‘Arderne probably killed Kenyngham, too,’ said Robin, trying another tactic to earn the physician’s support. ‘I heard Michael plans to exhume him, and look for signs of poisoning, but–’
‘I examined him twice,’ said Bartholomew. ‘No one killed him, but Michael refuses to listen.’
Rougham was thoughtful. ‘Many poisons are impossible to detect. Some are obvious – like the one that killed Motelete, given your description of his blistered mouth – but most are insidious substances, invisible to mere mortals like us. I doubt you will discover anything on Kenyngham’s body that will help convict Arderne, so the poor man will have been disturbed for nothing.’
‘I will not be doing the disturbing,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You will.’
‘There is not–’ began Robin.
‘Then Michael is going to be disappointed,’ interrupted Rougham. ‘I would go a long way for him – including voting for his stupid amendment to the Statutes – but I will not defile Kenyngham.’
‘And do not look at me, either,’ said Paxtone with a shudder. ‘I dislike corpses, and never touch them if I can help it. And I certainly refuse to inspect one that should be in the ground.’
‘So will I,’ said Robin, although Bartholomew doubted Michael would stoop that low. ‘But–’
‘Kenyngham was not murdered anyway,’ said Paxtone. He grimaced, wrestling with some inner conflict. ‘I promised I would never tell anyone this, but I think he would not mind under the circumstances. Kenyngham had been unwell for a week or so – his pulses had begun to beat oddly.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘He was my patient, and he said nothing to me.’
‘He said he did not want you distressed during his last few days on Earth,’ replied Paxtone. ‘That is why he sought me out, and not you – his normal physician.’
Bartholomew was aghast. ‘He was ill, and he felt he could not tell me?’
Paxtone’s expression was kindly. ‘He wanted to spare you the anguish of not being able to save him. He was more fond of you than you know.’
‘Perhaps he was being poisoned slowly,’ suggested Robin gratuitously. ‘By Arderne.’
‘It was his pulses,’ said Paxtone firmly. ‘I felt them myself, fluttering and pounding. He said it had been happening for some time, but the condition had suddenly worsened. I told him there was nothing I could do, but he was not concerned. I think he was looking forward to seeing Heaven.’
‘Well, he was a saint,’ said Rougham, laying a compassionate hand on Bartholomew’s shoulder.
‘I prescribed a potion to alleviate his discomfort – henbane is an excellent antidote to pain. He made me write “antidote” on the pot, lest you should happen across it and quiz him. He really did not want anyone to know what was happening, and said the word was vague enough to forestall any unwanted questions.’
‘Antidote,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Will you tell Michael all this? Before he digs him up?’
‘There is no need,’ said Robin, loud enough to block Paxtone’s reply. ‘I have been trying to tell you, but you keep interrupting. He heard from the Bishop’s palace this afternoon. Permission to exhume is denied.’
‘How do you know?’ demanded Rougham.
‘Because I saw the Episcopal messenger arrive at the town gate. Langelee asked for news, and I overheard him say that Kenyngham is to be left in peace.’
‘Well, then,’ prompted Rougham, after a short silence. ‘We must decide what to do about Arderne.’
Bartholomew pulled his thoughts from Kenyngham. Even to the last, the elderly Gilbertine had been thinking of others, and Paxtone’s description of his symptoms matched what Bartholomew himself had observed of Kenyngham’s final hours – his weariness and peace.
‘Arderne’s eyes are the main problem,’ said Paxtone. ‘They bore into you, and you are powerless to resist. You find yourself believing what he says, even though you know it to be rubbish.’
‘Then you must steel yourself against them,’ ordered Rougham. ‘He tried using them on me, but I met his gaze, and it was he who looked away first. You must be strong.’
‘I know what to do,’ said Robin brightly. ‘Burgle his house, and hunt for his hoax potions. We shall lay hold of them, then display them on the High Street for all to see.’
‘He would deny they were his,’ Paxtone pointed out. ‘And I dislike breaking the law, anyway.’
‘I suggest we fight him on his own terms,’ said Rougham. ‘I shall pay one of my students to play dead, and we can raise him. Then people’s faith in us will be restored.’
‘But Arderne would subject him to the most dreadful tests, to ensure he was really gone,’ said Paxtone. ‘The poor fellow would flinch or scream, and then we would look like the charlatans.’
‘Then you think of something,’ said Robin exasperated. ‘You have pulled our ideas to pieces.’
‘I could ask him for a remedy for these griping pains in my innards,’ suggested Paxtone. ‘Then I could swallow his cure and pretend it makes me worse.’
‘He will say it is because you have an evil heart, or some such nonsense,’ said Rougham. ‘He will not accept responsibility for the failure himself. Bartholomew, do you have any ideas?’
‘We could challenge him to a public debate,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We can ask an audience to present questions, and see who provides the best answers.’
‘Yes!’ said Rougham, eyes blazing in triumph. ‘It will soon become clear that he does not know what he is talking about!’
‘But they might ask questions we cannot answer,’ said Robin uneasily. ‘Like how to prevent the bloody flux.’
‘Just because there is no cure does not mean there is nothing we can do,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There are remedies to alleviate these conditions, and we can all quote our sources.’
‘Some of you might be able to,’ muttered Robin.
‘Bartholomew is right,’ said Rougham. ‘This will not be a debate to see who can devise the wildest cures, but to assess who has the greatest knowledge of his subject. And obviously, that is going to be us. However, we must remember not to contradict each other. We can argue in private, but at this debate, we must maintain a united front. Agreed, Bartholomew?’
‘You must, Matthew,’ said Paxtone, seeing him hesitate. ‘You are overly fond of disputation, and will start doing it with us. Arderne will take advantage of any perceived dissent.’
‘We can challenge him to perform the perfect amputation, too,’ said Robin, brightening. ‘I wager he does not know how to cauterise blood vessels before sewing up the wound, and onlookers will see that we know what we are doing and he does not.’
‘I think we had better to stick to the theoretical side of things to start with, Robin,’ said Paxtone with a shudder. ‘I am not sure I want to witness that sort of thing, and I am used to a little blood.’
CHAPTER 11
When Bartholomew arrived home, he found Michaelhouse in an uproar. Junior Proctor Bukenham had arrived with six beadles, and they were standing in the yard. Michael was shouting, Langelee was trying to calm him, and Honynge was looking on with gleeful malice. The other Fellows were in a huddle, lost and confused; Carton nursed a bruised nose, and Deynman was limping.
‘What is happening?’ demanded Bartholomew, going to help Deynman sit on a bench.
‘An accusation has been levelled against Brother Michael,’ explained Carton. He was pale and angry, an expression that was reflected in the face of every College member – except Honynge. ‘He is said to be concealing evidence of murder, and his rooms are going to be searched.’