To Kill or Cure

CHAPTER 6

Michael knocked on Maud Bowyer’s door while Bartholomew faced the road. The physician had noticed several people glaring, and someone had thrown a stone. It had missed, but he was afraid to turn his back on the street lest the culprit try it again. He had assumed people were angry with Michael over the rents, and had been shocked to learn that some of the sour glances had, in fact, been directed at him. He was not sure what he could do about it – he had explained countless times to Isnard that the removal of his leg had been unavoidable, but the bargeman had never really come to terms with the loss. Arderne had homed in on Isnard’s vulnerability like a fly to dead meat, and had known exactly how to exploit it to his own advantage. But how could Bartholomew tell Isnard that? Or the men and women who sympathised with him?

Michael’s rap was answered by a thickset man who wore a sword. He conducted them to a pleasant solar on the ground floor, explaining as he went that he had been hired to make sure Candelby did not try to force his way inside the house.

‘Mistress Bowyer has washed her hands of him,’ he said. ‘He only wanted her for her money, poor soul. Wait here while I fetch her housekeeper, Isabel St Ives. She will tell you whether the mistress is well enough to receive well-wishers.’

Michael looked around appreciatively when the guard had gone. ‘Fine rugs on the floor, gold goblets on the windowsills – Maud is wealthier than I thought. She is probably right to be suspicious of Candelby: I imagine he was courting her for her riches.’

‘She owns houses, too,’ said Bartholomew, remembering something his sister had told him. ‘Perhaps those are what attracted him.’

It was not long before a pretty woman in her thirties came to greet them. Isabel St Ives wore a white goffered veil over her hair, and her blue surcoat – an ankle-length dress – was slightly baggy, suggesting it had been handed down from someone larger. Bartholomew recalled something else his sister had said – that Isabel had started to work for Maud after the plague, when both had lost husbands to the disease. He had seen her before, because it had been Isabel who had tried to comfort her mistress at the scene of the accident in Milne Street.

‘Good morning, Brother,’ said Isabel politely. ‘I am afraid my mistress is still too unwell to receive guests, but thank you for coming to enquire after her health again.’

‘You are welcome,’ said Michael, with a gracious bow. ‘However, there is another purpose to my visit. I would like to ask her about the accident. As Senior Proctor, I am obliged to make a report to the Chancellor, but it is proving difficult to trace reliable witnesses.’

‘Unfortunately, it is a blur in her mind, and her fever is making it worse. I saw some of what happened, though – I was nearby at the time. I will answer questions, if you think it might help.’

‘I need to understand exactly what happened to Lynton,’ said Michael carefully. ‘I would like to know who killed Ocleye, too. The other death – Motelete’s – transpired to be no death at all.’

‘So I heard,’ said Isabel. ‘A true miracle. However, the accident was odd, and I am not surprised you are having trouble establishing a clear order of events from eye witness accounts.’

‘How was it odd?’ asked Bartholomew. He had taken a liking to Isabel’s pretty face and pleasant manner. Unlike many University men, he had not taken major orders, and so women were not forbidden to him. He was still not supposed to fraternise with them, but there were ways around that particular prohibition, and he was not averse to female company, like some of his colleagues. He had even come close to marrying once, and still loved Matilde, despite the passing of time. He supposed he always would, and wondered whether she would ever return to Cambridge – and whether she would consent to be his wife if she did. Although common sense told him Matilde was gone forever, part of him refused to believe he would never see her again, and he had not given up hope that one day she would reappear and tell him that she loved him, too.

‘It was odd because there was no reason for Lynton to have ridden his horse at Candelby,’ Isabel was saying. Bartholomew’s attention snapped back to the present. ‘As far as I could tell, he suddenly slumped in his saddle, and the horse cavorted sideways, as though something startled it.’

‘Did you notice anything else?’ asked Michael.

‘Only that a crowd gathered very quickly, and folk stood according to affiliation – either with townsmen or with students. Usually, they are mixed together, but that was not the case on Sunday.’

‘Because they were anticipating trouble,’ surmised Michael grimly. ‘Were any of these townsmen armed – armed with real weapons, I mean, like swords or crossbows?’

‘I did not see any. However, it would not surprise me to learn that Candelby did something to Lynton’s mare – that Lynton is innocent of all blame for the accident.’

‘Why would Candelby do that?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Because Lynton owned a lot of houses, and was doing with them what Candelby yearns to do – rent them to those who can afford higher prices. It may have been simple jealousy.’

‘Matt tells me Lynton was Maud’s physician,’ said the monk. ‘We all know Lynton preferred wealthy patients to poor ones, and your mistress must be one of the richest women in the town.’

‘She is. And Lynton’s consultations may be another reason Candelby wished him harm.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused. ‘She probably consulted butchers, bakers and candlestick-makers, too, but that should not induce a suitor to drive carts at them.’

‘Lynton was a conscientious, thorough man, and his sessions with my mistress were often lengthy. Perhaps Candelby objected to the amount of time another man spent in her presence.’

‘Then Candelby’s jealousy addled his wits,’ said Bartholomew in disgust. ‘Lynton would never have done anything untoward with a patient. He was too old for a start.’

‘Quite,’ said Isabel. ‘Is there anything else I can tell you?’

‘Did you see Arderne mend Candelby’s arm?’ asked Michael.

Isabel nodded. ‘I rushed to my mistress’s side when I saw she was hurt; Candelby was clutching his wrist. Then Magister Arderne arrived and said Candelby’s bones needed to be set immediately. He waved a feather over him, and he was healed instantly. It was a miracle.’

