The Hand of Justice (53 page)

‘We do not know they are all connected,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Paxtone thinks not.’

‘Of course they are connected! How could they not be? You found those little phials with Deschalers and Bottisham, then Warde,
and now Bess. Paxtone is trying to mislead you.’

‘But if Bottisham and Deschalers died in the same way
– with a nail in the palate – as we first surmised, then the flask at the King’s Mill is irrelevant. We
think
Deschalers took it there, to ease his pain – or perhaps to subdue Bottisham – but we have no evidence to support such a theory.’

‘This town is falling to pieces,’ muttered Tulyet. ‘And there seems to be nothing I can do to save it. Thorpe and Mortimer
are having their revenge indeed. There is nothing like a few unexplained murders of townsmen
and
scholars to produce panic and discord.’

Bartholomew walked back to Michaelhouse, mulling over the new facts he had uncovered. When he arrived, Quenhyth and Redmeadow
were sitting quietly, both engrossed in their studies. Bartholomew walked into the room, then tripped over a chest that had
been placed at the foot of his bed. It had not been there before.

‘What is this?’ he asked irritably, rubbing his skinned shin. It was not a nice box – it smelled and its large lock bespoke
functionality rather than aesthetics. He decided it would not remain there for long. But, even as he glared at it, he realised
he had seen it before.

‘That is Quenhyth’s inheritance,’ explained Redmeadow disapprovingly. ‘Deschalers left it to him, and Edward and Julianna
wanted it out of their house today, because they think it is nasty.’

‘
Quenhyth
is the clerk Deschalers remembered in his will?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise. He recalled Julianna saying that her uncle
had appreciated the fact that his scribe was always punctual – and punctuality was one of Quenhyth’s strongest virtues. Bartholomew
remembered something else, too, and realised he should have made the connection sooner: Quenhyth had recently been petitioning
merchants for scribing work, telling them that he was anxious for funds. That had been because he had lost his regular employer
when Deschalers had died.

‘Deschalers liked me,’ said Quenhyth, although Bartholomew recalled Julianna stating quite categorically that he had not;
the grocer had just appreciated Quenhyth’s timeliness. ‘He promised to leave me a chest, but I did not think he would remember.
I am flattered he did. It is not as fine as the furniture in my father’s home, but it will do until I can afford better. It
has a strong
lock
.’ He glared at Redmeadow.

‘Redmeadow and I will not touch your possessions,’ said Bartholomew, suspecting it would be difficult to persuade Quenhyth
to get rid of the thing. ‘And no one else comes in here.’

‘Brother Michael does,’ said Redmeadow meaningfully.

Bartholomew wondered what he imagined Quenhyth owned that would tempt a man of taste and culture, like Michael. Then it occurred
to him that Quenhyth might want to protect his private food supplies when the monk came raiding – in which case, a lock would
be very useful indeed.

Quenhyth smiled. ‘We all need additional victuals now Michaelhouse is failing to feed us properly. And I can secure other
things in it, too – such as my pens and inks.’

‘We are not interested in
those
,’ said Redmeadow scornfully.

Quenhyth regarded him balefully. ‘You are! And it is very annoying to come home and find my writing supplies mysteriously
depleted.’

‘You can sell the chest,’ suggested Redmeadow, ignoring the accusation with a blitheness that made Bartholomew wonder whether
it was justified. ‘But I do not think you will get much for it.’

‘I cannot – not yet,’ said Quenhyth. ‘That was one of the conditions of my accepting it. Deschalers said I can only sell it
when I have owned it for a year and a day.’

‘What a curious stipulation,’ said Bartholomew. He knew
Quenhyth would follow the instruction to the letter, and suspected Deschalers knew it, too. Perhaps Deschalers was trying
to inconvenience the lad by bequeathing him such an unwieldy object, and it was his idea of repaying him for being so annoyingly
meticulous. It would be just like the laconic grocer to devise such a plan.

‘You did not tell me you were Deschalers’s scribe,’ said Bartholomew, somewhat accusingly. The student should have mentioned
it sooner, since they had been investigating the grocer’s murder.

Quenhyth shrugged. ‘I was not. Not really. I saw him once a week – if that – for the occasional bit of writing. I offered
to do more, but he preferred to keep most of his business in his head.’

‘Did you write his will?’ asked Bartholomew.

