The Hand of Justice (42 page)

‘I hope so,’ said Tulyet. ‘He has done nothing criminal yet, but he has come close. He pesters the Frail Sisters, too. I doubt
Julianna would approve, if she knew. Perhaps I should drop her a few hints. That would put an end to his philandering.’

‘Be direct,’ advised Stanmore. ‘She is not a woman who understands hints.’

Tulyet balked. ‘That would be a gentlemanly thing to do.’

Bartholomew listened to them with half an ear. He was looking towards the well in the Jewry, where the object of their discussion
was lounging against a wall. Edward Mortimer, with Thorpe at his side, was watching the young women lining up to draw water.
The girls soon became uneasy under their lecherous scrutiny. Mortimer moved close to one of the prettiest and whispered something
in her ear, pushing himself against her. She dropped her bucket and fled, tears starting from her eyes, while the others edged
closer together, their faces rigidly hostile.

Mortimer was unperturbed by their animosity. He merely selected another victim, and began to look her up and down as a housewife
might examine a carcass at the butchers’ stalls. Bartholomew took several steps towards him, intending to intervene if he
made a nuisance of himself: he had meant what he had said to Thorpe on the river bank the previous day and, as far as he was
concerned, the threat applied to Mortimer, too. He was just close enough to hear what was being said, when a familiar figure
sidled up to the miscreants and the women used the distraction to scatter.

‘I have been hoping to meet you, sir,’ said Quenhyth with one of his ingratiating smiles.

‘I have already told you that I do not want your services,’ snapped Mortimer, angry to have lost his prey. ‘I can write as
well as, or better than, you, and I do not require a scribe.’

‘But I need the money,’ objected Quenhyth in a whine. ‘How can I buy medicines for the patients I will soon have, if I have
no funds? Every other student in the University makes ends meet by scribing for wealthy merchants, and I am the only one without
a patron. Even Deynman writes for Stanmore on occasion.’

‘Clear off!’ growled Thorpe.

‘But I have tried everyone else,’ persisted Quenhyth. ‘Redmeadow works for Cheney, and Ulfrid and Zebedee, the Franciscans,
scribe for Bernarde and Lavenham. You are my last hope.’

‘You are not the sort any decent man would hire,’ said Thorpe nastily. ‘You are opinionated and judgmental, and no one likes
you.’

Bartholomew saw Quenhyth blanch, and felt sorry for him. He had forgotten Quenhyth was short of funds, and felt he must be
desperate indeed if he was obliged to beg for work from Mortimer.

‘I am liked,’ said Quenhyth in a strangled voice. ‘Deynman and Redmeadow are fond of me.’

‘Deynman
tolerates
you,’ said Mortimer unpleasantly. ‘But Redmeadow
loathes
you. I heard him telling Cheney so the other day, when he was scribing for him in St Clement’s Church. He says you spy on
him all the time, so he cannot do what he wants.’

Bartholomew wondered what Redmeadow had meant, but then reflected that Quenhyth was a sanctimonious lad, who made no secret
of the fact that he disapproved of rule-breaking. Redmeadow had probably learned that he could not drink in taverns, gamble,
or flirt with the town’s women as long as Quenhyth shared his room.

‘We are busy,’ snarled Mortimer at the hapless student. ‘Do not bother us again.’

He strutted away, heading towards a tinker, who was flouting Sunday laws by sitting with his wares laid out on a dirty rug.
The tinker reached out to attract his attention, and Bartholomew was astonished to see Mortimer kick him. The tinker reeled,
but recovered to screech curses after the swaggering men. When they reached the edge of the Jewry, Mortimer turned and made
an obscene gesture, which resulted in even more frenzied oaths. Thorpe immediately retraced his steps. Bartholomew could not
hear what was said, but the tinker fell silent. He bowed his head as the two felons left.

Bartholomew watched with distaste. Folk who were obliged to peddle their wares from rugs on the ground were the poorest of
traders, and could not be blamed if the occasional hand reached out to a potential customer. Bartholomew disliked being grabbed
himself, but it was easy enough to pull away. Mortimer’s kick had been vicious and unnecessary. Not for the first time the
physician wondered what kind of men the King’s clerks had set free with their casually granted pardons.

