The Hand of Justice

CHAPTER 11

For a moment, no one did anything, and then pandemonium erupted. A spark had fallen on to one of the College’s roofs, and had quietly smouldered while the scholars had argued. It burst into flames with a low roar, and greedily consumed the rotten reeds and straw that comprised the thatch. White smoke swirled this way and that, as the flames were fanned by the wind.

‘We are doomed!’ cried Pulham, raising his hands in despair. ‘What shall we do?’

‘Fetch ladders, buckets and water,’ ordered Bartholomew. He saw the scholars look at Rougham to see if they should do as his rival had ordered, and lost his temper with them. ‘Hurry!’

‘No! Rescue the silver and the hutches containing our money,’ shouted Rougham, setting no store by Bartholomew’s fire-fighting skills. ‘And then see what furniture you can salvage. We shall lose the buildings for certain, so do not waste time on them.’

‘Do you need help, Matt?’ called Michael breathlessly, charging through the gate. His beadles were behind him, smoke-stained and dishevelled. Bartholomew nodded in relief, having anticipated that the scholars of Gonville planned to let him combat the fire alone.

While the scholars hauled their belongings to the yard – where they posed a formidable obstacle to those trying to contain the blaze – Bartholomew, Michael and the beadles set about attempting to rescue the buildings. Bartholomew climbed a ladder and laid wet blankets across the smouldering thatch, while Beadle Meadowman climbed to its apex and poured bucket after bucket of water on to it. The damp straw hissed, spat and smoked horribly, stinging Bartholomew’s eyes, but at last water won the contest with flames. Just as Rougham had supervised the evacuation of Gonville’s last bench, Bartholomew announced that the fire was out and that the roof was too soggy for it to rekindle.

‘Are you sure?’ asked Pulham. Exhausted, he flopped into a handsome wooden chair. ‘We have saved our College?’

‘We have saved your College,’ corrected Michael crisply. ‘Matt, my beadles and I. You spent your time uselessly ferrying objects here and there. Well, you can carry it all back inside again now.’

‘The fire is truly out?’ asked Rougham, staring at the building as though he hoped it was not, just so he would not be proven wrong.

‘It is,’ said Michael. ‘You will have to abandon your chapel in order to repair your roof, but you are lucky you still have walls. You were foolish not to have listened to Matt.’

‘But I was right,’ objected Rougham. ‘Our first duty was to save what we could from indoors–’

‘You were wrong,’ interrupted Pulham angrily. It appeared he had had enough of Rougham and his opinions. ‘You were wrong about that, and you are wrong about Thorpe and the Hand of Justice, too. I would rather have Thompson, Ufford and Despenser, than Thorpe and a false relic.’

‘Now, you listen to me–’ began Rougham sternly.

‘No, you listen to me!’ shouted Pulham. ‘I am Acting Master here, and it is for me to decide what to do. So, Thorpe will leave, and I shall write to Colton in Avignon and see what he wants to do about the Hand.’

‘Very well,’ said Rougham stiffly. He gave Bartholomew a hostile glower, and ordered the students to carry the furniture inside again. They groaned and complained bitterly, but the first splatters of a spring shower began to fall, and Michael called gleefully that they would have to look lively if they did not want their fine wood spotted with raindrops. They began to hurry, and had soon forgotten about Bartholomew, Michael and the beadles.

Bartholomew slumped against a wall, exhausted by the physical effort of scaling ladders and struggling with blankets made heavy with water. He flexed his shoulders, knowing they were going to be stiff the next morning, and took a deep breath of smoke-tainted air. Gonville might be safe, but there were other buildings still battling with flames.

‘They did not even have the courtesy to offer us a drink to slake our thirst,’ said Michael, aggrieved. His face was black with soot, and his normally immaculate gown was filthy with burned thatching. His hair was lank and oily, and sweat had given him a streaked appearance, like tigers and other mythical beasts Bartholomew had read about in the writings from the East. He suspected he did not look much different himself.

‘You must forgive our manners,’ said Pulham, emerging on cue with two goblets of claret. ‘In all the confusion, we did not thank you.’

‘Rougham never will,’ said Bartholomew, drinking some, then pointedly passing the cup to Beadle Meadowman, who had worked as hard as anyone.

Pulham pulled a disagreeable face as he watched his best silver goblets pass between the rough hands of the University’s beadles. ‘Rougham means no harm. It is just his way.’

‘He does mean harm,’ said Michael, trying not to laugh as his beadles amused themselves by aping manners they thought might be employed by scholars at the high table – cocked fingers and grotesquely puckered lips – as they sipped from vessels that would cost them a year’s pay. ‘He has accused Matt of killing Warde, when it was the medicine he prescribed that did the harm.’

‘I am sorry he has been abusive. But you know what medical men are like. They are obliged to be arrogant and overbearing, because that is the only way to make their patients take the unpleasant potions they prescribe. They are all the same.’

‘Are we?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking that Pulham was probably right, generally speaking. A patient was far more likely to swallow something horrible if his physician bullied him into doing it.

‘I did not come to argue,’ said Pulham wearily. ‘I came to thank you. I shall write to Colton, and he can decide whether we accept the Hand of Justice. It is too momentous an issue for me. Meanwhile, we are lucky the Mortimers have hired our legal skills, or we would be destitute. I do not suppose you know the Commissioners’ verdict – about whether there will be a formal hearing?’

‘The meeting was still in progress when the fire broke out,’ said Michael. ‘We do not know if everyone escaped, and the Commissioners’ decision – if they reached one – seems unimportant now.’

‘It will certainly be unimportant to Lavenham,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He has lost his house, his property and his livelihood.’

‘Only if he is lucky,’ said Michael. ‘Let us hope he has not lost his life, too. But we should see what is happening elsewhere, and leave these scholars to quarrel about where to put their furniture.’

Pulham was dazed and unhappy as he escorted Bartholomew and Michael to the gate. His hands were unsteady, and the physician wondered whether he was up to the task of running a College in his Master’s absence. Rougham was dismissive of him, and might well stage some sort of coup.

‘Thank you, again,’ he said, opening the door to let them out. ‘If I can reciprocate in any way, then you must let me know. I am in your debt, and, if you make a request of me that is within my power to grant, I shall try my best to oblige you.’

‘Then abandon the business with the Hand,’ said Michael immediately, turning to face him. ‘You must see it is more trouble than it is worth.’

‘I know,’ said Pulham wearily. ‘But Rougham’s voice is a powerful one, and he will also write to Colton and put his views. You may have asked for something beyond my capabilities to give.’

‘Then tell me something about Bottisham that may help me solve his murder,’ suggested Michael. ‘I know there are things I have not been told because you want to preserve Gonville’s integrity.’

‘There are not–’ began Pulham, glancing uneasily behind him.

Michael overrode him. ‘There are. One small detail you neglected to pass on concerns the Mortimers – that they promised a handsome donation for your chapel if you took their case against the King’s Mill. Master Thorpe mentioned it to me. Since Bottisham was to be one of the lawyers for this event, the offer of a large amount of money is surely pertinent information for a Senior Proctor investigating his murder? But I asked you about it twice, and you denied it.’

Pulham sighed in resignation. ‘The donation was supposed to have been kept quiet until the dispute had been resolved, so we would not be accused of improper practices. Besides, there is always the possibility that we will lose, in which case the Mortimers will give us nothing.’

‘Nothing stays secret for long in a place like Cambridge,’ said Michael. ‘But the time for games is over, Pulham. I want to know anything that might have a bearing on Bottisham’s murder.’

Pulham rubbed his hands over his face, smearing it with soot. ‘Very well. Deschalers sent messages offering Bottisham a truce, but Bottisham had fallen foul of that trick once, and was not about to let it happen again. You see, Deschalers had once offered to help pay for our chapel, claiming it would mark an end to the enmity between them, but then he withdrew with devastating effect.’

‘We know that,’ said Michael. ‘It is common gossip in the town.’

