The Hand of Justice

CHAPTER 8

Because the Hall of Valence Marie enjoyed the patronage of the wealthy Countess of Pembroke, money was no object for the scholars who lived there, and a good deal of it had been lavished on their home. The floor of the main hall had recently been relaid with mature oak, so that rugs and rushes were not needed to hide it, like those in most other Cambridge buildings. Its planks shone, carefully polished to show off the fine grain of the wood. The walls were adorned with tapestries sewn in bright colours, and their quality was so outstanding that Bartholomew assumed they must have been made by the Countess’s talented ladies-in-waiting.

At the far end of the hall was a new minstrels’ gallery. It, too, was made from best-quality oak, and had been seasoned and oiled to ensure it would last. The roof was a complex hammerbeam design, and had been painted in bright reds, golds and greens, so that students bored with their lectures could tip their heads back and lose themselves in the intricate patterns that swirled and twined above. Bartholomew was grateful that Michaelhouse had no such tempting distractions.

‘Quickly,’ called Master Thorpe from the dais at the far end of the hall. On the raised platform stood a table, which was generally regarded as one of the finest pieces of furniture in Cambridge, even better than the one in St Mary’s Guildhall, and was the envy of all the Colleges. Valence Marie Fellows had so much room, they were not obliged to sit sideways to make sure everyone had a place, and they had individual chairs rather than communal benches. Bartholomew ignored the brash luxury all around him, and strode to where Thorpe bent over someone who lay on the floor behind the table. Michael followed.

The Master of Valence Marie was white with shock, and his normally immaculate cap of silver hair was in disarray. His eyes were anguished as he watched Bartholomew approach. The other Fellows who clustered around him seemed equally appalled. Bartholomew recognised a man named Thomas Bingham among them; Bingham had stepped into Thorpe’s shoes while he was in York, and had upset his colleagues with his poor table manners.

‘We had just finished our evening meal, when Bingham began to wipe his teeth on the tablecloth again,’ explained Thorpe unsteadily. He scowled at his Fellow. ‘None of us like that, and Warde took issue with him. They argued and Warde started to cough. We took no notice at first, because he has been doing it for the last two weeks. You must have noticed him at the Disputatio de quodlibet?’

‘I did,’ said Michael. ‘But most people thought he was doing it to create an atmosphere of suspense – he started just as he was about to announce the winner.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Bingham in a whisper. ‘I would not have quarrelled with him if I thought it would lead to this. Look what has happened.’ He gestured to the prostrate figure on the floor.

Bartholomew knelt to examine the stricken man. Warde’s lips were pale, and he was having difficulty catching his breath. He gripped his throat with one hand, while the other clutched a crucifix.

‘Help me,’ he croaked, terror in his eyes. ‘I cannot breathe. I am hot and my mind is spinning.’

‘Lie still,’ said Bartholomew. He spoke softly, knowing a calm voice often soothed a patient’s anxiety, and helped to relax the constricting muscles that were part of the problem. He ordered the circle of onlookers away, thinking it would be better for Warde to recover without an audience. He heard Michael questioning them about what had happened, but they had little to add to Thorpe’s story. Warde had just consumed a broth of leeks and cabbage – from the bowl that had been shared by all – when he had argued with Bingham. After a few moments, he said he was short of breath. He then started to cough and fell to the floor, and Bartholomew had been summoned at Warde’s own request.

‘Bishop Bateman of Norwich habitually wiped his teeth on the tablecloth,’ whispered Michael to Bingham. ‘And look what happened to him.’

‘You think Bateman’s tablecloth was soaked in poison?’ asked Bingham in horror, crossing himself vigorously. ‘I shall never clean my teeth on communal materials again!’

‘That is my patient,’ came a loud voice from the far end of the hall. Bartholomew’s heart sank when he saw Rougham striding towards them. The Gonville physician had changed his wet clothes, although he still wore Bartholomew’s cloak. ‘Stand back, if you please.’

Bartholomew could not argue. Warde was Rougham’s client, and he did not want another fracas with the man. Many physicians guarded their wealthier patients jealously, and Rougham was one of them. He stood and backed away, but Warde snatched at his hand.

‘No,’ he croaked. ‘Not Rougham. You.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Rougham, drawing up a chair and leaning over him. He was obviously not going to kneel, as Bartholomew had done. He smiled at the bewildered scholars who stood with Michael. ‘Thank you for summoning me, Bingham. You may well have saved your colleague’s life by ignoring his fevered demands for another medicus.’

Bingham looked sheepish when Thorpe raised questioning eyebrows. ‘I sent word to both physicians, lest one should tarry or be unavailable,’ he confessed. ‘I am sorry, but I wanted to do all I could to help Warde.’

‘What is the matter?’ asked Rougham in a loud voice, as though his patient’s choking had also rendered him deaf and stupid. ‘Did you take the Water of Snails I prescribed? If you followed my recommendations I cannot imagine why you are in this state.’

‘Angelica,’ whispered Warde, clearly finding it difficult to talk. ‘Please, I have a …’

‘I did not hear you,’ bawled Rougham. ‘What about angelica?’

‘Do not speak, Warde,’ said Bartholomew. It was hard to stand by and see the man struggle to converse when it was obviously making his condition worse. ‘Lie still and take deep breaths.’

‘Angelica,’ pronounced Rougham, eyeing Bartholomew coldly. ‘That is something I would never prescribe, so it is doubtless one of your remedies. It is your fault Warde is in this state. If he had followed my advice, then he would not be lying here, on his deathbed.’

Warde’s gagging grew more frenzied, and Bartholomew saw he had gripped the crucifix so tightly that it had cut his hand.

‘Tell me,’ demanded Rougham, taking Warde’s arm and giving it a shake. ‘Did you take angelica instead of the Water of Snails? Did you go against the express orders of your own physician in favour of a man whose methods are so dangerously irregular?’

Warde drew breath with difficulty, and Bartholomew felt anger rise inside him. ‘Do not speak, Warde,’ he said tightly, longing to push Rougham away from the ailing man. ‘Just concentrate on breathing. We can talk later, when you are recovered.’

Rougham sneered. ‘You are trying to silence him, so he will go to his grave without incriminating you. You have killed him with your angelica, and you are trying to cover your tracks.’

The Valence Marie scholars listened with open-mouthed astonishment. Warde’s breathing grew more laboured, as a result, Bartholomew thought, of Rougham agitating him by mentioning deathbeds and graves. He moved away, thinking that if he was out of Rougham’s presence, the Gonville physician might not rant so. He would take him to task about his appalling bedside manners later, when there was no one to hear him tell the man he was a pompous fool.

‘And now you are running away,’ jeered Rougham. ‘You are unable to watch a man die, knowing you are responsible.’

‘Ignore him, Matt,’ warned Michael, sensing his friend’s growing anger. ‘Angelica never did anyone any harm. My grandmother chews it all the time.’

‘Warde was better after he took the angelica,’ said Thorpe, joining the debate in a wary voice. ‘His coughing eased, and he had a better night of sleep than he has enjoyed in a long time – we all did. We thought he was on the mend. Until now.’

