To Kill or Cure (14 page)

‘
Seven
weeks,’ corrected Robin. ‘He did nothing but sit in taverns at first, listening to gossip. Then he went into action. He cured
two people I said would die, and that was just the beginning.’

‘You do tend to make overly gloomy prognoses.’ Bartholomew had ‘cured’ people Robin had said would not survive himself. ‘You
should consider being a little more optimistic.’

‘But most of my patients
do
die,’ wailed Robin. ‘I only treat them as a last resort, when I might as well earn a bit of money from a lost cause. The
latest disaster was over that Clare boy – Motelete. I saw him stabbed and went to help, but I failed. Publicly.’

‘Did you see who killed him?’ asked Michael eagerly.

Robin shook his head. ‘All I saw was Motelete drop to the ground with his hand to his neck, blood spurting
everywhere. I am a surgeon, and spurting blood is my cue, so I rushed forward to see if I could stem the flow. As you know,
clean wounds can often be mended, and I was hopeful of a fee.’

‘The good Samaritan,’ murmured Michael.

‘Motelete was gurgling and gasping, and I saw there was no hope. So I moved away, lest anyone think
I
had injured him because I was desperate for work. Well, I
am
desperate for work, but I—’

‘Motelete died almost instantly?’ asked Bartholomew.

Robin nodded unhappily. ‘He twitched a while, then lay still. But all of a sudden, Arderne was looming over me. He had taken
Candelby home, and had come out to buy tallow grease – something to do with waxing his feather. He ordered me to heal Motelete.’

‘I thought you said Motelete was dead.’ Bartholomew was becoming confused.

‘He
was
dead,’ cried Robin. ‘But Arderne said he
could
have been saved if I had been any good at my job.’

There was a very real possibility that Arderne was correct. Robin was not skilled at his trade, and another surgeon might
well have saved the boy’s life. But it was not the time to say so.

‘Buy a new coat, Robin,’ suggested Michael kindly. ‘People like a smart
medicus
, because he inspires confidence. Invest in some shiny new implements, and see what happens to your practice then.’

The surgeon looked ready to cry, but sensed he had been dismissed and slunk away. When Bartholomew looked back a few moments
later, he saw two potters pick up some mud and lob it. Robin scuttled down the nearest alley like a frightened rat, and Bartholomew
suspected they were kin to someone who had suffered the surgeon’s clumsy ministrations. If word was spreading that Robin
was incompetent, then he could expect reprisals from a good many people. Perhaps he had been right when he predicted he was
finished in Cambridge.

Ralph Kardington, Master of Clare, was a sallow-faced lawyer with a huge gap between his front teeth that made him lisp. It
meant he was difficult to understand unless he spoke Latin, which he tended to annunciate more carefully than English or French.
As a consequence, most scholars used Latin when they were with him, and because he seldom conversed with townsmen, he was
left with the impression that every Englishman employed it all of the time. He often bemoaned the loss of the vernacular,
and was invariably surprised when no one agreed with him.

‘
Salve,
Brother,’ he said, hurrying to greet his visitors. ‘I assume you are here about Motelete? His body lies in the Church of
St John Zachary. You
must
find the villain who dispatched him. First Wenden, now Motelete. What is the world coming to?’

‘He refers to the Clare Fellow who died on Lady Day,’ explained Michael in a low voice to Bartholomew. ‘Wenden was killed
by that drunken tinker, if you recall.’

‘It is a pity Wenden’s murderer fell in the river and drowned,’ Kardington went on. ‘It meant the affair was quickly forgotten,
because no example was made of him. And now look what has happened – Clare has lost a second scholar to a townsman’s spiteful
blade.’

‘I believe Motelete was killed by a pot-boy named Ocleye,’ said Michael hastily, alarmed by the way the Master was blaming
the town. If his students felt the same – or they heard Kardington hold forth about it – there would be bloody reprisals for
certain. ‘But Motelete made an end of his attacker before he breathed his last, so vengeance has already been had.’

‘I heard these rumours, too,’ replied Kardington, ‘but they cannot be true. Motelete was a gentle, timid lad, and would never
have harmed anyone.’

‘He was killed during a brawl,’ Michael pointed out. ‘Gentle, timid lads tend to avoid those.’

