To Kill or Cure (12 page)

‘He knows where Blankpayn is hiding,’ the physician snarled, freeing the arm Michael held with rather more force than was
necessary. Michael staggered backwards. ‘But he refuses to help us.’

‘Perhaps. However, I suspect he just wants you to
think
he does. He is trying to aggravate you.’

‘He has succeeded.’

‘Throttling him will help no one, satisfying though it might be. I will set Meadowman to watch him, and if Blankpayn visits,
we shall know about it. You will have to be patient. I know it is difficult, but there is nothing else we can do. If we use
force, it will cause trouble for certain.’

Bartholomew supposed he was right, and took a deep breath in an attempt to calm down. Absently, he noticed that Bene’t Street
was not as busy as it should have been at that time of day, and he wondered whether Arderne had taken half the town with him
when he went to magic Isnard’s leg back into place.

‘Would you mind examining Ocleye?’ asked Michael. He spoke tentatively. Bartholomew did not often lose his temper, and the
monk was not sure how to react to it. ‘He is not a scholar, and he did not die on University property, so technically my Corpse
Examiner can refuse to do it. I know Candelby said he was stabbed, but I need to be sure.’

Bartholomew nodded, but his attention was still fixed on the tavern. ‘Is that Honynge, just going into the Angel?’

‘It is!’ Michael’s green eyes gleamed with delight at the notion of catching his future colleague flouting the rules. ‘The
more I deal with him, the less I like him.’

Bartholomew had not taken to Honynge either, and sensed the man’s arrogance would create discord among the Fellows – William
would take umbrage at his manner, and Michael would begin a war of attrition that would force everyone to take sides.

‘I had better follow him, to see what he is doing,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands as a plan took shape in his mind. ‘If
he is buying ale, I shall advise Langelee to withdraw the offer we made this morning.’

‘You are too conspicuous – Candelby is sure to notice you. I will go.’

Michael reached out to stop him, sure it was an excuse to resume the conversation about Blankpayn, but the physician jigged
away from his hand and began to trot back towards the inn. The monk started after him, but was no match for his more fleet-footed
colleague.

‘Do not to go in,’ he called urgently, giving up when he saw it was hopeless. ‘Just poke your head around the door and then
come back and tell me what he is doing.’

Bartholomew ducked behind the courtyard well when he saw Honynge had not gone very far inside the inn. The cold fury he had
felt towards Candelby was already subsiding, and his natural common sense was telling him that another confrontation would
do nothing to help Falmeresham – and might even do some harm. With a sigh, he realised that shaking the truth out of the taverner
would not be a good idea, and that Michael’s plan to set Meadowman to watch him was far more likely to yield results. Immediately,
he began to wish he had not offered to spy on the man who was to be his colleague. It was hardly ethical, and he sincerely
hoped Honynge would not catch him.

Honynge and Candelby were near the entrance, talking. Unfortunately, a chicken chose that moment to announce the laying of
an egg, and taverner and scholar turned instinctively at the abrupt frenzy of squawks. Bartholomew did not think they had
seen him, but could not be sure. The two resumed their discussion, and after a moment Honynge’s voice began to rise. Words
quickly became audible.

‘… an outrage,’ he snapped. ‘And I will not endure such remarks.’

‘I do not care,’ said Candelby. ‘It is true. Michaelhouse
is
full of second-rate scholars.’

‘Well, your pies are rancid,’ retorted Honynge childishly. ‘You probably make them with dog.’

He turned and stalked away, leaving Candelby to mimic his stiff-backed gait in a flash of juvenile petulance. The pot-boys
grinned, but their smiles vanished when the taverner began to bark orders at them. Bartholomew moved further behind the well
as the furious Honynge stamped past him, and was disconcerted to hear the man talking quite loudly to himself.

‘You do not have to put up with his insults, not even for a pie. In fact, you should tell him his ale is not up to scratch,
either.’ He stopped, glared back at the Angel, but then resumed walking. ‘No, you have more dignity than that. Go home and
prepare for your removal to Michaelhouse.’