‘It is a delayed reaction,’ pronounced Rougham authoritatively. ‘With angelica you think you are well, but find you are suddenly worse.’ He turned back to Warde again. ‘I ordered you to pray to the Hand of Justice for a cure, too. Did you do it? I thought I saw you with the other petitioners.’

‘Water of Snails!’ rasped Warde, and everyone craned forward to hear him. ‘I took it. Before the meal. Look on the table.’ He coughed again, and Bartholomew itched to go to him, to ease him into a position where he could breathe easier. ‘Not Bingham’s fault.’

All eyes went to Warde’s place at the high table, and Bartholomew recognised the little phial containing the Water of Snails that Lavenham had prepared two days before. He wondered how Warde had come to have it, since Master Thorpe had said he would never persuade his colleague to drink such a potion, and had declined to purchase it for him.

‘Oh,’ said Rougham, knocked off his stride. He recovered quickly. ‘But the harm was already done with the angelica, and my Water of Snails was taken too late to help.’

‘It came from you,’ wheezed Warde accusingly. ‘You sent it. With a note. I took it. Because I was feeling better. But I wanted a quicker cure. The sermon.’

‘He is due to give the public address at St Mary the Great tomorrow,’ explained Thorpe. ‘He has been worried that he will be unable to do it, because of the cough. I suppose he took the Water of Snails as a precaution. I can think of no other reason that would induce him to swallow the stuff.’

Warde’s vigorous nodding showed his Master’s assumptions were right. Bartholomew noticed there was a bluish tinge around his nose and mouth that had not been there before, and grew even more concerned. He saw students standing in a silent semicircle nearby, exchanging distraught glances. A kind, patient scholar like Warde would be sorely missed if anything were to happen to him.

‘But I did not send you Water of Snails with any note,’ said Rougham, puzzled. ‘I gave a recipe for the concoction to Master Thorpe, who took it to Lavenham to be made up.’

‘You sent it,’ asserted Warde in a feeble voice. ‘Today.’ This time his coughing was so vigorous that he began to make gasping, retching sounds that were painful to hear.

‘What are you saying?’ demanded Rougham. ‘Why would I send you such a thing, when I had already issued your Master with instructions and a list of ingredients?’

‘Enough!’ snapped Bartholomew, finally angered sufficiently to step forward and assert himself. Warde’s breathing was becoming increasingly laboured, and he saw that unless Warde stopped trying to talk he would indeed die. ‘Close your eyes and take deep, even breaths. Do not speak.’

Rougham drew breath to argue, but Bartholomew shot him a look so full of barely controlled rage that he closed his mouth with a snap audible at the other end of the hall.

‘I saw the package and the letter,’ said Bingham to Rougham. ‘You sent Warde the phial, along with a message carrying instructions for him to swallow every drop.’

‘But I did not send him anything!’ insisted Rougham, becoming alarmed. ‘I did not even know he had ignored my advice and taken angelica.’ He almost spat the last word as he treated Bartholomew to a glare of his own.

Bingham crouched down and rummaged in Warde’s scrip, producing a note scrawled on parchment: it was unquestionably Rougham’s spidery hand. He handed it to Thorpe.

‘“Drink all herein of Aqua Limacum Magistr. for purge of phlegm and consumptions of the lungs”,’ read Thorpe. He looked at Bartholomew. ‘Aqua Limacum Magistr.?’

‘Limacum Magistralis is the Latin description for Water of Snails,’ explained Bartholomew absently, more concerned by the patient’s rapidly deteriorating condition. ‘We can discuss this later. I want you all to leave, so Warde can lie quietly, and–’

‘One of my students must have attached that message to the Water of Snails, and sent it to Warde by mistake,’ interrupted Rougham. ‘That is the only possible explanation. I prescribe Aqua Limacum Magistralis to lots of people. But enough of that. Warde must rouse himself and walk, so that exercise will clear his lungs of the phlegm that chokes them.’

‘Leave him alone,’ said Bartholomew quietly, as the Gonville physician stepped towards Warde. He hauled the cloth from the table and bundled it under Warde’s head, to make a pillow.

‘Water of Snails,’ whispered Warde weakly. ‘Killed me.’

‘You will not die,’ said Bartholomew, although he was now not so sure. He struggled to hide his concern as he spoke gently to his patient, again hoping that a calm voice might work its own magic. ‘Lie still, close your eyes and take a breath. And now release it slowly. And …’

He faltered, and the watching scholars strained forward to see why he had stopped speaking.

‘What is it, Matt?’ asked Michael quietly. ‘What is wrong?’

Bartholomew sat back on his heels and looked accusingly at Rougham. ‘He is dead.’

Rougham looked as shocked as Bartholomew felt. ‘It was you who tended him as he breathed his last, not me. You are the one who killed him. You probably did it for the fourpence you will earn as Corpse Examiner. I always said it was not a good idea to appoint a man who needs the money.’

Warde had been a popular man, not just in the University, but in the town, too, and people were dismayed by his death. In Michaelhouse the following day, Suttone, the gloomy Carmelite, began to speculate about whether Warde’s fatal cough meant that the plague had returned, pointing out that the pestilence had also carried folk away with horrifying speed. Bartholomew argued that it was not, but neither could convince the other, so they eventually fell silent by mutual consent, having thoroughly depressed anyone who had listened to them.

‘No one believes Rougham’s claim that you killed Warde, Matthew,’ said Father William kindly, as the Fellows took their places at the high table for breakfast. It was a Sunday, and the sun was shining through the hall windows.

‘He is saying that publicly?’ asked Bartholomew, dismayed. ‘Already? But Warde only died last night.’

‘Rougham is an evil man,’ declared Suttone. ‘When the Death returns, he will be first to go.’

‘You identify a good many people who will “go” the instant the pestilence appears,’ observed Langelee, reaching for the ale jug and pouring himself a generous measure. ‘Are we to assume that it will be of short duration, then? All the evildoers will be struck dead in the first few moments?’

‘And the rest of you shortly thereafter,’ replied Suttone, fixing him with a cool gaze. ‘The wicked first, normal sinners second.’

‘Who will be left?’ asked Michael, snatching the bowl of egg-mess flavoured with lumps of mutton fat, just as Clippesby was reaching for it. ‘You and which other saint?’

‘Not Peterkin Starre, whose Hand lies in St Mary the Great, because he is dead already,’ said Clippesby, who had brushed his hair with a teasel in honour of the Sabbath, and did not look quite as peculiar as usual. ‘Walter’s cockerel informs me that he was no saint anyway. Bird believes the whole business with the Hand of Justice is shameful, and says someone should put an end to such gross deception by telling the truth about it.’

‘Does he, indeed?’ asked William archly, not pleased that the enterprise he had created should be criticised from avian quarters. ‘And what would Bird know of holy matters? He does not even know the correct time to crow. He woke up the entire College last night by braying at three o’clock in the morning. The scholars of Ovyng Hostel and Paxtone of King’s Hall complained about him again today.’

‘That thing is asking for its neck to be wrung,’ agreed Langelee. ‘Unfortunately, it is not easy to catch. I have tried, believe me, and so has Agatha.’

