To Kill or Cure (15 page)

‘Tell me what happened yesterday,’ said Michael. ‘From the beginning.’

‘We heard a monstrous crash,’ obliged Lexham. ‘We thought it was Rudd’s Hostel falling down at last, so we dashed outside
to look. The only one who did not go was Spaldynge. He stayed behind, lest thieves used the opportunity as a diversion to
burgle us.’

‘It happened once before,’ explained Kardington. ‘Now we never leave the College unattended.’

‘Rudd’s has been on the verge of collapse all term, and we have bets on which day it will go,’ Lexham went on.
‘However, it was Candelby’s cart that had made the noise – Lynton’s horse had smashed it to pieces. We watched Arderne cure
Candelby. He examined Lynton, too, but said that although he
can
raise men from the dead, he does not consider physicians worth the effort.’

‘He said that?’ Bartholomew was shocked by the claim as much as the sentiment.

‘I do not like Arderne,’ confided Lexham. ‘He fixes you with those bright eyes, and you find yourself believing what he says,
even though logic tells you it cannot be true.’

‘Just keep to the facts,’ prompted Kardington gently. ‘Brother Michael does not want unfounded opinions – they will not help
him learn what happened to Motelete.’

Lexham nodded an apology. ‘So Arderne waved his feather, and Candelby said he was feeling better, but Maud Bowyer just sat
and wept. Arderne tried to help her, but she pushed him away.’

‘Did you see Ocleye at all?’

‘We know him from the Angel—’ Lexham stopped speaking as a groan from his cronies told him that he had just let slip a detail
that was best kept from the Senior Proctor.

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Your fondness for that particular tavern is hardly a secret, and on Sunday evening, I caught
you there myself, if you recall.’

‘You fined us,’ said Lexham resentfully. ‘It is not something we are likely to forget. We wanted to talk to Ocleye’s friends,
to see if he had mentioned a plot to kill a scholar.’

Michael was angry. ‘That might have precipitated another brawl.’

‘But we had to do something!’ cried another lad. ‘Motelete was one of
us
! We could not sit at home and do nothing. We needed to know if his murder was planned or an accident.’

‘And which do you think it was?’ asked Bartholomew.

The student grimaced. ‘We still do not know. The Angel pot-boys said Candelby would dock their pay if they gossiped to us
while they were working, and we did not like the sound of meeting them behind the Carmelite Friary after dark, like they suggested.’

‘Thank God for small mercies,’ muttered Michael. ‘At least you have some sense. But let us return to the accident. What happened
after Arderne’s advances were rejected by Maud?’

‘A crowd had gathered, and we were worried by all the jostling that was going on,’ replied Lexham. ‘The Carmelites like a
good squabble, and I was afraid they might bring one about. Then you arrived, and everything calmed down.’

‘The next thing
I
recall is Falmeresham,’ said Kardington, frowning. ‘He darted forward in a way that made me think he was going to punch that
horrible Blankpayn.’

‘As soon as that happened, Master Kardington ordered us all home,’ Lexham went on. ‘Motelete and I were at the back. I thought
he was behind me, but when I reached our gate, he was gone.’

‘Did he speak to anyone before he became separated from you?’ asked Bartholomew.

Lexham shook his head. ‘He did not know anyone outside Clare.’

‘Did he ever quarrel with any of you?’ asked Michael.

As one, the students laughed. ‘Never!’ said Lexham. ‘He was too polite. I cannot imagine how he would have managed his disputations,
when he never wanted to tell anyone he was wrong.’

‘He was a child,’ elaborated Kardington. ‘Does he sound like the kind of fellow to dash into a brawl and go a-killing?’

‘No,’ admitted Michael. ‘So, we had better look at his body. Matt is good at finding clues invisible to the rest of us. He
may discover something that points to Ocleye as the culprit.’

As they left the hall, Bartholomew spotted a scholar who had been one of his first patients in Cambridge – and Master Gedney
had been old then. Gedney had been a brilliant theologian in his day, but now he spent his time eating, complaining or dozing
by the fire. For the last decade, Bartholomew had been treating him for weak lungs, and was astonished the man had survived
so long. Unfortunately, Gedney had grown forgetful as well as curmudgeonly, and had developed a habit of addressing his colleagues
by the names of men who had died years before.

