To Kill or Cure (10 page)

Wisbeche was holding forth about eschatological symbolism, and although Michael’s eyes were beginning to glaze, Bartholomew
saw he had a few moments yet. A graze on Lynton’s cheek – but a corresponding absence of marks on his hands – suggested he
had not tried to break his fall. It made the physician even more certain that Lynton had been dead before the horse had bucked
out of control and he had toppled from the saddle. Whoever had murdered him had been an excellent shot. It was not easy to
hit moving targets, and suggested the killer owned considerable skill with his weapon of choice.

He was just setting all to rights when he saw something in Lynton’s hand. Gently, he prised open the fingers to reveal a scrap
of parchment – the old physician had been holding a document when he had died, and someone had apparently snatched it from
him after his death, leaving a fragment behind. The fact that it had torn suggested it had been retrieved quickly, perhaps
furtively, and that it had probably not been taken by anyone who
had a right to it. Puzzled, Bartholomew peered at the letters in the faint light that filtered through Wisbeche’s stained-glass
windows. What he read made his stomach churn in alarm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘So you are at an impasse?’

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

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

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

Bartholomew told him.

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

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

‘Ocleye.’

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

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

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

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

‘I do not understand the last part.’

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

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

‘Perhaps he thought it was something else.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘And had you?’ asked Bartholomew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Why would he want to argue with me?’

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

‘What do you mean?’

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