The Hand of Justice

CHAPTER 4

On Mondays Bartholomew taught in the mornings, then took his three senior students – Quenhyth, Redmeadow and Deynman – with him when he visited his patients. But his mind was full of Bottisham and Deschalers as he ate the bowl of oatmeal Agatha had saved for his breakfast, and he wondered whether he should abandon his academic duties and concentrate on the murders instead. But he could think of nothing to do that would move the enquiry along, and his students were waiting. Reluctantly, he went to the hall and led a discussion on the Greek physician Galen’s short treatise on barley soup. After the midday meal, he collected his three students and set off to see his patients, Bottisham’s death still playing heavily on his mind.

The arrival of Rougham and Paxtone in Cambridge had relaxed the pressure on him considerably, and he now had a list of patients he felt was manageable. Most of the folk who had abandoned him were wealthy, and preferred the newcomers’ willingness to calculate horoscopes and concoct potions to help them recover from the after-effects of too much food and drink. Bartholomew was left with the town’s poor, whom the others would not have deigned to advise anyway, although Paxtone offered free consultations on Wednesday evenings.

Although a shorter list of people wanting his services was a blessing, Bartholomew soon discovered that the ones who summoned him invariably could not pay him or buy the medicines he recommended. While he was not overly concerned about the loss of income for himself – his basic needs were provided for by his College stipend – he was unhappy about the fact that there were folk suffering just because they could not afford to purchase what they needed to make them well. Sometimes he received donations from generous colleagues, but more often than not he was obliged to pay for the remedies himself or watch his patients try to recover without them.

That day, he was summoned to the home of a woman with an excess of choler in the stomach, and knew she would be much more comfortable if she drank a solution of chalk and charcoal, mixed with poppy juice. But the patient was Una, one of the town’s more desperate prostitutes, and she needed to spend her meagre earnings on bread and rent; medicine was an unthinkable luxury. He glanced around her hovel, noting the holes in the roof, the gaps in the wall, and the mean little fire in the hearth.

He asked for a sample of urine, then showed the students how to assess it for various maladies. All three scribbled notes furiously on scraps of parchment. Redmeadow dropped his pen in his desperation to write, and had to grovel on the floor to retrieve it from under a bench. As he stretched out his hand, he exposed the sleeve of his tunic, and Bartholomew saw it was ingrained with dust and dirt. Bartholomew assumed he had been earning extra pennies by drudging for Agatha in the kitchens. Like Quenhyth, Redmeadow was not a wealthy student, and was often obliged to undertake menial tasks in an effort to make ends meet.

‘I saw you last night, Doctor,’ said Una mischievously, when the consultation was over and the students started to argue among themselves about the reason for the sudden decline in Michaelhouse victuals. They paid her and their teacher no attention.

‘I saw you, too,’ Bartholomew replied, smiling as he sat on the bench. ‘Or rather, I heard you. You were at Cheney’s house. Incidentally, he fed you acidic wine that upset your humours. You should demand a better-quality brew from him in the future.’

She grimaced. ‘I wondered why he took his own claret from a different jug. But I watched you go inside Deschalers’s home, and I saw someone else run out a little later. Did you startle a burglar? I am not surprised someone chanced his hand. Deschalers’s house will offer handsome pickings, and the whole town knew he was not in a position to defend his property last night.’

‘The burglar climbed out of a window at the back,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Then he made good his escape down the alley that leads to the river.’

‘No, he left through the front door,’ argued Una. ‘After you and the fat monk had gone inside. I saw him with my own eyes – although Cheney’s wine made me feel as though I had six of them.’

‘Perhaps he doubled back,’ said Bartholomew, thinking she had probably seen Michael or the elderly servant. Or perhaps she had confused the sequence of events, and had watched the burglar entering the house rather than leaving it.

‘Perhaps.’ She winced and put a hand on her stomach as she was gripped by another spasm of pain. ‘This hurts, Doctor. There must be something that can relieve it. I hear you always carry strong wine to use as medicine. Will you give me some of that?’

‘It would make you worse,’ said Bartholomew. He left her house, fuming silently that rich merchants could have whatever they liked, while Una would not eat that day if she did not secure herself some customers. It was unjust, and he fully empathised with the growing unrest among folk who were clamouring for better pay and wanting to narrow the gap between rich and poor. He recalled the disturbances in Ely the previous summer, when men had risked the King’s displeasure by instigating insurrection among the peasantry.

He was still fretting about the problem when he met a messenger with an order to attend Tynkell at the Church of St Mary the Great. Quenhyth, Redmeadow and Deynman immediately began to speculate about why an august personage like the Chancellor should want Bartholomew to visit him. Bartholomew hoped it was nothing to do with the curious discussion about poisons they had had after the Disputatio de quodlibet. He doubted it was anything to do with the mill deaths, because Michael would have answered any questions arising from that.

‘Perhaps Tynkell wants you to take his place,’ suggested Quenhyth sycophantically. ‘He has been in office for three years now, and he may have decided it is time for a change.’

‘I think Brother Michael might have something to say about that,’ said Redmeadow. ‘He intends to be the next Chancellor. And chancellors are elected, anyway. It is not for Tynkell to appoint one.’

