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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘I suppose we should tell him to moderate himself,’ said Bartholomew. He tried to edge away from the cascade of spit. ‘We take no notice of him, so we assume no one else does, either.’

  ‘You have twenty new members who do not know he should be ignored. I do not mean to be objectionable – finding fault with my new College so soon – but I am offended by these tirades and would like them to stop. Is that unreasonable?’

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Of course not, and you are right. I will talk to Langelee about it.’ He shivered. ‘It is freezing out here! Where is Honynge?’

  ‘He and I were invited to a debate in Bene’t College last night. It went on longer than we expected, and we came home very late.’

  Bartholomew nodded, recalling how it had not been late enough to prevent Honynge from joining him and Wynewyk in the conclave afterwards. Wynewyk had been working on the accounts and Bartholomew had been reading, enjoying the remnants of the fire in companionable silence. Then Honynge had arrived and ordered them to move so he could warm himself. Wynewyk had objected, and Bartholomew had left when the ensuing argument had degenerated into an exchange of personal insults.

  ‘Honynge is imbued with great energy at night,’ Tyrington went on. ‘I was exhausted, but he was all for continuing the debate. I declined, so he tried to persuade others instead. All refused, because of the lateness of the hour, but he even approached Candelby in his desperation for a discussion.’

  ‘Candelby?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘I doubt he has much patience with scholarly pursuits.’

  Tyrington shrugged. ‘I think Honynge was so keen for a disputation that it did not occur to him that a taverner might not be the man to ask. It did not take him long to find out, though. He had caught me up by the time I reached St Mary the Great, and we walked the rest of the way home together.’

  ‘Where is that man?’ demanded Michael. Rain had plastered his thin hair to his head, which looked very small atop the vast mountain of his body. ‘Does he not know he is keeping us out here in the wet?’

  Tyrington pulled a phial from his scrip and handed it to Bartholomew. ‘Here is something that may occupy you while we wait. I bought it from Arderne – or rather, he forced it on me, then demanded a shilling. I was too taken aback to protest.’

  ‘What was ailing you?’ asked Bartholomew, taking it cautiously. The stopper did not fit very well, and it was leaking. He would never have dispensed medicine in such a container.

  Tyrington looked indignant. ‘He told me I have too much saliva in my mouth, and that this potion would dry it out. What was he talking about? I do not spit!’

  ‘You will not be doing anything at all if you swallow too much of this,’ said Bartholomew, sniffing the flask warily. ‘I detect bryony in it, and that can be harmful in too concentrated a dose.’

  Tyrington gaped at him, shocked. ‘You mean he was trying to poison me? Why? I have never done anything to him! In fact, I had never even spoken to him before yesterday.’

  ‘I suspect he just saw an opportunity to earn himself a shilling,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And bryony is used to clear the chest of phlegm, so it is not poison exactly.’

  ‘Just another example of Arderne’s incompetence,’ muttered Michael.

  Eventually, Honynge arrived, and did not seem to care that he had kept his colleagues lingering in the wet while he made himself ready. He was clad in an expensive cloak, his hair was neatly brushed, and he was shaved so closely that Bartholomew imagined the procedure must have taken a very long time. Langelee was only willing to be pushed so far. He nodded to his Fellows, who stepped into formation behind him, and set off. Cynric whipped the gate open to ensure there was no delay, and Langelee stormed up St Michael’s Lane at a furious lick. As a consequence, Honynge was obliged to run to catch up. He was seething when he finally took his place, and glowered at Langelee in a way that made Bartholomew uneasy.

  The physician put Honynge from his mind as Michael began the mass, enjoying the monk’s rich baritone as he intoned the sacred words. Although he was a Benedictine, Michael had been given special dispensation to perform priestly duties during the plague, and the shortage of ordained men since meant he had continued the practice. The psalm he had chosen was one of Kenyngham’s favourites, and Bartholomew found himself wishing with all his heart that the old man had not died. Even without Honynge’s malign presence, Michaelhouse was a poorer place without him.