‘It was?’ asked Bartholomew. He found he was disappointed in her, because she had seemed too sensible to be deceived by cheap tricks.

She was surprised by the scepticism in his voice. ‘Of course. Magister Arderne is a remarkable man, quite capable of marvellous deeds. However, I wish he had applied his talents to my mistress instead. She has not been well since the accident, and I am very worried about her.’

‘You do not seem to like Candelby,’ said Michael. ‘And Maud has forbidden him to visit. Why?’

‘I tolerated him when I thought he made her happy, but the accident opened her eyes to his true character, so I can say what I like about him now. We were both shocked and disgusted by the way he gloated over Lynton’s death.’

‘What is wrong with your mistress?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I noticed a splinter in her shoulder. Did Arderne remove it?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, but it was basic surgery, and he did not apply his magic, which is why she is not recovering. I do not mean to offend you, Doctor Bartholomew, but medicine is not very effective unless it is also accompanied by spells and incantations. I learned that during the plague, when physicians failed to save my family.’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, not sure how else to respond.

‘Will you see her?’ Isabel asked impulsively. ‘Despite my beliefs, you were a friend of Lynton’s, and my mistress may be pleased to see you. I would give anything to see her smile again.’

Isabel led Bartholomew and Michael upstairs to a pleasant chamber lit by a fire; the shutters were closed, lending the room a warm, cosy feel. However, even the herbs set in bowls on the windowsills could not disguise the stink of sickness and corruption, and Bartholomew went to the bed with a heavy heart, already knowing what he would find.

The splinter had been driven deep into Maud’s shoulder, but it had been carelessly removed, leaving slivers behind. The wood had been tainted with filth from the street, so the wound was badly infected. Had the injury been on an arm or a leg, Bartholomew would have recommended its removal, before bad humours could permeate the rest of the body, but he could not amputate a shoulder, and Maud was going to die.

‘I cannot cure her,’ he whispered to Isabel. ‘I am sorry.’

Isabel’s expressive face registered her distress, but she smiled at him anyway. ‘I know you would have done, if you could. It is not your fault you cannot help her now, just as it was not your fault when you could not help her last year.’

‘Maud’s eyes,’ explained Bartholomew to Michael. ‘Lynton asked for a second opinion, because her sight was clouding and he did not know how to stop it from getting worse. And, I am sorry to say, neither did I.’

‘I will summon Magister Arderne again,’ said Isabel, speaking softly so as not to disturb the patient. ‘If I give him six gold goblets, he may agree to work one of his miracles.’

‘They will certainly encourage him to try,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘I can give Maud something for the pain, though. She does not have to suffer like this.’

Isabel watched him dribble a sense-dulling potion between the sick woman’s lips. ‘Let us hope that will see her through until Magister Arderne arrives. Then he will cure her, and all will be well,’ she said.

Bartholomew bathed Maud’s face with a wet cloth, and after a few moments, she opened her eyes. She was smiling distantly. ‘I thought you were Master Lynton. He had a way of wiping a hot face with a cool rag, too. Arderne uses a feather to draw out poisons and reduce fevers.’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew noncommittally. He refrained from denigrating Arderne’s methods, on the remote chance that the man might succeed where traditional medicine failed. He knew from experience that a person who believed in a cure was more likely to survive than one who did not, and he wanted Maud to have every chance of recovery, no matter how small.

‘Hugh Candelby plans to marry me,’ she went on. The fever was making her ramble. ‘But I will not have him. He was never more than an amusing diversion, but I see now that he was only after my property – to use against the University. I will not allow that to happen.’

‘It is good to know we have one friend, at least,’ said Michael softly. ‘Thank you.’

‘I tried to talk him out of this confrontation over rents, but he would not listen. I like the University and its scholars. They are courteous, erudite and pleasant, while most burgesses are unkempt and oafish. Do not worry, Brother. I will never allow Hugh to get my houses.’

‘Brother Michael wants to know what happened on the day you were hurt,’ said Isabel quietly. ‘Can you tell him what you recall?’

Maud coughed weakly. ‘Hugh had just been telling me about his latest plan to thwart the University, which involves issuing an ultimatum and refusing to budge. He says he will break your laws as he pleases, because you cannot stop him – or force him to pay any fine you care to levy.’

‘He has a point,’ said Michael ruefully. ‘Invading his home and making off with silverware in lieu of coins will not go down very well with his fellow worthies. They will riot.’

‘That is what he hopes – such an outrage would force the waverers to commit to his cause. The next thing I remember is sitting among the remnants of his cart. Then Arderne took me home.’

‘Did Candelby have a weapon with him that day?’ asked Michael.

‘Of course,’ said Maud, surprised he should need to ask. ‘What sane man does not?’

‘Do you know what kind?’

‘He always has a crossbow – not a very large one, but one that makes thieves think twice.’

Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a startled glance. ‘Is he capable of using it on anyone?’ asked Michael, rather eagerly.

Maud shook her head, and Bartholomew saw her eyes begin to close. The potion he had fed her was sending her to sleep at last. ‘That is the ridiculous thing. It was never loaded.’

When the two scholars left Maud’s house, Isabel went with them, claiming she had shopping to do in the Market Square. Bartholomew was alarmed to see that townsmen had started to gather in sullen groups, and he did not like the way their eyes followed him and Michael as they walked. Some were his patients, folk he had known for years, but not many returned his friendly greetings. Most seemed too frightened to speak, afraid of attracting attention from those who did not approve of fraternising with the University. A few were genuinely hostile.