‘Perhaps he is with child and knows you are better with women’s matters than Rougham and Paxtone,’ suggested Deynman.

Bartholomew regarded his cheery-faced student warily, while the other two students clutched each other in helpless laughter. ‘How could Chancellor Tynkell be pregnant?’

Deynman blushed furiously. ‘Surely you do not need me to explain that process? It happens when a husband and his wife come together, and–’

‘That is not what I meant,’ interrupted Bartholomew, amused by Deynman’s prim notion that the making of children occurred only between married couples. ‘I was referring to the fact that Tynkell is a man – and men do not bear children.’

‘Some do,’ said Deynman, round-eyed. ‘I read it in Aristotle last night. He said that the sex of hermaphrodites is determined by whether they prefer the clothing of males or females. Although Tynkell was baptised a man, he obviously prefers wimples and gowns, and he will soon bear a child.’

Not for the first time, Bartholomew thought how dangerous a little knowledge could be in the mind of someone like Deynman. He struggled to explain in words he thought the lad might comprehend. ‘Aristotle actually said that hermaphrodites should be considered men or women depending on their ability to copulate – nothing to do with clothes or bearing children. But why have you attributed this particular condition to Tynkell?’

‘He is always rubbing his stomach,’ said Deynman, as though no further explanation were necessary. He glanced at his teacher, saw his confused expression, and hastened to elaborate. ‘Labour pains. All pregnant women have them.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew cautiously, aware that Redmeadow and Quenhyth were almost in tears as they attempted to suppress their amusement. ‘Is that all?’

‘And because he never bathes,’ said Deynman earnestly. ‘He does not want anyone to know of his circumstances, because, as a woman, he would not be permitted to be Chancellor. By never bathing – and thus never revealing any minute portion of his flesh – he ensures his secret remains safe.’

‘Except from you,’ said Bartholomew, wondering how he would ever solve the problem that Deynman had become. At some point the student was going to realise that he could study for the rest of his life and still not be good enough to pass his disputations, and then he would leave Cambridge and descend on some unsuspecting settlement to ply his ‘skills’. Not all physicians completed their University studies, and there were many who had never attended a school at all. However, Deynman could honestly say that he had studied longer than most, and prospective patients would be impressed. Bartholomew felt a sudden stab of fear, knowing it was only a matter of time before Deynman did someone some serious harm.

‘Why are Una’s humours unbalanced?’ asked Redmeadow, wiping his eyes and attempting to bring the discussion back to the patient they had just visited. ‘Is it because she spends too much time romping with men she does not know?’

Bartholomew applied himself to answering, noticing how Quenhyth and Deynman hurried to emulate Redmeadow, and extract scraps of parchment from their scrips and jot down notes. He talked about the delicate balance of humours in the stomach, and how Una had an excess of acid bile that needed to be brought under control. Redmeadow and Deynman listened, then lagged behind when they felt they had heard enough. Quenhyth, however, was still full of questions.

‘You did not suggest bleeding. When there is an excess of evil fluids, then surely the best recourse is to drain them away?’

‘Bleeding will not reduce the amount of bile in the stomach,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘And purges that cause vomiting will bring pain. A compound of chalk and charcoal would soothe the caustic humours and allow them to reduce naturally.’

‘Is this what Galen recommends?’ asked Quenhyth, scribbling furiously.

‘Galen suggests cutting around any intestine ulcerated by black bile,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I do not think such a drastic step is necessary in Una’s case.’ And he had no wish to be reprimanded by his colleagues again for employing surgical techniques.

‘What about a poultice of henbane?’ asked Quenhyth, shaking his pen in an attempt to relieve a blockage. Ink splattered across the sleeve of Bartholomew’s tunic. ‘You mentioned yesterday that Arab medicine makes good use of plants like henbane, which are poisonous but which can be used as cures by the cautious.’

‘By the very cautious,’ warned Bartholomew, scrubbing at the spots and making them worse. ‘Henbane slows the brain and reduces the sensation of pain. No physician prescribes it lightly, and most only do so as a last resort. Too much will kill, while too little will not achieve the desired effect. Lily of the valley can also be used to soothe pain, but again it is essential to determine the precise dosage, or it will not work. Personally, I would not use either. They are too dangerous.’

‘Henbane,’ said Quenhyth, underlining what he had written with several firm strokes. He glanced up and pointed at the black splatter on Bartholomew’s tunic. ‘Agatha will not be pleased when she sees that. Ink is not easy to remove.’

Before he arrived at St Mary the Great, Bartholomew emptied his scrip and found a few pennies – the last of his stipend for that month. Hoping there would not be some unforeseen emergency that would require him to pay for something else, he handed them to his students and instructed them to buy ground chalk and poppy juice from the apothecary. Quenhyth demurred, virtuously claiming that he did not want to be seduced by the salacious Isobel, so the others suggested he scavenge charcoal from the blacksmith instead. Bartholomew promised to show them how to mix the potion for Una later, when they were all back at Michaelhouse.