Pulham nodded. ‘Deschalers made no secret of the fact that he had made a fool of Bottisham. But about a month ago, he tried it again – he kept sending messages, begging Bottisham to parley with him. He even followed him to matins and lauds one night, and encouraged him to slip away from his devotions and speak to him in St Michael’s graveyard! Bottisham refused his “hand of friendship”, but Deschalers was persistent. In fact, Bottisham received a letter from him the morning before they died. He wanted to meet that very day, to discuss the terms of a truce.’

‘We know this, too,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But why would Bottisham entertain meeting such a bitter enemy in a place like the King’s Mill – and in the dark?’

Pulham frowned. ‘But that is the odd thing. The letter did not suggest the King’s Mill at night. It recommended the Brazen George at noon – in one of those private chambers at the back that the landlord keeps for sinister assignations.’

‘Did Bottisham go?’ asked Michael, not mentioning the fact that he used one of those chambers himself on a regular basis.

‘I advised against it. But when he showed me Deschalers’s letters, I felt they had a note of genuine contrition, and we knew he was mortally ill. It seemed churlish not to see what he wanted, so I offered to go in Bottisham’s place.’

‘So you went to the Brazen George at noon on the day they died,’ surmised Michael, trying to keep his temper under control about the fact that Pulham had not been more honest earlier. ‘Then what? Was Deschalers peeved that you arrived instead of Bottisham? Did he refuse to speak to you?’

‘He understood why Bottisham declined to meet him. He was disappointed, but not surprised. Then he said he was thinking of changing his will in a way that would see a princely sum come Bottisham’s way – for our chapel.’

‘I see,’ said Michael flatly. ‘And did you believe him?’

‘Yes. I think he was sincere this time.’

Michael could contain himself no longer. ‘Then why did you not tell me all this sooner?’ he exploded. ‘Surely you must see it has a bearing on the case?’

Pulham was defensive. ‘But I really do not believe Deschalers’s will had anything to do with Bottisham’s death – and that is why I did not mention my meeting to you. I did not want to lead you astray with information that was irrelevant and confusing.’

Michael was angry. ‘That is for me to decide. Do you think me a fool, unable to distinguish between what is important and what is not?’

Bartholomew could see Pulham regretted having spoken to Michael, and that the monk’s ire was likely to make him wary of confiding anything else. He laid a warning hand on Michael’s shoulder. ‘What else can you tell us, Master Pulham?’ he asked gently.

Pulham took a deep breath. ‘When we were at the Brazen George, Deschalers showed me his new will. This had been signed, but not sealed. It was quite simple. Bottisham was to have a house on Bridge Street, and Julianna was to have the rest. Two beneficiaries. He said it was to atone for years of bitterness and anger that should have been avoided. But he said he would not seal it – so it would not be legal – unless Bottisham came to him in person.’

‘The will was made out?’ asked Bartholomew, angry in his turn. ‘Here is something Quenhyth neglected to mention.’

‘I doubt Quenhyth wrote this,’ said Pulham. ‘That boy has neat, rather lovely writing. This one was scribbled, as though it was jotted down in great haste. Deschalers told me it was his third will. The first made a bequest to his apprentices, but he had decided against doing that a month ago. The second left everything, except a chest, to Julianna. And the third was to have benefited Bottisham.’

‘I see,’ asked Michael tightly. ‘And then what happened?’

‘I do not know. I returned to Gonville, and told Bottisham what had transpired, but it was the last conversation we ever had. I do not know whether he believed Deschalers’s sincerity, and I do not know whether he contacted Deschalers and asked to meet.’

‘This is all very intriguing,’ said Michael icily. ‘But Deschalers’s will was not changed. Julianna inherited everything except Quenhyth’s box – and Bottisham died before he could acquire this Bridge Street house anyway.’

Pulham nodded. ‘So you see why I said nothing about this earlier. And yet …’ He trailed off.

Michael regarded him with beady eyes. ‘And yet what?’

Pulham closed his eyes, and seemed to be undergoing some sort of inner battle. Bartholomew watched in fascination. He had never seen so many emotions – worry, doubt, fear and unhappiness – so clearly etched on the face of a man. Eventually, Pulham opened his eyes and began to fiddle with the purse he carried at his waist. Wordlessly, he handed Michael a document. The monk scanned it, then passed it to Bartholomew. It was a deed, badly written and bearing a mark that the physician recognised as Deschalers’s ‘signature’ – a crude letter D.

‘It is Deschalers’s new will,’ he said, returning the parchment to Michael. It amounted to powerful evidence, and he did not think Pulham should have it back. ‘It gives Bottisham the Bridge Street house and Julianna the rest of his property.’

Pulham nodded miserably. ‘It is the one Deschalers showed me in the Brazen George – signed, but not sealed.’

‘Deschalers gave you this?’ asked Bartholomew, slightly puzzled. Pulham shook his head, and several facts came together in the physician’s mind. ‘It was you who burgled Deschalers’s house the night he died? I almost caught you, and you escaped by climbing down the back of the house.’

Pulham looked startled. ‘I assure you I did not! Do you imagine me capable of that sort of agility? I was hiding under the bed, waiting for you to leave.’

‘But you emerged to stop me from falling through the window,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I knew that old servant did not have the strength to haul me to safety! It was you.’

Pulham flushed bashfully. ‘I only just managed to reach you in time. I escaped when the servant came and started burbling about crow pie – I just walked down the stairs and left through the front door. However, the window shutters opened in Cheney’s house as I left, and I think he saw me.’

‘His prostitute did,’ said Bartholomew. He turned to the monk. ‘When Una claimed she saw someone leave through Deschalers’s front door, we assumed she was either mistaken about the time, or drunk. But she was right, she did see a burglar: Pulham.’

‘Why did you do it?’ asked Michael, regarding Pulham with rank disapproval. ‘You are Acting Master of a highly respected College. Theft should not be something you enjoy.’

‘I did not enjoy it,’ cried Pulham, distressed. He made an attempt to calm himself. ‘When I heard Bottisham and Deschalers had died in peculiar circumstances within hours of Deschalers making his new will, I knew what people would say. Bottisham was a good man, and I did not want his reputation besmirched by scandals and rumours.’

‘You thought folk would assume he had killed Deschalers for the Bridge Street house,’ surmised Michael. ‘But what did you intend to do with the new will, once the fuss had died down? Contest Julianna’s inheritance?’

‘I could not, even if I wanted to. I am a lawyer and I know about this kind of thing. This will is signed, but it bears no seal. As far as the courts go, it is not worth the parchment it is written on. But can you imagine what folk would have made of such a thing anyway?’

‘People do not care about legal niceties,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘They would only see the fact that Deschalers changed his will in Bottisham’s favour – and died suddenly in Bottisham’s company.’

‘Quite. They would have claimed Bottisham had tried to murder him, and the two engaged in a fatal struggle. I took the will to protect them both. I probably should have destroyed it.’

‘I am glad you did not,’ said Michael. ‘It is evidence. Is there anything else you want to tell me?’

‘Just one thing,’ said Pulham. ‘I was not the only one raiding Deschalers’s house that night. Someone else was there, too, creeping around in the dark. He gave me quite a fright, I can tell you.’

‘Who?’ asked Michael.

‘I have no idea. I thought it might be Julianna, Edward Mortimer or young Thorpe. Or even a merchant, looking for incriminating documents about past unsavoury business deals. But I did not see his face, so I cannot tell you who he – or she – was. Just that he slithered out of the back window.’

‘And you cannot identify him, can you, Matt?’ asked Michael accusingly, as though the physician was deliberately trying to thwart him.

‘I have already told you it was too dark,’ said Bartholomew patiently. ‘It could have been anyone – man, woman, scholar, townsman. But at least we know why Una’s account conflicted with mine.’

‘Yes, but it does not help,’ said Michael crossly. ‘It is only yet another loose end to clear up.’

Bartholomew and Michael walked the short distance from Gonville to Lavenham’s shop. The entire town seemed to have been affected by the blaze, even though the damage had been mostly confined to the houses immediately adjacent to Lavenham’s home. People darted here and there, calling loudly to each other in excitement, and pools of water from slopped buckets lay in every pothole and dip in the road. A greasy veneer of soot coated many buildings, and the streets were even more littered with rubbish than usual.