‘Go away,’ said Isabel, whipping around to glare at a gaggle of potters who had begun to shadow them. ‘I do not feel comfortable with you dogging my every step, so stop it. Do not stand there, gaping like cattle. Do as I say! At once!’

There was a determined jut to her chin, and it seemed to convince them that they would be wise to obey. To Bartholomew’s astonishment, they turned and shuffled back the way they had come.

‘Perhaps you should go ahead of us,’ he suggested uneasily. ‘You do not want them to take against you for keeping company with scholars.’

Isabel’s expression was disdainful. ‘I shall walk with whomever I please, thank you! I cannot imagine what has got into those boys. They are normally amiable lads, always willing to carry a basket or to run errands. I deplore this current disquiet and unease. Candelby has a lot to answer for – and so does his horrible henchman, Blankpayn.’

‘Have you seen Blankpayn recently?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I need to speak to him.’

‘About your student Falmeresham?’ Isabel saw his surprise, and explained. ‘It is common knowledge that Blankpayn may have done him a grievous harm, and that you have been scouring the town for them both ever since. But I am afraid I cannot help, because I have no idea where the wretched man might be. I will ask the servants when I go home, and will send word if I learn anything useful.’

Michael smiled. ‘I do not suppose you would like to be my Junior Proctor, would you? I have not had a decent assistant in years.’

Isabel laughed, a hearty chuckle. ‘I would like it very much, Brother. When can I start?’

‘You have already started. You ordered those potters away, and they obeyed without question. They would never have done that for me. Students would, but not townsfolk.’

He was being overly modest, because few men – other than Candelby – ever had the audacity to oppose Michael. He wielded too much power, and while he could not fight townsmen directly, he could certainly do so insidiously. Over a period of time, he could impose fines, restrict trade, close down businesses and excommunicate serious offenders. Even the Sheriff did not have such an awesome battery of penalties at his fingertips, which was partly why the landlords’ rebellion had taken the University so much by surprise.

‘That was a waste of effort,’ said Michael, when they reached the Market Square, and Isabel had gone to buy meat and barley to make a strengthening broth for her mistress. ‘Their testimony – such as it was – confirms what we already know, but we learned nothing new.’

‘We learned that Candelby totes a crossbow around with him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Maud said he kept it unloaded, but perhaps that was not true on Sunday. The town was uneasy, and he may have felt the need for extra precautions.’

‘If so, then perhaps he did kill Lynton. He has a motive.’

‘Two motives, Brother – jealousy of Lynton’s professional relationship with the lady he intends to marry, and anger that Lynton was able to rent his property to townsmen.’ Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘But if he shot Lynton, then it stands to reason that he also killed Ocleye – there cannot be two killers using the same mode of execution. However, Ocleye was his own pot-boy.’

Michael did not see that as a flaw in the solution. ‘Ocleye was in the back of Candelby’s cart when Lynton was murdered – a witness to the crime. So Candelby killed him to ensure his silence.’

‘Then why is Maud still alive? If Ocleye watched the murder from the back of the cart, then surely Maud, who was sitting next to Candelby, would also have noticed something untoward?’

‘But she claims to remember nothing – probably because she is afraid that if she does, he will kill her, too.’ Michael’s expression was triumphant. ‘And do not overlook the fact that she refuses to see him. It must be because she knows he is a killer. I am right here, Matt. Candelby hates scholars so intensely that he would think nothing of shooting one, then dispatching witnesses.’

But Bartholomew thought Candelby as the culprit left too many unanswered questions. ‘I still think Arderne is a better suspect – ridding himself of a rival, because–’ He stopped speaking and stared across the street. ‘There is Blankpayn!’

‘Wait!’ Michael reached out to stop him, but it was too late. The physician was far too agile for the heavy-boned monk. ‘Let my beadles … oh, damn it all!’

The owner of the Lilypot tavern was swaggering along the High Street. He was slightly unsteady on his feet, suggesting he had been at the ale, and his clothes were the ones he had worn on Sunday.

‘Where have you been?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘I have been looking for you for days.’

Blankpayn was startled to be addressed so bluntly, and tried to walk away, but the physician’s arm shot out and barred his way. Michael held his breath, anticipating violence, and his unease intensified when three of the Lilypot’s patrons arrived – rough, unkempt fellows with a reputation for brawling. He hurried forward, intending to pull Bartholomew away from the confrontation while he was still in one piece – they would do better to ask their questions another time, when Blankpayn did not have the security of friends massing at his back.

But Michael had reckoned without the fellowship of the University. Master Wisbeche of Peterhouse saw Bartholomew surrounded by hostile drunks, and hastened to redress the balance. He had two students with him, burly lads who carried long knives in their belts. Then Kardington of Clare came to see if he could help. Spaldynge was at his side, clenching his fists in a way that told the monk he was more than ready to use them in defence of his colleagues, even if one was a physician. Unfortunately, then a group of Oswald Stanmore’s lads approached, and pointedly ranged themselves behind the townsmen. Michael supposed they were tired of being called scholar-lovers by their friends, just because Bartholomew was their master’s kinsman.

‘Lord, Matt!’ the monk muttered angrily. ‘Now look what you have done.’

‘What do you want, physician?’ demanded Blankpayn. ‘I do not waste time talking to scholars, so say whatever is on your mind, then get out of my way and let me pass.’

‘We just want to know if you have seen Falmeresham,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could phrase the question in a more aggressive – or accusatory – manner.

