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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘For you, maybe,’ grumbled Bartholomew, objecting to racing after shadows in the rain, while Michael would probably be feted with cakes and warm wine. He raised his hands when Michael started to point out that a Corpse Examiner was not authorised to make arrangements for new accommodation – and the Senior Proctor could not move fast enough to catch up with the figure that was rapidly dwindling into the distance, anyway.

  ‘And not because I am fat,’ said Michael, anticipating the next objection. ‘My heavy bones mean that the velocity of my mean speed is lower than yours. Go, before you lose him.’

  Despite a spirited effort, Bartholomew did not succeed. The man glanced behind him once, and when he saw he was being followed, ducked into the woods behind the Gilbertine Friary. He had had too great a start, and although Bartholomew explored several paths and even climbed a tree, he was forced to concede defeat. Michael was waiting for him outside Peterhouse, wiping crumbs from his face with his piece of linen.

  ‘I had better luck,’ he said. ‘Wisbeche agreed to loan me the Dispensary for as long as I need it.’

  ‘Did you ask where Lynton kept his medical equipment?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And why his attics are full of silver goblets?’

  ‘I did, but he said I should consult a physician for answers to those sorts of questions.’

  Maud Bowyer occupied a handsome house on Bridge Street, near the equally fine home that was owned by the Sheriff. Michael was bitterly disappointed when servants told him that Dick Tulyet was still away, and that he was not expected home any time soon. He needed the Sheriff’s calming hand to quell the growing unrest, and was not sure he could do it alone.

  ‘I shall write to him again this evening, and tell him to come as soon as he can,’ said the monk unhappily. ‘I do not like the atmosphere – people keep glaring at me.’

  Bartholomew was concerned. ‘It is because everyone knows you – not Chancellor Tynkell – run the University. Perhaps you should take Cynric with you when you go out in future.’

  ‘I would rather he watched where Agatha put her love-potion. A town full of angry men does not hold nearly the same terror as being caught in an amorous embrace by Agatha.’ Michael sighed. ‘Three days have passed, and I still have no idea who killed Lynton. Do you?’

  ‘Arderne,’ said Bartholomew, surprising himself with the speed of his reply and the conviction in his voice. ‘He has the most to gain. He has virtually destroyed Robin, and with Lynton dead, there are only three others left to tell folk he is a fraud.’

  ‘But Paxtone and Rougham also benefit from Lynton’s demise, because several wealthy patients are now looking for a new physician. And I cannot help but think that Peterhouse is withholding information. Did Wisbeche really lend me the Dispensary out of charity, or did he just want me gone from his College without asking too many questions? Ouch!’

  Bartholomew looked sharply at him, and saw a clod of mud had hit him in the chest. The physician turned quickly, and spotted two men who worked at the Lilypot. They were cronies of Isnard, and were racing away as if their lives depended on it. One stopped when he reached the corner. He saw the physician watching and raised his fist.

  ‘Charlatan!’ he yelled, before disappearing down the lane.

  ‘That is certainly true,’ declared a heavyset woman with a moustache. Her name was Rosalind fitz-Eustace, and she and her husband had a reputation for being gossips. ‘Damned scholars.’

  ‘We should oust the lot of them,’ agreed fitz-Eustace. ‘When they are not bleeding us dry with demands for cheap rents, cheap ale and cheap flour, they kill and maim us with bad medicine.’

  ‘Magister Arderne was wrong to have saved Motelete,’ whispered Rosalind, although it was clear she intended people to hear. ‘He should have raised Ocleye instead.’

  ‘It was too late – the Corpse Examiner had been at him.’ Fitz-Eustace cast a malicious glance in Bartholomew’s direction before stalking away, his wife at his side.

  ‘The insults were directed at us both, but the dirt was meant for you,’ grumbled Michael, trying without success to remove the stain from his habit. ‘Damn it! This was clean on at Christmas. And now here come two more alleged charlatans – Paxtone and Rougham, your medical colleagues. Paxtone is looking seedy today.’