Lavenham’s home had been reduced to a black skeleton, punctuated by jagged, charred pieces of fallen timber. The houses next door had fared little better; one still had its roof, but neither would be safe for human habitation again. The air around them was rank with the stench of burning, and Bartholomew detected something rotten and unsettling underneath, where potions that should not have been heated or mixed had combined to deadly effect.

‘Have you discovered what happened?’ asked Michael when he saw Tulyet, who looked as weary as Bartholomew felt. The Sheriff’s clothes were stained and sodden, indicating that he had been in the thick of the action. Morice and Cheney, who still hovered near the seat of the fire, were relatively pristine, suggesting their role had been confined to spectating. This had not gone unnoticed, and they were being given a wide berth and plenty of dark looks by townsfolk and scholars alike. Neither seemed to care.

‘The fire started in Lavenham’s shop,’ said Tulyet. ‘We do not know how yet, but an apothecary is always boiling some potion or other, so it is not surprising something was forgotten and caught alight. Accidents happen, even in the most careful of households.’

‘An accident?’ asked Michael cautiously. ‘But the King’s Commissioners were inside at the time.’

‘So?’ asked Tulyet. He caught the glance exchanged between monk and physician. ‘You think the fire was started deliberately, to interfere with the Commissioners’ business?’

‘Or worse,’ said Michael. ‘Do not forget that Warde has already been murdered.’

‘God help us,’ muttered Tulyet. ‘So, who do you suspect of committing such a heinous act? Whoever it was deserves to hang, because the entire town might have been lost.’

‘I saw the Mortimer clan – including Edward and Thorpe – lurking around just before the alarm was raised,’ said Michael. ‘Not to mention two merchants who have a financial interest in the case – Morice and Cheney.’

‘And Paxtone and Wynewyk,’ said Bartholomew to himself. ‘I hope to God their suspicious behaviour has not extended to arson.’

‘So, you have no idea who might have started this mischief?’ said Tulyet. ‘Your suspects for the fire are essentially the same as your suspects for the murders of Warde, Deschalers and Bottisham?’

Michael nodded. ‘Our culprit is a clever man – or a lucky one – and left little in the way of clues.’

‘Poor Lavenham,’ said Tulyet, gazing at the mess of spars and hot, crumbling plaster that still smoked gently. ‘But I thought we were going to lose Gonville Hall, too, when the wind shifted. It was selfish of Morice to ask the Hand of Justice to do that, just to save his own property.’

He glared at the Mayor, who had sent a servant to fetch his wineskin and was enjoying a little liquid refreshment while he gawked at the destruction around him.

‘I do not think Morice had anything to do with the wind changing direction,’ said Michael, puzzled that Tulyet should think it should. ‘It happens all the time, quite naturally.’

‘But not usually at so opportune a moment,’ argued Tulyet. ‘I shall reserve judgement on the matter, personally. Many folk heard him praying, and his favour with the Hand is the talk of the town. How else do you think he stands unmolested, when so many folk are furious with him for not helping to quench the fire? They are afraid that if they attack him, the Hand will strike them down.’

‘Where are Lavenham and the other Commissioners?’ asked Bartholomew, changing the subject before the Michael and the Sheriff could begin a debate over the matter. He could see the monk was itching to tell Tulyet exactly what he thought of folk who believed the relic was responsible for events that had a perfectly rational explanation. ‘They escaped the inferno, I hope?’

‘I have not seen them,’ replied Tulyet. ‘But then I have not had time to stand around and look for people. I have been busy.’ He cast another venomous glower at Morice.

‘We all have,’ said Michael soothingly. ‘And tonight you must come to Michaelhouse, so we can exchange information about this case. I have a few things to tell you.’

‘I have very little to tell you,’ said Tulyet gloomily.

‘Arrive early,’ Michael went on. ‘We are having blood pudding and pig-brain pottage, followed by fried gooseberries – saved from last year, so they are a little sour and we have no sugar. Ensure you are punctual, because you will not want to miss it.’

‘Come to me instead,’ said Tulyet, trying to hide his revulsion. ‘My wife plans roasted lamb with rosemary and carrots for today. And I can ask her to make Lombard slices,’ he added, a little desperately, when Michael hesitated.

‘Very well,’ said Michael, sounding as though he was doing him a favour by accepting. Relieved by his narrow escape from a Michaelhouse repast, the Sheriff strode away to supervise the dumping of yet more water on the smouldering remains of Lavenham’s house. Fires had a nasty habit of rekindling, and Tulyet had no intention of allowing a second blaze to start.

Bartholomew started to laugh. ‘Agatha is cooking fish soup with cabbage this evening.’

‘I know,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘But I do not like cabbage, and Tulyet’s wife keeps a good table. Her Lombard slices are among the best in Cambridge. She says her secret is that she fries them in butter, rather than lard, and that she soaks her almonds overnight in wine.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, not very interested in recipes that had no known medical application. ‘But I am worried about the Commissioners – especially Master Thorpe. I would not like to think of him roasted in the fire with Lavenham and Bernarde.’

They watched the apothecary’s apprentices pick their way through the steaming, hissing rubble, hopping lightly so they did not burn their feet. One stood on an unstable timber, and it started to tilt. Bartholomew tensed, anticipating that he would bring the whole fragile structure down on top of him, but the fellow leapt away with impressive agility, and no harm was done.

‘Where is Lavenham?’ Bartholomew called to him, after a scan of the onlookers who fringed the ruins told him the apothecary was still not among them. ‘And Isobel?’

‘We have not seen them since that meeting started,’ replied the apprentice. He grimaced. ‘You would think they would be here, would you not? Trying to salvage what they can, and not leaving the dirty work to us.’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘You would.’

‘What will happen to us now?’ grumbled another lad, lifting a plank to look underneath. ‘How are we supposed to work with the premises gone? Does Lavenham have enough funds invested to buy another house, so we can start again? Or do we have to seek alternative employment?’

‘Let us hope not,’ said Bartholomew soberly.

Bartholomew wanted to go home to Michaelhouse, to wash the smoke and grime from his clothes and hair, but a nagging concern for Master Thorpe, Bernarde and Lavenham kept him on Milne Street and he became one of a small crowd that simply could not bring themselves to leave. He kept anticipating that sooner or later an apprentice would pick up a piece of ‘wood’ that was harder, denser and oilier than the others, and they would then know exactly what had happened to the Commissioners. Michael lost interest and wandered away. He had not been gone long before he returned.

‘Look who I found in St Mary the Great,’ he said, smiling as he indicated a soot-stained Master Thorpe. ‘Giving thanks for his deliverance.’

‘To God,’ said Thorpe firmly. ‘Not to the so-called Hand of Justice.’

‘I am glad to see you,’ said Bartholomew warmly, taking Thorpe’s hand. ‘I was worried you might have been trapped inside when the fire took hold.’

Thorpe smiled his pleasure that he should care. ‘I escaped by climbing through a window on an upper floor and jumping to safety. I shouted to Bernarde and Lavenham to follow, but the smoke was swirling around so thickly that I could not see whether they did. It is a grim business when a son hates his father so. Perhaps I was wrong to disown him when he returned with his King’s Pardon.’

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘You think your son set the fire?’

‘I saw him with Edward Mortimer, watching Bernarde and me as we entered Lavenham’s shop. Who else would want to harm us? Lavenham has no enemies, and neither does Bernarde.’

‘They do,’ said Bartholomew vehemently. ‘The Mortimer clan, for a start.’

‘And who leads the Mortimer clan these days?’ asked Thorpe archly. ‘It is not Thomas or Constantine. It is Edward. And Edward is my son’s friend.’

‘So, they thought they would strike two birds with one stone,’ mused Michael. ‘A hated father, and two Commissioners who were sure to argue against Mortimer’s Mill. How did the meeting go, or should I not ask?’

‘We had not reached a decision,’ said Thorpe wearily. ‘I wanted to set a date for a formal hearing, but Lavenham and Bernarde said the evidence was so clear cut that further enquiries were unnecessary. They wanted a verdict against Mortimer issued there and then.’