‘No,’ said Blankpayn, shoving Bartholomew hard enough to make him stagger. ‘Now get lost.’

‘There is no need for violence,’ objected Kardington in his precise Latin, while Michael put out a hand to prevent the students from reciprocating in kind. ‘Surely we can converse in a civil manner, without recourse to common brutalities?’

‘If you swear at me again, I will cut your throat,’ snarled Blankpayn, rounding on him. ‘Do not think I cannot understand your vile tongue, because I learned French at school.’

Kardington lisped something no one understood. He looked pleased with himself, and beamed affably at the taverner; Bartholomew supposed he had made some comment about finally meeting a man who knew a language other than Latin. His friendly smile confused Blankpayn, who stood with a look of total incomprehension stamped across his pugilistic features.

‘We do not want trouble,’ said Michael quickly. He heard Spaldynge mutter that trouble would be fine with him, because he would welcome the opportunity to trounce the sly villain who had murdered Falmeresham. ‘We are just concerned for a lad who may need medical attention.’

‘You mean the fool who ran on to my dagger?’ asked Blankpayn with an unpleasant sneer.

‘Perhaps you will run on to my fist,’ suggested Spaldynge, to approving nods from the students. Kardington and Wisbeche exchanged an alarmed glance. ‘And then on to the toe of my boot.’

‘And perhaps you will dance on the end of my sword,’ retorted Blankpayn. He started to reach for his weapon, but thought better of it when Wisbeche’s lads immediately drew their daggers. ‘But I have no idea what happened to your student, because I have been with my mother in Madingley since Sunday. Why? Is he dead? I did not wound him that badly.’

‘You have not been in Madingley,’ said Bartholomew, determined to have the truth. ‘Your mother has not seen you in days.’

Blankpayn’s expression hardened. ‘You have been pestering her? An old lady who lives alone, and who would have been terrified by scholars invading her home? How dare you!’

‘We do not care where you have been hiding,’ said Bartholomew, not pointing out that Blankpayn’s mother was a fierce matron who was unlikely to be terrified by anything. ‘We are only concerned with Falmeresham.’

‘If he is alive, we want him home,’ said Michael. ‘If he is dead, we want him decently buried.’

‘I have not seen him since the accident,’ stated Blankpayn firmly. ‘I wish I had, because then I would have bartered – your student’s corpse in return for a relaxing of the rent laws. It would be a fair exchange.’

‘I will give you a fair exchange,’ muttered Spaldynge, stepping forward.

Michael pulled him back. ‘Do not let us detain you, Blankpayn. Thank you for your time.’

‘Go and wash your ale-pots like a good boy,’ Spaldynge jeered as the taverner began to slouch away. ‘And while you are at it, you can wash yourself, too. You stink.’

‘Spaldynge!’ exclaimed Kardington, shocked. ‘Rude!’

Spaldynge looked suitably sheepish. Fortunately, Blankpayn did not consider the insult to be an especially grave one, because he made an obscene gesture as he left, but that was the full extent of his retaliation. Seeing the crisis was over, and there would be no opportunity for brawling that day, the students and apprentices began to disperse. They were disappointed, clearly itching to be at each other’s throats.

‘Thank you for your support,’ said Michael to the two masters. He pointedly ignored Bartholomew and Spaldynge, displeased with both for almost bringing about another fight.

‘Surely, there is no need for all this strife?’ asked Wisbeche. ‘Are you sure the stance you are taking with the rents is the right one, Brother?’

‘I think it is,’ said Kardington, abandoning his attempts to speak English now he was alone with scholars. ‘We must maintain affordable hostels, or we will have a plethora of unpaid bills at the end of every term – if students enrol at all. Candelby’s demands could destroy the University.’

Wisbeche remained unconvinced. ‘I think Candelby has a point – it is time to relax the Statutes. Since the Death, prices have risen for every commodity – except rents.’

‘But surely, maintaining low rents in a world of spiralling costs is a good thing?’ asked Michael.

‘Good for us,’ said Wisbeche. ‘But not for those who need the income to feed themselves.’

‘That does not include Candelby, though,’ said Spaldynge. ‘He is already disgustingly rich.’

‘You should know,’ said Wisbeche tartly. ‘You sold him a University-owned house, despite the Senior Proctor’s request that we hold off on property sales until the rent war is settled.’

‘A compromise would be the best solution,’ said Kardington, stepping forward to prevent Spaldynge from responding. ‘Perhaps we could raise the rents by a nominal amount. Our students will complain, and so will the landlords, but it is the best we can do.’

‘I have already tried that,’ said Michael. ‘And it has been rejected in no uncertain terms. The landlords want to triple the rents, and will not accept a penny less.’

‘Then triple them,’ said Wisbeche with a shrug. ‘Students on low incomes will have to go to Oxford instead. Nothing can be bought in this world without money, so why should a university be any different?’

‘Do not do it, Brother,’ warned Kardington. ‘If you yield on this front, we will face ultimatums from those who provide other commodities – ale, bread, meat and other essential supplies.’

Michael rubbed his eyes. ‘So, as well as having to do battle with the town, I discover that my colleagues are divided in their opinions, too – two sides offering perfectly valid arguments.’

Wisbeche smiled ruefully. ‘It would seem so. I would not like to be in your position, Brother.’

‘Neither would I,’ said Kardington fervently. ‘So, we agree on that, at least. Come, Spaldynge. Let us go home before you offend any more vulgar taverners.’

‘Willingly,’ said Spaldynge. ‘I do not want to linger here with a physician, anyway.’

