The Hand of Justice (25 page)

‘Where is your Master?’ asked Michael, looking around at a College that appeared to be deserted. ‘We need to ask him questions
about Bottisham, and I was told all the Fellows would be here today.’

‘Master Colton is – was – with Bishop Bateman at Avignon,’ replied Ufford. ‘He has been the Bishop’s chief clerk for some
years now. Their relationship is rather like the one you enjoy with the Bishop of Ely, Brother – except that Colton does not
spy for Bateman, and you probably do not want to be your bishop’s replacement.’

Michael stared at him, amusement glinting in the depths of the green eyes that were so uncannily like his grandmother’s. ‘You
speak very plainly, Ufford! However, I assure you that I do not
spy
for the Bishop of Ely, nor would I refuse his see, should it ever be offered to me. But I had forgotten Colton is away. How
do you manage without him?’

‘We are used to his absences, and the College is run very ably by Acting Master Pulham.’

‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘It must have been a bitter blow for you to learn of Bateman’s death.’

‘Very bitter,’ agreed Ufford. ‘He was a good man, and generous to us. But you are in luck, Brother. Here are my colleagues
now, back from their devotions at St Mary the Great.’

Bartholomew watched Ufford open the gate a second time, to allow the scholars of Gonville Hall inside. They were a neat, sober
group, older than those at most other Colleges and hostels, because they had been selected by Bishop Bateman himself – and
Bateman had a preference for established scholars over young students. His reasons were
understandable: older men were less inclined to join in the frequent brawls that marred the town, and so were less likely
to bring his institution into disrepute.

Bartholomew recognised all the Fellows at the head of the procession, and a few of the students behind. Leading the way was
Acting Master Pulham with his Cistercian habit and colossal ears, while Rougham the physician was close on his heels. Next
came a gentle friar called Henry of Thompson, who hailed from a famous college of priests in south Norfolk. Finally, there
was a nobleman named Henry Despenser, who was said to be destined for great things in the Church.

‘Brother Michael,’ said Pulham genially. ‘I am sorry we were not available to see you yesterday. Come to our library for a
cup of warmed ale. And while we are there, you might care to inspect a tome or two. We sold Bacon’s
De erroribus medicorum
to the Chancellor yesterday, and you might be interested in other items we have for sale.’ He sounded hopeful.

‘You are selling your books?’ asked Bartholomew, who would rather have starved than part with one of his own. He thought about
the large and extravagant meals for which Gonville was famous, and wondered why they did not economise on food instead. ‘Why?’

‘Just the few we do not use,’ replied Pulham. ‘To raise funds for our chapel.’

‘We will soon have the books from Bateman’s private library,’ said Rougham boastfully. ‘He is certain to have remembered us
in his will. So, we are ridding ourselves of rubbish we would never consider using anyway – like the Bacon, and the Trotula
scroll I sold to that whore.’ He glanced at Bartholomew out of the corner of his eye, so the physician was sure his words
were intentionally insulting on two fronts: Bartholomew’s fondness for unorthodox medicine and for Matilde.

He rose to the bait, ignoring Michael’s warning elbow in the ribs. Some discourtesies were simply too grave to be ignored.
‘No gentleman slanders a lady’s good name,’ he said coldly. ‘Your slur reflects more poorly on you than it does on her.’

Rougham glowered. ‘Are you questioning my breeding, sir?’ he demanded archly.

‘If your breeding is reflected in your manners, then I am,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘It is—’

‘Warm ale, did you say?’ interrupted Michael, in an attempt to prevent a quarrel. He wanted the Gonville Fellows’ co-operation
in the matter of Bottisham’s death. ‘In the library?’

‘This way,’ said Pulham hastily, indicating the direction with his hand. But Rougham was not to be silenced.

‘Trotula is foreign rubbish,’ he said, following the Acting Master across the yard, although he had the sense to let the matter
lie regarding Matilde. ‘I only ever use Latin or Greek texts in my classes.’

‘They are foreign,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

‘
Ancient
Greece was very different to the Greece of today,’ said Rougham haughtily. ‘And Trotula was from Salerno.’ The tone of his
voice made it sound akin to Sodom or Gomorrah. ‘
Her
medical knowledge was confined to adultery and poisoning. Just like the Arabs, in fact.’