‘Bird enjoys being chased,’ said Clippesby, taking the bowl that had contained the egg-mess from Michael. He looked from the monk’s heaped trencher to the empty vessel with narrowed eyes. ‘I think you have taken my share there, as well as your own, Brother.’

‘Have I?’ asked Michael breezily. He rammed his knife into the eggs, and transferred a minuscule amount to Clippesby. ‘There you are. The dish was half-empty this morning. I suppose it is just another example of Michaelhouse cutting costs.’ He glared at Wynewyk.

‘More,’ said Clippesby, surveying the two unequal portions with dissatisfaction.

Michael sighed in annoyance, but did as he was told. Displeased about losing half his breakfast, the monk went on the offensive, determined to vent his temper on someone. ‘When Matt and I were walking back from Valence Marie last night, after dealing with poor Warde, I saw someone lurking in the churchyard of St John Zachary. Now, what would an honest and law-abiding scholar be doing in such a place at such a time?’

Silence greeted his words, until it was broken by Langelee. ‘None of us understands what you are talking about, Brother. Who do you mean?’

‘Wynewyk,’ said Michael, turning to fix steady eyes on the hapless lawyer. ‘I saw him quite clearly, and he saw us – which was why he darted for cover, I imagine. He did not expect any of his colleagues to be abroad at such an hour.’

Bartholomew regarded Wynewyk in surprise. He had not seen anyone hiding behind bushes on his way home. However, he had not noticed very much, because his mind had been teeming with questions about Warde’s death, and he had been furious about Rougham’s accusations.

‘It is not easy to stretch Michaelhouse’s paltry income to cover all our needs,’ replied Wynewyk stiffly. ‘And, in order to make it go further, I am occasionally obliged to deal with men who make better offers than our regular suppliers. It sometimes requires the odd nocturnal assignation.’

‘I do not like the sound of this,’ said Suttone sanctimoniously. ‘I do not want my College associated with shady deals that see me eating victuals that “fell off the back of a cart”.’

‘Nor do I,’ agreed William. ‘I have my reputation as Keeper of the University Chest to uphold. It would not look good for my College to be implicated in dishonest dealings.’

Bartholomew saw several students start to laugh, evidently thinking that the friar’s conduct regarding the Hand of Justice was as dishonest as anything else happening in the town.

‘It was nothing illegal,’ protested Wynewyk, offended. ‘I would never do anything to bring the College into disrepute. I am a respectable, God-fearing man. You will just have to trust me.’

‘I trust you,’ said Langelee. ‘That is why I appointed you to help me in the first place. But time is passing and I want to visit the Hand of Justice. So, benedictus benedicat, and good day to you all.’

Fellows and students hastened to stand for the final grace, but most were still sitting when Langelee wiped his lips on his sleeve and strode from the hall, Wynewyk scurrying at his heels. Michael shook his head as they went, muttering that the lawyer was clearly engaged in something odd, and that it was only a matter of time before he learned what. Bartholomew preferred not to think about it, mostly because he felt he had enough to worry about with the mill murders and Warde’s sudden death. He abandoned the high table and made for the stairs.

‘I wonder whether all our concerns and problems are connected,’ mused Michael, joining him in the yard. ‘Thorpe and Mortimer return to Cambridge and begin to meddle in matters that they know will cause ill feeling between town and University. We have the “Hand of Justice” discussed on every street corner, and a brewing row about who should own it.’

‘Then we have Deschalers and Bottisham dead in suspicious circumstances, and Deschalers bequeathing his fortune to his niece, who just happens to have married Edward Mortimer,’ continued Bartholomew.

‘But they were betrothed before his exile,’ said Michael, turning his face towards the bright sun as he stretched his large limbs. ‘They have only done what their families originally intended, and I do not see their wedding as anything significant.’

‘I disagree. Originally, Julianna despised Edward so much that she considered Langelee a viable alternative.’ Bartholomew gestured to the barrel-shaped Master, who was steaming towards the gate, wearing his best Sunday hat and swinging his beefy arms. ‘Why did she change her mind?’

‘Because Edward is no longer a gangling, awkward boy. He is a man who knows his mind and who has an air of danger about him. Julianna seems to like that sort of thing, and I am not surprised she fell for his “charms”. But let us continue with our list of recent events and coincidences. We have Edward inheriting the murdered Deschalers’s wealth. And we have the murdered Deschalers involved in a conflict between rival mills.’

‘We should not forget the fact that Deschalers’s house was burgled the night he died, either,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I saw someone there, and so did Una.’

‘But what Una saw does not match your account,’ said Michael dismissively. ‘Her intruder left through the front door, while you chased yours through the back window. Una likes her wine, and we know she had some, because you treated her for a sore stomach the next day. But I do not think the burglary is important. The whole town was buzzing with the news of Deschalers’s death – including the forty felons who are repairing the Great Bridge – and no self-respecting thief would have passed up such a golden opportunity.’

‘Julianna would disagree. She believed the burglary was significant, because documents were rummaged through, even though nothing was stolen.’

‘How could she tell whether anything was stolen?’ argued Michael. ‘She did not live with her uncle, and was not in a position to know what valuables he happened to leave lying around that night.’

Bartholomew wavered, not sure what to think. ‘What about the possibility that Deschalers made another will? Laying claim to that sort of document would be a strong motive for breaking into his house the moment he died.’

‘Edward and Julianna did not need to burgle Deschalers’s home looking for a will that disinherited them. They could have gone any time, quite openly. She was his niece and only kin.’

‘It would be useful to know the identity of Deschalers’s scribe,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He must have written the document in the first place, and will know if there is more than one will in existence.’

‘You are chasing clouds,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘Everyone knew – and expected – that Deschalers would leave all his money to Julianna. The deed was no surprise to anyone.’

Bartholomew supposed he was right, but thought it unwise to dismiss the burglary until they were certain it was irrelevant. He turned his mind back to their list of odd coincidences. ‘Edward told Thomas to take the mill dispute to the King – on learning that the Millers’ Society intended to burn Mortimer’s Mill to the ground – and then they secured the services of Gonville’s lawyers to represent them. Bottisham was one of those clerks, but then he was murdered.’

‘Or he committed suicide,’ said Michael. ‘The most likely explanation is still that Bottisham and Deschalers met, one killed the other and then took his own life in a fit of remorse. It was our original conclusion, if you recall.’

‘But we deduced that when we trusted what Bernarde told us. Now we are not so sure, because we have caught him out in lies. We cannot discount the possibility that Bernarde killed the Mortimers’ lawyer first, then murdered the man who is related to the Mortimers by marriage and who spoke out against burning his rival’s mill.’

‘True,’ admitted Michael. ‘Although I really did believe Bernarde’s boy when he corroborated his father’s story about the various thumps in the engines. But Bernarde is not our only suspect. We know Thomas Mortimer does not hesitate to kill – he dispatched Lenne with callous abandon. He is a drunkard, and it would not surprise me to learn that he had committed the murders in a fit of wine-fuelled rage.’

‘Why? Even wine-fuelled rage needs something to set it off.’

