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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘The good Samaritan,’ murmured Michael.

  ‘Motelete was gurgling and gasping, and I saw there was no hope. So I moved away, lest anyone think I had injured him because I was desperate for work. Well, I am desperate for work, but I—’

  ‘Motelete died almost instantly?’ asked Bartholomew.

  Robin nodded unhappily. ‘He twitched a while, then lay still. But all of a sudden, Arderne was looming over me. He had taken Candelby home, and had come out to buy tallow grease – something to do with waxing his feather. He ordered me to heal Motelete.’

  ‘I thought you said Motelete was dead.’ Bartholomew was becoming confused.

  ‘He was dead,’ cried Robin. ‘But Arderne said he could have been saved if I had been any good at my job.’

  There was a very real possibility that Arderne was correct. Robin was not skilled at his trade, and another surgeon might well have saved the boy’s life. But it was not the time to say so.

  ‘Buy a new coat, Robin,’ suggested Michael kindly. ‘People like a smart medicus, because he inspires confidence. Invest in some shiny new implements, and see what happens to your practice then.’

  The surgeon looked ready to cry, but sensed he had been dismissed and slunk away. When Bartholomew looked back a few moments later, he saw two potters pick up some mud and lob it. Robin scuttled down the nearest alley like a frightened rat, and Bartholomew suspected they were kin to someone who had suffered the surgeon’s clumsy ministrations. If word was spreading that Robin was incompetent, then he could expect reprisals from a good many people. Perhaps he had been right when he predicted he was finished in Cambridge.

  Ralph Kardington, Master of Clare, was a sallow-faced lawyer with a huge gap between his front teeth that made him lisp. It meant he was difficult to understand unless he spoke Latin, which he tended to annunciate more carefully than English or French. As a consequence, most scholars used Latin when they were with him, and because he seldom conversed with townsmen, he was left with the impression that every Englishman employed it all of the time. He often bemoaned the loss of the vernacular, and was invariably surprised when no one agreed with him.

  ‘Salve, Brother,’ he said, hurrying to greet his visitors. ‘I assume you are here about Motelete? His body lies in the Church of St John Zachary. You must find the villain who dispatched him. First Wenden, now Motelete. What is the world coming to?’

  ‘He refers to the Clare Fellow who died on Lady Day,’ explained Michael in a low voice to Bartholomew. ‘Wenden was killed by that drunken tinker, if you recall.’

  ‘It is a pity Wenden’s murderer fell in the river and drowned,’ Kardington went on. ‘It meant the affair was quickly forgotten, because no example was made of him. And now look what has happened – Clare has lost a second scholar to a townsman’s spiteful blade.’

  ‘I believe Motelete was killed by a pot-boy named Ocleye,’ said Michael hastily, alarmed by the way the Master was blaming the town. If his students felt the same – or they heard Kardington hold forth about it – there would be bloody reprisals for certain. ‘But Motelete made an end of his attacker before he breathed his last, so vengeance has already been had.’

  ‘I heard these rumours, too,’ replied Kardington, ‘but they cannot be true. Motelete was a gentle, timid lad, and would never have harmed anyone.’

  ‘He was killed during a brawl,’ Michael pointed out. ‘Gentle, timid lads tend to avoid those.’

  Kardington was indignant. ‘Lynton died right by our gates, so of course we all rushed out to see what was happening – it is human nature to be curious. Unfortunately, the situation turned violent faster than any one could have predicted. You were there, Brother. You know I am right.’

  ‘Matters did spiral out of control rather quickly,’ the monk acknowledged cautiously.

  ‘Poor Motelete! He was by far the quietest of my lads. Ask his friends – they will all tell the same thing. Are you sure Ocleye was his killer?’

  ‘No,’ admitted Michael. ‘Not completely.’

  Kardington sighed and some of the ire went out of him. ‘If you conduct a thorough investigation, and at the end of it you say you are satisfied that Ocleye was the culprit, then that will mark the end of the affair for us. We trust you, Brother. You did track down Wenden’s killer, after all.’

  Michael was touched by his faith. ‘Then I promise to do all in my power to find the truth. Do you mind answering a few questions about Motelete?’