When they had gone, Bartholomew noticed that three old ladies who sold vegetables near St Mary the Great were glaring at him. One summoned him frequently to cure her stomach pains, and he had never once charged for his services. He smiled at her, and was disappointed when she spat at him. He had expected her to feel some affection towards him, after all his years of charity.

‘Spaldynge has a fierce temper,’ remarked Michael, sketching a wry benediction at her as he passed. ‘And he, alone of the Clare scholars, has no alibi for the business on Sunday – he remained in the College when everyone else rushed out to gawp, because he thought it might be a diversion for a burglary. I wonder just how far his hatred of physicians extends.’

‘But the Clare men raced out of their hall after the accident, when Lynton was already dead. What Spaldynge did at that point is irrelevant.’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘I made a few enquiries, and learned that no one from Clare actually saw Spaldynge that afternoon – the reason Kardington and Lexham say he stayed behind to guard the College is because he told them so. They did not see him – not after the accident, and not before, either. And do not forget that Falmeresham is a physician in all but name, now he is so close to finishing his degree.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘Spaldynge has been making barbed comments to me ever since the plague, but he has never been violent.’

‘Then let us hope he has not started now.’

‘Perhaps Wisbeche is right about the rents,’ said Bartholomew, glancing around as they crossed the Market Square. He could not recall a time when he had felt less comfortable in his own town, and realised how fickle people could be. ‘Maybe you should capitulate.’

Michael sighed. ‘I lay awake most of last night, fretting about the situation. I considered tendering my resignation and fleeing to Ely before I am lynched, but that would be cowardly.’

‘It is not you that is the problem, Brother. It is the rents. Raise them.’

‘The only way to do that is by amending the Statutes,’ said Michael. ‘And that requires the permission of the Regents.’ The Regents were the University’s Fellows and senior scholars.

‘Then call a Convocation of the Regents, Brother. They can decide whether the Statutes should change or stay as they are, and we can all take responsibility for what is happening. I do not see why you should have to bear this alone.’

Michael smiled wanly. ‘I imagine most Regents will feel like Wisbeche, and will prefer more expensive accommodation in a peaceful town.’

‘I hope so, because the alternative is cheap rent in a town that is rife with turmoil.’

‘Arderne must have a compelling tongue,’ said Michael, as they walked back to Michaelhouse. ‘I thought you were popular with your patients, but several have scowled at you today. Surely you cannot have killed that many?’

‘Robert de Blaston just smiled, so they are not all infected with Arderne’s poison. Most of them are glaring at you, anyway, and Burgess Ashwelle just called you a–’

‘What did you learn from challenging Blankpayn?’ asked the monk, not wanting to hear what Ashwelle had said. ‘Were his answers worth risking another brawl?’

Bartholomew winced as a man, cloaked and hooded against the rain, walked out of St Michael’s Lane directly into the path of a cart. The pony reared and the driver howled abuse. The pedestrian jerked back in alarm, then fled along the High Street. Bartholomew was puzzled. Such incidents happened all the time, and those involved either yelled back or ignored them – few people ever ran away.

‘Blankpayn’s testimony was inconsistent. First, he said he had not wounded Falmeresham badly, and only later did he start talking about a body. I suspect he was just trying to upset us.’

‘Do not read too much into it,’ warned Michael, seeing hope glow in his friend’s eyes. ‘If Falmeresham was alive, he would have found his way home by now. Ergo, I suspect he is dead, and Blankpayn’s parting words will prove to be prophetic – we will start to receive letters demanding a relaxing of the rent laws in exchange for his body soon.’

‘Falmeresham is resourceful,’ said Bartholomew stubbornly. ‘I do not believe he is dead.’

They walked the rest of the way in silence, and when they reached Michaelhouse, Cynric was waiting for them in the lane. ‘I do not like the way people are looking at you,’ the book-bearer said uneasily. ‘What have you been doing?’

‘Nothing,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Unless you think I was spotted burgling Clare last night.’

‘No one saw you except Spaldynge, who now thinks he was mistaken,’ said Cynric. ‘We were lucky. But I was loitering to give you this. It was delivered anonymously a few moments ago, and I thought it might be important.’

‘Oh, Lord!’ groaned Michael, as the book-bearer handed him a note. ‘Now what?’

The message was written on parchment that was thin and old – someone had not wanted to spend money on a better piece. The handwriting was crabbed, and Michael turned it this way and that until he was forced to admit it was too small for his eyes. He gave it to Bartholomew. The physician scanned it quickly, then gazed at the monk in horror.

‘It is a confession from a man who claims he murdered Kenyngham. He says he fed him a slow-acting poison at Easter, and that is why he died.’

Michael tore it from him. ‘Are you sure? You have not misread it?’

‘Of course I have not misread it! It is in French, which is strange – scholars would use Latin and townsfolk prefer English. Someone is making sure he leaves you no clues as to his identity.’

‘How could anyone poison Kenyngham?’ asked Cynric. ‘He was with you at Easter.’

Bartholomew felt a stab of unease when he realised that was not true. ‘There was a vigil in St Michael’s Church from sunset on Saturday until dawn on Sunday. The rest of us came and went in shifts, but Kenyngham remained the whole night and sometimes he was alone.’

‘I told you he was poisoned,’ cried Michael. His face was white with shock. ‘I said so on several occasions, but you kept saying that he was not.’

