‘Spaldynge has a fierce temper,’ remarked Michael, sketching a wry benediction at her as he passed. ‘And he, alone of the Clare scholars, has no alibi for the business on Sunday – he remained in the College when everyone else rushed out to gawp, because he thought it might be a diversion for a burglary. I wonder just how far his hatred of physicians extends.’
‘But the Clare men raced out of their hall after the accident, when Lynton was already dead. What Spaldynge did at that point is irrelevant.’
Michael was thoughtful. ‘I made a few enquiries, and learned that no one from Clare actually saw Spaldynge that afternoon – the reason Kardington and Lexham say he stayed behind to guard the College is because he told them so. They did not see him – not after the accident, and not before, either. And do not forget that Falmeresham is a physician in all but name, now he is so close to finishing his degree.’
Bartholomew stared at him. ‘Spaldynge has been making barbed comments to me ever since the plague, but he has never been violent.’
‘Then let us hope he has not started now.’
‘Perhaps Wisbeche is right about the rents,’ said Bartholomew, glancing around as they crossed the Market Square. He could not recall a time when he had felt less comfortable in his own town, and realised how fickle people could be. ‘Maybe you should capitulate.’
Michael sighed. ‘I lay awake most of last night, fretting about the situation. I considered tendering my resignation and fleeing to Ely before I am lynched, but that would be cowardly.’
‘It is not you that is the problem, Brother. It is the rents. Raise them.’
‘The only way to do that is by amending the Statutes,’ said Michael. ‘And that requires the permission of the Regents.’ The Regents were the University’s Fellows and senior scholars.
‘Then call a Convocation of the Regents, Brother. They can decide whether the Statutes should change or stay as they are, and we can all take responsibility for what is happening. I do not see why you should have to bear this alone.’
Michael smiled wanly. ‘I imagine most Regents will feel like Wisbeche, and will prefer more expensive accommodation in a peaceful town.’
‘I hope so, because the alternative is cheap rent in a town that is rife with turmoil.’
‘Arderne must have a compelling tongue,’ said Michael, as they walked back to Michaelhouse. ‘I thought you were popular with your patients, but several have scowled at you today. Surely you cannot have killed that many?’
‘Robert de Blaston just smiled, so they are not all infected with Arderne’s poison. Most of them are glaring at you, anyway, and Burgess Ashwelle just called you a—’
‘What did you learn from challenging Blankpayn?’ asked the monk, not wanting to hear what Ashwelle had said. ‘Were his answers worth risking another brawl?’
Bartholomew winced as a man, cloaked and hooded against the rain, walked out of St Michael’s Lane directly into the path of a cart. The pony reared and the driver howled abuse. The pedestrian jerked back in alarm, then fled along the High Street. Bartholomew was puzzled. Such incidents happened all the time, and those involved either yelled back or ignored them – few people ever ran away.
‘Blankpayn’s testimony was inconsistent. First, he said he had not wounded Falmeresham badly, and only later did he start talking about a body. I suspect he was just trying to upset us.’
‘Do not read too much into it,’ warned Michael, seeing hope glow in his friend’s eyes. ‘If Falmeresham was alive, he would have found his way home by now. Ergo, I suspect he is dead, and Blankpayn’s parting words will prove to be prophetic – we will start to receive letters demanding a relaxing of the rent laws in exchange for his body soon.’
‘Falmeresham is resourceful,’ said Bartholomew stubbornly. ‘I do not believe he is dead.’
They walked the rest of the way in silence, and when they reached Michaelhouse, Cynric was waiting for them in the lane. ‘I do not like the way people are looking at you,’ the book-bearer said uneasily. ‘What have you been doing?’
‘Nothing,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Unless you think I was spotted burgling Clare last night.’
‘No one saw you except Spaldynge, who now thinks he was mistaken,’ said Cynric. ‘We were lucky. But I was loitering to give you this. It was delivered anonymously a few moments ago, and I thought it might be important.’
‘Oh, Lord!’ groaned Michael, as the book-bearer handed him a note. ‘Now what?’