  ‘You may ask me, my Fellows or my students anything you like.’

  ‘Did Motelete know Ocleye, or did he ever visit the Angel tavern?’

  ‘No – to both questions. I know our undergraduates defy the ban on alehouses and sneak out to partake of the Angel’s excellent pies, but not Motelete. He was too new and too wary, and had so far resisted his friends’ attempts to include him in their rule-breaking.’

  ‘How long had he been enrolled?’

  ‘Two months or so. He hailed from near Ely, and this was his first time away from home. He was lonely and frightened, and was lucky we happened to have a vacancy. I do not think he would have fared well in a hostel – they can be rough places. Colleges tend to be more genteel.’

  ‘So, the only people he knew were at Clare?’ asked Michael, ignoring the gross generalisation.

  ‘Yes. However, before you start thinking that one of us might have dispatched him, consider this: the moment punches started to fly, I ordered all my scholars home. The only one missing when we arrived was Motelete.’

  ‘Will your students confirm this?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Ask them – they are in the hall with their Latin grammars. We can go there now if you wish.’ Kardington shook his head sadly. ‘Our boys must be fluent in Latin if they are to live in England. I spoke to Tyrington in English the other day, and he did not understand a word I said.’

  ‘How did you resolve the situation regarding Spaldynge?’ asked Michael conversationally, as they walked towards the hall. ‘He sold a hostel that belonged to your College, which was remiss of him.’

  ‘Remiss is one word for it,’ replied Kardington. ‘Borden Hostel was Clare property, and Spaldynge should have asked our permission before he hawked it.’

  ‘He should not have sold it at all – with your permission or without it,’ said Michael coolly. ‘I issued a writ, requesting that all University foundations should hold on to any property until the rent dispute is resolved. But that is not what I asked: my question was what did you do about it? Did you send him down? Order him to repurchase the building?’

  ‘It was too late for the latter,’ said Kardington ruefully. ‘Candelby declined to give it back to us.’

  ‘Candelby?’ Michael was aghast. ‘Spaldynge disposed of Borden to Candelby? How could he, when every scholar knows Candelby is intent on destroying us? This is outrageous!’

  Kardington looked pained. ‘I know, and we are very sorry. Spaldynge has been reprimanded, and we have rescinded his Fellowship – he only holds the post of commoner now.’

  Michael was unappeased. ‘Is that all? He should be excommunicated! I doubt he got a fair price for this hostel if Candelby was the buyer.’

  ‘Actually, he struck an extremely good bargain. He used some money to feed his students, but the rest is in our coffers. Had we known his lads were starving, we would have helped him out, but we thought he was exaggerating when he made his reports. The disaster was partly our fault.’

  ‘Perhaps I should fine you, then, because someone should bear the consequences of his actions. That sale put me in a very awkward position, and Candelby—’

  ‘So, you are minus two teachers now – Spaldynge demoted and Wenden dead,’ interrupted Bartholomew, to prevent Michael from scolding the Master of a powerful foundation like an errant schoolboy. ‘How do you manage with lessons?’

  ‘Wenden actually did very little tutoring,’ explained Kardington, shooting Michael an unpleasant look. ‘And this is not generally known, but he held a non-stipendiary
post anyway – we did not pay him to be here. So, we cannot appoint another Fellow in his place, because we do not have the funds for a salary – not that it really matters, given that his death did not rob us of a master, anyway.’

  ‘When he was killed,’ began Michael, regarding Kardington disapprovingly, ‘you admitted that he had no students and did not contribute to College life. You also told me that he was tolerated because he had promised to leave Clare all his money when he died. Unfortunately for you, when his will was read, you learned he had reneged on the agreement and left it all to the Bishop of Lincoln instead. Have I recalled the situation accurately?’

  Kardington grimaced. ‘That will was a vile shock, I can tell you! Still, it cannot be helped. Spaldynge is a better man, though. He continues to lecture, even though we have rescinded his Fellowship.’

  ‘How noble,’ said Michael acidly. ‘Most men in his position would have slunk away with their tail between their legs.’

