The Hand of Justice

CHAPTER 10

After leaving the Brazen George, Bartholomew and Michael saw a tabarded figure huddled in a nearby doorway with a large book under his arm. They watched Wynewyk nod quickly to someone, as though concluding a discussion, then glance around quickly before leaving. Wynewyk was not very good at conducting secret business without being seen, for he did not notice that Michael was observing his antics intently. But compared to Paxtone, who left their hiding place openly, as though there was nothing odd about two grown men crushed into a small place and muttering together, he was a veritable master of discretion.

While Paxtone headed for the Trumpington Gate, Wynewyk went north, but balked when he saw his Michaelhouse colleagues. He crossed the High Street so their paths would not meet. Michael’s eyes narrowed as he, too, cut across the road, ignoring the angry yell from a carter whose horse reared at the sudden movement. Wynewyk held his ground until the very last moment, when he shot back across the street. He was not pleased when he found Bartholomew blocking his way.

‘Going somewhere?’ asked the physician. His eyes strayed to the book under Wynewyk’s arm. A chain was attached to it, one end secured to the spine and the other hanging free. There were marks, where someone had taken a file and hewn through the links, releasing the tome from its secure place in a hall or a library. The damage looked new, and he recalled Wynewyk touting a book with a broken chain on a previous occasion.

‘Please,’ said Wynewyk, trying to nudge his way past. ‘I do not want to stop here.’

Bartholomew glanced across the road, and saw Michael pause to give Rob Thorpe a long, hard stare as they met. Thorpe glared back, his expression loaded with malice, but Michael was used to dealing with rowdy and occasionally violent undergraduates, and the ruffian found himself unable to intimidate the monk as he had many others in the town. Michael continued to glower until Thorpe was forced to look away and move on.

‘I am late,’ said Wynewyk, trying to push Bartholomew out of his way. The physician declined to let him. He was growing tired of Wynewyk’s suspicious behaviour, and wanted some answers.

‘You see a lot of Paxtone these days,’ he said.

‘Who?’ demanded Wynewyk testily. ‘I know no one of that name.’

Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly, thrown off guard by such flagrant lying. He saw Wynewyk’s shifty eyes and uncomfortable manner, and was about to demand the truth when Michael arrived. The monk snatched up the severed book chain and gazed accusingly at Wynewyk.

‘You could have borrowed a key to unlock this. You did not have to destroy the chain to get at it – they are expensive, you know.’

‘I do know,’ snapped Wynewyk. ‘I am in charge of the College accounts, remember? It is my duty to purchase chains, and I assure you that I am aware of exactly how much they cost. And I can also tell you we can ill afford to replace this one.’

Michael prevented Wynewyk from walking away. ‘What are you doing out with Michaelhouse’s much-prized copy of John Dumbleton’s Summa logicae et philosophiae naturalis?’

‘Someone has sawn halfway through its moorings,’ replied Wynewyk coldly. He waved the jagged end in Michael’s face. ‘So, I completed the task, and I am taking it to the smith for repairs. What would you have me do? Leave it for the would-be thief to steal when he finds time to complete his work? It is not the first time it has happened, either. Now, if you will excuse me–’

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

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

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

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

Michael answered with a meaningful silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Nothing in a phial. We argued about it, actually, because I said Deschalers needed something more than barley water.’

‘Rougham prescribed barley for a debilitating and painful disease?’ asked Bartholomew, shocked. ‘But that is tantamount to giving him nothing at all! Deschalers would have needed a powerful pain-reliever. In fact, he must have been getting one from somewhere, or he would not have been able to leave his house, let alone ride about the streets of Cambridge.’

‘I did not prescribe him one,’ said Paxtone. ‘But Lynton may have done. He was also appalled by Rougham’s refusal to give Deschalers what we felt he needed.’

‘But why did Rougham do such a thing? Was it revenge for the time when he withdrew the funds offered for Gonville’s chapel?’

‘He said Deschalers’s ailment was incurable,’ said Paxtone with some disgust. ‘And he believes there is no point in giving medicine to a man who cannot be made well again. He says such practices are a criminal waste of the patient’s money.’

‘He said that? Did he imagine Deschalers would want to save his treasure for the future, then?’

‘I would have recommended henbane seeped in hot mud, had Deschalers asked for my advice,’ said Paxtone. ‘Not taken internally, of course, because henbane causes warts, but applied as a plaister to the skin of the stomach.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, thinking Deschalers had had a narrow escape from Paxtone’s ministrations, too. He only hoped Lynton had had the sense to give the poor grocer a sense-dulling potion, since the other two physicians had failed him.

‘Was there henbane in the phial you found in the King’s Mill?’ asked Paxtone. ‘As well as the one that did away with Master Warde?’

‘It was empty, so I could not tell. But, if it did, then I do not think Deschalers could have killed Bottisham. The henbane would have made that impossible.’

‘Then perhaps it did not include any such thing,’ suggested Paxtone. ‘Perhaps it just contained some strong decoction of poppy, which is what Lynton – and you, no doubt – would have recommended for Deschalers. If that were the case, then Deschalers might have swallowed it to dull the ache in his innards before he killed Bottisham. I knew Bottisham was no killer.’ He gave a grim smile of satisfaction.

Bartholomew supposed it was possible – just. But, even without the agonising pain of his sickness to contend with, he was not sure whether Deschalers could have mustered the strength to overpower Bottisham with nails. Paxtone seemed eager for Deschalers to bear the blame. Was it because he, like Bartholomew himself, had been fond of the gentle Bottisham? Was it because the town would have no excuse to attack the University if it was found that a townsman had killed a scholar and not the other way around? Or did he have his own reasons for wanting such a solution accepted?

‘But do not look to me for answers about Deschalers, Matt,’ Paxtone went on, when the physician did not reply. ‘I do not interfere with Rougham’s patients, no matter how wrong I think his treatments are. Have you considered the possibility that Deschalers stole the phial from him, in desperation?’

‘Or perhaps Rougham misled you, and he did prescribe something strong.’ Bartholomew sighed; every fact he uncovered seemed to raise more questions than ever.