Quenhyth nodded, then gave a rueful grin. ‘It was one of the briefest I have ever seen: the chest for me and everything else
to his niece.’

‘Did he make another at any point? Or talk about doing so?’

‘Not with me. There was an older will from years ago, in which he left a house on Bridge Street to his apprentices. But, he
always said they were lazy, and I am not surprised he changed his mind.’

‘When did he make the new will?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘How recently?’

‘A month or so ago,’ replied Quenhyth. ‘Julianna will show it to you, if you ask her. You will see it is beautifully crafted.
I have the best handwriting in Michaelhouse – Wynewyk says so.’

‘What did you make of the death of that whore?’ asked Redmeadow conversationally, bored with Quenhyth’s boasting; his own
writing was far from tidy. ‘She was hale and hearty one moment, and dead the next. Quenhyth and I could do nothing to rouse
her once she had fallen down.’

‘And we tried,’ said Quenhyth, keen as always to secure Bartholomew’s favourable opinion. ‘I know you felt sorry for her,
so we did our best to revive her.’

‘She was not a whore,’ said Bartholomew to Redmeadow sharply.

‘Frail Sister, then,’ said Redmeadow impatiently, obviously considering that there was not much in a name, and a whore was
a whore at the end of the day. ‘But what did you think? She was fit in body, even if her wits were mashed, and it was odd
to see her die so abruptly.’

‘You two can attend her requiem mass,’ said Bartholomew, knowing they would find it a chore, but thinking it was about time
they both learned to be more tolerant. He did not like Redmeadow’s salacious interest in Bess’s death and was not sure that
he wanted to answer the lad’s questions. ‘She was a patient, and we owe her that respect.’

‘But I do not want to go,’ objected Quenhyth. ‘I have my studies to think of.’

‘Too bad,’ said Bartholomew. ‘This is part of your training.’

‘No,’ said Quenhyth firmly. ‘I do not like requiem masses. They upset me.’

‘Even more reason to go to this one, then,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘You did not know Bess well, so her passing will not be overly
distressing to you. It will inure you to the many such occasions you will attend in the future, if you become a physician.’

‘But I do not intend to lose as many patients as you do,’ said Quenhyth, somewhat rudely. ‘I intend to be good.’ He glowered
as Redmeadow released a sharp giggle of embarrassment.

‘Then perhaps this will be your last,’ said Bartholomew, unmoved. ‘But you will both be there.’

‘Very well,’ conceded Quenhyth reluctantly. ‘I shall see what I can do.’

‘Me, too,’ added Redmeadow with a long-suffering sigh. ‘Especially if you can explain to us why she died so suddenly.’

‘Poison,’ said Bartholomew bluntly, deciding to give Redmeadow his answers, since he was so intent on having them. He saw
the shocked expression on their faces. ‘I suspect someone added henbane to the Water of Snails she swallowed.’

‘Why would she take Water of Snails?’ asked Redmeadow. ‘Did someone give it to her? Or did she buy it herself? I suppose you
can ask Lavenham, but what apothecary would admit to selling a potion that had killed a customer? It would be devastating
for his business.’

‘Or he might just lie,’ said Quenhyth.

Bartholomew thought his students right to be suspicious of any answers given by Lavenham, and knew he would be wise to regard
anything the apothecary or his wife said with a healthy scepticism.

Michael banged his hand on the windowsill in Bartholomew’s room to vent his frustration later that morning. ‘We can arrest
no one for these murders, because we have no solid evidence, and I do not know what to do next. I went to visit Bernarde at
the King’s Mill earlier, but it was closed.’

‘Closed?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘During the day, when they have grain from King’s Hall to grind?’ He frowned thoughtfully. ‘There
is a connection for you, Brother. Just when business was looking bad for the Millers’ Society – with the Mortimers diverting
water and bodies in the millstones – they secure a lucrative contract from no less a place than King’s Hall.’

‘And King’s Hall boasts the patronage of the King. And the King enjoys a share in the profits from the King’s Mill. It is
all rather incestuous, is it not?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘I cannot help but wonder how far your grandmother is involved. She has an eye for the King’s interests,
and I would not put it past her to tell the Warden of King’s Hall to send grain to Bernarde in his time of need.’