Bartholomew waited until he had gone, then set off to find Michael. He faltered when he saw the monk talking to Honynge himself,
but Honynge did not linger long. He growled something, then continued on his way, anger radiating from him like heat from
the sun.

‘What did he say?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

Michael was bemused. ‘He suggested I use my powers
as Senior Proctor to stop the Angel from trading. It seems Candelby said something rude about Michaelhouse, and he took it
as a personal affront. Well? Was he buying ale?’

‘Food – although I think he squabbled with Candelby before he could get any. He is an odd man. I would not have thought him
the kind of person to leap to our defence – he made disparaging comments about Michaelhouse himself this morning – yet it
seems he feels some spark of loyalty.’

Michael groaned. ‘Lord! Now here comes Tyrington, grinning at us like a gargoyle. Will we
never
be allowed to investigate these murders? All I want is to concentrate on finding out what happened to Lynton and Falmeresham.
Is that too much to ask? Tyrington is eating, by the way. This could be dangerous.’

‘Good morning, colleagues,’ gushed Tyrington. Bartholomew did not step away quickly enough, and found himself liberally splattered
with cake. ‘I cannot wait to be installed in your –
our
– College. Oh, the debates we shall have, on all subjects from theology to alchemy!’

‘What about natural philosophy?’ probed Bartholomew, prepared to overlook a few missiles of oral origin if the reward was
a discussion on one of his favourite subjects.

Tyrington simpered at him. ‘I have a great interest in anything that necessitates complex arithmetic and geometry, especially
if it can be used to define our universe.’

‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What do you think of the work of the Oxford
calculatores
, who use mathematics to measure the increase and decrease in intensity of qualitie s—’

‘Not much, if he has any sense,’ muttered Michael.

Tyrington’s leer threatened to split his face in half. ‘It fascinates me deeply, particularly as it applies to what
happens in the first and last instants of potentially infinite processes.’

‘I hope you two will not spend all your evenings
calculating
together,’ said Michael coolly. ‘There are other issues to debate, besides mathematics.’

Tyrington laughed uneasily, sensing he had annoyed the monk. He hastened to be conciliatory. ‘There will be plenty of time
for discourses on all manner of exciting matters, and I shall grant them all equal attention, I promise.’

Bartholomew watched him walk away. ‘Lynton lectured on the work of the Oxford
calculatores
last term, and Tyrington made several intelligent contributions. Honynge was not there, though – I would have remembered
him
. I hope Honynge does not transpire to be one of those scholars only interested in discussing his own speciality, because
he is a theologian and therefore dull—’

He faltered when he recalled that Michael’s academic expertise was also in the ‘Queen of Sciences’, and shot him a sheepish
glance. The monk smothered a smile. ‘We have wasted too much time already today. Let us see what Ocleye can tell us.’

St Bene’t’s thick walls immediately quelled the clamour from the street, and the scholars’ footsteps echoed softly through
the ancient arches as they walked up the nave. The building smelled of the fresh rushes that had been scattered in the chancel,
and of the flowers that had been placed along the windowsills in celebration of Easter. Bartholomew looked around appreciatively
– he had always liked St Bene’t’s – but Michael was more interested in his investigation. He frowned when he removed the pall
that had been placed over the coffin.

‘Ocleye seems rather old to be called “boy” – he must
be nearing sixty! I was expecting an apprentice. Are you sure he is the right one?’

‘I thought you knew him,’ said Bartholomew, surprised. ‘He was standing near Candelby after the accident – obviously, given
that he had been riding in the back of Candelby’s cart.’

‘Candelby is a demanding master and servants tend not to stay with him long. Hence I know very few of them. But my point remains:
Ocleye is old for such an occupation.’

‘He was a newcomer, so probably took whatever work was offered.’ Bartholomew began his examination. ‘It explains why he wanted
his own accommodation, though – a man of his years will not want to share an attic with a dozen rowdy youths. Yet Ocleye could
not have been earning much, so I wonder how he intended to pay the elevated rent Lynton would have charged.’

‘That is a question to which we must find the answer. It
cannot
be coincidence that Lynton was holding the agreement signed by him and Ocleye, and both end up dead on the same day. Do you
mind hurrying? I know we have Candelby’s permission to be here, but I would rather we were
not
caught pawing the body of a townsman – not in this current climate of unrest. What can you tell me? Where was he stabbed?’

