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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘Come on,’ hissed Cynric from the bushes. ‘You should see what goes on in your own town.’

  Bartholomew was acutely uneasy. ‘Someone will catch us, and demand to know what we are doing. And as I have absolutely no idea, how am I supposed to reply?’

  Cynric beckoned him towards the back of the church. Bartholomew strained his eyes, and saw a figure lying motionless on the ground, hands folded across his chest. After a moment, a second person emerged from the trees that separated the churchyard from the Market Square, and started to move around him. It was too dark to identify faces or distinguishing features, and all the physician could see was that the second man – or woman – was swathed in a cloak. As virtually everyone in the town owned such a garment, it was impossible to say who it might be. The figure knelt, and there was a brief flicker as a candle was lit. It guttered in the evening breeze, but was too feeble to illuminate the face of either person. Bartholomew grew even more uncomfortable.

  ‘I do not like this,’ he whispered. ‘Why did you drag me all the way here, when witches probably do this sort of thing every night?’

  ‘Not in St Mary the Great,’ replied Cynric confidently. ‘St John Zachary and All Saints-next-the-Castle are favourites with warlocks, but they leave St Mary the Great alone. Too holy, see.’

  Bartholomew tried to read his expression in the darkness. ‘Do you witness these rites often?’

  Cynric nodded. ‘They happen more frequently than you might think, and I like to keep an eye on these Satan-lovers. You never know when they might decide to stage a rebellion, and drive out honest, God-fearing citizens like me.’ He crossed himself.

  ‘You watch with Carton?’

  Cynric nodded a second time. ‘He is the only one interested.’

  Bartholomew supposed his colleagues had been right after all, when they had declined to elect Carton to take Kenyngham’s place. He gestured to the two figures. ‘What are they doing? The one lying down will catch his death. It is freezing, and the ground is wet.’

  ‘They are casting spells,’ explained Cynric darkly. ‘And I brought you here because Honynge has sawn through the chains on the books in the hall, and has taken them all to his room – to protect them from Tyrington’s drool, he says. The other Fellows are furious, and things are being said that will be regretted tomorrow. I thought you would be better off here.’

  Bartholomew was exasperated. ‘Surely the kitchen would have sufficed? Or my room? Or even the porters’ lodge. You did not have to lure me out to this …’ He waved his hand, not sure how to describe what he was witnessing.

  Cynric shook his head firmly. ‘You are best well out of the place. Besides, I have a feeling this is more sinister than witchcraft.’

  Bartholomew did not bother to make the point that witchcraft was more than sinister enough for him. He was about to abandon his hiding place and go home, when he became aware that the cloaked figure had stood, and was looming over the one on the ground. It was not easy to see what he was doing, but the faint light from the candle certainly illuminated the fact that the person held something long and sharp. It was a dagger, and it was descending towards the man on the ground.

  Bartholomew reacted instinctively, launching himself from behind the buttress and towards the would-be killer as fast as he could. He did not stop to rationalise what he was doing – all he knew was that he was not about to stand by and do nothing while murder was committed. The cloaked figure leapt in alarm at the sound of sudden footsteps, and whipped around to face him. Then everything happened very quickly.

  The cloaked figure lunged at Bartholomew, but his deadly swipe missed. Unusually slow on the uptake, Cynric took a moment to join the affray, but when he did, it was with one of his bloodcurdling battle cries. He tore towards the knifeman, but another shadow emerged from the bushes, and a well-placed foot sent the Welshman sprawling on to his face. While Cynric shook his head to clear it, the newcomer shoved Bartholomew hard enough to make him crash back against the buttress, and dragged his cloaked comrade into the undergrowth.

  ‘After them, Cynric,’ shouted Bartholomew, trying to climb to his feet, but he could see it was too late. The mysterious pair had melted away, using bushes and darkness to mask where they had gone. Cynric took a few steps after them, but knew a lost cause when he saw one, and soon abandoned the chase.

