The Hand of Justice

CHAPTER 12

‘This is not as it looks,’ said William nervously, moving forward with what Bartholomew felt was a good deal of agitated menace.

‘No?’ asked Michael mildly, indicating with a nod that Bartholomew was to remain by the door and prevent a bid for escape – by any of the room’s occupants.

‘It looks as though I am supervising the theft of the Hand of Justice,’ said William unhappily. The Lavenhams sat side by side on the window bench, and said nothing. ‘But I am not. I cannot.’

‘And why is that, pray?’ asked Michael coolly.

‘Because it is not here,’ said William with a strangled cry. He picked up the handsome reliquary and lobbed it across the room. ‘See?’

Michael almost dropped the box, and the candlestick he had been holding clattered to the ground. ‘God’s blood, man, have a care! You do not toss these things around as though they were juggling balls! I know I have been sceptical of the Hand of Justice, but I do not want to risk the wrath of an irked saint by treating the thing with brazen disrespect.’

‘Open it,’ suggested William.

‘Do not,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘Men have been struck down for tampering with holy relics. Remember William’s sermon about the man who touched the Ark of the Covenant?’

‘But you do not believe this particular relic is holy,’ William pointed out with impeccable logic. ‘Neither of you do. So open the box, Brother.’

Reluctantly, Michael complied, while Bartholomew held his breath, half anticipating that the room would fill with a blinding light that would incinerate them all. Michael pulled out the satin parcel and unwrapped it, looking like a man who expected to discover something terrible inside.

‘It is a glove’ said Michael in surprise, shaking the object out on to the table. ‘A glove stuffed with old wool, or some such thing.’

Bartholomew inspected it carefully, noting the rough stitches and the way its creator had used odds and ends to assemble something that might fool a busy friar at a pinch – it was the same shape and size as the original Hand, and would pass for the real thing as long as it was inside the satin. The glove used was old and cheap, and might have been discarded by just about anyone, now that winter was over.

‘My relic has been a glove for the past five days!’ wailed William, flopping on to the University Chest and rubbing his eyes. ‘At least, that was when I first became aware that the original Hand had gone – last Friday. God only knows when it really disappeared.’

‘But you have continued to accept money from folk who want to pray to it,’ said Bartholomew accusingly.

‘Well, why not?’ snapped William. ‘Their prayers are still being answered, even though the Hand is not here. Mistress Lenne appealed to it on Monday – three days after I noticed it was missing – and Thomas Mortimer died, just as she requested.’

‘Never mind the Hand,’ said Michael, looking at Lavenham and his wife. ‘What is going on here? You are right to be defensive, William. This situation does indeed look suspicious. This pair are needed to answer questions, and they appear just when you confess that your relic has been stolen.’

‘It might not have been stolen,’ procrastinated William. ‘It might have gone of its own volition.’

‘Leaving a stuffed glove behind it?’ asked Michael archly. He turned his attention back to the Lavenhams, who looked apprehensive. There was a small box on the bench next to them; its lid was open, and it was so full of gold that it was overflowing. ‘What do you have to say for yourselves?’

‘They went to the Chancellor after the fire, in fear of their lives,’ said William, speaking for them. ‘Tynkell asked for my help, so I brought them here. It is only for a night. They will be away at dawn tomorrow, back to Lavenham.’

‘So, no one was hiding in the church when it was locked up for the night,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘Both William and Tynkell have keys.’

‘We cannot go back to Lavenham, Father,’ said Isobel pedantically. ‘We have never been there. I am from Peterborough, and my husband is from Norway.’

‘Hah!’ exclaimed Michael. ‘I always thought there was something strange about you.’

Bartholomew did not think hailing from Peterborough or Norway implied strangeness, although it certainly suggested a degree of deception. But it was a minor one, and lying about one’s antecedents was not a particularly suspicious thing to have done. He said so.

‘You are right,’ said Isobel. She made an effort to pull herself together, and managed to give Michael a flash of her cleavage. The monk’s glare did not waver, and Bartholomew admired his self-restraint. Isobel’s expression turned sulky. ‘We have done nothing wrong, so do not glower so! When someone set our house alight, we decided this town was too dangerous for us, and made up our minds to leave. We do good business here, but it is not worth dying for.’

‘Someone deliberately fired your shop,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We assumed it was to harm the Commissioners. Were we wrong?’

Isobel exchanged a glance with her husband. ‘We do not know who was responsible. But when we saw what happened to Thomas Mortimer, we decided to leave before his kinsmen blamed us for his death – even though it was not our fault.’

‘He was trampled,’ said Michael. ‘Did you see someone drive a panicked horse in his direction?’

Isobel grimaced. ‘If only we had! Human violence is something I can understand, but this was something else altogether. Just after the alarm was raised, he entered our yard and started stuffing things into his bag.’ She shook her head, as though she could scarcely credit such behaviour. ‘It was brazen theft, but at least he had the grace to blush when he saw us. He turned to run away – loaded down with our possessions, I might add – when a beam fell from an upper floor and crushed him.’

‘But he was not found in your yard,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘He was found in the street.’

‘The Mortimers are always trying to make money from others’ misfortunes,’ said Isobel. ‘I am disgusted by the compensation the town is forced to pay Thorpe and Edward, and I did not want Thomas’s corpse found on our property: I did not want them blaming us for his death.’

Bartholomew could see her point. ‘You moved him?’

She nodded. ‘I do not know who started the rumour that our horses killed him, but it is not true. He died from falling timber – and because he was so drunk that he could not move quickly enough to save himself when the roof started to collapse.’

Bartholomew believed her, and supposed blaming the horses had been the Mortimers’ idea. It would be easier to claim compensation from the owner of a stampeding nag than from the owner of a burning house that Thomas had been busy looting.

Isobel continued. ‘But, on reflection, we decided not to stay here anyway. We salvaged our gold from what is left of our home, and we will leave Cambridge at first light tomorrow.’

‘Chancellor find us hide in cemetery,’ added Lavenham. ‘He help us good.’

‘Why should Tynkell help you?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

‘I know things,’ replied Isobel vaguely.

‘It would not be about the Chancellor’s unusual medical condition, would it?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling that she sewed his undergarments.

‘Do not press me to betray his trust,’ said Isobel softly. ‘He has been kind to us.’

‘Bess,’ said Bartholomew, trying another line of enquiry. ‘Did you sell her poison?’

‘Of course not!’ said Isobel crossly. ‘She was witless and would have swallowed it. She came to our shop asking about her man, and I could see she was not well, so I gave her a comfit to suck. I heard she died shortly afterwards, but it had nothing to do with us.’

‘Is that what Alfred de Blaston saw in her hand?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘A comfit?’

Isobel nodded. ‘I expect so. I saw her toss it away as soon as she was outside.’

‘How do we know you are telling the truth?’ asked Michael. ‘How do we know you did not set the fire, kill Thomas and even steal William’s relic?’

‘I can answer that,’ said Bartholomew, sitting next to Isobel. ‘I should have pieced this together sooner. Master Thorpe said the fire broke out while the three Commissioners – including Lavenham – were arguing in the solar, which means Lavenham could not have lit it himself. And I saw Isobel in the street when the arsonist would have been at work. They are innocent of that charge.’

‘And Thomas Mortimer’s death?’ asked Michael.

‘I would say they are telling the truth about that, too: his injuries suggest crushing, not trampling. And they did not steal the relic, either. You can see their worldly goods in that box of gold, and the Hand is not in it.’

Isobel smiled at Bartholomew, underlining her appreciation with a flash of bosom. ‘Thank you, Doctor. You have absolved us of these vile accusations.’

‘Not all of them,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I still have questions about the potion that killed Warde and Bess. Did you add henbane to your Water of Snails? Accidentally?’