‘I did not think he could have been.’ Bartholomew’s stomach felt as though it was full of liquid lead – heavy and burning at the same time. Had he really made that sort of blunder? The poison must have been a very sly one, without odour or obvious symptoms, or he would have detected something amiss. Or would he? He thought about Motelete, and how even Arderne – a fraud – had seen signs of life that he had missed. Perhaps he had made another terrible mistake, this time with a man he had considered a friend. The thought made him feel sick.

‘Can a slow-acting poison kill a man in the way Kenyngham died?’ demanded Michael. ‘He said he was too weary to walk to the Gilbertine Friary, then he closed his eyes and you made the assumption that he was lost in prayer. Of course, he was actually breathing his last.’

Bartholomew nodded unhappily. ‘Yes, but he did not complain of being ill. I thought he was just tired after all the fasting and praying of Lent.’

‘You might have been able to help him,’ said Michael, stricken, ‘had you paid more attention.’

‘No,’ said Cynric, coming to his master’s defence. ‘Once some poisons have been swallowed, there is nothing anyone can do, no matter how diligently they watch.’

Michael relented. He rubbed a hand across his face. ‘I am sorry, Matt – I did not mean to sound accusing. It is not your fault he died, but this vile killer’s.’

Bartholomew did not hear him: he was thinking about Kenyngham’s last words, when he had talked about crocodiles and shooting stars. Had the old man been in the grip of a deadly substance that had made him delusional? And what about the potion Michael had seen him imbibe, which he had called an antidote? Had he known his life was in danger? And if so, had Bartholomew – his own physician – missed signs and symptoms that should have told him something was wrong? Perhaps folk were right to distrust his skills and call him a charlatan.

The news that someone had elbowed Kenyngham into his grave had shocked Bartholomew deeply, and he kept replaying the Gilbertine’s last day through in his mind. He sat in his room, staring out of the window, not seeing the rain that slanted across the courtyard and turned hard earth into a morass of mud and wet chicken droppings. The College hens and the porter’s peacock huddled under a tree, balls of saturated feathers looking sorry for themselves, while Agatha’s cat stretched gloatingly on the kitchen windowsill, luxuriating in the only warm room at Michaelhouse.

Michael was finishing a cake Edith had sent Bartholomew for Easter. He picked up the plate, carefully poured the crumbs into his hand, then slapped them into his mouth. While he chewed, he took the confession in his hand and stared at it.

‘Why do people use such tiny writing these days? The purpose of letters is to communicate, and you cannot do that if you scribe your message too small for normal men to read.’

Bartholomew went to the chest where he kept his belongings, and rummaged for a few moments, eventually emerging with a rectangular piece of glass that had been set into a leather frame. ‘This belonged to the Arab physician I studied under in Paris. He said I might want it one day, but I think your need is greater than mine.’

Michael’s face broke into a grin of delight as he passed the item across the letter. ‘It magnifies the words so I can see them! This is a clever notion, Matt. Your Arab master was a genius.’

Bartholomew sat and stared across the courtyard again. ‘It is obvious, when you think about it. The exact science of optics asserts that a convex lens will reflect the ratio of the width of an image to the width of an object–’

‘Never mind that,’ said Michael, studying the text intently. ‘Who penned this letter? Do you recognise the writing? Whose scrawl is so minute that a glass is required to make sense of it?’

‘Virtually everyone in the University, according to you. However, an equally important question to ask is why did someone write it? Is it to boast, because the culprit knows you will never catch him? Is it because he feels guilty, and wants his crime unveiled?’

‘And why would anyone harm Kenyngham?’ Michael flicked the letter with his finger to indicate distaste. ‘He was the last man to accumulate enemies.’

‘I would have said the same about Lynton.’

‘Not so, Matt. Kenyngham was a saint. However, we have discovered that Lynton leased houses to wealthy burgesses rather than to his fellow scholars. And there is an odd association between him and Ocleye – both shot with crossbows and both with their signatures on a rent agreement. Nothing like that will ever be discovered about Kenyngham.’

‘No,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘He and Lynton were very different men.’

‘Of course, there is nothing to say they were not dispatched by the same person. One killed by an arrow and the other by insidious poison. Neither method allows for second thoughts.’

‘No one disliked Kenyngham.’ Bartholomew turned away from the window and met the monk’s eyes. Having had time to reflect and consider, he was now sure his initial conclusions had been right after all. ‘And no one poisoned him, either. I think someone is playing a prank on you – confessing to a crime that was never committed.’

Michael regarded him suspiciously. ‘That is not what you said when this missive first arrived. You were as stunned and distressed as I was. Now you say you do not believe it?’

‘Yes – because logic dictates that it would not have been possible to poison Kenyngham.’

‘But you said yourself that he was alone for part of Saturday night and early Sunday, because he insisted on keeping the Easter vigil. Someone could have given him something then.’

‘And that is exactly why harming him would have been impossible. First, it was a vigil, and so a time of fasting – and you know how seriously Kenyngham took acts of penitence. And secondly, he would not have accepted victuals from strangers, anyway.’

Michael considered his points. ‘All right, I agree that he would not have eaten anything, but what about water? He may have been thirsty or faint. The poison was fed to him, then he walked home, where it gnawed away at his innards while we all enjoyed our Easter dinner.’

‘He was happy, Brother. He may have been tired, but I do not think he was in pain.’

‘He was happy because he knew he was going to die. He was a religious man, and not afraid. Indeed, he probably welcomed death as his first step towards Paradise, which is why he said nothing to the physician at his side.’

‘That would have been tantamount to suicide, and thus a sin. He would not have risked his immortal soul in such a way. He did say some odd things before he died, though. He told me to stand firm against false prophets, which he called shooting stars, and he said you were to be wary of timely men with long teeth – crocodiles.’