  Michael was right: the King’s Hall physician was pale, and there were bags under his eyes. The monk started to mutter something about a guilty conscience for putting a crossbow bolt in a rival, and Bartholomew was obliged to silence him with an elbow in the ribs.

  ‘What is wrong, Paxtone?’ he asked, concerned. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘I offered my services, too, but he says it is nothing,’ said Rougham.

  ‘You have not accepted tonics from Arderne, have you?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, suddenly afraid that the healer might have started work on his next victim.

  Paxtone grimaced. ‘Of course not! The man is a trickster, and I would no more swallow his potions than I would let Robin perform surgery on me. Credit me with some sense, Matthew.’

  ‘You should not be out,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You should be lying down, resting.’

  ‘I told him that, too,’ muttered Rougham.

  Paxtone sighed. ‘There is nothing wrong that a good purge will not cure. I am afraid I was something of a glutton with the roasted pigeon last night. I ate eight.’

  ‘Did you?’ asked Michael, impressed. ‘Were they cooked in any kind of sauce?’

  ‘Stones were thrown at me twice yesterday,’ said Rougham, changing the subject before two fat men could begin to share the delights of the dinner table. ‘It is because of Arderne. He is spreading tales about our competence as physicians. He has a convincing manner, and people believe him.’

  ‘I have received threatening letters from the family of a man I failed to save last term,’ added Paxtone miserably. ‘The case was hopeless – you two saw him, and you agreed with my diagnosis – but Arderne told his kin that he would have survived, had I known what I was doing.’

  ‘You mean Constantine Mortimer?’ asked Rougham. ‘The one who fell from his horse and cracked his skull so badly that he never awoke?’

  Paxtone nodded. ‘Arderne claims he could have been woken by inserting a hot iron in his anus.’

  Bartholomew winced. ‘We followed a course of treatment that was humane. Of course we could have induced a reaction by causing him pain, but that is a long way from making him better.’

  Rougham glowered. ‘Arderne is a menace. Today, Mayor Harleston informed me that he no longer requires my services, which makes the fifth wealthy patient to abandon me this week alone.’

  ‘I lost Chancellor Tynkell this morning,’ added Paxtone, ‘and he is a very lucrative source of income, because of his appalling hygiene. We should form a united front to combat this wretched leech and his slanderous accusations.’

  ‘That is what Robin said,’ said Bartholomew.

  ‘I do not want to be associated with Robin,’ said Rougham in distaste. ‘However, he is a medical man – after a fashion – and he has been ruined by Arderne, so I feel a certain empathy with him.’

  ‘We may be losing patients, but your situation is far more perilous, Matthew,’ said Paxtone. ‘Arderne told Isnard his leg need not have been amputated, and Isnard believes it. Isnard is popular in Cambridge, and people are angry with you. I fear their resentment may erupt into violence.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Rougham. ‘Perhaps you should confine yourself to Michaelhouse until all this blows over. And blow over it will, because Arderne cannot possibly keep all the promises he has made, and it is only a matter of time before he is exposed.’

  ‘I cannot stay in!’ exclaimed Bartholomew. ‘What about my patients?’

  ‘You still have some?’ asked Paxtone bleakly. He turned suddenly. ‘I thought I could sense malevolence behind me – and there he is! Arderne himself. Look at him, strutting around the town as if he owns it.’

  ‘He is beginning to,’ said Rougham bitterly. ‘That is the p
roblem.’

  ‘Cambridge’s infamous physicians,’ said Arderne amiably, when he spotted the three medical men standing with Michael. ‘How is business, gentlemen? If you are doing as well as I am, you must be very pleased with yourselves.’

  ‘Pleased enough,’ replied Rougham, unwilling to let the man know the extent of the damage he was causing. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because Sir Robert Ufford – your former patient – wants me to cure his swollen veins,’ said Arderne smugly. His eyes held a hard gleam of spite. ‘I shall eradicate his ailment with my feather and a decoction of grease.’

  ‘What manner of decoction?’ asked Bartholomew, while Rougham’s jaw dropped.

  ‘I never share professional secrets,’ replied Arderne. ‘Besides, only I can attempt these treatments – you do not have the necessary skills.’

