The Hand of Justice

CHAPTER 5

The following morning, Bartholomew visited the small house on Shoemaker Row, near the Market Square, where Lenne’s widow lived. Michael went with him, on the understanding that the physician would then accompany him to interview the Fellows at Gonville Hall.

The Market Square was noisy and colourful that day. Apprentices were everywhere, carrying goods in barrels, sacks, crates and buckets, clad in liveries to advertise their masters’ businesses. Customers weaved among them – haughty retainers from wealthy households, friars and monks from religious houses and the University, and wide-eyed peasants from the surrounding villages. The air rang with sound, and Bartholomew and Michael had to shout to make themselves heard above the yelling of traders, the clatter of hoofs, the squealing of pigs headed for Butchery Row, and the furious barking of a dog. The acid stench of old urine from the tanneries and the rank, sickening aroma of decaying offal from the slaughterhouses was especially pungent that morning, making Bartholomew’s eyes water so that he could barely see where he was walking.

Shoemaker Row was a narrow, congested lane that was inhabited mostly, but not exclusively, by cobblers. Its largest building was Ely Hall, rented by a contingent of Benedictine monks from nearby Ely Abbey, while the Lenne home was one of the smallest, comprising a single ground-floor room with a lean-to kitchen at the back.

The red ribbon that had fluttered outside the house, to tell passers-by the nature of Lenne’s profession, had been taken down, probably by other barbers keen to secure his customers for themselves. When a feeble voice answered Bartholomew’s tap, he pushed open the door and entered, squinting against the sudden sting of smoke and waiting for his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. Mistress Lenne lay on a pallet, dangerously close to the fire.

‘I keep expecting him to come home,’ she whispered as Bartholomew crouched next to her. Michael busied himself by taking a broom handle to the flue in the roof, in an attempt to clear some of the choking pall that rose from the peat faggots in the hearth. ‘I think I hear him chatting outside with his customers, and that he will come in to tell me the gossip.’ Her eyes filled with tears.

‘How is your chest?’ asked Bartholomew, not knowing what to say, so taking refuge in practical matters. ‘Does it still ache when you breathe?’

‘They say he was drunk when he murdered my husband. Thomas Mortimer, I mean. Is it true, Doctor? Did he ride him down as though he was a dog, and then laugh at the damage he had done?’

‘He did not laugh,’ replied Bartholomew truthfully.

‘But he did not cry, either,’ she said bitterly. ‘He just lied to protect himself. Sheriff Tulyet tells me that he cannot charge him with my husband’s murder, because Bosel is dead. Mortimer has not even said he is sorry.’

She turned away, tears leaving silvery trails in the soot that dusted her cheeks. Bartholomew took her hand and held it while she sobbed. When she quietened, he helped her to sit up and drink a syrup of angelica he had prepared the previous evening, which he thought would soothe the racking cough that left her gasping for breath. Then he eased her under the covers again, and sat with her while Michael sang soft, haunting ballads. Eventually, she dozed.

Michael was silent when they left, closing the door gently, so it would not wake her. Bartholomew took a deep breath, wondering whether he would ever become inured to some aspects of life as a physician. He glanced around, in the hope that one of his students might be nearby, because he wanted someone to be with her when she woke again. He was in luck: Quenhyth was tugging insistently at the sleeve of Cheney the spicer, while informing him that his handwriting was the best in Michaelhouse, and that his rates for writing trade agreements were very low. Quenhyth was usually to be found at his studies, and Bartholomew had seldom seen him doing anything else. He listened with interest to the conversation that followed.

‘I do not need another clerk,’ snapped Cheney. ‘I already have Redmeadow.’

‘But he steals,’ said Quenhyth. ‘So, if you notice items missing, and you require a clerk whose honesty is beyond question, you will know where to come. To me.’

‘All the University’s scribes steal,’ said Cheney matter-of-factly. ‘It is a grim reality – and the reason why no sensible merchant ever leaves one unattended in his home or near anything valuable.’

‘Oh,’ said Quenhyth, deflated. ‘Well, I am no thief, I promise you, Master Cheney. My father is a wealthy merchant, just like you, and he taught me right from wrong.’

‘If he is wealthy, then why are you scribing for pennies?’ asked Cheney, not unreasonably.

‘He pays my fees and board,’ explained Quenhyth. ‘But the food has recently become inedible at Michaelhouse, and we are all obliged to buy victuals from elsewhere. That requires money.’

‘True,’ muttered Michael, watching the spicer waddle down the street, leaving a disconsolate Quenhyth behind him. ‘Buying supplies to supplement what Michaelhouse provides has become a necessity of late. We have friends who give us meals – do not look startled, Matt. You have dined out at least four times recently – but Quenhyth has not, and must win his victuals by scribing instead.’

‘Have you spoken to Wynewyk about this?’ asked Bartholomew, hoping Quenhyth did not decide to practise medicine for money if he could not secure work by writing.

‘He says food prices are increasing – they always do at the end of winter – so we must economise.’ Michael was disgusted. ‘The words “economise” and “food” should never be used in the same sentence. They are anathema to each other, like “small” and “portion”.’

Bartholomew waved to catch Quenhyth’s attention, and told the student he wanted him or Redmeadow to visit Mistress Lenne three times a day until her son arrived from Thetford. Quenhyth nodded, eager to accept the responsibility. He took parchment and a pen from his scrip and wrote down his teacher’s instructions, doing so flamboyantly, in the hope that his literary skills might attract customers.

‘None of this is fair,’ said Michael bitterly, when Quenhyth had gone. The visit to Mistress Lenne had distressed the monk. ‘Look what Thomas Mortimer has done! He killed two people with his careless driving, because that old woman will not last long now her husband is gone. He was lucky Isnard is built like an ox, or there might have been three.’

‘Isnard is recovering well,’ said Bartholomew, wanting to say something to cheer him. ‘He is pestering Robert de Blaston to finish carving his new false leg. When he has mastered its use – which he anticipates will only be a matter of an hour or two – he plans to visit Mortimer.’

‘Then thank God wooden legs take time to make,’ said Michael fervently. ‘Isnard has a black temper, and Mortimer is likely to enrage him with his uncaring attitude. But we should visit Gonville before any more time passes. We must resolve this business with Bottisham and Deschalers, and–’

‘There he is,’ interrupted Bartholomew, pointing to where Thomas Mortimer lurched through the market stalls with various packets and parcels in his arms. One fell, and an urchin had scampered forward and stolen it before his wine-addled brain had even registered that it had dropped. ‘He is drunk again, and it is barely past dawn.’

Michael’s expression turned into something dangerous. ‘His brother Constantine is with him. Shall we ask them why they have inflicted such suffering on our town with the careless driving of carts and the buying of pardons for killers?’

‘I do not think that is a good idea, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, thinking it was likely to instigate a brawl. Many scholars were indignant about what had happened to a member of a University choir, and might well grab the opportunity to mete out justice with their fists. Meanwhile, the Mortimer clan employed a large number of apprentices, all of whom would fight to protect their masters’ good name.

But Michael was not listening. He strode up to the Mortimer brothers and beamed falsely at them. Bartholomew’s heart sank, and he saw he should not have taken the soft-hearted monk to visit Mistress Lenne. While Michael liked to give the impression that he was cool and dispassionate, few things enraged him as much as injustice and suffering among the poor. Bartholomew sensed the ensuing confrontation was going to be an unpleasant one.

