To Kill or Cure: The Thirteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘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.’

  ‘Even if all that is true, and Candelby did kill Lynton, he could not have shot Ocleye, too. Arderne had taken him away by the time the brawl started. He was not there.’

  ‘He must have come back,’ countered Michael. ‘It was a perfect opportunity to blame a violent death on a street disturbance. And, not content with that, he now wants the town to believe Ocleye was killed by a scholar – to make him a martyr, so people will fight over it.’

  Bartholomew considered Candelby as the culprit. ‘I suppose he may have hired an accomplice, which would account for him being elsewhere when Ocleye was killed.’

  ‘This rent agreement makes no sense, though,’ mused Michael. ‘Even if Ocleye did have hidden riches, why elect to do business with Lynton? Why not Candelby, his master? Candelby has vacant lodgings aplenty, because our students are beginning to move out – either he has declined to make repairs so the buildings have become uninhabitable, or he has refused to renew their leases.’

  Bartholomew was becoming frustrated by the questions that tumbled unanswered in his mind. ‘Why does Candelby want the streets running with blood? Surely he must know that if the dispute escalates, rioting scholars are likely to target his properties? He might find himself with burned-out shells in place of his handsome mansions.’

  ‘If our scholars do destroy his houses, we will be forced to pay him compensation. He is bound to claim a higher value than their actual worth; he may even come out ahead.’

  ‘I am not unsympathetic to his grievances,’ said Bartholomew, earning himself a glare. ‘The University has kept rents artificially low for decades, and it is hard on the town.’

  ‘If we allowed landlords free rein, they would charge a fortune. Scholars would spend all their money on housing, and would be unable to pay their academic fees. The University would founder and die. But I see we will not agree about this, so we had better discuss something else. What did you make of Arderne’s miraculous cure? Candelby’s arm looked horribly bruised to me.’

  ‘Bruising is all that is wrong with it – Arderne did not knit shattered bones. I imagine it was numb immediately after the accident, which accounts for why it could be pulled around without pain. The “discolouration” Arderne says will fade in two weeks would have done so anyway.’

  Michael grimaced. ‘Even I can tell Arderne is a fraud, and it is clear that he intends to have Cambridge to himself, medically speaking. I only hope people see through his tricks before he does some serious harm – and not only to his hapless patients. He clearly wants to hurt you, too.’

  ‘He can try. Leeches have invaded the town before, but they make promises they cannot keep, and it is not long before people turn against them.’

  ‘You are underestimating the risk,’ warned Michael. ‘There is something charismatic about Arderne that makes people more inclined to listen – something to do with his eyes. But I see we will not agree on this, either, so we had better return to the subject of murder.’

  Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘You are right to be suspicious of Candelby. He does have a powerful motive.’

  Michael nodded. ‘Jealousy – because Lynton was making money hand over fist by leasing his houses to townsmen, while Candelby himself is forced to accept pittances from scholars.’

  ‘Is he your only suspect?’

  ‘No. Lynton may have accumulated some dissatisfied patients. Plus we only have Wisbeche’s word that Peterhouse is a peaceful College – we must ask others if there were private disputes among the Fellowship. And then, of course, there are Lynton’s rival physicians.’

  Bartholomew gazed at him in horror. ‘You think Paxtone or Rougham might be responsible?’

  Michael nodded slowly. ‘Suddenly, a lucrative post is available—’

  ‘It is not available. Wisbeche intends to keep it vacant, to save money.’

  ‘But that decision has only been made public today,’ argued Michael. ‘Until then, we all assumed Lynton would be replaced. Peterhouse Fellows have a far more luxurious existence than those of us who live in most other Colleges, and it would not surprise me to learn someone had killed him for his post. Obviously, I know you are innocent, but I certainly hope no one saw you whip that bolt from Lynton’s body or finds out that you later disguised the wound.’

  ‘On reflection, they were stupid things to have done – at the time, I just wanted to avert trouble.’ Bartholomew turned his thoughts back to Michael’s distressing contention. ‘But no one will think we physicians killed Lynton, Brother! I am happy at Michaelhouse, Paxtone is extremely well looked after at King’s Hall, and Rougham is one of Gonville’s founding Fellows, and will never leave it for another College. Of course, Arderne might fancy himself a University man.’

  ‘He might – and it does not take a genius to see he is a ruthless villain who will stop at nothing to get what he wants. However, my favourite suspect remai
ns Candelby. What did you think of his claim that he saw nothing suspicious when Lynton died?’

