To Kill or Cure (20 page)

‘I think Motelete is telling the truth,’ said the monk. ‘He is gangling and inept, exactly the kind of lad Falmeresham might
take pity on. I do not think he harmed Ocleye, either. He would not know what to do with a crossbow – and he did not have
one with him on the day of the murders anyway, because his friends would have noticed.’

‘I hope he is mistaken about Falmeresham,’ said Bartholomew. ‘About him being weak …’

Michael patted his shoulder. ‘Motelete is not a physician Matt. He saw blood and assumed a fatal wound. Do not put too much
store in the observations of a layman.’

‘Unfortunately, they are the only observations we have been given.’

Many churches located near city gates were dedicated to St Botolph, a saint said to be sympathetic to travellers. His chapels
allowed people to ask for his protection before they began their journeys, and recite prayers of deliverance when they came
back. Cambridge’s St Botolph’s was a pleasant building, although it suffered from its proximity to the odorous King’s Ditch.
It was seldom empty – England’s roads were dangerous, and few folk used them without petitioning the saints first. That morning,
a party
of wealthy nuns was going to London. They sang psalms in the chancel, while their servants inserted pennies into an oblations
box, hoping to encourage Botolph to watch over them until they reached their distant destination.

Robert Florthe was in the cemetery, pulling brambles from the primrose-clad mound that contained those of his parishioners
who had died during the plague. He was humming, oblivious to the fact that it was raining, and his priestly robes were stained
with mud. He was pleased to see visitors, and insisted they join him in his house for a cup of warmed ale.

‘You should rest,’ advised Bartholomew, palpating the hot, puffy knee with his fingers. ‘It will not mend if you do not keep
your weight off it.’

‘So you said last time,’ said Florthe with a grin. ‘But those brambles were annoying me and I like being outside. I was sorry
about Kenyngham, by the way – and sorry about Lynton, too. He and I were neighbours, and we saw a lot of each other.’

Michael sipped his ale. ‘I would hardly call Peterhouse a neighbour. It is some distance away.’

‘I mean his Dispensary,’ said Florthe, wincing when Bartholomew’s examination reached a spot that hurt. ‘Where he saw some
of his patients.’

‘I thought he saw his patients in his College,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Or visited them at home.’

Florthe pointed through the window, to the smart cottage next to his own modest dwelling. Its main door opened on to the lane
that bordered the churchyard, and it looked like the kind of house that would be owned by a moderately wealthy merchant.

‘People came to see him there in the evenings – perhaps his colleagues objected to townsmen and scholars from other foundations
descending on them at night. He gave
me a key once, to keep in case he ever locked himself out. Would you return it to Peterhouse for me? They probably do not
know I have it, and poor Lynton will not be needing it now.’

Michael held out his hand. ‘They will not mind if I look inside first. It might serve as a hostel, and the University needs
every building it can lay its hands on at the moment, what with Candelby ousting scholars from places we have occupied for
decades.’

Florthe nodded sadly. ‘The students of Rudd’s evacuated this morning – the building is no longer safe, and Candelby refuses
to effect repairs. Ovyng has taken them in, although it will be cramped. And Garrett’s lease expired today, so that returns
to Candelby, too.’

Michael insisted on inspecting Lynton’s Dispensary before they did anything else, so he could ask the Master and Fellows of
Peterhouse – the sole beneficiaries of Lynton’s will – to make it available for homeless scholars. He unlocked the door with
Florthe’s key, and he and Bartholomew entered.

The house comprised one room on the ground floor, and a pair of attics above. The lower chamber was substantial, with a hearth,
a huge table and a number of cushion-strewn benches. It smelled sweet and clean, but there was not the slightest indication
that medical consultations ever took place in it. Bartholomew wondered where Lynton had kept the items he had ‘dispensed’,
and climbed the ladder to the upper floor to look for urine flasks, astrological tables, medicines and other equipment. All
he found was a large collection of silver goblets.

‘He was never one for physical intervention,’ he said, more to explain to himself the lack of basic tools than to enlighten
Michael. ‘And he may have committed essential celestial charts to memory. I consult them when I prepare
horoscopes, because they are a waste of time and I cannot be bothered to learn them, but Lynton was a firm believer and probably
knew them by heart.’