‘Good morning,’ said Michael, addressing the reeling miller. Thomas Mortimer promptly lost the rest of his parcels and looked down at them with a bemused expression, trying to work out what had gone wrong. ‘Surely it is too early for wine? I have only just had breakfast.’

‘That is from last night,’ said Constantine, snapping his fingers at an apprentice, ordering him to retrieve the fallen items. ‘Thomas has had no wine this morning.’

Constantine the baker was a fighting cock of a man, who had once been notorious for his vicious temper and bullying manners – a smaller version of his brother Thomas. But his son’s exile and the death of his wife Katherine had affected him deeply, and rendered him milder and sadder. He was still loyally devoted to his numerous cousins, aunts and nephews, but he was not quite as pugilistic as he had once been.

‘That makes it all right, then,’ said Michael caustically. ‘It is perfectly natural for a man to imbibe so much wine that he is still drunk after a night in his bed. Still, at least he has the sense not to do his shopping in a cart.’

‘Lenne was an accident,’ said Constantine wearily, as though tired of repeating himself. ‘Everyone makes it sound as though Thomas did it on purpose. He cannot help it if careless peasants stray across the streets without warning.’

‘And if people do not shut up about it, then the town can look elsewhere for money to repair the Great Bridge,’ slurred Mortimer nastily. ‘I am not giving good silver to help a gaggle of ingrates!’

Bartholomew saw that a number of Mortimer apprentices, all wearing distinctive mustard-yellow livery, were gathering. He tugged on Michael’s arm, to pull him away. He disliked brawling and, although he was angry enough with Thomas and he would enjoy punching the man, he had no intention of being drawn into a fight in which he was so heavily outnumbered. Michael shook him off.

‘Did you see this “accident” yourself?’ the monk asked archly. Constantine shook his head. ‘Then how do you know what happened? Thomas certainly did not, and he was driving!’

‘We have business at Gonville, Brother,’ Bartholomew whispered urgently, trying again to pull the monk away. ‘We need to exonerate Bottisham from these accusations before there is trouble.’

‘Then tell me why you arranged for Edward to be pardoned,’ ordered Michael, when neither Mortimer responded to his question. He freed his arm firmly enough to make Bartholomew stagger. ‘Why did you want him back, after all he did?’

Constantine flushed and looked down at his feet. ‘Partly because my son’s conviction was a slur on the Mortimer name. And partly because it was my fault that he turned to evil ways – I drove him to crime with my temper. I thought I could make amends by bringing him home.’

‘And that has not happened?’ asked Michael. He grimaced in disgust when Thomas toppled backwards and would have fallen, if his apprentices had not darted forward and caught him.

Constantine shook his head. ‘Edward refuses to live with me. Nor will he resume his baker’s training. His mother would not have been pleased.’

‘She is here, you know,’ said Thomas, his arrogance suddenly replaced by fear. ‘I saw Katherine near the Great Bridge, and she looked at me. She is back from her grave to haunt us. I had to visit the Hand of Valence Marie, and pay a shilling to ask for its protection from her troubled spirit.’

‘He saw Bess,’ explained Constantine, when he saw Michael assume it was the wine speaking. ‘That madwoman who is here to look for her husband. She gave me a turn when I first saw her, too. The likeness between her and my wife is uncanny – even Deschalers commented on it, and he never spoke to me about Katherine. He was always too ashamed for making me a cuckold.’

‘Did Katherine have a younger sister?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking that Deschalers had not been the kind of man to feel shame for enjoying himself with another man’s wife. It seemed more likely that the grocer had never mentioned Katherine because the memory had been too painful for him.

‘Katherine was an only child,’ replied Constantine. ‘She hailed from the Fens, whereas Bess comes from London. Their similarity is coincidence, nothing more. They are not related.’

‘Edward will become a miller, like me,’ rambled Thomas; he had already forgotten the scare ‘Katherine’ had given him. He cast a triumphant look in his brother’s direction, so Bartholomew surmised it was a source of discord between them. ‘And together we shall siphon water away from the King’s Mill until it is dry.’

‘Why would you do that?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘There is enough to run both.’

‘There was enough for both, when Thomas was grinding corn,’ explained Constantine. ‘But fulling needs far more water.’

‘So the Millers’ Society can go and hang themselves,’ declared Thomas thickly, trying to fix the physician in his sights. He blinked hard and stood swaying, while his apprentices tensed, ready to catch him again. ‘The scholars of Gonville Hall will see them off. Lawyers are cunning and scholars are cunning. So a scholar-lawyer will be very cunning.’

‘Is that why you hired Gonville?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘Because you think them more sly than the town lawyers?’

‘Well, it is true,’ said Constantine. ‘We cannot lose this case, because the forfeits would be fierce – loss of our mill, heavy fines, legal costs. It does not bear thinking about.’

‘Do you know why one of your Gonville lawyers – Bottisham – should have been with Deschalers at the King’s Mill on Sunday night?’ asked Michael, seizing the opportunity to advance his investigation a little. ‘You heard what happened?’

‘Stabbed, then thrown on to the millstones,’ said Constantine. He shuddered. ‘I have seen mills working, and that would not be a pleasant way to die. But if Bottisham was meeting Deschalers on our behalf, then he said nothing of his plans to us. You must ask Bernarde and his cronies about it. After all, it was in their mill that this tragedy occurred.’

‘What are we going to do about Edward?’ asked Bartholomew when he saw the Mortimers knew – or would reveal – nothing about Bottisham’s death. ‘Even you have no control over your son, and the whole town is waiting for him to do something terrible. We must act before someone is hurt.’

‘But I do not know what to do!’ cried Constantine. His sudden wail startled physician, monk and miller alike. ‘God forgive me! I thought I was doing the right thing when I bought their pardons – Edward asked me to help Thorpe, too, because his father had disowned him. But I did not know how much they had both changed.’

‘He is no longer the malleable boy you knew?’ asked Michael.

‘He is not, and I do not like what he has become. He unnerves me with his vengeful glowers and spiteful comments. If I could go to the King and tell him I had made a mistake, I would. But Edward said he would kill me if I did that.’

‘Did he now?’ asked Michael thoughtfully, wondering whether threats of murder might be sufficient to see the pardons withdrawn.

‘More than once.’ Constantine lowered his voice so his brother would not hear, although Thomas was leaning so heavily against a staggering apprentice that Bartholomew thought he might have passed out. ‘The combination of Thomas’s drinking and Edward’s resentful fury is not a good one. I am afraid: for me, for my bakery, for my brother and for his mill. I shall have to go to the Hand of Valence Marie, and pray for its help.’

‘I doubt that will do any good,’ said Michael bluntly. ‘The best way to ensure no one is hurt is to prevent trouble in the first place. Do you have any idea what Edward and Thorpe might be plotting? If you do, then we may be able to thwart it, and we can rectify this miscarriage of justice that you have brought about.’

‘The Hand will answer our prayers,’ slurred Thomas, struggling over his words as though his tongue belonged to someone else. ‘Young Hufford of Honville Gall has been praying for days for a cure. And he has one.’

‘A cure for what?’ asked Bartholomew warily. He hoped rumours were not about to circulate that the Hand had healing powers, because then the spread of the cult would be unstoppable.

‘For a sore on his mouth,’ explained Constantine.

‘Oh, that,’ said Bartholomew, relieved. ‘It healed naturally – the Hand had nothing to do with it.’

‘Never mind this,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘What about Edward’s plans?’