  ‘That was rash,’ he said, unimpressed. ‘You flew at them without bothering to draw a weapon – or telling me what you were going to do. I thought your experiences in France had cured you of antics like that.’

  ‘He had a knife,’ said Bartholomew. He looked around uneasily, afraid the pair might return with reinforcements. Wanting to be done with the business, so he could go home to Michaelhouse, he knelt next to the prostrate figure, using the abandoned candle to see what he was doing.

  ‘It is Motelete from Clare!’ exclaimed Cynric, when light flickered across the face.

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘And this time, he really is dead.’

  Cynric regarded him in shock. ‘No! He is just part of whatever game the others were playing.’

  ‘Obviously. But his role is that of corpse.’

  Cynric continued to stare. ‘You mean we have been watching a rite involving a real body! When I saw him lying like that, I just assumed … I would never have brought you here to watch …’

  ‘He is growing stiff,’ said Bartholomew, feeling Motelete’s jaw. ‘I know it is not a reliable indicator for a time of death, but it suggests he has been dead hours, not minutes. And, judging by the blisters around his mouth and the scent from his mouth, I would say he has been poisoned.’

  CHAPTER 10

  The evening went from bad to worse. Cynric fetched Michael, and they took Motelete to Clare, where Bartholomew undertook the grim task of breaking the news to the lad’s friends. Kardington was shocked, the students distressed and Spaldynge suspicious that a physician should happen to discover the body. Michael tried to ask questions, but the Clare men were too overwrought for a sensible discussion, and he decided it would be better to return in the morning. By the time Bartholomew flopped exhaustedly into his bed, it was well past midnight.

  The porter had forgotten to put his peacock to roost, and as a consequence it woke the entire College long before dawn the following day. The new scholars leapt from their straw mattresses in alarm, then grinned sheepishly at each other when they realised what had happened. The ungodly racket made even Bartholomew stir and open his eyes. When the students in his chamber began chatting and lighting a lamp, he saw there was no point in trying to go back to sleep, and forced himself to sit up. He rubbed his eyes, feeling sluggish and thick-headed from the lack of rest.

  ‘It is good of Michaelhouse to take us in,’ said a pleasant theologian called Simon Hemmysby, watching him step across two prone students to reach his bowl of washing water. Langelee had chosen Hemmysby from the many hopefuls because he held a post – and thus a stipend – in Waltham Abbey, and would be able to pay his fees and make the odd additional donation. ‘However, I did not think accommodation in a wealthy College would be quite so cramped.’

  ‘It is not a wealthy College,’ said Bartholomew. Water flew as he began to wash, making one lad leap from his mattress in shock. ‘King’s Hall is wealthy. We are always looking for ways to make ends meet.’

  ‘Wynewyk did his best,’ said Hemmysby, flinching when spray flew in his direction. ‘But he is a lawyer, and it would have been better if Michaelhouse had used a mathematician.’

  Bartholomew regarded him blankly. ‘Wynewyk did his best at what?’

  ‘At the Dispensary,’ said Hemmysby, a little impatiently. ‘At winning money for his College.’

  Bartholomew glanced at the other students and saw none seemed particularly surprised by the conversation. ‘Are Michael and I the only ones who did not know about Lynton’s little enterprise?’

  Hemmysby raised his eyebrows. ‘If you are saying you were ignorant of its existence, then you are certainly in a minor
ity. Did he never invite you? I thought you and he were friends.’

  Bartholomew shrugged. ‘I dislike gambling. I lose interest, because of the unpredictable nature of the wins and losses. They require no skill.’

  Hemmysby regarded him in surprise. ‘But Lynton’s contests did require skill. With most games of chance, everything does depend on luck – you can be the cleverest man in the kingdom, but your chance of success is the same as the dunce sitting next to you. Lynton, however, introduced a degree of probability to his games, which meant people were challenged to crack his system.’

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused. ‘Were you one of these gamesters?’

  ‘I am in major orders,’ said Hemmysby primly. ‘Priests do not gamble.’

  ‘They do in Cambridge,’ muttered Bartholomew.

