The Hand of Justice (10 page)

‘Fascinating,’ said Rougham nastily. ‘And why did Bacon imagine we would be interested in such irrelevant matters?’

‘Probably because you need an accurate calendar to calculate horoscopes,’ retorted Bartholomew, knowing the great store Rougham
set by determining courses of treatment based on the alignment of the heavenly bodies – something Bartholomew had long since
decided was of little practical value. It felt good to catch the man in an inconsistency.

Bottisham intervened a second time when he saw Rougham’s eyes narrow in anger. ‘Wynewyk tells me you prescribed him an excellent
potion containing essence of rhubarb to strengthen his bowels, Bartholomew. I have suffered from a—’

‘I would never allow a patient of mine to consume rhubarb,’ interrupted Rougham disdainfully. ‘It leads the bowels to empty
completely and without control. Besides, it is poisonous.’

‘I use the stems, which are safe in small amounts,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘Rhubarb is no different from any other commonly used
ingredient: a little is beneficial, too much can cause harm. The same is true of lily of the valley, for example, which we
all use to ease the heart – but it can stop one dead, if a patient swallows too much.’

‘You should not be discussing dangerous compounds here,’ said Chancellor Tynkell, advancing on them on a waft of bad air.
Instinctively, all three scholars took a step backwards. ‘Not with poor Bishop Bateman dead from such a mixture.’

‘We do not know for certain he was poisoned,’ Bottisham pointed out. ‘The messenger said it was rumour, not fact. Still, I
am told some poisons are impossible to detect once swallowed, so perhaps someone killed him with one of those.’

‘I suppose
you
know about such substances?’ said Tynkell to Bartholomew, stepping closer while the physician tried to hold his breath. ‘Which
poisons to use in those sorts of circumstances?’

‘I do not,’ replied Bartholomew, feeling as though Tynkell was trying to recruit him for something sinister. A man like the
Chancellor had plenty of enemies, and Bartholomew hoped he had not decided that what worked in Avignon would be suitable for
use in Cambridge, and intended to employ a personal poisoner on his staff. He
was aware that Rougham and Bottisham were eyeing him curiously, puzzled and intrigued by Tynkell’s questions.

‘What kind of poison killed Bateman, do you think?’ pressed Tynkell, his attention still firmly fixed on Bartholomew.

‘I really have no idea,’ said Bartholomew, wishing the Chancellor would talk about something else. It was clear from the expression
on Rougham’s face that he thought Tynkell might have some specific reason for asking his rival physician about such matters,
and Bartholomew did not want him to leave with the impression that Michaelhouse men knew all about potions that could kill.

‘Well, think about it, and if anything occurs, let me know,’ said Tynkell, moving towards Michael and Langelee, who were conversing
in low, serious voices. Bartholomew took a deep breath of untainted air, then became aware that Rougham and Bottisham were
regarding him with distinct unease.

‘It is odd that he should choose to ask
you
about the nature of Bateman’s death,’ said Rougham bluntly, making it sound like an accusation.

‘I cannot imagine why he did that,’ said Bartholomew, unsettled.

‘I can,’ said Rougham. ‘You alone of the Cambridge physicians read the kinds of books where such information might be found.
You know more about poisons than the rest of us put together.’

‘Take me home, Rougham,’ said Bottisham, when he saw Bartholomew draw breath to take issue. ‘Bateman’s death has distressed
me, and I need to lie down.’

Rougham began fussing around his colleague, making loud, confident proclamations about the remedies he prescribed for shocks,
while Bottisham turned to Bartholomew and winked. Bartholomew smiled, grateful that he had been spared from wasting more time
with a man of
narrow vision like Rougham. He was about to leave the church when he saw himself summoned by a peremptory flick of Michael’s
fat, white hand. He disliked the way Michael brandished his plump digits and expected people to come scurrying, so he ignored
him. He did not get far, however. As he passed the place where the monk conferred with Langelee and Tynkell, a powerful hand
shot out and grabbed him. He tried to free himself from Langelee’s vicelike grip, but it was impossible without an undignified
struggle. The Master of Michaelhouse was a very strong man.