‘Edward barely speaks to me,’ said Constantine bitterly. ‘And he is destroying our family by making us take sides against each other – brother against brother, cousin against cousin. We were solidly loyal before he arrived, but now we argue all the time. We will lose all our power and influence in the town if we allow our clan to fragment – and then where will we be?’

‘Where indeed?’ mused Michael thoughtfully.

Once Constantine had struggled away with his reeling brother, Bartholomew and Michael fought their way through the Market Square towards Gonville Hall. But Bartholomew found himself reluctant to go, unaccountably afraid he might learn something that would disappoint or shock him about the scholar he had so liked and admired. It would not be the first time an investigation had revealed a seemingly good man to be something rather different, and he realised his work for Michael had turned him from someone naturally trusting to someone uneasy and suspicious. He walked slowly, aware that Michael was matching his reduced pace and was probably assailed with the same concerns.

‘You must be pleased to see your grandmother,’ he said, yawning. He wished he had spent less of the previous night reminiscing with the old lady, and more in his own bed. ‘Were you expecting her?’

Michael smiled fondly. ‘No, but I am not surprised she is here. She played an important role in convicting Edward Mortimer and Thorpe, and she is not a woman who likes loose ends. She came to see for herself what was happening.’

‘It is a pity she did not prevent the pardons from being issued in the first place. From what I hear, the King listens to her and never does anything she believes to be imprudent or wrong.’

‘Unfortunately, she was in Avignon when the matter went to the King’s Bench clerks. She only heard about it when it was too late to do anything. She was not pleased, I can tell you!’

Bartholomew could well imagine, and was wryly amused with himself for feeling safer now the old lady was there. Dame Pelagia was elderly and slight, but her deceptively frail figure concealed a core of steel, a raw and ruthless cunning, and a rather shocking talent for throwing knives. Bartholomew had come to understand Michael’s fondness for intrigue and deception far better once he had met his formidable forebear. He stopped to fiddle with a strap on his boot, knowing it was a deliberate ploy to delay what he was certain was going to be an unpleasant interview at Gonville.

‘What was she doing in Avignon?’ he asked. He had been under the impression that she had retired from her long and distinguished service as the King’s best agent. Then it occurred to him that Bishop Bateman had been poisoned in Avignon.

‘She has always liked France,’ replied Michael, airily vague. ‘And she has spent a good deal of time there in the past. She told me she had a desire to see it again.’

Bartholomew did not respond immediately. England had been at war with France for the past twenty years, and he suspected her sojourns there had been spent implementing plots and intrigues – all designed to harm France and benefit England. He wondered whether the conflict might have ended a good deal sooner, had the likes of Dame Pelagia not been on hand to stir it up.

‘So, who killed Bishop Bateman?’ He glanced up at Michael. ‘It was not her, was it?’

Michael regarded him with astonishment. ‘Of course not! If she had killed anyone, it would have been the French ambassador, who was refusing to listen to Bateman’s terms for peace.’

‘But Bateman was not a successful diplomatist,’ said Bartholomew. He stood up and started walking again. ‘Perhaps the King wanted rid of him, without the inconvenience of saying why.’

‘Well, if he did, my grandmother did not oblige him,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘She does not murder well-regarded prelates.’

The tone of his voice suggested she might well dispatch a couple of unpopular ones, though, and Bartholomew supposed the haughty and irascible Bishop of Ely had better watch himself if Dame Pelagia was back in the country.

‘Here is Gonville,’ said Bartholomew, deciding to end the discussion before it ranged too far into uncharted waters. ‘We should not discuss the murder of their founder when they might overhear us.’

‘Especially if you accuse my grandmother of doing it,’ said Michael huffily.

‘Are you not concerned for her?’ asked Bartholomew, knocking at Gonville’s gate. He did so tentatively, and his soft tap was unlikely to be heard by any but the most sharp-eared of gatekeepers. ‘Thorpe and Mortimer seem to blame her for their exile, and I am worried about the fact that she has chosen to stay with Matilde. If they attack Dame Pelagia, then Matilde may be hurt.’

‘She only intends to impose herself on Matilde for one night,’ said Michael. ‘She has other arrangements for the rest of her stay here.’

‘Where?’ asked Bartholomew. He regarded the monk uneasily. ‘Not at Michaelhouse?’

Michael snorted his laughter. ‘Of course not! How could she stay in a College that only admits men? I know her disguises are legendary, and she could pass herself off as a travelling academic, if she was so inclined. But she is almost eighty years old, and she yearns for a little comfort in her old age. She will stay with Mayor Morice.’

Bartholomew was unable to prevent himself from gaping. ‘With Morice? But why?’

‘Because he has the best house in Cambridge, why else? His corruption has made him a rich man, and he can offer a high level of accommodation that is unavailable elsewhere. Deschalers would have been her first choice – he was wealthier still – but she can hardly claim his hospitality now he is dead.’

‘Does Morice know who she is?’

‘He knows she has the ear of the King, and that is enough for him to welcome her. Morice has many enemies – folk he has cheated and deceived over the years – so his house is sturdily built and protected like a fortress. It is a very safe place for her to be.’

Bartholomew did not know what to think. Perhaps news of Morice’s brazen dishonesty had reached royal ears, and Dame Pelagia had another, more sinister, reason for demanding the Mayor’s hospitality. It also occurred to him that it had been Morice’s letter to the King’s Bench that had tipped the appeal in Mortimer and Thorpe’s favour, and had gone a long way towards getting them their royal pardons. He wondered whether Morice would survive the visit, or whether he would die in some mysterious accident before his enigmatic guest finally took her leave of the town.

Michael hammered on the sturdy oaken gate, seeing no one was going to reply to the physician’s polite raps. They exchanged an unhappy glance while they waited, neither looking forward to the task of prising personal secrets from Bottisham’s friends.

Gonville Hall comprised two stone mansions linked by a central gatehouse. The upper floor of the smaller house held the College library, which Bartholomew coveted – Michaelhouse’s ‘library’ comprised a couple of shelves in the conclave and hall. Gonville’s books were housed in a handsome room that boasted polished wooden floors and a hearth where there was nearly always a fire. The chamber was usually peaceful, since teaching was conducted in the hall below, and Bartholomew imagined it would be an excellent place to study, away from distractions.

Adjacent to the library were the foundations for the new chapel. Bartholomew could see them through gaps in the wood of the gate. It was to be a substantial structure, and he wondered how it would be funded now that Bishop Bateman was dead.

Michael pounded on the gate yet again, claiming no College had the right to keep the Senior Proctor waiting. There was a grille set in the door, and Bartholomew saw it open very slowly, as if the person peering out did not want the visitors to know they were being examined. It did not escape Michael’s attention, however.

‘Let me in,’ he ordered, thrusting his large face close to the opening. ‘I have come to talk to you about Bottisham.’

‘Brother Michael,’ said the watcher with relief, and there were loud clicks as a key was turned in a lock. ‘I am sorry. But one cannot be too careful these days – what with pardoned exiles strutting around freely.’

‘You are wise to be cautious,’ said Michael, easing himself through the gate. Bartholomew followed, and watched while the scholar secured it again. ‘I heard what happened to you.’

The scholar on gate duty that day was John of Ufford. Bartholomew recalled Redmeadow telling him that Mortimer and Thorpe had picked a fight with Ufford, and folk had been surprised when he was trounced. Ufford was the son of an earl, and therefore trained in the arts of swordplay, battle tactics and horsemanship. The fact that the two exiles had beaten him said a good deal for the skills they had learned in France. Ufford had a cut on his nose, and was limping. The sore on his mouth had all but healed, though, and Bartholomew supposed he had taken his advice about its care when they had met before the Disputatio de quodlibet.