The message was written on parchment that was thin and old – someone had not wanted to spend money on a better piece. The handwriting was crabbed, and Michael turned it this way and that until he was forced to admit it was too small for his eyes. He gave it to Bartholomew. The physician scanned it quickly, then gazed at the monk in horror.
‘It is a confession from a man who claims he murdered Kenyngham. He says he fed him a slow-acting poison at Easter, and that is why he died.’
Michael tore it from him. ‘Are you sure? You have not misread it?’
‘Of course I have not misread it! It is in French, which is strange – scholars would use Latin and townsfolk prefer English. Someone is making sure he leaves you no clues as to his identity.’
‘How could anyone poison Kenyngham?’ asked Cynric. ‘He was with you at Easter.’
Bartholomew felt a stab of unease when he realised that was not true. ‘There was a vigil in St Michael’s Church from sunset on Saturday until dawn on Sunday. The rest of us came and went in shifts, but Kenyngham remained the whole night and sometimes he was alone.’
‘I told you he was poisoned,’ cried Michael. His face was white with shock. ‘I said so on several occasions, but you kept saying that he was not.’
‘I did not think he could have been.’ Bartholomew’s stomach felt as though it was full of liquid lead – heavy and burning at the same time. Had he really made that sort of blunder? The poison must have been a very sly one, without odour or obvious symptoms, or he would have detected something amiss. Or would he? He thought about Motelete, and how even Arderne – a fraud – had seen signs of life that he had missed. Perhaps he had made another terrible mistake, this time with a man he had considered a friend. The thought made him feel sick.
‘Can a slow-acting poison kill a man in the way Kenyngham died?’ demanded Michael. ‘He said he was too weary to walk to the Gilbertine Friary, then he closed his eyes and you made the assumption that he was lost in prayer. Of course, he was actually breathing his last.’
Bartholomew nodded unhappily. ‘Yes, but he did not complain of being ill. I thought he was just tired after all the fasting and praying of Lent.’
‘You might have been able to help him,’ said Michael, stricken, ‘had you paid more attention.’
‘No,’ said Cynric, coming to his master’s defence. ‘Once some poisons have been swallowed, there is nothing anyone can do, no matter how diligently they watch.’
Michael relented. He rubbed a hand across his face. ‘I am sorry, Matt – I did not mean to sound accusing. It is not your fault he died, but this vile killer’s.’
Bartholomew did not hear him: he was thinking about Kenyngham’s last words, when he had talked about crocodiles and shooting stars. Had the old man been in the grip of a deadly substance that had made him delusional? And what about the potion Michael had seen him imbibe, which he had called an antidote? Had he known his life was in danger? And if so, had Bartholomew – his own physician – missed signs and symptoms that should have told him something was wrong? Perhaps folk were right to distrust his skills and call him a charlatan.
The news that someone had elbowed Kenyngham into his grave had shocked Bartholomew deeply, and he kept replaying the Gilbertine’s last day through in his mind. He sat in his room, staring out of the window, not seeing the rain that slanted across the courtyard and turned hard earth into a morass of mud and wet chicken droppings. The College hens and the porter’s peacock huddled under a tree, balls of saturated feathers looking sorry
for themselves, while Agatha’s cat stretched gloatingly on the kitchen windowsill, luxuriating in the only warm room at Michaelhouse.
Michael was finishing a cake Edith had sent Bartholomew for Easter. He picked up the plate, carefully poured the crumbs into his hand, then slapped them into his mouth. While he chewed, he took the confession in his hand and stared at it.
‘Why do people use such tiny writing these days? The purpose of letters is to communicate, and you cannot do that if you scribe your message too small for normal men to read.’
Bartholomew went to the chest where he kept his belongings, and rummaged for a few moments, eventually emerging with a rectangular piece of glass that had been set into a leather frame. ‘This belonged to the Arab physician I studied under in Paris. He said I might want it one day, but I think your need is greater than mine.’