‘He may have slaughtered Deschalers and Bottisham without knowing what he was doing, so his family dumped the bodies in the King’s Mill to throw us off the scent – to protect him.’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I think Bottisham and Deschalers were killed where they were found. And a nail in the palate is not something that happens by chance. Both Deschalers and Bottisham were killed with ruthless efficiency, and I am not sure Thomas possesses the clarity of mind to carry out such a task. Besides, his involvement leaves your theory with an awkward question: why would he be in the King’s Mill in the middle of the night?’

‘We do not know what Bottisham and Deschalers were doing there, either,’ Michael pointed out. He sighed heavily. ‘We have answers to virtually none of our questions. However, I recommend keeping an open mind as far as all our suspects are concerned. And speaking of open minds, I have not discounted the possibility that Bess is involved, either.’

‘I tried to catch her out once or twice, to see whether her rambling wits are carefully cultivated to fool us. But I have not succeeded.’

‘That may mean she is just more clever than you,’ said Michael bluntly. ‘She is still the person most likely to have killed Bosel.’

Bartholomew was uncertain. ‘She had a fortune in gold, but someone took it from her in exchange for information she never received. Do you really think a cunning manipulator would blithely hand over all her money, in return for nothing but vague promises and lies?’

‘And finally, we have Warde,’ said Michael, declining to acknowledge that the physician might have a point. ‘One of the King’s Commissioners. Rougham denies sending him the Water of Snails, but Warde received and drank it, and now the Commission is down to three members. Warde had taken it upon himself to put the Mortimers’ side of the argument – since Bernarde and Lavenham were out to represent their own interests. That means one of the Millers’ Society might have had him killed.’

‘You think Warde was murdered?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘But the claim of foul play was just Rougham being unpleasant towards me. There is no evidence to suggest he was wrongfully killed.’

‘No evidence yet,’ corrected Michael. ‘But again, we shall keep open minds. I do not believe in sinister coincidences, and you said yourself that Warde’s cough should not have killed him. But something did. You may be right, and Warde’s heart may have failed from the effort of continual hacking. Or perhaps he had a natural aversion to Water of Snails – which you tell me contains powerful herbs, as well as boiled garden pests.’

‘Or Lavenham made a mistake with his ingredients, or Rougham in his instructions. There is no end to the possibilities, and I do not see how we will ever learn the truth.’

‘Lavenham,’ mused Michael, his eyes gleaming, so that he looked like a fatter, younger version of his grandmother. ‘The apothecary who made up the potion, who is also a member of the Millers’ Society, and who has a vested interest in ridding himself of a pro-Mortimer Commissioner.’

‘Master Thorpe also refuses to accept the Millers’ Society’s side of the dispute without demur,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘He agreed to remain neutral, while Warde put the Mortimers’ case. If you are right about what happened to Warde, then you should warn Master Thorpe to be on his guard against mysterious potions sent from the apothecary.’

‘I already have,’ replied Michael. ‘Not that he needed to be told. He knows that to be appointed a Commissioner in this particular case is a dangerous business.’

On a day of rest, when labour was forbidden at Michaelhouse, Bartholomew found himself at a loose end later that morning. Usually he would have worked on his treatise on fevers, with the window shutters closed so that the rigorist William could not see what he was doing. But such covert activities were difficult now he no longer had a chamber to himself. Redmeadow would have turned a blind eye, but the same could not be said for Quenhyth. When the student caught his teacher breaking the College’s rules, his disapproving shuffles made concentration impossible, so Bartholomew was usually forced to abandon his writings.

Quenhyth and Redmeadow were at home that morning, and all Bartholomew’s attempts to send them on errands or out for walks failed. Quenhyth sat on a bench with a religious tract on his knees – the only kind of reading allowed – and chattered about his family, his home in Chepe, and the new cloak his father had promised to send him. Redmeadow dozed on Bartholomew’s bed.

‘He has been stealing my ink again,’ Quenhyth said to Bartholomew in a whisper, nodding his head at his roommate. ‘More than half of it had gone when I checked it this morning.’

‘I did not,’ said Redmeadow indignantly, showing he had not been asleep after all. ‘You left the lid off, and it evaporates.’

‘Not true!’ cried Quenhyth.

‘Are you calling me a liar?’ demanded Redmeadow, coming off the bed in a lunge, and advancing menacingly. Quenhyth scampered away from him.

‘Stop it,’ ordered Bartholomew sharply. He had forgotten about Redmeadow’s fiery temper. ‘Sit down, both of you.’

‘You need to do something about Rougham,’ said Quenhyth, when Redmeadow was safely back on the bed. ‘He is accusing you of killing Warde, when it is obvious that he is the culprit.’

‘No one killed Warde,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He died from coughing.’

‘But Warde should not have died,’ pressed Quenhyth. ‘You said so yourself. And Rougham was the man who prescribed the very last medicine Warde swallowed. You should investigate him.’

‘You should,’ agreed Redmeadow. ‘He is not a nice man.’

He and Quenhyth began a venomous discussion, listing Rougham’s various faults. Bartholomew tried to go back to his treatise, but it was no more possible to concentrate through their vicious character assassination than through Quenhyth’s disapproving sighs, and it was not long before he gave up and left. He met Michael in the yard. The monk had crumbs on his jowls, and his lips were oily from the lard-coated oatcakes he had been devouring with Agatha by the kitchen fire.

‘You have only just had breakfast,’ the physician said accusingly. He glanced down, and saw the monk had secured a handful of the greasy treats for later, too. ‘It is not good to eat all the time, Brother. You will create an imbalance of humours and give yourself stomach gripes, not to mention the fact that you are becoming corpulent. How will you chase errant students, when you cannot manage more than a waddle?’

‘I am not corpulent,’ said Michael, deeply offended. ‘I have large bones, as I have told you before. And I do not waddle.’

‘You have waddled since Christmas, and it is time to stop. You must adopt a more sensible dietary regime. Remember the seizure suffered by that fat monk in Ely last summer? Well, you will have one, too, if you continue as you are. I do not want you to die.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ snapped Michael testily, grabbing one of Bartholomew’s hands and slapping the oatcakes into it with such force that they crumbled into pieces. Walter’s cockerel immediately darted forward, to take advantage of the unexpected feast showering to the ground. ‘But do not pick on me because your students have driven you from your illicit labours.’

‘I am sorry, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, relenting. He knew the monk was right. ‘These last few days have been difficult, what with Isnard, Mistress Lenne, Bottisham and now Warde.’

Michael accepted the apology with poor grace. ‘Perhaps we should take a walk to visit friends – Matilde, perhaps, or your brother-in-law. That may take my mind off my poor growling stomach.’

‘We will just walk,’ said Bartholomew, steering the monk towards the gate. It was customary to offer food and drink to visitors, and both Matilde and Stanmore kept well-stocked kitchens. The monk knew this perfectly well, just as he knew it would be discourteous to decline their hospitality.

They strolled slowly, stopping to exchange greetings with colleagues and acquaintances. Eventually, they reached the Mill Pool, where both mills stood silent, and where Isnard’s neighbours had carried him to a bench outside his house, so he could watch the ducks quarrelling.