  ‘He might have been telling the truth. Maud was with him, and he has been courting her for months. It is possible that he had no eyes for anything but the woman he loves.’

  ‘Piffle! A man like him has eyes everywhere, even when his lady of choice sits at his side. We shall visit Maud this afternoon, and have her version of events.’

  ‘We are due to attend Lynton’s requiem mass in an hour, so it will have to be after that.’

  Michael glanced up at the sky. ‘Lynton puts me in mind of Kenyngham. I know you say his death was natural – and I said I believe you – but the letter offering me that reward keeps preying on my mind. Will you look at him again before he goes in the ground, just to be sure?’

  Bartholomew suppressed a sigh. ‘If you like, but I will find nothing amiss. He just died, Brother. People do. You should know that by now.’

  ‘Yes, but they do it rather too often in Cambridge. I sometimes wonder whether I would be safer back at my abbey in Ely. I could be prior in a couple of years, and then I would have myself appointed as bishop somewhere. Not London – too many people. Ely or Durham would be best.’

  Bartholomew struggled not to gape at him. ‘Those are lofty ambitions.’

  ‘Do you not think me capable? I have been running the University for years, and the Church is not so different.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ said Bartholomew, declining to comment further. ‘And you are right about one thing – it will almost certainly be safer than life in Cambridge.’

  CHAPTER 4

  The next day was windy, and bright white clouds scudded across a pale blue sky with the sun dodging in and out between them. It was Bartholomew’s turn to preside over the morning debate, which he did with help from Carton, which was appreciated, and from Deynman, which was not. Meanwhile, Michael had persuaded several landlords to talk to him about the rent impasse, and was due to meet them in the Chancellor’s office at St Mary the Great. The monk intended to reiterate the fact that he did not have the authority to triple the hostels’ rents, and then inform the landlords that they would be considerably worse off if the King became involved – which he would, unless they came to their senses and agreed to negotiate a settlement.

  Unfortunately for Michael, Candelby had got wind of the gathering, and was among the sheepish burgesses who were waiting at the church. Candelby refused to accept that he was breaking the law by ousting scholars from their hostels, and, in a calculated effort to annoy, repeated his ultimatum over and over again, simultaneously placing his hands over his ears so he could not hear anything the monk said. The meeting went nowhere, and Michael brought it to a close with a sigh of frustration. His agitation increased further still when Beadle Meadowman reported that he had made no headway in discovering Falmeresham’s fate, and Junior Proctor Bukenham described two brawls between scholars and townsmen the previous night, one of which had ended in a fatal stabbing.

  He sent a message to Michaelhouse, asking his Corpse Examiner to meet him at St Edward’s Church the moment the disputation was over, and then struggled to find beds for scholars from Tyled Hostel and Cousin’s Place, rendered homeless when landlords had refused to renew their leases. Bartholomew was waiting at St Edward’s when he arrived, although it did not require an expert to tell him that the great slash in the student’s abdomen had been the cause of death, or that it had been made by a knife. Monk and physician stared unhappily at the body.

  ‘He was just a child,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘No more than fifteen.’

  ‘Old enough to shoot arrows at your brother-in-law’s apprentices, though. Thank God he missed! We arrested his killer this morning, but many are saying the fellow was right to rid the town of a student who is overly eager for a fight. I have a bad feeling I might be calling on your services more often than I would like in future. Damn Candelby and his greed!’

  ‘We should visit Clare,’ said Bartholomew, keen to resume their investigation. ‘It is all taking far too long, and I feel answers slipping away from us with every passing moment. Falmeresham …’

  ‘We will find him,’ said Michael, when he faltered into silence. But his voice lacked conviction, and it was obvious his hopes for a happy ending were fading fast.

  ‘I am sorry I could not come with you to see Maud Bowyer yesterday,’ said Bartholomew as they left the church. ‘Prior Morden was ill again, and I could not leave him until I was sure he was feeling better. What did she tell you about the accident?’

  Michael rubbed a hand over his eyes, tired and disheartened. ‘Nothing. She was too ill to receive visitors, so I had a wasted journey. It seems answers are destined to elude us on this case, Matt, no matter how hard we try to find them.’

  It was not far to Clare, but the journey took longer than it should have done, because people were worried about the escalating trouble, and kept stopping Michael to ask about it. It was not just scholars who were concerned. Bartholomew’s brother-in-law, Oswald Stanmore, demanded to know what was being done to defuse the situation, and the physician’s sister, Edith, begged him to leave Michaelhouse and stay with her in Trumpington until the matter was resolved.

