‘Her eyes!’ exclaimed Bartholomew suddenly, making them all jump. ‘Watching William with the glass has just reminded me. She suffered from a clouding of her vision, and Lynton summoned me for a second opinion. But there was nothing we could do.’
‘You mean she would not have been able to tell whether it was loaded or not?’ asked Tyrington.
Bartholomew nodded. ‘Candelby probably told her it was not, because I doubt she would have been impressed by him toting such a deadly weapon. She must have believed him.’
William was disapproving. ‘A number of lies and misunderstandings seem to be flowing from her household. Did you know there is a rumour that you killed her, Matthew? Apparently, you touched her face and poked about in her bandages. Then you gave her a potion that you said would ease her pain, but that actually hastened her end.’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘Arderne has been spreading that tale, to prove to his new patients that anyone who puts faith in my medicine is likely to pay a high price.’
Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘How did Arderne know you touched her face and looked under her bandages? He was not there. One person was, though: Isabel must have told him what you did.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is Maud herself. Arderne came to see her after we left, and she might have mentioned our visit.’
Michael continued as though he had not spoken. ‘Isabel must have told him about the pain-killing potion, too, giving him yet more ammunition to use against you. And do you know why? Because she is enamoured of Arderne and will do anything for him. Look at Falmeresham. I always thought him a sensible, rational fellow, but he fell for Arderne’s charm like a brainless fool. Arderne attracts followers like flies swarm towards rotten meat.’
‘It is his eyes,’ explained William. ‘They drill into you, and you find yourself going along with what he is saying whether you want to or not. It is uncanny.’
‘Paxtone said the same thing,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And I saw Isabel go quiet and submissive when Arderne fixed her with a stare, too.’
‘It must be witchcraft,’ said William censoriously. ‘Like this love-potion he made for Agatha.’
‘Actually, I think he can just exert power over a certain kind of mind,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He possesses an ability to transfix people, if they let him do it.’
‘You might be right,’ mused Tyrington. ‘I saw him with Carton earlier today, and he was gazing at our hapless commoner as though he was trying to put him in some sort of trance.’
‘What was Carton doing?’ asked Michael uneasily.
Tyrington shrugged. ‘Nothing. He was just listening. Then he nodded and sped away.’
The monk turned his attention back to the matter of Candelby’s loaded crossbow. ‘Ocleye must have been in on it, because Paxtone saw him smiling and nodding in a way that suggested a plan had just come right. Doubtless Ocleye was astonished when Candelby decided a spy did not make for a very reliable accomplice, and killed him to ensure his silence.’
No matter how hard Bartholomew and Michael tried to see patterns in the evidence they had collected, they still could not reach any satisfactory conclusions regarding the identity of the killer, and both admitted that their suspicions were coloured by personal prejudices. Michael was even more keen for Honynge to be the culprit, because he wanted to avenge himself on the man who had publicly questioned his integrity, while Bartholomew wanted Arderne away from his patients.
Later that night, Bartholomew was summoned to tend Hanchach. Unfortunately, Arderne had been there first, and the ‘tonic’ he had prescribed had induced such violent vomiting that it had exhausted the glover’s scant reserves of strength. Bartholomew watched helplessly as his patient slipped into an unnatural sleep, then stayed with him until he died quietly at dawn. Michael came to give last rites, and listened to the physician rail against Arderne until it was time for the Sunday morning mass. The peaceful ceremony did nothing to soothe Bartholomew’s temper, and he was still angry when they sat in the hall for breakfast.
‘Arderne is responsible for Hanchach’s death for three reasons,’ he said, refusing the egg-mess Langelee offered. He could not be sure what was in it, and he had no appetite anyway. Honynge, who had stationed himself at the very end of the table, away from his colleagues, ate his share.
‘You are better off up here,’ the scholar muttered to himself. ‘The company is more civil.’
‘It is a pity he does not feel that way all the time,’ said Tyrington, regarding Honynge with dislike.
‘First,’ Bartholomew went on, ‘he told Hanchach to decline medicine that would have cured him. Second, he prescribed a potion containing urine, which damaged a weakened body. And third, he dispensed a strong purgative – something even Deynman would have known not to do.’
‘I know, Matt,’ said Michael gently. ‘But you were the one Hanchach summoned in the end.’
‘When it was too late. Cynric says Isnard has a fever now, although I doubt he will call for me. And a beggar Arderne “cured” was found dead last night. How many more people will he kill?’
‘Tell the Chancellor,’ suggested William. ‘He has the authority to ban anyone from his town.’
‘The Senior Proctor, who is Chancellor in all but name, says he cannot oust people on the grounds that I do not like them,’ said Bartholomew acidly. ‘And Arderne is currently popular with everyone except his medical rivals.’
‘If we expel Arderne, he will make a fuss,’ elaborated Michael, ‘and the town will be even more set against the University. We cannot afford that – not at the moment.’
Langelee was more concerned by the looming crisis of the Convocation and, never a man to sit still when there was action to be taken, he stood to intone a final grace. This was the sign for servants to begin clearing away dishes, despite the fact that some students had not yet started eating.
‘I am off to King’s Hall,’ he announced, ‘to see if I can persuade a few friends to vote for your amendment tomorrow, Brother. Meanwhile, benedicimus Domino and good morning to you all.’
‘Deo gratias,’ replied Bartholomew, the only one not desperately cramming food into his mouth.
‘I hate it when he does that,’ grumbled Michael, grabbing bread with one hand and smoked pork with the other.
‘So do I, usually,’ said William. He grinned and jerked a grimy thumb over his shoulder to where Honynge was trying to gobble as much as he could in the short moments left to him. ‘But not when I am rewarded with the sight of him eating his dog-flavoured egg-mess from the pan.’
Michael chuckled, then turned to Bartholomew. ‘There is a lot to do today, and I want you with me. I am afraid you might tackle Arderne if I leave you alone, and that will do no one any good.’
‘I will not tackle him,’ said Bartholomew gloomily. ‘It would be like trying to catch an eel on the back of a shovel – far too slippery. And he will only lie and deny the allegations anyway.’
‘First, we shall corner Isabel alone, to see if she can recall anything new about Lynton and her mistress. Next, we shall go to Peterhouse, and ask if Wisbeche has unravelled any more of Lynton’s business dealings. Then I should speak to Candelby, to see if I can learn more about Ocleye.’
Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘Their rent agreement was torn violently from Lynton’s hand, so it looks as though the killer did not want you to know about the association between the two victims.’
‘Perhaps it is the house Ocleye was to have had that is the source of the trouble. There is a desperate shortage of accommodation in Cambridge – for scholars and townsmen. Did Edmund Mildenale, one of our commoners, tell you he was planning to start a hostel of his own, but decided to stay at Michaelhouse when he saw how rapidly the rent war was escalating? Candelby’s greed is not only damaging hostels already in existence, but those in the future, too.’