‘I was not even doing anything,’ said Ufford indignantly. ‘I was outside St Mary the Great, thanking the Hand for not letting me contract leprosy, when they started to pick on me. I drew my dagger, thinking the sight of it would see them off, but they pulled out their own and I was defeated.’ He shook his head, as if he could not imagine how such a thing had happened.

‘Then you must have been dismayed when you learned Thorpe had inveigled himself a home in your own College,’ said Michael.

Ufford grimaced. ‘I was not dismayed – I was furious! But, fortunately for all concerned, Thorpe is rarely here. I think he just wanted to prove to his father that he could secure his own place in the University. It is common knowledge that Valence Marie refused to accept him.’

‘Where is your Master?’ asked Michael, looking around at a College that appeared to be deserted. ‘We need to ask him questions about Bottisham, and I was told all the Fellows would be here today.’

‘Master Colton is – was – with Bishop Bateman at Avignon,’ replied Ufford. ‘He has been the Bishop’s chief clerk for some years now. Their relationship is rather like the one you enjoy with the Bishop of Ely, Brother – except that Colton does not spy for Bateman, and you probably do not want to be your bishop’s replacement.’

Michael stared at him, amusement glinting in the depths of the green eyes that were so uncannily like his grandmother’s. ‘You speak very plainly, Ufford! However, I assure you that I do not spy for the Bishop of Ely, nor would I refuse his see, should it ever be offered to me. But I had forgotten Colton is away. How do you manage without him?’

‘We are used to his absences, and the College is run very ably by Acting Master Pulham.’

‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘It must have been a bitter blow for you to learn of Bateman’s death.’

‘Very bitter,’ agreed Ufford. ‘He was a good man, and generous to us. But you are in luck, Brother. Here are my colleagues now, back from their devotions at St Mary the Great.’

Bartholomew watched Ufford open the gate a second time, to allow the scholars of Gonville Hall inside. They were a neat, sober group, older than those at most other Colleges and hostels, because they had been selected by Bishop Bateman himself – and Bateman had a preference for established scholars over young students. His reasons were understandable: older men were less inclined to join in the frequent brawls that marred the town, and so were less likely to bring his institution into disrepute.

Bartholomew recognised all the Fellows at the head of the procession, and a few of the students behind. Leading the way was Acting Master Pulham with his Cistercian habit and colossal ears, while Rougham the physician was close on his heels. Next came a gentle friar called Henry of Thompson, who hailed from a famous college of priests in south Norfolk. Finally, there was a nobleman named Henry Despenser, who was said to be destined for great things in the Church.

‘Brother Michael,’ said Pulham genially. ‘I am sorry we were not available to see you yesterday. Come to our library for a cup of warmed ale. And while we are there, you might care to inspect a tome or two. We sold Bacon’s De erroribus medicorum to the Chancellor yesterday, and you might be interested in other items we have for sale.’ He sounded hopeful.

‘You are selling your books?’ asked Bartholomew, who would rather have starved than part with one of his own. He thought about the large and extravagant meals for which Gonville was famous, and wondered why they did not economise on food instead. ‘Why?’

‘Just the few we do not use,’ replied Pulham. ‘To raise funds for our chapel.’

‘We will soon have the books from Bateman’s private library,’ said Rougham boastfully. ‘He is certain to have remembered us in his will. So, we are ridding ourselves of rubbish we would never consider using anyway – like the Bacon, and the Trotula scroll I sold to that whore.’ He glanced at Bartholomew out of the corner of his eye, so the physician was sure his words were intentionally insulting on two fronts: Bartholomew’s fondness for unorthodox medicine and for Matilde.

He rose to the bait, ignoring Michael’s warning elbow in the ribs. Some discourtesies were simply too grave to be ignored. ‘No gentleman slanders a lady’s good name,’ he said coldly. ‘Your slur reflects more poorly on you than it does on her.’

Rougham glowered. ‘Are you questioning my breeding, sir?’ he demanded archly.

‘If your breeding is reflected in your manners, then I am,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘It is–’

‘Warm ale, did you say?’ interrupted Michael, in an attempt to prevent a quarrel. He wanted the Gonville Fellows’ co-operation in the matter of Bottisham’s death. ‘In the library?’

‘This way,’ said Pulham hastily, indicating the direction with his hand. But Rougham was not to be silenced.

‘Trotula is foreign rubbish,’ he said, following the Acting Master across the yard, although he had the sense to let the matter lie regarding Matilde. ‘I only ever use Latin or Greek texts in my classes.’

‘They are foreign,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

‘Ancient Greece was very different to the Greece of today,’ said Rougham haughtily. ‘And Trotula was from Salerno.’ The tone of his voice made it sound akin to Sodom or Gomorrah. ‘Her medical knowledge was confined to adultery and poisoning. Just like the Arabs, in fact.’

Bartholomew gazed at him, somewhat startled. Rougham knew Bartholomew’s own teacher had been an Arab – many of the ‘unorthodox’ treatments he had learned from Ibn Ibrahim had actually been known in the eastern world for centuries – and so his comments were clearly intended to be offensive. The expression on Rougham’s face was challenging, but Bartholomew quickly suppressed the raft of tart responses that flooded into his mind, and decided to ignore the man. He assumed Rougham was just in a bad mood, and his inflammatory statements were not worth arguing over – especially if to do so would interfere with the investigation into Bottisham’s death.

They entered the library, and sat on the benches that had been placed around the walls. A fire was burning in the hearth, and the room smelled of peat smoke, polished wood and ancient parchment. It was an agreeable aroma, and one that reminded Bartholomew of his Oxford days, when he had studied long hours in the library at Merton. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine himself back there, unplagued by worries like purchasing medicines for impoverished patients, bitter rival physicians, and the violent deaths of colleagues. It was peaceful; the only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the occasional rustle of a page turning.

Pulham fussed over jugs and goblets, then presented his guests with cups so full he was obliged to carry each in both hands, gnawing at his lower lip as he concentrated on not spilling any.

‘As you have probably surmised, we are here to talk about Bottisham,’ said Michael, when he had drained his goblet dry to prevent accidents. He did not approve of liquids near books. ‘We are deeply sorry about what happened to him. He was a kindly man, and he will be missed.’

‘Kindly?’ asked Rougham icily. ‘How do you know what he was like?’

Bartholomew wished the man would go away, since he was not prepared to be polite. ‘He gave me a gold noble to buy medicine for Godric of Ovyng Hostel a few weeks ago. Godric was bitten by a dog and the wound festered, but Ovyng did not have the money for salves. Bottisham has been helping Isnard and Mistress Lenne, too.’

Rougham stared at him angrily. ‘I did not know any of this. Why was I not called to attend this Godric? And why did Bottisham dispense funds to help men from other hostels, when we have a chapel to build?’

Bartholomew saw he should have remained quiet about Bottisham’s quiet generosity. Most men would have been impressed to learn that someone they knew had acted in an anonymously charitable manner, but Rougham seemed intent on being antagonistic that morning. Bartholomew decided it would be better for everyone if he did not dignify the man’s curt questions with a reply.

‘Bottisham was a good man,’ said Pulham. He smiled at Rougham in an attempt to placate him. ‘Perhaps he left us something in his will. Then we can rid ourselves of young Thorpe.’