‘These birds are like the Mortimers,’ said the bargeman, as Bartholomew and Michael approached, not lifting his eyes from the feathered fracas in front of him. ‘They only care about themselves. I heard the family arranged for poor Master Warde to die, too.’

‘I doubt that was them,’ said Michael, sitting next to him. ‘The Millers’ Society are the ones who will benefit from Warde’s death, not the Mortimers. The Mortimers have just lost a Commissioner who was prepared to argue their point of view. Have you recovered from your foray to St Mary the Great with your new leg last Thursday?’

‘No,’ replied Isnard shortly. ‘The Doctor says I damaged the wound so badly that I am forbidden to attach my new limb until at least the summer. I should never have allowed Thomas Mortimer inside my house. I thought he had come to make amends, but instead he used me for his own purposes. He did not even pay for the ale we drank together – he purchased it with the money the Doctor gave me.’

‘Then what did you use to buy food and fuel?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Paxtone gave me a penny. And so did Clippesby, although he claimed he delivered it on behalf of Bird, who was unable to come himself because of a “pressing appointment to discuss creation theology with the Master of Trinity Hall”.’ Isnard shook his head. ‘Clippesby spins his tales with such an honest face that I do not know whether he is a lunatic or a saint.’

‘A lunatic,’ answered Michael. ‘The Master of Trinity Hall knows nothing of creation theology.’

Isnard regarded Bartholomew sombrely. ‘Are you sure about my leg? Only Mortimer said he saw it healed. If I went back to the Hand of Justice and asked it nicely, it might help me a second time …’

‘Mortimer was lying,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘Severed limbs do not regrow. He knew it would take little to intoxicate you in your weakened condition, and he deliberately set out to deceive you. He wanted to stem the tide of ill feeling over what he did to you and Lenne.’

‘But Rougham said it was a miracle, too,’ said Isnard miserably.

‘Rougham is a fool,’ said Bartholomew, no longer caring whether he offended his rival physician. Rougham had done nothing but criticise him, upset his students and make silly diagnoses for days, and he was heartily sick of it.

‘Well, it made me happy for an hour,’ said Isnard with a sniff. He glanced up. ‘Here comes Master Lenne, old Lenne’s son. He arrived late last night from Thetford.’

The younger Lenne had left Cambridge to become barber to the Cluniac monks at Thetford Priory some years before. He was a wiry man in his early forties, with thin hair and a perfect set of white teeth that looked as though they belonged in someone else’s head.

‘I owe you my thanks,’ Lenne said to Bartholomew. ‘You physicked my mother, but have not pestered her with demands for fees.’ He regarded Bartholomew’s shorn hair with a professional eye. ‘Did my father do that? I heard he was losing his touch, but I did not know he had sunk that low.’

‘It will grow,’ said Bartholomew shortly.

‘Eventually,’ said Lenne. He handed Bartholomew a gold coin. ‘This should be sufficient to see her through to the end. It cannot be long now.’

‘It will not,’ agreed Bartholomew bluntly. ‘She only waited this long because you were coming.’

‘Then I should go back to her,’ replied Lenne. He hesitated, then addressed Michael. ‘Isnard tells me Thomas Mortimer is not to be charged with my father’s murder? Is this true?’

‘Unfortunately, yes,’ said Michael. ‘There were no witnesses to the accident, and–’

‘There was Bosel,’ interrupted the bargeman bitterly. ‘But Mortimer had him murdered, so he would not speak out. And there is me, but the lawyers say I do not count, because I am a victim. They claim they need independent witnesses to bring about a conviction.’

‘That cannot be right,’ said Lenne unhappily. ‘There is no such thing as an independent witness in a place like Cambridge, where everyone is bound by allegiances, alliances and agendas. Even the beggar will have had his own reasons for stepping forward.’

‘I am sure he did,’ muttered Michael. ‘And it would not surprise me to learn that he saw nothing of the accident. But I suspect it cost him his life nonetheless.’

‘The law is unjust,’ said Isnard softly. ‘Thomas should pay me for my injury, and he should pay Lenne for the loss of his father. But the law disagrees. Meanwhile, Thorpe and Edward are claiming compensation because they were ordered to abjure the realm. They were guilty, and everyone knows it, but the law says the town is to pay them. I heard it this morning.’

‘The King’s Bench has reached a decision about that?’ asked Michael. ‘Already?’

Isnard nodded. ‘A messenger arrived from Westminster last night. The news is all over the town this morning, and people are furious – especially the merchants, who will be obliged to provide the lion’s share. The King’s clerks were quite clear about what was to happen.’

‘Bribery,’ said Lenne in a disgusted voice. ‘I heard these clerks were bribed to issue the compensation order – with promises of a percentage of whatever was raised. Needless to say, the sum to be paid to Thorpe and Edward is a large one.’

‘Are you sure about this?’ asked Michael uncertainly. It did not sound likely, even for England’s notoriously flexible legal system.

‘Yes,’ said Isnard bitterly. ‘I have nothing to do but sit here and listen to gossip. Godric of Ovyng Hostel – he is a nice lad – came and told me all about the letter Sheriff Tulyet had from these greedy Westminster clerks.’

‘I hope Tulyet orders Thomas Mortimer to pay most of it,’ said Lenne in disgust. ‘Justice!’ He spat at the river, causing a flapping frenzy among the ducks, and stalked away. Bartholomew thought he had every right to be angry, and wondered if he might decide to dispense a little ‘justice’ of his own. He said as much.

‘He will not,’ said Isnard. ‘He will rage and rail, then he will bury his mother and go back to Thetford. He is not stupid, and knows the law favours the rich. But perhaps he should ask his prior to petition the King, to tell him what is really happening here. His Majesty deserves to know what vile things are being done in his name.’

‘Unfortunately, I suspect he already does,’ said Bartholomew. He recalled what Tulyet had said about the law. ‘But it is all that stands between us and chaos.’

‘I suspect we will soon learn that it does not make a very good barrier,’ said Isnard. ‘There are rumblings of discontent in this town – about the ownership of the Hand, about the mills, and about the compensation for Thorpe and Edward. It will not be long before we are in flames.’

Bartholomew felt even more restless after his encounter with Isnard, and did not know what to do to take his mind off the array of problems and questions that tumbled about his mind like demanding acrobats. When Michael would have strolled back towards Michaelhouse, Bartholomew steered him to the High Street instead, thinking they could walk as far as the Castle or beyond. The hill would be good exercise for Michael, and there was a sick woman in the derelict cottages opposite the fortress who might appreciate a visit from a physician and a monk.

As they approached the Church of All Saints in the Jewry, Bartholomew saw people begin to emerge after its Sunday service. Among them were Stanmore and Tulyet, who expressed their sadness over the death of Warde.

‘What is this about the town paying Thorpe and Edward Mortimer for the costs of their exile?’ demanded Michael, brushing their condolences aside. ‘Surely it cannot be right?’

Tulyet’s expression was disgusted. ‘I had word from the King’s Bench yesterday, and the sum we have been ordered to pay is enormous. It will cause all manner of strife, because the burgesses are already demanding that some of it should be paid by the University.’

‘Why?’ asked Michael indignantly. ‘Neither Thorpe nor Mortimer were scholars when they committed their crimes. Why should the University contribute to compensation?’