Lavenham bristled indignantly. ‘I not! I make Baker Dozen – thirteen phial. You see entry in my book, and know how many I sell. Two of Cheney, two of Bernarde and two of Morice in first batch. In second, four of Rougham and three spare. Bernarde, Cheney and Morice drank and still alive.’

‘Bernarde is not,’ said Bartholomew, although he did not think Water of Snails was responsible.

‘Rougham gave three of his phials to his Gonville colleagues, and they are not dead,’ said Isobel. ‘So, you cannot accuse us of adding henbane to the one he prescribed for Warde. Warde and Bess must have died from something else.’

‘Rougham,’ mused Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘We are back to him. I do not suppose he has purchased other toxic substances from you recently, has he?’

‘He is a physician, and is obliged to use plants like henbane occasionally,’ said Isobel. ‘You also purchased some – for Isnard’s lice. And Paxtone bought a little for his Warden’s gout.’

‘Rougham bought henbane?’ pounced Bartholomew, ignoring Paxtone for a more promising villain. ‘What for?’

‘We did not ask,’ said Isobel indignantly. ‘It is not our business to question our customers. He bought a lot of it about a month ago, but he did not tell me why.’

‘Isobel has given me a gold noble for my help tonight,’ said William, becoming bored with murder. ‘For the University Chest, of course. Perhaps I can use it to purchase another Hand …’

‘No!’ said Michael quickly. ‘We have had enough of those, thank you very much.’

‘I suppose someone stole it when I was out of the chamber,’ said William, frowning as he tried to identify a culprit. ‘I occasionally leave trusted individuals alone, so they can make their petitions in private. I do not want to be party to too many guilty secrets and hidden desires.’

‘You told us you always keep the reliquary locked,’ said Bartholomew, suspecting that trust and bribes went hand in hand with William. ‘So, how did it come to be stolen?’

‘I have been busy,’ said William in a whine. ‘I may have forgotten to secure it once or twice. So many people came to appeal to the Hand …’

‘Who?’ demanded Michael.

‘Bernarde for one,’ replied William. His jaw dropped. ‘You do not think he took it, and that is why he was burned to a cinder in the inferno? The Hand of Justice repaid him for his audacity?’

‘There is no proof of that,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Who else?’

‘I left Edward and young Thorpe unattended, because Wynewyk was with them, and I assumed he would prevent any mischief. But he now tells me they robbed him.’

‘That is why we have been dining on nettles and stale bread for the past three weeks. Who else?’

William began reeling off names. ‘Mayor Morice would be my first suspect, but he took nothing with him because I would have seen it bulging under his tight-fitting tunic. Stanmore came, but he is an honest man. Quenhyth prayed briefly. Paxtone visited, but Pulham was with him, and I do not think they are close enough to trust each other with theft. Thomas and Constantine Mortimer popped in, bringing their servants. Cheney was in company with Langelee and Redmeadow. Clippesby and Kenyngham. Rougham came several times …’

‘Rougham,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is determined to have the Hand for Gonville. He took it!’

‘My money is on Thorpe and Mortimer,’ said Michael. ‘But since the thing is a fraud anyway, I do not think we need waste any more time on it.’ He gazed at the Lavenhams. ‘I appreciate why you are keen to leave, but you must remain here a little longer, in case we have more questions.’

‘Very well,’ said Isobel reluctantly. ‘We will stay tomorrow – if we are permitted to hide in this chamber. But we go at dawn on Friday, whether you have questions or not.’

‘Rougham,’ said Bartholomew, as they walked home from mass the following morning, ‘I knew he was involved. We should confront him with what we know, before he has the same idea as Lavenham and slips away with his ill-gotten gains.’

Michael did not think Rougham’s visits to the Hand necessarily implied that he had stolen it, but agreed that another trip to Gonville was in order. Rougham had not been honest about the fact that he had purchased four phials of Water of Snails from Lavenham, and the monk felt he needed to explain why he had lied and what he had done with them.

There were only two Gonville Fellows left, following the death of Bottisham and the flight of Ufford, Despenser and Thompson. Rougham and Pulham were in the conclave finishing breakfast together and, judging by the pleasure with which Pulham greeted the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner, he considered the interruption a timely one. Rougham sat morosely silent, and his face turned sour with disapproval when the Acting Master waved the guests in.

‘Have some claret,’ said Pulham, ignoring Rougham’s angry sigh. ‘Bishop Bateman brought it the last time he visited. We shall miss him in more ways than you can imagine.’

‘What do you two want here?’ demanded Rougham. ‘I have already said you are not welcome.’

‘You have questions to answer,’ said Bartholomew sharply, not liking his tone.

‘I do not answer questions put by you,’ retorted Rougham, his voice dripping with contempt.

Bartholomew’s patience finally broke. ‘What is the matter with you? Why are you acting in this way? What have I done to offend you?’

Rougham looked as though he would not deign to reply, but Pulham joined the affray. ‘He is right, Rougham. Your manners are worse than those of a ploughboy when he appears. It is unlike you to be discourteous.’

‘What would you have me do?’ Rougham shouted, appealing to his colleague. ‘The man is healing patients under false pretences, and using his successes to belittle me.’

Bartholomew was astounded by the charge. ‘What do you think I have done?’

‘The secretum secretorum,’ hissed Rougham angrily. ‘The thing Bacon described, which turns lead to gold, and an old person to youth again. You have one.’ He glared at Bartholomew.

Bartholomew stared back, wondering whether the man had lost his wits. ‘But it does not exist.’

‘You have made one,’ said Rougham accusingly. ‘That is why you read so many foreign books, and why you were so determined to buy our Bacon. I would never have sold it, had I known it was going to you. You outwitted me shamelessly by asking the Chancellor to purchase it on your behalf.’

‘I did not–’ objected Bartholomew.

But Rougham was in his stride now. ‘You scoured Arab texts for the secret, and you learned it. That is why you have no need to petition the Hand of Justice for cures, like the rest of us.’

‘And how did you reach this conclusion?’ asked Bartholomew, more convinced than ever that the man’s mind had become impaired. He recalled the argument they had had about Bacon earlier, when Rougham had professed himself to be a believer in the secretum secretorum.

‘Redmeadow told me. He said you can heal all ailments, and that you will teach him how to do the same. He confessed to it when I berated him over that confusion between catmint and calamint.’

‘You drove him to anger when you embarrassed him, and he spoke out of spite,’ said Bartholomew. He could see that Pulham and Michael also thought Rougham was addled. ‘Redmeadow has a fiery temper and is always blurting things he does not mean in the heat of the moment.’

‘Then why do your patients live when you conduct surgery? And how do you heal old women and peasants, who are in poor health to start with?’

‘By using all the means at my disposal – the techniques my Arab master taught me, as well as those learned from books. There is no magic.’

‘Then what about Bishop Bateman?’ demanded Rougham, still on the offensive. ‘The Chancellor said you poisoned him.’

‘What?’ gasped Michael, astonished. ‘But Matt was not in Avignon when Bateman died.’

Bartholomew thought back to the discussion in St Mary the Great on the day of the Disputatio de quodlibet, when Tynkell had asked odd questions about poisons and Rougham had been present. He recalled the shocked expression on Rougham’s face and cursed the Chancellor for his insensitivity.

‘You do not need to be with your victim when he dies of poison,’ said Rougham sulkily.

‘Tynkell does not think Matt killed Bishop Bateman,’ said Michael firmly. ‘I have never heard a more ludicrous suggestion. The Chancellor has griping stomach pains – you tend them yourself on occasion – and it crossed his mind that poison might be the cause. But it was not.’

‘No one would bother to poison Tynkell,’ said Pulham to Rougham with calm reason. ‘It would be a waste of time, because he has so little real authority. And, although there are rumours that Bateman died from foul means, there is no proof of that, either. These tales are inevitable when important men die in foreign places. You are wrong to accuse Bartholomew.’