The Chancellor’s office in the University Church was spacious and functional, with a bench running along the length of one wall, and shelves overflowing with parchments and scrolls. A large table stood in the middle, also piled high with documents, and the whole room was sharp with the daylight that flooded in through one of the beautiful perpendicular glazed windows.

Bartholomew was surprised to discover Michael already there, comfortably settled with a goblet of warmed wine. The monk was telling Tynkell how to sell one of the University’s unoccupied houses, and the Chancellor was busily writing his instructions down. The rumours were true about how much power Michael had accrued in his capacity as Senior Proctor, Bartholomew thought. It was clear from the way they interacted that Michael was in charge.

‘Ah, Bartholomew,’ said Tynkell, waving a grime-impregnated hand to indicate that the physician should enter. Bartholomew obliged, and wondered how Michael could stand the stale odour that emanated from the Chancellor’s long-unwashed person. He supposed the monk considered it a small price to pay for the kind of influence he had inveigled for himself. ‘We wanted to see you.’

He offered the physician some of the wine that was mulling over the fire. Bartholomew accepted, but was not impressed by the fact that Tynkell’s aversion to water seemed to extend to his goblets, too. There was a ring of brown scum on the rim from the lips of previous drinkers, and its outside was sticky from greasy fingers. Tynkell sat again, and Bartholomew discovered he had been holding his breath while the Chancellor was close. Meanwhile, Michael kept his nose in his goblet, and the physician saw he was using it much as he might employ a pomander.

‘You are filthy,’ said Tynkell to Bartholomew in an aggrieved tone of voice. He pointed to the ink stains on the physician’s sleeve. ‘Look at that! It is no example to set to your students.’

Bartholomew heard Michael snigger into his wine. ‘Agatha will wash it tonight,’ he said, wishing he had the nerve to point out to the Chancellor that he had seldom encountered such brazen hypocrisy.

‘I am not telling you to resort to extremes,’ said Tynkell hastily. ‘You just need to buy a tabard with long sleeves. Then no one will notice your dirty tunics. I recommend Isobel de Lavenham, who has a nimble needle and offers good rates.’

‘I have done nothing about the deaths of Bottisham and Deschalers since we were at the King’s Mill this morning,’ Michael said to Bartholomew, his voice taking on a curious, echoing quality as it came through the cup. ‘I was obliged to pay a visit to the King’s Head, because Thorpe – now flaunting himself as a scholar – made trouble there, and I do not want him to be the cause of a riot between students and apprentices.’

‘No,’ agreed Tynkell, rubbing his stomach and wincing. ‘That must be avoided at all costs. Do you think they murdered Deschalers and Bottisham, Brother?’

‘It is possible,’ said Michael.

‘I am not so sure,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Bernarde would have seen them.’

‘Such details are not important,’ said Tynkell firmly. ‘I want the perpetrator of this monstrous crime in a prison cell as soon as possible. We can work out their motives and methods later, when the danger is no longer stalking our streets. We cannot afford to dally with this, Brother.’

Michael’s expression hardened. ‘I know that. However, I need clues in order to solve the mystery, and they have not been forthcoming. Unfortunately, at the moment, the most likely theory is that Bottisham killed Deschalers, then did away with himself in a fit of remorse, and–’

‘No!’ exclaimed Tynkell. ‘That cannot have happened! Not a scholar murdering a townsman! That would cause a riot for certain – especially since the victim was wealthy. The burgesses would appeal to the King for justice, and God knows where that might lead.’

‘We do not know what took place,’ said Bartholomew, also reluctant to believe that the gentle Bottisham would kill Deschalers. However, he was painfully aware that if Deschalers could not summon the energy to retrieve a dropped purse, then he certainly would think twice about attempting to stab a fit and healthy scholar and throw him in the workings of a mill. ‘But we will try to find out.’

‘You must do more than try,’ snapped Tynkell. He rubbed his stomach a second time, grimacing with the pain. ‘Since you are here, Bartholomew, I am suffering acutely from that complaint we discussed a month ago – an excess of bile in the spleen, you said.’

Bartholomew immediately thought of Deynman’s theory, and drank some wine in an attempt to compose himself. He looked the Chancellor up and down, aware that he was actually a very unusual shape. ‘Bile in the spleen can be uncomfortable,’ he managed eventually.

‘I hope I am not being poisoned,’ Tynkell went on nervously. ‘As Bishop Bateman was poisoned in the papal court at Avignon.’

‘So that is why you asked me about poisons at the Disputatio,’ said Bartholomew, greatly relieved. ‘You thought someone might be using a toxin that is giving you gripes in the stomach. I thought you wanted the information so you could use it on an enemy.’

Tynkell regarded him icily, while Michael’s green eyes grew as huge and round as those of an owl. ‘Have a care, Matt,’ he muttered. ‘Accusing the Chancellor of plotting to murder his adversaries is no way to further your University career.’

‘I asked those questions because I have been unwell for so long,’ replied Tynkell stiffly. ‘Bishop Bateman was also ill for some time, and it occurred to me that someone might be feeding me a noxious, slow-acting substance to bring about my death.’

‘In that case, you should eat only from dishes shared by your colleagues, and never accept gifts of food and wine,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘I wish you had mentioned this on Saturday. Our discussion gave Rougham entirely the wrong impression.’

