Susanna GREGORY - To Kill or Cure

‘I bet that had your audience on the edge of their seats,’ remarked Michael dryly.

Bartholomew nodded earnestly. ‘It did, actually. In fact, I was surprised by how much attention it generated. We were scheduled to use Merton Hall, but so many scholars wanted to listen we had to move to St Mary the Great instead.’

‘I remember. My beadles thought you and Lynton were up to no good, because they could not imagine why else so many men would be clamouring to hear a debate on such a subject.’

‘Is that why they were all standing at the back? To avert trouble? I assumed they were there for the theoretical physics.’

Michael struggled not to laugh. ‘We are getting away from the point – which is that Lynton held archaic beliefs, and that you were his intellectual superior. Ergo , you must prepare yourself for accusations. If he really was murdered, then his academic rivals are the obvious suspects.’

‘Then perhaps we should keep the truth about his death quiet until we know who did it.’ Bartholomew took the bloodstained missile from his medical bag, and studied it thoughtfully. ‘No one else saw the wound, and I have the bolt here.’

Michael gaped in horror. ‘You hauled it out in the middle of the street? After I had just quelled a riot, and when Lynton’s colleagues were standing around him, bemoaning the tragedy of his death? My God, man! What were you thinking?’

‘That it seemed the right thing to do,’ said Bartholomew defensively. ‘The Peterhouse Fellows were distraught, and I did not want one to see the bolt and claim Candelby had put it there. If that had happened, you would have had your riot for certain.’

‘Why did you not tell me what you had done straight away?’ demanded Michael, unappeased.

‘Because I forgot in the race to find Falmeresham. There has been no time for chatting.’

Michael regarded him with round eyes. ‘Well, please do not do it again. I have more than enough to concern me, without worrying about what my Corpse Examiner might be doing behind my back. Do you know how I spent much of last night? Trying to persuade Candelby that Lynton did not ride at him on purpose. It was a difficult case to argue, because I could tell from the wreckage that Lynton was the one at fault. His mare did careen into the man’s cart.’

‘Perhaps he was already dead at that point.’

‘You think he was shot first, and then the horse panicked? It did not happen the other way around – Lynton rode at Candelby and was shot as a consequence?’

‘Medicine cannot tell you that, Brother. However, Lynton was gentle, and I do not see him using a horse as a weapon with which to batter people.’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘The obvious suspect for Lynton’s murder is Candelby.’

‘Why? He did not emerge unscathed from the encounter.’

‘Perhaps he did not anticipate the horse bucking in his direction. The rent war has turned him hostile to all scholars, and a wealthy one on a fine mare might well have inspired a murderous rage. However, crossbows are unwieldy objects – you do not whip one from under your cloak and slip a quick bolt into an enemy. It has to be wound first, and that would have attracted attention.’

Bartholomew showed him the missile. ‘It is a very small arrow, so I suspect it did come from a weapon that was easily concealed. However, the murder was committed on a main road in broad daylight, so some degree of stealth was needed, or someone would have seen him.’

Michael inspected it thoughtfully. ‘The Church of St John Zachary has a nice leafy churchyard – an ideal place to lurk with a bow.’

‘Then Candelby is not your culprit, because he was in a cart with Maud Bowyer when the weapon was discharged.’

Michael was becoming frustrated. ‘Who, then? One of Lynton’s Peterhouse colleagues?’

‘Peterhouse has its squabbles, but none are serious enough to warrant murder.’

‘A patient, then? Perhaps he killed one by mistake.’

Bartholomew considered the suggestion. ‘It is possible. There are so many illnesses that we cannot cure, and bereaved kin make for bitter enemies.’

‘That healer – Arderne – claims he can cure anything. He waved his feather at a man Paxtone said would die, and the fellow was up and strolling along the High Street yesterday.’

Bartholomew frowned, but declined to say what he thought of cures that required the waving of feathers. ‘There is a famous physician called John Arderne. He specialises in anal fistula – not a life-threatening condition, but an acutely uncomfortable one. Perhaps he and Richard Arderne are kin.’

‘My beadles tell me that our Arderne has already provoked public spats with Rougham, and we saw him denigrate Robin ourselves, so he is clearly intent on locking horns with the town’s medici . We cannot have a quarrel leading to a brawl, just because he wants a forum for advertising his skills, so stay away from him – no asking questions about his family, please.’

‘Did he quarrel with Lynton, too?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘We will have to find out. Did I tell you that two men died during yesterday’s fight? Their names were Motelete and Ocleye – a student from Clare and a pot-boy from the Angel tavern.’

‘Each side lost a man? Then we are even, so let us hope that marks the end of the matter.’

Michael was angry. ‘The unease is Candelby’s fault! He has paid a high price, though, because Ocleye was one of his own servants. But here are our colleagues, so I suppose we had better turn our minds to choosing a new Fellow. Whoever we elect cannot hope to step into Kenyngham’s shoes.’

‘No one can,’ said Bartholomew sombrely.

Statutory Fellows’ meetings had once been acrimonious events, when clever minds had clashed over petty details, and Bartholomew had resented the time they had taken. Fortunately, matters had improved since Langelee had been elected Master. Every man was permitted to have his say – although he was forbidden from repeating himself – and then a vote was taken. Because this limited opportunities to make derogatory remarks, meetings tended to finish with everyone still friends. It was a sober assembly that gathered in the conclave that morning, though, and even the rambunctious William was subdued. The Fellows took their seats, and Langelee tapped on the table with the sceptre, his symbol of authority, to declare the proceedings were under way.

‘Right,’ he said tiredly. ‘We should try to be brief this morning, because we all have a great deal to do, especially Michael and Bartholomew. There is only one item on the agenda–’

‘You forgot to say a grace, Master,’ said William reproachfully. The grubby Franciscan looked even more unkempt than usual; his face was grey with sorrow, he had not shaved, and his hair stood in a greasy ring around his untidy tonsure. ‘Kenyngham is scarcely cold, and our religious standards have already slipped.’

Langelee inclined his head. ‘Very well. Benedicimus Domino. ’

‘ Deo gratias ,’ chorused the others automatically. Wynewyk reached for his pen.

Langelee looked around at his Fellows. ‘We need to appoint a Fellow who can teach grammar and rhetoric, but I do not think it matters if his speciality is law or theology.’

‘John Prestone would have been my first choice,’ said William. The others nodded approvingly. ‘But I sounded him out informally last night, and he declines to leave Pembroke.’

‘What about Robert Hamelyn, then?’ suggested Wynewyk. ‘He is an excellent teacher, and I happen to know he would like a College appointment.’

‘I wish we could,’ said Langelee. He nodded meaningfully in William’s direction. ‘But Hamelyn is a Dominican, and we cannot have one of those in Michaelhouse.’