‘We are talking about Thorpe and Mortimer,’ said Michael, ignoring Bartholomew’s irritation at being manhandled. ‘Chancellor
Tynkell made some enquiries in Westminster, regarding why they were pardoned. The official reason is that there was some question
about the legality of the evidence that convicted them. That is why they have been declared free men again.’

‘But they both confessed to what they did – murder and theft!’ exclaimed Langelee, outraged. ‘I heard them myself. And Wynewyk,
who is an excellent lawyer, said there was no legitimate argument for overturning their convictions.’

‘Apparently, the Mortimers wanted to clear the family name, so decided to appeal against the verdict,’ explained Tynkell.
‘The law-clerks contacted the Sheriff of Cambridgeshire, and asked for more details. Unfortunately, the Sheriff at the time
was not Tulyet.’

‘It was Morice,’ snarled Langelee, railing at the combination of circumstances that had led to an injustice. ‘That corrupt
vagabond was Sheriff for a brief period last year.’

‘It seems the Mortimers paid Morice to sign a letter urging the clerks to clemency,’ Tynkell went on. ‘
Then
the clerks cooked up their excuse about the evidence being inadmissible. Rumour has it that gold changed hands there, too.
So, the upshot is that Thorpe and Mortimer were able
to buy a King’s Pardon. I thought they would stay away – that a sense of shame would prevent them from showing their faces
here – but I was wrong.’

‘They may kill again,’ warned Langelee, as if he imagined the others needed to be told.

‘They will not find it easy,’ said Michael. ‘My beadles and Dick Tulyet’s soldiers will be watching their every move. But
we will not be able to do so for long.’

‘Why not?’ asked Langelee. ‘Because you need your peace-keepers for other duties?’

‘Because the Mortimers have threatened to sue if we harass their Edward,’ explained Tynkell. ‘We cannot afford to pay huge
sums in compensation because his liberty is being curtailed.’

Bartholomew gazed at him. ‘
His
liberty? What about the liberty of the people who are dead because of him and Thorpe? This is not justice!’

‘No, but it is the law,’ said Tynkell flatly. ‘None of us want that pair in our town, but they have the King’s Pardon, and
there is nothing we can do about it.’

‘But this is preposterous!’ exclaimed Langelee furiously. ‘They are criminals!’

Tynkell sighed. ‘You are not listening, Master Langelee. The law is not about who is the criminal and who is the aggrieved.
It is about enforcing a set of rules. And those rules have just put Thorpe and Mortimer in the right.’

Bartholomew started to walk home, Tynkell’s words echoing in his mind. He could not believe that self-confessed killers were
not only free to wander where they liked, but were enjoying protection by the very laws that should have condemned them. He
was grateful his sister and brother-in-law were away, and hoped Mortimer and Thorpe would have tired of their sport and left
before they returned.

He had not travelled far when he saw the town’s wealthiest merchant, Thomas Deschalers, riding along the High Street on an
expensive-looking horse. Despite his fine, jewel-sewn clothes, the grocer looked ill, and Bartholomew’s professional instincts
told him there was something seriously amiss with his health. Oddly, the madwoman who had discovered Bosel’s corpse was trailing
behind him. Bartholomew studied her, noting her flat, dead eyes, and wondered what she and Deschalers planned to do together.
They were odd bedfellows, to say the least.

Deschalers reeled suddenly, and something slipped from his hand to the ground. He righted himself, then gazed at the thing
that had fallen, as though asking himself whether retrieving it was worth the effort. Since the woman did not attempt to help,
Bartholomew went to pick it up for him. It was a leather purse, heavy with coins and embossed with the emblem that represented
Deschalers’s wares: a pot with the letter D emblazoned across it. This distinctive motif was also engraved in the lintel above
the door to his house, and it often appeared on the goods he sold.

‘Thank you,’ said Deschalers, taking the purse gratefully. ‘I would have had to dismount to get that, and I do not know whether
I have the strength.’

‘You could have asked her,’ said Bartholomew, indicating the woman, whose dirty hand rested on the grocer’s splendid saddle.
She regarded him blankly, and he realised that his earlier sense that he knew her had been wrong. There
was
something familiar about her face and the colour of her hair, but the familiarity was simply because she reminded him of
someone else. However, the woman who looked similar hovered just outside his memory.

‘She is slow in the wits,’ said Deschalers. ‘It would have been just as much trouble to make her understand what I wanted
as to collect it myself. I do not have the will for either.’