Michael was happy to continue gossiping with the merchants, but the incident with the tinker had unsettled Bartholomew. He
followed Thorpe and Mortimer at a discreet distance until they entered a tavern on the High Street, open despite Sabbath restrictions.
He peered through a window shutter and heard them demanding ale from a pot-boy. He supposed that as long as they were in an
inn, the town’s women would be safe enough – until the two men emerged fuelled for more mischief. He moved away as the first
heavy drops of a spring shower started to fall, turning his thoughts back to whatever it was that Redmeadow wanted to do that
Quenhyth’s presence at
Michaelhouse made difficult. Was it more than a mere flouting of the University’s rules? Had Cheney asked his scribe to do
something to further the mill dispute, something Redmeadow was finding difficult because of his roommate’s nosy presence?

Bartholomew retraced his steps up the High Street, passing the row of hovels opposite the Hospital of St John. The shacks
had been an eyesore for years. Their roofs sagged, wall plaster dropped to the ground in clumps when it was too wet or too
dry, and they stank of mould and decay. During the previous winter, snow had caused roofs to collapse, and some major restoration
had been necessary – a task undertaken by the carpenter Robert de Blaston, on the understanding that one house would be his
when it was completed. Matilde was looking forward to the day when the carpenter, his wife and their children moved into their
own home, and so was Bartholomew. He longed to have her to himself again.

Since he was close, he walked to her house, and knocked on the door. The metal hinges gleamed like gold, and the wood had
been polished so that he could all but see his face in it. He smiled. Blaston’s brood were not taking Matilde for granted,
and were doing small tasks to repay her for her hospitality.

Matilde was pleased to see Bartholomew, while Yolande immediately removed herself to the pantry at the back, where delicious
smells indicated there was a meat stew simmering. She took one baby with her, and called to another to follow, but Bartholomew
and Matilde were still accompanied by at least three children he could see, and a peculiar sensation at the back of his head
made him suspect there were more hiding on the stairs. Within moments, they heard the sound of water splashing, and Matilde
raised her eyes heavenward.

‘Yolande has cleaned my pans at least three times today.
If she continues to scrub them so often, she will scour through their bases.’

‘Would you like to go for a walk?’ asked Bartholomew, unnerved by so many silent watchers.

‘It is raining,’ said Matilde with a laugh. ‘But do not mind the children. They are always good when you are here. In fact,
I am thinking of asking you to move in, too, because they are never so demure the rest of the time.’ She ruffled the hair
of the one who sat at her feet.

‘We should introduce them to Dickon Tulyet,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He could learn from them how to behave when there are guests
in the house.’

‘Dickon is a reformed character,’ said Matilde. ‘He has met his match.’

‘Did the Devil pay him a visit, then?’

‘In a manner of speaking. Julianna Mortimer invited him to play with her daughter – the child that came from her marriage
to Master Langelee – and Dickon has not misbehaved since. If he screams now, his mother only needs mention a visit to Julianna
and he becomes as quiet as a lamb. I would not accept
her
as a patient, if I were you, Matthew. Leave her for Rougham.’ Her expression was angry, and Bartholomew supposed she had
heard the accusations Rougham had made about Warde. He did not want to discuss it, so said the first thing that came into
his head.

‘Michael appointed me as his Corpse Examiner last week,’ he said, before realising that such a topic was hardly suitable for
the ears of small children.

‘I heard,’ said Matilde. ‘It is no more than you deserve, although I imagine you dislike being at his beck and call in an
official capacity.’

‘I need the money it pays. Most of my wealthy patients have gone to Rougham or Paxtone, and I cannot buy the medicines I need
for the others without their fees.’

‘You are a good man, Matthew,’ said Matilde. ‘I heard you gave your last penny to make a potion for Una, and you have not
charged Isnard for your services. I would help you, but …’ Her eyes strayed significantly to the child who had made itself
comfortable on her feet. She changed the subject. ‘I hear you earned another fourpence last night.’

‘Warde from Valence Marie,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He died of coughing.’

‘Is that natural?’ asked Matilde. ‘I have never heard of such a thing.’

‘It is not impossible,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I did not examine him properly when he was alive, so it is difficult to say
what happened.’