  Hemmysby did not hear him. ‘Before I was awarded my post at Waltham Abbey, I was always short of money. Then Lynton offered to pay me for serving wine to his guests. I no longer need the work, but I have kept it up, because I like it – the company is erudite and always entertaining.’

  Bartholomew tried to understand what Lynton had done. ‘He invented a game that allowed players to predict the outcome?’ He could see why that would have been popular – scholars liked exercising their minds, especially when they thought they might win something for correct answers.

  Hemmysby nodded. ‘It did not involve dice, but imaginary horses. Participants had to guess how long a particular animal would take to travel across a certain amount of ground.’

  Bartholomew stared at him as several facts snapped together. ‘The mean speed theorem! That is all about the time an object – in this case a horse – needs to cover a set distance, and it is a predictive formula. Did he base his games of chance around that?’

  Hemmysby nodded again. ‘It was extremely complicated, and scholars loved it – Lynton would change variables and enter unknowns into the equation to make calculation more difficult – the size of the horse, the slope of the land, the weight of the rider, and so on. The sums had to be done very fast, too, which added an additional thrill to the proceedings.’

  ‘Had I known there was intricate arithmetic involved, I might have signed up myself,’ said Bartholomew, rather wistfully. ‘However, I fail to see the appeal for townsfolk – they will not know the formula. Yet a number of them played.’

  ‘They claimed they were any scholar’s equal, and were just as good at predicting the outcome of these horse races. Of course, they were not, and they lost more often than they won.’

  Bartholomew recalled Blankpayn saying as much. ‘Why did Lynton admit laymen in the first place? He must have known it would cause trouble.’

  ‘There were rarely problems. The Dispensary operated for years without ill feeling, and Lynton did not mind who played, as long as he – or she – paid his debts.’

  ‘Paxtone said he disagreed with Lynton’s conclusions,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They argued.’

  ‘Of course there were arguments. There were scholars involved, and arguing is what we do best. But Friday nights were good-natured occasions with discreet, well-behaved men who always parted friends. However, not all the merchants were as civil.’

  ‘Candelby?’ asked Bartholomew, more pieces of the puzzle falling into place.

  ‘He has an unattractive habit of gloating when he wins. In the end, he was banned.’

  ‘When?’ asked Bartholomew, thoughts whirling. No wonder Candelby had hated Lynton.

  ‘Good Friday. There was a fuss, and wine was spilled. Has no one told you about this?’

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew tartly. ‘Apparently, participants are bound by vows of secrecy.’

  ‘They are. And because most are decent men, they are unlikely to break that trust. I did not swear the oath, though, because I was not a player. I only served the wine.’

  ‘I cannot believe Lynton did this! We have been told wagers included houses, livestock, boats and money. With the stakes so high, it is not surprising that he might have attracted resentment.’

  ‘The stakes were high, but Lynton refused to let anyone ruin himself. He even restored goods to losers on occasion, when he felt it was warranted. There was no resentment – not from anyone.’

  Bartholomew was not sure whether to believe him. ‘Was he magnanimous when Candelby lost?’

  ‘We never had occasion to find out, because Candelby rarely came up with the wrong answer. Why do you think he was so peeved when he was debarred? All his houses came from betting on Lynton’s races, you see.’

  It was Father William’s turn to conduct the morning mass, and, as usual, it was finished in record time. Unfortunately, it was too early to ask questions about Lynton or Motelete, so Bartholomew and Michael sat in the conclave, and the physician described to Michael – yet again – what had transpired in the churchyard of St Mary the Great the previous night.

  ‘Are you sure Motelete was poisoned?’ the monk asked. ‘You told me toxins are difficult to detect, which is why you failed to notice one in Kenyngham. Yet you are able to pronounce a clear cause of death with Motelete?’

  Bartholomew was too tired to argue about Kenyngham. ‘The substance was caustic enough to blister his mouth – not badly, but sufficient to tell me it would have damaged his innards, too.’

  ‘Yet someone was hovering over him with a dagger. Why would anyone want to stab a corpse?’

  Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Cynric thinks it had something to do with witchcraft.’

  ‘Are you sure Motelete was dead when all this was going on? You usually tell me it is impossible to pinpoint a time of death with any degree of accuracy.’

  ‘I can usually tell the difference between someone who has been a corpse for hours and someone who has only just breathed his last.’

  ‘And there was nothing in the two living figures that will allow you to identify them?’

  ‘It was too dark. However, Arderne has a penchant for meddling with the dead.’

  ‘I doubt Arderne is the killer – I imagine he would rather have Motelete alive, as a testament to his remarkable skills. However, if Motelete had changed from demure boy to belligerent womaniser, then perhaps he was not the kind of advertisement Arderne wanted for his handiwork.’

  ‘Had he changed? Do you remember what Gedney said? That the dead student was loud-mouthed and drank too much?’

  ‘Gedney is addled. However, he does have moments of clarity, and he was an astute man in his time. It is not impossible that vestiges of that brilliance still flash now and again.’

  ‘I imagine you would like the culprit for Motelete’s murder to be Candelby.’

  ‘Actually, Matt, I would rather it was Honynge – and I happen to know he went out yesterday evening. I set Meadowman to follow him, but the sly fellow gave him the slip.’

  ‘Unfortunately for you, Honynge was here when those two figures were with Motelete in the churchyard. He was arguing about the books he has spirited away to his room – and you are his alibi. He only went out later.’

  Michael’s expression was triumphant. ‘But you said Motelete was dead hours before that. Honynge might have murdered him and deposited him in the churchyard, leaving Arderne to maul the corpse at a later time. That would be a convenient solution, because it would please us both.’

  They left the conclave, and the monk showed Bartholomew the empty shelves in the hall, where the books had been. The severed chains dangled forlornly. Wynewyk joined them, and complained bitterly about the ‘theft’. Bartholomew thought they were overreacting.

  ‘Cynric said the tomes are in Honynge’s room – he wants to protect them. They are not stolen.’

  ‘Honynge claims he acted out of concern,’ said Michael. ‘But he has locked the door to his quarters, which means no one else can read anything unless he lets them in.’

  Wynewyk snorted his disdain. ‘Honynge’s antics have nothing to do with caring for books. He is compiling an exemplar – a collection of readings – for third-ye
ar theologians. Its sale will make him rich.’

  Michael blew out his cheeks in understanding. ‘And because his exemplar will include texts from a wide variety of sources, he wants our library readily to hand. His motive is selfish.’

  ‘Hateful man!’ said Wynewyk fervently. ‘I am glad William fed him dog again this morning.’

  Because it was Saturday, the disputation was more lighthearted than the ones during the week, and was run by students, rather than Fellows. Falmeresham had been scheduled to take charge, but with his defection to Arderne, Langelee ordered Carton to take his place. The commoner was making for the back gate when he heard his name mentioned. He returned with a nervous grin.

  ‘Where were you going?’ demanded Langelee. ‘I gave an order for everyone to stay in today.’

  Carton’s smile began to slip. ‘I did not have enough to eat this morning, because Agatha keeps putting dog in everything. I was going to buy a pie from the Angel.’

  Michael glared at him; he knew a lie when he heard one. Nor was Langelee amused, and he had just begun to deliver a lecture about obedience, when Tyrington approached.

  ‘God help us,’ he breathed. ‘I do not mean to offend, but Deynman is no scholar.’

  ‘He is not,’ agreed Honynge, overhearing. ‘And if he is allowed to go and practise medicine he will kill someone. But Michaelhouse created the problem, so Michaelhouse must devise a solution.’

  ‘I would suggest inventing some nominal post here, to keep him out of mischief,’ said Tyrington. ‘But we have no money to pay him, and I certainly do not want him anywhere near my students.’

  Honynge issued a weary sigh. ‘Leave it to me. I shall think of something. After all, it is an issue that requires intelligent thinking – something of which the current Fellowship seems incapable.’