‘Because the merchants are already struggling to fund the repairs to the Great Bridge,’ replied Tulyet tartly. ‘Thorpe and Mortimer’s demand has come at a very bad time.’

‘The burgesses are right,’ said Stanmore who, as one of the town’s wealthiest merchants, was likely to be asked to put up a significant amount. ‘The University should help us with this.’

‘Will you contest the decision?’ asked Bartholomew of Tulyet. ‘There must be something we can do to avoid rewarding criminals for their wrongdoings.’

‘We have no case,’ said Tulyet. ‘The King’s Bench has made a decision in His Majesty’s name, and we cannot refuse to part with our gold because we think it is wrong. The King would respond by accusing us of rebellion. All we can do is pay the money, and hope Thorpe and Mortimer leave.’

‘I will never pay a Mortimer,’ vowed Cheney the spicer, overhearing their discussion as he walked past. He bustled forward to have his say. ‘Not a penny! I hurl stones every time I see Edward swagger along the High Street, but I always miss.’

Cheney’s Millers’ Society colleagues were at his heels. They had evidently been using the service to engage in a little impromptu business, because all held documents, and Morice carried an abacus.

‘We were sorry about Warde,’ said Isobel, breaking off from an apparently intense discussion with Bernarde and her husband. ‘He was a good man.’

‘The King’s Commission miss he,’ said Lavenham gravely, when she pinched his arm to tell him to make a suitably sympathetic comment. ‘He school-man with nose in book, but honest.’

‘He was fair minded,’ agreed Tulyet. ‘I do not know how the King’s Commission will fare without his calm voice and gentle reason.’

‘Master Thorpe will be even-handed,’ said Michael.

‘So will I,’ declared Bernarde, affronted. ‘And Lavenham. We will give the King the verdict he wants.’

‘Point proven,’ muttered Bartholomew.

‘I do not see your problem,’ said Bernarde, genuinely puzzled. ‘Surely you want the King happy?’

‘Everyone wants the King happy,’ said Stanmore, before his brother-in-law could incriminate himself by saying he did not much care. ‘The King unhappy is always a bad thing, because it means increased taxes. None of us want that.’

There was a chorus of fervent agreement, with Cheney adding that it was especially true now everyone had to dig deep in his coffers to pay Edward and Thorpe’s compensation – as well as financing the repairs to the bridge.

‘Master Warde was not as unbiased as everyone believes,’ said Bernarde, returning to the matter of the Commission. ‘When we had our first meeting, he insisted on putting the Mortimers’ point of view – and Master Thorpe actually listened to him.’ He sounded as if he could scarcely credit their outrageous behaviour.

‘Did he, by God?’ said Cheney, pursing his lips in disapproval. ‘I might have known scholars would support the wrong side. After all, the Mortimers did choose Gonville Hall to present their case at the formal hearing, and University men always stick together.’

‘They cleaves with each other,’ agreed Lavenham angrily. ‘Like with Hand of Injustice, which belong to town. School-men claim belong to University.’

‘The Hand of Justice, Lavenham,’ corrected Bernarde. ‘It does not do to confuse them.’

‘Why not?’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘Everyone else does, including the King.’ Michael gave him a hard elbow-jab that hurt enough to make him think twice about saying anything else.

‘If the University is forced to help pay this compensation, they will definitely keep the Hand of Justice for themselves,’ said Cheney angrily. ‘They will continue to lock it in St Mary the Great, and it will cost us townsfolk dear each time we want to petition it.’

‘But Father William has been charging scholars and townsfolk the same amount,’ said Tulyet reasonably. ‘There was a nasty argument this morning, because he refused Langelee a free viewing. They almost came to blows, and only the intervention of Dame Pelagia prevented a brawl.’

‘That Hand will cause trouble wherever it goes,’ said Michael. ‘Young Thorpe has asked the King if Gonville can have it. But other Colleges are sure to be jealous. As far as I am concerned, the town can have the thing, and good riddance.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Tulyet hastily. ‘I do not want to deal with the strife it will cause, either.’

‘Warde’s will is going to be read tomorrow morning,’ said Stanmore, changing the subject to one all merchants loved: money. ‘He was a wealthy man by University standards. I wonder what he will leave his College.’

‘Books, I imagine,’ said Cheney distastefully. ‘It is what they all like. Did you hear about Deschalers’s will? Julianna inherited the lot.’

‘Except for a wooden chest,’ said Stanmore. ‘That went to some clerk, although I understand it is a paltry thing. The clerk admired it – he was probably being polite – and Deschalers took him at his word. I suspect the fellow is now wishing he had praised something a little more expensive.’

‘I would be,’ said Bernarde wistfully. ‘A box is useful, but virtually worthless. Deschalers did not leave his apprentices a penny, you know. He was wrong to be so miserly. They served him for many years, and they deserved better.’

‘And then Edward dismissed most of them,’ added Cheney. ‘It is almost as if he wants his business to fail. How will he run it without men who know what they are doing? He has neither the experience nor the knowledge to become a grocer.’

‘I do not think he intends to stay long,’ said Stanmore. ‘A man intent on making a venture profitable does not rid himself of those who can help him. I suspect he intends to reap what funds there are – from Julianna’s inheritance and this wretched compensation – and then leave.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Clear off!’ growled Thorpe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Phlegm,’ corrected Bartholomew absently.

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

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

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

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

‘No, but–’

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

‘Yes, and–’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What about the Water of Snails?’

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

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

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

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

‘I suppose he sent it and forgot what he had done.’ He was about to add Rougham’s own solution – that one of his students was responsible – when Matilde gave a sharp, derisive laugh.

‘Do you really believe that? Is he a half-wit, then – dispensing cures, then forgetting about them? I do not think so! He either sent that note and the Water of Snails, and denies that he did so for sinister reasons. Or, he did not, and someone is trying to make him look guilty of murder.’

Bartholomew gazed at her. ‘Now you are jumping to wild conclusions! There is no evidence to allow you to make those sorts of assumptions.’

‘You are overly innocent,’ declared Matilde. ‘You will find that Rougham killed Warde.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What reason could Rougham have for killing a wealthy patient? As far as he is concerned, Warde’s death represents a sizeable loss of income.’

‘Because he wanted to strike at the King’s Commission. He is afraid they will find in favour of the King’s Mill – against Mortimer. Since Gonville Hall has interests in Mortimer’s Mill, Rougham cannot allow that to happen.’

Bartholomew was astounded. ‘But Pulham told Michael that Gonville does not have interests in Mortimer’s Mill.’ He reconsidered, even as he spoke. Master Thorpe had mentioned that Gonville had been promised a handsome donation for their chapel if they won the Mortimers’ case. Michael had intended to ask him about it, but most of the Gonville Fellows were in Ely, summoned there by the Bishop in relation to some tedious issue about property rights.

‘Pulham was lying,’ said Matilde. ‘Why do you think the Mortimers hired scholars from Gonville to represent them? It is not just because they are good with the law; it is because Gonville have a vested interest in seeing the Mortimers win, just as Lavenham and Bernarde have a vested interest in seeing the King’s Mill win. It means Gonville will fight all the harder for their client’s victory.’