Michael’s face broke into a grin of delight as he passed the item across the letter. ‘It magnifies the words so I can see them! This is a clever notion, Matt. Your Arab master was a genius.’
Bartholomew sat and stared across the courtyard again. ‘It is obvious, when you think about it. The exact science of optics asserts that a convex lens will reflect the ratio of the width of an image to the width of an object—’
‘Never mind that,’ said Michael, studying the text intently. ‘Who penned this letter? Do you recognise the writing? Whose scrawl is so minute that a glass is required to make sense of it?’
‘Virtually everyone in the University, according to you. However, an equally important question to ask is why did someone write it? Is it to boast, because the culprit knows you will never catch him? Is it because he feels guilty, and wants his crime unveiled?’
‘And why would anyone harm Kenyngham?’ Michael flicked the letter with his finger to indicate distaste. ‘He was the last man to accumulate enemies.’
‘I would have said the same about Lynton.’
‘Not so, Matt. Kenyngham was a saint. However, we have discovered that Lynton leased houses to wealthy burgesses rather than to his fellow scholars. And there is an odd association between him and Ocleye – both shot with crossbows and both with their signatures on a rent agreement. Nothing like that will ever be discovered about Kenyngham.’
‘No,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘He and Lynton were very different men.’
‘Of course, there is nothing to say they were not dispatched by the same person. One killed by an arrow and the other by insidious poison. Neither method allows for second thoughts.’
‘No one disliked Kenyngham.’ Bartholomew turned away from the window and met the monk’s eyes. Having had time to reflect and consider, he was now sure his initial conclusions had been right after all. ‘And no one poisoned him, either. I think someone is playing a prank on you – confessing to a crime that was never committed.’
Michael regarded him suspiciously. ‘That is not what you said when this missive first arrived. You were as stunned and distressed as I was. Now you say you do not believe it?’
‘Yes – because logic dictates that it would not have been possible to poison Kenyngham.’
‘But you said yourself that he was alone for part of Saturday night and early Sunday, because he insisted on keeping the Easter vigil. Someone could have given him something then.’
‘And that is exactly why harming him would have been impossible. First, it was a vigil, and so a time of fasting – and you know how seriously Kenyngham took acts of penitence. And secondly, he would not have accepted victuals from strangers, anyway.’
Michael considered his points. ‘All right, I agree that he would not have eaten anything, but what about water? He may have been thirsty or faint. The poison was fed to him, then he walked home, where it gnawed away at his innards while we all enjoyed our Easter dinner.’
‘He was happy, Brother. He may have been tired, but I do not think he was in pain.’
‘He was happy because he knew he was going to die. He was a religious man, and not afraid. Indeed, he probably welcomed death as his first step towards Paradise, which is why he said nothing to the physician at his side.’
‘That would have been tantamount to suicide, and thus a sin. He would not have risked his immortal soul in such a way. He did say some odd things before he died, though. He told me to stand firm against false prophets, which he called shooting stars, and he said you were to be wary of timely men with long teeth – crocodiles.’
‘Crocodiles,’ mused Michael. ‘What was he talking about? Who has long teeth?’
‘I imagine it was a metaphor.’
Michael scratched his chin, nails rasping against the bristles. ‘He was right about the false prophet – it is Arderne, making fraudulent claims. It is apt to call him a shooting star, because that is what he is: a passing phenomenon whose fame will fade the moment people see through him.’
‘We are moving away from the point. I do not believe what this letter claims, because Kenyngham would not have swallowed anything during his vigil, not even water. And after that, he was with us, and we all ate and drank the same things. I stand by my initial diagnosis – that he died because he was old and it was his time.’
‘Well, I do believe it now,’ said Michael, equally firm. ‘And I should not have let myself be persuaded otherwise. He told me he was taking an antidote, and I shall never forgive myself for not pressing him on the matter. I might have been able to save him. However, while I might have failed him in life, I shall not fail him in death. I will unmask the villain that deprived Cambridge of its best inhabitant, even if it is the last thing I do. If I apply for an exhumation order from the Bishop’s palace in Ely, will you inspect the body for me?’
