The Hand of Justice (50 page)

‘You should have reported it,’ said Michael, stopping him again. ‘Then I would not have assumed
you
were the thief.’

When it dawned on him that Michael had him marked down for a very grave crime, Wynewyk’s expression was one of open-mouthed
horror. ‘You jump too readily to the wrong conclusions, Brother! Why would I want Dumbleton? I am a lawyer, not a philosopher.
And why would I steal from my own College when, as you pointed out, I can borrow a key any time I like?’

‘That is the only copy of the
Summa logicae
in Cambridge,’ said Bartholomew, not bothering to point out that while Dumbleton’s text did indeed deal with philosophical
issues, it was better known for its application to the study of logic. And logic was the basis of any academic discipline.
‘It deals with the intention and remission of certitude and doubt, and is very valuable.’

‘What are you implying?’ asked Wynewyk, red with indignation. ‘That I intend to sell it?’

Michael answered with a meaningful silence.

Wynewyk sighed and glanced behind him again. ‘I see what you are thinking. You imagine I was avoiding
you
when I crossed the road. Well, you are wrong. It was
him
.’

He pointed down the High Street at Thorpe who, as if he knew he was being discussed, stopped suddenly and turned to give them
an insolent wave. Wynewyk took a gulp of breath, then released it in a gust of relief when Thorpe walked on.

‘Thank God you were here, or he would have had this tome away from me in an instant,’ he said. ‘He is at Gonville,
and they are teaching him well – he would guess it is worth a lot of money.’

‘How do you know him?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘You are a newcomer to the town, and you were not here when he committed his
first spate of crimes.’

‘I had the misfortune to find myself in his company when I went to visit the Hand of Justice three weeks ago – Thorpe
and
his horrible friend Edward Mortimer. I had heard about the Hand, and I wanted to see it for myself. Actually, that is not
true – I went to ask whether it might intercede on our behalf in the
Disputatio de quodlibet
. I had a feeling we would not do well, and I so wanted to win.’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘But you had me and Matt to argue by your side.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Wynewyk. ‘And you are the best Michaelhouse has to offer. However’ – here the drop in his voice indicated he
thought Michaelhouse’s best was somewhat below par – ‘Matt’s logic is sometimes flawed, while your mind is too often on your
other duties, Brother.’

‘I see,’ said Michael coldly. ‘Pray continue. You asked the false relic to help you, because you believed Matt and I were
not up to the task.’

‘I was right,’ retorted Wynewyk haughtily, refusing to be intimidated. ‘We lost, did we not?’

‘Then you must conclude that the Hand did you no good, either,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

‘I do not think the Hand is as holy as folk say,’ said Wynewyk. ‘I have seen many relics – in Albi among other places – and
our Hand does not possess the proper aura of sanctity. Father William touches it for a start, and you do not toss real relics
around as though they are pomanders. However, all this is irrelevant. I was trying to tell you how I met Thorpe and Mortimer.’

‘Then do so,’ suggested Michael, as the lawyer paused to gather his thoughts – or his lies.

‘The day I decided to visit the Hand was the one they happened to choose, too. William took the three of us to see it together.
We went into the tower and knelt, but when William went to an upper chamber to fetch the Hand, Thorpe demanded my purse. I
could not believe my ears! They were robbing me, not only in the sacred confines of a church, but within spitting distance
of a holy relic. I was disgusted with myself for being terrified of them, and even more disgusted when I handed my purse over
without a word. Unfortunately, it contained Michaelhouse’s monthly food allowance.’

Michael gazed at him. ‘Is
that
why we have been living like peasants recently?’

Wynewyk nodded miserably. ‘I probably should not have relinquished it quite so easily, but I am not a man for fighting. However,
it is easy to be wise – and brave – about events once they are over. That is what Master Langelee said, when I told him what
had happened.’

Bartholomew thought back to his first encounter with Thorpe – in St Michael’s Lane on the day of the
Disputatio
. Wynewyk had been with him, and he recalled the lawyer raising his hood to hide his face. He had assumed Wynewyk had not
wanted a man with such a violent reputation to see and remember him, but it had been because Wynewyk had been afraid that
Thorpe would recognise a man who had already fallen prey to his intimidation.