‘This is what happens when you appoint Commissioners who have a vested interest in the outcome,’ said Michael. ‘Any discussion is limited to repeated statements of “fact”.’

‘Since we were unable to agree, I said we should ask the King to appoint new Commissioners. Bernarde and Lavenham opposed that, of course.’

‘And then the fire started?’ asked Bartholomew.

Thorpe nodded. ‘The apprentices and Isobel had been sent away for the afternoon so that they would not disturb us. The blaze was not a result of their carelessness, as Tulyet thinks. There were no workmen around, and there were no potions bubbling in the workshop. Our meeting took place in the solar upstairs, and I am sure the fire started directly below us.’

They all looked around when there was a shriek from one of the apprentices. Expecting that he had picked up timber that was too hot to hold, or had twisted an ankle in the shifting rubble, Bartholomew dashed towards him, hopping from foot to foot as the heat penetrated the soles of his boots. But pain had not caused the young man to scream. He pointed an unsteady finger into the wreckage, and the physician bent to inspect what he had found.

‘Well,’ he muttered, moving a piece of charred wood. ‘Someone did not escape the inferno.’

‘Who?’ asked Michael, leaning forward, but backing away hurriedly when he saw the misshapen figure huddled up with clenched fists and hairless head. ‘Is it Lavenham?’

‘It must be,’ said Thorpe grimly. ‘He must have lingered, to see whether he could save his shop. Now the crime is more serious than arson, Brother. It is murder. Even my slippery son will find himself unable to wriggle free from that charge again, and I shall see he does not – even if I have to ride to Westminster and petition the King myself.’

‘I think we can prove the fire was started deliberately,’ said Bartholomew, clambering over more scaly-black timbers to reach what had been Lavenham’s yard. ‘There was a huge pile of kindling here. I heard Isobel complaining about it when I visited their shop last week. Some of it has gone, and I am willing to wager it was used to light the fire.’

‘Would Thorpe and Edward have known about convenient sources of combustible material in Lavenham’s yard?’ asked Michael doubtfully. ‘Or are we jumping to unfounded conclusions?’

‘Perhaps Isobel and Lavenham argued about it in front of other customers, too,’ said Bartholomew, making his way back to the corpse again. ‘It was not a secret.’

‘Is there any way to prove that is Lavenham, Matt?’ asked Michael, still hanging back. ‘I know there is not much to go on – no clothes, no hair, no face, and not much in the way of anything else – but you have a way with these things, and we cannot ask Isobel to do it.’

‘It is not Lavenham,’ said Bartholomew, pulling the charred corpse to one side with great care, not liking the way bits flaked off and landed on his feet. He pointed at something near the body’s waist. ‘There is a lot of metal here – melted, but metal nonetheless. And who do you know who carries a good deal of metal on his belt?’

‘Keys?’ asked Michael. ‘Your melted metal is a bunch of keys? That means our corpse belongs to Bernarde, who was always jangling the things.’

‘Then where is Lavenham?’ asked Master Thorpe.

‘I do not know,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But not here, I think. We must search elsewhere for him.’

Bartholomew headed for the newly constructed lavatorium as soon as he reached Michaelhouse. Hurling his smoke-spoiled clothes into one corner, he scrubbed his bare skin with icy water. Michael joined him, but washed only those parts that were not covered by clothes. He declined to wet his hair, too, maintaining that it might bring on an ague. Instead he rubbed chalk powder into it, which he claimed would counteract the darkening effects of soot. He donned a fresh habit and handed the dirty one to Agatha, who said it needed no more than a good brushing and a day or two of airing in the latrines. Michael was pleased it did not need laundering, because there was always a danger the wool would shrink, and he claimed tight habits made him look fat.

Bartholomew felt better when he had changed into a tunic and leggings that did not stink of smoke. He scrubbed at his damp hair with a rag, while Michael doused himself liberally with rosewater in an attempt to mask the stench of burning that his careless ablutions had done little to remedy. The lavatorium began to smell like a brothel, and Bartholomew left, complaining that Michael’s perfumes were worse than the odour of cinders and ash.

‘Now what?’ asked Michael, making his way to his room to collect his spare cloak. ‘Shall we search for Lavenham ourselves, or shall we leave it to Dick Tulyet? It is suspicious that he should disappear quite so soon after a devastating fire destroyed his home and killed Bernarde. Should we be concerned for Isobel, do you think? Or will she be the mastermind behind this nasty business?’

‘She might,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘She seems more intelligent than her husband, and might well conceive of a plan to ensure the Commission found in favour of the mill she had invested in. But their house, their livelihood and Bernarde’s life seems a high price to pay for it.’

‘I have always been suspicious of Lavenham,’ said Michael. ‘He acts as though he understands very little of what goes on, but I am sure he knows more than we think. He had good reason to kill Bottisham – he was about to represent his rivals in the mill dispute. Meanwhile, Warde was a Commissioner prepared to listen to the Mortimers’ side of the quarrel. Lavenham might well be our killer.’

‘And Deschalers? Why would Lavenham kill him?’

‘Deschalers’s death was incidental. Lavenham followed Bottisham one night, intending to murder him. Bottisham went to the King’s Mill. When Deschalers, arriving to meet Bottisham, caught Lavenham red-handed, he was obliged to kill him, too.’

‘There is a flaw in your reasoning, Brother. Deschalers had the key to the mill, so he must have arrived at this meeting first, not Bottisham. Deschalers would not have stood by and watched Bottisham murdered without doing something.’

‘He was mortally ill,’ argued Michael. ‘Weak. He might have been too feeble to help Bottisham. But you are quibbling. The point is that this case has taken a new turn, and Lavenham is mysteriously missing. We should at least ask him why. Will you come with me to St Mary the Great?’

‘What for?’ asked Bartholomew, who longed to lie down and rest. He was desperately tired, physically and mentally, and wanted time to allow the weariness to drain from his muscles.

‘For two reasons,’ replied Michael. ‘First, Redmeadow is in your room and is waving at you in a way that suggests he wants some text or other explained. You will have no peace there. And second, I want to ensure the Hand of Justice has not attracted some large and hostile post-fire crowd that might cause mischief when darkness falls.’

Reluctantly, Bartholomew followed the monk up St Michael’s Lane and on to the High Street. The sweet aroma of roses wafted around them as they walked, almost, but not quite, masking the stench of sewage from a blocked drain and the sickly-sweet reek of a dead cat that had been tossed on top of a roof, possibly by the cart that had killed it. Bartholomew started to think about Thomas Mortimer and his reckless driving, and wondered whether Lenne had returned to Thetford now that his mother had been buried.

The town had an atmosphere of unease that was so apparent, it was almost physical. People looked around warily, and the yelling that had accompanied the fire, had dropped to whispers and low voices. The High Street was unusually quiet, with only the rattle of carts and the thump of horses’ hoofs on compressed manure breaking the silence.

‘I do not like this,’ muttered Michael, unnerved. ‘It feels as if something is about to happen.’

‘It is odd,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But there are no apprentices or students massing on street corners, so it does not seem that folk are spoiling for a fight.’

‘But there is an aura,’ declared Michael, gazing around him.

‘Meaning what?’ asked Bartholomew sceptically.

‘Meaning that I shall have every one of my beadles on duty tonight, and that any scholar seen on the streets after dusk can expect to be detained in my cells until morning. I shall recommend that Dick takes similar steps with the townsfolk.’

‘Do you think it is something to do with the Hand of Justice?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I do not mean literally, since we both know it is no more holy than that rosewater you hurled all over yourself. I mean do you think people might be waiting for it to do something?’

‘Such as what? Sprout wings and wend its way to Heaven in front of our sinful eyes? Burst free from the tower in a spray of stone and mortar, and slap anyone who has committed a crime? It will have its work cut out for it, if it intends to do that. It will be busy from now until dawn.’

‘Jest if you will, Brother, but what we think is irrelevant. It is what its followers believe that is important now.’

