To Kill or Cure (30 page)

‘I imagine you were very worried,’ said Candelby with a malicious grin. ‘I would have been.’

‘So, Ocleye was a spy, was he?’ mused Michael, before Bartholomew could take issue with him for keeping Falmeresham’s whereabouts
secret. ‘I imagine your fellow burgesses will be very interested to know you hire such men – especially if you paid him to
watch
them
.’

Candelby blanched. ‘I did not hire Ocleye to watch them,’ he said, licking his lips uneasily. ‘I employed him to watch
you
.’

Michael smiled, pleased to have nettled the man at last. ‘Then he cheated you, because my beadles would have
noticed anyone spying on me. Obviously, he was not doing what he was told.’

Candelby grimaced. ‘It pains me to admit it, but you are right. At first, I assumed he was just not very good at his job,
because he never had any intelligence worth reporting. It was only later that I came to realise he was actually in someone
else’s pay – the rogue was taking my money, but instead of spying on you, he was spying on
me
!’

‘Yet he was riding in your cart on the day of your accident,’ said Michael, unconvinced. ‘If you knew he was betraying you,
why did you permit such familiarity?’

‘He asked in front of Maud, and I was trying to impress her,’ replied Candelby sheepishly. ‘Telling him to pack his bags and
leave the town would have made me look unmannerly. So I let him ride with us, but was going to dismiss him as soon as we had
a moment alone.’

‘Who was he spying for?’

Candelby grimaced a second time. ‘I assumed it was you, but I can see from your reaction that it was not. It will be another
scholar, although God alone knows which one. They all hate me.’

‘I wonder why,’ murmured Michael, as he walked away.

When the proprietor of the Brazen George came to greet Michael and Bartholomew, he expressed none of his usual pleasure in
seeing old friends. His large, plum-shaped face was a mask of worry.

‘What is wrong, Master Lister?’ asked Michael, watching him secure the door behind them. ‘Surely you have not taken against
me now?’

Lister winced. ‘Of course not, Brother. However, I have had warnings.’

‘Warnings?’ asked Michael, bemused. ‘What kind of warnings?’

‘Ones that tell me I would be wise to break off my association with scholars.’

‘Who has been saying such things?’ demanded Michael angrily.

‘The notes were anonymous, but Blankpayn is the obvious culprit. He and Candelby want to drive a wedge between the University
and any townsfolk who provide it with essential services.’

Bartholomew tried not to smile at the notion that the Brazen George provided ‘essential services’. Michael saw nothing amusing
in the situation, though. ‘Lord!’ he breathed. ‘What next?’

‘If Candelby wins this war, he will pit himself against those of us who defied him,’ said Lister miserably. ‘I shall be ruined.
So, you
must
defeat Candelby, Brother. My livelihood depends on it.’

‘I shall do my best,’ vowed Michael. ‘But you have quite destroyed my appetite. Instead of roasted chickens, I shall content
myself with half a dozen Lombard slices. Matt will have the same.’

‘Matt does not want anything at all,’ countered Bartholomew, feeling slightly queasy at the thought of eating sticky date
pastries so soon after breakfast.

Michael eyed him balefully as Lister left. ‘Please do not refer to yourself in the third person. It reminds me of Honynge.
Do you think
he
is the scholar who hired Ocleye to spy on Candelby?’

‘What would he gain from doing that?’

‘He was living in one of Candelby’s hostels – a place that was seized the moment he moved into Michaelhouse. Obviously, he
wanted information about the man who was planning to evict him.’

‘The same is true of Tyrington. However, I suspect Arderne employed Ocleye. We know he did nothing
but listen and watch during his first few weeks in Cambridge, learning the lie of the land before he made his presence known.
Hiring a spy is an easy way to amass knowledge.’

Michael gave a grim smile. ‘We are both allowing personal dislike to colour our judgement. So, let us review what we know
without
taking Arderne and Honynge into account, and see what other suspects emerge.’

Bartholomew knew he was right. ‘You start, then.’

‘First we have Lynton, murdered with a crossbow in the middle of Milne Street, in broad daylight. Ocleye was killed the same
way, at more or less the same time. It seems obvious that he saw the archer, and was killed to ensure his silence. Do you
agree?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘It cannot have been the other way around – Lynton killed because he saw Ocleye’s killer – because Ocleye
was fussing about Candelby
after
Lynton had been shot.’

