The Hand of Justice (18 page)

‘Things are always difficult when there are large amounts of money at stake,’ said Michael soberly. ‘And there is plenty of
money in milling.’

On Mondays Bartholomew taught in the mornings, then took his three senior students – Quenhyth, Redmeadow and Deynman – with
him when he visited his patients. But his mind was full of Bottisham and Deschalers as he ate the bowl of oatmeal Agatha had
saved for his breakfast, and he wondered whether he should abandon his academic duties and concentrate on the murders instead.
But he could think of nothing to do that would move the enquiry along, and his students were waiting. Reluctantly, he went
to the hall and led a discussion on the Greek physician Galen’s short treatise on barley soup. After the midday meal, he collected
his three students and set off to see his patients, Bottisham’s death still playing heavily on his mind.

The arrival of Rougham and Paxtone in Cambridge had relaxed the pressure on him considerably, and he now had a list of patients
he felt was manageable. Most of the folk who had abandoned him were wealthy, and preferred the newcomers’ willingness to calculate
horoscopes and concoct potions to help them recover from the after-effects of too much food and drink. Bartholomew was left
with the town’s poor, whom the others would not have deigned to advise anyway, although Paxtone offered free consultations
on Wednesday evenings.

Although a shorter list of people wanting his services was a blessing, Bartholomew soon discovered that the ones who summoned
him invariably could not pay him or buy the medicines he recommended. While he was not overly concerned about the loss of
income for himself – his basic
needs were provided for by his College stipend – he was unhappy about the fact that there were folk suffering just because
they could not afford to purchase what they needed to make them well. Sometimes he received donations from generous colleagues,
but more often than not he was obliged to pay for the remedies himself or watch his patients try to recover without them.

That day, he was summoned to the home of a woman with an excess of choler in the stomach, and knew she would be much more
comfortable if she drank a solution of chalk and charcoal, mixed with poppy juice. But the patient was Una, one of the town’s
more desperate prostitutes, and she needed to spend her meagre earnings on bread and rent; medicine was an unthinkable luxury.
He glanced around her hovel, noting the holes in the roof, the gaps in the wall, and the mean little fire in the hearth.

He asked for a sample of urine, then showed the students how to assess it for various maladies. All three scribbled notes
furiously on scraps of parchment. Redmeadow dropped his pen in his desperation to write, and had to grovel on the floor to
retrieve it from under a bench. As he stretched out his hand, he exposed the sleeve of his tunic, and Bartholomew saw it was
ingrained with dust and dirt. Bartholomew assumed he had been earning extra pennies by drudging for Agatha in the kitchens.
Like Quenhyth, Redmeadow was not a wealthy student, and was often obliged to undertake menial tasks in an effort to make ends
meet.

‘I saw you last night, Doctor,’ said Una mischievously, when the consultation was over and the students started to argue among
themselves about the reason for the sudden decline in Michaelhouse victuals. They paid her and their teacher no attention.

‘I saw you, too,’ Bartholomew replied, smiling as he sat on the bench. ‘Or rather, I heard you. You were at Cheney’s
house. Incidentally, he fed you acidic wine that upset your humours. You should demand a better-quality brew from him in the
future.’

She grimaced. ‘I wondered why he took his own claret from a different jug. But I watched you go inside Deschalers’s home,
and I saw someone else run out a little later. Did you startle a burglar? I am not surprised someone chanced his hand. Deschalers’s
house will offer handsome pickings, and the whole town knew he was not in a position to defend his property last night.’

‘The burglar climbed out of a window at the back,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Then he made good his escape down the alley that leads
to the river.’

‘No, he left through the front door,’ argued Una. ‘After you and the fat monk had gone inside. I saw him with my own eyes
– although Cheney’s wine made me feel as though I had six of them.’

‘Perhaps he doubled back,’ said Bartholomew, thinking she had probably seen Michael or the elderly servant. Or perhaps she
had confused the sequence of events, and had watched the burglar entering the house rather than leaving it.

‘Perhaps.’ She winced and put a hand on her stomach as she was gripped by another spasm of pain. ‘This hurts, Doctor. There
must be
something
that can relieve it. I hear you always carry strong wine to use as medicine. Will you give me some of that?’

