The Hand of Justice (47 page)

It was not long before a discussion began about the nature of the continuum, and whether or not it consisted of indivisible
mathematical parts that could be finite or infinite in number. Redmeadow held his own for a while, but then just listened
as the Fellows put their points with impeccable logic. Bartholomew enjoyed the debate, feeling that he and Michael were fairly
evenly matched, while Michael grew positively animated. They were both so preoccupied that it was several moments before they
became aware of Quenhyth standing in the doorway, holding a limp bundle of feathers.

‘Rougham
did
poison Warde,’ he said triumphantly. ‘While I was waiting for your experiment to work, I performed one of my own. I took
the rest of the potion from the phial and fed it to Bird. He is quite dead.’ He
gave the feathers a vigorous shake, but there was no response.

Bartholomew gazed at him in horror. ‘You have killed Walter’s pet? How could you do such a thing? You know it is the only
thing he loves.’

‘But nobody else does,’ said Quenhyth, unrepentant. ‘We all complain about Bird – even you – because he crows all night, and
damages books and belongings. Look what he did to your Trotula.’

He pointed to the shelf above the window, where Bartholomew saw that part of his newly acquired scroll had peck marks all
along one edge. An avian deposit had also been left on it.

‘We were going to tell you about that,’ said Redmeadow uncomfortably. ‘Bird got at it before we could stop him. We were leaving
it to dry, so we could scrape off the lumpy bits without making too much of a mess.’ He brightened. ‘But he did not eat any
parts with words on, so it is still legible.’

‘We all hate Bird for destroying our most precious possessions,’ Quenhyth went on, capitalising on his teacher’s dismay as
he inspected the ravaged document. ‘And none of us will miss him. Agatha can put him in the stew tonight, and Walter will
think he has flown away.’

‘His wings are clipped,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He cannot fly.’

‘A fox, then,’ said Quenhyth, waving a hand to indicate that such details were unimportant. ‘But are you not pleased? You
had long and tedious experiments in mind, and I have given you your answer instantly. Bird died almost at once. He fought
for breath for a few moments, but then just perished, as I heard Warde did.’

Bartholomew rubbed his eyes, then looked at the pathetic bundle under Quenhyth’s arm. Doubtless most College members would
indeed be glad to be rid of the chicken that had plagued their sleep for years, but he did
not know how he was going to tell Walter what had happened. He decided to let Quenhyth do it. Perhaps, when the student was
forced to witness Walter’s distress, it might make him think twice about sacrificing animals in the future.

‘Where is the cat?’ demanded Redmeadow, looking around him suddenly. He came to his feet with a murderous expression in his
face. ‘You did not—?’

‘No,’ said Quenhyth coolly. ‘You told me not to.’

‘Bird’s death is not enough to convict Rougham,’ said Bartholomew, inspecting the ball of feathers closely in the hope that
Quenhyth’s diagnosis had been premature and that there might be something he could do to revive it. There was not: the cockerel
was quite dead. ‘For all we know, chickens might have an aversion to one of the ingredients in Water of Snails, and Bird’s
demise might mean nothing as far as humans are concerned. There are other tests we need to conduct. Has the water boiled yet?’

Quenhyth blanched and dived quickly into the storeroom. Bartholomew followed, knowing exactly what he would find. He was not
mistaken.

‘Oh, no!’ cried Quenhyth, running to where a small fire danced merrily on the bench top. ‘I only left it for a moment.’

‘But, unfortunately, it was a moment too long,’ said Bartholomew, throwing a cloth over the flames. ‘And now we have none
of the mixture left. You fed half to Bird, and you allowed the rest to burn away.’

Quenhyth’s face was a mask of shame. ‘I was only trying to help. I did not mean to cause a disaster.’

‘It is not a disaster,’ said Michael, less fussy about empirical experimentation than Bartholomew. ‘I am a practical man,
and believe what my eyes tell me. Bird died when he was fed Water of Snails from that pot, and that is good enough for me.
We
can
conclude that Warde was poisoned.’

‘Not necessarily,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘Nor do we know what kind of poison was used.’

‘Why does that matter?’ asked Quenhyth. ‘Poison is poison, and its type makes no difference to Rougham’s guilt.’