Bartholomew stared at him. ‘I have examined it twice already, and there was nothing to see. Please do not do this Michael. Investigate, if you must, but do not drag him from his final resting place. He would not approve of that at all.’
‘He will approve if he was murdered. I shall write the letter today. Will you look at him or not?’
‘I will not. Ask Rougham – he acted as your Corpse Examiner when I was away last year, so he will be used to such requests. And if he has been abandoned by as many patients as he claims, he may be glad of the money.’
The rain blew over during the night, and although the streets were full of puddles, the early morning sky was clear with the promise of sunshine to come. Shivering and complaining bitterly about the sheet of ankle-deep mud that comprised Michaelhouse’s yard, the scholars lined up to process to the church for their dawn offices. Langelee was in front, his four Fellows were behind him, and the students and commoners brought up the rear.
When they arrived at St Michael’s, a blackbird was trilling in one of the graveyard trees and a group of sparrows twittere d near the porch; their shrill chatter echoed through the ancient stones. The church smelled damp, because there was a leak somewhere, and Bartholomew noticed that the floor needed sweeping. It was a task Kenyngham often undertook, because it allowed him to spend more time in his beloved church, and the physician wondered who would do it now. He did not have to think about the matter long, because Carton grabbed a broom while William and Michael were laying out the altar, and began to push old leaves and small pieces of dried mud into the corner Kenyngham had always used.
It was William’s turn to perform the mass and, as usual, he charged through the ceremonies at a furious lick, as if his very life depended on being done as soon as possible. It meant they were out in record time, and as Langelee had agreed to preside over the disputations and he had a free morning, Bartholomew decided to visit some of his patients – and look for Falmeresham at the same time. Despite everyone’s gloomy predictions, he still refused to believe his student was dead.
‘You will miss breakfast,’ warned Michael, seeing him start to slip away.
‘I am not hungry.’ Bartholomew had spent another restless night with his mind full of questions. He was anxious for Falmeresham, distressed about the fact that Michael was intent on in
vestigating a murder he was sure had not occurred, and concerned about the mischief Arderne was causing.
‘Are you ill?’ asked Michael, not imagining there could be another reason for passing up a meal. He frowned. ‘You have not eaten anything offered by shooting stars or crocodiles, have you?’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew shortly.
‘We will come with you,’ offered Deynman. ‘Me and Carton. You should not be out alone, not with the town so angry about the number of people killed by the town’s inept physicians.’
‘He means there is safety in numbers,’ elaborated Carton. The commoner–friar had changed since Falmeresham’s disappearance. He had never been an extrovert, but the loss of his friend had rendered him sullen, irritable and withdrawn, and the students were beginning to make excuses to avoid his company. Bartholomew wondered whether the Franciscan’s surliness derived from the fact that he no longer expected Falmeresham to come home alive. His own efforts to search for his friend had certainly tailed off, and he had not been out to look for him since Sunday.
Deynman gave one of his inane grins. ‘I do not believe the lies Arderne is spreading about you, sir, and I told Isnard he was an ass for listening to such rubbish. Then I asked to see his leg, to assess whether it really was growing back again, as Arderne promised it would.’
‘And was it?’ asked Carton, without much interest.
‘Maybe a bit,’ replied Deynman. ‘It was difficult to tell. Did you hear Paxtone has taken to his bed? He is still digesting the flock of pigeons he scoffed a few nights ago, and Rougham suggested he remain horizontal, to allow the birds to pass more easily through his bowels.’
Tired and dispirited, Bartholomew escaped from his colleagues, although he was obliged to enlist Cynric’s help in ridding himself of Deynman. He walked to the Small Bridges in the south of the town, where a glover called John Hanchach lived. Hanchach suffered from a congestion in the chest, which Bartholomew had been treating with a syrup of colt’s-foot and lungwort; the physician had been heartened recently, because Hanchach had turned a corner and started along the road to recovery.
To Kill or Cure: The Thirteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 18