‘What rumour?’ asked Bartholomew, although he suspected he already knew.
‘He said you shot Lynton, then concealed the wound when you examined the body for Michael. He claims he heard it from Wisbeche, although I doubt Wisbeche would have invented such a tale.’
‘Actually, Lynton was shot, and I did hide the evidence,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. Rougham and Robin stared at him in disbelief. ‘I did not kill him, though. Obviously.’
‘But I saw the wound on Lynton’s head,’ objected Robin. ‘I went to see if I could help him, but his skull was bruised, and he was not breathing.’
Rougham was appalled. ‘Why did you not mention sooner that Lynton was murdered, Bartholomew? Arderne might be responsible, and we could all be in grave danger.’
‘He mentioned it to me,’ said Paxtone. ‘And I have been on my guard since – for you two as well as for myself. Why do you think I have spent so much time with you? Brother Michael did not want details made public, lest word leaked out, and there was trouble.’
Rougham was unappeased, and glared at Bartholomew. ‘You could have trusted me. We have shared deeper and darker secrets in the past, and you know you can count on my discretion.’
‘It was not his secret to tell,’ argued Paxtone. ‘It is Michael’s.’
‘We cannot let Bartholomew’s reticence damage our alliance,’ said Robin reasonably. ‘Paxtone was watching out for us, Rougham, so no harm was done. The real question we should be considering is, who killed Lynton? Was it Arderne?’
‘I am inclined to think so,’ replied Bartholomew, ‘but we have no evidence. Michael and I have been asking questions all week, and although we have uncovered some startling facts about Lynton, we have discovered nothing to incriminate Arderne.’
Paxtone was thoughtful. ‘I was on Milne Street when Lynton died, too – as I told you before – and, like Robin, I assumed he died because the horse kicked him. But since you told me he was shot, I have recalled two odd things. They are probably nothing …’
‘Tell him,’ ordered Rougham. ‘It is not for you to decide what is important and what is not. That clever monk has a way with small clues, as I saw when I worked as his Corpse Examiner last year.’
‘I heard a couple of loud snaps,’ said Paxtone. ‘One just before Lynton’s horse collided with Candelby’s cart, and the other some time after, when people had started fighting.’
‘The first was the bolt that killed Lynton,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘Then the weapon was rewound to dispatch Ocleye. But there is a problem with that: if Ocleye saw Lynton shot – which is why I believe he was killed – then why did he not run away? Why did he wait to be picked off?’
‘And that is the second thing I recall,’ said Paxtone. ‘After Lynton died and the cart was smashed, I saw Ocleye pick himself up, unharmed. Everyone was gazing in horror at the carnage, but he was looking in the opposite direction. And he was grinning.’
Bartholomew stared at him. ‘He was not surprised? But that suggests he knew Lynton was going to be shot. In advance.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Paxtone soberly. ‘I believe it does.’
The three physicians and Robin continued to discuss Lynton’s death, until Rougham pointed out that they had better devise a plan to make sure the same thing did not happen to them. He did not want to be shot while riding down Milne Street and, as Brother Michael was having no luck in bringing the slippery Arderne to justice, then it was up to Cambridge’s medici to think of a solution.
‘We tried to get the better of Arderne yesterday, by playing him at his own game.’ Rougham looked pained. ‘Unfortunately, it went wrong.’
‘You did not provide him with a second chance to raise Motelete from the dead, did you?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘By poisoning him?’
Rougham glared. ‘Be serious, man! This is no time for jests. One of Paxtone’s fourth-years pretended to be afflicted with leprous sores, and went – well armed with money – to buy a cure. Our plan was to force Arderne to make a diagnosis, then publicly wash off the paints to reveal him as a fraud. But Arderne got wind of it and sent him packing.’
It was not a clever idea, and Bartholomew was not surprised it had failed. He began to have second thoughts about joining ranks with men who would stoop to such transparent tricks.
Rougham sensed his reservations. ‘I heard Edith was hurt the other day – she came between you and a rock. Unless you want this sort of thing to continue, you cannot refuse to stand with us.’