‘And this is why you have been so hostile lately?’ asked Bartholomew, unsure whether to be angry or amused. ‘You believe I dabble in sorcery, and think I am capable of poisoning bishops hundreds of miles distant?’

‘You did nothing to dissuade me from my beliefs,’ said Rougham coldly. ‘It is your fault our rivalry grew so bitter.’

Bartholomew did not bother to point out that he could hardly correct Rougham’s misapprehensions when he did not know what they were. He only wanted to ask his questions about the murders and leave, hoping that the next time they met, Rougham would at least be civil to him.

Rougham was still seething with resentment when a servant arrived with platters of breakfast food. There were eggs, salted herrings, fresh bread and pickled walnuts to eat, and Bartholomew thought it was not surprising that the College was running short of funds if its Fellows regularly devoured such sumptuous victuals. He ate little, because it was hard to raise an appetite with Rougham scowling so furiously at him, although Michael did not seem to notice and attacked the meal with gusto.

‘You bought four phials of Water of Snails from Lavenham,’ said Bartholomew, wanting the uncomfortable meal to end, so he could leave. ‘You used one for Warde. Where are the others?’

Rougham shook his head in exasperation. ‘I did not give Water of Snails to Warde! How many more times must I tell you that? I gave one each to Ufford, Despenser and Thompson.’ He reached into his scrip and produced a familiar little pot. ‘And I have the fourth here. I doctored them, but it did not work.’

‘Doctored?’ asked Bartholomew warily, laying down his knife. ‘In what way?’

‘I added laudanum,’ snapped Rougham. ‘It is said to make people more amenable.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, disgusted. ‘You hoped this potion would make your three colleagues see the “wisdom” of your plans to have Thorpe and the Hand of Justice at Gonville.’

‘You dosed them with strong physic in an attempt to make them stay?’ asked Pulham, aghast.

Rougham rounded on him. ‘We need Thorpe and we need the Hand. And we need Ufford, Despenser and Thompson, too, if we are ever to finish our chapel. Once we have the Hand, we can claim the bones of the sainted Bateman, too. He was poisoned and is therefore a martyr. Then we shall have plenty of relics to attract pilgrims, and our College will prosper.’

‘So, that is it,’ said Michael. ‘You want to establish Gonville as a shrine. But Bateman was not a saint – he was a good man, but not a holy one – and murder is not necessarily grounds for a beatification anyway. Which is just as well, considering how many we have around here.’

‘We could never claim Bateman’s bones regardless,’ said Pulham, addressing his colleague and looking as though he was seeing him for the first time. ‘Dame Pelagia told me he asked to be buried before the High Altar at Avignon.’

‘Lies!’ cried Rougham. ‘He wanted to be here, with his friends.’

‘Not if he thought we intended to profit from his death,’ said Pulham firmly. ‘He was not that kind of man, and no one here will allow you to defile his memory in so despicable a manner.’

‘Giving folk potions to make them open to your ideas is hardly ethical, either,’ said Bartholomew, more concerned with the way Rougham practised medicine than with his penchant for relics. ‘You might have harmed someone.’

‘Well, I did not,’ snapped Rougham. ‘Ufford, Despenser and Thompson swallowed their potions – which I told them would cleanse their bowels and make them better able to learn – but they were not rendered pliable at all.’ He appealed to Pulham. ‘You must see I did it for our chapel! I cannot allow it to remain foundations in the grass for the next hundred years.’

‘Then we will pray for help,’ said Pulham sternly. ‘We will not resort to using illicit medicines on our friends – or demanding the bones of our founders when they want to be left in peace.’

‘Water of Snails was not all you bought from Lavenham recently,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He says you also purchased a large amount of henbane.’

‘You did not … Warde …?’ stammered Pulham, eyeing Rougham uneasily.

‘No! I did not poison anyone. I did buy henbane, but it was for Deschalers.’

‘You poisoned Deschalers?’ Pulham was appalled.

‘Of course not!’ cried Rougham, becoming agitated. ‘He did not want it for himself.’

‘Paxtone said you refused to prescribe strong medicine for Deschalers’s sickness,’ said Bartholomew, wondering whether the grocer had believed the toxin might help him with his pain. ‘You argued about it with him and Lynton.’

‘Deschalers was beyond any potion I could give him,’ said Rougham. ‘So I decided not to waste his money on “cures” that would not work. But I did not purchase the henbane for his sickness. He asked me to make him a poison for the rats in his house. He paid me sixpence for it.’

‘Rats?’ asked Bartholomew. Perhaps Deschalers’s role in the murders needed further assessment after all, he thought. ‘Do you mean human ones?’

‘Do not be ridiculous,’ snapped Rougham. ‘I mean rodents. Being a grocer, with plenty of food on his premises, he had problems with them. He showed me one he had caught – and it was the size of a cat. I made him a poison that would be fatal to any rat coming within an arm’s length of it.’

‘How?’ asked Bartholomew sceptically.

‘I mixed the henbane with hog grease and cat urine to ensure it stank. One sniff will kill the most robust of pests. Deschalers contacted me a day later and said it was working.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, not sure Deschalers had been entirely honest with Rougham. Had the grocer murdered Bottisham after all, then killed himself to hide the fact? ‘We should go,’ he said, heading abruptly for the door. He was aware of the others’ startled faces, but he did not stop. ‘Thank you for your time.’

‘Is that it?’ hissed Michael, trying to slow the physician’s rapid progress across Gonville’s yard. ‘Rougham has just confessed to buying and dispensing poisons. Who knows what more he might have said had we probed deeper?’

‘He would have said nothing,’ said Bartholomew, ‘because he is not our killer. I was wrong. I have been wrong about a number of things. We initially assumed Deschalers and Bottisham died in an identical manner, because of the nails. But that is not what happened. Bottisham probably died from being stabbed in the palate, but I think Deschalers was poisoned first.’

‘Wait,’ said Michael, grabbing his arm. He steered the physician into the cemetery surrounding St Michael’s Church, where he sat on a tomb with his arms folded, waiting for an explanation. ‘Well?’

‘Rougham does not know how to use henbane,’ said Bartholomew, pacing back and forth.

‘How do you know that?’ Michael was unconvinced.

‘Because he thinks the smell alone will kill rats. It will not – it needs to be ingested.’

‘But our only other suspect for the henbane killings is Paxtone,’ said Michael unhappily.

‘He is not guilty, either. Paxtone and I also discussed henbane, and he has no more idea about how to use it effectively than does Rougham. In fact, he had to send a student to a library to look up the symptoms of henbane poisoning after Bess died.’

‘Then what about the Water of Snails?’ asked Michael. ‘We know the phials Rougham gave Ufford, Despenser and Thompson contained no henbane – or they would be dead – but the ones swallowed by Bess and Warde did.’

‘Rougham had four phials and they are all accounted for – we can ask Ufford, Despenser and Thompson, but I am sure they will confirm his story. He was telling the truth.’

‘Then we must look at the three men who bought the other six between them: Morice, Cheney and Bernarde. You have always been suspicious of them.’

‘I have. But I do not think their Water of Snails was the culprit, either. When we visited Bernarde at his mill once, he confessed to being plagued with a sore head and told us two doses of Lavenham’s strong medicine had not eased his pain. I suspect he took what he bought himself. Meanwhile, Cheney and Morice said much the same. They claimed to have aching heads and backs induced by worry over Edward Mortimer’s foray into commerce, and they also said they took Lavenham’s medicine to cure themselves.’

‘Then we are out of suspects – unless the Water of Snails is irrelevant, and has led us astray.’

Bartholomew gazed up at the sky, and thought about all they had learned. Whoever killed Bess and Warde had probably used the remaining phials from Lavenham’s batch of thirteen. But because the apothecary’s shop was a pile of smouldering rubble, they would never be able to prove the last three phials were missing – stolen from the cupboard the man was careless about locking. He thought about people who might know about henbane and its effects. The killer was not only someone with a knowledge of herbs and cures, but someone who was ambitious and greedy. Then he wondered whether that ambition and greed had led him to steal the Hand, too.

