To Kill or Cure (6 page)

‘No!’ breathed Bartholomew. He started to run towards his stricken student, but did not get far. One of the patrons swung
a punch that caught him squarely on the side of the jaw. He went down hard, and was forced to cover his head with his hands
when there was a sudden, furious rush to join the ensuing affray. He tried to stand, but was knocked down again by someone
crashing into him. He heard Michael bellowing, ordering everyone home. Then the bells of St John Zachary started to ring,
warning scholars that trouble was afoot. More men started to pour into the street.

Bartholomew managed to struggle upright, looking around wildly around for his friends. He could not see Falmeresham, and hoped
that Carton had dragged him to safety. Meanwhile, Michael was backed against the broken cart, fending off two masons, who
were threatening him with daggers. Bartholomew retrieved the heavy childbirth forceps from the medicine bag he always wore
looped across his shoulder, and struck one on the shoulder. The other spun around to fight him, but backed away when he saw
a knife was no match for an expertly wielded surgical implement.

Michael gazed at the pushing, shoving mêlée with undisguised fury. He stalked to a trough that was used for watering horses,
and in a massive show of strength – for all his lard, he was a physically powerful man – upended it. Green water shot across
the street, drenching the legs of anyone close by. There were indignant howls as the skirmishers tried to duck out of the
way.

‘Enough!’ roared the monk. His livid face made several scholars slink away before he started to issue fines. ‘You
should be ashamed of yourselves, brawling on Easter Day! Go home, all of you, and do not come out again until you are in a
more peaceful frame of mind.’

Bartholomew was astonished when people began to do as they were told. There were some resentful grumbles, but it was not long
before the horde had dissipated.

‘Where is Falmeresham?’ demanded Bartholomew of Carton, who was standing uncertainly nearby. ‘I thought he was with you.’

‘I thought he was with
you
,’ countered the Franciscan alarmed. ‘I saw you dash towards him, but I had no wish to fight Blankpayn and his henchmen, so
I hung back.’

‘He will have gone home,’ said Michael, still glaring at the dispersing mob. ‘He is not a fool, to loiter in a place where
daggers were flailing.’

‘He could not go anywhere – he was stabbed,’ said Carton in a hushed, shocked whisper. He put his hand to his side, just above
the hip bone. ‘Here. I should have overcome my terror and tried to reach him.’

‘Easy,’ said Michael. There was blood on Carton’s mouth, indicating he had not been entirely successful in avoiding the violence.
‘We will find him.’

‘Perhaps Blankpayn took him prisoner.’ Carton declined to be comforted, and was working himself into an agony of worry. ‘Perhaps
he intends to hold Falmeresham hostage, to blackmail our University over these rents. He is Candelby’s lickspittle, and will
do anything for him.’

‘Blankpayn does not have the wits to devise such a devious plan,’ said Michael. ‘Falmeresham will be home at Michaelhouse.
Go, see if you can find him.’

The friar hurried away, anxiety stamped across his portly features, and Michael sighed. ‘Lord save us! Will you fetch a bier
for Lynton, Matt? We cannot leave him here, because our students may use his corpse as an excuse for
another fracas – claim he was murdered or some such nonsense.’

‘Actually, Brother,’ said Bartholomew softly, ‘he died because he was shot. He
was
murdered.’

The conclave at Michaelhouse was a pleasant chamber adjoining the main hall. It was the undisputed domain of the Fellows,
and they used it when they met to discuss College business or to relax in the evenings, leaving the hall free for students
and commoners. It was an arrangement that suited everyone – the senior members had a place where they were safe from the demands
of overenthusiastic students, and the junior ones were left to their own devices for a few hours, as long as they were not
too unruly. Fortunately, the students liked being trusted, and were invariably better behaved when they were alone than when
anyone was monitoring them. The upshot was that Michaelhouse had a reputation for harmony among its scholars, and Langelee
had been asked by several envious masters for the secret of his success.

However, there was none of the usual laughter and music in the conclave or the hall that Easter. Kenyngham’s death created
a pall of sadness that hung over everyone, and the College had never been so quiet. Langelee, who had been fretting over the
fact that he would be three teachers short in the forthcoming term – with two away and one dead – asked his four remaining
Fellows to join him in the conclave an hour before dawn the following day. They would hold an emergency meeting, during which
a replacement for Kenyngham would be chosen. It was an unusual time for such a gathering, but Langelee was not a man to dither
once his mind was made up.

