To Kill or Cure (45 page)

‘Go away, boy,’ said Arderne contemptuously. ‘This does not concern you.’

Falmeresham addressed the monk. ‘You are right in that Arderne’s association with Motelete pre-dates Cambridge. They were
together in Norwich and London, too. Their servants told me.’

‘
There
is the killer!’ Arderne jabbed an accusing finger. ‘Falmeresham was jealous of Motelete.’

Falmeresham’s cheeks burned, and his expression turned vengeful. ‘It
was
Arderne in the graveyard with Motelete’s corpse, Brother. He ordered me to lie, because—’

‘Shut up!’ roared Arderne. His dagger was out. ‘Still your tongue or I will cut it out.’

‘Fetch your beadles, Michael,’ said Bartholomew, brandishing his own knife and intending to keep the healer occupied until
the monk returned with reinforcements. Arderne had backed down from a physical encounter with Lynton, so was clearly no warrior.
‘Go!’

‘Wait!’ shouted Arderne, when the monk tried to sidle past him. ‘No beadles. Let me explain. I was trying to
help
Motelete. I had nothing to do with his death. Tell him, Falmeresham.’

Falmeresham hesitated, giving the impression that he would rather like to land Arderne in trouble with a lie. Michael fixed
him with a glare.

‘Arderne and I were home with Isabel that night,’ he admitted, rather ruefully. ‘Then Motelete came in, gasping and retching.
Arderne waved his feather, chanted spells and even provided some of his precious urine, but nothing worked. Then he made me
carry the body here, to this graveyard.’

‘Cemeteries are imbued with power, because they are
haunted by the dead,’ explained Arderne. ‘Not that I expect you to understand such mysteries. I did all in my power to save
Motelete.’

‘It was your
feather
I saw!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, in sudden understanding. ‘I thought it was a dagger, and that murder was about to be committed.
But it was a long, blade-like feather.’

‘I wondered why you came at us so violently,’ said Falmeresham. He turned back to Arderne, his voice accusing. ‘You say you
tried everything, but you did not use charcoal mixed with milk, even though it was obvious from the blisters on Motelete’s
mouth that the substance was caustic.’

‘You know nothing,’ snapped Arderne. ‘Even I cannot cure everyone.’

‘You said you could,’ Falmeresham shot back. ‘And you used all the tricks at your disposal to help Motelete, but you were
useless. Doctor Bartholomew has saved people who have swallowed too much bryony.
You
could not.’

‘So, I am fallible,’ snarled Arderne. ‘Welcome to the real world.’

‘You are worse than fallible,’ shouted Falmeresham. ‘You are an ignoramus. And I can prove it.’

Arderne fingered his knife. ‘How?’ he asked dangerously.

‘Because of Isnard’s leg. After it was cut off, I was given the task of burying it. So I dug it up, to see for myself which
one of you was right. It was hopelessly smashed, and would never have healed. Doctor Bartholomew was right to amputate, and
I can show it to anyone who doubts him.’

‘You damned whelp!’ yelled Arderne, racing at him with his dagger. Bartholomew dived forward, but the ground was slippery
and he lost his footing to fall flat on his face.
Arderne tripped over him, and gave a great shriek of pain when he landed with his full weight on one arm.

‘Broken,’ said Bartholomew, extracting himself and inspecting it. ‘Would you like me to set it, or Robin?’

‘Stay away from me,’ howled Arderne. He looked for his knife, but it was lost in the grass.

‘All your “cures” come from a book written by witches,’ said Falmeresham accusingly. ‘I saw it last night. You are a heretic,
and Motelete told me you have killed people before. He said you—’

‘Lies!’ shrieked Arderne.

‘He said you left Norwich
and
London because people died,’ finished Falmeresham. ‘And he said that is usually why you are obliged to move on. But you will
not be going anywhere this time.’

‘Damn you!’ shouted Arderne furiously. ‘Damn you all!’

Michael summoned his beadles, and ordered them to escort Arderne to the proctors’ gaol. Once there, Arderne demanded medical
attention, on the grounds that he could hardly set his own arm. Bartholomew obliged when Arderne rejected Robin, then screeched
and wailed through the entire procedure. His cries echoed down the High Street, and the townsmen who heard them – word had
spread fast that the healer had been arrested – exchanged glances of disapproval.