He started to think about the stuffed glove, which the thief had wrapped in satin in the hope that William would not notice the real one was missing. The item had been stuffed with fur. Bartholomew recalled Dickon’s fur-covered rat, and smiled at the memory of the boy’s outrage when it had been destroyed. Then his amusement faded. The skills used to fashion a toy from an old cloak and sticks, and to make a glove look like a relic, were very similar.

‘We are not out of suspects,’ he said in a low, quiet voice. ‘We have just overlooked him.’

‘Who?’ asked Michael, who could think of no one.

‘Quenhyth. He is our killer.’

‘Quenhyth?’ asked Michael in astonishment, gazing at the physician in disbelief. ‘How did he come to be in your equations?’

‘It is falling into place,’ said Bartholomew as he paced back and forth. ‘I see it now. Quenhyth knows about poisons like henbane, because I have taught him about them.’

‘But you teach all your students the same things,’ objected Michael. ‘It could be any of them – Deynman, Redmeadow, and any of the thirty or so others. Poor Quenhyth. He is not a killer.’

‘I talked about henbane with Quenhyth, but no one else,’ said Bartholomew, remembering the discussion the two of them had had on their way to Isnard’s house the previous week while Redmeadow and Deynman lagged behind. ‘It was also Quenhyth who “helped” me test Warde’s Water of Snails – and he destroyed it all in the process. I see now that was no accident or carelessness. He poisoned Warde, and then he destroyed the evidence that might have led back to him.’

‘No,’ said Michael with calm reason. ‘He had no reason to kill Warde.’

‘He wanted Rougham blamed for a suspicious death,’ said Bartholomew, rubbing a hand through his hair as more became clear to him. ‘The day after Warde’s death, he suggested that we should examine the medicine Rougham prescribed. He did not overtly tell me to analyse it – he is not stupid, and that might have led to awkward questions – but he certainly put the idea into my mind. And Matilde’s. He told her his “suspicions” too.’

‘And he knows you listen to her,’ mused Michael. ‘Clever.’

‘Quenhyth hates Rougham because Rougham humiliated him in the High Street over blackcurrants. He is a proud young man, and does not take such things in his stride. It will have festered. He wrote a note purporting to be from Rougham and sent it with the poisoned phial to Warde. He writes beautifully, and mimicking Rougham’s script would not be difficult for him. You said yourself there were differences between the note Warde received and Rougham’s own hand.’

‘But this still does not make sense, Matt,’ warned Michael. ‘If he wanted Rougham blamed for Warde’s murder, then why did he destroy the potion he pretended Rougham had sent? Why not keep the phial and its contents, to let you prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that it was poison?’

‘Because he used henbane, and he was afraid I might remember that he had asked me about it. He was just being cautious, hoping that I would not care which poison was used – just that the medicine was toxic. He basically said as much after he had destroyed it.’

‘All right,’ said Michael. ‘I accept that Quenhyth killed Warde in order to have Rougham discredited, but what about the others? If he killed Warde, then he must also have killed Bess.’

‘The answers to some of our questions lie with Deschalers’s chest,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘Quenhyth knew it was going to be bequeathed to him – and indeed it was. It is in my room as we speak. But that was only true of the will Deschalers made a month ago. He made a later one, in which there were two beneficiaries – Julianna and Bottisham. No mention was made of a scribe inheriting a chest in the later document. We know this, because we have read it.’

‘But how could Quenhyth know what was in these deeds?’ demanded Michael. ‘No one saw the later will, because Pulham stole it the night Deschalers died.’

Bartholomew sighed. ‘Quenhyth wrote it – he wrote both of them. He was Deschalers’s scribe, remember? He killed Deschalers, so the later document could never be legal – Deschalers died before it was sealed and, as Pulham told us, it is worthless in a court of law. Quenhyth knew it would never be legal, and that is why he wrote it in a scribble, not in his usual careful hand.’

‘Quenhyth murdered Deschalers because he wanted a box?’ Michael sounded dubious.

‘He is a lad who puts great store by possessions, and who is short of funds at the moment. Also, he has a resentful temper, and would be furious to learn he had been disinherited, no matter how small the bequest. Think about the burglary the night Deschalers died.’

‘The night Pulham made off with the unsealed will?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Pulham said there was a second burglar in the house, and Una’s story confirms that. She saw Pulham leave through the front door, and it was Quenhyth who escaped with great agility out of the back window. We know exactly why he was there: Quenhyth wanted the later will, too, because it deprived him of his chest.’

Michael rubbed his chin. ‘This cannot be right, Matt. Quenhyth may be temporarily impoverished, but he is scarcely a pauper.’

‘He likes the notion of locking his belongings away,’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘He is always accusing Redmeadow of stealing.’

‘He may have known that Deschalers planned to meet Bottisham in the King’s Mill, too,’ said Michael thoughtfully, slowly coming around to Bartholomew’s point of view. ‘As scribe, he probably penned the note from Deschalers to Bottisham, suggesting a time and place. So, what do you think happened? Quenhyth followed Deschalers to the mill, aware that if Bottisham made up with Deschalers, he would lose his chest? Then what?’

‘I suspect he gave Deschalers the same poison he later used on Warde and Bess. We found an empty phial beneath the mill’s sacks. Three phials were in that insecure cupboard in Lavenham’s shop and we have three cases of poison: Deschalers, Warde and Bess.’

‘So, did Quenhyth hide the phial we found in the King’s Mill? He buried it under the sacks?’ Michael answered his own question. ‘No. If he had wanted to hide it, then he would have thrown it in the river. He either forgot about it, or it rolled away during the confusion. So, we can conclude that he poisoned Deschalers. How?’

‘Deschalers was in agony with his illness, and Rougham would not prescribe proper pain-killing medicines. I imagine Deschalers was only too grateful when a medical student arrived and proffered a substance he claimed would help. Quenhyth is a studious, precise sort of lad, and Deschalers would have no reason to doubt his competence.’

‘So,’ said Michael, ‘Deschalers lay dead, and suddenly Bottisham arrived. Quenhyth stabbed him with a nail – his medical knowledge would tell him such a wound would be fatal. Then he pierced Deschalers’s corpse with another nail to confuse us. You trained him well, Matt: it worked perfectly.’

‘Then he engaged the waterwheel and threw the bodies into the machinery to muddy the waters even further. But how did he escape without being seen by Bernarde? Or do you think Bernarde did see him, but declined to mention the fact? We will never know, now he is dead.’

‘But we know why he is dead,’ said Michael. ‘Quenhyth burned him to ensure he never told. It had nothing to do with the meeting of the King’s Commissioners, as everyone has assumed.’

‘The fire allowed him to kill Bernarde and prevent us from proving that three phials of Water of Snails and some henbane were stolen from Lavenham’s shop,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I doubt Quenhyth bought them, because Lavenham would have mentioned it last night. Besides, Quenhyth has no money.’

‘And we must not forget what Dick Tulyet told us, either,’ said Michael. ‘After the fire started, only one person was running in the opposite direction – someone in a scholar’s tabard.’

‘I thought he meant Wynewyk or Paxtone,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But it was Quenhyth. We know the fire was started using wood that Lavenham had been collecting. Quenhyth was with me the day I heard Isobel complaining about it, so he knew there was convenient kindling to hand. And, of course he killed Bess.’

‘Why? She was a lunatic.’

‘But she was a lunatic who had some connection to Quenhyth. I should have seen this days ago.’

‘How?’

‘Because of his reluctance to attend her requiem mass, for a start. And the way he did not want me to go near her, and kept drawing attention to the fact that she spoke nonsense – so I would not believe anything she said. When I pulled her away from the Great Bridge once, she addressed her questions to him, not to me. I thought she was simply deranged. But she was speaking to a man she thought might give her answers. He must have murdered Bosel, too.’