‘This is a pleasant chamber,’ said Michael, frowning. ‘But the window shutters are painted closed, and I cannot open them.
Why would that be?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘So no one could look in and watch him with his patients, I imagine. Some will have had embarrassing
conditions, and would have wanted – demanded – privacy.’

‘I thought he had fewer patients than you, but these benches suggest they came to him in droves.’

‘He never seemed busy to me – at least, not with medicine. He did not accept just anyone as a patient, and tended to enrol
folk who were not actually ill – ones who wanted preventative treatment rather than curative. He took some charity cases,
but not nearly as many as Paxtone and Rougham.’

‘Or you,’ said Michael. ‘Almost all yours are poor.’

Bartholomew looked around him, trying to equate what he saw to the practical application of healing. ‘Perhaps Lynton examined
his patients
en masse
– ordered everyone with ailments of the lungs, for example, to come at a specific time. Then he could purchase the appropriate
remedies in bulk, and dispense them all at once. It is quite common for Arab physicians to specialise in particular ailments
or specific parts of the body.’

‘Lynton would never have embraced a practice favoured by foreigners. And what did you mean when you said he was busy, but
not with medicine? Was he busy with something else, then?’

‘He was interested in the kinetics of motion; I think he might have been writing a treatise about it. He was always asking
to borrow my copy of Bradwardine’s
Tractatus de continuo
and he knew the subject extremely well.’

‘The mean speed theorem,’ mused Michael. ‘You have talked about it before, and I can see it is an important advance in natural
philosophy, although it is dull stuff with its “uniform velocities” and “moving bodies”. I would rather talk about Blood Relics,
and that should tell you something, because William has beaten the subject to death and I am bored of it. However, a complex
notion like mean speed seems an odd subject to attract Lynton.’

‘The mean speed theorem is
not
dull,’ argued Bartholomew irritably. ‘Nicole Oresme’s account of the intension and remission of qualities is—’

‘Another time,’ interrupted Michael. He elbowed the physician outside, and locked the door behind them. ‘I am too worried
about Lynton, Falmeresham and the rent war to give it my full attention. Do you mind if we take a moment to visit Wisbeche,
and ask if he will lend me the Dispensary to house some of these homeless scholars? It will not take a moment.’

Bartholomew followed him the short distance to Peterhouse. As they approached, a flicker of movement caught his eye. Someone
was running, heading quickly towards the Gilbertine Friary. He frowned, puzzled.

‘That person was watching Peterhouse, Brother. He was sheltering in the doorway opposite, but his attention was fixed on the
College. When he saw us coming, he made a dash for it.’

‘It is not Honynge, is it?’ asked Michael, screwing up his eyes as he peered up the road. ‘He lurks around Clare at odd times,
so perhaps he spies on other Colleges, too. You had better give chase while I speak to Wisbeche. It will be the most efficient
use of our time.’

‘For you, maybe,’ grumbled Bartholomew, objecting to
racing after shadows in the rain, while Michael would probably be feted with cakes and warm wine. He raised his hands when
Michael started to point out that a Corpse Examiner was not authorised to make arrangements for new accommodation – and the
Senior Proctor could not move fast enough to catch up with the figure that was rapidly dwindling into the distance, anyway.

‘And
not
because I am fat,’ said Michael, anticipating the next objection. ‘My heavy bones mean that the velocity of my mean speed
is lower than yours. Go, before you lose him.’

Despite a spirited effort, Bartholomew did not succeed. The man glanced behind him once, and when he saw he was being followed,
ducked into the woods behind the Gilbertine Friary. He had had too great a start, and although Bartholomew explored several
paths and even climbed a tree, he was forced to concede defeat. Michael was waiting for him outside Peterhouse, wiping crumbs
from his face with his piece of linen.

‘I had better luck,’ he said. ‘Wisbeche agreed to loan me the Dispensary for as long as I need it.’

‘Did you ask where Lynton kept his medical equipment?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And why his attics are full of silver goblets?’

‘I did, but he said I should consult a physician for answers to those sorts of questions.’