‘Bishop Bateman was poisoned, too,’ observed Paxtone philosophically. ‘At Avignon. That papal court sounds a dangerous and disagreeable place – full of Frenchmen. But speaking of disagreeable, I attended a stabbing today. A debate spiralled out of control at Gonville, and knives were drawn.’

‘Gonville? Then why was Rougham not called? It is his College.’

‘He could not be found, and they needed someone quickly. Ufford came looking for you or me. He found me first.’

‘I assume Thorpe was the culprit?’

Paxtone nodded. ‘He had inflicted a shallow wound that bled a lot and frightened everyone.’

‘Who did he stab?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Not Rougham if he was away, more is the pity.’

‘The priest, Thompson. By all accounts, Thompson was trying to prevent the fight, and received a blade in the arm for his pains. Young Despenser was the real object of Thorpe’s ire. They were quarrelling over the Hand of Justice, apparently.’

‘Oh, that,’ said Bartholomew in disgust.

‘It is gaining in popularity. I know what you think about it, but you are in a dwindling minority. I petitioned it myself recently, and confess I felt better afterwards. God invests power in unusual things, so who is to say the hand of your pauper cannot inspire miracles?’

‘There have been no miracles. Isnard’s severed leg did not regrow. Una is still suffering from bile in the stomach. Old Master Lenne is still dead.’

‘But Thomas Mortimer claims the Hand has absolved him of responsibility in that death – and folk believe him. The furious whispers against him have abated.’

‘Lenne’s son’s have not, and neither did his wife’s.’

‘Two dissenting voices in a host of believers,’ said Paxtone. ‘I prayed that Michaelhouse’s cock would desist from waking me with its crowing in the middle of the night. That was answered.’

‘Quenhyth killed Bird,’ said Bartholomew, thinking it an unkind petition to have made. ‘Damn! If folk believe the Hand can achieve that sort of thing, there will be no end to the trouble it will cause. As you said, there are already quarrels in Gonville about it.’

‘Thorpe offered to ask the King if Gonville can have the Hand – to raise funds for their chapel,’ Paxtone went on. ‘But Despenser told him they have no right to it, and is afraid it will lead to Gonville being attacked by jealous townsfolk. That is why they fought. Acting Master Pulham told Thorpe that if he tries to win an argument with knives again he will be expelled – Hand or no. Of course, Pulham’s heart was not really in the reprimand.’

‘Of course,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That would mean the loss of the Hand, as well as a student.’

Stanmore had taken pity on his brother-in-law’s starving colleagues, and had asked Kenyngham, Clippesby and Langelee to dine with him that evening, as well as Michael and Bartholomew. Wynewyk, William and Suttone were pointedly excluded from the gathering, on the grounds that the merchant did not like William’s fanaticism, Suttone’s obsession with the Death, or Wynewyk’s habit of diving in and out of seedy alleys. Dame Pelagia was also present, although, judging by Stanmore’s stammering surprise when she was shown in, the merchant had evidently not expected her. The food was excellent, the fires burned warmly in the hearth, and plenty of wine flowed, but it was a gloomy party nonetheless.

The scholars were weighed down by their concerns regarding the possibility of a riot over whether Bottisham had killed Deschalers – except Clippesby, who was more worried that the continued cold weather might make life difficult for hibernating dormice – while the clothier fretted about the state of commerce in the Fen-edge town. He railed to the uninterested Fellows that Edward Mortimer had encouraged his uncle to raise fulling prices to a ridiculous level, and had already all but destroyed Deschalers’s empire. The repercussions were expected to be enormous, and the burgesses had suspended their payments for the repair of the Great Bridge until the matter was resolved. The last statement grabbed their attention, and all five scholars regarded him uneasily.

‘But the carpenters have dismantled parts of it,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘It cannot be left as it is. It is dangerous – and people are still using it.’

‘It will remain that way until we know where we are with our finances,’ replied Stanmore firmly. ‘But, hopefully, the King’s Commission will find against the Mortimers, and business will return to normal. Once we are comfortable with the situation again, the repairs can be restarted.’

‘But there are broken spars and bits of half-built scaffolding everywhere,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Sergeant Orwelle bruised his ankle there yesterday, and one of Yolande de Blaston’s children suffered a badly cut hand on a carelessly placed nail. It cannot stay as it is.’

‘The cat from the Hospital of St John said the same,’ agreed Clippesby. ‘A duck was killed by falling masonry, and Robin of Grantchester’s pig had a splinter in her tail. She is very angry about it.’

‘A duck is dead?’ asked the gentle Kenyngham, reaching out to touch the Dominican’s hand in a gesture of sympathy. Clippesby’s eyes filled with tears, and he looked away.

Michael looked down at his platter uneasily. ‘Is this duck?’

‘Cockerel,’ replied Stanmore.

Clippesby jumped up in horror. ‘Not Bird!’

‘No,’ said Langelee. ‘We are having him tomorrow – if we have not been burned in our beds by angry townsmen by then. Dame Pelagia, do you think we should write to the King, and ask whether he will rescind the pardons granted to Thorpe and Edward? I am sure most of our problems would evaporate if they left our town.’

‘I would not try it, unless you intend to accompany the letter with a handsome sum of money,’ advised Dame Pelagia. ‘King’s Pardons tend to be the last word in such cases, and it costs a good deal to have them overturned.’

‘What about the compensation we are ordered to pay?’ asked Stanmore. ‘What if we offered these corrupt clerks that money, instead of giving it to Thorpe and Mortimer?’

‘It would not be nearly enough,’ replied Dame Pelagia. ‘Royal justice does not come cheap, you know. I am not surprised Constantine Mortimer wants Deschalers’s house to help defray the original costs of the pardons. If it were not for the additional money earned from his brother’s fulling mill, he could never have afforded to buy his son’s release.’

‘Damn them all!’ muttered Stanmore venomously. ‘I went to the Hand of Justice yesterday, and asked it to do something about the situation. Since I do not believe in the sanctity of the thing, and since I know perfectly well that it came from poor Peterkin Starre, you can see the depths to which I am prepared to sink to rid my town of these louts.’