‘It would make you worse,’ said Bartholomew. He left her house, fuming silently that rich merchants could have whatever they
liked, while Una would not eat that day if she did not secure herself some customers. It was unjust, and he fully empathised
with the growing unrest among folk who were clamouring for better pay and wanting to narrow the gap between rich and poor.
He recalled the disturbances in Ely the previous summer, when men had
risked the King’s displeasure by instigating insurrection among the peasantry.

He was still fretting about the problem when he met a messenger with an order to attend Tynkell at the Church of St Mary the
Great. Quenhyth, Redmeadow and Deynman immediately began to speculate about why an august personage like the Chancellor should
want Bartholomew to visit him. Bartholomew hoped it was nothing to do with the curious discussion about poisons they had had
after the
Disputatio de quodlibet
. He doubted it was anything to do with the mill deaths, because Michael would have answered any questions arising from that.

‘Perhaps Tynkell wants you to take his place,’ suggested Quenhyth sycophantically. ‘He has been in office for three years
now, and he may have decided it is time for a change.’

‘I think Brother Michael might have something to say about that,’ said Redmeadow. ‘
He
intends to be the next Chancellor. And chancellors are elected, anyway. It is not for Tynkell to appoint one.’

‘Perhaps he is with child and knows you are better with women’s matters than Rougham and Paxtone,’ suggested Deynman.

Bartholomew regarded his cheery-faced student warily, while the other two students clutched each other in helpless laughter.
‘How could Chancellor Tynkell be pregnant?’

Deynman blushed furiously. ‘Surely you do not need me to explain that process? It happens when a husband and his wife come
together, and—’

‘That is not what I meant,’ interrupted Bartholomew, amused by Deynman’s prim notion that the making of children occurred
only between married couples. ‘I was referring to the fact that Tynkell is a man – and men do not bear children.’

‘Some do,’ said Deynman, round-eyed. ‘I read it in Aristotle last night. He said that the sex of hermaphrodites
is determined by whether they prefer the clothing of males or females. Although Tynkell was baptised a man, he obviously prefers
wimples and gowns, and he will soon bear a child.’

Not for the first time, Bartholomew thought how dangerous a little knowledge could be in the mind of someone like Deynman.
He struggled to explain in words he thought the lad might comprehend. ‘Aristotle actually said that hermaphrodites should
be considered men or women depending on their ability to copulate – nothing to do with clothes or bearing children. But why
have you attributed this particular condition to Tynkell?’

‘He is always rubbing his stomach,’ said Deynman, as though no further explanation were necessary. He glanced at his teacher,
saw his confused expression, and hastened to elaborate. ‘Labour pains. All pregnant women have them.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew cautiously, aware that Redmeadow and Quenhyth were almost in tears as they attempted to suppress
their amusement. ‘Is that all?’

‘And because he never bathes,’ said Deynman earnestly. ‘He does not want anyone to know of his circumstances, because, as
a woman, he would not be permitted to be Chancellor. By never bathing – and thus never revealing any minute portion of his
flesh – he ensures his secret remains safe.’

‘Except from you,’ said Bartholomew, wondering how he would ever solve the problem that Deynman had become. At some point
the student was going to realise that he could study for the rest of his life and still not be good enough to pass his disputations,
and then he would leave Cambridge and descend on some unsuspecting settlement to ply his ‘skills’. Not all physicians completed
their University studies, and there were many who had never attended a school at all. However, Deynman could honestly
say that he had studied longer than most, and prospective patients would be impressed. Bartholomew felt a sudden stab of fear,
knowing it was only a matter of time before Deynman did someone some serious harm.

‘Why are Una’s humours unbalanced?’ asked Redmeadow, wiping his eyes and attempting to bring the discussion back to the patient
they had just visited. ‘Is it because she spends too much time romping with men she does not know?’

Bartholomew applied himself to answering, noticing how Quenhyth and Deynman hurried to emulate Redmeadow, and extract scraps
of parchment from their scrips and jot down notes. He talked about the delicate balance of humours in the stomach, and how
Una had an excess of acid bile that needed to be brought under control. Redmeadow and Deynman listened, then lagged behind
when they felt they had heard enough. Quenhyth, however, was still full of questions.

