‘He will approve if he was murdered. I shall write the letter today. Will you look at him or not?’
‘I will not. Ask Rougham – he acted as your Corpse Examiner when I was away last year, so he will be used to such requests. And if he has been abandoned by as many patients as he claims, he may be glad of the money.’
The rain blew over during the night, and although the streets were full of puddles, the early morning sky was clear with the promise of sunshine to come. Shivering and complaining bitterly about the sheet of ankle-deep mud that comprised Michaelhouse’s yard, the scholars lined up to process to the church for their dawn offices. Langelee was in front, his four Fellows were behind him, and the students and commoners brought up the rear.
When they arrived at St Michael’s, a blackbird was trilling in one of the graveyard trees and a group of sparrows twittered near the porch; their shrill chatter echoed through the ancient stones. The church smelled damp, because there was a leak somewhere, and Bartholomew noticed that the floor needed sweeping. It was a task Kenyngham often undertook, because it allowed him to spend more time in his beloved church, and the physician wondered who would do it now. He did not have to think about the matter long, because Carton grabbed a broom while William and Michael were laying out the altar, and began to push old leaves and small pieces of dried mud into the corner Kenyngham had always used.
It was William’s turn to perform the mass and, as usual, he charged through the ceremonies at a furious lick, as if his very life depended on being done as soon as possible. It meant they were out in record time, and as Langelee had agreed to preside over the disputations and he had a free morning, Bartholomew decided to visit some of his patients – and look for Falmeresham at the same time. Despite everyone’s gloomy predictions, he still refused to believe his student was dead.
‘You will miss breakfast,’ warned Michael, seeing him start to slip away.
‘I am not hungry.’ Bartholomew had spent another restless night with his mind full of questions. He was anxious for Falmeresham, distressed about the fact that Michael was intent on investigating a murder he was sure had not occurred, and concerned about the mischief Arderne was causing.
‘Are you ill?’ asked Michael, not imagining there could be another reason for passing up a meal. He frowned. ‘You have not eaten anything offered by shooting stars or crocodiles, have you?’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew shortly.
‘We will come with you,’ offered Deynman. ‘Me and Carton. You should not be out alone, not with the town so angry about the number of people killed by the town’s inept physicians.’
‘He means there is safety in numbers,’ elaborated Carton. The commoner-friar had changed since Falmeresham’s disappearance. He had never been an extrovert, but the loss of his friend had rendered him sullen, irritable and withdrawn, and the students were beginning to make excuses to avoid his company. Bartholomew wondered whether the Franciscan’s surliness derived from the fact that he no longer expected Falmeresham to come home alive. His own efforts to search for his friend had certainly tailed off, and he had not been out to look for him since Sunday.
Deynman gave one of his inane grins. ‘I do not believe the lies Arderne is spreading about you, sir, and I told Isnard he was an ass for listening to such rubbish. Then I asked to see his leg, to assess whether it really was growing back again, as Arderne promised it would.’
‘And was it?’ asked Carton, without much interest.
‘Maybe a bit,’ replied Deynman. ‘It was difficult to tell. Did you hear Paxtone has taken to his bed? He is still digesting the flock of pigeons he scoffed a few nights ago, and Rougham suggested he remain horizontal, to allow the birds to pass more easily through his bowels.’
Tired and dispirited, Bartholomew escaped from his colleagues, although he was obliged to enlist Cynric’s help in ridding himself of Deynman. He walked to the Small Bridges in the south of the town, where a glover called John Hanchach lived. Hanchach suffered from a congestion in the chest, which Bartholomew had been treating with a syrup of colt’s-foot and lungwort; the physician had been heartened recently, because Hanchach had turned a corner and started along the road to recovery.
Hanchach’s house – a pink-washed cottage with a neatly thatched roof – overlooked an odorous stretch of water known as the Mill Pond, and Bartholomew was sure its dank miasma was at least partly responsible for the glover’s respiratory problems. He walked along the towpath, enjoying the early morning sun and the scent of damp earth, and tapped on Hanchach’s door.
Hanchach was sitting next to a fire, watching something bubble in a pot. A delicious scent of honeyed oatmeal filled the room. It was the first time the glover had left his bed in a week, but it was what Bartholomew had expected, given the good progress of the previous two or three days.
‘I do not need you any more,’ said Hanchach, somewhat sheepishly. ‘I am better.’
Bartholomew smiled. ‘You are doing well, but do not stop taking the tonic yet. You need to clear your lungs completely, and I have brought you–’
‘Magister Arderne is my healer now,’ interrupted Hanchach. He stared at the flames and would not meet Bartholomew’s eyes. ‘He touched me with his feather yesterday and gave me a potion, which is why I am up today. Your remedy was taking ages to work, but he cured me overnight.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, supposing Arderne knew a patient on the mend when he saw one, and had pounced on the opportunity it had presented. ‘How did he know you were ill?’
‘Isnard,’ replied Hanchach, acutely uncomfortable. ‘We are neighbours, and he told me how you made a mistake with his leg. He recommended that I employ Arderne in your place, but Arderne said he would only treat me if I broke off all contact with you. He said you would try to foist more false remedies on me, but they might react dangerously with the real cure he has provided.’
‘Is it because of Deynman?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling how the student had almost killed Hanchach when he had misinterpreted some basic instructions and given him too much medicine.
Hanchach grimaced. ‘That was a factor, although only a minor one. Mostly, it was Arderne himself. He has such compelling eyes, and you find yourself believing what he says, even when you do not want to.’
Bartholomew recalled others telling him the same thing. ‘Your condition may worsen again if you do not continue to take the syrup,’ he warned, unwilling to see a patient suffer needlessly.
‘Arderne told me you would say that.’ Hanchach shot him a wry grin. ‘He is very expensive – I paid him five times what I pay you – but you can see his treatment is more effective.’
‘You were getting better anyway,’ objected Bartholomew. But he could see that any attempt to argue would look like sour grapes on his part, and he did not want trouble. ‘May I see this potion?’
Hanchach pointed to a phial on the table. Bartholomew removed the stopper, then recoiled in revulsion. ‘I hope you do not intend to drink this. It contains urine.’
‘Arderne says a famous Greek practitioner called Galen recommends urine very highly.’
‘I have never read that,’ said Bartholomew, startled. ‘And I know most of Galen’s writings.’
‘Galen did not write it,’ said Hanchach, as if it were obvious. ‘He told Arderne this special recipe. You see, Galen asked Arderne to help him on a particularly difficult case, and when Arderne healed the patient, Galen told him several secret cures, as an expression of his gratitude.’