Tynkell was not interested in the damage he might have done to Bartholomew’s reputation. ‘You are the University’s Senior Physician, so of course I consulted you about my concerns. Who else should I ask?’

‘I do not think anyone is poisoning you,’ said Bartholomew, although it crossed his mind that the Chancellor might well be poisoning himself – with his powerful personal odours. ‘But you should discuss this with your own physician, not me.’

‘I do not know what to do about these gripes,’ Tynkell went on, ignoring the advice. ‘I summoned Rougham first, then Paxtone, and they were both very thorough. Rougham composed a horoscope, and Paxtone wrote out details of a dietary regime involving beet juice that he said would have me better within a week. But I am not better, and I prefer your unorthodox treatments to their conventional ones: your cures work, and theirs do not.’

Bartholomew hid a smile. ‘So, are you abandoning them to return to me?’

‘I have not been well since I defected,’ admitted Tynkell. He hesitated, never a man to be decisive. ‘But perhaps I could keep all three of you. What do you think of that?’

‘I think you will find yourself given a lot of contradictory advice,’ replied Bartholomew, amused by the proposition. ‘You will compromise, and take the most appealing cures from each of us, and you will probably end up feeling worse.’

‘I thought you would say that,’ said Tynkell. ‘But I know how to resolve this conundrum. I shall have my horoscope from Rougham, my eating plan from Paxtone, and my medicine from you. Then I shall offend no one – Gonville, King’s Hall or Michaelhouse.’ He beamed, and Bartholomew saw that compromise and an unwillingness to offend was probably the root of his success as Chancellor – along with the fact that Michael made the real decisions.

‘We did not ask you here for a consultation,’ said Michael. He pushed a parcel across the table, an oblong shape wrapped in cloth. ‘This is for you, on the understanding that you accept the official post as Corpse Examiner for the next year, as you agreed last night.’

Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘You did not waste any time!’

‘I believe in striking while the iron is hot,’ replied Michael smugly. ‘Purchasing Bacon’s De erroribus medicorum from Gonville was the first thing Chancellor Tynkell did this morning, and drawing up an official document to seal our pact was the second. Sign here.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, reluctantly pushing the book away. ‘I had better take the fourpence per corpse instead. I realised this morning that I need the money more than a book.’

‘I suppose you want it to buy medicines,’ said Michael, regarding his friend astutely. ‘And since most of your rich patients have abandoned you in favour of Paxtone and Rougham, you find yourself short of funds, and your patients are without the benefit of your generosity. I wondered how long it would take before you discovered that the wealthy have their uses.’

‘I have no choice but to opt for the fourpence,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I waste my time if I recommend medicines that cannot be purchased. I may as well not bother to visit the sick at all.’

‘But this Bacon cost ten marks,’ said Tynkell, aggrieved. ‘Now you say you do not want it?’

‘I did not say I do not want it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I said I needed the coins more.’

‘Take the book,’ said Tynkell, thrusting it so hard across the table that Bartholomew had to leap forward to catch it before it fell. ‘You can consider it a long-term loan from the University to Michaelhouse – as payment for services already rendered. And you shall have your fourpence per corpse, too. You had better submit an invoice monthly, because if you send me one every time a body is discovered, I will be doing nothing other than processing your demands.’

Bartholomew regarded him suspiciously. The University was not noted for its largess, and he did not want to accept something that would later come to cost a good deal more. ‘A loan? Why?’

‘To ensure we keep you,’ said Tynkell. ‘You are not the only one who wants this newly created post: Rougham is also interested in fourpence per corpse. But Brother Michael would rather have you. In fact, he organised the whole thing specifically for your benefit.’

‘He did?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. He saw Michael scowl at the Chancellor, but Tynkell was not to be silenced.

‘You should not hide your good deeds, Brother. It will do your reputation no harm for folk to know you occasionally act with compassion. Your friend has lost his wealthy patients, so you decided to help him with his predicament. I thought twopence per corpse was ample, but you insisted on more.’

‘It is a business arrangement,’ said Michael stiffly, disliking the notion that he should be seen as someone who acted out of the goodness of his heart. He preferred to be seen as a cunning and ruthless manipulator. ‘Nothing more, nothing less.’

‘Thank you, Michael,’ said Bartholomew sincerely.

‘Sign here,’ snapped Michael. Bartholomew took the pen and wrote his name, feeling as though he were making a pact with the Devil. Michael smiled in grim satisfaction. ‘Good. Now you are legally bound to inspect any corpse I discover for the next year.’

‘The first thing we must do is visit Gonville and ask why Bottisham was in the King’s Mill last night,’ said Michael, as they left the Chancellor’s office. Both took deep breaths, grateful to be away from the aromatic presence. ‘Then we will go to Deschalers’s house and see whether his apprentices or servants have anything more meaningful to tell us than recipes for rat custard and stoat soup.’

‘I agreed to examine corpses for you, Brother,’ said Bartholomew warningly. ‘But that does not mean I am at your beck and call to help with all your murder investigations from now on.’