‘How is Bess?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking he had better change the subject if he did not want to quarrel with her. Even if she was right, and Gonville did have a promise of handsome rewards, there was still no good reason – or one he could see, at least – for Rougham to kill Warde. Physicians simply did not dispatch their patients, and that was that. ‘Have you discovered any more about her?’

‘Not yet,’ said Matilde shortly, aware that she was being steered on to safer ground. ‘I have asked the Sisters to listen for rumours about her, but it appears she just arrived one morning and started to ask about her man. That is all anyone knows.’

‘And what about her gold?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Do you know how she came by that?’

‘I know how she did not come by it. Even the most generous of clients would not give Bess more than a penny for her services. She carried her small fortune in a purse, but I do not think it is wise for lone women to have purses. They represent too obvious a target for robbers, so I sewed her gold into her cloak. It did not keep it safe, though, because someone still stole it from her.’

As she spoke, Alfred leapt to his feet and pulled something from a shelf over the hearth, which he handed to Bartholomew.

‘Her money came in this?’ asked Bartholomew, inspecting the small leather pouch. He recognised it at once, with its letter D inside a pot. ‘It belonged to Deschalers. He dropped it on the High Street a few days ago, and I retrieved for him. He must have given Bess her gold.’

‘I wonder why?’ said Matilde, bemused. ‘I told you he was fastidious about his women. He would never have taken Bess to his bed. And, furthermore, Yolande tells me his recent illness made him disinclined to see anyone, even his favourites.’

Bartholomew scratched his head. ‘Deschalers was definitely leading Bess somewhere the day before he died. Perhaps he gave her the money then. The timing is about right. And this purse tells us for certain that he was her secret benefactor. Now we need to find out why.’

‘We can hardly ask him,’ said Matilde. ‘And Julianna will be hopeless. She is only interested in things that affect her. She would not know and would not care why her uncle pressed gold on a beggar-woman the day before he died.’

Bartholomew sighed in frustration. ‘Who is Bess? I am sure that if we knew, then much of this business would become clear, and we would understand exactly who killed Deschalers and Bottisham – and why.’

Bartholomew enjoyed teaching. He was good at it, and his students usually enjoyed the challenges he set them, with his streams of questions and unpredictable changes of subject. And he loved debating with them once they had mastered a text, cross-examining them and seeing whether they could use their knowledge to present alternative views set out in other commentaries. That Monday they were going to discuss the uses and virtues of grapes in the diet, as described by Galen. Although this was a basic subject, involving little controversy, Redmeadow had been arming himself for a good argument, while Quenhyth had been to the King’s Hall library to see what Bacon had to say on the subject.

Deynman, meanwhile, who still had not mastered the knack of independent research, had visited several vineyards and amassed an array of different wines. Bartholomew helped him carry his wares to the hall, supposing he could use them to demonstrate Galen’s contention that new, sweeter wines were processed into urine more quickly than sour or sharp ones. They had just reached the stairs when Deynman happened to glance across the courtyard.

‘Oh, no!’ the student cried in dismay. ‘What is he doing here?’

Bartholomew was horrified to see Thorpe strolling towards them, looking quite at home and totally oblivious to the scowls and unwelcoming comments of Michaelhouse’s scholars. Michael joined Bartholomew, and together they waited for Thorpe to reach them.

‘What do you want?’ demanded Michael coldly.

‘I have come to hear Doctor Bartholomew lecture on Galen,’ said Thorpe, an innocent expression on his face. ‘I am recommended by Paxtone of King’s Hall. I have his letter here.’

He produced a parchment from his scrip with a flourish. Michael snatched it away and scanned its contents, scratching his chin so that his fingernails rasped in the bristles.

‘Very well,’ he said, handing it back. ‘But behave yourself. One hint of trouble and you are out.’

‘Do not fear,’ said Thorpe insolently. ‘I have no intention of causing trouble here.’

Bartholomew glanced at him sharply, catching the implication that he intended to cause trouble elsewhere, but Thorpe merely smiled and pushed past them to the hall. Deynman promptly abandoned his wines and followed, muttering to Bartholomew that he would watch him like a hawk with a rabbit.

‘Yes, but which is which?’ said Michael, amused that a simple lad like Deynman should think he was a match for Thorpe.

‘Why did you let him in?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I do not want him in my lecture. I have students who are keen to learn, and I cannot have them distracted because they think he is going to set fire to the College or draw a crossbow from under his cloak.’

‘The letter from Paxtone was genuine. He said Thorpe has expressed an interest in Galen’s dietary regimes, and he knows you teach the subject on Mondays. He asked us to give him a chance, and allow him to sit quietly at the back of your class.’

‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘But Thorpe will be disappointed if he thinks I am going to talk about how to kill people with grapes. My lecture is about how they can be used to improve health, not destroy it.’

‘I will be watching him, too. Still, I doubt he will want to attend more than one of your diatribes on diet.’ He rubbed his stomach ruefully, to indicate he was still hungry after being encouraged not to eat his fourth piece of bread at breakfast that morning.

Bartholomew entered the hall, where benches were arranged ready for teaching. He had about thirty students. Some were his own, but there were also those who had been sent by Paxtone and other masters. He too farmed out his students on occasion – there was no one as good as Paxtone for teaching basic Aristotelian physiology, while Lynton of Peterhouse gave solid instruction on the calculation of horoscopes.

It was not long before he forgot the smouldering presence at the rear of his class, enjoying the liveliness of his own students and their willingness to learn. Quenhyth grew frantic as he struggled to write down every word his teacher spoke, while Redmeadow showed he had learned his texts well, asking questions and making astute observations.

Deynman’s wine caused some amusement but, despite the levity, Bartholomew knew the scholars would remember the points he made about the different brews and their benefits or otherwise to the kidneys and bladder. It did not seem long before the bell rang to announce the end of lessons, and the students trooped out of the hall, clattering down the steps and talking in loud voices. When Bartholomew recalled that a killer had been in his class, he was obliged to run back up the stairs to ensure Thorpe had left, but the hall was empty and so was the conclave. Since there was nowhere else for Thorpe to be, the physician assumed he had slunk quietly away.

He felt the need for a few moments of peace before he returned to his room, so he headed for the orchard, pulling the scroll by Trotula from his bag as he went. He had been busy since Matilde had given it to him, and had not had the opportunity to inspect it properly. However, he had done no more than open the garden gate when he heard voices.

‘ … with Water of Snails,’ one was saying. ‘Or so he says.’

‘Rougham often prescribes it, actually,’ replied the second. ‘Especially when there are extenuating circumstances. In this case, there definitely were, and …’

Bartholomew did not want to hear any more, and turned to leave. But as he did so, the latch clanked and the voices were immediately stilled. Then came the sound of running feet.

Thinking there was no need for flight if the meeting was innocent, Bartholomew set off in pursuit. He saw someone struggling with the gate that led to St Michael’s Lane. It was hauled open, and there was another clatter of footsteps. Then silence. By the time he reached the door and shot into the lane, the pair were just turning into the High Street. He walked back to the garden, and replaced the bar. He had recognised Paxtone’s lumbering gait immediately, and could only assume his fleeter-footed companion was Wynewyk. Troubled that they should feel the need to run from him, he tucked the Trotula under his arm and returned to his room, no longer in the mood for solitary reading.