‘Rougham did not examine him properly, either,’ said Matilde with distaste. ‘He calculated a horoscope, but he did not put
an ear to Warde’s chest and listen to the sounds within, as you do.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘Surely you were not present when Warde summoned Rougham for a consultation?’

‘Neither was Rougham,’ said Matilde. ‘The whole thing was conducted through a messenger – young Alfred, here.’ She nodded
to a black-haired boy of nine years or so, who was sitting near the hearth, listening to the conversation with his chin resting
on his cupped hands. ‘Tell him, Alfred.’

‘The scholars at Valence Marie often use me if they want messages delivered,’ said Alfred proudly. ‘They say I am honest and
reliable. Master Warde paid me a penny for taking spoken missives to Doctor Rougham and carrying others back. I remember everything
they said.’

‘You do?’ asked Bartholomew uncomfortably. He felt he was prying into Rougham’s business, and had no wish to hear what had
transpired between him and his patient, but Alfred was flattered to be asked for information and was already speaking.

‘First, Rougham asked Warde whether he had pains in the chest. Warde replied there were none. Then Rougham asked whether coughing
brought juices, and Warde replied that his flame was dry.’

‘Phlegm,’ corrected Bartholomew absently.

‘Next, Rougham asked if Warde had a bleeding of the throat, and Warde said no. I was running between Valence Marie and Gonville
for most of the afternoon.’

‘He was exhausted when he came home,’ confirmed Matilde. ‘So, you see, Rougham no more examined Warde than you did. Perhaps
you can counter his accusations against you by saying he was negligent, and that he should have taken the time to visit Warde.’

‘But Warde’s cough was not serious. I do not think Rougham did anything terribly wrong.’

‘Would you question a patient about his symptoms by using a child to relay messages?’

‘No, but—’

‘Would you visit that person, or ask him to call on you?’

‘Yes, and—’

‘Well, there you are, then. You are the town’s best physician, and if
you
would not act the way Rougham did, then your University logic leads me to conclude that
he
made a mistake.’

‘Perhaps he did,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But this business will blow over soon, and I do not want to make a worse enemy of Rougham.
We may have to work here together for a very long time, and we do not like each other as it is.’

‘If Rougham’s negligence killed Warde, then you should tell people,’ insisted Matilde. ‘It would be unethical not to. Folk
will not want a physician who is careless, and they will use you instead.’

‘That is precisely why I cannot say anything. Rougham would claim I was making accusations to poach his patients.’

‘But he has been doing that to you,’ objected Matilde. ‘He regularly tells people that he considers your methods anathema.
You must act to protect your reputation.’

‘People can decide for themselves who they employ. I do not want to engage in verbal battles with him to see who is the more
popular. I have neither the time nor the energy for that sort of thing.’

Her chin jutted out defiantly. ‘He had better not say anything horrible about you in
my
hearing, or I shall tell him a few truths.’

Fortunately for Rougham, Bartholomew knew their paths were unlikely to cross, and so was not unduly worried about the possibility
of an unseemly row between Gonville’s Master of Medicine and the head of the Guild of Frail Sisters. He sighed, and stretched
his legs towards the fire, feeling more relaxed than he had been for some time. A child immediately scrambled into his lap
and curled against him like a cat. He hugged it to him, touched by its easy trust.

‘So, how
did
Warde die?’ pressed Matilde. ‘The cough was minor – both you and Rougham agree on that. But he was a Commissioner. Do you
think one of the interested parties killed him? By poison, perhaps?’

‘Michael wondered that, but I do not see how Warde could have been poisoned. He ate and drank the same things as everyone
else last night.’

‘What about the Water of Snails?’

Bartholomew regarded her askance. ‘Are you suggesting Rougham killed him? You sound like Quenhyth and Redmeadow, determined
to have him indicted of some crime – any crime.’

‘It was Quenhyth who started me thinking. We met on the High Street this morning, and he was beside himself with fury that
Rougham should have accused you of killing Warde when he is such a poor physician himself.’

Bartholomew smiled indulgently. ‘Quenhyth is young and sees matters in black and white.’

‘But think about Rougham’s behaviour, Matthew. I heard what happened from Yolande, who had it from Master Thorpe himself.
Rougham sent Warde this Water of Snails, but when Master Thorpe confronted him, Rougham denied it. Yet the phial was there
with the message – in Rougham’s hand – for all to see.’