The small crowd that was usually present outside the University Church had swelled to a gathering of impressive size, just as Michael had predicted. Most folk were kneeling or standing quietly with bowed heads, and the mood was more reverent than threatening. Michael tended to disapprove of any large assembly when the sun was about to go down, but there was little he could do about this one – people had a right to pray where they liked, and no one was actually doing anything wrong. Even the pickpockets had ceased trading for the day, and were sitting harmlessly in the churchyard.

The two scholars eased through them, careful not to jostle anyone who might take offence, and entered the church’s shady interior. This, too, was full, and a number of people knelt on the flagstones or leaned against the sturdy pillars of the nave. A mass was in progress, led by Chancellor Tynkell, and the High Altar was bathed in a golden light from dozens of candles. The aroma of cheap incense that wafted along the aisles competed valiantly with the stink of Michael’s rosewater. William, who had been near the back of the nave, spotted the monk and hurried to join him, religious devotions forgotten.

‘Have you heard?’ he asked without preamble. ‘Thomas Mortimer is dead.’

‘Dead?’ asked Bartholomew, shocked as he listened to the Franciscan friar’s bald pronouncement. ‘But I saw him not long ago, loitering in Milne Street while the Commissioners met.’

‘Well, he is in the Lady Chapel now. Come and see for yourself.’

He headed towards the sumptuously decorated chapel before either of his colleagues could ask further questions. A couple of Mortimer cousins loitered at the entrance, but they stood aside and allowed the three scholars to enter. Bartholomew was surprised to find the oratory full. Virtually all the Mortimer clan and their womenfolk were present; only those with small children had been left at home. At the front, Constantine was kneeling before a hastily erected bier on which lay a body. The pendulous ale-drinker’s gut rising under the covering sheet could be no one’s but Thomas’s.

Lurking by the window was Edward, his face expressionless, while Julianna perched on a stool, looking bored and restless. Thorpe lounged against a nearby pillar, and his face creased into a sneer when he saw Bartholomew and Michael. Both he and Edward wore clothes that were dishevelled and soot-stained, although Bartholomew suspected they had done little to help quench any flames.

‘This was Mistress Lenne’s doing,’ said Constantine, when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned to face the scholars, and Bartholomew was shocked by the change in the man. He seemed small and cowed, and his bristling confidence had been replaced by a crushing grief.

‘She is dead,’ said Bartholomew, thinking the man must be out of his wits. ‘Whatever happened to Thomas was not her fault.’

‘It was!’ cried Constantine, so loudly that his voice echoed all around the church. Tynkell faltered at the High Altar mass, and the baker struggled to regain control of himself and explain. ‘She cursed Thomas with the Hand of Justice. She asked her son to carry her to it the day she died.’

‘She did,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘The journey hastened her end by several hours. I wondered why she had insisted on going to the Hand, when it was clear she did not want to live. I assumed she was making an act of contrition for some ancient sin that plagued her conscience.’

‘She met Thomas there,’ continued Constantine in a whisper. ‘She looked him in the eye, pointed her finger at him, and declared he would die horribly for what he had done to her husband.’

‘We assumed the Hand of Justice had seen his side of the story when he was not struck down immediately,’ added Edward, who did not sound at all sorry that his uncle was dead. Bartholomew wondered if he stood to benefit in some way – perhaps he had urged his drunken kinsman to sign a document that would see him inherit the mill to the exclusion of more deserving heirs. ‘I see we were wrong.’

‘Mistress Lenne brought about my brother’s death,’ wept Constantine. ‘Poor innocent Thomas!’

‘He was hardly that!’ remarked Julianna from her stool. ‘Your brother did kill Mistress Lenne’s husband, Constantine. We all know that was no accident. I saw it with my own eyes.’

Bartholomew stared at her. ‘You did? But why did you not tell the Sheriff?’

Julianna raised her eyebrows in cynical amusement. ‘You think I should have told Tulyet that I saw my uncle-by-marriage so deep in his cups that his eyes were closed – I am sure he was asleep – when he drove his cart into that old man? Have you not heard of family loyalty, Bartholomew?’ Her voice took on a mocking quality, and she glared at Constantine, as if she had heard these words rather too often since her wedding.

‘Shut up, woman!’ snapped Edward.

‘Why?’ flashed Julianna. ‘Thomas is dead now – cursed by an old woman whose piteous voice was heard by the Hand of Justice. What difference does it make whether I speak out? Will you kill me, as you murdered Bosel?’

‘You must protect the Mortimer name – your name – now,’ said Constantine in a low, shocked voice. ‘You are our kin. And we did not kill Bosel. I have no idea who did that.’

‘Marriages can be annulled,’ said Julianna sulkily. ‘I know men who can arrange it, and I do not want Edward any more. He is disappointing as a lover now he has secured the Deschalers fortune. He prefers the company of his man-friend to that of his wife.’ She made an obscene gesture in Thorpe’s direction, lest anyone be in any doubt as to what she meant.

‘No, I am just weary of you,’ said Edward unpleasantly. ‘Other women in the town can attest to my manliness, so do not think to tarnish me with that brush.’

‘I do not care about your family obligations,’ said Michael sternly to Julianna. ‘You should have told the truth about what you saw.’

‘I know,’ said Julianna bitterly. ‘I should have denounced the old sot and seen him hanged.’

‘So what stopped you?’ demanded William.

‘This lot,’ said Julianna, waving a hand at her assembled in-laws. ‘They kept droning on and on about kinship and loyalty, and they nagged me so much that I did as they asked, just to shut them up. But justice prevailed in the end. The Hand and Mistress Lenne saw to that.’

‘You are still under an obligation to put your new family first, Julianna,’ said Constantine hoarsely. ‘Thomas’s death does not change the fact that you are married to my son.’

‘Perhaps,’ replied Julianna enigmatically, causing Constantine to look sharply at her, although Edward did not deign to respond. He smiled, rather unpleasantly, as though he knew something she did not. Bartholomew guessed what it was: Julianna was clearly under the impression that she could have her marriage dissolved, just as she had done with Master Langelee, but she would be in for a shock. Marriages were not often annulled, especially not if the husband objected. Julianna’s inheritance represented a fortune, and Edward was not going to let any part of it slip through his fingers. Poor Julianna was stuck with him, no matter what she thought.

‘What happened to Thomas?’ asked Michael, looking down at the shrouded figure.

Edward stepped forward and whisked the sheet away so that Bartholomew and Michael could see the extent of the injuries Thomas had suffered before his death. His clothes were drenched in blood, his face was crushed almost beyond recognition, and his limbs and chest were unnatural shapes where bones had broken. But if Edward had wanted to shock the scholars, he was disappointed. Bartholomew had an academic interest in such matters, while Michael, although he disliked the more grisly aspects of his post, had sufficient self-control not to flinch. Even William had seen enough violent death to be dispassionate.

‘A horse bolted from Lavenham’s stables during the fire,’ said Constantine, sounding as if he was going to cry again. ‘It collided with Thomas, and he was trampled.’

‘He was drunk when the fire raged,’ said Bartholomew, recalling how the miller had reeled and slobbered from his wineskin just before the inferno had started. He edged past Michael to inspect the body properly, and frowned. The injuries did not fit with the story he had been told. ‘But there are no hoof marks here. Just signs that he was crushed.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Edward. ‘There are hoof marks everywhere and we shall use them as proof.’

‘Proof of what?’

‘Proof that will allow us to sue Lavenham,’ said Edward, casually inspecting his fingernails. ‘He was negligent in the way he stabled his nags. If he had tethered them properly, they would not have escaped and Thomas would still be alive.’ He exchanged a grin with Thorpe.

Bartholomew gazed at him, uncertain whether he was making a jest in poor taste, but he seemed perfectly serious. Julianna saw the physician’s bemusement.

‘He means it,’ she said. ‘He really does intend to make Lavenham pay for the death of Thomas.’

‘After what you have just said?’ asked Michael, astounded. ‘That Thomas killed Lenne and injured Isnard because he fell asleep at the reins? Does it not occur to you that suing Lavenham would be a gross injustice?’

