To Kill or Cure (39 page)

‘Do not let him bother you, Matt,’ said Michael, seeing Honynge’s remarks had cut deep.

‘He accused me of murder – or of concealing a crime. Of course I am bothered! He is the kind of man to share his thoughts
with everyone he meets, and it is bad enough with Isnard’s friends lobbing rocks at me. I do not want scholars doing it, too.’

‘No one will believe him. He is objectionable and arrogant, and they would rather side with you.’

Bartholomew was not so sure. ‘People are fickle, and change allegiances fast. Honynge’s claims, coming so soon after Isnard’s,
may lead folk to wonder whether there is smoke without fire.’

‘Then we must solve our mysteries as quickly as we can – either to prove Honynge is the guilty party, or to expose the real
killer and prove your innocence. Let us start with the document Honynge found. Are you sure it was the upper half of the one
in Lynton’s hand?’

‘Positive. Everything matched – the shape of the tear, the ink, the writing, and the parchment.’

‘Then someone at Michaelhouse must have put it there, because no one else has access. Our College is suddenly full of men
we do not know, so perhaps one of them did it. Or do you think someone left it
because
it was likely to be found – as a way to get it into my hands? It is evidence in a murder, and he may have wanted me to have
it without being obliged to say how he came by it.’

‘You are thinking of Falmeresham? That he found it when he was with Arderne?’

Michael nodded. ‘He worships Arderne, but he is not stupid. He may well have discovered something that
disturbed him, so he decided to ease his conscience by passing it to me discreetly.’

‘The document was almost certainly ripped from Lynton’s hand by the man who killed him. If Falmeresham found it in Arderne’s
possession, then it means Arderne is the killer.’

Michael touched his arm. ‘Do not fear for Falmeresham. If Arderne had meant him harm, he would not have healed him in the
first place. Your errant student will be safe enough.’

Bartholomew rubbed his eyes, not sure of anything. ‘What are we going to do?’

‘Ask questions, Matt. Just as always.’

‘Then we should make a start,’ said Bartholomew, standing and pulling the monk to his feet. ‘We cannot waste time speculating.’

Michael snatched a piece of bread as he was hauled away from the table. ‘Clare first, to ask about Motelete. And then we shall
enter the lion’s den and tackle Arderne.’

At Clare, they were admitted by Spaldynge, who was sombre, tired and pale. He admitted to staying up all night with some of
the younger students, who had been too distraught to sleep.

‘I hope you catch the monster who did this,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Poor Motelete. He was just learning to enjoy himself,
too. He was less shy than before he died – the first time.’

‘We saw him courting Siffreda Sago,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Is that what you mean?’

Spaldynge nodded. ‘I had no idea he was a lad for the ladies, and he surprised us all when he set his eyes on Siffreda. Do
not look to her brother as the killer, though. Sago was working all yesterday – including last night – in the Angel, and a
dozen men can confirm it.’

‘Including you?’ asked Michael archly.

‘I do not frequent taverns,’ replied Spaldynge coolly. ‘However, I did go to the Angel briefly to ask a few questions after
you brought us Motelete’s body. They seemed the obvious suspects, and—’

‘So, you did not spend all night with weeping students,’ pounced Bartholomew. ‘You lied.’

Spaldynge regarded him with dislike. ‘You twist my words, physician, but that is to be expected. You are as sly and devious
as the rest of the men in your profession.’

Michael tapped him sharply in the chest, making him step back in surprise. ‘Matt had nothing to do with what happened to your
family during the plague, so do not vent your spleen on him.’

‘No,’ acknowledged Spaldynge bitterly. ‘It was Lynton – and Kenyngham gave them last rites when his feeble efforts failed.
Now physicians have killed Motelete, too. They are jealous of the fact that Arderne can heal and they cannot, so they slaughtered
Motelete to “prove” Arderne’s cures are only temporary. It is despicable!’

‘You think Rougham or Paxtone fed Motelete poison?’ asked Bartholomew, shocked. ‘Or me?’

‘Probably not you – you are more of a knife man.’ Bartholomew saw the anguish in Spaldynge’s eyes, so did not react to the
insult. ‘You and your colleagues were useless during the Death, but Arderne said he cured hundreds of people. If only he had
been here! But I do not want to talk about it any more, especially with you. Follow me. The others are waiting in the refectory.’