‘Because Bosel haunted the same places as Bess?’ suggested Michael. ‘She confided her story to him, and he threatened to tell? We know Bosel enjoyed blackmailing folk when he could.’

‘It was good luck for Quenhyth that Bosel was a witness to Lenne’s accident. We all assumed Thomas Mortimer had killed him. But Thomas had nothing to do with it, just as Constantine said.’

‘We have been pondering and floundering for days, and yet, within a few moments, we have many of our questions answered,’ said Michael wonderingly. ‘How has that come about?’

‘Because of an act of kindness to a child,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The rat Quenhyth made Dickon was covered in old fur, similar to that used to fill the glove masquerading as the Hand. It suggested to me that Quenhyth stole the relic. And the rest just … came together.’

‘Let us hope you are right this time,’ said Michael, standing up and preparing for a confrontation. ‘We do not want to accuse everyone of these crimes before we snare our culprit.’

Knowing that the Lavenhams did not intend to linger in Cambridge long, and sensing they might make a bid for escape sooner than they had promised, Bartholomew and Michael left the churchyard and headed straight for St Mary the Great. Father William was with Chancellor Tynkell in the room below, and waved to indicate they were to climb to the upper room without him. Lavenham and Isobel were still there, but they wore riding cloaks and brimmed hats that would hide their faces, and their saddlebags were packed. They were leaving.

‘It is not just the loss of your shop and the vengeful Mortimers driving you away, is it?’ asked Michael, leaning against the door jamb and presenting a formidable obstacle to their departure. ‘You have been careless, and you are afraid you will be held accountable for the consequences. Warde, Bosel and Bess are dead of poison, and that poison came from you.’

‘No!’ cried Lavenham. ‘We always careful in keys and locks.’

‘But you are not,’ said Bartholomew coldly. ‘I saw you pretend to unlock a cupboard that had been left open myself. You are not as cautious with dangerous substances as you should be.’ He recalled Dame Pelagia making off with something, too, to demonstrate how easily it might be done. It had not taken the old lady long to identify Lavenham’s laxness.

‘It is my fault,’ said Isobel in a tight, strangled voice. ‘But he seemed a nice fellow, and I have a soft spot for pretty young men.’

‘Quenhyth,’ said Bartholomew flatly. ‘What happened?’

‘He was interested in our work and, since he was going to be a physician, I showed him our workshop. It was only later that we missed a quantity of henbane and some concentrated poppy juice. At first I thought I was mistaken, and put the matter from my mind, but then I heard about Warde and I guessed what had happened.’

‘Then why did you not tell me?’ demanded Michael angrily.

‘We was feared,’ said Lavenham hoarsely, while Isobel started to cry. ‘We feared still. Quenhyth steal henbane. He use it in Water of Snails which he also steal. He care nothing that Isobel blamed.’

‘Why did he poison Bess?’ asked Michael, sounding disgusted. ‘Did she see him doing something to Deschalers, and was murdered for her silence?’

‘She was killed too long after Deschalers’s murder for that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We have already said her death may hold the key to the mystery. I still think it does.’

‘Quenhyth knew her,’ said Isobel tearfully. ‘From home.’

‘Quenhyth comes from Chepe,’ said Bartholomew, ‘and Bess came from London, of which Chepe is a part. Were they lovers once? Matilde said she thought Quenhyth had been crossed in love.’

‘Then why did he kill her?’ asked Michael. ‘That is no way to deal with old flames.’

‘He always acted oddly around her,’ said Bartholomew, frowning. ‘And I would say, with the benefit of hindsight, that there was a vague recognition in her behaviour towards him. But it does not tell us why he might have killed her.’

‘We shall have to ask him ourselves,’ said Michael grimly.

They walked to Michaelhouse, with Michael urging Bartholomew to hurry so they could question Quenhyth before anyone else died, but the physician dragged his heels, loath to learn for a fact that he had harboured a killer. When they arrived at the College, Redmeadow was strolling in the yard with the Franciscan students, Ulfrid and Zebedee. Michael asked whether they had seen Quenhyth, but the three exchanged looks of disgust and said they would not willingly spend free time in his company, when all he did was accuse folk of stealing.

Redmeadow was not wearing his tabard, and his tunic was exposed. Bartholomew saw yet again the ingrained white substance on it, and recalled Matilde telling him that Redmeadow had appeared white and ghostly the morning after the murders in the mills. The student had told her the mess was the result of a practical joke. Then Bartholomew remembered how much flour dust had been caught in his own clothes when he had searched the mill for clues, and felt a sudden lurching sickness. Whoever killed Deschalers and Bottisham would also have been covered in dust. He pointed to the stains.

‘How did that happen?’ he asked flatly, wondering if all his reasoning had been wrong, and Quenhyth was innocent after all.

Ulfrid answered before Redmeadow could speak. ‘Do not start him off, Doctor. We heard nothing but gripes about the ruin of his favourite tunic all last week. He was furious that Quenhyth borrowed it without asking, and then returned it in such a state.’

‘Two Sundays ago,’ added Redmeadow angrily. ‘Agatha has been able to do nothing with it, and Quenhyth will not even admit that he was to blame! I cannot imagine what he did to it. Lady Matilde saw me in it the next day, so I fabricated a story blaming a practical joke – she caught me by surprise with her blunt question, so I said the first thing that came to my mind. I could see she did not believe me, and I felt a proper fool.’

Bartholomew supposed that Quenhyth had anticipated dust as he embarked on his killing spree, and had prepared himself by wearing his friend’s clothes. ‘Why did you not tell me?’ he asked.

Redmeadow was surprised. ‘Because you are far too busy to bother with something stupid like this.’

‘How do you know it was Quenhyth who dirtied the tunic?’ asked Bartholomew unhappily.

‘Because only he and you have access to our room.’ Redmeadow regarded his teacher uneasily. ‘Do not tell me it was you! You were at the King’s Mill that night – where there is flour dust.’

‘It would be too small for me,’ said Bartholomew, pushing past him to reach his room.

He opened the door with Michael behind him, dreading the confrontation that was about to occur. But when he stepped inside, Quenhyth was on the floor. The student’s face was sheened with sweat and his breathing was laboured. It did not take a physician to see there was something badly wrong.

‘Help me!’ Quenhyth wheezed. ‘I have been poisoned!’

Bartholomew rushed to Quenhyth’s side and began to measure the speed of his pulse, while his mind raced in confusion. Had he been wrong? Was the killer Redmeadow after all, with his incriminating tunic and fiery temper?

‘How did this happen?’ asked Michael, bemused.

‘I do not know,’ said Quenhyth weakly. ‘But my mouth and fingers burn, and I cannot move.’

Michael went to the window to pour a goblet of wine for the lad. He rolled his eyes, to indicate he thought Quenhyth was exaggerating the seriousness of his condition, but Bartholomew pushed the cup away. ‘Do not give him wine.’

Michael regarded him askance. ‘You mean he really is poisoned?’

‘Very definitely. By Deschalers, I suspect.’

‘Deschalers is dead,’ said Michael, bewildered.

‘But the chest he gave his scribe is still here – the scribe he admired for his punctuality, but whom Julianna told us he did not like. And I think I know why. Deschalers was not being generous with his benefaction: he had a score to settle – something to do with Bess.’

‘Bess,’ mused Michael, watching Bartholomew soak a rag in water and wipe the student’s face. ‘We know Deschalers gave her money, despite the fact that he had no use for prostitutes. He was not paying her for her services, but for some other reason. What was it, Quenhyth?’

‘Never mind her,’ groaned the student. ‘She was nothing but a faithless whore who deserved to die. Help me. I am still alive. Close the window, the light hurts my eyes.’