‘You are unwell?’ asked Bartholomew, since Deschalers seemed to expect such an enquiry.

‘Very,’ said Deschalers. ‘Rougham says I will recover my former vigour, but I know that whatever is rotting inside will soon
kill me. I do not think any physician in England can help me now, not even one who flies in the face of convention to affect
his cures. But thank you for the offer, anyway.’

‘You are welcome,’ said Bartholomew, who would never have done any such thing. First, he seldom saw eye to eye with the laconic,
aloof grocer and suspected Deschalers would be a difficult patient, arguing over every scrap of treatment and advice. Second,
Rougham would not appreciate the poaching of his wealthiest patient. And third, Bartholomew knew Deschalers’s self-diagnosis
had been correct: he already walked hand in hand with death, and no physician could snatch him back.

Deschalers rode on with the woman in tow, and Bartholomew watched him acknowledge Rougham and Bottisham with a weary wave
as he passed. Rougham called something about a new tincture of lavender that he claimed would make the grocer a new man, but
Deschalers shot him a bleak look that made him falter into silence. Sickness made Bartholomew think of Isnard, who had been
stricken with a mild fever earlier that morning. He recalled his concern, and started to stride towards the Mill Pond.

‘Slow down, Matt!’ came a breathless voice from behind him. He turned to see Paxtone, the Master of Medicine from King’s Hall,
hurrying after him. ‘I have been chasing you all along the High Street, shouting your name, and you have ignored me completely.’

Bartholomew smiled. He liked Paxtone, who was merry faced with twinkling grey eyes and rosy cheeks, like russet apples in
the autumn. He was a large man, although not as big as Michael, and usually moved slowly when he walked,
as if his weight was too much for the joints in his knees and he needed to proceed with care lest they collapse. But he had
a sharp mind and was willing to listen to some of Bartholomew’s more exotic medical theories, even if he did not usually agree
with them.

Paxtone held Bartholomew’s arm, and used it as a prop while he recovered his breath. ‘You were racing along like Thomas Mortimer’s
cart,’ he gasped.

‘That was what I was thinking about,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Mortimer escaping justice because Bosel is dead. His nephew buying
a King’s Pardon.’

‘My College’s lawyers discussed those King’s Pardons at length yesterday. They concluded that if we appeal against them, we
are essentially saying that His Majesty is wrong – and that might be construed as treason. We will be fined far more than
we can pay, just to teach us never to challenge the royal courts, no matter how wicked and corrupt their decisions.’

‘It is a depressing state of affairs.’

‘It is an appalling state of affairs, but a decision has been made in the King’s name, and we must live with the consequences.
I heard you were instrumental in catching Thorpe and Edward Mortimer, so you had better be careful of them.’

‘I played a very small part in their downfall. There were others who did far more to bring them to justice than me – Michael,
my brother-in-law, Sheriff Tulyet, Master Langelee, various soldiers from the Castle, and even Michael’s grandmother, Dame
Pelagia.’

‘They were overheard bragging to some of Edward’s cousins in the Market Square the other day. They said they intended to repay
everyone
who played
any
role in their capture. Your name was among the many they listed, so do not think they have forgotten whatever it was you
did. It is a pity you allowed your book-bearer to accompany
your sister to Huntingdon. If you ever needed his ready sword it is now.’

‘I can look after myself.’

Paxtone patted his arm. ‘I know. But you can allow a friend to show a little concern. Remember that if anything happens to
you, I shall be left with Lynton and Rougham – and neither of
them
will discuss Arab medicine with me.’

Bartholomew smiled. ‘We can learn a great deal from the Arab world. For example, did you know that there is a hospital in
Egypt that can house
eight thousand
patients simultaneously? It teems with physicians, apothecaries and folk to cater to the patients’ daily needs. If a man
is sick in the stomach, then a physician who knows about stomachs will tend him. If he has a hardened spleen, then the physician
who studies spleens will come.’

‘I do not think that is a good system. Your expert in spleens may concentrate on the one part of the body he loves to the
exclusion of all else, and ignore other, more serious, ailments.’

‘Perhaps,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But I would like to know more about this place – how many inmates are cured and how many
die. However, for now, I am only going to visit Isnard.’