‘I am not one of its followers, either,’ said Langelee. ‘But I must admit that William’s treatment of it is very clever. He has it in a splendid reliquary – which always impresses the poor – and he makes sure that pretty blue-green ring can always be seen when he gets it out.’

‘A tawdry bauble,’ said Dame Pelagia dismissively. ‘But unusual enough to catch the eye and draw the penitent’s attention away from the pins that hold the thing together. You should not have allowed this cult to gain such momentum, Michael. It is dangerous, and will certainly end in trouble.’

Michael flushed at the reprimand, and Bartholomew did not think he had ever seen the monk so discomfited.

‘Sheriff Tulyet still has not discovered the identity of that poor corpse,’ said Kenyngham in the silence that followed. ‘It is a shame, because I like a name when I pray for a soul.’

‘The duck’s name was Clement,’ said Clippesby in a small voice. ‘He hailed from Chesterton.’

‘Actually, I meant the man in the snow bank outside Bene’t,’ said Kenyngham. ‘I found him a few weeks ago if you recal.’

‘Oh, him,’ said Langelee, not very interested. ‘Bartholomew had a look at his body, but there were no wounds, and it was concluded that he had been standing under the roof when the snow sloughed off it. It was a case of a fellow being in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

‘But the Sheriff wants to find out who he was, nonetheless,’ said Kenyngham. ‘His clothes were decent, so he was not a beggar. He was not from the town or the nearby villages, and we think he was probably a messenger.’

‘A messenger?’ asked Dame Pelagia curiously. ‘What makes you draw that conclusion?’

‘Because he carried a letter from a London merchant to a Cambridge friar. The Sheriff said it was professionally written, and that this man’s boots were worn in a way that suggested he spent a lot of time travelling. Unfortunately, the friar to whom the missive was addressed – Godric of Ovyng Hostel’s predecessor – is dead, so we cannot ask him about it.’

Michael stared crossly at him. ‘And where is this message now?’

Kenyngham raised apologetic hands. ‘I lost it.’

Michael was unimpressed. ‘You should have given it to me. First, it might have helped us identify this messenger, and second, it may have contained information important to one of my investigations.’

‘It did not,’ replied Kenyngham. ‘I cannot recall exactly what it said, but it was only something about a visit by a man to his kin – a visit that probably did not happen, given that all the roads were blocked by snow back then. I meant to pass it to you but I forgot, and then I lost it. But it contained nothing important, I am sure of that.’

Bartholomew sat forward and stared into the wine in his cup. ‘There is someone in Cambridge who has been desperately hunting a man who went missing in the winter snows.’

‘Bess?’ asked Langelee. He looked thoughtful. ‘I suppose this corpse might have been her beau.’

Bartholomew tried not to be angry with Kenyngham. ‘You say the message he carried was from a London merchant? Bess told Quenhyth she was from London.’

Kenyngham smiled beatifically. ‘Then she will know his name. What was it?’

‘She has not told anyone,’ snapped Michael, still peeved at the elderly friar’s incompetence.

‘Poor Bess,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘What shall we do? The only way to know for certain is to show her his body, but he has been in the ground too long now.’

‘Tulyet kept the hat he wore,’ said Kenyngham. ‘I shall ask him to take her that – first thing tomorrow morning. It would be unkind to leave it any longer.’

The news that the man Bess had longed to find might be dead cast an even darker shadow of gloom over Stanmore and his guests, and they were all grateful when Langelee declared that his scholars had an early start and suggested they all return to Michaelhouse.

Bartholomew slept poorly until the early hours, when he was summoned to tend a patient near the Castle. He did not finish the consultation until dawn, when he walked slowly along the High Street towards Michaelhouse. He met Paxtone, who guessed from his weary and dishevelled appearance that he had been up for a good part of the night, and invited him to breakfast in King’s Hall. For the second time in less than twelve hours, Bartholomew ate a large and sumptuous meal.

Paxtone was full of ideas and questions about the text by Lanfrank of Milan he had been reading, which Bartholomew would normally have relished. But he was tired and worried about what Paxtone might have done, and could not summon the energy to debate with him. Paxtone sensed his lack of enthusiasm but put it down to fatigue. He insisted on prescribing a tonic, and nagged until Bartholomew agreed to accompany him to Lavenham the apothecary to collect it. Bartholomew had no intention of swallowing anything from Paxtone or Lavenham, and determined to throw the cure in the river as soon as neither was looking.

They walked through the handsome grounds of King’s Hall, and up King’s Childer Lane to Milne Street. The black-robed prophets of doom were out, railing at anyone who might have petitioned the Hand of Justice and warning them that it would take more than relics to save them from eternal damnation. Suttone was among them, informing Deschalers’s ex-apprentices that laziness and sloth were deadly sins and that they needed to find gainful employment before the Devil seized their idle souls. Cheney and Mayor Morice agreed, pointing out that there were no dried peas to be had now the apprentices had stopped working. The apprentices retorted bitterly that it was not their fault, and that Edward Mortimer was responsible for the problem.

The two physicians edged around the small crowd that had gathered to listen to the altercation, and had not gone much farther when they saw a second knot of people standing around someone who lay on the ground. Bartholomew saw Sheriff Tulyet among the onlookers, as well as Matilde. Quenhyth and Redmeadow stood shoulder to shoulder, while Bernarde and the Lavenhams watched from a distance, where they would not be obliged to rub elbows with peasants.

When Matilde saw Bartholomew she rushed forward to grab his arm. ‘Come quickly, Matt! Bess has swooned, and none of us can bring her round. Your students tried to help, but they are too inexperienced to know what to do.’

Bartholomew knelt next to the huddled shape, and saw there was a very good reason why Bess was not responding to the appeals made by well-meaning passers-by. She was dead. Her face had a peaceful look, as though she had finally been relieved of a great burden. It seemed Bess’s search was finally over, and in her pale, thin hands, she clasped what had once been a hat.

‘The last time I saw this poor lass,’ said Paxtone, leaning over Bess’s crumpled form with a sad expression, ‘was when Bernarde the miller led her off to some dark corner. Late last night, when I was returning home after matins and lauds.’