Afterwards, ears still ringing, Bartholomew visited Isnard, who was in too great a fever to know who was bathing his head
and feeding him soothing tonics. Meanwhile, Michael went to Arderne’s lodgings, and when he returned to Michaelhouse that
evening, he had plentiful evidence of illicit practices. A dirty boy who kept house for the healer, and who was greatly relieved
when informed he would no longer be working for him, told Michael that Arderne had
left London because he had murdered a rival leech. A hue and cry had been raised, but the healer and his servants had escaped.
Arderne, Michael decided, would wait in gaol until he could be handed to the relevant authorities.

‘That is why he did nothing for the first few weeks after we arrived,’ the boy explained. ‘Partly to see who he needed to
destroy before he started his work, but partly because he wanted to be sure he had not been followed. He only began when he
was sure he was safe.’

‘Tell me,’ said the monk, his mind ranging along another avenue of thought, ‘did any scholars visit Arderne? Michaelhouse
scholars, such as Honynge?’

‘Not Honynge,’ said the boy. ‘Arderne did not like him, because he is arrogant, but Carton came sometimes. He said it was
to visit Falmeresham’s sickbed, but he spent more time with—’

‘Wait a moment,’ interrupted Michael. ‘Are you telling me Carton knew Falmeresham was alive
before
Falmeresham made his triumphant return to his College?’

‘Yes. It was Carton who paid for his treatment. Arderne does not work for free.’

Isabel was disgusted to learn she was about to lose a second home within hours of the first, but packed her bags quickly when
Michael said Arderne’s crimes might land her in hot water, too. She packed them even faster when he asked whether she had
done anything to hasten Maud’s demise.

‘If she did, then it would not have been by much,’ said Bartholomew. It was almost dark, and he and Michael were in the orchard
at the back of the College. A fallen apple tree provided a rough bench, and although it was really too cold to be outside,
it was better than sitting in the hall with noisy students, or sharing the conclave with Honynge. ‘Perhaps she did double
the dose, but it would have been
to bring a merciful release, not to escape into Arderne’s arms a day sooner.’

The physician was exhausted, because after tending Arderne and Isnard, he had gone to Peterhouse, to see if any more could
be learned about Lynton. He had spent hours with Wisbeche, trying in vain to unravel their colleague’s complex commercial
transactions. Later, he had pulled his hood over his head and gone to sit in the Angel, to see if anyone was ready to gossip
about Ocleye. It had been a rash thing to do, because Blankpayn caught him, and the situation might have turned violent had
Carton not caused a diversion that had allowed the physician to escape. Bartholomew was keen to ask the commoner why he had
been in the Angel in the first place, but Carton claimed he had pressing business elsewhere, and left without answering questions.

‘If Isabel did take matters into her own hands,’ said Michael, shivering as he pulled his cloak more closely around him, ‘it
is murder.’

‘Some would call it compassion.’ Despite his weariness, Bartholomew was too agitated to sit, so paced back and forth. The
killer or killers of Lynton, Ocleye and Motelete were still free, and he could not see a way through the maze of facts and
information they had assembled. He was also worried about the next day’s Convocation, afraid that a gathering of scholars
in one place might prove too great a temptation for the many people who wished the University harm. And finally, he was concerned
for Isnard, suspecting Arderne might be about to claim yet another victim.

Michael sighed. ‘Well, we have dramatically rid ourselves of one suspect – two, if we count Isabel – but we are still in the
dark as regards the real killer. Do you think Falmeresham poisoned Motelete, as Arderne is claiming?’

‘Falmeresham would not have used bryony, because he
knows it leaves detectable traces. Arderne is trying to avenge himself, because Falmeresham’s testimony saw him imprisoned.’

‘Then we are left with four suspects: Candelby, Blankpayn, Spaldynge and Honynge. Five, if we count Carton, who is guilty
of some very odd behaviour. Which is the culprit, do you think?’

Bartholomew shrugged, still pacing. ‘Is Blankpayn sufficiently clever to fool you? Meanwhile, Spaldynge does not seem the
kind of man who would want the town awash with blood, although …’

‘Although he gambled at the Dispensary and sold his College’s property without permission,’ finished Michael. ‘And he despises
physicians – like Lynton – because they were useless in the plague. And
that
is strange, is it not? Lynton was the
medicus
who could not save Spaldynge’s family from the Death, yet Spaldynge deigned to join him on Friday nights to gamble.’

