Susanna GREGORY - To Kill or Cure

‘He is a fool for accepting the challenge in the first place.’

‘He says he was bewitched by the man’s eyes – Arderne offered the cure, and he found himself powerless to resist it. Arderne is a dangerous villain, and I wish he had not escaped.’

‘Can you cure Paxtone? I do not like seeing the poor man waddling about town with his hand clasped to his stomach.’

Bartholomew smiled again, thinking that Michael was far more of a waddler than Paxtone would ever be. ‘The cause of his discomfort is his taste for greasy pies. Still, now the Angel is no longer there to sell them, perhaps the problem will rectify itself. Did I tell you I visited Isnard today? All he talks about is whether you will let him back in the Michaelhouse Choir. Will you?’

‘No. I do not take kindly to men who believe the worst of us at the drop of a hat.’

‘Let him be, Brother. You will break his heart if you stop him singing.’

‘So, all is well,’ said Michael, after a few more moments of silence. ‘Tyrington shot Wenden and Lynton because he expected to occupy their Fellowships – and he left Wenden’s purse with a drowned tinker to ensure someone else was blamed for that crime. Ocleye was Tyrington’s spy, but Tyrington thought he might try to blackmail him – and given that Paxtone saw him grinning after Lynton’s murder, I suspect he was right – so he was dispatched, too.’

‘Meanwhile, Honynge had forged a dubious alliance with Candelby, and was providing him with information in return for free accommodation. It was a pity his dislike of you sent him off on a wild spree of revenge in St Mary the Great. He did not care that he might kill half our Regents – he just wanted you discredited.’

‘I suppose I had better make myself more amenable in the future,’ said Michael. ‘Enduring that sort of hatred was unpleasant. And you will have your work cut out for you, as you try to regain the trust of your patients. They are trickling back now the Sheriff’s independent investigation has proved Arderne responsible for several deaths. Some of the damage caused by that leech will never heal, though. Spaldynge’s dislike of physicians has intensified, for example.’

‘Have you managed to learn whom Agatha intended to dose with her love-potion?’ asked Bartholomew. He did not want to think about the legacy Arderne had left the Cambridge medici , knowing it would be a long time before the situation returned to normal – if it ever did. ‘You made a bet that you would have it out of her in a week, and your time is almost up. If you do not have the answer by tomorrow, you will owe William a groat.’

‘I prised it from her this morning,’ said Michael. ‘She bought it for Blankpayn, her cousin.’

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘Why?’

‘She thought being in love would keep him away from Candelby, whom she considered a bad influence. It is a good thing she did not give it to him, or we might never have solved this case. We would have assumed Blankpayn’s demise from the potion was related to Lynton’s death, when it would have been nothing of the kind.’

Bartholomew stood. ‘It is getting cold out here. Carton is going to play his lute, and William has offered to set the Blood Relic dispute to song. He says it is something that should not be missed.’

‘I am sure he does,’ laughed Michael, following him across the orchard towards the comfortable warmth of their home. ‘And it certainly promises to be entertaining, although I doubt we will learn much in the way of theology.’

‘Crocodiles and shooting stars,’ said Bartholomew suddenly. ‘Kenyngham was right, but I wish his last words had been more readily understandable. He would have saved us a lot of trouble.’

Michael clapped a hand on his shoulder. ‘But solving the mystery would not have been nearly as much fun.’

A few miles away, in the Fens, a man sat at the side of a mere, staring across the sunset-stained water. Arderne was angry at the way matters had ended at Cambridge. He missed his faithful Motelete, he had been forced to abandon all his belongings – including the star-spangled cart of which he had been so proud – and he had grown tired of Isabel. He looked dispassionately at the spread of her hair just below the wind-ruffled surface. She had willingly – eagerly – imbibed the potion he said would give her eternal youth, and then he had slid her into the icy pond when the poison had rendered her immobile. It had been a relatively painless death, and he knew her body would not be found easily, if ever. And by then, Arderne would be long gone, safely plying his trade in another city. Perhaps Bristol this time. Or Oxford.

He smiled when he thought about his revenge on the men who had foiled his plans. He had sent a barrel of fine wine to the scholars of Michaelhouse, thanking them for their part in solving Lynton’s murder. They would assume it came from a grateful colleague, and would never question it. Of course, when they came to drink they would be in for a shock. Arderne’s famous love-potions were good for a lot more than making the fanciful swoon. The Fellows would toast each other’s health, and by the following morning, they would all be dead. Rougham and Paxtone would never work out what had happened, because they were too stupid.

The thought of his enemies choking on blistered throats made him grin, and he felt the need to make yet another toast of his own. He took his flask and upended it, draining what was left. But was there a bitter taste that should not have been present? He frowned and sniffed it. The claret seemed all right. He looked in the jar where he kept his ‘mandrake root’ – white bryony looked similar and did much the same thing, but was a fraction of the price. He did not see why should he waste money on people who could not tell the difference anyway. He regarded the pot in puzzlement. Had he really used that much on Isabel?

He was still pondering the question when he became aware of a numbness in his mouth, followed by a burning pain. He shot to his feet. That woman! She must have detected his growing coldness towards her and tampered with his powders, trying to prepare her own love-potion that would see him fall at her feet. How could she? He tried to recall what Bartholomew had done when Honynge had swallowed the poison. People had talked about it afterwards, but he had paid scant attention. He wracked his brains.

Charcoal! He staggered to his campfire and began to gnaw on singed twigs. It was not helping. He was feeling worse – dizzier, and the burning was almost unbearable. He dropped to his hands and knees and crawled towards the pool. Water would soothe him. He leaned forward but lost his balance. An icy coldness enveloped him, and Isabel’s white face loomed close. Flailing in fright, he grabbed the grass at the edge of the pond. He would feel better soon, and then he would pull himself out. He did not notice the weeds sliding through his fingers, but he did see the brown Fenland waters closing over his head.

Back at Michaelhouse, the scholars were pleased when Cynric announced the unexpected delivery of a cask of French wine. Deynman went to collect it. He broached it himself, but earned Cynric’s dismayed disapproval when he declined to let the book-bearer taste it, to make sure it was good.

‘Servants always taste gifts of wine, boy,’ said Cynric indignantly. ‘It is tradition.’

Deynman wavered. As College Librarian, tradition was something he felt obliged to uphold. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Cynric. ‘Kenyngham said it was one of Michaelhouse’s most sacred customs.’

‘I miss him,’ said Deynman sadly. ‘And Doctor Bartholomew should have asked me what he meant by crocodiles and shooting stars – I could have told him straight away. There is a crocodile carved on the cover of the book Tyrington gave the library – although Master Langelee called it a serpent. It is very distinctive and Kenyngham must have seen it when he visited him once. Meanwhile, Arderne’s personal carriage has shooting stars painted on the side.’