  ‘He cannot leave me to fight this alone,’ objected Michael, indignant that he had not been invited, too. Edith kept a good table, and the monk disliked the notion that his friend might spend the holidays eating while he quelled riots.

  ‘He should,’ said Edith, a little curtly. She and Bartholomew had always been close, because as ten years his senior, she had cared for him after the early death of their parents. ‘The dispute is largely of your making. If you agreed to parley, then we might have some peace.’

  Michael gaped at her. ‘I have agreed to parley! In fact, I wasted a good part of the morning trying to discuss terms, but no one would listen to me. I am not the problem here.’

  Stanmore scratched his neat beard. ‘Candelby told us burgesses that he is willing to compromise, but you refuse to raise the rents by a single penny. And his henchman Blankpayn backs him up.’

  ‘Lies!’ cried Michael, incensed.

  ‘Did you know Magister Arderne claims to have healed Blankpayn’s leprous sores, Matt?’ asked Edith, while the monk furiously regaled her husband with a catalogue of Candelby’s misdeeds and shortcomings. ‘You told me leprosy was incurable.’

  ‘Blankpayn did not have leprosy,’ said Bartholomew, startled. ‘I would have noticed.’

  ‘Arderne said he did – and added that no medicus worth his salt should have missed it. It was a dig at you, of course. I detest that man!’

  ‘Have you seen Blankpayn recently?’ Bartholomew was more interested in soliciting information than hearing about the healer’s mad claims. ‘He has disappeared, along with Falmeresham.’

  ‘I am so sorry.’ Edith touched his arm in a gesture of sympathy. ‘I know you were fond of Falmeresham, and he was close to graduating, too. It is a great pity.’

  ‘He is not dead,’ said Bartholomew sharply, not liking her use of the past tense.

  She smiled sympathetically. ‘Of course not. I will light a candle for him this afternoon.’

  ‘You will need her prayers for yourselves soon,’ said Stanmore, speaking through Michael’s tirade. ‘I understand you have elected Honynge and Tyrington to your Fellowship. You must have been desperate, because neither are men I would choose for company at the dinner table. Tyrington would spit all over the food, and Honynge would rather talk to himself than the person sitting next to him.’

  Edith was more willing to see the good in people. ‘Honynge is patient with his students, and Tyrington is amiable company.’

  ‘Lord!’ breathed Stanmore suddenly, beginning to pull his wife away. ‘Here comes Robin of Grantchester. I can smell him from here, so forgive us for not lingering to greet him.’

  Robin was looking even more disreputable than usual, because he had been drinking. He held a wine flask in his hand, his eyes were bloodshot,
and his hair was lank and unkempt. When he saw Bartholomew, he staggered forward and grabbed his hand. The physician struggled not to recoil from the warm, moist palm and the stink of old blood that hovered around the man.

  ‘Arderne will ruin us unless we make a stand,’ the surgeon slurred. ‘So you, Paxtone, Rougham and I must present a united front. Such tactics are working for Candelby – he has enticed other landlords to his side, and now the University is squealing like a stuck pig.’

  Bartholomew freed his wrist. ‘Arderne is a fraud, so it is only a matter of time before he—’

  ‘You are wrong,’ snapped Robin. ‘He has already destroyed my practice, and it will not be long before he starts on yours. I am all but finished – and so will you be, if you do not resist him.’

  Bartholomew was bemused. ‘How can you be finished? He has only been here a week.’

  ‘Seven weeks,’ corrected Robin. ‘He did nothing but sit in taverns at first, listening to gossip. Then he went into action. He cured two people I said would die, and that was just the beginning.’

  ‘You do tend to make overly gloomy prognoses.’ Bartholomew had ‘cured’ people Robin had said would not survive himself. ‘You should consider being a little more optimistic.’

  ‘But most of my patients do die,’ wailed Robin. ‘I only treat them as a last resort, when I might as well earn a bit of money from a lost cause. The latest disaster was over that Clare boy – Motelete. I saw him stabbed and went to help, but I failed. Publicly.’

  ‘Did you see who killed him?’ asked Michael eagerly.

  Robin shook his head. ‘All I saw was Motelete drop to the ground with his hand to his neck, blood spurting everywhere. I am a surgeon, and spurting blood is my cue, so I rushed forward to see if I could stem the flow. As you know, clean wounds can often be mended, and I was hopeful of a fee.’