‘You should not have accepted Thorpe as a student,’ said Michael. The monk had changed the subject, reluctant to begin an interrogation in which he would demand to know whether Bottisham had been involved in something sinister that had led to his odd death in the King’s Mill. ‘His presence in your College will only end in tears.’

‘He was persistent,’ explained Pulham. ‘He was determined to become a scholar, so I thought we may as well take his fees, since we are currently short of funds. He offered to sew us an altar cloth and chasuble if we took him. Besides, he does not want to live here, just to study occasionally.’

‘You will find yourselves the losers,’ warned Michael.

‘I certainly did,’ muttered Ufford, touching the cut on his nose.

‘Did you make an official complaint about this attack on you?’ asked Michael. ‘To the Sheriff or one of my beadles?’

Ufford pulled a disagreeable face. ‘There was no point. I am a lawyer, and I know any King’s Pardon is absolute. Complaints about Thorpe or Edward will just be seen as sour grapes. They are untouchable. Look what else they did to me.’

He pulled up his tabard to reveal a knee that was bruised and swollen. Bartholomew winced, knowing such an injury would make walking painful.

‘They stamped on it, when I was down,’ said Ufford, the indignation in his voice making it clear what he thought of their ungentlemanly conduct.

‘You did not tell me why they picked on you,’ said Michael. ‘Did you say something to antagonise them? They are spoiling for a fight, so it would not be difficult to do.’

‘I was praying to the Hand,’ said Ufford resentfully. ‘They had no right to resort to violence. I gave them no cause to do so – ask anyone. Several Michaelhouse students saw what happened. They will tell you I was an innocent victim of a gratuitous attack.’

Michael was disapproving. ‘I know the Hand is revered in some quarters, but I did not imagine the scholars of Gonville Hall to be among its foolish admirers.’

‘We are not,’ said Pulham firmly. ‘Most of us know it came from Peterkin Starre the simpleton.’

‘The Hand is imbued with healing powers,’ argued Rougham, fixing his colleague with an angry glare. ‘I often send my patients there when all else fails. Some have been cured instantly. Look at Ufford. He was on the verge of leprosy, but has been reprieved by the Hand’s intervention.’

‘Why should Thorpe and Mortimer object to your prayers to the Hand?’ asked Bartholomew of Ufford. He was proud of himself for not telling Rougham that his diagnosis was absurd.

‘Thorpe was telling people that the Hand should not be locked away in the University Church,’ replied Ufford. ‘He said it should be somewhere more public. Foolishly, I ventured the opinion that it was all right where it was, and that it should not be moved. St Mary the Great is a fine, strong church, and Father William is an honest guardian, who never refuses anyone access to it – scholar or townsman.’

‘Thorpe fought you over the location of a false relic?’ asked Michael incredulously.

‘No, Brother,’ replied Ufford gravely. ‘He fought me over the Hand of Valence Marie. It is not a false relic, and in time it will make Cambridge a site of great pilgrimage.’

‘Sweet Jesus!’ muttered Michael.

‘If the Hand is so powerful, then why is your nose cut and your leg swollen?’ asked Bartholomew archly, although the question was really aimed at Rougham. ‘Surely, you should be cured?’

‘I have not been to visit it since the attack,’ explained Ufford simply. ‘Rougham calculated my horoscope and he says it is not safe for me to leave the College for another two days.’

Rougham looked smug. Bartholomew thought Ufford would have benefited more from a poultice of powdered knapweed root and warm beeswax, but he held his tongue.

‘The Hand did not intercede for Deschalers,’ said Pulham to Rougham. ‘Even I could see that he had the taint of death about him. He told me you recommended a private audience with the relic, but afterwards, he became more ill than ever.’

‘He had a canker in the bowels,’ said Rougham. ‘I did suggest a visit to the Hand, but his sins must have been too great, for his prayers went unanswered. I knew he was not long for this world, although it is unfortunate he was deprived of his last few weeks by a nail.’

‘I agree,’ said Michael. ‘Was he depressed about his condition, do you think?’

‘You are asking whether I believe Deschalers was so distressed about his impending death that he murdered Bottisham and killed himself,’ surmised Rougham, who had evidently heard about the lack of a third party in the King’s Mill when the two men had died. ‘And the answer is yes. He was weak from his illness, but he could have mustered enough strength to perform one last act of violence. It is the only viable solution, because Bottisham cannot have murdered Deschalers.’

‘I heard they died from nails penetrating their brains via their mouths,’ said Pulham distastefully. ‘I do not see Bottisham inflicting that sort of injury – or any other, for that matter – on anyone. It seems an odd way to choose for a suicide. What was Deschalers thinking of?’

‘It does sound improbable, and I speak from my experience as a medicus,’ agreed Rougham. ‘I suppose the man must have used a nail on Bottisham, then felt obliged to dispatch himself in a like manner. Suicides are rarely rational in their thoughts as they prepare to die. He probably saw some contorted logic in his decision that is impenetrable to a sane mind.’

Bartholomew conceded that he was probably right, and the twisted reasoning of a deranged mind had led one of the two men to kill his enemy and then himself in this bizarre manner. He could think of no other explanation that made sense.

‘I heard Gonville will represent the Mortimer clan in their argument about water with the King’s Mill,’ said Michael, changing the subject. ‘Is it true?’

Pulham nodded. ‘We shall miss Bottisham’s incisive mind, though.’

‘Why have you chosen to support the Mortimers over the Millers’ Society?’ asked Michael. ‘Do you have shares in their venture, or have they promised to become benefactors?’

‘No,’ said Rougham shortly. ‘We took their case because they offered to pay us well.’

Ufford gave a rueful smile. ‘And because we are tired of seeing men like Deschalers, Morice, Cheney and Lavenham have their way in the town. They are all wealthy, yet they dabble in milling to make themselves richer still. It is time they learned they cannot always have what they want.’

‘But the Mortimers are wealthy and greedy, too,’ Michael pointed out. ‘And Thomas killed an innocent man by driving a cart when he was drunk. They are scarcely blameless.’

‘Bottisham was shocked by that,’ admitted Pulham. ‘I imagine that is why he visited Isnard and Mistress Lenne: to ease his troubled conscience.’

‘But you see no problem in representing them?’ asked Michael.

‘Not really,’ replied Pulham. ‘The Mortimers have been appealed by the Millers’ Society, and they need legal representation. That is the sum of our relationship with them: they are clients. We do not accept or decline folk on the basis of their moral standing; that is for God to decide.’

‘Damn it all!’ exclaimed Ufford, who had been gazing out of the window. ‘He is here. Who gave him a key?’

Bartholomew went to look, rashly handing his still-brimming goblet to Michael to hold. He saw Thorpe open the gate and saunter across the yard, whistling to himself. If the young man knew his new colleagues did not like him, he did not seem to care. He strutted confidently to the library door.

‘I did,’ said Rougham defensively. ‘He is entitled to one, because of the fees he pays. He is not here often anyway, so it does no harm. Make yourself scarce, if you want to avoid him.’

Ufford scowled, not liking the notion that he should be obliged to ‘make himself scarce’ because his colleagues had decided to house a ruffian. But he was in no condition to fight, and it was not long before he slunk out of a door at the back, clearly furious.

‘Thorpe,’ said Michael, as the man entered the library. He lifted Bartholomew’s cup in mock salute and downed its contents in a single swallow. ‘What a pleasant surprise.’