Bartholomew stared after him unhappily, and was not much cheered by the situation in Clare’s hall. One of the youngest students
started to cry the moment he and Michael entered, and Kardington stood with his arm around the boy’s shoulders. Michael was
kind and patient, but no one could tell him anything useful. When the monk
finally accepted that he was wasting his time, Kardington escorted them out, leaving Spaldynge to console the sobbing child.

They met old Gedney, hobbling across the yard on his stick. He glared at Bartholomew. ‘Have you finished with my copy of Holcot’s
Postillae
yet? I want it back.’

‘I do not have it.’ Bartholomew looked at the gate and longed to be through it. He was tired of accusations from members of
Clare.

‘That rascally Tyd must have pinched it, then,’ said Gedney, grimacing in annoyance. ‘Or his friend with the beard – the one
who gambles at the Dispensary. What is his name?’

‘Spaldynge,’ said Kardington shortly, walking on before the old man could say anything else. He addressed Michael and Bartholomew
in his careful Latin. ‘I am sorry we have not been of more help. We are united in our hope that you will catch the person
who poisoned Motelete.’

‘Spaldynge thinks Matt did it,’ said Michael bluntly.

‘He is just upset,’ said Kardington apologetically. ‘And he does not like physicians. It is a shock, learning that a student
is murdered, then he is alive, and now he is slain again.’

‘I saw Motelete in several taverns,’ said Michael. ‘Yet when we first started asking questions about him, everyone said he
avoided them, because he was afraid of being fined.’

Kardington sniffed. ‘He liked the Angel, but who does not? Even the most rigorous adherent of the University’s rules cannot
resist those lovely pies.’

‘He was not eating; he was drinking. Claret, no less.’

Kardington was sheepish. ‘Well, perhaps he did have a fondness for it, which became more noticeable after his resurrection.
And I admit he was not the scholar we thought him to be, either.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We all wanted to get to know him better after he had that miraculous cure, but he was not the lad we remembered. He must
have concealed his true character before. To be honest, I found I did not like him much, although that does not mean to say
I am pleased that he is dead.’

‘Did you see him with anyone who might mean him harm?’ asked Michael.

‘His free time was spent either with Siffreda or Arderne,’ said Kardington. ‘But Arderne had saved him, so it is no surprise
that they struck up a friendship. Your lad Falmeresham was jealous, though – I saw him glaring enviously myself. And
he
knows about poisons—’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew immediately. ‘Falmeresham is not a killer.’

‘I hope not,’ said Kardington softly. ‘I really do.’

‘I understand you visited the Dispensary,’ said Michael coolly. ‘Did you win much?’

‘Not really,’ said Kardington. He blushed guiltily, and could not meet Michael’s eyes. ‘I am not very good at calculating
mean speed, although I enjoyed the exercise. Are you going to fine me?’

‘I wish I could, because you are supposed to be setting an example to those in your care. But why pick on you, when virtually
every member of the University took part at one time or another? Even Matt admits that he would have joined in, had he known
complex arithmetic was on offer.’

Kardington smiled, more in relief than amusement. ‘You would have been good, Bartholomew. I recall your performance at that
debate in St Mary the Great, and it was highly entertaining. It is a pity you seem to have learned too late what was involved.’

‘It is a pity for all of us,’ said Michael ambiguously.

* * *

Bartholomew insisted on going to see Arderne next, so they trudged through the rain to the High Street, where the healer rented
a house that had once been a hostel. Since its scholars had moved out, it had been given a new pink wash, and some of its
rotting timbers had been replaced. Its thatch had been repaired, too, so it had gone from a rather seedy place to a home that
any wealthy citizen would be pleased to inhabit. It raised the tone of the southern end of the High Street.

‘Do you think the town resents the fact that most buildings occupied by scholars tend to be shabby?’ mused Bartholomew.

‘They would not be shabby if the landlords were willing to effect repairs,’ retorted Michael. ‘Did you hear Rudd’s Hostel
finally fell down yesterday, thanks to its landlord’s years of neglect?’