Everyone turned to look at Bernarde, who blushed and began to deny the charge in an angry voice, waving his keys as if they were a weapon. Isobel giggled in the kind of way that suggested she knew better, and Bernarde’s outrage convinced no one. Lavenham glanced from one to the other looking baffled, while Tulyet simply shook his head in disgust at them all.

‘I showed her the hat, as Master Kenyngham suggested,’ the Sheriff said to Bartholomew. ‘The man in the snow bank was her man – I could see the recognition in her eyes when she took the cap. She wandered off alone, but I did not know learning the truth would make her ill.’

‘There is nothing I can do,’ said Bartholomew. He gestured towards the doom-mongers, among whom Suttone was still visible. ‘Will you fetch Suttone, Redmeadow? She needs a priest.’

‘A priest?’ echoed Matilde, appalled. ‘But she was talking to me not long ago.’

‘About what?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘The death of her man?’

‘No, she asked whether I had seen him recently,’ said Matilde. She gave Tulyet a weak smile. ‘I suspect she had already forgotten what you told her about the body in the snowdrift.’

‘How did she seem?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Unwell,’ admitted Matilde. ‘But you know how odd she is, and I did not think anything of it. She said she was hot and that her mind was spinning – but I think it span most of the time. And she was short of breath, as if she had been running.’

‘Someone should carry her to a church,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Does she have any of her gold left, or perhaps something from Bernarde? Or will the town bury her?’

‘I did not pay her,’ snapped Bernarde angrily. He reddened again when he realised it sounded as though he had used her and declined to settle the debt. ‘Well, I gave her a penny, but it was only because I felt sorry for her.’

‘Well, she does not have a penny now,’ said Tulyet, deftly searching the woman’s rags. ‘An informant told me Rob Thorpe offered her information about her man a few days ago, but said it would cost. The poor woman handed over her coins, only to receive a lot of lies in return. I imagine the penny went the same way this morning. She was incapable of learning from her mistakes and would do anything for news of her lover, no matter how unreliable the source.’

‘I might have known it was Thorpe,’ said Matilde bitterly. ‘How can you let him get away with this?’

‘Because my informant is too frightened to give evidence against him publicly,’ replied Tulyet. ‘And now Bess is dead we have no case – no complainant.’

‘Then the law is wrong!’ declared Matilde coldly. ‘If it cannot protect the weak and the gullible from such low tricks, then there is something seriously amiss with it. You must do something.’

‘My hands are tied. If I charge him with cheating a woman who is now dead – and who could never have brought her case in person, anyway – Thorpe will tell the King that we are harassing him. We cannot afford to pay more royal fines. We are struggling to pay this compensation as it is.’

‘Your laws have nothing to do with justice,’ said Matilde, tears of outrage sparkling in her eyes. ‘They protect criminals, but leave the innocent to fend for themselves. It is a wicked system!’

Bartholomew agreed, but the street was not the right place for a debate with the Sheriff on the King’s Peace. Tulyet tried to apply the law fairly, and it was not his fault that Westminster clerks did not do likewise.

‘The loss of her gold makes no difference to Bess now,’ he said. ‘She is finally at peace.’

‘With her man,’ said Tulyet softly. ‘Although she never did tell me his name.’

Once the excitement was over, and the swooning woman had become just another corpse, people began to wander towards the plague prophets, who were engaged in a strident argument with Father William about the Devil’s role in the Death. Bernarde was among the first to slink away, unwilling to admit to what had transpired between him and Bess the previous night. The Lavenhams were next, heading for the Market Square. Bartholomew saw Rougham skirt around the edge of the crowd, his eyes darting here and there in an attempt to see what was happening without becoming involved. Tulyet left to fetch stretcher-bearers, and asked Bartholomew to wait with Bess until he returned, while Matilde went to see why Redmeadow was taking so long to bring Suttone. Eventually, Bartholomew and Paxtone were alone. Paxtone began to cover the dead woman with her cloak, but stopped when something fell out of it. It was a phial.

Bartholomew picked it up, noting it was like the one that had contained Warde’s Water of Snails and the one he had found at the King’s Mill. He studied it carefully, but Lavenham probably had dozens of identical containers for potions that were powerful or that were required in small amounts. Its similarity to the others meant nothing. He removed the stopper and squinted down the neck to assess its contents. Inside, the mixture was a murky red-white, and looked uncannily like the substance that had killed Bird.

‘Be careful,’ warned Paxtone, watching. ‘Those little pots usually contain something to be treated with caution – and it is not always medicine. I have purchased viper venom in one of them before now.’

‘What did you want that for?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

‘Another time,’ replied Paxtone enigmatically, in a way that made Bartholomew’s senses jangle all manner of warnings. ‘What is in it? Can you tell?’

Bartholomew sniffed its contents gingerly. He shook his head. ‘It smells the same as the Aqua Limacum Magistralis that killed Warde. I can detect coltsfoot quite strongly, but no liquorice. And there is something bitter and nasty underlying its other scents.’

Paxtone took it. ‘You are right. But if there is no liquorice, then perhaps it is not Water of Snails. Liquorice is one of its essential components.’

‘Lavenham omits expensive ingredients from his recipes, if he feels he can get away with it.’

‘Does he indeed?’ asked Paxtone, round eyed. He turned his attention back to the phial. ‘This dirty scent is familiar. It smells rank.’

‘Could it be henbane, do you think?’ suggested Bartholomew casually, watching him intently.

‘It could,’ said Paxtone, nodding vigorously. ‘But I have never heard of it used in a medicine to be swallowed before. I only ever add it to plaisters for external use.’

‘Unfortunately, since Quenhyth destroyed Warde’s mixture in a misguided effort to be helpful, we have no way of knowing whether Bess’s phial and Warde’s pot contained the same things.’

‘We also do not know if she drank it or that it killed her,’ Paxtone pointed out reasonably. ‘She may have found an abandoned bottle and picked it up because it was pretty – but did not sample the contents. Do not forget she was not in her right mind. And is henbane really that deadly when swallowed? I have never come across a case of ingestion before.’