Thorpe was not pleased to see Michael. He pulled a disagreeable face, then went to sit at the carrel he had been allocated, slouching against the wall and ignoring the philosophical text that lay open in front of him. He shuffled restlessly for a few moments, then abandoned his pretence at scholarship, and started for the door. Bartholomew wondered if he had come with the express purpose of baiting Ufford, since he had clearly not come to study.

‘Is that it?’ asked Michael, as he watched Thorpe return the book to its shelf. ‘Is that the sum of your learning for the day? You will not pass your disputations like that!’

‘My disputations are not until summer,’ replied Thorpe. ‘That is a long way in the future.’ The expression on his face indicated he felt a lot could happen before then, and that he thought it unlikely Michael would ever have the opportunity to savage him in the debating hall.

‘Why do you want to become a scholar?’ asked Michael conversationally. ‘Are you attracted to philosophy or the sciences? Or do you simply enjoy the company of erudite men, like me?’

‘No, I do not enjoy the company of men like you,’ replied Thorpe ambiguously.

‘Your father must be proud,’ probed Michael, knowing that mention of the kin who had disowned him would annoy Thorpe.

‘He has not said so,’ replied Thorpe stiffly. ‘Not yet.’

‘Where is our new altar cover?’ demanded Rougham, breaking into their discussion. ‘You have not shown us the cloth you intend to use yet, and it might not be suitable.’

‘In time,’ said Thorpe coolly. ‘There are more pressing matters to attend first.’

He left as abruptly as he came, leaving Bartholomew uneasy and unsettled. Thorpe had not enrolled at Gonville to study, so he obviously had something else in mind. The possibilities were many and all unpleasant.

‘I do not like that young man,’ said Pulham worriedly. ‘Brother Michael is right: we should tell him to leave. Everyone says he is dangerous, so why should we have him in our College?’

‘I do not like him, either,’ said Thompson the priest, speaking for the first time. ‘There is something about him I find distasteful. I do not judge others on rumour and speculation, so I base my assessment on my own interpretation of his character: he is not a good man, and he will bring us trouble we cannot afford. I recommend we repay his fees and ask him to go.’

‘We have already spent his fees on timber for the chapel,’ replied Rougham shortly, displeased to be outvoted on all sides. ‘He must remain until at least the summer. So, since we cannot undo what has been done, I suggest we abandon this tedious subject and discuss something more appropriate for learned men in a Cambridge College.’

‘Then you can tell me why you are convinced of the authenticity of the Hand of Valence Marie,’ suggested Michael. ‘I cannot understand how you, intelligent men, should believe that thing is real.’

‘I have already told you: we do not,’ said Pulham. ‘Only Rougham and Ufford are believers. Thompson, Deschalers and I see it for what it is: the illegally severed limb of Peterkin Starre.’

‘No one is saying it did not come from Peterkin,’ replied Rougham impatiently. ‘However, Father William – a devout Franciscan from your own College, Brother – says Peterkin was a saint.’

‘Does he?’ asked Pulham, aghast. ‘I thought he had more sense than to fabricate tales like that. Who knows where they will lead? You should stop him, Brother.’

‘Oh, I shall,’ vowed Michael with grim determination.

‘The Hand is holy,’ persisted Rougham. ‘It effects miraculous healings.’

‘Name one,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Other than Ufford’s “leprosy”.’

‘There was an incident just today,’ flashed Rougham. ‘Una the whore petitioned for an end to the ache in her guts, and was rewarded by a cure that was virtually instant.’

‘I gave her medicine this morning,’ said Bartholomew. ‘She must have felt better after taking it.’

‘An Arab potion, I presume,’ said Rougham, his voice dripping with contempt. ‘Well, I can tell you for a fact that that rubbish would not have worked. What was in it, anyway?’

‘Charcoal and chalk, which are hot and moist to counteract the cold dryness of black bile, mixed with poppy juice. It is not an Arab potion, but one known to English physicians for centuries.’

‘You gave her burned wood and stones?’ demanded Rougham in horror. ‘My God, man!’

‘They are ingredients recommended by Dioscorides,’ said Bartholomew tartly. ‘Not to mention Galen and Hippocrates.’

‘Did you actually see her take your “remedy”?’ asked Rougham, not wanting to argue against the great Greeks, so changing the line of his attack. ‘Because, if you did not, then I imagine she took one look at it, and decided against pouring it in her innards.’

‘I left Redmeadow and Quenhyth to do that.’

‘Redmeadow!’ spat Rougham. ‘He is as loathsome a vermin as I have ever encountered. I would never have accepted such a student at Gonville!’

‘Why not?’ asked Bartholomew, startled by the man’s vehemence. Redmeadow did not usually induce a strong dislike in people.

‘He is inefficient and careless,’ snapped Rougham. ‘I gave him a penny to fetch me some catmint from Lavenham the apothecary. But he brought me calamint instead. Fool!’

‘They are both used for similar ailments,’ said Bartholomew, thinking Rougham was over-reacting. ‘A confusion between calamint and catmint is unlikely to prove overly disastrous. Bacon said that–’

‘Bacon!’ Rougham pounced with distaste. ‘A heretic!’

‘He was not a heretic,’ said Bartholomew. He reconsidered. ‘Although, I confess I am sceptical of his theories regarding the secretum secretorum – the fabled remedy for all ills, which is also alleged to restore youth to the aged. That seems a little fabulous to me.’

‘Really,’ said Rougham flatly. ‘You only mentioned that because you know it is the only aspect of Bacon’s work that I find remotely believable.’

‘Surely not!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, who had known no such thing. ‘The notion of a secretum secretorum flies in the face of all reason! How could there be such a phenomenon? All empirical evidence indicates that it is nothing more than wishful fancy.’

‘Your contention does not surprise me, given that you also dismiss the holy power of relics,’ said Rougham icily. ‘But you came to discuss Bottisham, not the Hand.’

‘True,’ agreed Michael. He took a deep breath, knowing the unpleasant part of the interview could be postponed no longer. ‘Were any of you aware that Bottisham and Deschalers knew each other?’

‘Of course,’ sighed Rougham. ‘Deschalers was a grocer and Bottisham’s duties as a Fellow included purchasing our College’s victuals. They did a lot of business together.’

‘What can you tell me about Bottisham? Did he have any enemies who might wish him harm? Or a lover who–’

‘No,’ said Pulham firmly, before he could continue. ‘I knew you would do this: rummage through Bottisham’s personal affairs in search of scandal. But you will not succeed, Brother. There were no shameful secrets in his past. He had just taken holy orders with the Carmelites, and his life was blameless. He was the victim here, not the perpetrator.’

‘We do not know who killed whom yet,’ said Michael carefully.

‘Bottisham was not the villain,’ stated Rougham. ‘He was a good man – gentle and kind – and he would never hurt anyone. I have already told you that Deschalers could have summoned the strength to kill, so the case is closed as far as I am concerned. Deschalers killed Bottisham, then made an end of himself in a fit of remorse.’

‘If Bottisham was so gentle and kind, then why would Deschalers want him dead?’ asked Michael.

Rougham glared at him. ‘There are all kinds of possible explanations. Deschalers might have mistaken Bottisham for someone else. Or perhaps Deschalers did not intend to kill anyone, and the whole thing was an accident. Who can say?’

‘You do not “accidentally” drive a nail into a man’s brain,’ said Michael. ‘And every member of the Millers’ Society thinks Bottisham is the killer – that he followed Deschalers into–’

‘No!’ cried Thompson, distressed. ‘Bottisham would never do such a thing! How can you even think it? I thought you liked him.’