‘Babington,’ he said when he saw Bartholomew. ‘Do you still have that book I lent you? Holcot’s
Postillae
? I want it back.’

Michael and Kardington exchanged a grin – it was well-known in the University that the physician would never read a text on
scripture when ones on natural philosophy were available.

‘How are you feeling today, Master Gedney?’ Bartholomew asked politely.

Gedney lowered his voice. ‘This College is full of madmen. They told me it was Easter the other day, when I know it is Harvest.
Did you hear that one of our students was killed in a fight? His name was Tyd, a loud-mouthed fellow who drank too much.’

‘Was he?’ asked Michael. ‘Everyone else says he was quiet and gentle.’

‘Well,
they
are all senile,’ confided Gedney. ‘So you should take what they say with a pinch of salt. Is that a herring on your shoulder,
Brother? I like herring, but I
have not eaten one since the Death, because Babington here says they make you bald.’

‘Do herrings make you bald?’ asked Michael of Bartholomew. ‘I have noticed a certain thinning in front of my tonsure, so perhaps
I should abstain from now on. I do not like herrings anyway.’

‘I looked up Holcot’s
Postillae
in our library records,’ said Kardington, leading the way across the yard. ‘Gedney loaned it to a man more than forty years
ago, and it was never returned. It seems the matter still preys on his mind – such mind as he has left.’

The Church of St John Zachary, where Motelete’s body lay, was a small building that stood on the corner of Milne Street and
one of the many lanes that led down to the river. It served as chapel to Clare and Trinity Hall, but was closer to Clare.
It stood in a leafy graveyard that was in desperate need of pruning, but that was unlikely ever to see a pair of shears. It
was technically a parish church, and therefore the responsibility of the town, but most of its congregation had died during
the plague, and the few who remained objected to spending vast sums on a place that was used mostly by the University. Meanwhile,
the two Colleges saw no reason to divert their own resources to repair someone else’s property.

The lack of care showed not only in the wilderness of the cemetery, but in the building itself. Its stained glass had been
broken long ago, and the stone tracery in its windows had crumbled. The only way to keep weather and thieves out was to board
them up, so all the south-facing windows were permanently sealed with thick wooden planks. The north side was in a better
state of repair because it formed part of Clare’s boundary wall, and the scholars did not want a ruin in their grounds. Here
all
the windows had shutters, although they were sturdy and could only be opened from the outside – the Fellows were worried about
townsmen gaining access to their compound, and the shutters protected their College, not the church. The only exception was
the window in the Lady Chapel, which was left open when the scholars were at their prayers, to allow light into what was otherwise
a very dark place.

The roof also needed urgent attention, but the spiral stairs that gave access to it had collapsed the previous winter, meaning
repairs were out of the question. The fall had resulted in a chaos of rubble in the stairwell, which no one had bothered to
remove. The churchwardens had placed ropes across the entrance, to stop anyone from trying to use it, then put the mess from
their minds. It was not uncommon to hear the hiss and patter of falling plaster during services, and Bartholomew often wondered
how long it would be before the rest of the building gave up the ghost, too.

Kardington did not bother with the main door, which stood on Milne Street, but used the window in the Lady Chapel to enter
the church. Crude wooden steps had been built to allow Clare scholars to climb up to the chest-high windowsill from their
garden, but there was only a table on the other side, and some major leaps downwards were required. Michael objected vociferously,
first about the height of the jump, and then about the fact that the opening was rather narrow for a man of his girth. In
the end, he decided the manoeuvre could not be safely accomplished, so Spaldynge was obliged to escort him to the front door
instead.

While he waited for the monk to arrive, Bartholomew looked around him. It was cold in the building – far colder than outside
– and he shivered. The roof leaked so badly
that there was barely a dry spot in the whole chapel, and the once-bright wall paintings were all but indistinguishable. There
was a smell of rotting thatch, damp and incense, and the physician found it hard to imagine what the place had looked like
in its heyday.

Motelete was in the Lady Chapel, which was in a slightly better state of repair than the rest of the building. He lay in the
parish coffin, covered by thick blankets, as if some sensitive soul had not wanted him to be cold. Bartholomew stared down
at the still, pale face, and felt an overwhelming sorrow that someone so young should have died. The clothes around Motelete’s
neck were stained with so much blood that it was clear one of the great vessels in the throat had been severed. His skin was
white and waxy, too, another sign of death by exsanguination.