Michael slapped his friend on the shoulder. ‘That is better, Matt. I was beginning to think there was something seriously amiss when you agreed so readily to become my Corpse Examiner. No terms, no conditions – it was most unlike you. But here you are, complaining as usual, and I see all is well. However, you did offer to help me with Bottisham’s investigation.’

‘I will,’ promised Bartholomew, not sure what he could do on that front, much as he had liked the Gonville lawyer. It was depressing to have no encouraging leads. ‘But first, I must visit Isnard, and then I promised to show my students how to mix a potion for Una. She has a sore stomach again.’

‘It is all the claret she drinks,’ remarked Michael. ‘It is too little like wine and too much like vinegar. That is what ails her.’

‘I imagine she would not be able to carry out her professional duties if she did not have some strong drink inside her – and then she would starve for certain. Come with me. She likes you.’

‘They all do,’ said Michael, leaving Bartholomew wondering who was meant by ‘all’ and how the monk had interpreted ‘likes’. ‘But not if Quenhyth is going, too. He is the least likeable student in the University, and I do not know why you are so patient with him.’

‘Because he may make a good physician one day. He works hard and, although he will never be a popular healer, he may become an effective one, and that is all that really matters.’

‘If you say so. We are beset by unpleasant young men these days: Thorpe, Mortimer, Quenhyth. Damn! I should have held my tongue. All three of them are suddenly coming our way.’

Bartholomew saw he was right. Thorpe and Edward Mortimer were striding along the High Street from the direction of the Great Bridge, while Quenhyth and Redmeadow were making their way up St Michael’s Lane from the College. Bartholomew was tempted to duck into the nearest church and avoid them all, but Michael was not so squeamish. He bared his small yellow teeth in a grin of false welcome as the two felons drew level, watching them exchange nudges and glances, and clearly intent on aggravation. The students reached them at the same time, and stood behind Bartholomew, expressing silent solidarity.

‘You two caused a lot of trouble in the King’s Head last night,’ said Michael without preamble. ‘You should be careful. You are not popular, and taverns have a reputation for unsolved murders.’

‘No one would dare harm us,’ said Mortimer smugly. ‘We enjoy the protection of the King. If anything happened to us he would descend on Cambridge, and every man, woman and child would learn they had crossed the wrong man.’

‘That may be true,’ said Michael. ‘But the patrons of taverns are not noted for their forward thinking while in their cups. They strike first, and think about the consequences later. Having the King impose heavy fines will not help you if you are dead, will it?’

‘We heard about Bottisham and Deschalers,’ said Thorpe, when his friend declined to answer. A malicious grin curled the corners of his mouth and he winked at Mortimer, coaxing a smile from him. ‘What were they doing together in the mill in the middle of the night?’

‘You tell me,’ said Michael, resisting the temptation to react with anger. He shot Bartholomew a glare: he could see the physician was less sanguine about the matter, and looked ready to respond with curt remarks. ‘Have you heard rumours?’

‘Oh, plenty,’ said Thorpe. ‘But I would not repeat them to you. I hear you are easily shocked.’

‘Where were you last night?’ demanded Michael. ‘Before you arrived at the King’s Head?’

The two men exchanged expressions of feigned horror, and Mortimer placed one hand on his chest, to indicate that the implied accusation had wounded him. ‘You think we killed them?’

‘Well, someone did,’ replied Michael.

Thorpe sneered. ‘You should watch where you aim your accusations, Brother. They are offensive, and I may sue you in a court of law for an apology.’

Michael was about to reply when there was a sharp snap, followed by a rattle. Someone had thrown a stone. His eyes narrowed, and he studied the mass of humanity that moved up and down the High Street. Who had thrown the missile? Was it the troublesome Franciscans from Ovyng Hostel, a clutch of whom had just emerged from St Michael’s Church? Was it Robin of Grantchester, aiming his pebble at Bartholomew for operating on Isnard’s leg? Or was it one of the many folk who glanced uneasily at Thorpe and Mortimer as they passed, most too afraid to make an open protest about their unwelcome presence?

‘That was Cheney,’ whispered Bartholomew. ‘I saw him.’

‘At me?’ asked Michael, wondering whether the Millers’ Society did not trust him to investigate the murder of one of their own and had intended to prevent him from doing so.

‘At Mortimer, I suspect – for being one of the clan stealing the King’s Mill water.’

‘Why do you insist on remaining here?’ asked Michael, addressing the two felons, who seemed to care little that they were on the receiving end of hostile looks from the passing populace. ‘You must know that folk are not pleased to see you, and I cannot imagine what it must be like to live in a place where everyone is longing for you to leave.’

‘It is just like France,’ said Mortimer expressionlessly. ‘We were not welcome there, either, because we are English. It is not so different here.’

‘We have scores to settle,’ said Thorpe, fixing his glittering eyes on Bartholomew. ‘We were accused of and punished for heinous crimes.’

‘That is because you were guilty,’ said Michael.

‘Maybe so, but that is irrelevant,’ said Thorpe. ‘The King’s Pardon says we are forgiven now. And I want compensation.’

‘Money?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering how many corpses he would have to examine before he had earned enough to send them on their way. ‘Is that what you want?’