‘I did – do,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘But if we want to solve this crime, then we must explore every possible angle, and – unfortunately for those of us who admired him – that means prying into aspects of his life that he might have preferred to keep to himself.’

‘I have already told you that you will be disappointed if you go that way,’ warned Pulham angrily. ‘Bottisham had no sordid secrets.’

‘We all have something we would rather no one else knew,’ said Michael softly. ‘I have been Senior Proctor for long enough to learn that, at least.’

‘Bottisham believed Deschalers was a wicked man,’ said Pulham, raising a hand to prevent another enraged outburst from Rougham. ‘He often commented that he was corrupt and nasty. We saw that side of Deschalers for ourselves, when he promised funds for our chapel and then withdrew them at an inconvenient time. Remember that, Thompson?’

Thompson turned to Michael and Bartholomew. ‘About two years ago, Deschalers offered Gonville a donation that would have gone a long way to raising our chapel walls, if not the roof, too. But, just as the work was about to begin, he withdrew the entire amount. I was sure the whole thing was engineered to embarrass Bottisham.’

‘There was also some ancient quarrel involving a field,’ said Michael. ‘Do you know anything about that?’

Thompson nodded. ‘Deschalers owned a field in Chesterton, but the Bigod family said it was theirs. Deschalers took the case to the King’s Bench, and employed Bottisham to argue for him. Bottisham lost, and Deschalers was angry, because he believed his claim was solid.’

‘And was it?’ asked Michael. ‘Solid?’

‘It appeared to be, on parchment. But courts do not always operate on the principle of justice and right, as you have no doubt observed. Bribes change hands. Bottisham was honest, and would never have indulged in such corruption. I imagine that was at the heart of their schism.’

‘Deschalers lost his field because Bottisham refused to negotiate a bribe?’ asked Bartholomew.

This time, it was Pulham who nodded. ‘Deschalers was furious that he had lost land, just because Bottisham refused to compromise his personal integrity. And they were enemies thereafter.’

‘But Bottisham’s anger was passive,’ added Thompson. ‘He was not a man to engage in noisy and public quarrels. Deschalers was more vocal, and the distasteful incident of the withdrawn funds is just one example of sly tricks designed to hurt Bottisham. Bottisham genuinely believed Deschalers wanted to bury the hatchet when he offered us that donation. We should all have known better.’

‘We should,’ agreed Rougham. ‘So, you can dig and pry all you like, Brother, but you will never find anything sinister or corrupt in Bottisham’s past. He is sinless, and he was ruthlessly murdered by a man who hated him. Deschalers is your killer, and that is that.’

Bartholomew was relieved when the monk stood to leave, bringing the uncomfortable interview to a close.

‘Thank God that is over,’ said Michael vehemently, as he and Bartholomew left Gonville Hall. ‘You cannot imagine how distasteful it was, demanding to know nasty secrets about poor Bottisham.’

Bartholomew felt he could imagine very well, and thought it – combined with Rougham’s inexplicable hostility – made for one of the least pleasant encounters he had ever endured at another College. He started to turn right, towards Michaelhouse, but the monk had other ideas, and he found himself steered to the left instead. ‘Where are we going?’

‘To Deschalers’s house. I have already spoken to his apprentices, and today I want to talk to the servants. We learned virtually nothing from Gonville, so we had better hope we hear something useful from Deschalers’s people, or we shall be at a dead end again.’

‘Tulyet told me that Deschalers was a very private man, so I doubt you will learn much from servants. And he had no close friends – not since the plague took them, at least.’

‘Rougham does not like you,’ remarked Michael, changing the subject. ‘And the feeling is mutual. I have seldom seen such a disgraceful display of sniping and snapping.’

‘It is a pity,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Physicians are not so numerous in Cambridge that we can afford to spurn each other’s company, and yet I find Rougham a deeply repellent man. He seemed much worse today than usual, though. We have always managed a show of civility in the past.’

‘He invited you to dine last Wednesday,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘Yet, just a week later, he can barely stand to be in the same room as you.’

‘Perhaps he was offended that I amputated Isnard’s leg instead of eating with him.’

‘Physicians are often called away from pleasant social occasions by their patients. I am sure he understands that. No, Matt, his antagonism goes a lot deeper than a missed meal. He was accusing you openly of holding fast to heretical ideals. I told you to be careful of him with your casual approach to what he considers anathema, and I was right. You have clearly done something to tip him over the edge and shatter the illusion of tolerance between you.’

‘Perhaps he is angry with Redmeadow over the catmint episode, and holds me responsible. But here comes a physician who is fair-minded and pleasant company: Paxtone from King’s Hall.’

‘Matthew!’ exclaimed Paxtone, his round features breaking into a smile. ‘I was hoping to see you. Rougham is selling all Gonville’s medical books that are not by Greeks, and I have purchased the writings of Lanfrank of Milan on surgery. I would value your opinion. Will you visit me later?’

‘I would like to come now,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘But I am going to Deschalers’s house, to see if we can discover why he and Bottisham were found dead together.’

Paxtone shuddered. ‘Poor souls! What have you learned so far? It grieves me to say so, but Deschalers did not harm Bottisham – he was too ill. And since Bernarde the miller says they were the only two people there, then it stands to reason that Bottisham must have killed Deschalers. But Bottisham did not seem like the kind of man to kill …’ He trailed off uncomfortably.

‘He was not,’ said Bartholomew, more sharply than he intended. ‘Besides, Rougham was Deschalers’s physician, and he disagrees with you. He says Deschalers was strong enough.’

Paxtone pursed his lips, to indicate with silence what he thought of Rougham’s diagnosis. ‘Then perhaps one of them was fed some potion that made him different in character. I have read that the Italians know how to make such compounds. You should ask whether Thorpe and Mortimer went anywhere near Italy during their exile.’

Bartholomew stared at him, wondering whether the answer could be that simple. It would certainly fit the physical evidence – that only Deschalers and Bottisham were present when they died and that one had killed the other. But would Thorpe and Mortimer have orchestrated such a thing? He concluded that they might, because it would set University against town and lead to chaos and disorder. What better way to avenge themselves on a place they felt had wronged them?

‘Or perhaps Thorpe and Mortimer had nothing to do with it,’ Paxtone went on. ‘Perhaps someone wants them blamed, so they can be re-exiled.’

‘It is possible, I suppose,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘The whole town would be delighted to see the back of them. But Bottisham’s life is a huge price to pay.’

Paxtone patted his arm. ‘I do not envy you your investigation, Brother. I shall go to the Hand of Valence Marie and ask it to help you.’

‘You believe in its power, too?’ asked Michael with a groan. He began to walk away. ‘I feel I am one in a slowly dwindling minority who does not feel compelled to revere the damned thing.’

With an apologetic smile for the monk’s brusqueness, Bartholomew left Paxtone and followed Michael along Milne Street to Deschalers’s luxurious home. Michael knocked at the door. It was opened by the old servant, who showed them into the tastefully decorated chamber on the ground floor that they had visited before. Michael’s attempts to question him were met with puzzled looks or odd statements about exotic foods, and it was not long before the monk abandoned the interrogation. The man either did not know anything, or was not prepared to be helpful; Bartholomew suspected the former, because nothing much seemed to catch his attention unless it involved eating. As soon as he had gone to fetch someone else to see to them, Michael – another man obsessed with his diet – homed in on the dishes of dried fruits that had been left for visitors, determined to scoff as many as possible as a small act of revenge against a household that yielded so little in the way of clues.

