‘This is a pleasant chamber,’ said Michael, frowning. ‘But the window shutters are painted closed, and I cannot open them. Why would that be?’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘So no one could look in and watch him with his patients, I imagine. Some will have had embarrassing conditions, and would have wanted – demanded – privacy.’
‘I thought he had fewer patients than you, but these benches suggest they came to him in droves.’
‘He never seemed busy to me – at least, not with medicine. He did not accept just anyone as a patient, and tended to enrol folk who were not actually ill – ones who wanted preventative treatment rather than curative. He took some charity cases, but not nearly as many as Paxtone and Rougham.’
‘Or you,’ said Michael. ‘Almost all yours are poor.’
Bartholomew looked around him, trying to equate what he saw to the practical application of healing. ‘Perhaps Lynton examined his patients en masse – ordered everyone with ailments of the lungs, for example, to come at a specific time. Then he could purchase the appropriate remedies in bulk, and dispense them all at once. It is quite common for Arab physicians to specialise in particular ailments or specific parts of the body.’
‘Lynton would never have embraced a practice favoured by foreigners. And what did you mean when you said he was busy, but not with medicine? Was he busy with something else, then?’
‘He was interested in the kinetics of motion; I think he might have been writing a treatise about it. He was always asking to borrow my copy of Bradwardine’s Tractatus de continuo and he knew the subject extremely well.’
‘The mean speed theorem,’ mused Michael. ‘You have talked about it before, and I can see it is an important advance in natural philosophy, although it is dull stuff with its “uniform velocities” and “moving bodies”. I would rather talk about Blood Relics, and that should tell you something, because William has beaten the subject to death and I am bored of it. However, a complex notion like mean speed seems an odd subject to attract Lynton.’
‘The mean speed theorem is not dull,’ argued Bartholomew irritably. ‘Nicole Oresme’s account of the intension and remission of qualities is–’
‘Another time,’ interrupted Michael. He elbowed the physician outside, and locked the door behind them. ‘I am too worried about Lynton, Falmeresham and the rent war to give it my full attention. Do you mind if we take a moment to visit Wisbeche, and ask if he will lend me the Dispensary to house some of these homeless scholars? It will not take a moment.’
Bartholomew followed him the short distance to Peterhouse. As they approached, a flicker of movement caught his eye. Someone was running, heading quickly towards the Gilbertine Friary. He frowned, puzzled.
‘That person was watching Peterhouse, Brother. He was sheltering in the doorway opposite, but his attention was fixed on the College. When he saw us coming, he made a dash for it.’
‘It is not Honynge, is it?’ asked Michael, screwing up his eyes as he peered up the road. ‘He lurks around Clare at odd times, so perhaps he spies on other Colleges, too. You had better give chase while I speak to Wisbeche. It will be the most efficient use of our time.’
‘For you, maybe,’ grumbled Bartholomew, objecting to racing after shadows in the rain, while Michael would probably be feted with cakes and warm wine. He raised his hands when Michael started to point out that a Corpse Examiner was not authorised to make arrangements for new accommodation – and the Senior Proctor could not move fast enough to catch up with the figure that was rapidly dwindling into the distance, anyway.
‘And not because I am fat,’ said Michael, anticipating the next objection. ‘My heavy bones mean that the velocity of my mean speed is lower than yours. Go, before you lose him.’
Despite a spirited effort, Bartholomew did not succeed. The man glanced behind him once, and when he saw he was being followed, ducked into the woods behind the Gilbertine Friary. He had had too great a start, and although Bartholomew explored several paths and even climbed a tree, he was forced to concede defeat. Michael was waiting for him outside Peterhouse, wiping crumbs from his face with his piece of linen.
‘I had better luck,’ he said. ‘Wisbeche agreed to loan me the Dispensary for as long as I need it.’
‘Did you ask where Lynton kept his medical equipment?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And why his attics are full of silver goblets?’
‘I did, but he said I should consult a physician for answers to those sorts of questions.’
Maud Bowyer occupied a handsome house on Bridge Street, near the equally fine home that was owned by the Sheriff. Michael was bitterly disappointed when servants told him that Dick Tulyet was still away, and that he was not expected home any time soon. He needed the Sheriff’s calming hand to quell the growing unrest, and was not sure he could do it alone.
‘I shall write to him again this evening, and tell him to come as soon as he can,’ said the monk unhappily. ‘I do not like the atmosphere – people keep glaring at me.’
Bartholomew was concerned. ‘It is because everyone knows you – not Chancellor Tynkell – run the University. Perhaps you should take Cynric with you when you go out in future.’
‘I would rather he watched where Agatha put her love-potion. A town full of angry men does not hold nearly the same terror as being caught in an amorous embrace by Agatha.’ Michael sighed. ‘Three days have passed, and I still have no idea who killed Lynton. Do you?’
‘Arderne,’ said Bartholomew, surprising himself with the speed of his reply and the conviction in his voice. ‘He has the most to gain. He has virtually destroyed Robin, and with Lynton dead, there are only three others left to tell folk he is a fraud.’
‘But Paxtone and Rougham also benefit from Lynton’s demise, because several wealthy patients are now looking for a new physician. And I cannot help but think that Peterhouse is withholding information. Did Wisbeche really lend me the Dispensary out of charity, or did he just want me gone from his College without asking too many questions? Ouch!’
Bartholomew looked sharply at him, and saw a clod of mud had hit him in the chest. The physician turned quickly, and spotted two men who worked at the Lilypot. They were cronies of Isnard, and were racing away as if their lives depended on it. One stopped when he reached the corner. He saw the physician watching and raised his fist.
‘Charlatan!’ he yelled, before disappearing down the lane.
‘That is certainly true,’ declared a heavyset woman with a moustache. Her name was Rosalind fitz-Eustace, and she and her husband had a reputation for being gossips. ‘Damned scholars.’
‘We should oust the lot of them,’ agreed fitz-Eustace. ‘When they are not bleeding us dry with demands for cheap rents, cheap ale and cheap flour, they kill and maim us with bad medicine.’
‘Magister Arderne was wrong to have saved Motelete,’ whispered Rosalind, although it was clear she intended people to hear. ‘He should have raised Ocleye instead.’
‘It was too late – the Corpse Examiner had been at him.’ Fitz-Eustace cast a malicious glance in Bartholomew’s direction before stalking away, his wife at his side.
‘The insults were directed at us both, but the dirt was meant for you,’ grumbled Michael, trying without success to remove the stain from his habit. ‘Damn it! This was clean on at Christmas. And now here come two more alleged charlatans – Paxtone and Rougham, your medical colleagues. Paxtone is looking seedy today.’