‘Crocodiles,’ mused Michael. ‘What was he talking about? Who has long teeth?’

‘I imagine it was a metaphor.’

Michael scratched his chin, nails rasping against the bristles. ‘He was right about the false prophet – it is Arderne, making fraudulent claims. It is apt to call him a shooting star, because that is what he is: a passing phenomenon whose fame will fade the moment people see through him.’

‘We are moving away from the point. I do not believe what this letter claims, because Kenyngham would not have swallowed anything during his vigil, not even water. And after that, he was with us, and we all ate and drank the same things. I stand by my initial diagnosis – that he died because he was old and it was his time.’

‘Well, I do believe it now,’ said Michael, equally firm. ‘And I should not have let myself be persuaded otherwise. He told me he was taking an antidote, and I shall never forgive myself for not pressing him on the matter. I might have been able to save him. However, while I might have failed him in life, I shall not fail him in death. I will unmask the villain that deprived Cambridge of its best inhabitant, even if it is the last thing I do. If I apply for an exhumation order from the Bishop’s palace in Ely, will you inspect the body for me?’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘I have examined it twice already, and there was nothing to see. Please do not do this Michael. Investigate, if you must, but do not drag him from his final resting place. He would not approve of that at all.’

‘He will approve if he was murdered. I shall write the letter today. Will you look at him or not?’

‘I will not. Ask Rougham – he acted as your Corpse Examiner when I was away last year, so he will be used to such requests. And if he has been abandoned by as many patients as he claims, he may be glad of the money.’

The rain blew over during the night, and although the streets were full of puddles, the early morning sky was clear with the promise of sunshine to come. Shivering and complaining bitterly about the sheet of ankle-deep mud that comprised Michaelhouse’s yard, the scholars lined up to process to the church for their dawn offices. Langelee was in front, his four Fellows were behind him, and the students and commoners brought up the rear.

When they arrived at St Michael’s, a blackbird was trilling in one of the graveyard trees and a group of sparrows twittered near the porch; their shrill chatter echoed through the ancient stones. The church smelled damp, because there was a leak somewhere, and Bartholomew noticed that the floor needed sweeping. It was a task Kenyngham often undertook, because it allowed him to spend more time in his beloved church, and the physician wondered who would do it now. He did not have to think about the matter long, because Carton grabbed a broom while William and Michael were laying out the altar, and began to push old leaves and small pieces of dried mud into the corner Kenyngham had always used.

It was William’s turn to perform the mass and, as usual, he charged through the ceremonies at a furious lick, as if his very life depended on being done as soon as possible. It meant they were out in record time, and as Langelee had agreed to preside over the disputations and he had a free morning, Bartholomew decided to visit some of his patients – and look for Falmeresham at the same time. Despite everyone’s gloomy predictions, he still refused to believe his student was dead.

‘You will miss breakfast,’ warned Michael, seeing him start to slip away.

‘I am not hungry.’ Bartholomew had spent another restless night with his mind full of questions. He was anxious for Falmeresham, distressed about the fact that Michael was intent on investigating a murder he was sure had not occurred, and concerned about the mischief Arderne was causing.

‘Are you ill?’ asked Michael, not imagining there could be another reason for passing up a meal. He frowned. ‘You have not eaten anything offered by shooting stars or crocodiles, have you?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew shortly.

‘We will come with you,’ offered Deynman. ‘Me and Carton. You should not be out alone, not with the town so angry about the number of people killed by the town’s inept physicians.’

‘He means there is safety in numbers,’ elaborated Carton. The commoner-friar had changed since Falmeresham’s disappearance. He had never been an extrovert, but the loss of his friend had rendered him sullen, irritable and withdrawn, and the students were beginning to make excuses to avoid his company. Bartholomew wondered whether the Franciscan’s surliness derived from the fact that he no longer expected Falmeresham to come home alive. His own efforts to search for his friend had certainly tailed off, and he had not been out to look for him since Sunday.

Deynman gave one of his inane grins. ‘I do not believe the lies Arderne is spreading about you, sir, and I told Isnard he was an ass for listening to such rubbish. Then I asked to see his leg, to assess whether it really was growing back again, as Arderne promised it would.’

‘And was it?’ asked Carton, without much interest.

‘Maybe a bit,’ replied Deynman. ‘It was difficult to tell. Did you hear Paxtone has taken to his bed? He is still digesting the flock of pigeons he scoffed a few nights ago, and Rougham suggested he remain horizontal, to allow the birds to pass more easily through his bowels.’

Tired and dispirited, Bartholomew escaped from his colleagues, although he was obliged to enlist Cynric’s help in ridding himself of Deynman. He walked to the Small Bridges in the south of the town, where a glover called John Hanchach lived. Hanchach suffered from a congestion in the chest, which Bartholomew had been treating with a syrup of colt’s-foot and lungwort; the physician had been heartened recently, because Hanchach had turned a corner and started along the road to recovery.

Hanchach’s house – a pink-washed cottage with a neatly thatched roof – overlooked an odorous stretch of water known as the Mill Pond, and Bartholomew was sure its dank miasma was at least partly responsible for the glover’s respiratory problems. He walked along the towpath, enjoying the early morning sun and the scent of damp earth, and tapped on Hanchach’s door.

Hanchach was sitting next to a fire, watching something bubble in a pot. A delicious scent of honeyed oatmeal filled the room. It was the first time the glover had left his bed in a week, but it was what Bartholomew had expected, given the good progress of the previous two or three days.