‘Oh,’ came a voice as the door opened and a woman swept in. ‘It is you two.’

Michael almost choked on his apple ring, although he should have anticipated that the grocer’s untimely death would result in the appearance of the woman generally acknowledged to be his heir. Julianna Deschalers, his niece, had become his sole surviving kin after the plague had claimed all the others. She was tall, with a mass of fair hair that was coiled into plaits at the sides of her face. Her clothes were expensive and decorated with silver thread, and she held herself with the confident poise of someone used to having her orders obeyed. Bartholomew had met her before, and considered her headstrong and boorish.

‘Madam,’ said Michael, recovering from his surprise and bowing. Bartholomew did likewise, although he did not think she warranted such courtesy.

‘I am well, thank you,’ Julianna replied, in answer to the question she obviously felt they should have asked. ‘And so is my child.’

‘Child?’ echoed Bartholomew, startled. ‘Who is the father?’

‘That is not a question you should ask a respectably married woman,’ she replied indignantly. ‘But you know the answer anyway. My daughter’s father is Ralph de Langelee. He is Master of your College and he was my husband – until we agreed that our marriage should be annulled. You know I was pregnant when I married him, because you were both at our wedding. But I have remarried now – thankfully. It was not many weeks before Langelee decided he would rather frolic with men in a College than enjoy normal sexual relations with his wife.’

‘I hardly think–’ began Bartholomew, although the Master’s manly reputation needed no protection from him. There did not exist a more vigorous and practised lover, according to the many prostitutes who seemed intimately acquainted with his performances.

‘Never mind that,’ she interrupted impatiently. ‘I am now married to Edward Mortimer.’

‘Edward Mortimer?’ asked Bartholomew, shocked. ‘The exile?’

She glared at him, angry at his reaction of horror when she obviously felt congratulations were in order. ‘How many other Edward Mortimers do you know?’

‘None, thank God,’ said Bartholomew, before he could stop himself.

She glared again. ‘I was looking for a husband, and my uncle mentioned that Edward had recently acquired a King’s Pardon. Edward is heir to a great fortune, and so am I. So it was a good match. My name is Julianna Mortimer, now.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Michael, sitting down heavily in a delicate chair. Something cracked, and she scowled at him. ‘But you were betrothed to Edward once before, were you not? Before he was banished?’

She bent to inspect the chair, and did not seem very interested in answering him. ‘Yes, I was. But I thought him a weakling then, and not worthy of me. However, he is a real man now. He learned at Albi, in the south of France, during his exile. I like him a lot better now he is no longer a silly boy.’

‘I am sure you do,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that a self-confessed killer would be very attractive to a woman like Julianna, who seemed to like rough, unmannerly men.

She grabbed one of the chair’s legs and gave it a vigorous tug. She was a strong woman, and Michael was obliged to grab a windowsill to stop himself from being jerked off it. There was another snap, and she straightened with a satisfied expression. ‘There; that should do it. Edward plans to demand compensation from the town for the agonies it caused him with this nasty banishment. Did he tell you that?’

There was an ominous groan from the chair, and Michael leapt to his feet. ‘But he cannot win such a case. He has been pardoned, which is not the same as being deemed innocent. He cannot claim compensation in those circumstances.’

‘Well, you are wrong,’ said Julianna firmly. ‘He will be paid lots of money, and we will both have a wonderful time spending it.’ She clapped her hands in delight at the prospect.

‘Sweet Christ!’ grumbled Michael under his breath. ‘What have we done to deserve her?’

‘What are you mumbling about?’ demanded Julianna immediately. ‘I had forgotten how you academics mumble. It is an unattractive habit. Why can you not speak at a normal volume?’

‘Tell me about your uncle’s death,’ said Michael, wanting to ask his questions and leave.

‘I will inherit everything,’ sang Julianna happily, twirling on her heels like a child. ‘Edward was so pleased when I told him. He must have forgotten I was Uncle’s sole heir.’

‘I imagine that is unlikely,’ muttered Michael acidly. He saw Julianna scowl because she could not hear him, and raised his voice again. ‘I was not referring to the disposal of your uncle’s worldly goods. I want to know why he went to the mill with Nicholas Bottisham.’

‘I do not know anything about that,’ said Julianna carelessly. ‘It is very sad, of course.’ She arranged her features into something that approximated grief, which Bartholomew could see was far from genuine. ‘Of course, he had been ill for some time.’

‘With a canker of the bowels,’ said Bartholomew.

‘With a wasting sickness,’ corrected Julianna primly. ‘We do not mention bowels in this gentle household. It is not polite.’

‘How long was he ill?’ asked Michael. ‘Weeks? Months? A year?’

‘A few months,’ she replied. ‘That was why I came to live in Chesterton – that pretty little village just to the north of here – after Christmas. I wanted to claim my inheritance as soon as he died, you see. You cannot be too careful these days, what with thieves and killers at large.’

‘Did you ever see your uncle with Bottisham?’ asked Bartholomew, declining to mention that one such thief and killer was her new husband. ‘Did Bottisham visit him or send him messages? Do you know anything about the funds promised for Gonville’s chapel, which were later withdrawn?’

‘Uncle never donated anything to Gonville,’ declared Julianna, pronouncing the name with considerable disdain. ‘He occasionally gave money to Bene’t College, which he helped to build. But he was not interested in helping other halls and hostels.’

‘So Bottisham never visited your uncle here?’ clarified Michael.

‘I did not say that,’ replied Julianna. ‘I said Uncle did not donate money to Gonville. Bottisham did come here occasionally, because Uncle was the town’s best grocer. Many scholars do business with him, and Bottisham was no different.’

‘Did he come alone?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or were there other Gonville men with him?’

‘I do not know,’ replied Julianna with a bored sigh. ‘I have not been living here with him, have I? I have a house in Chesterton, where I reside with my husband and my daughter. And Rob Thorpe on occasion, although I do not like him.’ Her face took on a sulky expression. ‘When he is present, Edward ignores me, and all they do is sit together and scheme.’

‘What do they talk about?’ asked Michael, exchanging a glance with Bartholomew. Perhaps she would tell them what the pair intended to do in Cambridge.

‘Plotting,’ replied Julianna guilelessly. ‘Planning. You know the kind of thing.’

‘Enlighten me,’ invited Michael.

‘They have been deciding what they will do,’ said Julianna slowly, as though speaking to her infant daughter. ‘They agreed that Edward will work for his uncle – Thomas the miller – and Rob was going to study with his father. But his father will not have him, so he went to Gonville instead.’

‘But why?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘Do they envisage staging some sort of revenge?’

‘I expect so,’ said Julianna, with a shrug to indicate she did not care. ‘They do not tell me the details, and I am not interested in their dull discussions anyway. But I thought you came here to talk about my uncle. You should try catching whoever broke into his house the night he died. That might help you with your investigation into his sad death.’ She was unable to suppress a grin, knowing what that ‘sad death’ meant for her future.

‘He was burgled?’ asked Bartholomew, although he knew the answer to that: he had seen the fellow himself. ‘What was taken?’

‘Nothing, as far as I know, but documents were tampered with. They did not steal the will though, thank the Lord!’

‘Who would be interested in his documents?’ asked Michael.

‘I have no idea, but you should find out. I do not like the rumours circulating that say poor Uncle murdered this scholar. I am sure it was the other way around.’