‘Arderne probably killed Kenyngham, too,’ said Robin, trying another tactic to earn the physician’s support. ‘I heard Michael plans to exhume him, and look for signs of poisoning, but—’
‘I examined him twice,’ said Bartholomew. ‘No one killed him, but Michael refuses to listen.’
Rougham was thoughtful. ‘Many poisons are impossible to detect. Some are obvious – like the one that killed Motelete, given your description of his blistered mouth – but most are insidious substances, invisible to mere mortals like us. I doubt you will discover anything on Kenyngham’s body that will help convict Arderne, so the poor man will have been disturbed for nothing.’
‘I will not be doing the disturbing,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You will.’
‘There is not—’ began Robin.
‘Then Michael is going to be disappointed,’ interrupted Rougham. ‘I would go a long way for him – including voting for his stupid amendment to the Statutes – but I will not defile Kenyngham.’
‘And do not look at me, either,’ said Paxtone with a shudder. ‘I dislike corpses, and never touch them if I can help it. And I certainly refuse to inspect one that should be in the ground.’
‘So will I,’ said Robin, although Bartholomew doubted Michael would stoop that low. ‘But—’
‘Kenyngham was not murdered anyway,’ said Paxtone. He grimaced, wrestling with some inner conflict. ‘I promised I would never tell anyone this, but I think he would not mind under the circumstances. Kenyngham had been unwell for a week or so – his pulses had begun to beat oddly.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘He was my patient, and he said nothing to me.’
‘He said he did not want you distressed during his last few days on Earth,’ replied Paxtone. ‘That is why he sought me out, and not you – his normal physician.’
Bartholomew was aghast. ‘He was ill, and he felt he could not tell me?’
Paxtone’s expression was kindly. ‘He wanted to spare you the anguish of not being able to save him. He was more fond of you than you know.’
‘Perhaps he was being poisoned slowly,’ suggested Robin gratuitously. ‘By Arderne.’
‘It was his pulses,’ said Paxtone firmly. ‘I felt them myself, fluttering and pounding. He said it had been happening for some time, but the condition had suddenly worsened. I told him there was nothing I could do, but he was not concerned. I think he was looking forward to seeing Heaven.’
‘Well, he was a saint,’ said Rougham, laying a compassionate hand on Bartholomew’s shoulder.
‘I prescribed a potion to alleviate his discomfort – henbane is an excellent antidote to pain. He made me write “antidote” on the pot, lest you should happen across it and quiz him. He really did not want anyone to know what was happening, and said the word was vague enough to forestall any unwanted questions.’
‘Antidote,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Will you tell Michael all this? Before he digs him up?’
‘There is no need,’ said Robin, loud enough to block Paxtone’s reply. ‘I have been trying to tell you, but you keep interrupting. He heard from the Bishop’s palace this afternoon. Permission to exhume is denied.’
‘How do you know?’ demanded Rougham.
‘Because I saw the Episcopal messenger arrive at the town gate. Langelee asked for news, and I overheard him say that Kenyngham is to be left in peace.’
‘Well, then,’ prompted Rougham, after a short silence. ‘We must decide what to do about Arderne.’
Bartholomew
pulled his thoughts from Kenyngham. Even to the last, the elderly Gilbertine had been thinking of others, and Paxtone’s description of his symptoms matched what Bartholomew himself had observed of Kenyngham’s final hours – his weariness and peace.
‘Arderne’s eyes are the main problem,’ said Paxtone. ‘They bore into you, and you are powerless to resist. You find yourself believing what he says, even though you know it to be rubbish.’
‘Then you must steel yourself against them,’ ordered Rougham. ‘He tried using them on me, but I met his gaze, and it was he who looked away first. You must be strong.’
‘I know what to do,’ said Robin brightly. ‘Burgle his house, and hunt for his hoax potions. We shall lay hold of them, then display them on the High Street for all to see.’
‘He would deny they were his,’ Paxtone pointed out. ‘And I dislike breaking the law, anyway.’
‘I suggest we fight him on his own terms,’ said Rougham. ‘I shall pay one of my students to play dead, and we can raise him. Then people’s faith in us will be restored.’