‘Ocleye was a spy, not a pot-boy,’ continued Michael. ‘That explains three things: why he was older than most tavern scullions;
why he made scant effort to socialise with the other lads from the Angel; and why he seems to have appeared out of nowhere.’

‘Four things,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘Spies are better paid than pot-boys, and he probably
could
afford to rent his own house, rather than live in the inn where he ostensibly worked.’

‘And the man he chose as his landlord was Lynton. Perhaps he was Lynton’s spy, then.’

‘It is possible. Lynton had the rent agreement in his hand, and was probably reading it when he died. I wonder who took it
from him.’

‘Ocleye?’ suggested Michael. ‘He would not have wanted any links between him and a man who was unlawfully slain
– spies do not like that sort of attention. Then he was murdered in his turn.’

‘Carton!’ exclaimed Bartholomew suddenly, recalling something that had happened. ‘He knelt next to Lynton’s body and was straightening
the cloak that covered him. Perhaps he removed it.’

‘He would have given it to us, had that been the case – he has no reason to steal such a thing and keep it quiet. Perhaps
I am wrong to dismiss Candelby in favour of Honynge. Candelby was present when the crime occurred,
and
he owns a crossbow. Unfortunately, Maud does not recall him pulling it out and committing murder, and no other witnesses
have come forward. How can I catch him? I need real evidence, or he will claim I am just accusing him because of the rent
war.’

‘Meanwhile, we have learned facts about Lynton that have surprised us. He kept a long-term lover; he owned a Dispensary near
the Trumpington Gate; he was a knight in all but name; and he was a landlord, raking in lucrative profits by renting his houses
to wealthy townsmen.’

‘Do you think a disgruntled student shot him? Scholars are losing their homes all over the town, yet Lynton still preferred
to lease his properties to rich civilians.’ Michael did not wait for an answer. ‘And what did he do on Fridays, when he never
visited Maud?’

‘
There
is a motive for Candelby wanting Lynton dead: Lynton was Maud’s lover – the woman Candelby still intends to marry.’

Michael was uncertain. ‘Isabel said the affair was a secret, and I have never heard any gossip, so perhaps they did manage
to keep it to themselves. Further, Agatha knew they played games of chance together on Sundays, but did not guess the real
nature of their relationship – and
she
knows just about everything in the town, given the number of folk she counts among her kin.’

‘Perhaps Candelby was suspicious about Lynton and Maud, and sent Ocleye to find out what they were doing together.’

Michael nodded slowly. ‘You are right – and that
is
a good motive for murder. So, we have Candelby as our chief suspect, with a resentful student second. What about Kenyngham?’

‘Kenyngham was not murdered,’ said Bartholomew adamantly.

‘Yes, he was,’ said Michael, equally firmly. ‘I am not blaming you for missing clues, Matt. A mistake is understandable under
the circumstances, and we were all upset by his death.’

‘I did
not
make a mistake,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘I was concerned I might have done, which is why I examined him a second time. However,
there is nothing to suggest his death was unnatural.’

‘Poisons are difficult to detect – you said so yourself. You may have overlooked something, because you were not expecting
to find it. We shall know after the exhumation. Rougham will—’

Bartholomew was becoming exasperated. ‘I was
very
careful –
both
times. And if I could not detect anything amiss, then neither will Rougham. I concede you might learn something if you open
him up, but I doubt Rougham will agree to that.’

‘Open him up?’ echoed Michael, round-eyed. ‘You mean
dissect
him? Oh, Matt!’

‘It is a discussion you started. Tearing him from his final resting place is just as distasteful as anatomising him.’

Michael’s expression was flinty. ‘You have become very
ghoulish since you returned from those foreign schools. They have reignited your desire to be controversial and heretical,
which is a habit I thought you had grown out of.’

Bartholomew changed the subject before they could annoy each other any further. ‘At least we have Falmeresham home.’

‘What do you think of Arderne’s claim to have cured him?’

‘He cannot possibly have pulled Falmeresham’s liver through that hole in his side. It would be like pulling a heart through
a shoulder. Arderne was lying to him.’