‘I doubt Spaldynge wants to harm the entire University,’ said Bartholomew, although his tone was uncertain. ‘Blankpayn would,
though. If anything horrible happens tomorrow, you can be sure he will be taking part.’

‘I do not know what to do for the best. Should I cancel the Convocation?’

‘If you do, the landlords will be furious, and may set light to St Mary the Great anyway.’

‘The culprit is Honynge,’ said Michael, after another pause. ‘I
know
it is. He took against me from the moment we met – when I was obliged to investigate the death of Wenden.’

‘Who?’ asked Bartholomew tiredly.

‘The Clare Fellow who was stabbed by the tinker on Ash Wednesday. He was Honynge’s friend, if you recall, and had been walking
home from Zachary Hostel when he was
attacked. Wenden had forgotten his hat, and Honynge ran after him, to give it back. He saw the tinker, and he heard the sound
of a bow being loosed. We found the tinker drowned a few days later.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘I had forgotten Wenden was killed by a crossbow. Are you sure it was the tinker who shot him?
Crossbow deaths are not very common.’

‘Wenden’s purse was found among the tinker’s belongings – it was clear evidence of his guilt.’

‘And it was Honynge’s testimony that allowed you to deduce all this?’

‘I see where you are going with this. Lord! I hope I have not made a terrible mistake.’

Bartholomew flopped down next to him. ‘Perhaps you should reopen the case.’

‘Perhaps I should.’ The monk shivered again. ‘I cannot believe I am sitting out here in the cold, while Honynge enjoys the
fire in
my
conclave. What am I thinking?’

‘That you prefer my company to his – and I do not want to be anywhere near him. He is too argumentative. Take the fire if
you will, but I am staying here.’

‘We must
do
something – and soon, because I have never known the town more uneasy than when I was walking home this evening. The inevitable
has happened: folk are muttering that we arrested Arderne to keep the medical business in University hands.’

Bartholomew tensed suddenly. ‘Look! There is someone in the trees! Grab that branch, Brother! You may need it to defend yourself.’

‘It is only Cynric,’ said Michael, peering through the gloom. ‘God’s blood, Matt! You frightened me!’

‘Come quickly,’ called Cynric, hurrying towards them. ‘Honynge has been poisoned.’

* * *

Bartholomew and Michael raced to the hall to find Honynge sitting on a bench with one hand clasped to his mouth and the other
to his stomach. An upturned cup lay beside him, and virtually every member of the College stood in a silent semicircle nearby.
The students looked frightened, Wynewyk concerned, William pleased, and Tyrington shocked. Carton stood slightly apart, his
face oddly blank. The servants, who had been in the process of preparing a light supper of ale and oatcakes, formed a line
by the screen, watching the proceedings uneasily. Agatha was among them, scowling, because she disliked her College torn by
rifts and divisions. Langelee came to explain what had happened.

‘Honynge was holding forth about the dog in this morning’s egg-mess when he complained of a pain in his mouth. Then he said
he had gripes in his belly. And then he claimed he had been poisoned.’

‘He was struck down by God, for blaming the dog incident on me,’ announced William, not even trying to disguise his delight
with the situation. ‘It is divine justice.’

‘It is not!’ cried Honynge. ‘I have been poisoned by someone who wants me to die.’

‘Doctor Bartholomew will save you,’ said Deynman with touching confidence. ‘Do not worry.’

‘He may have been the one who tried to kill me,’ wailed Honynge.

‘This will not be an easy murder to solve,’ whispered Wynewyk in the monk’s ear. ‘The students like him well enough, but the
Fellows and commoners think him an ass.’

Bartholomew picked up the cup, noting that most of its contents lay splattered across the floor, so Honynge had probably ingested
very little. He sniffed it gingerly, then inspected Honynge’s mouth. It was covered in small blisters. He turned to the watching
throng.

‘Agatha, will you bring me some milk and eggs?’

‘Are you hungry, then?’ she asked, startled. ‘Should you not see to Honynge first?’

‘Fetch the pressed charcoal from my storeroom,’ he ordered Deynman, loath to take the time to explain to her. ‘And the emetic
in the red flask.’

‘But that is a powerful purge,’ said Deynman, wide-eyed. ‘It will make someone violently sick.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Bartholomew patiently. ‘That is the intention.’