  When the monk had finished, the scholars trooped back to the College at a more sedate pace than they had left it, and waited in the yard until the bell announced that breakfast was ready. Michael was first to reach the door, thundering up the spiral stairs that led to the hall, then pacing restlessly until everyone else had arrived. Honynge was last, because he had found something else to do along the way, and Langelee said grace before he had reached his seat. Pointedly, Honynge murmured his own prayer before he sat, and then took so much of the communal egg-mess that there was none left for Bartholomew and Tyrington. When Tyrington voiced his objection, the hands of the Fellows sitting near him immediately adopted the Michaelhouse Manoeuvre.

  ‘I am concerned about this exhumation you propose to conduct,’ said Honynge, when the meal was over and the Fellows were in the conclave, deciding who should invigilate the disputations. The comment was somewhat out of the blue. ‘Are you sure it is necessary?’

  ‘I must know how Kenyngham died,’ said Michael. ‘Besides, I always investigate odd deaths.’

  ‘Is Kenyngham’s death odd?’ asked Tyrington. ‘I thought he died of old age.’

  ‘He was poisoned.’ Michael brandished the parchments he had been sent. ‘This confession proves it, and so does the letter offering me twenty marks for finding his killer.’

  ‘Perhaps they are pranks,’ suggested Wynewyk, studying them thoughtfully. ‘Or a plot devised by someone who wants to hurt you because of the rent war.’

  ‘Why would anyone confess to a murder he did not commit?’ demanded Michael.

  ‘Why would a killer want you to know what he had done?’ countered Honynge. ‘If Kenyngham really was poisoned, the culprit would be grateful that his crime had gone undetected. He would not brag about it, and risk having you launch an investigation that might see him exposed. Of course these missives are hoaxes! And anyone who cannot see it is a fool.’

  ‘The killer wants me to know how clever he is,’ Michael shot back.

  ‘Piffle,’ declared Honynge. ‘If you disturb a man’s corpse after it has been buried, you are agents of the Devil. I strongly urge you to reconsider this distasteful course of action, Brother.’

  ‘I cannot,’ said Michael shortly. ‘It would not be right to turn a blind eye to murder.’

  ‘Then I want my objections made public,’ said Honynge. ‘I want it recorded in the College annals that I consider this exhumation wicked and unnecessary.’

  ‘Honynge is right,’ said Tyrington shyly. ‘Although I would not have phrased my reservations quite so baldly. The whole business does not seem proper, somehow.’

  Langelee sighed. ‘We had better vote on it. We shall meet back here in an hour, which will give us all time to reflect. It is not something that should be decided without proper consideration.’

  ‘You can vote,’ said Michael. ‘But I am Senior Proctor, and I shall do what I think is right.’

  ‘You may be Senior Proctor, but you are also a Fellow of Michaelhouse,’ said Langelee quietly. ‘And I assert my authority over you to bide by the decision of your colleagues.’

  Michael was furious as he stamped from the conclave.

  ‘I cannot believe you are against me, Matt!’ The monk was almost shouting as he and Bartholomew walked towards Peterhouse, aiming to ascertain whether there were other aspects to Lynton’s character that had been kept from the general populace.

  ‘And I cannot believe you are contemplating exhumation,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘It is horrible.’

  ‘You have done it before.’


  ‘Not to someone close to me.’

  ‘He has only been dead six days. I do not think you will see anything too distressing.’

  ‘That is not the point. Kenyngham was laid to rest. That does not mean hauled out of his tomb a few days later because you are beguiled by some lunatic letter.’

  ‘It bragged about the murder of a colleague. How can you remain dispassionate about it?’

  ‘For two reasons. First, the confession is false – Wynewyk is right, someone is trying to hurt you because of the rent war. And secondly, you will not learn anything by unearthing Kenyngham anyway. I examined him twice and saw nothing amiss.’

  Michael looked sly. ‘The fact that you went back for a second paw means there was something about the first examination that bothered you. You are not as sure about this as you claim to be.’

  ‘Motelete,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘I thought he was dead, and was shocked when he sat up in his coffin. It made me question myself – especially after Arderne’s claims about my competence.’

  Michael’s anger faded when he saw the unhappiness in his friend’s face. ‘I would not take his criticism to heart. He is a … oh, Lord! Here comes Isnard. He is holding a sword, so I recommend you stand behind me. He will not strike a man of God – especially one who is his choirmaster.’