  ‘Try him,’ challenged Michael. ‘He has been to Montpellier, where they study anatomy and surgery. You may find he is better at these exotic techniques than you.’

  ‘I do not compete with men who try to bury their patients alive,’ said Arderne contemptuously. ‘It is fortunate I was on hand to effect one of my miraculous cures, or Motelete would have suffered the most dreadful fate imaginable.’

  ‘Very fortunate,’ muttered Paxtone venomously.

  ‘It is not just Rougham’s patients who are flocking to me, either,’ said Arderne, rounding on the portly physician. ‘Master Powys – Warden of your own College – asked me for a remedy today.’

  Paxtone gaped at him. ‘I do not believe you.’

  Arderne shrugged, and fixed Paxtone with his pale eyes; Paxtone gazed back mutely, as though it was beyond his strength to break the stare. ‘Who cares what you believe? In a few weeks, I shall have all your wealthy customers, and you will be left with the ones who cannot pay.’

  ‘I refuse to sit still while that fellow damages my reputation – perhaps permanently,’ snarled Rougham, when the healer had gone. ‘We must act.’

  ‘And do what?’ asked Bartholomew. He glanced at Paxtone, whose expression was rather blank. ‘Launch into a slandering match, which will show us to be as petty and despicable as him?’

  ‘It would be demeaning,’ blurted Paxtone when Bartholomew poked him with his finger. He shook himself and took a deep breath.

  ‘I was thinking of employing more devious tactics,’ said Rougham. ‘How about tampering with his feather – putting some substance on it that will make his patients ill?’

  ‘We cannot do that!’ Bartholomew was shocked. ‘It would break all the oaths we have sworn.’

  ‘It is a case of expediency,’ argued Rougham. ‘Would you rather have a couple of folk with rashes, or some real deaths, when needy patients go to him for a cure and he fails them?’

  CHAPTER 6

  Michael knocked on Maud Bowyer’s door while Bartholomew faced the road. The physician had noticed several people glaring, and someone had thrown a stone. It had missed, but he was afraid to turn his back on the street lest the culprit try it again. He had assumed people were angry with Michael over the rents, and had been shocked to learn that some of the sour glances had, in fact, been directed at him. He was not sure what he could do about it – he had explained countless times to Isnard that the removal of his leg had been unavoidable, but the bargeman had never really come to terms with the loss. Arderne had homed in on Isnard’s vulnerability like a fly to dead meat, and had known exactly how to exploit it to his own advantage. But how could Bartholomew tell Isnard that? Or the men and women who sympathised with him?

  Michael’s rap was answered by a thickset man who wore a sword. He conducted them to a pleasant solar on the ground floor, explaining as he went that he had been hired to make sure Candelby did not try to force his way inside the house.

  ‘Mistress Bowyer has washed her hands of him,’ he said. ‘He only wanted her for her money, poor soul. Wait here while I fetch her housekeeper, Isabel St Ives. She will tell you whether the mistress is well enough to receive well-wishers.’

  Michael looked around appreciatively when the guard had gone. ‘Fine rugs on the floor, gold goblets on the windowsills – Maud is wealthier than I thought. She is probably right to be suspicious of Candelby: I imagine he was courting her for her riches.’

  ‘She owns houses, too,’ said Bartholomew, remembering something his sister had told him. ‘Perhaps those are what attracted him.’

  It was not long before a pretty woman in her thirties came to greet them. Isabel St Ives wore a white goffered veil over her hair, and her blue surcoat – an ankle-length dress – was slightly baggy, suggesting it had been handed down from someone larger. Bartholomew recalled something else his sister had said – that Isabel had started to work for Maud after the plague, when both had lost husbands to the disease. He had seen her before, because it had been Isabel who had tried to comfort her mistress at the scene of the accident in Milne Street.

  ‘Good morning, Brother,’ said Isabel politely. ‘I am afraid my mistress is still too unwell to receive guests, but thank you for coming to enquire after her health again.’

  ‘You are welcome,’ said Michael, with a gracious bow. ‘However, there is another purpose to my visit. I would like to ask her about the accident. As Senior Proctor, I am obliged to make a report to the Chancellor, but it is proving difficult to trace reliable witnesses.’