Bartholomew pointed. ‘There is a pink trail on her chin, where it dribbled from her mouth, and, like Warde, she died feverish, dizzy and gasping for breath. These are all symptoms of henbane poisoning, and mean that she did swallow the stuff.’

Paxtone shook the phial gently. ‘You are more knowledgeable than me, Matt. I did not know how to recognise the signs of henbane ingestion. I think I shall take this pot to King’s Hall and perform a few experiments. You do not want Quenhyth “helping” you a second time. He may use your College cat now the cockerel is unavailable, and I like that animal.’

Bartholomew did not think it was a good idea to allow Paxtone to make off with the potion, when his own role in the grisly business was far from clear, but did not know how to stop him – at least, not without showing that he did not trust him. He watched Paxtone tuck the phial away and wondered whether he would ever see it again – or whether it would make its next appearance when another victim was claimed.

‘What do you think this means?’ he asked, trying to hide his misgivings. ‘That Bess purchased poison intending to take her own life? Or did someone give it to her?’

‘I do not see why anyone would want to kill her. She had lost her wits.’

‘Perhaps someone was afraid she might regain them.’ Bartholomew regarded Bess’s body thoughtfully. ‘Deschalers gave her a purse of gold. He was not a generous man, so he must have had some reason for providing her with such a large sum. Perhaps there are others who felt obliged to pay her, but they decided to kill her instead, in a bid to save their money.’

‘You make everything so complex,’ said Paxtone accusingly. ‘You have been too long in the company of Brother Michael, and you see plots and connivance wherever you look. Bess was a poor wench, who either intended to die or who mistook poison for something pleasant. She could not have blackmailed Deschalers, because she did not have the wits. And remember he was dying, Matt. Dying men are apt to be charitable. He gave Bosel new clothes, too.’

‘So he did,’ said Bartholomew, recalling that Bess had said as much to Redmeadow. ‘That means two recipients of his uncharacteristic generosity are now dead.’

Paxtone sighed in exasperation. ‘And a good many others are doubtless still living. It is dangerous to be poor in Cambridge, you know that. Beggars are often killed by those who think it is good sport to attack the defenceless. Bess’s death has nothing to do with your other cases.’

Bartholomew was not so sure. He considered the people he had recognised in the crowd that had gathered to watch her die, and who were connected to the other deaths. There was Rougham, hovering in the background – Bartholomew’s prime suspect in the poisoning of Warde. There was Bernarde, whose stories about discovering the bodies of Bottisham and Deschalers made no sense, and who had frolicked with Bess hours before her death. There were the Lavenhams, who dispensed Water of Snails from their shop, and who admitted to varying their recipes. Two other members of the Millers’ Society were close by: Cheney and Morice, who bought Water of Snails from Lavenham, and might know what an added dash of henbane would do. Bartholomew suspected Thorpe and Edward Mortimer would not be too far away, either. And, of course, there was Paxtone himself.

‘She had just learned about the death of her lover,’ said Paxtone, seeing his colleague was not convinced. ‘She was distraught – just look at the way she clings to his hat, even in death.’

‘But she had forgotten what Tulyet had told her by the time she met Matilde. She did not take her own life. In fact, I am willing to wager a jug of ale in the Brazen George that when we discover the truth behind her death, we will also know more about these other murders.’

‘I do not drink in taverns,’ said Paxtone primly, standing up and moving away as Suttone arrived. ‘But you can bring it to me in my quarters. It is a long time since I won a wager of ale – and I will win, because what you are suggesting is nonsense. The demise of a beggar-woman will not be connected to the death of rich merchants and respected scholars.’

‘We shall see,’ replied Bartholomew stubbornly.

When Tulyet eventually arrived with the stretcher-bearers, Bartholomew told him what he had reasoned about Bess’s sudden death. The Sheriff rubbed his nose between thumb and forefinger, and asked how many more murders would be committed before they had worked out what was happening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Brother Michael does,’ said Redmeadow meaningfully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Did you write his will?’ asked Bartholomew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Or he might just lie,’ said Quenhyth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Very well; we accept that,’ said Cheney, after a moment of thought. ‘But he had no reason to harm Deschalers. And I imagine not Bess, either. He was not alone in taking her for a tumble. Even Deschalers escorted her to his home once, and he was ill. And there were others.’

‘Who?’ demanded Michael.

‘She offered herself to me,’ said Morice, indicating to Bartholomew that the poor woman must have been desperate. ‘But I declined, because my wife does not approve of whores in the house.

‘She came to me, too,’ said Cheney. ‘She offered to do whatever I liked in return for information about her man. But I had nothing to tell her, so I decided against taking her up on her suggestion.’

‘Very noble,’ muttered Michael. ‘But what about Deschalers? Did he have information for her?’

‘None he shared with us,’ said Stanmore. ‘But you cannot seriously think Mad Bess is involved in this, Brother? Perhaps she just found this phial and drank its contents because she was too addled to know that consuming things you find in the street is unwise.’

Bartholomew was about to point out that henbane was expensive and Bess was unlikely to have discovered some by chance, when Paxtone hurried up to them. His face was bright with excitement as he took Bartholomew and Michael by the arms and dragged them away from the merchants. Bartholomew smiled warily, uncertain how to react to a man who had so recently darted down an alley to avoid meeting him. Paxtone did not seem to notice his distrust.

‘I analysed that phial you found, Matt. You are right: it did contain poison! As far as I can tell the compound is indeed Water of Snails – it contains blood and shell, not to mention part of a leaf that is definitely scabious. But I found something else too: henbane, just as you predicted. I believe it was boiled down to form a very concentrated poison, which explains why Bess sweated, was dizzy and complained of not being able to breathe – all symptoms of swallowing henbane, as you said. I sent one of my students to look it up in Gonville’s library. They have volumes on that sort of thing.’

‘You did not go yourself?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether he would admit to being seen with Wynewyk just a few moments before.

Paxtone looked puzzled. ‘No, why?’

‘You have been in King’s Hall since we last met?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘The whole time?’