  ‘There he is,’ said Kardington, pointing to where a man with an unfashionable, shovel-shaped beard was ushering a group of students towards the refectory. ‘You can berate him yourself, Brother, because I dislike being held responsible for what he did.’

  Michael did berate the disgraced scholar. Spaldynge stood with his head bowed while the monk railed, but his jaw muscles worked furiously, and Bartholomew suspected he was more angry than chagrined by the reprimand. When Michael asked what he had to say for himself, Spaldynge made the pointed remark that the monk had no idea what it was like to be hungry.

  ‘I have made my peace with Master Kardington and our Fellows,’ said Spaldynge, rather defiantly. ‘The sale of Borden is our business, and none of yours.’

  Michael glared. ‘If we want a University, then we must work together – we will not survive as an ad hoc collection of foundations. Your colleagues here may be willing to overlook your actions, but what about your colleagues in Ovyng Hostel or Peterhouse? What you have done affects them, too.’

  Spaldynge grimaced. ‘I have said I am sorry, and the sale cannot be undone. Besides, Lynton sold his properties when he felt like it, and you never subjected him to a torrent of abuse.’

  ‘Lynton did no such thing,’ said Bartholomew, when Michael seemed too astonished to speak. ‘We know he owned houses, and that he rented them to laymen, but he did not sell them.’

  ‘Of course he sold them,’ snapped Spaldynge, while Kardington nodded agreement. ‘Who do you think gave me the idea in the first place? I saw what Lynton was doing and followed his example. I should have known better. Physicians are reprehensible creatures, and to copy one was stupid.’

  In a sudden flash of memory, Bartholomew recalled that Spaldynge had lost his entire family to the plague, and that he had never forgiven the medici who had taken his money for a cure but had failed to provide one. He reviled physicians at every opportunity, and Bartholomew was glad their paths seldom crossed. It occurred to him that Spaldynge’s antipathy to members of the medical profession might have led him to dispatch one with a crossbow.

  ‘Are you saying Lynton sold houses to Candelby?’ asked the monk, finding his voice at last.

  ‘I do not know the details of his transactions,’ said Spaldynge. ‘And I doubt he would have confided them had I asked. Perhaps he sold them to Candelby; perhaps he bought them from Candelby; or perhaps he declined to have anything to do with Candelby – I would not have done, but he offered a price so far above that of his nearest competitor.’

  ‘Lord!’ muttered Michael in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘First we learn Lynton is a landlord, and now we discover that he bought and sold houses like a drover with cattle. I am amazed.’

  ‘He never expressed any interest in property to me,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘Do you think Spaldynge is telling the truth?’

  ‘Kardington supported his claims, and he is no liar. So, we have another link between my main suspect and his victim: money may have changed hands between Candelby and Lynton. And money invariably brings out the worst in people.’

  The Clare refectory was a pleasant, purpose-built hall overlooking the vegetable gardens. The window shutters had been flung open, filling it with bright spring sunshine and the scent of warm earth. The students looked blank when Kardington lisped orders at them, and they only understood that they were to talk about Motelete when he repeated himself in Latin.

  A tall, gangling youth stood, and introduced himself as Thomas Lexham. ‘Motelete was only here for a few weeks,’ he said, ‘but we all liked him.’

  ‘He cried for his mother at night, and I had to show him how to sharpen his pens,’ added Spaldynge. ‘He was too soft to have killed Ocleye – he would not have known how.’

  ‘Tell me what happened yesterday,’ said Michael. ‘From the beginning.’

  ‘We heard a monstrous crash,’ obliged Lexham. ‘We thought it was Rudd’s Hostel falling down at last, so we dashed outside to look. The only one who did not go was Spaldynge. He stayed behind, lest thieves used the opportunity as a diversion to burgle us.’

  ‘It happened once before,’ explained Kardington. ‘Now we never leave the College unattended.’

  ‘Rudd’s has been on the verge of collapse all term, and we have bets on which day it will go,’ Lexham went on. ‘However, it was Candelby’s cart that had made the noise – Lynton’s horse had smashed it to pieces. We watched Arderne cure Candelby. He examined Lynton, too, but said that although he can raise men from the dead, he does not consider physicians worth the effort.’