Thorpe did his best to be nonchalant, but he was enjoying himself too much to succeed. His smile was triumphant when he saw the scholars’ shock. ‘We know our rights. The town did not care about justice when Edward and I were ordered to abjure the realm, so why should we care about it now?’

‘Well, you might take a lesson from Thomas,’ suggested Michael. ‘He thought he could evade punishment for his sins, and look what happened to him.’

Thorpe had the grace to look uneasy, but Edward did not react. ‘That is different,’ he said.

‘Why?’ asked William.

‘Because we have not been cursed by Mistress Lenne.’

‘No,’ agreed Thorpe, regaining his confidence. ‘Nor did we crush any old men with carts. The folk we killed two years ago deserved to die.’

Some of Edward’s family looked distinctly uncomfortable with this claim, and one of them collected his wife and aimed for the door. Two or three others followed, and Bartholomew saw there were fractures in the clan that had not been there before. A month ago, they would have stuck together no matter what, but Edward’s outrageous behaviour seemed too much, even for them. Constantine watched the dissenters leave with a troubled expression.

‘The Hand of Justice will never allow mischief to befall us,’ Thorpe continued, ignoring the small exodus. ‘It knows how we have suffered – exiled to places like Albi and Calais.’

‘But even if Lavenham survived the fire, he will be penniless,’ reasoned Michael. ‘The fire deprived him of all he owns. He will not be able to pay you anything – negligently tethered horses or no.’

‘That is not our problem,’ said Thorpe loftily. ‘The town will pay – as it will pay the compensation owed to me and Edward for our unjust banishment. After all, it is only fair.’

Neither Bartholomew nor Michael could think of much to say as they walked to Tulyet’s house on Bridge Street that evening. They were appalled by Edward’s plan to sue Lavenham and, while they hoped the law would be sufficiently sane to see the claim for the outrage it was, their recent experience with England’s eccentric legal system and its dishonest clerks did not fill them with confidence.

‘I cannot believe this,’ said Michael, as they passed the outskirts of the Jewry. A miasma of rosewater still encased him, and Bartholomew tried to keep his distance. ‘If the Mortimers gain a single penny over Thomas’s death I shall join those restless peasants who are urging rebellion, and overthrow the King myself.’

‘Michael!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, glancing around him uneasily. The monk’s voice had been loud, and there were plenty of people close enough to have heard. ‘You are always warning me about making treasonous remarks, but I have never made that sort of proclamation on the High Street.’

‘Well, I am angry,’ pouted Michael. ‘And disillusioned. I have been upholding University laws for five years now, and I thought right was on my side. But, in the last two weeks I have seen murderers pardoned; I have seen them awarded money for their “suffering”; I have seen a drunken merchant crush folk under his cart with no reprisals; I have seen Deschalers, Warde and Bottisham dead by foul means and I do not know why; and I have seen Bosel callously dispatched to protect Thomas’s precious reputation. And now Edward plans to sue the destitute Lavenham.’

‘We do not know Lavenham is destitute,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He may have a fortune secreted away – he certainly still has his share of the King’s Mill. And he may be dead and therefore beyond the Mortimers’ clutches. We do not know Bosel was killed to protect Thomas, either. Constantine says not. And finally you know as well as I do that “right” and “justice” have nothing to do with the law, so you cannot be disillusioned.’

At Tulyet’s house, Michael rapped on the door, becoming impatient when it was not answered immediately. He had missed a number of snacks that day, so was hungry and wanted to get at Mistress Tulyet’s lamb and Lombard slices as soon as possible.

‘Summer must be closer than I thought,’ said Tulyet, ushering them inside. ‘I can smell blossom. Rather strongly, actually. Or perhaps one of the Frail Sisters passed this way, and her scent lingers.’

‘Weeds,’ said Tulyet’s wife, coming to greet them and also detecting something aromatic. ‘Like lily of the valley or some such plant. No. It is less pleasant than that. Henbane. I believe that reeks at this time of year.’ She inspected the bushes that grew along the front of her house.

‘Henbane killed Warde,’ said Michael, making his way to Tulyet’s solar and oblivious to the mortified expression on the faces of his hosts as they identified the origin of the stench. ‘It is not hard to believe that something so foul-smelling contains such a virulent poison.’

‘And Bess,’ said Bartholomew, not wanting her to be forgotten. He entered the solar behind Michael and was surprised to see Stanmore there, sipping warmed wine by the hearth. The clothier winked at Bartholomew and told him that it was more pleasant to inveigle invitations from friends than to dine alone while his wife was away.

‘God’s angels!’ exclaimed Michael suddenly. ‘What is that?’

He pointed to an object that lay on its side in one corner of the room, all wooden legs and frayed fur, like a Trojan horse that had seen some terrible wars. Its face was unscathed, however, and Bartholomew immediately recognised the beady, malevolent eyes and grinning, tooth-filled mouth of the toy Quenhyth had crafted.

‘We have young Quenhyth to thank for that,’ said Tulyet with a fond smile. ‘He gave it to Dickon when he hurt himself, and it has become his favourite toy. I offered to return it, since it was originally intended for Quenhyth’s brother, but the kind lad said we could keep it.’

Bartholomew imagined that Quenhyth’s generosity had nothing to do with kindness. He knew he was likely to be asked to help tend Dickon in the future so would not want to accept the toy back and run the risk of being speared by Dickon’s wooden sword when their paths next crossed.

‘What is it?’ asked Michael dubiously, picking up the object by one of its legs. It had suffered during its few days in the Tulyet house. One of its feet had broken, there were bald patches where its fur had come off, and it was missing its tail.

‘It is a rat,’ came the piping, childish voice of Dickon from behind them, where he had been eating the sugared cherries off the tops of all the Lombard slices. ‘You stink! I am a Saracen!’

With a wild whoop and little warning, Dickon produced the dreaded sword and rushed at Michael, brandishing it to show he meant serious harm. Bartholomew had never seen the monk move so fast, and Dickon’s weapon succeeded only in cleaving thin air. Aggrieved to be deprived of his target, the brat looked around furiously, and drew breath for another attack.

‘Dickon!’ shouted Tulyet. ‘What have I told you about assaulting guests?’

Dickon’s dark eyes settled rebelliously on his father, and then with calm deliberation he issued another ear-piercing war-shriek and aimed for Michael a second time. This time the monk was ready. He gripped the rat in both hands and used it to block the sword’s hacking blow. The toy disintegrated in his hands, the head skittering off to land in the fire and the body falling in two unequal pieces to the floor. Michael was left holding a hind leg that ended in some vicious-looking splinters. Dickon gaped at the shattered ruins in disbelief, and his little sword dangled at his side.

‘Oh, dear,’ said Michael flatly. ‘Now look what you have done.’

Slowly it dawned on Dickon that his rat was irreparably damaged. He opened his mouth and roared his fury at the world – and at Michael in particular – with all the power his lungs could muster. Bartholomew winced, certain it was not normal for a small child to generate such volume.

‘You will hurt your throat,’ he warned, although whether Dickon heard him was a matter of conjecture. He considered repeating the message, then decided that a sore throat might actually benefit Dickon’s parents. He should not deprive them of a quiet week by attempting to soothe the brat.

‘I will take him to the garden,’ shouted his mother. ‘You said you wanted to talk, and you will not be able to do so with him here. Do not forget to bar the door. He will not stay outside for long.’

‘Do hurry back,’ said Michael to Dickon, with what Bartholomew thought was raw menace. ‘I would like to play with you again.’

Dickon’s howls stopped, and he regarded Michael with a coolly assessing eye. Bartholomew watched him reach the understanding that Michael was not someone who would be easily bested. Dickon was the first to look away. He continued his bawling, although not quite as loudly, as his mother led him away by the hand.

‘Are you sure he is yours, Dick?’ asked Michael, following Tulyet into the chamber he used as an office and watching him secure the door in a way that would have probably deterred several real Saracens. ‘Only I have heard that the Devil occasionally sires a child.’

Tulyet was not amused. ‘Matt says he will grow out of his tantrums soon. We probably should not indulge him so, but my wife still has not forgotten the time when ruthless men stole him from us.’