This time Paxtone’s expression was more difficult to read. ‘I was afraid one of my students would tamper if I left the experiment unsupervised. You know what these young men are like. God knows, Deynman, Redmeadow and Quenhyth are meddlesome enough.’

Bartholomew agreed, trying not to show that he found Paxtone’s prevarication deeply disturbing. Could he trust Paxtone’s analysis of the poison, when it was possible he had administered or created it himself. But, if that were the case, then why was he so willing to share his ‘findings’? Surely, the safest thing would be to deny it contained poison at all? Bartholomew exchanged a glance with Michael, and saw the monk was as confounded as he was.

‘Thank you,’ said Michael, aware that the King’s Hall physician was waiting for his discoveries to be acknowledged. ‘This will help us greatly. However, we still do not know the answer to one basic question: did Bess knowingly obtain and swallow this potion; was she given it, because she had uncovered something she should not have done in her quest to locate her man; or did she simply find it, then take it because she was addled?’

‘We will have to question Lavenham again,’ said Bartholomew. He glanced at the apothecary’s shop and saw Isobel loitering outside, passing the time by waggling her hips at anyone who looked in her direction. ‘Bess’s phial probably came from his shop, and the one that killed Warde certainly did. We should ask him how many more of the things are loose in the town.’

‘You have already interrogated Lavenham,’ said Cheney. Bartholomew jumped in alarm; he had not noticed the silent approach of the merchants behind him, keen to hear what was being said.

‘And he did not like it, either,’ added Morice, his blue eyes darting here and there so that Bartholomew began to ask himself if there was anyone in the town who could hold a conversation without behaving as though he had just committed the most heinous of crimes. ‘He was upset, and claimed you hinted that he had poisoned Warde, Deschalers and Bottisham. It is all nonsense, of course. Deschalers is no good to any of us dead. We needed him alive.’

‘You cannot interrupt the Commissioners’ meeting,’ said Cheney, catching Michael’s arm as the monk started determinedly towards Lavenham’s shop. ‘We want them to decide whether there is enough evidence to warrant a formal hearing – and if you disturb them now, they may never make up their minds. Lavenham and Bernarde are fighting for us, but Master Thorpe is annoyingly neutral.’

‘Look at the Mortimers,’ said Paxtone, pointing to where Thomas, Constantine and various nephews milled about. Thorpe was with them. ‘They are as keen to know the verdict as you are.’

‘Of course,’ said Stanmore, watching as Thomas reeled against one of his clan, who struggled to hold him upright. The miller tugged a wineskin from his belt, and Bartholomew saw he was fortifying himself in anticipation of grim news to come. ‘There is a lot of money at stake.’

‘Look!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, gazing at the shop. ‘Is that smoke?’

‘It is smoke,’ said Stanmore, hurrying towards it. ‘And there are flames. Lavenham’s shop is afire! Fetch water! Sound the alarm!’

In a town where many buildings were made of wood and had thatched roofs, and lots of houses were crammed into a relatively small area, fire was something all citizens feared. To some, it was even more frightening than the plague, and there was nothing like the stench of burning to throw the Fen-edge community into a panic. Humans were not the only ones terrified. Bartholomew could hear horses whinnying in alarm, kicking their iron-shod hoofs against stable doors with a rhythmic drumming sound. He hoped someone would let them out in time.

Stanmore’s frantic cries had not brought people running with buckets of water to douse the flames. Instead they had caused havoc, with folk running here and there, desperate to return to their own properties and protect them before the fire could spread. Stanmore himself was among them. His house was not far from Lavenham’s shop and, although he was wealthy enough to have purchased a building without immediate neighbours, there was always the danger that his wooden storage sheds would be ignited by the orange sparks that were dancing ever higher in the sky.

Bartholomew knew he should organise a chain of people with pails and other utensils, from the well in the Market Square to Lavenham’s house. He also knew there would be burns, or injuries caused when folk fell in their haste to escape. But Matilde was at home that day, and his first thoughts were for the safety of his friend. So like all the others, he ran to see to his own interests, rather than trying to control the flames while there was still a chance.

Matilde was sitting quietly with Dame Pelagia when Bartholomew burst in on her. She listened to his garbled explanation, then climbed the steps to her bedroom to throw open the window shutters and see what was happening. Bartholomew followed, and saw that across the tiled and thatched rooftops smoke rose in a thick black pall, lit here and there by orange embers that zigzagged into the grey sky like wild spirits. He and Matilde watched as the reed roof of Trinity Hall began to smoulder. Scholars scrambled across it, flapping with blankets and rugs.

‘Young Alfred told me he saw Bess leaving Lavenham’s shop moments before she died,’ Matilde said quietly. ‘I was just telling Dame Pelagia about it. I blame Lavenham for Bess’s death. He sold her a dangerous potion knowing she was unstable in her mind. I think it was wrong of him.’

‘You do not know he sold her anything,’ said Bartholomew reasonably. ‘He may have refused her, and she found the phial somewhere else. Apothecaries are careful with dangerous potions for exactly this reason: it is easy to blame them for accidents. For all his faults, Lavenham is not a fool.’

‘But he is not careful, either. He will sell anyone anything, as long as they can pay. Alfred said Bess had something in her hand – probably the phial. But you should go, Matt. The wind is from the north, and the fire will not affect me. See what you can do to help others, while I round up Yolande’s children. She will be beside herself if she comes home and finds they are not all here.’ She stood on tiptoe and kissed him. ‘Be careful, and come back when this is over.’

Bartholomew hurried down the stairs and raced through the parlour, noting it was already empty. Dame Pelagia had gone, but he was sure she did not intend to use her wiry strength for hauling buckets of water from the town’s wells – she was more likely to use the chaos as a diversion to carry out some mission of her own. He ran to Michaelhouse, where Langelee had students gathering every available utensil that could hold water. They had already saturated the stable roof; sodden thatch made for poor kindling. The Master had the situation well under control, so the physician went to Stanmore’s house on Milne Street, which was a good deal closer to Lavenham’s shop, to see whether his brother-in-law needed an extra pair of hands.