‘I do not need you any more,’ said Hanchach, somewhat sheepishly. ‘I am better.’

Bartholomew smiled. ‘You are doing well, but do not stop taking the tonic yet. You need to clear your lungs completely, and I have brought you–’

‘Magister Arderne is my healer now,’ interrupted Hanchach. He stared at the flames and would not meet Bartholomew’s eyes. ‘He touched me with his feather yesterday and gave me a potion, which is why I am up today. Your remedy was taking ages to work, but he cured me overnight.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, supposing Arderne knew a patient on the mend when he saw one, and had pounced on the opportunity it had presented. ‘How did he know you were ill?’

‘Isnard,’ replied Hanchach, acutely uncomfortable. ‘We are neighbours, and he told me how you made a mistake with his leg. He recommended that I employ Arderne in your place, but Arderne said he would only treat me if I broke off all contact with you. He said you would try to foist more false remedies on me, but they might react dangerously with the real cure he has provided.’

‘Is it because of Deynman?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling how the student had almost killed Hanchach when he had misinterpreted some basic instructions and given him too much medicine.

Hanchach grimaced. ‘That was a factor, although only a minor one. Mostly, it was Arderne himself. He has such compelling eyes, and you find yourself believing what he says, even when you do not want to.’

Bartholomew recalled others telling him the same thing. ‘Your condition may worsen again if you do not continue to take the syrup,’ he warned, unwilling to see a patient suffer needlessly.

‘Arderne told me you would say that.’ Hanchach shot him a wry grin. ‘He is very expensive – I paid him five times what I pay you – but you can see his treatment is more effective.’

‘You were getting better anyway,’ objected Bartholomew. But he could see that any attempt to argue would look like sour grapes on his part, and he did not want trouble. ‘May I see this potion?’

Hanchach pointed to a phial on the table. Bartholomew removed the stopper, then recoiled in revulsion. ‘I hope you do not intend to drink this. It contains urine.’

‘Arderne says a famous Greek practitioner called Galen recommends urine very highly.’

‘I have never read that,’ said Bartholomew, startled. ‘And I know most of Galen’s writings.’

‘Galen did not write it,’ said Hanchach, as if it were obvious. ‘He told Arderne this special recipe. You see, Galen asked Arderne to help him on a particularly difficult case, and when Arderne healed the patient, Galen told him several secret cures, as an expression of his gratitude.’

‘But Galen has been dead for hundreds of years, and–’

‘It must have been another Galen, then. I took the first draught of that tonic last night, and I shall have another this morning. Arderne says I will be walking around the town this time tomorrow, and back at work the day after that.’

‘If you rush your recovery, you will relapse. I know you trust Arderne, but let your body tell you what to do. Start by sitting outside for an hour, and do not try walking until you are strong enough. If you need me, send to Michaelhouse and I will come.’

‘I know you will, but I cannot afford to lose body parts to over-ready knives, like Isnard did. Good day to you, Bartholomew – and please do not tell Arderne you came. I would not like him to withdraw his assistance.’

Bartholomew left dismayed and angry. How could Arderne possibly hope to fulfil all the promises he was making? And what would be the cost of his reckless boasts? No matter what Arderne claimed, it was not a good idea to feed urine to a man who had been so gravely ill – or to anyone for that matter – and Bartholomew liked the glover, and wanted to see him well again. Should he go back and try to reason with him? But he knew there was no point: Arderne had fixed Hanchach with his ‘compelling eyes’ and that was that. Preoccupied and unhappy, Bartholomew began to retrace his steps to Michaelhouse. He was so absorbed that he did not see Isnard until the bargeman attracted his attention with a large clod of earth.

‘I want a word with you,’ said Isnard coldly, while the physician shook the soil from his hair.

Isnard was brandishing one of his crutches, and Bartholomew hoped he would not swing it with sufficient vigour that he would lose his balance and fall. Isnard was always toppling over, mostly because of his fondness for ale, but he heartily resented being helped up, and onlookers were never sure what to do when he lay floundering. He was drunk that morning, and looked as if he had been imbibing all night.

‘You saw the state of your leg that day,’ said Bartholomew, knowing perfectly well what the ‘word’ was about. ‘It was mangled beyond recognition. The bones would never have knitted – and you would have been dead of fever long before that happened anyway.’

‘You are wrong,’ slurred Isnard. ‘Arderne said so. You maimed me, so you could collect a fee.’

‘I never charged you, as you know perfectly well. And Kenyngham and the other Michaelhouse Fellows paid for your medicines.’

Isnard’s ale-reddened face softened for a moment. ‘Dear Kenyngham. However, I imagine he bought me the remedies because he knew what you had done, and he wanted to make amends.’

‘You can think what you like about me,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘But do not malign him. He would never have looked the other way if he thought I had done something wrong.’

‘You destroyed my life!’ shouted Isnard, ignoring his point. ‘I have given Arderne five marks already, but he said you did such a terrible job with the amputation that he will probably be unable to cure me. It is not his fault – he is doing his best. It is yours.’

With sudden fury, he lobbed the crutch at Bartholomew. The physician ducked, and it plopped into the river, where it was caught in the current and began to bob away.

‘Now look what you have done,’ howled Isnard. ‘You made me lose my stick.’

Bartholomew stifled a sigh. ‘Let me help you inside before you hurt yourself.’

‘Stay away from me,’ shrieked Isnard. ‘And if you cross my path again, I shall kill you.’