  ‘Let me at him!’ shouted Isnard, hobbling faster than was safe for a man with one leg. ‘I said I would kill him the next time we met. Well, we have met.’

  His voice was loud, and people hurried to see what was happening. Before Michael could stop them, Kardington, Spaldynge and a group of students from Clare had come to stand next to him, while three pot-boys and Blankpayn hastened to show their solidarity with Isnard.

  ‘You are out a lot these days, Master Kardington,’ remarked Michael coolly. ‘In fact, this is the third time since Sunday that you have been present at a confrontation.’

  ‘There are confrontations at every turn these days, Brother,’ said Kardington with a shrug. ‘You cannot take two steps without town louts forming battle lines.’

  Fortunately, he spoke Latin, so the ‘town louts’ did not understand. They knew it was nothing pleasant though, and Blankpayn scowled. Meanwhile, Isnard was more concerned with carrying out his threat against Bartholomew. He was not drunk, but he was not sober either, and there was a fierce light in his eyes. He took a step forward, gripping his sword two-handed, like an axe.

  ‘Put that down at once,’ ordered Michael sternly. ‘Brawling may damage your throat, and I need you for the solo on Sunday.’

  Isnard stopped dead in his tracks. ‘Solo?’

  ‘Never mind singing, Isnard,’ hissed Blankpayn. ‘Think about your leg – the one that was sawn off when you were too ill to prevent it. The Bible says an eye for an eye, and a leg for a leg.’

  ‘Does it?’ asked Isnard, disconcerted. The weapon wavered. ‘I do not think I can bring myself to chop off a limb. It is too … well, too personal.’

  ‘Kill him then,’ whispered Blankpayn. ‘He has all but killed you.’

  ‘If you do, I shall make sure you never sing in a choir again,’ said Michael, interposing himself between physician and bargeman. Bartholomew tried to stop him, not wanting the monk to bear the consequences for something he had done, but it was not easy to step around the Benedictine’s bulk.

  Isnard’s sword drooped a little more. The Michaelhouse ensemble was one of the greatest joys in his life. Not only did it let him bellow at the top of his lungs with people he liked, but the College provided food and treats after performances, and he enjoyed those, too. ‘But my leg …’

  ‘It was crushed beyond repair,’ said Bartholomew, finally succeeding in moving out from behind Michael. ‘You saw it yourself, and I do not understand why you refuse to believe me.’

  ‘But I cannot remember,’ cried Isnard. ‘You gave me wine, to dull my senses.’

  ‘There!’ muttered Blankpayn. ‘He rendered you insensible before doing his evil work. Listen to what Arderne tells you. Make the physician pay for what he did.’

  ‘I am no lover of physicians myself,’ said Spaldynge, shooting Bartholomew an unpleasant look. ‘But I do not recommend slaughtering them in broad daylight. They are not worth hanging for.’

  ‘You seem very keen for someone to commit a capital crime, Blankpayn,’ lisped Kardington. He spoke English, so no one understood him. ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Do not swear at us,’ snarled one of Blankpayn’s pot-boys, fingering his dagger meaningfully.

  Isnard was confused and unhappy. ‘Falmeresham – your own student – said this morning that if he knew then what he knows now, he would have stopped you from operating. How could you do this to me?’

  The last part was delivered in an accusing wail that made Bartholomew wince; so did the notion that Falmeresham had turned against him. He rubbed his eyes, tired of the whole business. There was nothing he could say to make Isnard believe him, and he did not think he could bear weeks of accusing glances and angry High Street encounters until Isnard managed to do what he threatened.

  ‘Do what?’ demanded Michael, when Bartholomew made no attempt to defend himself. ‘Save your life? Sometimes I ask myself the same question. But I have had enough of this unedifying spectacle. Go home and practise the Magnificat, or I shall ask someone else to sing instead.’

  Isnard started to obey – he had never been honoured with a solo before, and dispatching physicians could wait a day – but Blankpayn was furious that a brawl was going to be averted. ‘You are a coward, Isnard! A stupid cripple. He should have amputated you head, not your foot.’

