to yourself, Robin.’

‘Perhaps he did manage something remarkable with Motelete,’ conceded Rougham reluctantly, ‘but his cure of Candelby is bogus. The man’s arm was not broken in the first place.’

‘I agree,’ said Bartholomew. He pointed to where Candelby was flexing the afflicted limb in front of a dozen awed burgesses. ‘He would not, though.’

‘It is a pity Arderne could not help Maud Bowyer,’ said Paxtone. ‘Word is that the poor woman is not at all well. She refuses to let Candelby in to see her.’

‘Perhaps the accident brought her to her senses,’ said Rougham unpleasantly. ‘She should not have allowed herself to be courted by such a worm. He is determined to destroy our University, you know.’

‘I will see you later, Matthew,’ said Paxtone, moving away rather suddenly. ‘Here come the two men Michaelhouse has nominated as its new Fellows. I wish you every happiness of them.’

‘You must have been desperate,’ said Rougham, also beating a hasty retreat. ‘Tyrington is decent enough – or would be, if you could cure his spitting – but Honynge’s tongue is too sharp for me.’

‘We came to lend our support, Bartholomew,’ said Tyrington. His leer was less predatory than usual, perhaps because he knew it would be inappropriate to do too much grinning at the funeral of the man whose post he had been invited to take. ‘Michaelhouse is our College now, and we felt we should be here, despite the fact that neither of us knew Kenyngham very well.’

‘He was very old,’ said Honynge, ‘but I am sure you will miss him anyway. Is there anything we can do? No? Good. That will leave the rest of the day free for packing my belongings.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Tyrington, watching him walk away. ‘If I had known he was going to be brusque, I would have kept him away from you.’ He narrowed his eyes suddenly. ‘Is he talking to himself? His lips are moving, and he is shaking his head.’

‘He seems to do that rather a lot.’

‘Then perhaps that is why he is so rude – he spends so much time in his own blunt company that he does not know how to moderate himself when he meets folk who are more civil.’

Michaelhouse was home to a sombre gathering that night. The students were unusually subdued, and there was none of their customary laughing and chatter. Meanwhile, the Fellows struggled to make conversation in the conclave, but soon gave up and sat in silence. Kenyngham’s funeral had upset them all, and it had not been just the younger scholars who had wept.

The fireside chair usually occupied by Kenyngham – the best seat in the room – had been left empty, and Bartholomew wondered how long it would be before someone else would use it. Michael sat opposite, squinting at a Book of Hours. The light was dim, and Bartholomew knew he could not see well enough to read it; he supposed the monk’s thoughts were either with Kenyngham or on the murder of Lynton. Langelee was at the table, going over the College accounts with Wynewyk. They made the occasional comment to each other, but neither sounded as though the matter had his full attention. Bartholomew was marking a logic exercise he had set his first-years, although he was aware that he was not catching as many mistakes as he should. He was bone-weary from orchestrating yet another hunt for Falmeresham, this time using all his medical students. It had proved as fruitless as all the others, and when darkness had forced him to abandon his efforts, he had been all but overwhelmed with feelings of helplessness, frustration and despair.

Finally, Father William was reading a tract by a Franciscan called Bajulus of Barcelona, who had written that Blood Relics – drops of Christ’s blood – were a physical impossibility on the grounds that anything holy would have risen with Him at His Resurrection; only unholy substances would have been left behind on Earth. This contention was hotly opposed by the Dominicans, because of the implications for the Transubstantiation at masses, and the resulting schism was tearing the Church apart. Unfortunately, William had scant understanding of the complex theological issues involved, and his chief concern was just to oppose anything postulated by members of a rival Order. Every so often, he would give a small, crowing laugh, or snort his satisfaction.

It was not long before Michael became annoyed with him.

‘I fail to understand why you feel compelled to produce all these cackles and hisses,’ the monk snapped, after a particularly loud explosion of delight. ‘Blood Relics are nothing to snigger over.’

‘I am merely voicing my appreciation for Bajulus’s argument,’ said William. He was used to Michael venting his spleen on him, and insults and put-downs were like water off a duck’s back. ‘He proves we Franciscans are always right in theological matters. I wonder what Honynge and Tyrington think about Blood Relics. I know you all agree with me, so I hope they do not elect to be controversial.’

‘I doubt they would dare,’ muttered Langelee. His Fellows did hold opposing views – they just chose not to air them with William. The Franciscan was not a good intellectual sparring partner, because he was in the habit of stating his opinions, then declining to listen to the other side. Michaelhouse was used to his idiosyncrasies, but the new members were going to be in for a shock.

