The Hand of Justice (40 page)

‘Nor do I,’ agreed William. ‘I have my reputation as Keeper of the University Chest to uphold. It would not look good for
my College to be implicated in dishonest dealings.’

Bartholomew saw several students start to laugh, evidently thinking that the friar’s conduct regarding the Hand of Justice
was as dishonest as anything else happening in the town.

‘It was nothing illegal,’ protested Wynewyk, offended. ‘I would never do anything to bring the College into disrepute. I am
a respectable, God-fearing man. You will just have to trust me.’

‘
I
trust you,’ said Langelee. ‘That is why I appointed you to help me in the first place. But time is passing and I want to
visit the Hand of Justice. So,
benedictus benedicat
, and good day to you all.’

Fellows and students hastened to stand for the final grace, but most were still sitting when Langelee wiped his lips on his
sleeve and strode from the hall, Wynewyk scurrying at his heels. Michael shook his head as they went, muttering that the lawyer
was clearly engaged in something odd, and that it was only a matter of time before he learned what. Bartholomew preferred
not to think about it, mostly because he felt he had enough to worry about with the mill murders and Warde’s sudden death.
He abandoned the high table and made for the stairs.

‘I wonder whether all our concerns and problems are connected,’ mused Michael, joining him in the yard.
‘Thorpe and Mortimer return to Cambridge and begin to meddle in matters that they know will cause ill feeling between town
and University. We have the “Hand of Justice” discussed on every street corner, and a brewing row about who should own it.’

‘Then we have Deschalers and Bottisham dead in suspicious circumstances, and Deschalers bequeathing his fortune to his niece,
who just happens to have married Edward Mortimer,’ continued Bartholomew.

‘But they were betrothed before his exile,’ said Michael, turning his face towards the bright sun as he stretched his large
limbs. ‘They have only done what their families originally intended, and I do not see their wedding as anything significant.’

‘I disagree. Originally, Julianna despised Edward so much that she considered Langelee a viable alternative.’ Bartholomew
gestured to the barrel-shaped Master, who was steaming towards the gate, wearing his best Sunday hat and swinging his beefy
arms. ‘Why did she change her mind?’

‘Because Edward is no longer a gangling, awkward boy. He is a man who knows his mind and who has an air of danger about him.
Julianna seems to like that sort of thing, and I am not surprised she fell for his “charms”. But let us continue with our
list of recent events and coincidences. We have Edward inheriting the murdered Deschalers’s wealth. And we have the murdered
Deschalers involved in a conflict between rival mills.’

‘We should not forget the fact that Deschalers’s house was burgled the night he died, either,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I saw someone
there, and so did Una.’

‘But what Una saw does not match your account,’ said Michael dismissively. ‘Her intruder left through the front door, while
you chased yours through the back window. Una likes her wine, and we know she had some, because
you treated her for a sore stomach the next day. But I do not think the burglary is important. The whole town was buzzing
with the news of Deschalers’s death – including the forty felons who are repairing the Great Bridge – and no self-respecting
thief would have passed up such a golden opportunity.’

‘Julianna would disagree. She believed the burglary
was
significant, because documents were rummaged through, even though nothing was stolen.’

‘How could she tell whether anything was stolen?’ argued Michael. ‘She did not live with her uncle, and was not in a position
to know what valuables he happened to leave lying around that night.’

Bartholomew wavered, not sure what to think. ‘What about the possibility that Deschalers made another will? Laying claim to
that sort of document would be a strong motive for breaking into his house the moment he died.’

‘Edward and Julianna did not need to burgle Deschalers’s home looking for a will that disinherited them. They could have gone
any time, quite openly. She was his niece and only kin.’

‘It would be useful to know the identity of Deschalers’s scribe,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He must have written the document in
the first place, and will know if there is more than one will in existence.’

‘You are chasing clouds,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘Everyone knew – and expected – that Deschalers would leave all his money
to Julianna. The deed was no surprise to anyone.’

Bartholomew supposed he was right, but thought it unwise to dismiss the burglary until they were certain it was irrelevant.
He turned his mind back to their list of odd coincidences. ‘Edward told Thomas to take the mill dispute to the King – on learning
that the Millers’ Society intended to burn Mortimer’s Mill to the ground – and then they
secured the services of Gonville’s lawyers to represent them. Bottisham was one of those clerks, but then he was murdered.’