  There was a collective murmur of distaste at this remark, including from Blankpayn’s own pot-boys. They exchanged uneasy glances and started to move away. The other townsmen were also loath to be associated with Blankpayn when he was of a mind to insult the popular Isnard, and began to follow suit. In a matter of moments, Blankpayn found himself left with only scholars for company; he did not like being outnumbered, and hastily made himself scarce.

  ‘I shall be voting against your proposal at the Convocation on Monday,’ said Spaldynge, when the taverner had gone. ‘I am sorry, Brother – I know you are doing what you think is right, but the University must stand firm against these demands, because they are the thin end of the wedge.’

  ‘Once landlords are free to charge high prices, bakers and brewers will do the same,’ elaborated Kardington. ‘We will be driven away by rising costs – hostels first, and eventually the Colleges.’

  ‘Most hostels are poor,’ Spaldynge went on bitterly. ‘And my sale of Borden was intended to highlight that fact. But what is the University’s response? To arrange a gathering of Regents, and ask them to give the Senior Proctor permission to raise the rents even higher!’ He looked disgusted.

  ‘I am sorry you will not have Clare’s support, Brother,’ said Kardington apologetically, ‘but your letter of notification did say we should all vote as our consciences dictate.’

  Bartholomew was not deceived by their so-called moral stance. ‘Your conscience tells you to vote against the amendment because Clare no longer owns any houses to lease out. Borden is sold, so you are no longer in a position to benefit from charging higher rates.’

  ‘That is true,’ said Kardington, rather coldly. ‘However, my decision also happens to coincide with what I believe to be ethical.’

  ‘Damn!’ murmured Michael, as the Clare men walked away. ‘I thought I phrased that letter in a way that made it clear that voting with one’s conscience meant voting for my proposal.’

  ‘You did – and it was not subtle.’ Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘I have said this before, but considering Spaldynge sold a house that did not belong to him, he seems very good friends with the victims of his crime.’

  Michael nodded. ‘Suspiciously so. I have a feeling there is something we are not being told about that College. I wonder how well Spaldynge and Kardington knew Lynton.’

  Bartholomew was silent as they walked t
he rest of the way to Peterhouse. An innate sense of survival made him turn sharply when he sensed something behind him, and he managed to avoid the stone that was lobbed at his head. He looked around, but could not see who had thrown it, although he heard running footsteps.

  ‘Perhaps we should ask Wisbeche if we can borrow one of Lynton’s knightly shields,’ said the monk facetiously. He saw Bartholomew’s unhappy expression. ‘Do not worry about Isnard. He will not stay angry with you for long.’

  ‘It is not him I am concerned about – it is the people taking up his cause. If I knew where Falmeresham had buried Isnard’s leg, I would excavate it, to prove it was beyond repair.’

  Michael regarded him in askance. ‘You would do that, but you will not look at Kenyngham?’

  Bartholomew sighed. ‘Actually, I will do neither. Arderne would claim it was someone else’s limb anyway, so there would be no point.’

  Peterhouse’s door was answered by Master Wisbeche himself. He did not look pleased to see them, and was reluctant to invite them in. Bartholomew wondered if it was because of Isnard.

  ‘No,’ said Wisbeche shortly. ‘It is about Lynton. The woman who came to wash him has a habit of making off with body parts for magic charms, so I decided to watch her, to make sure she did not do it to Lynton. While she was cleaning him I noticed a wound in his chest. My colleague Estmed, who fought with the old King in Scotland, said it was made by a crossbow bolt. Ergo, Lynton did not die because he fell from his horse and hurt his head – he was shot.’

  ‘I know,’ said Michael quietly. He raised his hand when Wisbeche started to object. ‘We were afraid of what might happen if we made the truth public. You can see for yourself how the town and the University are at each other’s throats, and a rumour that a high-ranking scholar was murdered would have led to all manner of mischief. Our students would have rioted.’

  ‘I would not have rioted,’ said Wisbeche coldly. ‘You could have confided in me. However, not only did you choose to be secretive, but you attempted to conceal the evidence – you plugged the wound with bandages. It is unconscionable, and everyone I have told agrees with me.’