‘Rougham made a henbane-based substance for Deschalers’s rats,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He added pig grease and cat urine, and claimed it would slaughter any rodent that so much as sniffed it. There is plenty of oil on the chest you inherited from Deschalers, and we have all noticed how it stinks. He wanted his henbane to kill more than rats.’

He leaned close to the lock and sniffed it cautiously. It reeked of urine and rancid fat, overlain with the now-familiar odour of henbane. He remembered the odd clause Deschalers had put in his will – that Quenhyth was to keep the box for a year and a day before selling it. Now it was obvious why he had stipulated such a thing: he had wanted to ensure the poison had plenty of time to act.

‘But Quenhyth does not open the chest with his teeth,’ reasoned Michael. ‘And you said henbane needs to be ingested to do its work. How did the poison go from the lock to his innards?’

Bartholomew gestured to Quenhyth’s hands. ‘He bites his nails. The poison went from the chest to his hand, then into his mouth when he chewed his fingers. You can see the stains on them now. And he has started to store his personal food supplies in the box – to keep them safe from you.’

Quenhyth was beginning to shake, although his skin was burning. ‘I have been feeling unwell since Julianna first insisted I took the box from her, but I became far worse after I tried to clean the excess oil from the lock. How will you save me? Will you give me charcoal, to counteract the acidity? Or will a purge expel the sickness from within? Give me a clyster! That heals most ills.’

His pulse was dangerously fast, and he was rapidly losing control of his muscles. Bartholomew knew no clyster, purge or medicine could help now that the poison had worked so deeply into his body. He lifted him from the floor and placed him on the bed, making him comfortable with cushions and blankets.

‘Drink this,’ he said, mixing wine with laudanum and chalk for want of anything else to do. ‘It will ease the burning in your mouth.’

‘But it will not cure me?’ asked Quenhyth in an appalled, breathless voice. His face was shiny with sweat, and deadly pale. ‘I will die?’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, who was never good at lying. ‘The wine will only ease your passing.’

‘You have committed grave crimes,’ said Michael, pulling chrism and holy water from his scrip, ready to give last rites. ‘You murdered Deschalers, Bottisham, Bosel, Warde, Bess and Bernarde.’

‘I did not mean to kill Bernarde,’ said Quenhyth tearfully. ‘When I set the fire I wanted Lavenham to die and his shop to be destroyed, so no one would associate me with the missing Water of Snails and henbane. Tulyet saw me as I ran away, but I know he did not recognise me.’

‘And Warde?’

‘Because I wanted Rougham to suffer. Everyone knew Warde was ill with his cough, and that Rougham was his physician. It was too good an opportunity to overlook and Rougham deserved it. He should not have embarrassed me and Redmeadow in public. Nor should he have slandered you.’

‘What about Bosel?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Blackmail,’ whispered Quenhyth. ‘He heard Bess’s tale and threatened to tell, unless I paid him lots of money. But I do not have lots of money. I offered him a skin of wine as down-payment.’

‘And it contained quicklime or some such thing?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘It was horrible,’ breathed Quenhyth, tears coursing down his face. ‘And noisy. I decided not to use such a substance again. But you keep your poisons locked away, so I had to go to Isobel instead.’

‘You hurt Bess in some way, and it made Deschalers angry. He asked Rougham to prepare something for his “rats”, but he had a change of heart as he became more ill, and decided to reprieve you. Julianna said he intended to clean the chest, presumably to remove the poison. But you murdered him before he could do so, and brought about your own death in the process.’

‘So, what did Bess tell him?’ asked Michael. ‘That you and she were lovers?’

‘We should have been lovers,’ said Quenhyth feebly. ‘I adored her for years. But she met a messenger called Josse, and fell in love. Josse came to Cambridge to deliver some missive and never returned, so she came to look for him. But grief had turned her wits.’

‘Josse,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘The man under the snowdrift.’

‘What happened to him?’ asked Bartholomew. But he had already guessed. ‘I suppose you were arguing when the snow dropped on him? And then you walked away, leaving him to suffocate?’

Quenhyth swallowed with difficulty. ‘It was an act of God, nothing to do with me. Besides, there was the danger of another fall. I did not want be buried as well.’

Bartholomew looked away, not caring to imagine what Josse must have gone through as he had died, knowing the only man who could help him was Quenhyth – and Quenhyth bore a grudge. ‘I suppose Bess recognised you, and drew her own conclusions. What did she do? Confront you in front of Deschalers?’

Quenhyth nodded. ‘I thought he did not believe her, because he gave her money and sent her on her way – and he dictated the deed leaving me the chest the same night. But he was a changed man in the days before he died – making another will to help Bottisham, giving more coins to Bess and being generous to the poor.’

‘Dying can do that to a man,’ remarked Michael. He glanced at Quenhyth. ‘To some men.’

‘She was comely once,’ said Quenhyth with the ghost of a smile. ‘I did not love her as you knew her – filthy, addled and full of lice. Deschalers said she reminded him of someone called Katherine.’

‘But you did not kill Bess until two days ago,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Why wait so long, when she had already told Bosel and Deschalers her story, and might have confided in others?’

‘I did not want to hurt her. I am not a bad man, and she became less inclined to gabble after her first couple of days here. I hoped she would just move on, but then Sheriff Tulyet showed her Josse’s hat, and she came after me again. I had to kill her then.’

‘Tell me about Deschalers,’ said Michael. ‘You followed him to the King’s Mill and found him in agony, waiting for Bottisham to arrive. Then what?’

Quenhyth closed his eyes. ‘I had given him pain-dulling potions before – because that bastard Rougham would not. I stole some from Isobel.’

‘I thought someone had taken pity on him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He could not have ridden his horse that Saturday if someone had not stepped in to do what Rougham should have done.’

‘He was so grateful for my sudden appearance in the mill that night that he did not even ask why I happened to be there. He died within moments.’

‘And Bottisham caught you with the body, I suppose?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘He came early and started to screech. I did not know what to do, so I grabbed a nail from the floor and jerked it upwards as I came to my feet. He was leaning over me, and I ended up stabbing him in the mouth. I did not mean to hit him there, but it was effective.’

‘Then you stabbed Deschalers, to make the deaths appear identical. You did not want us to know he had been poisoned, lest we connect you with what had been stolen from Isobel. You dropped both bodies into the machinery, in the hope that the resulting mess would confound us. But there is one thing I do not understand: how did you escape from the mill without Bernarde seeing?’

Quenhyth looked at Michael. ‘I need absolution. Will you hear my confession?’

Michael nodded, and indicated that Bartholomew should leave. The monk was busy for a long time, and the physician began to wonder what other crimes Quenhyth had on his conscience. He went to the fallen tree in the orchard and sat, waiting for Michael to come and tell him it was all over.

He thought about the people who had died, and why. Bottisham had perished because he was willing to extend the hand of peace to a dying enemy. Bess had died because she guessed her man had been left to freeze in the winter snows, and Bosel because he had attempted to blackmail a killer. Deschalers had been murdered because he had rescinded on a promise to give Quenhyth a chest and because Bess had confided her secret to him – and because a madwoman had borne such a close resemblance to the lady he had loved that he had been prepared to listen to her. Warde had been dispatched because Quenhyth intended to teach Rougham a lesson. And Bernarde had been incinerated because Quenhyth wanted Lavenham and his workshop destroyed.

None of the deaths were connected to the King’s Commission or the mill dispute, and Rougham, the Mortimers and Thorpe were innocent of everything except offensive behaviour. Thomas was gone, too, killed because he was too drunk to understand the dangers of looting burning houses. And Paxtone and Wynewyk were guilty only of curious meetings and perhaps the theft of a book or two – although Bartholomew was careful not to think about Paxtone’s confession to Wynewyk that Rougham ‘foiled’ him at every turn. He did not want to know what the two men were plotting against the unpleasant Gonville physician.