Bartholomew was early, so he began to prepare the room while he waited for the others. He placed stools around the table,
retrieved the College statutes and the Master’s sceptre from the wall-cupboard, and found parchment and ink so Wynewyk could
make a record of the proceedings.

‘I did not sleep a wink,’ said Michael, when he arrived a few moments later. He took his customary seat near the window. ‘Neither
did you. I heard you come home just moments ago.’

‘I was out all night, looking for Falmeresham,’ replied the physician tiredly. He had changed his wet, muddy clothes, but
there had been no time to rest – not that he felt like sleeping anyway. Each time he closed his eyes, he could see the student
falling to his knees, hand clasped to his bleeding side. ‘I cannot imagine where he might have gone – or where someone may
have taken him.’

‘Does he have family in Cambridge? Or friends in another College?’

‘His family live in Norfolk. And you always advise against fraternising with scholars from other foundations, lest it leads
to quarrels, so his closest friends are here, in Michaelhouse.’

‘How badly do you think he was injured? Perhaps he has collapsed somewhere.’

Bartholomew rubbed his eyes. ‘Cynric and I have searched every garden, lane and churchyard between here and the place he was
attacked – and knocked on the door of every house. If he had wandered off and lost consciousness somewhere, we would have
found him.’

Michael was worried. ‘Do you think Carton is right – that Blankpayn has done something to him? Blankpayn
is
Candelby’s henchman, and Candelby will do anything to harm the University.’

‘I tried to talk to Blankpayn, but he is mysteriously unavailable.’

‘Not so mysteriously.
I
would not linger if
I
had stabbed someone. It looked like an accident, but that may not save his neck if Falmeresham is found … harmed. I hope it
does not mean he
knows
he killed the lad, and is lying low until the fuss dies down.’

Bartholomew refused to contemplate such an eventuality. ‘Blankpayn’s friends say he has gone to visit his mother in Madingley.
She summoned me once, for a fever, so I know he
has
a mother.’

Agitated, Michael paced, his thoughts switching to another matter he was obliged to investigate. ‘After this meeting, I want
you to examine Lynton’s body. I need to know
exactly
how he died.’

‘I have told you already – there is a crossbow quarrel embedded in his chest.’

‘That does not correspond to eyewitnesses’ accounts. The Carmelite novices – an unruly gaggle, but not one given to lying
– say Lynton was riding down Milne Street when his mare began to buck. He tumbled off, and a hoof caught his head as he fell.’

‘Then perhaps the horse was frightened by the sound of the bolt impaling its victim. There
is
a cut on Lynton’s head, either from a flailing hoof or from him hitting the ground, so the Carmelites’ account is not entirely
incompatible with the evidence. However, the fatal injury was caused by the missile, not the nag.’

Michael sighed. ‘If you say so. But who would want to kill Lynton? Other than you, that is.’

Bartholomew regarded him in astonishment. ‘Why would I want to kill him?’

Michael smiled wanly. ‘I am not accusing you. However, it may occur to others that Lynton challenged you to public
debates on several occasions, because he thought your teaching was heretical. You must have found it a nuisance – I certainly
would have done.’

‘On the contrary, I enjoyed the discussions. That is what a university is for, Brother – to pit wits against intellectual
equals. I learned a lot from sparring with Lynton.’

‘I doubt
he
felt the same way. He was not very good at defending his preference for old-fashioned practices over your more efficacious
new ones, and I suspect the reason
you
enjoyed these dialogues is because you always won.’

‘Medicine was not the only subject we aired,’ said Bartholomew, sure Michael was wrong. Lynton might have disagreed with his
theories, but their many disputations had always been conducted without malice or anger. ‘At our last public debate, we talked
about Heytesbury’s mean speed theorem – whether it is correct to assume that velocity is uniformly accelerated.’

‘I bet that had your audience on the edge of their seats,’ remarked Michael dryly.