‘I doubt we will find a crossbow bolt here,’ said Michael softly in the physician’s ear. ‘Even I can see that he died from
his throat being cut. Do you agree?’

Bartholomew nodded, and pulled back the clothes to inspect the wound. It was difficult to see much, because the chapel was
gloomy and gore had dried around the boy’s neck. He was about to ask for a lamp when there was a rattle of brisk footsteps,
and he glanced up to see Arderne striding towards them. The healer was not alone; Candelby and several burgesses were at his
heels, while Robin of Grantchester hovered tipsily at the rear.

‘Magister Arderne,’ said Kardington in surprise. He spoke Latin. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I heard the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner were going to inspect the body of the boy Robin failed to save,’ boomed
Arderne, once Spaldynge had translated. ‘So, I came to watch.’

‘I did my best,’ bleated Robin. Several Clare students exchanged grim looks, and Bartholomew suspected more
clods of mud were likely to be flying the surgeon’s way. ‘But the cut was fatal, and the situation hopeless.’

Arderne sneered. ‘You could have
tried
to stem the bleeding. You did not bother, so you killed him with your ineptitude. Tell him, Bartholomew.’

‘Robin may have arrived too late to make a difference,’ hedged Bartholomew, unwilling to be used as a weapon to attack a colleague.
‘Patients can die very quickly with these sorts of—’

‘Rubbish!’ snapped Arderne. ‘You are siding with him because he is your friend. Robin was there the moment this lad was viciously
assaulted, because he was hoping to earn a fee. He claims to be a surgeon, so he should know how to stop a wound from bleeding.’

‘You see?’ said Spaldynge to his colleagues, his voice thick with disgust. ‘What did I tell you? There is not a medical practitioner
in Cambridge who knows what he is doing.’

‘There is now,’ declared Arderne. ‘
If
you can afford me, of course. I do not come cheap.’

Disgusted with the man’s self-aggrandisement, Bartholomew turned his attention to the corpse, and was about to resume his
examination when Arderne elbowed him out of the way.

‘Let me,’ ordered the healer. He leaned down. ‘Here is the gash that caused his demise – you can see the incised vessels quite
clearly. However, I have rescued men from a state of death before. I may be able to bring this lad back to life.’

‘Do not play games, Arderne,’ said Bartholomew sharply, aware of the hopeful looks that were being exchanged between Motelete’s
classmates.

Arderne ignored him. He removed a feather from his bag, and passed it several times up and down the body. ‘Yes, I sense life
here.’

Bartholomew was too exasperated to contradict him.

The healer tapped Motelete sharply on the chest. ‘Open your eyes,’ he commanded. ‘I know you can hear me, so show us you are
alive. Come on, lad. Wake up!’

Bartholomew gaped in shock when the corpse’s eyes flew open and Motelete sat up.

Thomas Kenyngham, founding Fellow of Michaelhouse and one of its most popular Masters, was buried that afternoon. He went
into a vault in St Michael’s chancel, to join several other scholars who rested there. It started to rain the moment the funeral
procession began, a heavy, drenching downpour that turned the streets into rivers of mud and soaked through the mourners’
clothes. The church was bursting at the seams, because many people had loved Kenyngham’s quiet gentleness, and it was not
only Michaelhouse scholars who wanted to pay their last respects.

Before the ceremony began, Bartholomew had slipped away to the old man’s bier. Motelete’s return from the dead had unsettled
him so much that he performed a small, discreet examination while his colleagues greeted the many guests who had been invited
to attend. Only when he was absolutely certain that Kenyngham was truly dead did he leave the coffin and return to his other
duties. Michael regarded him with raised eyebrows.

‘No blisters in the mouth?’ he whispered. ‘Or tiny wounds in the head or chest?’

Bartholomew did not like to admit that it was the possibility that he misdiagnosed death that had driven him back to the old
man’s body.

‘Of course not,’ he snapped, his distress over Kenyngham and his unease over the Motelete affair making him uncharacteristically
irritable. ‘No one harmed him.’