The sheds on Stanmore’s premises contained large quantities of valuable cloth, and the merchant stood in the centre of his yard with his hands on his hips, bawling orders to an army of scurrying apprentices. Every surface was to be drenched. The ground was already flooded, and apprentices were still hauling water-filled containers from the clothier’s private well.

‘Put that sheet over there!’ he yelled. ‘We will go up like Lavenham otherwise. Hurry, lads!’

The activity grew even more frenzied, and Bartholomew could hear leather buckets scraping against the well’s stone sides as they were hauled up and down. Feet slapped in puddles as apprentices tore here and there, and the swish and drip of cascading water soon added to the cacophony. Bartholomew coughed. Smoke was swirling in thick, gagging clouds, and the town reeked of the acrid stench of burning. He could taste it in his mouth, and it seared the back of his throat.

He left the organised chaos of Stanmore’s yard and went to the very disorganised chaos of the area around Lavenham’s shop. The fire had taken hold completely and the roof was a sheet of blazing yellow that sent sparks far into the sky and released a column of thick, poisonous smoke. Paler billows poured through the windows, and the houses on either side were beginning to catch, despite desperate attempts by their owners to save them. Already they were a lost cause. Wynewyk and Paxtone were among the folk who gaped open-mouthed at the destruction. Paxtone was soot-stained, as if he had been closer to the blaze than was wise. They saw Bartholomew looking at them and immediately moved apart, as though trying to show that their proximity to each other was coincidence.

But there were more pressing matters than Wynewyk and Paxtone. Across Milne Street was Trinity Hall, which Bartholomew could see was too close for comfort to the blaze, and Clare College was not much safer. Students were everywhere, struggling to lay heavy, sodden blankets across the roofs. On a darker note, apprentices of masters whose homes were not at risk began to mass, and Bartholomew thought some of them might decide it was a good time for a fight. He heard one or two mutter that the Hand of Justice did not belong in the University’s church.

‘I have just been to the Hand of Justice,’ said Morice, who was watching Lavenham’s house burn without making any effort to prevent it. Cheney was with him. ‘I asked it to make the wind blow a little more to the east, so that sparks do not come too close to my own property.’

‘Where is Lavenham?’ asked Bartholomew, looking at the apothecary’s house and sure no one inside it would still be alive. The building was a flame-engulfed shell, and loud pops from within indicated that potions and bottles were exploding in the intense heat.

‘I have not seen him,’ said Morice. ‘Nor Thorpe or Bernarde. Damn! It would be unfortunate to lose more Commissioners, after what happened to Warde. The King will wonder what we have been doing with them.’ His foxy face assumed an expression of alarm. ‘He might even raise our taxes, to warn us to be more careful in the future! That will not make me popular as Mayor.’

‘You will not have to worry about your popularity soon,’ said Bartholomew sharply. ‘Because you may not have a town to rule. You should organise people with buckets, so the fire does not spread.’

‘Mayors do not deal with buckets!’ said Morice haughtily. ‘And there is nothing I can do to prevent this disaster, so I may as well stand here and have a good view of it. At least I will be able to tell the deceased’s next-of-kin exactly what happened to their loved ones.’

Bartholomew gaped, astounded that Morice was not prepared even to try to save the town that had elected him. He was relieved when he heard a clatter of hoofs and saw Sheriff Tulyet cantering towards them on his grey mare.

‘We will lose the whole town if we do not douse those flames,’ Tulyet shouted to Morice, flinging himself out of his saddle. He was sweaty and breathless, as though he had ridden hard. ‘I was returning from Trumpington when I saw the sparks. They knew the name of that man.’

‘What man?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused by the Sheriff’s disjointed babble.

‘Bess’s lover,’ said Tulyet impatiently. ‘The villagers remembered a London messenger passing through just as the snows started. His name was Josse. Poor Josse. He has been all but forgotten, because of Bottisham, Deschalers, Bosel, Lenne, Isnard and now Warde. God’s blood, Matt! This is a violent little town. Is Oxford as bad as this?’

‘Your list of deaths and injuries will be even longer if you do not bring this blaze under control.’

Tulyet took a deep breath and turned to Morice. ‘Right. What has been done so far?’

‘Why are you asking me?’ demanded Morice, startled.

Tulyet’s face was a mask of disbelief. ‘Because you are Mayor, man! It is your responsibility to take charge in situations like this.’

‘Brother Michael and his beadles are collecting vessels that hold water,’ said Cheney helpfully. ‘And the scholars of Trinity Hall are on their roofs, flapping out flames.’

‘Other than that, there is little we can do,’ finished Morice carelessly. ‘Fires are always devastating when they occur in confined areas. However, I asked the Hand of Justice to turn the wind away from my home. I once gave Peterkin Starre a penny, so his bones should remember me kindly.’

Tulyet regarded him with furious disdain. ‘Sweet Jesus! You cannot stand here and chatter like an elderly widow while the town ignites around your ears! What is wrong with you?’

‘The wind is shifting to the east!’ cried Morice, unperturbed by the Sheriff’s reprimands. ‘My prayers to the Hand have been answered! My house is saved! It is a miracle!’

‘Not for the scholars of Gonville,’ said Bartholomew in horror. ‘They are now directly in the fire’s path. Their hall will start to smoulder in moments!’

‘Go and warn them,’ ordered Tulyet. He glared at Morice and Cheney, then leapt into his saddle, controlling the horse tightly when it pranced, frightened by the showers of sparks that rained around it and by the explosions still emanating from Lavenham’s shop. He cantered away in search of soldiers, while Bartholomew ran the short distance from Lavenham’s inferno to Gonville Hall.

Everyone from Gonville, Fellows and students alike, had gathered in their yard, voices raised and expressions of anger and agitation creasing their faces. Bartholomew immediately sensed something was amiss that had nothing to do with the blaze. Three horses were tethered near the gate, laden down with saddlebags. Someone was leaving.

Pulham walked up to Bartholomew when the physician arrived hot and breathless. ‘I know what you are thinking, and I am afraid you are wrong. It is not Thorpe who is going, more is the pity.’

‘The wind has shifted,’ said Bartholomew, thinking they could discuss Gonville’s changing membership later. ‘You need to take action now, or your roof will catch.’