‘I would like to see them try now,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that anyone who deliberately sought out the company of Dickon deserved everything he got. Stanmore added a nod of heartfelt agreement.

‘He is a dear child,’ said Tulyet. ‘But I can barely remember what it is like to have a peaceful home. Still, he will soon be old enough to play with other children, and that may calm him.’

‘Julianna’s daughter?’ suggested Stanmore. ‘She is a brat who knows her own mind. You should betroth them. It would be an excellent marriage for both children.’

‘An excellent marriage for their parents, perhaps,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But they would probably kill each other on their wedding night.’ He thought he heard Stanmore mutter ‘quite’.

Tulyet poked the fire in the hearth until there was a merry blaze. Shadows flickered across the walls, making the murals seem alive, with leaves moving in a breeze and strange beasts lurking among the foliage. Tulyet gave a hearty sigh when Dickon gave his most almighty screech yet, and made a comment about how difficult it was going to be to get him to sleep that night, after the excitement of the day.

‘He shouted “fire”,’ said Bartholomew, going to the window and throwing the shutter open. So far, Dickon’s parents had kept him away from flames, but the physician knew it was only a matter of time before the hellion learned it was a usefully destructive force. He did not want to be sipping wine in Tulyet’s sealed office while the house burned, and end up like Bernarde.

‘He saw the blaze this afternoon,’ said Tulyet. ‘He is just playing.’

‘No!’ said Bartholomew, leaning out of the window. ‘There is a fire. I can smell it.’

He followed Tulyet out of the office and along a corridor to the pantries. A pile of kindling stood in the middle of the floor, and the room was full of thick, white smoke. Bartholomew snatched up a pan of water and dashed it over the flames, while Tulyet, Stanmore and Michael kicked the thing apart and stamped out the cinders. There was a rich stench of burning fat, and Bartholomew realised someone had added fuel to the sticks, to ensure the fire would catch.

‘How odd,’ said Stanmore, regarding it with a puzzled expression. ‘Which of your servants would light a fire on the floor, when there is a perfectly good hearth for that kind of thing?’

‘This is not the work of a servant,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Someone lit it with the express purpose of burning Dick’s house to the ground. The oil was added to make it burn more quickly. Besides, no retainer is foolish enough to set a blaze in the middle of a room, then leave it unattended.’

‘You mean someone wanted Dick to go the same way as Bernarde?’ asked Stanmore, aghast.

‘Bang!’ came Dickon’s strident voice from the garden. ‘Pow!’

‘Is anyone with him?’ asked Tulyet, watching as his wife and most of their household crowded into the pantry to inspect the mess. ‘It is getting dark, and I do not want him to let the chickens out.’

‘I will go,’ said Bartholomew, relieved to be away from the smoke, because his throat was still raw from inhaling so much of it earlier that day. He entered the cool garden and took a deep breath of spring-scented air before beginning to look for Dickon. It was not difficult to locate him. He was screaming happily as he whirled his wooden sword around his head.

‘Yah!’ he screeched, stabbing some bushes. Suddenly, there was a rustle and someone broke free and raced across the garden towards a wall at the rear. Dickon was after him in a trice, whooping his delight at the prospect of live quarry. His victim reached the wall and began to scale it, driven to a new level of acrobatic achievement by the sword. Dickon jabbed hard at the leg that dangled so tantalisingly in front of him, and there was a shriek of agony. The boy’s face creased into a satisfied grin, and the intruder disappeared over the top. There was a thud, a grunt of pain and then uneven footsteps as the would-be arsonist limped away.

‘Pow,’ said Dickon, pleased with himself. ‘He dead.’

‘Are you sure you did not see who it was?’ asked Tulyet, as they sat in his office – barred again against juvenile invasion – and poured more wine to wash the smoke from their throats. ‘It would be good to know the identity of the man who just tried to incinerate me and my family.’

‘He was just a shadow and he ran too fast for me to see,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was unfortunate for him that he did not run faster still, because then Dickon would not have tried to sever his leg.’

‘It serves him right,’ said Tulyet unsympathetically. ‘Damn the fellow! Now I shall have to organise guards to protect my house, and I do not have men to spare. I need them all in the town. It felt very uneasy earlier tonight, as though we are on the brink of another riot.’

‘But who would want to kill you?’ asked Stanmore. ‘And damage the King’s Commission, since two arson attacks in a day are more than coincidence.’

‘Well, it was not Bernarde,’ said Tulyet. He had closed the window shutters, but the racket made by Dickon as he screeched his way around the herb beds was still very audible. ‘It was definitely his body we found in the ruins of Lavenham’s house. There were things other than his keys that allowed us to identify him – the buckles on his shoes, his mouth of crowded teeth, and a ring.’

‘So, if we assume that whoever killed Deschalers and Bottisham also set Lavenham’s fire, then Bernarde is in the clear,’ said Stanmore.

‘Actually, he is not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘How do you know he did not set the blaze, then get caught in it accidentally?’

‘That is unlikely,’ said Michael. ‘Only a fool would allow himself to be ensnared in the inferno he had created, and our killer is not a fool. However, I think Bernarde was innocent of all these crimes – although I cannot say the same for Lavenham and Isobel. They have disappeared, and if that is not a sign of guilt, then I do not know what is. We have a witness who saw Bess in their shop moments before she was poisoned, and they will know we want to interview them about it.’

‘We need look no further than Thorpe and Edward Mortimer for all this chaos,’ said Tulyet firmly. ‘They are the obvious culprits. Perhaps one of them attacked my house, too. Could the intruder have been either of them, Matt?’

‘I could not tell,’ repeated Bartholomew. ‘Dickon had him on the run too soon. It could have been anyone – Rougham, for example. His College is deeply involved with the Mortimers, and we cannot discount the possibility that he poisoned Warde with Water of Snails. Also, he is so keen to claim the Hand of Justice for Gonville that I think he would stop at nothing to get it.’

‘No,’ said Stanmore. ‘Young Thorpe and Edward will be behind this. You mark my words.’

‘Or Cheney and Morice,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They are desperate for the King’s Mill to win its case, and they bought Water of Snails from Lavenham. We have that in black and white – or we would have done, had the fire not destroyed Lavenham’s record books.’

‘So, we all believe in different suspects,’ said Tulyet. ‘Matt thinks Rougham, Cheney or Morice are to blame; Michael has Lavenham in his sights; and Oswald and I think our culprits are Thorpe and Mortimer. Some of us must be wrong – either that or we must concoct a solution that has all of them acting together. And I cannot see how that could be.’

‘There are simply too many victims,’ said Stanmore. ‘Deschalers, Bottisham, Warde, Bosel, Bess and now Bernarde. A grocer, two scholars, a beggar, a madwoman and a miller. How are we supposed to identify the connections between these people?’

‘Perhaps there are none,’ said Tulyet. ‘At least, not between all of them.’

‘Their deaths are related to each other,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Deschalers and Bottisham died in Bernarde’s mill, and Bess, Bosel and Warde were poisoned. Paxtone did some tests this morning, and he is certain Bess died from ingesting henbane, just like Warde.’

‘Paxtone,’ mused Stanmore. ‘He and Wynewyk have been acting very oddly lately. They are constantly scurrying in and out of dingy alleys together. It is most unbecoming in senior scholars.’

‘There is nothing to suggest Paxtone had anything against these victims,’ Bartholomew pointed out, still reluctant to see the pleasant King’s Hall physician implicated in such horrible murders, despite the evidence that was mounting against him.

‘You defend him because you like him,’ said Stanmore. ‘But you know as well as I do that murderers can be the most charming of folk.’

‘I cannot vouch for Paxtone, but I do not believe Wynewyk is our killer,’ said Michael, holding out his cup to be refilled. ‘He has no motive.’

‘None that we know about,’ corrected Stanmore. ‘He told me not long ago that he has been to France. Perhaps he met Thorpe and Mortimer there.’

As he spoke, fragments of information began to melt together in Bartholomew’s mind, and he frowned as he concentrated. Then the answer was there, in a flash. ‘Albi! Wynewyk said he was in Albi, in southern France.’