‘But Arderne would subject him to the most dreadful tests, to ensure he was really gone,’ said Paxtone. ‘The poor fellow would flinch or scream, and then we would look like the charlatans.’
‘Then you think of something,’ said Robin exasperated. ‘You have pulled our ideas to pieces.’
‘I could ask him for a remedy for these griping pains in my innards,’ suggested Paxtone. ‘Then I could swallow his cure and pretend it makes me worse.’
‘He will say it is because you have an evil heart, or some such nonsense,’ said Rougham. ‘He will not accept responsibility for the failure himself. Bartholomew, do you have any ideas?’
‘We could challenge him to a public debate,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We can ask an audience to present questions, and see who provides the best answers.’
‘Yes!’ said Rougham, eyes blazing in triumph. ‘It will soon become clear that he does not know what he is talking about!’
‘But they might ask questions we cannot answer,’ said Robin uneasily. ‘Like how to prevent the bloody flux.’
‘Just because there is no cure does not mean there is nothing we can do,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There are remedies to alleviate these conditions, and we can all quote our sources.’
‘Some of you might be able to,’ muttered Robin.
‘Bartholomew is right,’ said Rougham. ‘This will not be a debate to see who can devise the wildest cures, but to assess who has the greatest knowledge of his subject. And obviously, that is going to be us. However, we must remember not to contradict each other. We can argue in private, but at this debate, we must maintain a united front. Agreed, Bartholomew?’
‘You must, Matthew,’ said Paxtone, seeing him hesitate. ‘You are overly fond of disputation, and will start doing it with us. Arderne will take advantage of any perceived dissent.’
‘We can challenge him to perform the perfect amputation, too,’ said Robin, brightening. ‘I wager he does not know how to cauterise blood vessels before sewing up the wound, and onlookers will see that we know what we are doing and he does not.’
‘I think we had better to stick to the theoretical side of things to start with, Robin,’ said Paxtone with a shudder. ‘I am not sure I want to witness that sort of thing, and I am used to a little blood.’
CHAPTER 11
When Bartholomew arrived home, he found Michaelhouse in an uproar. Junior Proctor Bukenham had arrived with six beadles, and they were standing in the yard. Michael was shouting, Langelee was trying to calm him, and Honynge was looking on with gleeful malice. The other Fellows were in a huddle, lost and confused; Carton nursed a bruised nose, and Deynman was limping.
‘What is happening?’ demanded Bartholomew, going to help Deynman sit on a bench.
‘An accusation has been levelled against Brother Michael,’ explained Carton. He was pale and angry, an expression that was reflected in the face of every College member – except Honynge. ‘He is said to be concealing evidence of murder, and his rooms are going to be searched.’
‘An accusation made by whom?’
Carton glared in Honynge’s direction. ‘I tried to stop the beadles, but one punched me, and when Deynman came to my aid, he was hit with a cudgel.’
‘You tried to fight beadles?’ Bartholomew was horrified.
‘Just one,’ said Carton. ‘The lout who seems to think Bukenham is right. The others did not raise a hand against us, because they are loyal to Michael.’
Bartholomew glanced at the beadles and saw none were happy about the situation. Meadowman and four friends stood apart from the remaining one, and it was obvious a division had formed. They looked from the monk to Bukenham with wary eyes, waiting to see what would happen.
‘The Chancellor says that because an official challenge has been issued, Michael must submit to having his quarters searched.’ Tyrington was incensed on the monk’s behalf. ‘How dare he treat a Fellow of a respected College – and his own Senior Proctor – like this!’
‘There are guidelines for dealing with such eventualities, and Chancellor Tynkell is right to follow them,’ said Langelee, the practical voice of reason. ‘I recommend we go to the hall until—’
‘I certainly shall not,’ declared Michael, shooting his deputy a look of pure venom.
Bukenham cringed. ‘It was not my idea,’ he wailed. ‘Tynkell ordered me to do it.’
‘Then fetch him,’ challenged Michael. ‘Let us hear it from his own lips.’