‘What else did Langelee say?’ asked Michael angrily. ‘And why did you not tell me?’

‘He said their pardons make them untouchable – even by you. He did not want you to demand our money back, and have them complain
about you to His Majesty. He also believes the town will tolerate their vile behaviour for a while, but that they will soon
vanish, never to be seen again anyway.’

Bartholomew was sure the Master had reached this conclusion when Dame Pelagia had arrived. She had a way
of making people disappear quietly, and Langelee greatly admired her for it.

‘The sooner the better,’ said Michael fervently. ‘But you should have confided in me, man. I do not stand by while my colleagues
are robbed in broad daylight.’

‘Please do not tackle them about it,’ begged Wynewyk. ‘I do not want them coming after me for getting them into trouble.’

‘You should know me better than that. Besides, they would deny the incident if I approached them directly. But I
shall
repay them for what they did.’

‘So, who tried to take the book?’ asked Bartholomew, pointing to the tome under Wynewyk’s arm. It crossed his mind that the
lawyer might plan to exchange it for groceries. There were plenty of scholars in Cambridge who would love to acquire a copy
of
Summa logicae
.

‘I have my suspicions,’ said Wynewyk, looking down the street to where Thorpe was still a figure in the distance. ‘
He
was in our hall recently, after all.’

‘He did sit near the books,’ recalled Bartholomew. ‘I did not notice him sawing, though.’

‘Obviously, or you would have told him to stop,’ said Wynewyk, who evidently thought the physician should have been ready
to confront Thorpe, even though he had failed to do so himself. He turned to Michael. ‘How is your investigation, Brother?’

Wynewyk had relaxed now that Thorpe had disappeared from sight. He shifted the book under his arm, and Bartholomew watched
unhappily, not convinced by his explanations. Something told him that Wynewyk was lying, which unsettled him. He did not want
the lawyer to be embroiled in something that would see him dismissed from his Fellowship – or worse.

‘Not well,’ replied Michael. ‘In fact, it is essentially at a standstill.’

‘I dined at Gonville a few nights before Bottisham died,’ said Wynewyk, eager to be helpful now he felt he was off the hook.
‘I am friendly with their lawyers. Bottisham talked about Deschalers and how the grocer wanted an end to their feud. But he
was suspicious.’

‘You think Deschalers summoned Bottisham to discuss a pact, and then killed him?’

Wynewyk nodded. ‘That would be my conclusion. Deschalers had wanted to meet Bottisham fairly soon, and this was a few days
before they died. It seems to me that Bottisham allowed himself to be convinced that Deschalers meant well, and was murdered
for his trust.’

‘Why did you not mention this before?’ asked Michael irritably.

‘I thought Rougham would tell you,’ said Wynewyk defensively. ‘He heard the conversation as well as I did, and it was
his
colleague who was killed, not mine.’

‘Well, he did not,’ said Michael shortly. ‘And you must have heard that Rougham is not enamoured of Michaelhouse at the moment?’

‘He is not enamoured of Matt, but I have not heard him criticising the rest of us.’

‘So, why did Bottisham and Deschalers meet at the King’s Mill?’ asked Michael, stifling a sigh. ‘Why not at Deschalers’s house,
where there are plenty of refreshments to hand, and where he could show his reluctant guest some sumptuous hospitality?’

‘Probably because Bottisham declined to enter the lion’s lair, so they agreed to meet on neutral territory,’ suggested Wynewyk.
‘Would you go to the house of a man who hated you, where he could slide a dagger into your ribs and bury you in his garden
with no one the wiser?’

‘But surely Bottisham would consider a deserted mill at midnight equally dangerous,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Your reasoning makes
no sense.’

‘It does,’ insisted Wynewyk. ‘Deschaler’s house would be full of his retainers and apprentices – he could hardly be expected
to oust them from their beds just because Bottisham was soon to arrive. But the mill was different: Bottisham could have watched
it for hours to ensure no one was there but Deschalers. I certainly know which venue
I
would choose, if I had been Bottisham.’

‘You may be right,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘We know Deschalers had a key to the mill, and where better for a quiet discussion?
Deschalers knew it would be closed for the night, and that they would not be interrupted.’