‘In part,’ said Thorpe. ‘But we deserve to be compensated in other ways, too, for the unjust suffering we endured.’

‘It was not unjust,’ Bartholomew pointed out reasonably. ‘You confessed.’

‘I said that is irrelevant!’ snarled Thorpe, taking a step towards the physician that could only be described as menacing. Quenhyth shrank back in alarm, but Redmeadow held his ground. His hand dropped to the knife he carried in his belt. Bartholomew saw the lad’s jaw tighten with anger, and hoped he would not lose his temper.

‘It is not irrelevant,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘You cannot start demanding vengeance from people just because you committed felonies and were caught.’

‘Now we have the King’s Pardon, we can do what we like,’ countered Mortimer. ‘This town is going to pay handsomely for our two years’ banishment. And so is that vile old woman. It was her testimony that sealed our fate. The justices listened to her as though she was one of God’s angels.’

‘What vile old woman?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled. He had not attended the young men’s trials himself, because there were so many other witnesses with first-hand knowledge of their crimes that he had not been needed.

‘The nun,’ elaborated Thorpe. ‘The one with the long nose and the brown face, whom everyone thought was so wonderful. She was nothing but a wizened hag, and she had no right to tell people we did all those things – even if we did them.’

Bartholomew glanced at Michael, whose mouth was set in a hard, thin line. ‘I sincerely hope you are not referring to my grandmother,’ said the monk coldly. ‘Dame Pelagia is a noble lady, so I advise you to keep a civil tongue in your head when you mention her.’

‘Dame Pelagia,’ said Mortimer, pronouncing the name with satisfaction, pleased to see that he had discovered a weak spot in Michael’s armour. ‘That was the harridan’s name. Everyone said she was one of the King’s agents, although I do not think it was true. The King is not so desperate for spies that he is obliged to scour nunneries, looking for withered old crones to serve him.’

Michael lunged suddenly and had Mortimer by the throat before the man knew what was happening. The monk’s bulk was deceptive, and he could move like lightning when required. ‘If I hear you mention her name with disrespect again, I will have you arrested – King’s Pardon or no.’ He shoved Mortimer away with considerable vigour, then wiped his hands on the sides of his habit, as though they were stained with something nasty.

Mortimer shrugged, quickly recovering his composure and his balance. ‘Is she here?’

‘No,’ said Michael shortly.

‘There are a number of folk we shall visit now we are free,’ said Thorpe silkily. ‘She is one of them. I will see Bartholomew’s sister and her husband, too. They were far too quick to throw me to the wolves.’

‘They stood by you longer than you deserved,’ said Bartholomew, grateful they were away.

‘And my father,’ added Thorpe. ‘He wants nothing to do with me – he will not even accept me into his own College. I was obliged to apply to Gonville instead.’

‘We will have words with you two at some point, too,’ said Mortimer with icy menace, gazing first at Michael and then Bartholomew. ‘In some quiet, secret place, where we will not be overheard.’

‘Are you threatening us?’ demanded Michael, speaking loudly enough to gather an audience. ‘Are you saying you mean to lure us into a remote place and dispatch us? If so, then no one will need to look far for the culprits. Look at how many people heard you.’ He gestured to at least a dozen folk – scholars and townsmen – who were listening with rapt interest.

Mortimer saw he had been outmanoeuvred, and declined to take the conversation further. He nodded a farewell to the monk, and the cold light in his eyes made Bartholomew’s blood run cold. Thorpe was less willing to admit defeat, and opened his mouth to say something else, but Mortimer took his arm and pulled him away. Unlike his younger friend, he was intelligent enough to see that nothing more could be gained from prolonging the encounter – but that a good deal might be lost.

‘Their absence has made them bitter as well as dangerous,’ said Bartholomew, watching them walk away. ‘I wish they were not here.’

‘You are not alone,’ said Michael gravely. ‘There have been all manner of complaints about them, but unfortunately nothing serious enough to warrant prosecution. Dick was right: if we expel them without irrefutable and incontestable evidence, it will appear as though we are criticising the King’s Pardon. His Majesty will not like that, and it should be avoided at all costs.’

‘What sort of complaints?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘About their manners, for a start,’ said Quenhyth, back at Bartholomew’s side now the two louts had gone. ‘Edward especially is rude and overbearing. You are right to include him in your investigation into the deaths of Deschalers and Bottisham.’

‘Why do you think he is part of that?’ asked Michael.

Quenhyth looked superior. ‘It is obvious that he and his friend are the culprits, and common sense dictates that you must arrest them immediately.’

‘But they have learned to fight, so challenge them with care,’ added Redmeadow, who had been in Cambridge when the pair had first come to public attention. ‘They were apprentices, so they already knew how to brawl, but in France they were taught how to use swords and knives.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Michael, fixing him with a steely glance. ‘Have you been listening to gossip in taverns, and thus breaking University rules?’

‘I have not,’ said Quenhyth sanctimoniously. ‘I would never do such a thing.’ He looked smugly at his discomfited colleague.