‘I wish I could, but he has locked himself in his room, in case you storm over to St Mary the Great and shout at him. But, like me, he has no choice but to follow the proper procedures.’
‘Of course he has a choice,’ raged Michael. ‘He could tell this malicious complainant where to shove his filthy lies!’
‘But then people would be suspicious of him as well as you,’ Bukenham pointed out. ‘And they will call for his resignation. By searching your room, we can prove nothing is amiss and Hon … the complainant will have to retract his accusation.’
Michael was so angry, his large frame quaked like jelly. ‘I will not give you permission to touch my belongings, and if you try, I shall sue you for trespass.’
The beadles exchanged more uncomfortable glances, and Bukenham’s expression was one of agony. He did not know what to do, and Bartholomew suspected he was far more frightened of Michael than the Chancellor, Honynge and the rest of the University put together.
‘If the monk has nothing to hide, he would not mind obliging you,’ said Honynge quickly, when he saw the force of Michael’s personality and the loyalty he inspired in most of his beadles was about to win the day. ‘His ire is a sign of a guilty conscience.’
Langelee eyed his new Fellow with disdain. ‘It has come to this, has it? Not content with making silly accusations over documents in the Illeigh Chest, you run to the Chancellor as well?’
Honynge’s expression was dangerous. ‘I dislike corruption, and I will not tolerate it in my own College. When Michael is found guilty, I shall be calling for your resignation, too. There,’ he added in a whisper, ‘that told them you will not turn a blind eye to shabby morals.’
‘Ignore him, Master,’ said William coldly. ‘He is a petty man, unfit for Michaelhouse. I knew it the moment I heard him supporting the wrong side in the Blood Relics debate.’
As Honynge and William began a nasty, sniping squabble and Langelee tried to stop them, Bartholomew turned to Michael. ‘I do not understand. How has this come about?’
The monk spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Obviously, Honynge has been listening to the rumours started by Wisbeche – before the man agreed to keep his mouth shut – about Lynton’s wound being disguised. I told you it was a bad idea, and now look what has happened.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, shocked that his hasty action should have caused such trouble. ‘I thought I was doing the right thing – I did not imagine the repercussions would be so dire.’
‘Well, they are,’ snapped Michael. ‘Bukenham will find the bloodstained crossbow bolts you took from our two victims. They will be used to prove I concealed Lynton’s murder, Honynge will call for my resignation, and I shall be hard-pressed to find reasons why I should not oblige him.’
‘Do you mean these crossbow bolts, Brother?’ whispered Cynric, sidling up to him and flashing something that was mostly hidden up his sleeve.
Michael stared at them in astonishment. ‘God and all His saints preserve us! How did you get those with no one seeing? I thought you had been here the whole time.’
‘Then let us hope everyone else thinks so, too,’ said Cynric comfortably. ‘As soon as I heard what Bukenham had come to do, I went round the back, and climbed through your bedroom window. Meanwhile, Carton and Deynman kindly staged a diversion – they tackled your beadles and kept everyone occupied for a few moments.’
‘Thank God for friends,’ said Michael fervently.
‘I even took that flask of wine you stole from Father William,’ Cynric went on, pleased with himself. ‘And one or two other items I thought you might prefer to keep from prying eyes.’
Michael sighed his relief. ‘Thank you, Cynric. I shall never forget this. And I shall never forget what my enemies have done, either.’ He glowered in Honynge’s direction.
‘If Cynric has removed anything sensitive, you may as well let Bukenham do his duty,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Then you can demand an apology from Honynge for the trouble he has caused.’
‘You can demand more than that,’ said Cynric. ‘You can call for his resignation for slandering you. I doubt Master Langelee would object.’
A grin of malicious satisfaction flashed across the monk’s face. ‘I am sure he will not. Perhaps Michaelhouse will be rid of its viper sooner than I anticipated.’
Bukenham swallowed hard as Michael stalked towards him. Meadowman and his four friends immediately stepped behind the monk, to show where their allegiance lay, and, after a moment of hesitation, the last beadle did likewise. The Junior Proctor was alone.
To Kill or Cure: The Thirteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 32