‘He must have rammed the nail through Bottisham’s palate, taking him by surprise, then engaged the wheel and tossed him in
its gears to disguise the injury,’ surmised Michael. ‘But it did not work as well as he had hoped, because the stones did
not grind his victim up. Instead, the sudden noise attracted the attention of the miller. And then what?’

‘We found the phial of medicine, remember?’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was in the type of pot used for very strong potions – such
as that prescribed for painful conditions like a canker in the bowels. Deschalers took it to dull his senses, then drove a
second nail into his own mouth, making sure that he, too, would fall into the moving machinery.’

‘I do not know about this,’ said Wynewyk unhappily. ‘It sounds rather contrived. Why would Deschalers bother to hide his crime
when he was going to die anyway? And he must have killed himself very quickly after dropping Bottisham into the wheel, if
Bernarde is to be believed.’

‘Quite,’ said Michael grimly. ‘“If Bernarde is to be believed.” We have wondered about that from the start. We shall have
to have more words with our friend the miller, and find out whether he helped Deschalers with his suicide and its attempted
disguise.’

* * *

While Michael went to see Chancellor Tynkell, to explain his tentative suspicions and conclusions, Bartholomew reflected on
the audacity of a man who had dared to sit in the hall of another College and file away the chains that secured its valuable
books. He accompanied Wynewyk to the blacksmith’s forge, aware that the lawyer was nervous and ill at ease in his company.
When they finished, and the smith had agreed to have the chain repaired by the end of the following day, Wynewyk escaped gratefully,
claiming he had private business elsewhere.

For want of anything better to do, and because he was nearby, Bartholomew went to visit Paxtone at King’s Hall. He longed
to hear that his medical colleague’s odd meetings with Wynewyk were harmless, and knew the matter would prey on his mind until
it was resolved, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it. He hoped Paxtone would mention in passing some perfectly reasonable
explanation for his strange behaviour, and obviate the need for an unpleasant interrogation. But he knew he was deluding himself.
Whatever Paxtone and Wynewyk were up to involved secret meetings that necessitated lies, and Bartholomew knew their antics
were unlikely to be innocent.

Paxtone was reading Philaretus’s
De pulsibus
to his students, and was behind with his timetable; Bartholomew had finished Philaretus and his commentaries weeks before.
Paxtone was a thorough teacher and his lectures were well organised, but he made dull work of explaining what was an exciting
text. Most of his class was bored, and some were even asleep.

While he waited for Paxtone to finish, Bartholomew found a roaring fire and a pile of spiced oatcakes at the back of the hall.
He ate four, then wished he had stopped at three, but the cakes contained cinnamon and sugar, both of which were a rare treat,
and it was difficult to resist anything that smelled so delicious. He ate a fifth and began to feel queasy.

‘Rougham has finished Philaretus and is on Galen’s
Aphorismi
,’ said Paxtone gloomily, when his students had clattered out at the end of the lesson. ‘I do not know how he manages it.’

‘But how well do his students know the material?’ asked Bartholomew, declining to mention that he had finished the
Aphorismi
, too. ‘Still, I suppose we shall find out at their disputations.’

‘If you fail anyone from Gonville, Rougham will claim it is revenge for this business with Warde,’ warned Paxtone. ‘I know
you are not the kind of man to strike at Rougham through his students, but that will not stop him from making accusations.
He is a fool. It will not be long before Michael unearths proof that his Water of Snails was responsible for Warde’s death
– whether Rougham killed him deliberately or not.’

‘His Water of Snails contained henbane,’ said Bartholomew, watching Paxtone’s jaw drop in horror. He knew he should have said
nothing, since the rumours about Warde’s death were escalating out of control, but decided to press on regardless, to see
whether his revelations induced any meaningful reactions in a man whose own behaviour was also suspect. ‘We do not know whether
Rougham added it himself, whether Lavenham made a mistake, or whether someone else decided to dispatch one of the King’s Commissioners.’

‘My God!’ breathed Paxtone. ‘Henbane? Are you sure? I understand it can be deadly when swallowed in large amounts.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘We found a similar phial in the King’s Mill, after Deschalers and Bottisham died. Do you know what Rougham
prescribed for Deschalers’s sickness?’