  ‘Unfortunately, it is a blur in her mind, and her fever is making it worse. I saw some of what happened, though – I was nearby at the time. I will answer questions, if you think it might help.’

  ‘I need to understand exactly what happened to Lynton,’ said Michael carefully. ‘I would like to know who killed Ocleye, too. The other death – Motelete’s – transpired to be no death at all.’

  ‘So I heard,’ said Isabel. ‘A true miracle. However, the accident was odd, and I am not surprised you are having trouble establishing a clear order of events from eye witness accounts.’

  ‘How was it odd?’ asked Bartholomew. He had taken a liking to Isabel’s pretty face and pleasant manner. Unlike many University men, he had not taken major orders, and so women were not forbidden to him. He was still not supposed to fraternise with them, but there were ways around that particular prohibition, and he was not averse to female company, like some of his colleagues. He had even come close to marrying once, and still loved Matilde, despite the passing of time. He supposed he always would, and wondered whether she would ever return to Cambridge – and whether she would consent to be his wife if she did. Although common sense told him Matilde was gone forever, part of him refused to believe he would never see her again, and he had not given up hope that one day she would reappear and tell him that she loved him, too.

  ‘It was odd because there was no reason for Lynton to have ridden his horse at Candelby,’ Isabel was saying. Bartholomew’s attention snapped back to the present. ‘As far as I could tell, he suddenly slumped in his saddle, and the horse cavorted sideways, as though something startled it.’

  ‘Did you notice anything else?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Only that a crowd gathered very quickly, and folk stood according to affiliation – either with townsmen or with students. Usually, they are mixed together, but that was not the case on Sunday.’

  ‘Because they were anticipating trouble,’ surmised Michael grimly. ‘Were any of these townsmen armed – armed with real weapons, I mean, like swords or crossbows?’

  ‘I did not see any. However, it would not surprise me to learn that Candelby did something to Lynton’s mare – that Lynton is innocent of all blame for the accident.’

  ‘Why would Candelby do that?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘Because Lynton owned a lot of houses, and was doing with them what Candelby yearns to do – rent them to those who can afford higher prices. It may have been simple jealousy.’

  ‘Matt tells me Lynton was Maud’s physician,’ said the monk. ‘We all know Lynton preferred wealthy patients to poor ones, and your mistress must be one of the ric
hest women in the town.’

  ‘She is. And Lynton’s consultations may be another reason Candelby wished him harm.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused. ‘She probably consulted butchers, bakers and candlestick-makers, too, but that should not induce a suitor to drive carts at them.’

  ‘Lynton was a conscientious, thorough man, and his sessions with my mistress were often lengthy. Perhaps Candelby objected to the amount of time another man spent in her presence.’

  ‘Then Candelby’s jealousy addled his wits,’ said Bartholomew in disgust. ‘Lynton would never have done anything untoward with a patient. He was too old for a start.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Isabel. ‘Is there anything else I can tell you?’

  ‘Did you see Arderne mend Candelby’s arm?’ asked Michael.

  Isabel nodded. ‘I rushed to my mistress’s side when I saw she was hurt; Candelby was clutching his wrist. Then Magister Arderne arrived and said Candelby’s bones needed to be set immediately. He waved a feather over him, and he was healed instantly. It was a miracle.’

  ‘It was?’ asked Bartholomew. He found he was disappointed in her, because she had seemed too sensible to be deceived by cheap tricks.

  She was surprised by the scepticism in his voice. ‘Of course. Magister Arderne is a remarkable man, quite capable of marvellous deeds. However, I wish he had applied his talents to my mistress instead. She has not been well since the accident, and I am very worried about her.’

  ‘You do not seem to like Candelby,’ said Michael. ‘And Maud has forbidden him to visit. Why?’

  ‘I tolerated him when I thought he made her happy, but the accident opened her eyes to his true character, so I can say what I like about him now. We were both shocked and disgusted by the way he gloated over Lynton’s death.’

  ‘What is wrong with your mistress?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I noticed a splinter in her shoulder. Did Arderne remove it?’