Redmeadow blushed, but shook his head. ‘A tavern is not where I witnessed their newly acquired fighting skills. It was near St Mary the Great. They picked a quarrel with Ufford from Gonville Hall – or perhaps he picked one with them. Regardless, Ufford was lucky they did not kill him.’

‘Ufford is a son of the Earl of Suffolk,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘He has been well trained in the knightly arts and should know how to take care of himself.’

‘Quite,’ said Redmeadow, nodding vigorously. ‘That is why I was surprised when they defeated him. I would have nothing to do with them, if I were you, Doctor. Leave them to the Senior Proctor.’

‘Thank you very much,’ said Michael flatly.

There was a glorious sunset that evening. Bartholomew and Michael walked through the kitchens to where the College grounds stretched in a thin strip down to the river. The part nearest the door was planted with herbs and vegetables; some of the beds were dug ready to receive annual seeds and bulbs, while others were the kind that grew all year. The herb garden, Agatha’s pride and joy, was laid out in neat squares, each section containing a different kind of aromatic or edible plant. She was less interested in the vegetables, and their management was left to the cook and his two assistants. One was there now, hoeing a space for the powerful little leeks she used to disguise the taste of meat that was past its best.

Behind the vegetable plots a gated wall separated the cultivated part of the garden from the orchard. The orchard was one of Bartholomew’s favourite places, mainly because only he and Michael ever seemed to use it. The fruit – largely apples and pears, but some cherries and plums – was harvested each year, but for the most part the trees were left unattended. The cook occasionally directed one of his helpers to cut the grass, which was gathered, dried and used as hay, but such activities were infrequent, and the fragrant little wood was invariably deserted and peaceful.

Near one of the walls, an old apple tree had fallen, and its sturdy trunk formed a pleasant bench for any scholar wanting a little tranquillity, away from the hubbub in the conclave and hall. It was sheltered from the prevailing wind, but placed to catch the best of the sun, and Bartholomew loved the way the branches swayed above him and created dappled patterns on the grass with the sunlight.

It was pleasant to sit there that evening, despite the fact that the end of the day brought cooler temperatures and a wind that was biting. The distant sun was a glowing orange orb that lit the clouds in layers of purple and scarlet. The sounds so characteristic of dusk were beginning: the hoarse yell of a baker selling the last of his wares, the clatter and creak of carts making their way home, the weary voices of labourers returning from surrounding fields, and bells chiming for vespers. Bartholomew could hear the great bass of St Mary the Great, followed by the cracked treble of St Botolph’s.

Michael shivered. ‘I do not know why you wanted to sit out here, Matt. It is freezing.’

‘It is peaceful,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘Besides, William is ranting in the conclave about some lecture he heard today. He claims the speaker’s points were wrong, because he was a Dominican – and being a Dominican rendered him incapable of rational argument. I do not want to listen to that sort of rubbish. I would rather be out here.’

‘William in full flow does change matters,’ agreed Michael, pulling his cloak more tightly around his shoulders. ‘But we should not stay here long. We both need a good night’s rest, if we are to be alert and perceptive when we interview the Gonville Fellows tomorrow. I did not like the fact that they refused to speak to me today.’

‘They were praying, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, who did not think it odd at all for Bottisham’s colleagues to spend the day of his burial on their knees. ‘And they declined to break their vigil out of concern for his soul.’

‘Yes, yes,’ murmured Michael, knowing he was right. ‘We shall speak to them in the morning, and I shall have my answers. Perhaps it was just as well. I was tired and sluggish today when we interviewed Deschalers’s apprentices, and I need to be sharp for the men who defeated us in the Disputatio. The workmen told us nothing of relevance, and I do not want Gonville to do likewise, just because I am too weary to see through clever lies.’

‘The apprentices were not lying, Brother – they really do know nothing of any relevance. But you are right about being tired today. It was difficult to sleep last night. I kept thinking about Bottisham – and Deschalers, of course. But Bottisham was harder … because I liked him, I suppose.’

Michael nodded. ‘I was restless, too. And attending Bottisham’s requiem this afternoon sapped the last of my energy. It was a sad business. I saw you there, with Master Warde of Valence Marie.’

‘He kept coughing,’ said Bartholomew, who had used the distraction to take his mind off the fact that they were burying someone of whom he had been fond. ‘Have you learned anything about what might have happened in the King’s Mill last night from other sources?’

Michael banged his fist hard against the trunk, making Bartholomew jump. It was unlike the monk to be openly emotional. ‘No! But it is not from want of trying. I interviewed the Millers’ Society – Morice, Cheney, Bernarde and the Lavenhams – but learned nothing I did not already know.’

Bartholomew closed his eyes, and it crossed his mind that they might never discover the truth about the deaths. They were silent for a while, each thinking about the bodies in the mill. Eventually, Michael spoke again.

‘Did I tell you Sergeant Orwelle has still not managed to find out who killed Bosel? He asked for my help this afternoon. No witnesses have come forward, and he cannot decide whether it is because there are none, or because they are too afraid to speak.’

‘Has he taken Dick Tulyet’s lead, and narrowed his list of suspects to Thorpe and the Mortimer clan? And that odd woman?’