Bartholomew nodded earnestly. ‘It did, actually. In fact, I was surprised by how much attention it generated. We were scheduled
to use Merton Hall, but so many scholars wanted to listen we had to move to St Mary the Great instead.’

‘I remember. My beadles thought you and Lynton were up to no good, because they could not imagine why else so many men would
be clamouring to hear a debate on such a subject.’

‘Is that why they were all standing at the back? To avert trouble? I assumed they were there for the theoretical physics.’

Michael struggled not to laugh. ‘We are getting away from the point – which is that Lynton held archaic beliefs, and that
you were his intellectual superior.
Ergo
, you must
prepare yourself for accusations. If he really was murdered, then his academic rivals are the obvious suspects.’

‘Then perhaps we should keep the truth about his death quiet until we know who did it.’ Bartholomew took the bloodstained
missile from his medical bag, and studied it thoughtfully. ‘No one else saw the wound, and I have the bolt here.’

Michael gaped in horror. ‘You hauled it out in the middle of the street? After I had just quelled a riot, and when Lynton’s
colleagues were standing around him, bemoaning the tragedy of his death? My God, man! What were you thinking?’

‘That it seemed the right thing to do,’ said Bartholomew defensively. ‘The Peterhouse Fellows were distraught, and I did not
want one to see the bolt and claim Candelby had put it there. If that had happened, you would have had your riot for certain.’

‘Why did you not tell me what you had done straight away?’ demanded Michael, unappeased.

‘Because I forgot in the race to find Falmeresham. There has been no time for chatting.’

Michael regarded him with round eyes. ‘Well, please do not do it again. I have more than enough to concern me, without worrying
about what my Corpse Examiner might be doing behind my back. Do you know how I spent much of last night? Trying to persuade
Candelby that Lynton did not ride at him on purpose. It was a difficult case to argue, because I could tell from the wreckage
that Lynton
was
the one at fault. His mare
did
careen into the man’s cart.’

‘Perhaps he was already dead at that point.’

‘You think he was shot first, and then the horse panicked? It did not happen the other way around – Lynton rode at Candelby
and was shot as a consequence?’

‘Medicine cannot tell you that, Brother. However, Lynton was gentle, and I do not see him using a horse as a weapon with which
to batter people.’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘The obvious suspect for Lynton’s murder is Candelby.’

‘Why? He did not emerge unscathed from the encounter.’

‘Perhaps he did not anticipate the horse bucking in his direction. The rent war has turned him hostile to
all
scholars, and a wealthy one on a fine mare might well have inspired a murderous rage. However, crossbows are unwieldy objects
– you do not whip one from under your cloak and slip a quick bolt into an enemy. It has to be wound first, and that would
have attracted attention.’

Bartholomew showed him the missile. ‘It is a very small arrow, so I suspect it did come from a weapon that was easily concealed.
However, the murder was committed on a main road in broad daylight, so some degree of stealth was needed, or someone would
have seen him.’

Michael inspected it thoughtfully. ‘The Church of St John Zachary has a nice leafy churchyard – an ideal place to lurk with
a bow.’

‘Then Candelby is not your culprit, because he was in a cart with Maud Bowyer when the weapon was discharged.’

Michael was becoming frustrated. ‘Who, then? One of Lynton’s Peterhouse colleagues?’

‘Peterhouse has its squabbles, but none are serious enough to warrant murder.’

‘A patient, then? Perhaps he killed one by mistake.’

Bartholomew considered the suggestion. ‘It is possible. There are so many illnesses that we cannot cure, and bereaved kin
make for bitter enemies.’

‘That healer – Arderne – claims
he
can cure anything. He waved his feather at a man Paxtone said would die,
and the fellow was up and strolling along the High Street yesterday.’

Bartholomew frowned, but declined to say what he thought of cures that required the waving of feathers. ‘There is a famous
physician called John Arderne. He specialises in anal fistula – not a life-threatening condition, but an acutely uncomfortable
one. Perhaps he and Richard Arderne are kin.’

‘My beadles tell me that our Arderne has already provoked public spats with Rougham, and we saw him denigrate Robin ourselves,
so he is clearly intent on locking horns with the town’s
medici
. We cannot have a quarrel leading to a brawl, just because he wants a forum for advertising his skills, so stay away from
him – no asking questions about his family, please.’