‘You did not suggest bleeding. When there is an excess of evil fluids, then surely the best recourse is to drain them away?’

‘Bleeding will not reduce the amount of bile in the stomach,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘And purges that cause vomiting will bring
pain. A compound of chalk and charcoal would soothe the caustic humours and allow them to reduce naturally.’

‘Is this what Galen recommends?’ asked Quenhyth, scribbling furiously.

‘Galen suggests cutting around any intestine ulcerated by black bile,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I do not think such a drastic
step is necessary in Una’s case.’ And he had no wish to be reprimanded by his colleagues again for employing surgical techniques.

‘What about a poultice of henbane?’ asked Quenhyth, shaking his pen in an attempt to relieve a blockage. Ink
splattered across the sleeve of Bartholomew’s tunic. ‘You mentioned yesterday that Arab medicine makes good use of plants
like henbane, which are poisonous but which can be used as cures by the cautious.’

‘By the very cautious,’ warned Bartholomew, scrubbing at the spots and making them worse. ‘Henbane slows the brain and reduces
the sensation of pain. No physician prescribes it lightly, and most only do so as a last resort. Too much will kill, while
too little will not achieve the desired effect. Lily of the valley can also be used to soothe pain, but again it is essential
to determine the precise dosage, or it will not work. Personally, I would not use either. They are too dangerous.’

‘Henbane,’ said Quenhyth, underlining what he had written with several firm strokes. He glanced up and pointed at the black
splatter on Bartholomew’s tunic. ‘Agatha will not be pleased when she sees that. Ink is not easy to remove.’

Before he arrived at St Mary the Great, Bartholomew emptied his scrip and found a few pennies – the last of his stipend for
that month. Hoping there would not be some unforeseen emergency that would require him to pay for something else, he handed
them to his students and instructed them to buy ground chalk and poppy juice from the apothecary. Quenhyth demurred, virtuously
claiming that he did not want to be seduced by the salacious Isobel, so the others suggested he scavenge charcoal from the
blacksmith instead. Bartholomew promised to show them how to mix the potion for Una later, when they were all back at Michaelhouse.

The Chancellor’s office in the University Church was spacious and functional, with a bench running along the length of one
wall, and shelves overflowing with parchments and scrolls. A large table stood in the middle, also
piled high with documents, and the whole room was sharp with the daylight that flooded in through one of the beautiful perpendicular
glazed windows.

Bartholomew was surprised to discover Michael already there, comfortably settled with a goblet of warmed wine. The monk was
telling Tynkell how to sell one of the University’s unoccupied houses, and the Chancellor was busily writing his instructions
down. The rumours were true about how much power Michael had accrued in his capacity as Senior Proctor, Bartholomew thought.
It was clear from the way they interacted that Michael was in charge.

‘Ah, Bartholomew,’ said Tynkell, waving a grime--impregnated hand to indicate that the physician should enter. Bartholomew
obliged, and wondered how Michael could stand the stale odour that emanated from the Chancellor’s long-unwashed person. He
supposed the monk considered it a small price to pay for the kind of influence he had inveigled for himself. ‘We wanted to
see you.’

He offered the physician some of the wine that was mulling over the fire. Bartholomew accepted, but was not impressed by the
fact that Tynkell’s aversion to water seemed to extend to his goblets, too. There was a ring of brown scum on the rim from
the lips of previous drinkers, and its outside was sticky from greasy fingers. Tynkell sat again, and Bartholomew discovered
he had been holding his breath while the Chancellor was close. Meanwhile, Michael kept his nose in his goblet, and the physician
saw he was using it much as he might employ a pomander.

‘You are filthy,’ said Tynkell to Bartholomew in an aggrieved tone of voice. He pointed to the ink stains on the physician’s
sleeve. ‘Look at that! It is no example to set to your students.’

Bartholomew heard Michael snigger into his wine.
‘Agatha will wash it tonight,’ he said, wishing he had the nerve to point out to the Chancellor that he had seldom encountered
such brazen hypocrisy.