Maud Bowyer occupied a handsome house on Bridge Street, near the equally fine home that was owned by the Sheriff. Michael
was bitterly disappointed when servants told him that Dick Tulyet was still away, and that he was not expected home any time
soon. He needed the Sheriff’s calming hand to quell the growing unrest, and was not sure he could do it alone.

‘I shall write to him again this evening, and tell him to come as soon as he can,’ said the monk unhappily. ‘I do not like
the atmosphere – people keep glaring at me.’

Bartholomew was concerned. ‘It is because everyone knows you – not Chancellor Tynkell – run the University. Perhaps you should
take Cynric with you when you go out in future.’

‘I would rather he watched where Agatha put her love-potion. A town full of angry men does not hold nearly the same terror
as being caught in an amorous embrace by Agatha.’ Michael sighed. ‘Three days have passed, and I still have no idea who killed
Lynton. Do you?’

‘Arderne,’ said Bartholomew, surprising himself with the speed of his reply and the conviction in his voice. ‘He has the most
to gain. He has virtually destroyed Robin, and with Lynton dead, there are only three others left to tell folk he is a fraud.’

‘But Paxtone and Rougham also benefit from Lynton’s demise, because several wealthy patients are now looking for a new physician.
And I cannot help but think that Peterhouse is withholding information. Did Wisbeche really lend me the Dispensary out of
charity, or did he just want me gone from his College without asking too many questions? Ouch!’

Bartholomew looked sharply at him, and saw a clod of mud had hit him in the chest. The physician turned quickly, and spotted
two men who worked at the Lilypot. They were cronies of Isnard, and were racing away as if their lives depended on it. One
stopped when he reached the corner. He saw the physician watching and raised his fist.

‘Charlatan!’ he yelled, before disappearing down the lane.

‘That is certainly true,’ declared a heavyset woman with a moustache. Her name was Rosalind fitz-Eustace, and she
and her husband had a reputation for being gossips. ‘Damned scholars.’

‘We should oust the lot of them,’ agreed fitz-Eustace. ‘When they are not bleeding us dry with demands for cheap rents, cheap
ale and cheap flour, they kill and maim us with bad medicine.’

‘Magister Arderne was wrong to have saved Motelete,’ whispered Rosalind, although it was clear she intended people to hear.
‘He should have raised Ocleye instead.’

‘It was too late – the Corpse Examiner had been at him.’ Fitz-Eustace cast a malicious glance in Bartholomew’s direction before
stalking away, his wife at his side.

‘The insults were directed at us both, but the dirt was meant for you,’ grumbled Michael, trying without success to remove
the stain from his habit. ‘Damn it! This was clean on at Christmas. And now here come two more alleged charlatans – Paxtone
and Rougham, your medical colleagues. Paxtone is looking seedy today.’

Michael was right: the King’s Hall physician was pale, and there were bags under his eyes. The monk started to mutter something
about a guilty conscience for putting a crossbow bolt in a rival, and Bartholomew was obliged to silence him with an elbow
in the ribs.

‘What is wrong, Paxtone?’ he asked, concerned. ‘Can I help?’

‘I offered my services, too, but he says it is nothing,’ said Rougham.

‘You have not accepted tonics from Arderne, have you?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, suddenly afraid that the healer might have
started work on his next victim.

Paxtone grimaced. ‘Of course not! The man is a trickster, and I would no more swallow his potions than I would let Robin perform
surgery on me. Credit me with some sense, Matthew.’

‘You should not be out,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You should be lying down, resting.’

‘I told him that, too,’ muttered Rougham.

Paxtone sighed. ‘There is nothing wrong that a good purge will not cure. I am afraid I was something of a glutton with the
roasted pigeon last night. I ate eight.’

‘Did you?’ asked Michael, impressed. ‘Were they cooked in any kind of sauce?’

‘Stones were thrown at me twice yesterday,’ said Rougham, changing the subject before two fat men could begin to share the
delights of the dinner table. ‘It is because of Arderne. He is spreading tales about our competence as physicians. He has
a convincing manner, and people believe him.’

‘I have received threatening letters from the family of a man I failed to save last term,’ added Paxtone miserably. ‘The case
was hopeless – you two saw him, and you agreed with my diagnosis – but Arderne told his kin that he would have survived, had
I known what I was doing.’