Falmeresham sighed irritably. ‘You do not know what you are missing by refusing to acknowledge his skills.’ He slammed the door with considerable vigour, thus ending the discussion.
‘And was Falmeresham telling the truth?’ asked Michael, as he and Bartholomew walked back along the High Street. ‘He knows his new master is not perfect, but that is a long way from seeing through him. He may well fabricate tales to ensure Arderne is not charged with Motelete’s murder.’
Bartholomew shrugged, not sure what to think. ‘He has never lied to me before.’
‘Then what about Falmeresham as the killer? He poisoned Motelete because he resented the attention Arderne gave him – and because he stole from his hero. Despite his claim that the pots in Arderne’s dispensary are empty, there are still toxic substances to hand, because you said there was bryony in the remedy he gave Tyrington. Could bryony have killed Motelete?’
‘Yes – it would be in keeping with the blisters I saw. But it is not difficult to come by, and I imagine most households have a supply of it, to cure coughs, spots and wounds.’
‘So the visit to Arderne did not tell us much?’ asked Michael, disappointed.
‘It told me I would like to make him try some of his remedies.’
That afternoon, when the rain stopped and the sun came out, Bartholomew went to visit patients. There were two cases of fever among the ragged folk who inhabited makeshift shacks in the north of the town, but other than Blankpayn howling abuse, his journey was mercifully uneventful. He prescribed his usual tonic for agues, and then walked to the Dominican convent, where the prior was complaining of backache. The Black Friars were a hospitable group, and plied him with wine and cakes, so by the time he left, he had overeaten and was slightly drunk. It was not a pleasant sensation, and he wondered how Michael and Paxtone could bear doing it day after day. He returned home via the Barnwell Gate, keeping his temper admirably when the soldier on duty pretended not to recognise him and demanded proof of his identity.
‘You know me, John Shepherd,’ he said mildly, aware that a queue was building behind him and that the delay was being perceived as his fault. ‘I set your mother’s broken wrist last year.’
Shepherd glanced around furtively, then spoke in a testy whisper. ‘Of course I know you, but we are under orders to question everyone in a scholar’s tabard or a religious habit. If I do not do as I am told, I will be reported.’
‘Orders from whom? The Sheriff is away.’
‘And that is the problem,’ said Shepherd in disgust. ‘Tulyet would never have issued such a stupid instruction. It comes from the burgesses, led by Candelby. They are making a point.’
‘What point is that?’
‘That the town has control over some matters, and will make a nuisance of itself if scholars do not yield to its demands. But I have delayed you enough to make it look good, so you are free to go.’ Shepherd lowered his voice further still. ‘I could lose my job for telling you this, but warn Brother Michael that there is a move afoot to set fire to the University Church.’
Bartholomew groaned. ‘Not again! We have only just finished repairing it from the last time it was attacked, and a big building like that is expensive. Do you know when it will happen?’
‘Monday, probably. Stop it if you can. My house backs on to its cemetery, and when it goes up in flames, soot lands on my wife’s best cushions. She is getting a bit tired of it.’
Unsettled, Bartholomew went on his way. When he reached the High Street, he saw Paxtone and Rougham. Paxtone was looking unwell again, and was rubbing his stomach. Bartholomew knew how he felt, because he was suffering from the same heavy, bloated feeling himself.
‘You two are in each other’s company a good deal these days,’ he remarked as they approached.
‘They are in my company a good deal, too,’ said Robin, peering out from behind Paxtone. The surgeon was small, and Bartholomew had not noticed him behind the physician’s bulk. ‘It is safer that way, and if you had any sense, you would join us.’
‘We have formed an alliance,’ explained Paxtone. ‘Cambridge practitioners versus Arderne – or, to put it another way, honest medici against a leech.’
‘Arderne attacked us without provocation or cause,’ added Rougham. ‘So, we have decided the best way to combat him is by standing together. Did you know he claims to have cured Hanchach of laboured breathing when you had failed?’
‘He did not cure Hanchach – Hanchach was getting better anyway,’ replied Bartholomew tartly. ‘However, he might relapse if he declines to take his lungwort and colt’s-foot. The phlegm will rebuild in his chest, and he will be back where he started.’
‘I heard Arderne donated some of his own urine for Hanchach’s remedy,’ said Robin. ‘He claims all his bodily fluids contain healing powers, so he hoards them up and charges high prices for their sale. Why did I not think of such a ruse? I could have been rich beyond my wildest dreams.’
There was a short pause, during which Paxtone and Rougham regarded the surgeon with distaste, and Bartholomew thought he might be sick.
‘The fact that we are prepared to join forces with Robin should tell you how seriously we take the threat of Arderne,’ said Paxtone to Bartholomew.
‘Here!’ said Robin, offended. ‘This alliance was my idea.’
‘True,’ said Rougham. ‘And we were none too keen when you first mooted it, but we see now that we have no choice. This is no place to talk, though. Come to the Angel, and I shall buy us all something to eat.’
‘The Angel?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I do not think we should go there.’
‘Michael does not mind us purchasing food, just as long as we do not drink,’ argued Rougham. ‘Besides, you can always tell him you were investigating Ocleye’s death. I can tell you something that will lend credence to the lie, if you like. It is not much, though, just a snippet.’
‘What?’
‘The day before he died, I saw Ocleye in conversation with a man who wore a hood to conceal his face. Ocleye was eating a pie, but his companion did not touch his, so something had robbed the fellow of his appetite. Ocleye was a spy, so he was obviously conducting some shady business.’
‘He was a shady man,’ agreed Paxtone. ‘I also saw him meeting with an unusual array of people – Spaldynge from Clare, and Carton of Michaelhouse, to name but two.’
‘Carton is not shady,’ objected Bartholomew.
‘He is not someone I would want as a colleague, though. He is complex – like Lynton, a man of many layers.’ Paxtone turned to Rougham. ‘But Matthew is right – we should be wary of breaking University rules. We shall eat these victuals in St Bene’t’s Churchyard. A man cannot live without a decent pie, and I would not be the man I am today, were it not for the Angel.’
Bartholomew looked him up and down, and considered telling him the Angel had a lot to answer for, but a sober voice at the back of his mind reminded him that these were friends, and he should not insult them because he was tipsy. He took a deep breath to clear his wits, and followed them through a series of back alleys to Bene’t Street. They stepped into the leafy churchyard, where Paxtone sank on to a lichen-glazed tombstone. He clutched his stomach, and seemed to be in pain.
‘Are you sure you should be eating?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps we should take you home.’
Paxtone shook his head. ‘This is more important – I will have no home if Arderne gets his way.’
‘Robin can fetch the pies while we wait here,’ said Rougham, handing the surgeon a coin. ‘Make sure you ask for the chicken, Robin, because Honynge told me the mutton ones contain dog.’