Kardington was indignant. ‘Lynton died right by our gates, so of course we all rushed out to see what was happening – it is
human nature to be curious. Unfortunately, the situation turned violent faster than any one could have predicted. You were
there, Brother. You know I am right.’

‘Matters did spiral out of control rather quickly,’ the monk acknowledged cautiously.

‘Poor Motelete! He was by far the quietest of my lads. Ask his friends – they will all tell the same thing. Are you sure Ocleye
was his killer?’

‘No,’ admitted Michael. ‘Not completely.’

Kardington sighed and some of the ire went out of him. ‘If you conduct a thorough investigation, and at the end of it you
say you
are
satisfied that Ocleye was the culprit, then that will mark the end of the affair for us. We trust you, Brother. You did track
down Wenden’s killer, after all.’

Michael was touched by his faith. ‘Then I promise to do all in my power to find the truth. Do you mind answering a few questions
about Motelete?’

‘You may ask me, my Fellows or my students anything you like.’

‘Did Motelete know Ocleye, or did he ever visit the Angel tavern?’

‘No – to both questions. I know our undergraduates defy the ban on alehouses and sneak out to partake of the Angel’s excellent
pies, but not Motelete. He was too new and too wary, and had so far resisted his friends’ attempts to include him in their
rule-breaking.’

‘How long had he been enrolled?’

‘Two months or so. He hailed from near Ely, and this was his first time away from home. He was lonely and frightened, and
was lucky we happened to have a vacancy. I do not think he would have fared well in a hostel – they can be rough places. Colleges
tend to be more genteel.’

‘So, the only people he knew were at Clare?’ asked Michael, ignoring the gross generalisation.

‘Yes. However, before you start thinking that one of
us
might have dispatched him, consider this: the moment punches started to fly, I ordered all my scholars home. The only one
missing when we arrived was Motelete.’

‘Will your students confirm this?’ asked Michael.

‘Ask them – they are in the hall with their Latin grammars. We can go there now if you wish.’ Kardington shook his head sadly.
‘Our boys must be fluent in Latin if they are to live in England. I spoke to Tyrington in English the other day, and he did
not understand a word I said.’

‘How did you resolve the situation regarding Spaldynge?’ asked Michael conversationally, as they walked towards the hall.
‘He sold a hostel that belonged to your College, which was remiss of him.’

‘Remiss is one word for it,’ replied Kardington. ‘Borden Hostel was Clare property, and Spaldynge should have asked our permission
before he hawked it.’

‘He should not have sold it at all – with your permission or without it,’ said Michael coolly. ‘I issued a writ, requesting
that all University foundations should hold on to any property until the rent dispute is resolved. But that is not what I
asked: my question was what did you
do
about it? Did you send him down? Order him to repurchase the building?’

‘It was too late for the latter,’ said Kardington ruefully. ‘Candelby declined to give it back to us.’

‘Candelby?’ Michael was aghast. ‘Spaldynge disposed of Borden to
Candelby
? How could he, when every scholar knows Candelby is intent on destroying us? This is outrageous!’

Kardington looked pained. ‘I know, and we are very sorry. Spaldynge has been reprimanded, and we have rescinded his Fellowship
– he only holds the post of commoner now.’

Michael was unappeased. ‘Is that all? He should be excommunicated! I doubt he got a fair price for this hostel if Candelby
was the buyer.’

‘Actually, he struck an extremely good bargain. He used some money to feed his students, but the rest is in our coffers. Had
we known his lads were starving, we would have helped him out, but we thought he was exaggerating when he made his reports.
The disaster was partly our fault.’

‘Perhaps I should fine
you
, then, because someone should bear the consequences of his actions. That sale put me in a very awkward position, and Candelby—’

‘So, you are minus two teachers now – Spaldynge demoted and Wenden dead,’ interrupted Bartholomew, to prevent Michael from
scolding the Master of a powerful foundation like an errant schoolboy. ‘How do you manage with lessons?’

‘Wenden actually did very little tutoring,’ explained Kardington, shooting Michael an unpleasant look. ‘And this is not generally
known, but he held a non-stipendiary post anyway – we did not pay him to be here. So, we cannot appoint another Fellow in
his place, because we do not have the funds for a salary – not that it really matters, given that his death did not rob us
of a master, anyway.’