‘I assume Thorpe’s presence was uneventful?’ asked Michael, joining him there. ‘I heard no quarrels or violent disputes – at least, none out of the ordinary. Your Monday lectures are always a little lively. I wish my theologians were as animated over their learning.’

‘Theology is not a very interesting subject, Brother,’ said Bartholomew carelessly, his mind still on Paxtone and Wynewyk. ‘So you cannot expect tense excitement. But medicine–’

‘A curious thing happened this morning,’ interrupted Michael. ‘I had a letter from Dick Tulyet, telling me he could not accept my invitation to the midday meal at Michaelhouse today.’

‘Wise man. I saw Agatha picking nettles again this morning.’

‘But I did not invite him,’ said Michael, bemused. ‘I would not – not the way our kitchens are at the moment. It is rather embarrassing. I suppose he must have received an invitation from someone else, and assumed it was me. Damn! Here come your wretched students. Do I have time to hide?’

‘The rumours persist that Rougham accused you of killing Warde,’ said Quenhyth without preamble, as he sat down next to Bartholomew. The physician noticed that the lad’s nails had been bitten to the quick, and some had bled. ‘But I have been telling anyone I meet that you are an honourable man, and would probably never murder anyone.’

‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew dryly.

‘You are welcome. However, I have also been pointing out that the same cannot be said for Rougham, and that I would sooner take physic from the Devil than from him.’

‘I thought they were one and the same,’ said Michael with a chuckle.

Bartholomew sighed. ‘I know Rougham offended you the other day, Quenhyth, but abusing him will help no one. He will embarrass you publicly again, if you are not careful.’

‘You stood up for me,’ said Quenhyth warmly. ‘You told that vile slug that he was wrong and that I was right. That is probably why he has been spreading nasty tales about you. But he is the one who kills for worldly goods, not you.’

‘Kills for worldly goods?’ echoed Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘I do not recall either of us levelling that particular accusation at each other.’

‘Have you not heard?’ asked Redmeadow, his eyes round. ‘Master Thorpe read Warde’s will this morning, and Warde left his copy of Euclid’s Elementa – books seven to ten – to you. It is a standard arithmetic text, dealing with the properties of numbers.’

‘He knows what it is,’ said Michael. ‘He used it to teach you the Quadrivium, remember?’

Redmeadow grinned sheepishly. ‘Of course. But now you have a copy of your own, and will not have to borrow Peterhouse’s. You are doing well at the moment. First, Brother Michael gave you the Bacon, then Matilde bought you the scroll of Trotula’s writings, and now you have Euclid.’

Although there was no harm in the lad’s observations, they left Bartholomew with a sense of unease, as if Redmeadow perhaps entertained the notion that his teacher had killed Warde in order to secure the Euclid. He decided to decline Warde’s bequest, or perhaps donate it to the University, so others would not think the same thing, particularly with Rougham spreading his poisonous lies.

Michael touched his arm. ‘That is good news, Matt, although I had no idea that you and Warde were such friends. Why did he go to Rougham for his physic, if he liked you so well?’

‘He preferred Rougham’s horoscopes to my suggestions for his diet,’ said Bartholomew.

‘I can understand that,’ said Michael with feeling. ‘Perhaps I should do likewise.’

‘Only if you do not mind having medicines prescribed after an exchange of messages carried by children,’ said Redmeadow superiorly. He nodded knowledgeably at Michael’s surprise. ‘Young Alfred de Blaston told me about Rougham’s so-called consultation with Warde while we waited in Lavenham’s shop together the other day. I was collecting supplies for Doctor Bartholomew, and he was waiting for a blackcurrant syrup for Warde.’

‘You should be careful,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘Rougham will complain to the Chancellor if he learns you are collecting tales about him. And you do not want Tynkell to dismiss you.’

‘Tynkell would not do that!’ cried Redmeadow. He appealed to Michael. ‘Would he?’

Michael nodded. ‘Faced with a choice between keeping Rougham or you? Of course Tynkell will choose Rougham. We do not have so many masters of medicine that we can afford them to leave in sulky tantrums over students who are easily replaceable.’ He patted Redmeadow’s arm. ‘But do not fret over Rougham. He is not worth the aggravation. Ignore him, and forget his insults. There will be ways to repay him in the future. I may even help you myself.’

‘You will?’ asked Quenhyth eagerly.

‘Oh, yes. I shall not stand by and allow that arrogant villain to insult my closest friend. It will irk Rougham deeply to learn that Warde left the Euclid to Matt, and not to his own physician – and we shall certainly make something of that small fact.’

‘I have no idea why Warde did that,’ said Bartholomew, disliking Michael teaching his students how to be subversive. It might prove a dangerous weapon in their inexperienced hands.

‘I do,’ said Redmeadow brightly. ‘Warde explained it in his will, and I heard Master Thorpe telling his son about it in the High Street later.’

‘You seem to be party to a large number of private conversations,’ said Bartholomew, recalling how he had eavesdropped on the Mortimers, too. ‘You are worse than Agatha for gossip.’

‘She says I am her equal,’ said Redmeadow with pride, although Bartholomew had not meant it to be a compliment.

‘You heard Master Thorpe and his son talking?’ asked Michael, not caring how Redmeadow had garnered his information, only that he shared it. ‘I was under the impression that they barely acknowledge each other.’

‘They were quarrelling,’ said Redmeadow. ‘Master Thorpe was telling Rob what was in Warde’s will because he said he had done something similar.’

‘I do not understand,’ said Michael.

‘Warde said in his will that Doctor Bartholomew is the only physician who will make proper use of the Euclid,’ explained Redmeadow. ‘He said Rougham, Lynton and Paxtone do not take arithmetic seriously, and he wanted his books to go where they would do some good.’

‘He is right,’ said Michael, recalling several lengthy discussions between Bartholomew and Warde on just this subject. ‘Matt alone of the Cambridge physicians is interested in mathematics. But why did Master Thorpe tell his son this, when they can barely afford to be civil to each other?’

‘It was part of the fight,’ said Redmeadow, a little condescendingly. ‘Rob asked Master Thorpe what he might expect to inherit when Master Thorpe himself died – he was being nasty, talking enthusiastically about his father’s death.’

‘Really,’ said Michael drolly. ‘He was being unkind? You do surprise me.’

Redmeadow flushed. ‘I am sorry. I am so used to pointing out the obvious to Deynman that now I tend to do it for everyone. But, to continue with what I heard, Master Thorpe told Rob that all his property was willed to worthy causes – just as Warde’s had been. The stuff about Warde’s bequest to Doctor Bartholomew – about their mutual love of arithmetic – came out when Master Thorpe informed Rob that he was disinherited.’

Michael sighed. ‘That was rash. Rob is a lad who might kill over that sort of thing.’

‘But he is also the kind to kill for an inheritance,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Now he knows he does not have one, there is no point in making an end of his father. Master Thorpe probably knew exactly what he was doing.’