‘Get me two,’ ordered Paxtone. ‘I find eating helps me think, and we shall need our wits if we are to devise an effective strategy against this vile leech.’
When Robin had gone, Bartholomew and Rougham joined Paxtone on the tomb. Fortunately, trees concealed them from the folk who walked along Bene’t Street, because Bartholomew was sure three physicians sitting in a row on someone’s grave would be considered very peculiar behaviour. He heard two scholars discussing the Convocation of Regents as they passed, and learned that Trinity Hall planned to support Michael, but Bene’t College would oppose him.
‘Michael has discovered that Lynton ran gambling sessions in his Dispensary,’ he said. He glanced at Paxtone, trying not to sound accusing. ‘And you were one of his guests.’
‘What?’ exploded Rougham. ‘I do not believe you!’
Paxtone sighed mournfully. ‘I am afraid it is true. I enjoyed my Friday nights with Lynton – until he started to invite townsmen, at which point I withdrew my custom. So did a number of others.’
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, while Rougham sat with his mouth open.
‘Because I felt I could not rely on a townsman’s discretion as I might a fellow scholar’s – it was in my colleagues’ interests to keep quiet, but laymen have nothing to lose by blabbing. Besides, while I enjoyed the intellectual exercise – it was great fun predicting the relative speeds of these fictitious horses – the townsmen were noisy in their excitement, and they ruined the genteel atmosphere. Your brother-in-law was all right, but I disliked Candelby’s company.’
‘Candelby was noisy?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘When he won – which was often – he was a dreadful gloat. He was quick with his sums, so he acquired a small fortune, including several houses. The games have had unforeseen consequences, though, because it is these very same buildings that lie at the heart of the rent war.’
‘Here we are,’ said Robin, arriving with the pies. Rougham was still digesting the news that Lynton owned a gaming house as he bit into his, but the rich flavours soon pushed the matter from his mind. Bartholomew remained overloaded with the Dominicans’ cakes, and declined the greasy offering, so Paxtone had it when he had eaten his own two. Then he finished Robin’s as well.
‘It will force out the blockage that is causing me pain,’ he explained, when he became aware that all three of his colleagues were regarding him askance. ‘It worked the other day.’
‘Let us turn to the business at hand,’ said Rougham, brushing crumbs from his hands and declining to comment. ‘Robin’s practice is finished – Arderne has ensured he has not a single patient left. Paxtone is now accused of seducing Mayor Harleston’s wife–’
‘Did you?’ asked Robin with considerable interest.
Paxtone was indignant. ‘Of course not! She is far too old for me.’
‘Townsfolk judge us by their own corrupt standards,’ said Rougham consolingly. ‘Meanwhile, Arderne has been telling my patients that my special digestive tonics do not work. Then he set Isnard against Bartholomew, and now he has initiated that horrible rumour concerning Lynton.’
‘What rumour?’ asked Bartholomew, although he suspected he already knew.
‘He said you shot Lynton, then concealed the wound when you examined the body for Michael. He claims he heard it from Wisbeche, although I doubt Wisbeche would have invented such a tale.’
‘Actually, Lynton was shot, and I did hide the evidence,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. Rougham and Robin stared at him in disbelief. ‘I did not kill him, though. Obviously.’
‘But I saw the wound on Lynton’s head,’ objected Robin. ‘I went to see if I could help him, but his skull was bruised, and he was not breathing.’
Rougham was appalled. ‘Why did you not mention sooner that Lynton was murdered, Bartholomew? Arderne might be responsible, and we could all be in grave danger.’
‘He mentioned it to me,’ said Paxtone. ‘And I have been on my guard since – for you two as well as for myself. Why do you think I have spent so much time with you? Brother Michael did not want details made public, lest word leaked out, and there was trouble.’
Rougham was unappeased, and glared at Bartholomew. ‘You could have trusted me. We have shared deeper and darker secrets in the past, and you know you can count on my discretion.’
‘It was not his secret to tell,’ argued Paxtone. ‘It is Michael’s.’
‘We cannot let Bartholomew’s reticence damage our alliance,’ said Robin reasonably. ‘Paxtone was watching out for us, Rougham, so no harm was done. The real question we should be considering is, who killed Lynton? Was it Arderne?’
‘I am inclined to think so,’ replied Bartholomew, ‘but we have no evidence. Michael and I have been asking questions all week, and although we have uncovered some startling facts about Lynton, we have discovered nothing to incriminate Arderne.’
Paxtone was thoughtful. ‘I was on Milne Street when Lynton died, too – as I told you before – and, like Robin, I assumed he died because the horse kicked him. But since you told me he was shot, I have recalled two odd things. They are probably nothing …’
‘Tell him,’ ordered Rougham. ‘It is not for you to decide what is important and what is not. That clever monk has a way with small clues, as I saw when I worked as his Corpse Examiner last year.’
‘I heard a couple of loud snaps,’ said Paxtone. ‘One just before Lynton’s horse collided with Candelby’s cart, and the other some time after, when people had started fighting.’
‘The first was the bolt that killed Lynton,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘Then the weapon was rewound to dispatch Ocleye. But there is a problem with that: if Ocleye saw Lynton shot – which is why I believe he was killed – then why did he not run away? Why did he wait to be picked off?’
‘And that is the second thing I recall,’ said Paxtone. ‘After Lynton died and the cart was smashed, I saw Ocleye pick himself up, unharmed. Everyone was gazing in horror at the carnage, but he was looking in the opposite direction. And he was grinning.’
Bartholomew stared at him. ‘He was not surprised? But that suggests he knew Lynton was going to be shot. In advance.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Paxtone soberly. ‘I believe it does.’
The three physicians and Robin continued to discuss Lynton’s death, until Rougham pointed out that they had better devise a plan to make sure the same thing did not happen to them. He did not want to be shot while riding down Milne Street and, as Brother Michael was having no luck in bringing the slippery Arderne to justice, then it was up to Cambridge’s medici to think of a solution.
‘We tried to get the better of Arderne yesterday, by playing him at his own game.’ Rougham looked pained. ‘Unfortunately, it went wrong.’
‘You did not provide him with a second chance to raise Motelete from the dead, did you?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘By poisoning him?’
Rougham glared. ‘Be serious, man! This is no time for jests. One of Paxtone’s fourth-years pretended to be afflicted with leprous sores, and went – well armed with money – to buy a cure. Our plan was to force Arderne to make a diagnosis, then publicly wash off the paints to reveal him as a fraud. But Arderne got wind of it and sent him packing.’
It was not a clever idea, and Bartholomew was not surprised it had failed. He began to have second thoughts about joining ranks with men who would stoop to such transparent tricks.
Rougham sensed his reservations. ‘I heard Edith was hurt the other day – she came between you and a rock. Unless you want this sort of thing to continue, you cannot refuse to stand with us.’