‘Or he committed suicide,’ said Michael. ‘The most likely explanation is still that Bottisham and Deschalers met, one killed
the other and then took his own life in a fit of remorse. It was our original conclusion, if you recall.’

‘But we deduced that when we trusted what Bernarde told us. Now we are not so sure, because we have caught him out in lies.
We cannot discount the possibility that Bernarde killed the Mortimers’ lawyer first, then murdered the man who is related
to the Mortimers by marriage and who spoke out against burning his rival’s mill.’

‘True,’ admitted Michael. ‘Although I really did believe Bernarde’s boy when he corroborated his father’s story about the
various thumps in the engines. But Bernarde is not our only suspect. We know Thomas Mortimer does not hesitate to kill – he
dispatched Lenne with callous abandon. He is a drunkard, and it would not surprise me to learn that
he
had committed the murders in a fit of wine-fuelled rage.’

‘Why? Even wine-fuelled rage needs something to set it off.’

‘He may have slaughtered Deschalers and Bottisham without knowing what he was doing, so his family dumped the bodies in the
King’s Mill to throw us off the scent – to protect him.’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I think Bottisham and Deschalers were killed where they were found. And a nail in the palate
is not something that happens by chance. Both Deschalers and Bottisham were killed with ruthless efficiency, and I am not
sure Thomas possesses the clarity of mind to carry out such a task. Besides, his involvement leaves your theory with an awkward
question: why would he be in the King’s Mill in the middle of the night?’

‘We do not know what Bottisham and Deschalers were doing there, either,’ Michael pointed out. He sighed heavily. ‘We have
answers to virtually none of our questions. However, I recommend keeping an open mind as far as
all
our suspects are concerned. And speaking of open minds, I have not discounted the possibility that Bess is involved, either.’

‘I tried to catch her out once or twice, to see whether her rambling wits are carefully cultivated to fool us. But I have
not succeeded.’

‘That may mean she is just more clever than you,’ said Michael bluntly. ‘She is still the person most likely to have killed
Bosel.’

Bartholomew was uncertain. ‘She had a fortune in gold, but someone took it from her in exchange for information she never
received. Do you really think a cunning manipulator would blithely hand over all her money, in return for nothing but vague
promises and lies?’

‘And finally, we have Warde,’ said Michael, declining to acknowledge that the physician might have a point. ‘One of the King’s
Commissioners. Rougham denies sending him the Water of Snails, but Warde received and drank it, and now the Commission is
down to three members. Warde had taken it upon himself to put the Mortimers’ side of the argument – since Bernarde and Lavenham
were out to represent their own interests. That means one of the Millers’ Society might have had him killed.’

‘You think Warde was murdered?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘But the claim of foul play was just Rougham being unpleasant
towards me. There is no evidence to suggest he was wrongfully killed.’

‘No evidence
yet
,’ corrected Michael. ‘But again, we shall keep open minds. I do not believe in sinister coincidences, and you said yourself
that Warde’s cough should not have killed him. But something did. You may be right, and
Warde’s heart may have failed from the effort of continual hacking. Or perhaps he had a natural aversion to Water of Snails
– which you tell me contains powerful herbs, as well as boiled garden pests.’

‘Or Lavenham made a mistake with his ingredients, or Rougham in his instructions. There is no end to the possibilities, and
I do not see how we will ever learn the truth.’

‘Lavenham,’ mused Michael, his eyes gleaming, so that he looked like a fatter, younger version of his grandmother. ‘The apothecary
who made up the potion, who is also a member of the Millers’ Society, and who has a vested interest in ridding himself of
a pro-Mortimer Commissioner.’

‘Master Thorpe also refuses to accept the Millers’ Society’s side of the dispute without demur,’ said Bartholomew tiredly.
‘He agreed to remain neutral, while Warde put the Mortimers’ case. If you are right about what happened to Warde, then you
should warn Master Thorpe to be on his guard against mysterious potions sent from the apothecary.’