‘He is dead,’ said Michael, coming to sit next to his friend at last. He sighed wearily as he leaned forward and rested his head on his hands. ‘His confession chilled me, Matt. His selfish righteousness will haunt my dreams for a long time.’

‘But it is over,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He cannot harm anyone else now.’

Bartholomew woke the next morning with an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, but it was a moment before he understood why. Then the events of the last two weeks came flooding back to him, and he felt like turning over and going back to sleep, so he could blot it from his mind for a little longer. It hurt to think that someone so close to him had committed such wicked crimes, and for such paltry reasons.

‘It was not your fault,’ came Redmeadow’s voice from the other side of the room. He had heard his teacher moving, and knew he was awake. Bartholomew assumed that he had also spent a restless night, reflecting on what Quenhyth had done. ‘Or mine. We had no idea what kind of man he was.’

‘I should have been alerted by the fact that he was so ready to kill the cat and Bird.’

Redmeadow nodded slowly. ‘Perhaps. Shall we return his chest to Julianna this morning? I do not want it in here.’

‘I do not think so!’ said Bartholomew, heaving himself out of his bed and rubbing his eyes. ‘Edward might claim we are trying to kill his wife by giving her a poisoned box. We will burn it.’

Just then, a piercing scream rent the air. They regarded each other in alarm, before dashing into the yard to see what had happened. Deynman was standing near the porter’s lodge with something under his arm. Walter was with him, and the surly porter’s face was split with a grin of savage delight. Bartholomew saw bright blue-green feathers trailing from the bundle Deynman held.

‘Deynman felt sorry for Walter when Quenhyth killed Bird,’ whispered Redmeadow. ‘And he promised to buy him a replacement. It is not a cockerel, though. I do not know what it is. I have never seen its like before.’

‘It is a peacock,’ said Bartholomew heavily. ‘They are rare in England, although common in the East. They are very expensive.’ Another shrill shriek rent the air as the peacock made its presence known. Scholars were beginning to emerge from their rooms in a panic, wondering what was making such an unholy racket. ‘And noisy,’ he added.

‘Walter will like it, then,’ said Redmeadow. ‘He only loved Bird because the thing caused so much aggravation. Let me help you carry the chest outside, so we can burn it before we go to church.’

A number of scholars followed Bartholomew and Redmeadow as they hauled the unwieldy object into the orchard. Bartholomew insisted the fire should be at the very end of the garden, where no stray sparks could fly into the air and cause trouble in the town. He wrapped the chest with straw from the stables, and set about making a fire. Several students exchanged amused glances when Walter’s peacock screeched again, although Bartholomew suspected they would not find it funny for very long.

No one spoke as the kindling caught and flames began to lick up the sides of the chest, hissing and spitting when they reached the deadly grease on the lock. Bartholomew had refused Redmeadow’s request to open the box and retrieve what was inside it first. It crossed his mind that Deschalers might have poisoned other parts, too, and he did not want to find out by losing another student.

When the blaze died down most of the scholars wandered away to ready themselves for their devotions, but Bartholomew lingered, waiting for the last flames to die out. He wanted to make sure the chest was totally consumed and the embers raked away, so no trace of Deschalers’s inheritance would remain. He felt that the little tongues of gold were purifying something unclean, and the cremation left him in better spirits than when he had awoken. William hovered at his elbow, watching him prod the glowing embers with a stick.

‘The Lavenhams have gone,’ the friar said quietly. ‘But they left you this.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew, eyeing the proffered package suspiciously. He could not imagine why the apothecary should give him a gift, and was certain it would not be anything he would want to own.

‘I know what it is inside,’ said William. ‘And you will like it, I promise.’

Donning a pair of heavy gloves, and ignoring William’s indignation that the physician should question his assurances, Bartholomew opened the parcel, making clumsy work of untying the twine that bound it. Inside was a small book. He gazed at it in astonishment.

‘It is by Ibn Ibrahim!’ he exclaimed. ‘My Arab teacher. I knew he had written a tome containing his various theories, but I did not think I would ever see a copy. But why did Lavenham have it? And why did he give it to me?’

‘You have good friends to thank for that,’ said William. ‘Paxtone saw it in their shop, and he knew this Ibrahim was your teacher. He and Wynewyk have been negotiating to purchase it for you for the past month or so. They never succeeded – Lavenham did not want to part with it because it came from his father. But yesterday he decided he needed the money, so I arranged the sale.’ He turned and gestured to someone who was standing a short distance away, smiling shyly. It was Wynewyk.

Bartholomew was seized with abject guilt. ‘Is that why they have been acting so strangely of late?’

‘They did not want you to know what they were doing,’ explained William. ‘They suspected Lavenham would not sell it, and did not want you to be disappointed when they failed. They met in the orchard, because Wynewyk said no one ever uses it except him. I should have mentioned your penchant for that old apple trunk, I suppose. He said they were discussing Rougham’s accusations against you once, and were appalled to imagine the conclusions you must have drawn.’

Bartholomew was surprised to feel the prick of tears behind his eyes, and supposed he must be more tired than he had thought.

‘Thank you,’ he said as Wynewyk came to stand next to him.

‘You almost caught me with it once,’ said Wynewyk, smiling at the memory. ‘Lavenham lent it to me for a day, and I brought it here to show Paxtone. I fell asleep waiting for him, and the next thing I knew was Michael trying to grab it from my lap.’

‘I remember,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I saw something hidden under Gratian’s Decretia.’

‘Rougham was a wretched nuisance,’ Wynewyk went on. ‘He somehow guessed what we were trying to do, and went to extraordinary lengths to thwart us. He claimed he did not want your mind sullied further with heathen texts, and did all he could to persuade the Lavenhams not to sell it to us.’

‘He foiled you at every turn,’ mused Bartholomew, recalling what he had overheard. He was ashamed now of what he had thought.

Wynewyk did not seem to notice his chagrin. ‘Then we were afraid it had gone up in smoke, along with Lavenham’s house. Paxtone had a good look for it in the rubble – you doubtless wondered why he was covered in soot – but it was nowhere to be found. But then we discovered it in the most unlikely of places.’ He gestured for William to continue.

‘I was called to give Thomas Mortimer last rites,’ said William. ‘Property he had looted from the Lavenhams was spilling from his clothes, so Wynewyk and I gathered it up to return it to them. The book was one of the items.’

‘It was Quenhyth who tried to steal the Dumbleton from the hall, you know,’ said Wynewyk, when Bartholomew seemed unable to speak. ‘Not Thorpe, as we assumed. After I repaired the chain, I caught him at it again. The chest made him greedy, because it was somewhere private to store stolen goods. But I must tell Paxtone that all our plotting paid off. He will be delighted.’

‘Wait for me by the gate,’ Bartholomew called after him. ‘I would like to go with you.’

Bartholomew handed the book to William while he raked out the fire, keen now to finish with Quenhyth’s business, and spend some time with two men who had been to such lengths on his behalf.

‘My God!’ breathed William suddenly. ‘I hope that is not what I think it is.’

Bartholomew looked to where the friar pointed. His mouth went dry when he saw that some of the charred embers were hand shaped. He poked them with the stick, revealing large blackened finger bones and the remains of a blue-green ring. He exchanged an uneasy glance with the friar.

‘So, Quenhyth stole the Hand of Justice,’ he said. ‘We thought he might have done, and I should have guessed where he had put it. Still, at least we know the thing was not holy, or it would not have been eaten by flames.’

‘Oh, dear,’ said William nervously. ‘This is all rather embarrassing.’

‘Only if people find out about it,’ said Bartholomew, raking vigorously, so the bones broke up and became indistinguishable among the charred remains of the chest. He scooped up the ashes and wrapped them in the material that had held the book. William followed him out of the garden and watched while he flung the parcel into the river. It sank slowly from sight.