Bartholomew gazed at him, somewhat startled. Rougham knew Bartholomew’s own teacher had been an Arab – many of the ‘unorthodox’
treatments he had learned from Ibn Ibrahim had actually been known in the eastern world for centuries – and so his comments
were clearly intended to be offensive. The expression on Rougham’s face was challenging, but Bartholomew quickly suppressed
the raft of tart responses that flooded into his mind, and decided to ignore the man. He assumed Rougham was just in a bad
mood, and his inflammatory statements were not worth
arguing over – especially if to do so would interfere with the investigation into Bottisham’s death.

They entered the library, and sat on the benches that had been placed around the walls. A fire was burning in the hearth,
and the room smelled of peat smoke, polished wood and ancient parchment. It was an agreeable aroma, and one that reminded
Bartholomew of his Oxford days, when he had studied long hours in the library at Merton. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine
himself back there, unplagued by worries like purchasing medicines for impoverished patients, bitter rival physicians, and
the violent deaths of colleagues. It was peaceful; the only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the occasional rustle
of a page turning.

Pulham fussed over jugs and goblets, then presented his guests with cups so full he was obliged to carry each in both hands,
gnawing at his lower lip as he concentrated on not spilling any.

‘As you have probably surmised, we are here to talk about Bottisham,’ said Michael, when he had drained his goblet dry to
prevent accidents. He did not approve of liquids near books. ‘We are deeply sorry about what happened to him. He was a kindly
man, and he will be missed.’

‘Kindly?’ asked Rougham icily. ‘How do
you
know what he was like?’

Bartholomew wished the man would go away, since he was not prepared to be polite. ‘He gave me a gold noble to buy medicine
for Godric of Ovyng Hostel a few weeks ago. Godric was bitten by a dog and the wound festered, but Ovyng did not have the
money for salves. Bottisham has been helping Isnard and Mistress Lenne, too.’

Rougham stared at him angrily. ‘I did not know any of this. Why was
I
not called to attend this Godric? And why did Bottisham dispense funds to help men from other hostels, when we have a chapel
to build?’

Bartholomew saw he should have remained quiet about Bottisham’s quiet generosity. Most men would have been impressed to learn
that someone they knew had acted in an anonymously charitable manner, but Rougham seemed intent on being antagonistic that
morning. Bartholomew decided it would be better for everyone if he did not dignify the man’s curt questions with a reply.

‘Bottisham
was
a good man,’ said Pulham. He smiled at Rougham in an attempt to placate him. ‘Perhaps he left us something in his will. Then
we can rid ourselves of young Thorpe.’

‘You should not have accepted Thorpe as a student,’ said Michael. The monk had changed the subject, reluctant to begin an
interrogation in which he would demand to know whether Bottisham had been involved in something sinister that had led to his
odd death in the King’s Mill. ‘His presence in your College will only end in tears.’

‘He was persistent,’ explained Pulham. ‘He was determined to become a scholar, so I thought we may as well take his fees,
since we are currently short of funds. He offered to sew us an altar cloth and chasuble if we took him. Besides, he does not
want to
live
here, just to study occasionally.’

‘You will find yourselves the losers,’ warned Michael.

‘
I
certainly did,’ muttered Ufford, touching the cut on his nose.

‘Did you make an official complaint about this attack on you?’ asked Michael. ‘To the Sheriff or one of my beadles?’

Ufford pulled a disagreeable face. ‘There was no point. I am a lawyer, and I know any King’s Pardon is absolute. Complaints
about Thorpe or Edward will just be seen as sour grapes. They are untouchable. Look what else they did to me.’

He pulled up his tabard to reveal a knee that was bruised
and swollen. Bartholomew winced, knowing such an injury would make walking painful.

‘They stamped on it, when I was down,’ said Ufford, the indignation in his voice making it clear what he thought of their
ungentlemanly conduct.

‘You did not tell me why they picked on you,’ said Michael. ‘Did you say something to antagonise them? They are spoiling for
a fight, so it would not be difficult to do.’

‘I was praying to the Hand,’ said Ufford resentfully. ‘They had no right to resort to violence. I gave them no cause to do
so – ask anyone. Several Michaelhouse students saw what happened. They will tell you I was an innocent victim of a gratuitous
attack.’

