Free To Kill or Cure by Susanna Gregory

Bartholomew refused to deliver the invitations until they had been to the Lilypot. He was acutely disappointed
     to learn that Blankpayn was still away, and no one had any idea when he might be back. While Michael continued to quiz the
     tavern’s occupants, Bartholomew’s eyes lit on a man who sat in a dark corner, bundled in a hooded cloak. He went to stand
     next to him.
    ‘I am not fooled by that disguise, Carton,’ he said softly to the commoner Franciscan. ‘And that means neither will anyone
     else. Michael’s beadles are looking for Falmeresham in the taverns this morning – they will catch you here, and you will be
     fined for breaking University rules.’
    ‘They have already been in,’ replied Carton. ‘But they know I am not here to cause trouble.’
    ‘It will cause trouble if Blankpayn catches you spying in his domain. Leave the hunt to Michael’s men. They know what they
     are doing.’
    Reluctantly, the friar followed him outside. ‘A dozen witnesses – us included – saw Blankpayn stab Falmeresham. It is
vital
we talk to him as soon as possible.’
    ‘It is vital,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘And any clues he provides will be carefully investigated. But not by you. You do not have
     the right kind of experience, and you may do more harm than good. If you care for Falmeresham, you will leave the matter to
     others.’
    Carton’s face was grim. ‘Blankpayn is Candelby’s lapdog, and may well hurt a student to please him. He is alout – all brawn and ale-belly, and not two wits to rub together.’
    ‘Even more reason to leave him to the beadles.’
    The Franciscan glanced up at the sky. ‘I shall walk to Madingley, then, to visit his mother.’
    ‘Cynric has already been. She has not seen him in months.’
    ‘She would say that,’ said Carton. ‘He is her son. Of course she is going to help him hide.’
    ‘Yes, but we are talking about
Cynric
,’ said Bartholomew, not altogether approvingly. ‘A man who never allows locked doors to keep him out. He searched her home
     from top to bottom – hopefully with her none the wiser – and says there is no sign of Blankpayn.’
    Carton closed his eyes in despair. ‘Then what
can
I do? Falmeresham is my friend, and I cannot stop thinking that he might need my help.’
    Bartholomew felt much the same way. ‘Go to the Carmelite Friary, and ask if any of the novices saw anything. If so, come back
     and tell Michael – do not race off to investigate on your own.’
    Carton shot him a wan smile. ‘I am not the kind of fellow who rushes headlong into danger without due thought. If the truth
     be told, I am something of a coward.’
    Bartholomew was watching him walk away when Michael emerged from the tavern, leaving behind a number of angry men. They had
     resented his accusing questions.
    ‘Nothing,’ he said in disgust. ‘Blankpayn has disappeared into thin air, just like his victim.’
    As Bartholomew walked along the High Street, he stared at the jumbled chimneys of the Angel tavern, famous for its pies and
     for being owned by the University’s most vocal opponent. The inn was massive, with whitewashed wallsand well-maintained woodwork. It stood opposite the ancient church of St Bene’t, and recently Candelby had objected to the
     fact that blossom from the graveyard blew into the street and became slippery when wet. Because the church was used mostly
     by scholars, he claimed the flowers were a University plot to make him fall and break his neck. When the accusation became
     common knowledge, students had raided the surrounding countryside for cherry saplings to plant.
    ‘I searched the Angel when I was hunting for Falmeresham last night,’ said Michael following the direction of his gaze. ‘A
     group of lads from Clare was there, so I offered to waive the fine if they could tell me where Falmeresham had gone. None
     could, so they are all a groat poorer.’
    ‘You said a Clare student was killed in yesterday’s brawl,’ said