‘Arderne
did
cure Motelete, though. I accept your contention that the lad may not have been fully dead in the first place, but he certainly
lay in a corpse-like state for two days. There are dozens of witnesses to that fact.’

Bartholomew nodded towards the Brazen George’s small, but secluded garden. It was a pleasant space with a tiny pond and the
kind of vegetation that benefited from a sheltered, sunny position. The tavern had the luxury of glazed windows, and although
it was not easy to see through them, he recognised Clare’s personal Lazarus, even so.

‘Motelete is out there. Shall we ask him about his resurrection again?’

‘Why not?’ asked Michael with a weary sigh. ‘I cannot see any other way through the ungodly maze of facts we have accumulated.’

Motelete had abandoned the academic tabard that identified him as a scholar of Clare, and was wearing a surcoat of dark green
with multicoloured hose. He was in company with a fair-headed girl and a youth who looked so much like her that Bartholomew
assumed they were siblings. The
lad looked bored and resentful, but Motelete and the woman seemed to be enjoying themselves.

‘Motelete’s companion is named Will Sago,’ said Michael, watching them. ‘He is one of the Angel’s pot-boys. Now why would
Motelete be in such company?’

‘It is not Sago he is interested in,’ said Bartholomew dryly. ‘It is Sago’s sister.’

When Lister brought more Lombard slices, Michael asked why he was allowing a student and a pot-boy to drink together, when
it might bring trouble. Lister pulled a resentful face.

‘Candelby’s lads have taken to patronising my inn of late – they come to spy, of course. How else would Candelby know the
occasional academic visits my humble establishment?’

Everyone in Cambridge knew the Brazen George catered to scholars, and Bartholomew suspected Candelby had ordered his servants
to frequent the place as a way to intimidate Lister into banishing them, rather than to gather intelligence.

‘The lass is Siffreda Sago,’ Lister went on. ‘And the student is Motelete, who was raised from the dead by that remarkable
Arderne. Sago is there to make sure she does not lose her virtue, although Motelete will have her soon, watchful brother or
no.’

Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘Motelete courts townswomen, bloodies noses in brawls, and outwits chaperons. He does not sound
like the quiet, timid student described to us at Clare – the one who would never have harmed Ocleye, who never visited taverns,
and who cried for his mother.’

‘He is said to have changed since his resurrection,’ explained Lister. ‘I am not surprised – it must have been an eerie experience.’

Bartholomew and Michael walked outside, where Motelete hurriedly removed his hand from down the back of Siffreda’s gown.

‘Wine is good for me,’ he said, gesturing to the jug on the table in front of him. ‘Magister Arderne said I should drink lots
of it, to make sure I do not fall into death again.’

‘That is the kind of physician any man would be pleased to own,’ said Michael smoothly. ‘Mine is always telling me to abstain,
which is a wretched bore.’

Motelete smiled. ‘I would rather have Arderne than any
medicus
alive. He is a genius, and I shall always be in debt to him for saving me. Would you like to see my neck? You will recall
it was marred by a great gash that saw me lose all my blood, but now there is virtually no mark at all.’

It was an offer no physician could decline. Bartholomew examined the bared throat, and saw a cut that had scabbed over and
was healing nicely. In a few days, it would fade to a faint pink line, and a month might see it vanish altogether.

‘Do you remember being dead?’ he asked.

Motelete shook his head. ‘People keep asking me that – did I see Christ, was I in Purgatory, was my soul weighed? All I recall
is being very cold, and when Magister Arderne commanded me to rise, it was difficult, because I was stiff. He says all corpses
undergo a phase of stiffness.’

They talked a while longer, mostly about the fact that Motelete was not wearing his prescribed uniform, and that even scholars
newly risen from the grave were not exempt from the University’s rules. Motelete was not entirely won over by Michael’s logic,
but agreed to go home to Clare – without his sweetheart – when the monk mentioned that he had the authority to demand a fine
of up to six pence from students who preferred taverns to their schools.

As soon as Michael was satisfied that Motelete was
heading in the right direction, Bartholomew headed for a stinking alley known as Butchery Row. It was behind the Market Square,
identifiable by its rank stench and large population of bluebottles. Children sold rhubarb leaves at either end so customers
could use them to keep buzzing flies from their faces as they browsed the wares on sale.