‘You can always make up a name, if someone asks,’ suggested Redmeadow helpfully. ‘Quenhyth is right: poison is poison, and
trying to identify a particular kind is irrelevant to what was done with it.’

Bartholomew ignored them both, and continued to address Michael. ‘Nor do we know for certain that Rougham gave it to Warde.
He says he did not. Someone else may have sent it in his name – Paxtone for example.’

Quenhyth was outraged. ‘That is a terrible thing to say! Besides, I heard Paxtone say in a lecture once that he has no use
for Water of Snails, because it brings about excessive wind. He would never prescribe such an old-fashioned remedy.’

Redmeadow agreed. ‘I attended that lecture, too. Rougham is the guilty culprit here, not Paxtone. Paxtone does not go around
poisoning his patients. I do not think the same can be said for Rougham.’

‘But we cannot
prove
that Rougham sent Warde the poison,’ insisted Bartholomew.

‘Well, Warde said he did, and so do Master Thorpe
and
Bingham,’ said Michael, exchanging a triumphant glance with the students. ‘Things are not looking good for Rougham at all.’

Bartholomew was not happy with Michael’s conclusions, and felt the ‘evidence’ was too open to alternative explanations for
Rougham to be charged with Warde’s murder. He insisted they should investigate further before openly accusing the Gonville
physician, and decided they would begin by visiting Lavenham the apothecary, to ask whether
he recognised the phial and then to question him about the possibility of a mistake with ingredients. These were not questions
he wanted to put to a man who supplied most of his medicines, but, he felt he had no choice.

‘Do you think Warde’s death is related to the murders in the mill?’ asked Michael, as they waited outside the porters’ lodge
for Quenhyth to emerge. Bartholomew had forced him to confess immediately, and did not want to leave the College until he
was sure the lad had done his duty. ‘That if Rougham killed Warde, then he also dispatched Bottisham and Deschalers? We did
find that other phial in the King’s Mill. Remember?’

Bartholomew shrugged, most of his thoughts on Walter. ‘It is possible that Rougham murdered Deschalers using whatever was
in the pot we found, then was obliged to kill Bottisham because he inadvertently witnessed the crime – and that he used the
nails to disguise what had really happened. It is a simple enough solution, but, again, it is not one we can prove – especially
given Rougham’s aversion to surgery and sharp implements. And we must remember Bernarde’s testimony: he did not see Rougham
or anyone else escaping after the two men died.’

‘Ignore Bernarde’s story for now,’ said Michael. ‘Do you find Rougham a plausible suspect?’

Bartholomew considered the question for a long time. ‘I would not be surprised to learn he eased a patient into an early grave
to benefit himself in some way. That is what he has been saying about me, so such things have obviously occurred to him. But
I do not see him sneaking around dark mills armed with nails.’

‘You claimed originally that Bottisham and Deschalers
both
died from wounds to the mouth. Are you now saying that one might have been poisoned – and that only one actually died from
stabbing?’

‘It is possible. Many poisons are impossible to detect,
and we did find that phial: someone obviously swallowed some strong substance in the King’s Mill. However, if you recall,
that pot was full of dust. It may have been dropped there the night Bottisham and Deschalers died. But, equally, it may have
been there for a good deal longer and have nothing to do with their deaths.’

‘Do you still have it?’ asked Michael.

Bartholomew handed it to him, and the monk held it up, next to the one from Warde. They were identical.

‘That does not mean anything, Brother,’ warned Bartholomew, seeing the monk’s eyes light up with glee. ‘All apothecaries use
phials like that for powerful potions. We will never prove it contained something lethal; just that it once held something
strong.’

‘Water of Snails?’ asked Michael hopefully.

‘Yes, perhaps. Along with a host of other things.’

‘I excelled myself in tact and cunning at Julianna’s house yesterday,’ said Michael, mulling over the information for a moment,
and then addressing a different issue. ‘Acting on your suspicions, I mooted the possibility that Deschalers might have planned
to change his will, but she did not put her hand in the air and admit to killing him before he could send for his clerk.’

‘I imagine not.’

‘Then I had a pry in his office, while the entire house-hold was preoccupied with a tantrum thrown by Julianna’s daughter
– she is a feisty brat, just like Dickon. However, I found no stray wills. I think Deschalers really did leave everything
to her, and did not change his mind at the last moment.’