Rain had turned the High Street into a bog, and a foetid ooze of grey-brown mud squelched around their feet as they walked.
Michael lost a shoe, and had to balance on one foot until the physician had retrieved it for him. It came free with a sucking
plop, and while he waited for the monk to put it back on again, Bartholomew saw Blankpayn in a similar predicament. The taverner
bellowed for someone to help him, but no one seemed much inclined to oblige.

There was a line of people standing outside Arderne’s door, shivering as the wind blew drizzle into their faces. Some had
crutches or propelled themselves along on wheeled pallets, while others had bandages covering a variety of sores and afflictions.

‘They are here in the hope that Arderne will dispense one of his miracles,’ explained Michael. ‘He hinted the other day that
he might take one or two charity cases, and this is the result.’

‘I know most of these people,’ said Bartholomew sadly. ‘Arderne will not be able to help them, because most are incurable.’

Several nodded to him as he passed, but more looked away and refused to meet his eyes, ashamed and uncomfortable that they
were trying to defect after accepting his charity. Bartholomew did not blame them for wanting a miracle, and was only sorry
that most would be disappointed. When they reached the front of the queue, they found the door open and Falmeresham standing
in it. The student looked harried and unhappy.

‘He will not see you,’ he was saying wearily. ‘He only cures paupers on Fridays. At other times, he will only tend you if
you can pay.’

‘We
did
come Friday,’ said the sightless beggar who was first in line. ‘But he only examined Will and Eudo – and he said they could
not be healed because their souls were impure.’

‘How convenient,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘Blaming the patient for his own failures.’

‘It is a good idea. You should do it – tell Isnard it is his own fault his leg has not grown back.’

‘I do not like Falmeresham involved in this sort of thing. I thought I trained him better than that.’

‘You did,’ said Michael soothingly. ‘He is not easy in his new role – you can see it in his eyes. It pains him to turn these
people away.’

‘How much does a cure for blindness cost, Falmeresham?’ asked Bartholomew, approaching his student and regarding him rather
accusingly.

‘Forty marks.’ Bartholomew gaped and Falmeresham shrugged. ‘Effective treatment costs. Are you here to see Magister Arderne?
He is at breakfast, but I will tell him you are here.’

Arderne had converted one of his ground-floor rooms into a dispensary, which had pots on shelves around the wall, and a wide
variety of surgical and medical equipment on a bench under the window. Bartholomew looked in one or two of the containers,
and was not surprised to find them empty. Nor was he surprised to note that the surgical implements either did not work or
were too blunt to be effective. The man used hot air and feathers more often than proper tools and medicines.

‘We heard Motelete spent a lot of time here,’ said Michael, taking the opportunity to speak to Falmeresham before Arderne
arrived. ‘Before his sudden death last night, of course.’

‘He and Magister Arderne became fast friends quite quickly,’ replied Falmeresham. He stared out of the window. ‘Arderne has
a way of making people want to be with him.’

‘Were you envious of the attention he gave Motelete?’ asked Michael baldly.

‘At first,’ admitted Falmeresham. ‘Especially because Motelete did not deserve it. He was just a common thief – I saw him
shove one of Arderne’s phials in his purse when he thought no one was looking. But Arderne is astute, and would have seen
through him in time.
I
did not poison Motelete, though, if that is what you are thinking. I have not been out of Arderne’s sight for a moment.’

‘You do not need to be alone to poison someone,’ Michael pointed out. ‘If Motelete visited Arderne yesterday, he was doubtless
offered refreshments, and it is easy to slip something into a cup. After all, your medical training means you do know about
dangerous substances.’

‘Well, I did no such thing,’ said Falmeresham firmly. ‘Besides, Arderne says the best way to heal is by tapping into the natural
forces that lie within a person. He does
not have many poisons to hand – most of the pots you see here are for show, and are empty.’

‘You mean magic?’ asked Bartholomew in distaste.

‘Yes, magic,’ Falmeresham flashed back. ‘Science cannot explain everything – in fact, it does not explain much at all, and
raises more questions than answers. You are always saying the workings of the human body are mysteries science has not yet
unravelled, but Arderne has solutions to
everything
, and it is refreshing. Do you want to see him, or are you here to debate with me?’