‘My grandmother would not demean herself by meddling with matters so far beneath her,’ said Michael loftily. ‘But I have the
feeling her investigation is proceeding a lot faster than ours, and I do not want her to think I am an incompetent in my own
domain. However, I can tell you that Bernarde has closed his mill because he is at a meeting of the King’s Commissioners in
Lavenham’s shop. We should pay them a visit, to see what transpired at this momentous event.’

He threw Bartholomew his cloak and set off. On their way they saw Stanmore, who was standing outside Trinity Hall with Cheney
and Mayor Morice. Their voices were lowered and they were evidently talking about matters they considered of some importance,
if the solemn, intense expressions on their faces were anything to go by. Morice was uneasy, and kept glancing this way and
that, as though anticipating some kind of attack. Bartholomew wondered whether he had cheated anyone recently and was afraid
of their revenge.

He was about to walk past them when he glimpsed a black tabard out of the corner of his eye, and saw Wynewyk ducking down
Water Lane. It looked as if he had been travelling along Milne Street to return to Michaelhouse, but had decided to take a
diversion in order to avoid his colleagues. There was a flash of blue, too, and Bartholomew recognised the distinct colouring
of a cloak from King’s Hall. He did not need to see its owner to know it belonged to Paxtone, and that the physician was as
keen as Wynewyk not to be seen.

‘Matt,’ called Stanmore, when he spotted Bartholomew.
The physician noticed that his brother-in-law was still taking no chances with his safety, and the tough-looking mercenaries
loitered nearby, armed to the teeth. ‘We were talking about the Mortimers – trying to devise a plan to have Edward banished
from Cambridge. It is all very well for the King to pardon him, but His Majesty does not have to live with his bad behaviour
day in and day out.’

‘But that would still leave us with Thorpe,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And he was once your apprentice and a far greater danger to
you than Edward.’

‘But
Edward
is damaging the town’s commercial activities,’ growled Cheney. ‘He has already destroyed Deschalers’s business, and he has
only been in charge a few days! The fall of that empire affects us all – the sale of spices, flour
and
cloth, not to mention our investments and speculations. The whole affair is vexing, and I have been obliged to take two doses
of strong medicine to calm my aching head.’

‘And me,’ said Morice, keen for everyone to know that the Mayor was also distressed about the town’s disintegrating financial
situation. ‘My back always smarts when I am upset.’ He put both hands to his waist and flexed himself, wincing dramatically
to illustrate the pain.

‘Most of us are more concerned that he might kill someone,’ said Bartholomew dryly.

‘He took so much water for fulling yesterday that Bernarde was forced to operate at half speed
all day
, and Ovyng Hostel took their grain elsewhere,’ said Morice, ignoring him. ‘This cannot continue.’

‘We must ensure he does not intimidate the Commissioners,’ added Cheney. ‘He has already hired Rougham to murder Warde, and
we do not want Lavenham and Bernarde to feel vulnerable.’

‘Or Master Thorpe,’ said Michael, noting they were only concerned with the safety of the men who would further
their own interests, not with the one who was neutral. ‘But this is a serious allegation – that Edward hired Rougham to kill
Warde. Do you have evidence?’ He did not sound hopeful.

Cheney made an impatient gesture. ‘Why do you need evidence when you have common sense? You scholars are all the same, unwilling
to recognise the guilty without a mountain of proof. That is why none of you will ever succeed in the world of commerce.’

‘They are meeting now,’ said Morice, jerking his head towards Lavenham’s shop. ‘The three surviving Commissioners. They are
going to discuss what can be done to confound Mortimer and his evil ways. We are waiting to see what they have decided.’

‘Lavenham closed his shop for the occasion,’ added Cheney. ‘And Bernarde shut down his mill. So you can see how seriously
they
are taking this matter. No trader wants to inconvenience his customers, which is exactly what happens when you cease trading
for an hour without prior warning.’

‘I want words with Bernarde,’ said Michael. ‘I intend to find out why Bess died after he availed himself of her services.
Also, she had a phial in her possession similar to the one we found in
his
mill after the deaths of Deschalers and Bottisham.’

The merchants gazed at him in surprise. ‘I do not think Bernarde is your killer, Brother,’ said Stanmore eventually. ‘He is
a miller.’

‘What does that have to do with anything?’ asked Michael, bemused. ‘He had good reason for wanting Bottisham dead: Bottisham
was about to represent his rival in a court of law.’