  ‘He said that?’ Bartholomew was shocked by the claim as much as the sentiment.

  ‘I do not like Arderne,’ confided Lexham. ‘He fixes you with those bright eyes, and you find yourself believing what he says, even though logic tells you it cannot be true.’

  ‘Just keep to the facts,’ prompted Kardington gently. ‘Brother Michael does not want unfounded opinions – they will not help him learn what happened to Motelete.’

  Lexham nodded an apology. ‘So Arderne waved his feather, and Candelby said he was feeling better, but Maud Bowyer just sat and wept. Arderne tried to help her, but she pushed him away.’

  ‘Did you see Ocleye at all?’

  ‘We know him from the Angel—’ Lexham stopped speaking as a groan from his cronies told him that he had just let slip a detail that was best kept from the Senior Proctor.

  Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Your fondness for that particular tavern is hardly a secret, and on Sunday evening, I caught you there myself, if you recall.’

  ‘You fined us,’ said Lexham resentfully. ‘It is not something we are likely to forget. We wanted to talk to Ocleye’s friends, to see if he had mentioned a plot to kill a scholar.’

  Michael was angry. ‘That might have precipitated another brawl.’

  ‘But we had to do something!’ cried another lad. ‘Motelete was one of us! We could not sit at home and do nothing. We needed to know if his murder was planned or an accident.’

  ‘And which do you think it was?’ asked Bartholomew.

  The student grimaced. ‘We still do not know. The Angel pot-boys said Candelby would dock their pay if they gossiped to us while they were working, and we did not like the sound of meeting them behind the Carmelite Friary after dark, like they suggested.’

  ‘Thank God for small mercies,’ muttered Michael. ‘At least you have some sense. But let us return to the accident. What happened after Arderne’s advances were rejected by Maud?’

  ‘A crowd had gathered, and we were worried by all the jostling that was going on,’ replied Lexham. ‘The Carmelites like a good squabble, and I was afraid they might bring one about. Then you arrived, and everything calmed down.’

  ‘The next thing I recall is Falmeresham,’ said Kardington, frowning. ‘He darted forward in a way that made me think he was going to punch that horrible Blankpayn.’

  ‘As soon as that happened, Master Kardington ordered us all home,’ Lexham went on. ‘Motelete and I were at the back. I thought he was b
ehind me, but when I reached our gate, he was gone.’

  ‘Did he speak to anyone before he became separated from you?’ asked Bartholomew.

  Lexham shook his head. ‘He did not know anyone outside Clare.’

  ‘Did he ever quarrel with any of you?’ asked Michael.

  As one, the students laughed. ‘Never!’ said Lexham. ‘He was too polite. I cannot imagine how he would have managed his disputations, when he never wanted to tell anyone he was wrong.’

  ‘He was a child,’ elaborated Kardington. ‘Does he sound like the kind of fellow to dash into a brawl and go a-killing?’

  ‘No,’ admitted Michael. ‘So, we had better look at his body. Matt is good at finding clues invisible to the rest of us. He may discover something that points to Ocleye as the culprit.’

  As they left the hall, Bartholomew spotted a scholar who had been one of his first patients in Cambridge – and Master Gedney had been old then. Gedney had been a brilliant theologian in his day, but now he spent his time eating, complaining or dozing by the fire. For the last decade, Bartholomew had been treating him for weak lungs, and was astonished the man had survived so long. Unfortunately, Gedney had grown forgetful as well as curmudgeonly, and had developed a habit of addressing his colleagues by the names of men who had died years before.

  ‘Babington,’ he said when he saw Bartholomew. ‘Do you still have that book I lent you? Holcot’s Postillae? I want it back.’

  Michael and Kardington exchanged a grin – it was well-known in the University that the physician would never read a text on scripture when ones on natural philosophy were available.

  ‘How are you feeling today, Master Gedney?’ Bartholomew asked politely.

  Gedney lowered his voice. ‘This College is full of madmen. They told me it was Easter the other day, when I know it is Harvest. Did you hear that one of our students was killed in a fight? His name was Tyd, a loud-mouthed fellow who drank too much.’

  ‘Was he?’ asked Michael. ‘Everyone else says he was quiet and gentle.’