‘That town has a reputation for violence,’ mused Tulyet. ‘I recall being told about a vicious inquisition that once took place there, with hangings and burnings aplenty.’

Bartholomew turned to him. ‘Quite. And where better to learn the secrets of soldiery and killing? However, I also know that Albi was where Edward Mortimer became a man, because Julianna told me. Thorpe also mentioned Albi as somewhere he visited during his banishment – he did so just this afternoon, when we were inspecting Thomas Mortimer’s body in St Mary the Great.’

‘You think Wynewyk met them in Albi?’ asked Michael. ‘It must have been well before we knew Wynewyk, since he took up his Fellowship months after they had been exiled. You think they might be in this nasty business together?’

‘I do not know,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Wynewyk says he is terrified of them, and claims they stole his purse while they were waiting to pray to the Hand. That might mean they are not allies, but enemies – and Wynewyk wants them accused of these crimes.’

‘Are you saying Wynewyk killed six people with the express purpose of having Thorpe and Mortimer blamed for it?’ asked Stanmore uncertainly.

‘I do not know about this, Matt,’ said Michael, also doubtful. ‘Why kill innocent men to strike at your enemies? Why not just kill your enemies? It would be simpler and probably a lot more satisfying.’

Tulyet cleared his throat and looked unhappy. ‘There is something I have not told you. I did not know whether it was important, and I was afraid of leading your investigation astray with speculation, so, I kept it to myself. But …’

‘What?’ asked Michael warily, not liking the tone of the Sheriff’s voice. He suspected he was about to hear something he would not like. He was not mistaken.

‘I rode hard from Trumpington when I saw smoke in the sky above Cambridge, but just as I reached the Gate I saw something odd. Everyone was rushing towards Lavenham’s house – to help or to watch. Except one person. He was running – very fast – in the opposite direction.’

‘Who?’ demanded Michael. ‘Who was fleeing the scene of his crime?’

‘You cannot assume he was doing that–’ began Bartholomew, ready to point out that the two events might be unrelated. Michael waved him to be quiet, so Tulyet could speak.

‘I do not know who it was,’ said Tulyet. ‘But he was wearing a scholar’s tabard.’

Bartholomew and Michael were silent as they walked home from Tulyet’s house. They had discussed the case until their heads span, but were no closer to any answers. Bartholomew fretted about Paxtone and Wynewyk’s odd behaviour, while Michael confessed that he felt his lack of progress was an insult to the memories of Bottisham and Warde. Stanmore mourned the loss of Deschalers, while Tulyet was distressed because Dickon was tearful over the destruction of his beloved toy. He offered an enormous sum to encourage Quenhyth to make a new one, and Bartholomew contemplated abandoning medicine to enter the toy-making business instead, since it was a good deal more than he had ever earned for treating a patient.

It was a dark evening, with any light from stars or moon shielded by a thick layer of cloud. Rain was in the air, which smelled of damp earth, the marshes to the north and the scent of spring. There was also Michael’s rosewater. Shadows flitted back and forth, lurking in doorways and slipping down black, sinister alleys when they recognised the portly frame of the University’s Senior Proctor. No felon wanted a set-to with a man of Michael’s reputation.

‘Thomas Mortimer,’ said Michael out of the blue. ‘I am not sorry to see him dead, and I cannot think of a more appropriate way for him to perish, given what he did to Lenne and Isnard. But I am not happy about it.’

Neither was Bartholomew. ‘The horses were terrified by the smoke. We both heard them screaming, and it was obvious that when they had kicked their way out of the stable they were going to bolt. But I have seen men trampled to death before, and Thomas did not have the right marks on his body. He looked crushed, but not by hoofs.’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘I certainly do not believe Mistress Lenne caused his death by an appeal to the Hand of Justice. There may well be a hand of justice working here, but it is not a divine one.’

‘Lenne’s son?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He seems the obvious suspect to batter Thomas to death and blame it on fleeing nags.’

‘Unfortunately not – unfortunately for us, that is, because it would have made for a neat ending to this unsavoury incident. But Lenne’s son had already left Cambridge when the fire started. Sergeant Orwelle rode with him as far as Drayton, way up in the Fens, so I know it is true.’

Bartholomew took a deep breath, and thought about Mistress Lenne’s lonely death and Isnard’s pain and anguish. ‘Perhaps you should not look too closely into the details of Thomas’s death, Brother. You may not like what you find.’

Michael shot him an unreadable glance. ‘You did not kill him, did you?’

‘I did not!’ said Bartholomew, offended that the monk should ask. He regarded his friend askance. ‘Why? Did you?’

Michael did not deign to reply. ‘I wonder if my grandmother … Her sense of justice is strong …’

He let the thought trail away, and Bartholomew did not feel like passing comment on it. Dame Pelagia had a sense of justice all right, but it was not always one that corresponded with his own. They were about to leave the High Street and turn down St Michael’s Lane, more than ready for sleep after the trials of the day, when Michael stopped dead in his tracks and peered down the shady road. The sturdy huddle of St Michael’s was to their left, while Gonville lay to their right. Further along was the bigger, blacker mass of St Mary the Great, silhouetted faintly against the sky.

‘Why is there a light in the tower?’ asked Michael, straining his eyes in the gloom. ‘No one should be there now. The church should be locked, and William will be tucked up in his bed.’

‘We should ignore that, too,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘It may be someone in the process of stealing the Hand, and I would not be sorry to see that thing go!’

‘There are other valuable items in the University Chest besides the Hand,’ said Michael urgently. ‘There are property deeds, charters and all manner of documents, not to mention all those payments William has collected from displaying that vile relic. We cannot ignore it.’

‘Come on, then,’ said Bartholomew reluctantly, heading for the University Church. He drew a knife from his medicine bag, and pushed his cloak back over his shoulder, so his arm would not become entangled in the cloth if there was a fight. He glanced up at the tower as they made for the door, and saw a shadow cross the window in the chamber where the Hand was stored. Someone was definitely there. Michael produced a key, and Bartholomew winced as sharp metallic clinks echoed around the silent churchyard. He wondered whether they would be audible to the thieves inside.

‘This is interesting,’ whispered Michael, indicating that the gate had been locked. ‘This is the only door not barred from the inside – it is always secured with a key.’

‘Who has keys?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘William, who will be asleep by now. Chancellor Tynkell, who I happen to know is dining with my grandmother and Mayor Morice this evening. And me. Therefore, only one conclusion can be drawn: whoever is in the tower must have hidden in the church before it was secured for the night.’

‘In that case, I have two questions,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The first is why are the premises not checked before they are locked, to prevent this sort of thing? And the second is why do we not summon the beadles to help us confront whoever is here?’

‘They are checked,’ snapped Michael. ‘So, I imagine we are dealing with someone who is extremely good at hiding himself.’ He stepped into the dark interior.

‘The beadles, Brother,’ said Bartholomew firmly, stretching out a hand to stop him. ‘I do not want to tackle these intruders alone.’

‘I will be with you,’ said Michael, as if that were enough. ‘And I do not want to wait for reinforcements if there are felons after the University Chest. It is far too valuable.’

Bartholomew was unhappy, but the monk dismissed his concerns as he made his way to the tower. In the dead silence of the church Bartholomew could hear the monk’s soft breathing, and the way his leather boots creaked as he walked. With infinite care, Michael opened the tower door and began to ascend the spiral staircase. They passed the document-storage room, and continued to the second floor, where the Chest was kept.

Bartholomew heard voices as they climbed, and his misgivings increased when he realised there was not one intruder in the tower, but two or three. He wondered how he and Michael would be able to contain them, using only a surgical knife and a pewter candlestick Michael had grabbed from the nave. When they reached the door, Michael threw it open with such force that the crash made Bartholomew’s teeth rattle. The monk leapt into the chamber with a challenging shriek, candlestick held ready to brain anyone who tried to pass him.

‘William!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, entering a little less dramatically.

‘Lavenham!’ said Michael, eyeing the terrified apothecary with cold, angry eyes. ‘And Isobel! What are you doing here?’