‘She and her new husband would hardly leave a second will lying around for you to discover,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Edward
can read, and neither is stupid. If Deschalers did change his mind about heirs, then you will never find evidence of it just
by rummaging through his possessions.’

‘Here comes Quenhyth,’ said Michael, not deigning to acknowledge that his friend was right. ‘Crying like Julianna’s baby.
Poor Walter. How will he manage without Bird?’

Bartholomew and Michael left Michaelhouse and its weeping inhabitants, and made their way to Lavenham’s premises on Milne
Street. It was mid-morning and the town was busy, with folk flocking to and from the Market Square and barges arriving to
deliver goods to the merchants’ warehouses. Milne Street was more congested than usual, because of the presence of a small
group of men wearing dirty black gowns. They lay in the filth of the road with their arms outstretched in the pose of the
penitent, while their leader informed anyone who would listen that unless some fervent repentance took place, the Death would
return. Bartholomew saw Suttone nod heartfelt agreement, although he did not deign to soil his own robes by joining the zealots
in the ordure.

When the leader rang a bell, his followers clambered to their feet. He handed them long, white candles, and they formed a
line, chanting a psalm in unnaturally deep voices. Their tidings and singing were funereal, and they were allowed to go on
their way without any of the jeering and ridicule such people usually attracted. When they had gone, and their sepulchral
notes had faded among the clatter of hoofs and feet, people went about their business in a more sombre frame of mind, recalling
loved ones lost the last time the plague had visited the town.

‘I hope
they
do not stay here long,’ said Stanmore disapprovingly, spotting his brother-in-law and coming to speak to him. The physician
saw two mercenaries hovering nearby, hands on the hilts of their swords as they scanned passersby for signs of evil intent.
Stanmore was taking no chances while his ex-apprentice was free to roam. ‘We would all rather forget the Death, and it does
no one any good to
dwell on it. I am sorry I could not dine with you yesterday, Matt. However, you should know better than to invite me on a
Monday, when I am always busy with new deliveries.’

‘I did not invite you to dine,’ said Bartholomew, startled. ‘We are experiencing some financial difficulties at the moment
and I would not ask anyone who does not have a penchant for nettles and mouldy bread.’

‘You did,’ said Stanmore indignantly. ‘You sent me a letter, but I forgot to reply.’

‘Tulyet had an invitation, too – allegedly from me,’ said Michael. He shook his head, amused. ‘Ignore it, Oswald. It is one
of the students, thinking that rich townsfolk will take pity on us and make a donation once they see what we are obliged to
eat.’

‘There is always a meal for you in my home,’ said Stanmore to Bartholomew. ‘You are welcome any time.’

‘We will come tonight, then,’ said Michael immediately, ever the opportunist. ‘But let us visit this apothecary first, and
see what he has to say for himself.’

Lavenham’s shop was a hive of activity. The apprentices were in the back room, furiously mixing and boiling remedies for delivery
later that day; Lavenham wielded a pestle and mortar, grinding something to within an inch of its life with powerful, vigorous
strokes; and Isobel greeted customers. She leaned across the counter in her low-cut dress and gave Michael a smile that indicated
she knew perfectly well he would rather admire her cleavage than purchase tonics or remedies. Meanwhile, a small, neat figure
hovered silent and unobtrusive in the shadows thrown by the shelves. Bartholomew watched the unmistakable silhouette of Dame
Pelagia uneasily, wondering what she was doing in a place where poisons could be bought.

‘Come and look at my leeches, Brother,’ invited Isobel, when she saw she might lose the monk’s attention to his
grandmother. ‘They are best-quality creatures from France, and arrived this morning.’

‘Nothing that comes from France is of the best quality,’ Dame Pelagia muttered.

Bartholomew supposed a lifetime of spying in an enemy state might well result in that sort of opinion. ‘They look like English
ones to me,’ he said, inspecting them with the eye of a professional.

‘But more expensive,’ said Isobel. ‘Foreign goods are always more costly than common English wares. Is that not so, husband?’

‘It true,’ said Lavenham, not looking up from his labours. ‘But I always say English best. The King English, and choose me
for Commissioner. He know fine Englishman when he see one.’