‘He was
not
stabbed,’ replied Bartholomew. Michael looked sharply at him. ‘I know Candelby said he was, but he is mistaken. This wound
is too small and the wrong shape to have been made by a blade. It was caused by a crossbow bolt, just like the one in Lynton.’

Michael stared at him. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course – and I can prove it.’

The monk averted his eyes when Bartholomew took a pair of pliers from his bag and began to do something to Ocleye’s chest.
There was an unpleasant grating sound that
made him feel queasy, and when he plucked up the courage to glance back, Bartholomew was inspecting something bloody that
lay in the palm of his hand. It was the sharp end of a crossbow bolt, about the length of his little finger.

‘It snapped off inside him,’ explained the physician. ‘I suspect someone tried to retrieve the whole thing, but this part
was embedded in bone, and it broke as it was tugged out.’

‘Are you sure it was not
that
injury which killed him?’ asked Michael, pointing to a gash across Ocleye’s ribs. He took several steps backwards when Bartholomew
began to examine it, then squeezed his eyes tightly closed. ‘
Please
do not put your fingers inside corpses when I am looking! I missed your company when you took that sabbatical leave of absence
last year, but I certainly did not miss this kind of thing!’

‘I cannot determine the depth of a wound simply by staring at it. However, probing tells me this one is not serious enough
to have caused death. The bolt in the chest was what killed Ocleye. No one could have been shot there and survived.’

‘So, whoever killed Lynton killed Ocleye, too?’ asked Michael. ‘The murderer used the same weapon on both?’

‘It looks that way. Ocleye died later than Lynton, though. I saw him after the accident myself, and he was definitely alive.
Also, Candelby said Ocleye was fussing over him when he regained his wits after being thrown from the cart, so he is another
witness. And finally, crossbows take time to rewind, so there would have been a delay. The brawl provided the killer with
a perfect opportunity to claim his second victim.’

‘So, we were right: Lynton’s death and Ocleye’s
are
connected. But how did Ocleye come by that other cut? Do you think the Clare student stabbed himself a corpse?’

‘Or the killer scored the wound in an attempt to disguise the real nature of Ocleye’s demise – to make people
think
he died from a dagger attack.’

‘How could anyone expect to deceive you?’

‘Ocleye was not a scholar, and he did not die on University property.
Ergo
, your Corpse Examiner has no reason to inspect him – and the body-washer has obviously noticed nothing amiss. Further, Ocleye
has no family or close friends – no one to demand detailed answers.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Michael. ‘I do not like this at all – not least because of what
we
have done.’

‘What is that?’

‘If the killer went to all this trouble with Ocleye, then it stands to reason that he does not want anyone to know what happened
to Lynton, either. And what did you do? Steal the crossbow bolt from Lynton’s corpse and later disguise the wound. Meanwhile,
I am encouraging his colleagues to believe he died when the horse kicked his head.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘We have helped a killer to cover his tracks.’

Bartholomew left St Bene’t’s full of anxious questions. Who had shot Ocleye and Lynton? How could a pot-boy afford to enter
a rent agreement with a man who charged princely prices for his houses? Bartholomew’s concerns returned to Falmeresham. What
had happened to him? What did Candelby know that he was not telling? Was Michael right, and the man was just pretending to
possess information in order to provoke a member of the hated University?

‘I do not like Candelby’s role in all this,’ said Michael, when the physician voiced his concerns aloud. ‘I think
he
might be the killer.’

‘We know he is not – he was in his cart when Lynton was shot, and we believe the murderer hid in St John Zachary’s churchyard.’

‘You said the weapon was small, so perhaps Candelby concealed it under his cloak. Then he whipped it out and loosed a bolt
as Lynton rode towards him.’

‘Without Maud and Ocleye noticing?’

Michael shot him a triumphant look. ‘Perhaps Ocleye
did
notice, and either threatened to tell, or demanded payment for his silence. And do not forget that Candelby said Maud is
refusing to see him. Maybe she is uncomfortable with murder committed under her nose.’