‘I already have,’ replied Michael. ‘Not that he needed to be told. He knows that to be appointed a Commissioner in this particular
case is a dangerous business.’

On a day of rest, when labour was forbidden at Michaelhouse, Bartholomew found himself at a loose end later that morning.
Usually he would have worked on his treatise on fevers, with the window shutters closed so that the rigorist William could
not see what he was doing. But such covert activities were difficult now he no longer had a chamber to himself. Redmeadow
would have turned a blind eye, but the same could not be said for Quenhyth. When the student caught his teacher breaking the
College’s rules, his disapproving shuffles made concentration impossible, so Bartholomew was usually forced to abandon his
writings.

Quenhyth and Redmeadow were at home that morning, and all Bartholomew’s attempts to send them on errands or out for walks
failed. Quenhyth sat on a bench with a religious tract on his knees – the only kind of reading allowed – and chattered about
his family, his home in Chepe, and the new cloak his father had promised to send him. Redmeadow dozed on Bartholomew’s bed.

‘He has been stealing my ink again,’ Quenhyth said to Bartholomew in a whisper, nodding his head at his roommate. ‘More than
half of it had gone when I checked it this morning.’

‘I did not,’ said Redmeadow indignantly, showing he had not been asleep after all. ‘You left the lid off, and it evaporates.’

‘Not true!’ cried Quenhyth.

‘Are you calling me a liar?’ demanded Redmeadow, coming off the bed in a lunge, and advancing menacingly. Quenhyth scampered
away from him.

‘Stop it,’ ordered Bartholomew sharply. He had forgotten about Redmeadow’s fiery temper. ‘Sit down, both of you.’

‘You need to do something about Rougham,’ said Quenhyth, when Redmeadow was safely back on the bed. ‘He is accusing you of
killing Warde, when it is obvious that
he
is the culprit.’

‘No one killed Warde,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He died from coughing.’

‘But Warde should not have died,’ pressed Quenhyth. ‘You said so yourself. And Rougham was the man who prescribed the very
last medicine Warde swallowed. You should investigate him.’

‘You should,’ agreed Redmeadow. ‘He is not a nice man.’

He and Quenhyth began a venomous discussion, listing Rougham’s various faults. Bartholomew tried to go back to his treatise,
but it was no more possible to concentrate
through their vicious character assassination than through Quenhyth’s disapproving sighs, and it was not long before he gave
up and left. He met Michael in the yard. The monk had crumbs on his jowls, and his lips were oily from the lard-coated oatcakes
he had been devouring with Agatha by the kitchen fire.

‘You have only just had breakfast,’ the physician said accusingly. He glanced down, and saw the monk had secured a handful
of the greasy treats for later, too. ‘It is not good to eat all the time, Brother. You will create an imbalance of humours
and give yourself stomach gripes, not to mention the fact that you are becoming corpulent. How will you chase errant students,
when you cannot manage more than a waddle?’

‘I am not corpulent,’ said Michael, deeply offended. ‘I have large bones, as I have told you before. And I do not waddle.’

‘You have waddled since Christmas, and it is time to stop. You must adopt a more sensible dietary regime. Remember the seizure
suffered by that fat monk in Ely last summer? Well, you will have one, too, if you continue as you are. I do not want you
to die.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ snapped Michael testily, grabbing one of Bartholomew’s hands and slapping the oatcakes into it with
such force that they crumbled into pieces. Walter’s cockerel immediately darted forward, to take advantage of the unexpected
feast showering to the ground. ‘But do not pick on me because your students have driven you from your illicit labours.’

‘I am sorry, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, relenting. He knew the monk was right. ‘These last few days have been difficult,
what with Isnard, Mistress Lenne, Bottisham and now Warde.’

Michael accepted the apology with poor grace. ‘Perhaps we should take a walk to visit friends – Matilde, perhaps,
or your brother-in-law. That may take my mind off my poor growling stomach.’

‘We will just walk,’ said Bartholomew, steering the monk towards the gate. It was customary to offer food and drink to visitors,
and both Matilde and Stanmore kept well-stocked kitchens. The monk knew this perfectly well, just as he knew it would be discourteous
to decline their hospitality.