‘Do not presume to direct us in our own College!’ snapped Rougham. ‘You, who cannot prescribe the correct potion for a man with a tickling cough.’

‘The fire is being blown in this direction,’ insisted Bartholomew, pointing to the smoke that was beginning to drift across the sky above their heads. ‘I am trying to help.’

‘We saw what your “help” did for Warde, and we want none of it here,’ said Rougham nastily. ‘We have enough problems without you interfering: Ufford, Despenser and Thompson are leaving.’

Bartholomew looked behind him, and saw the three scholars bowing to their other colleagues as they made their farewells. They were dressed for riding, with thick cloaks and boots with spurs. They completed their leave-taking, and walked towards Pulham and Rougham.

‘We are sorry, Pulham,’ said Thompson. Bartholomew saw that his arm was bandaged, and recalled he had been stabbed during the fight Paxtone had talked about. ‘But we cannot stay here as long as Thorpe is a student.’

‘Or as long as you intend to have the Hand of Justice installed,’ added Despenser. ‘I want no part of any institution that houses that fraudulent thing.’

‘You will have nowhere to house anything if you do not act,’ said Bartholomew urgently.

Rougham regarded him coldly. ‘Are you still here? I thought I told you to leave.’

‘I was mistaken when I prayed to it so fervently,’ said Ufford, ignoring Rougham and addressing Pulham. ‘I thought it was a holy relic, but now I see it is nothing of the kind. The sore on my mouth healed naturally, just as Bartholomew said it would.’

‘What made you change your mind?’ asked Pulham curiously, blithely oblivious of the danger his College was in. ‘You, of all of us, were its most fervent adherent.’

‘Thorpe,’ said Ufford with a grimace. ‘The very fact that he has taken an interest in it is enough to make me doubt its authenticity. I was a fool, too eager to accept it without question. But I question it now, and Despenser is right: I want no part of Gonville as long as either Thorpe or the Hand is associated with it.’

‘But the Hand will allow us to build our chapel,’ Rougham protested. ‘You know we are short of funds – indeed, we are in debt already and have been obliged to sell our books – so you cannot blame us for seizing an opportunity like this.’

Listening to them, Bartholomew suddenly understood exactly why Rougham had been so willing to spread the rumour that Isnard’s leg had regrown. If the Hand were to be housed in Gonville, then it made sense that he should want it connected to as many miracles as possible. It was not just blind stupidity that had made Rougham claim Isnard was cured, but greed, too.

‘We can and we do,’ said Despenser quietly. ‘That Hand will bring nothing but trouble. What do you imagine the other Colleges – or the town – will say when Thorpe asks the King to give it to Gonville? They will not sit back and allow it to happen, and I do not want to be part of the turmoil that will surely follow. I have my reputation to think about.’

‘So do I,’ said Ufford. ‘I intend to do well at Court, and the King will not promote me if I am implicated in a riot. Besides, I have had enough of Thorpe. Where is he, by the way?’

‘Probably somewhere near the fire,’ said Despenser disapprovingly. ‘It was probably him who started it. Ufford is right: Gonville will soon fall from grace if he is allowed to stay here.’

‘The fire is spreading,’ said Bartholomew, glancing at the sky again, and wondering why they persisted in having their debate now, of all times. He jumped back as Rougham came at him with a murderous scowl, and for a moment thought he intended to use his fists. He tensed, but Rougham was not the kind of man to engage in brawls he could not win – and he was wise enough to recognise that Bartholomew was bigger, fitter, and likely to hit back. Meanwhile, the students saw the danger of fire, even if the Fellows did not, and were pointing at the smoke and muttering uneasily. One or two, with more sense than their colleagues, started to run for buckets.

‘But we cannot rid ourselves of Thorpe!’ said Pulham, appealing to his three departing Fellows. ‘He paid a term’s fees in advance and we have spent the money on building materials. Also, we need the Hand of Justice, and he is our only chance of gaining it. And what about the fine altar cloths he will sew for our chapel? Do we let those go, too?’

‘Have you seen him put a stitch to them?’ asked Ufford. He saw the expression on Pulham’s face. ‘No, I thought not. He attacked me without provocation, and now he has stabbed Thompson. We will not stay here while he murders us all.’

‘The fire!’ shouted Bartholomew again. ‘You must fetch water, or you will lose more than fees.’ More students began to rush away from the Fellows, to collect pails.

‘I told you to mind your own business,’ snarled Rougham furiously. ‘Get out! You are not welcome here.’

Bartholomew considered doing as he suggested, but Michaelhouse was not far away, and his own College would be in danger if Gonville burned. He could not leave until something was done to prevent the inferno from spreading.

‘I am sure we can come to some arrangement that pleases us all,’ pleaded Pulham, sounding almost tearful as Ufford started towards his horse. He looked up at the sky, and Bartholomew saw he was torn between the need to prevent his three richest Fellows from leaving and the urgency posed by the flames. ‘Perhaps we should rid ourselves of Thorpe, and you may be right about the Hand.’

Ufford paused with his foot in the stirrup. ‘If you mean what you say, then perhaps we can reconsider our position.’ His colleagues gave nods of agreement. ‘We shall reside in the Brazen George for the next few days, and discuss this further,’ he said, then swung himself into his saddle and was gone, the sound of hoofs on cobbles all but drowning out the snap of sparks.

Rougham glared at Pulham. ‘What did you say that for? You know we cannot afford to lose either the Hand of Justice or Thorpe. We have been forced to sell our books, and soon we shall be obliged to cut back on our feasts, too. We cannot squander an opportunity to earn more money such as the Hand presents. To do so would be a dereliction of our duty as Fellows.’

‘They have a point,’ said Pulham stubbornly. ‘Thorpe is violent and unpleasant, and I do not blame them for not wanting him here. I do not enjoy his company myself. And they are also right about what will happen if the King gives us the Hand of Justice. There is no point building a fine chapel if it is to be burned to the ground in the next riot by irate townsmen.’

‘You do not have to wait for the next riot,’ said Bartholomew, breaking into their discussion and pointing to their roof. ‘Your College is ablaze now!’