‘Find out about what?’ asked William.

Later that night, the Fellows of Michaelhouse sat quietly in the conclave. Bartholomew was reading Ibrahim’s book, completely absorbed, and Wynewyk watched, smiling at his friend’s pleasure. Langelee was telling Suttone how annoyed he was over the loss of Quenhyth’s fees, while William wrote a letter to the Chancellor, resigning as Keeper of the University Chest. When he passed the document to Michael, to check for errors in the grammar, the monk tore it up and threw it in the fire. He gave the friar a conspiratorial wink, and William grinned back in startled delight.

‘I do not want him reclaiming his post as Junior Proctor,’ Michael muttered to Bartholomew, as the Franciscan went to celebrate his unexpected reprieve by fetching wine from the kitchen. ‘I know he caused havoc as Keeper, but I think he has learned his lesson. He is safer where he is.’

‘What is that?’ demanded Langelee, looking out of the window at the reflected light dancing on the College’s pale walls. ‘And listen!’

He flung open the window shutter and the Fellows exchanged horrified glances when they detected the unmistakable sounds of riot – people shouting, dogs barking, the frightened whinnying of horses and an occasional scream. Feet hammered on the ground as folk ran here and there, and torches sent eerie flickers into the darkness.

‘Stay here,’ ordered Michael, reaching for his cloak. ‘All of you, except Matt, who may be needed professionally. Bar the gate and be ready to douse fires. I do not like the look of this.’

In St Michael’s Lane, apprentices were everywhere. Scholars were out too, wearing the uniforms of their hostels and Colleges, and Bartholomew saw students from Gonville nudge each other and edge closer to Stanmore’s lads. He did not think they were about to exchange pleasantries about the cloth business, and ordered his brother-in-law’s boys home. They grumbled and kicked at the ground in frustration, but did as they were told. Michael did the same with the scholars, threatening them with a night in his cells, if they did not obey.

‘Will this town never be still?’ demanded Michael, as he turned into the High Street and saw that he and Bartholomew had only scratched the surface of the problem. People were massing, running down the High Street in the direction of the Trumpington Gate. He snatched the arm of someone who darted in the opposite direction. It was Ufford from Gonville Hall.

‘This chaos is Rougham’s fault,’ said Ufford in disgust. ‘He went to pray to the Hand of Justice, to ask for absolution for selling rat poison to Deschalers, but Father William would not let him near it. They began to argue, and William ended up confessing that the Hand has been stolen. Unfortunately, they were overheard.’

‘By whom?’ asked Michael.

‘By Mayor Morice. He has been telling everyone – and the townsfolk want it back.’

‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew guiltily.

‘But why is everyone storming around?’ asked Michael. ‘It was stolen, but that is no reason for all this mayhem. Rioting will not reveal what happened to it.’

‘Because Morice says Mortimer and Thorpe have it,’ said Ufford, glancing around uneasily. No ambitious courtier with good family connections wanted to be caught up in anything as unseemly as a brawl, and he was anxious to be away. ‘He says they came to Cambridge with the sole purpose of reclaiming the Hand, and it is in their possession. Thank God we did not let Thorpe bring it to Gonville, or we would now be under siege instead of Mortimer’s Mill.’

‘The mill is being attacked?’ asked Michael. But Ufford was gone, making his way to the quiet end of town, where he would secure a room in a respectable tavern and emerge only when the fighting was over.

Bells were sounding the alarm, and soldiers on horses thundered along, all heading for Mortimer’s Mill. The roads and lanes were full of shouting, clanging and general alarum. As the noise levels increased, more folk spilled into the streets to join the throng, or to cover their windows with planks of wood to protect them from looters. Furious hammering joined the cacophony.

‘Look!’ cried Bartholomew, pointing into the night sky. It was stained orange, indicating that a steady blaze was burning somewhere. He and Michael joined the stream of people flooding down the High Street, through the Trumpington Gate and along the side of Peterhouse to the river.

‘We do not know who fired Mortimer’s Mill,’ panted Sergeant Orwelle, who trotted along next to them. ‘There are rumours that it was scholars – because Edward Mortimer and Thorpe stole the Hand of Justice from St Mary the Great. Both felons are now hiding in the mill. But there are also rumours that the fire was set by townsmen – because of what happened to Lenne and Isnard.’

By the time they arrived, Mortimer’s Mill was well and truly ablaze. Flames danced high in the air, lighting the onlookers with an amber glow. Some folk cheered, but most just stood and watched, uncomfortable with the sight of another building consumed by fire. Because there was so much wood and grease, it was being devoured like kindling, and Bartholomew knew it was as doomed as Lavenham’s shop had been. Flames licked over the great waterwheel, painting its shape in the sky.

On a balcony at one end Bartholomew saw two figures standing side by side. One was taller than the other, and they were unmoving, watching the crowd as intently as the crowd watched them. Flames licked all around them, lighting them as dark silhouettes against a dazzling orange curtain.

‘Mortimer and Thorpe!’ yelled Michael in horror. ‘They will die if we do not help them! Fetch water, quickly!’

‘It is too late, Brother,’ said Bartholomew in a soft voice, barely audible above the snap and pop of burning. ‘They are already dead. It is corpses you see there, not living men.’

‘I suppose that explains why they are not moving,’ said Michael unsteadily. ‘I thought it was unnatural. I hate fires, Matt. I hate the smell and the sound. They make me feel helpless.’

‘We are helpless,’ said Bartholomew, watching the still shapes as the mill blazed ever more fiercely. He wondered whether enough of them would be found the next day to give them a burial, and whether he would be able to prise them apart. He had seen enough of such infernos to know the two would be a fused, indistinguishable mass, barely recognisable as human. Sickened, he wandered to the river, where he stared at the flames’ reflections dancing in the water. He jumped in alarm and spun around when he became aware that someone was standing close behind him.

‘It is done,’ said Lenne in a soft voice. Bartholomew could see his white teeth gleaming in the darkness. ‘Thomas Mortimer will never kill an innocent man again, and my poor mother and father are avenged. He and his mill are no more than ashes, to be blown away by tomorrow’s breeze.’

‘You did this?’ asked Bartholomew, aghast. ‘You set the fire?’

‘Why not? The law failed me, so I decided to exact my own justice. But I left no evidence. No one will be able to prove that his death was anything other than an accident. Just like my father’s.’

‘But Thomas died yesterday,’ said Bartholomew, realising that Lenne did not know. ‘He was crushed by a beam in the inferno that destroyed Lavenham’s shop. I saw his body myself. You have killed his nephew and Thorpe instead.’

‘Truly?’ asked Lenne uncertainly. ‘I only returned tonight, and have not wasted time in gossip. I did not know my mother’s curse had already worked.’

‘Sergeant Orwelle said you had gone home.’

‘I had, but I could not rest easy knowing that the man responsible for the deaths of my parents walked free.’ He took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘Well, I suppose it does not matter. I have rid the town of two men who are violently hated. Folk will probably thank me for what I have done.’

‘That does not make it right,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Right!’ sneered Lenne, and Bartholomew saw for the first time that he held a knife. ‘What does this town know about right? It allows drunken sots to trample frail old men, while self-confessed killers enjoy King’s Pardons. There is no such thing as “right” here.’

‘Thorpe and Edward did not harm you,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘It is not for you to punish them. Tulyet was right: the law may not be just, but it is all there is between us and mayhem.’

‘Except that its very existence is sometimes the cause of that mayhem,’ said Lenne. ‘Goodbye, Doctor. I have seen enough, and I shall never visit Cambridge again. If you promise to look the other way and watch the sparks until I have gone, I will spare your life. And if you ever repeat this conversation to anyone else, I shall deny that I was here.’

Bartholomew turned around, seeing the dancing cinders that lit the sky in a celebration of orange and yellow, and when he looked behind him some moments later, he was alone.