‘When do they arrive?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘The day after tomorrow.’ Langelee held up his hand when he saw the startled expressions on his colleagues’ faces. ‘I know it is sudden, but there are reasons for having them installed quickly. First, we need someone ready to take Kenyngham’s classes as soon as possible, and secondly, we would have lost Tyrington to Clare had we not acted promptly.’

‘Clare wanted him?’ asked William. He looked pleased. ‘And we got him first? Hah!’

‘We pre-empted St Lucy’s Hostel, too,’ added Langelee, a little smugly. ‘Honynge’s lease on Zachary is due to expire at the end of this week, and when Lucy’s heard about it, they raced around to ask him to be their Principal. Had Michael delivered our invitation a moment later, Honynge might have been lost to us.’

‘Damn!’ murmured Michael. ‘Damn, damn!’

‘We are lucky to get him,’ said Langelee, shooting the monk a warning look. ‘And I want you all to make him welcome when he arrives. He fulfils all our academic requirements perfectly.’

‘There is that, I suppose,’ conceded Michael. ‘Although I cannot say I like him. Still, at least you do not need to wear an apron when you talk to him, as you do Tyrington.’

‘Tyrington said kind things after Kenyngham’s funeral,’ said Wynewyk. ‘But when I spoke to Honynge, I had the impression it was a three-way conversation – between me, Honynge and Honynge.’

‘I hope he does not give us a reputation for lunacy,’ said William. He turned to Langelee before anyone could point out that Michaelhouse was already famous for owning several strange Fellows, and that William was one of them. ‘I wish they were not coming quite so soon, though. There will be no time for us to grow used to the fact that Kenyngham is gone.’

‘I know,’ said Langelee sympathetically, ‘but term starts next week, and we need Tyrington and Honynge to begin teaching. We are all stretched to the limit, and cannot manage any more classes.’

‘You must be pleased about Motelete, Brother,’ said Wynewyk, after a short silence. ‘It is one less death for you to investigate, and will give you more time to devise a solution to the rent war.’

Michael nodded. ‘It was a shock, though. Robin had pronounced Motelete dead from a cut throat and Matt had begun his inspection of the corpse – which had been in its coffin since Sunday. Then Arderne waved his feather, and all of a sudden, the lad was sitting up.’

Bartholomew regarded him unhappily. ‘Men do not rise from the dead – it is impossible.’

‘And yet it happened,’ said Langelee. ‘There were dozens of witnesses to the fact, because all Clare was there, along with Candelby and several influential burgesses.’

Bartholomew rubbed his eyes, still not sure what to think. ‘Motelete was cold, white and waxy, and there was a lot of blood around his throat from what looked to be a fatal wound. He was–’

‘Then Arderne’s claim must be accurate,’ interrupted Langelee. ‘A fatal wound is a fatal wound. I worked for the Archbishop of York before I became a scholar, and I know all about cut throats.’

There was an uncomfortable silence. No one was quite sure what Langelee had actually done for the Archbishop of York, and the occasional oblique remark like that one did nothing to dispel the notion that his duties had had very little to do with religion.

‘What happened to the wound after Motelete started walking around?’ asked Langelee, when no one said anything. ‘Did it disappear completely?’

‘When I wiped away the blood, all that remained was a scratch,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But I must have been mistaken. People do not–’

‘Corpses are always rising up when they lie at the tombs of saints,’ interrupted William.

‘But this did not happen at the tomb of a saint,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘It happened in a half-derelict church, and was instigated by a man with a feather. I do not trust it – and I do not trust Arderne. I have no idea how he did it, but I cannot believe a miracle was involved.’

‘I have heard of cases where a person was pronounced dead, then started hammering on his coffin as it was lowered into the ground,’ said Langelee. ‘Perhaps Motelete was one of these – he looked dead, but there was life still in him.’

‘Such cases are very unusual,’ said Bartholomew, not entirely happy with that explanation, either. He knew, with every fibre of his being, that Arderne was a fraud, so how could he have detected a rare condition when a fully qualified physician had missed it? Or was Bartholomew losing his touch? He thought back to the many other corpses he had assessed, and sincerely hoped he had not misdiagnosed death before.

‘How do you know they are unusual?’ asked William. ‘The churchyards might be full of contorted skeletons, all scratching furiously at the soil in their desperation to escape.’

‘Please, Father!’ cried Wynewyk with a shudder. ‘That is an unnecessarily grotesque image to put in our minds before we go to sleep.’

‘Well, whatever happened, it is good for Motelete,’ said Langelee, bringing an end to the discussion. ‘And I am delighted for him and for Clare. They may have lost Tyrington – and that horrible Wenden, who was killed last month – but they have managed to keep hold of Motelete.’

‘Then let us hope he stays alive,’ said William. ‘I am told the town is furious that he lives, when Ocleye remains dead. It would be a pity if he was murdered a second time.’