Michael was disapproving. ‘I know the Hand is revered in some quarters, but I did not imagine the scholars of Gonville Hall
to be among its foolish admirers.’

‘We are not,’ said Pulham firmly. ‘
Most
of us know it came from Peterkin Starre the simpleton.’

‘The Hand is imbued with healing powers,’ argued Rougham, fixing his colleague with an angry glare. ‘I often send my patients
there when all else fails. Some have been cured instantly. Look at Ufford. He was on the verge of leprosy, but has been reprieved
by the Hand’s intervention.’

‘Why should Thorpe and Mortimer object to your prayers to the Hand?’ asked Bartholomew of Ufford. He was proud of himself
for not telling Rougham that his diagnosis was absurd.

‘Thorpe was telling people that the Hand should not be locked away in the University Church,’ replied Ufford. ‘He said it
should be somewhere more public. Foolishly, I ventured the opinion that it was all right where it was, and that it should
not be moved. St Mary the Great is a fine, strong church, and Father William is an honest guardian, who never refuses anyone
access to it – scholar or townsman.’

‘Thorpe fought you over the location of a false relic?’ asked Michael incredulously.

‘No, Brother,’ replied Ufford gravely. ‘He fought me over the Hand of Valence Marie. It is
not
a false relic, and in time it will make Cambridge a site of great pilgrimage.’

‘Sweet Jesus!’ muttered Michael.

‘If the Hand is so powerful, then why is your nose cut and your leg swollen?’ asked Bartholomew archly, although the question
was really aimed at Rougham. ‘Surely, you should be cured?’

‘I have not been to visit it since the attack,’ explained Ufford simply. ‘Rougham calculated my horoscope and he says it is
not safe for me to leave the College for another two days.’

Rougham looked smug. Bartholomew thought Ufford would have benefited more from a poultice of powdered knapweed root and warm
beeswax, but he held his tongue.

‘The Hand did not intercede for Deschalers,’ said Pulham to Rougham. ‘Even I could see that he had the taint of death about
him. He told me you recommended a private audience with the relic, but afterwards, he became more ill than ever.’

‘He had a canker in the bowels,’ said Rougham. ‘I did suggest a visit to the Hand, but his sins must have been too great,
for his prayers went unanswered. I knew he was not long for this world, although it is unfortunate he was deprived of his
last few weeks by a nail.’

‘I agree,’ said Michael. ‘Was he depressed about his condition, do you think?’

‘You are asking whether I believe Deschalers was so distressed about his impending death that he murdered Bottisham and killed
himself,’ surmised Rougham, who had evidently heard about the lack of a third party in the King’s Mill when the two men had
died. ‘And the answer is yes. He was weak from his illness, but he could have
mustered enough strength to perform one last act of violence. It is the only viable solution, because Bottisham cannot have
murdered Deschalers.’

‘I heard they died from nails penetrating their brains via their mouths,’ said Pulham distastefully. ‘I do not see Bottisham
inflicting that sort of injury – or any other, for that matter – on anyone. It seems an odd way to choose for a suicide. What
was Deschalers thinking of?’

‘It does sound improbable, and I speak from my experience as a
medicus
,’ agreed Rougham. ‘I suppose the man must have used a nail on Bottisham, then felt obliged to dispatch himself in a like
manner. Suicides are rarely rational in their thoughts as they prepare to die. He probably saw some contorted logic in his
decision that is impenetrable to a sane mind.’

Bartholomew conceded that he was probably right, and the twisted reasoning of a deranged mind had led one of the two men to
kill his enemy and then himself in this bizarre manner. He could think of no other explanation that made sense.

‘I heard Gonville will represent the Mortimer clan in their argument about water with the King’s Mill,’ said Michael, changing
the subject. ‘Is it true?’

Pulham nodded. ‘We shall miss Bottisham’s incisive mind, though.’

‘Why have you chosen to support the Mortimers over the Millers’ Society?’ asked Michael. ‘Do you have shares in their venture,
or have they promised to become benefactors?’

‘No,’ said Rougham shortly. ‘We took their case because they offered to pay us well.’

Ufford gave a rueful smile. ‘And because we are tired of seeing men like Deschalers, Morice, Cheney and Lavenham have their
way in the town. They are all wealthy, yet they dabble in milling to make themselves richer still.
It is time they learned they cannot always have what they want.’