‘When he was killed,’ began Michael, regarding Kardington disapprovingly, ‘you admitted that he had no
students and did not contribute to College life. You also told me that he was tolerated because he had promised to leave Clare
all his money when he died. Unfortunately for you, when his will was read, you learned he had reneged on the agreement and
left it all to the Bishop of Lincoln instead. Have I recalled the situation accurately?’

Kardington grimaced. ‘That will was a vile shock, I can tell you! Still, it cannot be helped. Spaldynge is a better man, though.
He continues to lecture, even though we have rescinded his Fellowship.’

‘How noble,’ said Michael acidly. ‘Most men in his position would have slunk away with their tail between their legs.’

‘There he is,’ said Kardington, pointing to where a man with an unfashionable, shovel-shaped beard was ushering a group of
students towards the refectory. ‘You can berate him yourself, Brother, because I dislike being held responsible for what he
did.’

Michael did berate the disgraced scholar. Spaldynge stood with his head bowed while the monk railed, but his jaw muscles worked
furiously, and Bartholomew suspected he was more angry than chagrined by the reprimand. When Michael asked what he had to
say for himself, Spaldynge made the pointed remark that the monk had no idea what it was like to be hungry.

‘I have made my peace with Master Kardington and our Fellows,’ said Spaldynge, rather defiantly. ‘The sale of Borden is
our
business, and none of yours.’

Michael glared. ‘If we want a University, then we must work together – we will not survive as an ad hoc collection of foundations.
Your colleagues here may be willing to overlook your actions, but what about your colleagues in Ovyng Hostel or Peterhouse?
What you have done affects them, too.’

Spaldynge grimaced. ‘I have said I am sorry, and the sale cannot be undone. Besides, Lynton sold
his
properties when he felt like it, and you never subjected
him
to a torrent of abuse.’

‘Lynton did no such thing,’ said Bartholomew, when Michael seemed too astonished to speak. ‘We know he owned houses, and that
he rented them to laymen, but he did not sell them.’

‘Of course he sold them,’ snapped Spaldynge, while Kardington nodded agreement. ‘Who do you think gave me the idea in the
first place? I saw what Lynton was doing and followed his example. I should have known better. Physicians are reprehensible
creatures, and to copy one was stupid.’

In a sudden flash of memory, Bartholomew recalled that Spaldynge had lost his entire family to the plague, and that he had
never forgiven the
medici
who had taken his money for a cure but had failed to provide one. He reviled physicians at every opportunity, and Bartholomew
was glad their paths seldom crossed. It occurred to him that Spaldynge’s antipathy to members of the medical profession might
have led him to dispatch one with a crossbow.

‘Are you saying Lynton sold houses to
Candelby
?’ asked the monk, finding his voice at last.

‘I do not know the details of his transactions,’ said Spaldynge. ‘And I doubt he would have confided them had I asked. Perhaps
he sold them to Candelby; perhaps he
bought
them from Candelby; or perhaps he declined to have anything to do with Candelby – I would not have done, but he offered a
price so far above that of his nearest competitor.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Michael in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘First we learn Lynton is a landlord, and now we discover that he bought and
sold houses like a drover with cattle. I am amazed.’

‘He never expressed any interest in property to me,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘Do you think Spaldynge is telling the truth?’

‘Kardington supported his claims, and
he
is no liar. So, we have another link between my main suspect and his victim: money may have changed hands between Candelby
and Lynton. And money invariably brings out the worst in people.’

The Clare refectory was a pleasant, purpose-built hall overlooking the vegetable gardens. The window shutters had been flung
open, filling it with bright spring sunshine and the scent of warm earth. The students looked blank when Kardington lisped
orders at them, and they only understood that they were to talk about Motelete when he repeated himself in Latin.

A tall, gangling youth stood, and introduced himself as Thomas Lexham. ‘Motelete was only here for a few weeks,’ he said,
‘but we all liked him.’

‘He cried for his mother at night, and I had to show him how to sharpen his pens,’ added Spaldynge. ‘He was too soft to have
killed Ocleye – he would not have known how.’