‘That woman – Bess – barely recalls her own name, let alone whether she murdered someone. Perhaps you could talk to her, and see whether you can make sense of what she says. You have a way with the insane. You should do, given the practice you have in dealing with Clippesby.’

‘Tomorrow, after Gonville,’ offered Bartholomew, content just to lean against the wall and watch the sunset. ‘Will it count as a consultation for the Corpse Examiner, and earn me fourpence?’

Michael glanced at him sharply before realising he was being teased. When the gate creaked, his expression hardened. ‘Here comes Quenhyth, to pester you with questions again. Is no time sacred to the boy? Can he not even allow you a few moments of peace at the end of the day? He is worse than a wife!’

‘He is all right,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is just keen to learn.’

‘I am sorry to disturb you, sir,’ said Quenhyth, approaching with his hat held in his hands. ‘But Sheriff Tulyet has asked you to go to his house. His son has had an accident.’

‘God’s teeth!’ swore Bartholomew in annoyance. ‘Not Dickon again! This will be the third time they have summoned me in as many weeks, and Dickon is not the easiest of patients.’

Michael agreed. ‘The boy is a monster. I do not envy you your duty, Matt, not even for a goblet of Dick Tulyet’s fine wine.’

‘You will not come with me, then?’ asked Bartholomew, disappointed. ‘It would be good to have reinforcements.’ He did not add that it would be especially good to have someone of Michael’s size when dealing with Tulyet’s fiendish brat.

‘I will not,’ said Michael firmly.

‘I will,’ offered Quenhyth. ‘The messenger said something about a dried pea in the ear, and we learned about ears last week. I shall fetch your bag – assuming that Redmeadow has not been in it, stealing its contents, like he takes my ink and parchments.’

‘Redmeadow is not a thief,’ said Bartholomew, not looking forward to the imminent battle with Tulyet’s infant son, or to having Quenhyth with him while he did it.

Quenhyth gave him a look that indicated he knew better. They set off, and Michael accompanied them as far as the Jewry, an area that had earned its name because it had once housed a number of Jewish moneylenders. They had been expelled from the country the previous century, although not before the King had confiscated all their property. When the monk stopped opposite King’s Childer Lane and claimed he had business nearby, Bartholomew was suspicious. The woman he secretly loved lived in the Jewry, and he suspected Michael planned to visit her and take advantage of the fact that she kept an excellent cellar, a good kitchen and cushioned benches around a pine-scented fire. He enjoyed spending evenings with Matilde himself, and was envious that Michael should be able to do so while he was obliged to see Dickon. He watched the monk stride into the maze of tiny alleys with considerable resentment.

Quenhyth chattered as they walked the remaining distance to the handsome house on Bridge Street, where the Tulyets lived. Bartholomew listened reluctantly, not especially interested in the diagnosis that Cheney’s partiality to blood pudding rendered him choleric, or in the intelligence that Deynman had been seduced by Isobel de Lavenham. However, he was interested in the news that Deynman had been the butt of jokes following his announcement of Chancellor Tynkell’s pregnancy, and was determined to prove himself correct. He closed his eyes: preventing Deynman from doing something dreadful to the University’s figurehead was yet another task for which he would have to find time.

He was about to approach Tulyet’s house when he saw a lonely figure standing on the Great Bridge. Because it was almost dark, the bridge was deserted, and the felons who were repairing it had been escorted back to the Castle. The figure was Bess, and she leaned over the scaffolding-swathed parapet in a manner that was far from safe. The way she stood, cupping her face in her hands, jogged his memory so sharply that his hand froze halfway to the door.

‘Katherine Mortimer!’ he exclaimed suddenly. ‘That is who Bess reminds me of.’

‘One of the Mortimer clan?’ asked Quenhyth, who had not been in the town when the baker’s wife was still alive. ‘Bess has Edward’s colouring, I suppose.’

‘Katherine was his mother. The likeness has been nagging at me ever since I first saw Bess. It is just a coincidence. Bess is too young to be Katherine – and I was with Katherine when she died, anyway. But the likeness is uncanny.’

‘Perhaps they are related,’ suggested Quenhyth. ‘And that is why Bess came here from London.’

‘London?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Is that where she usually lives?’

‘So she says. It is a big city, with thousands of inhabitants, so it is possible. But perhaps she came here because her addled wits reminded her that she has kin in the town.’

‘What do you think is wrong with her?’ Bartholomew asked, curious to know whether his student would remember what he had been taught about ailments of the mind.

‘Melancholy?’ asked Quenhyth. ‘Perhaps she is about to jump.’

‘Then we should stop her,’ said Bartholomew, hurrying towards the bridge.

‘We should not,’ said Quenhyth, snatching at his sleeve and missing. He sighed and ran to catch up. His teacher tended to move very quickly when he thought someone needed his help. ‘We should let her choose her own destiny, sir. She is clearly unhinged and deeply unhappy, so why should we condemn her to more misery by forcing her to live?’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘Do you know what the Church teaches about suicide? And what it teaches about those who stand by and do nothing while it happens?’

‘I know what you think,’ countered Quenhyth. ‘You do not always condemn suicide when you think the victim has good reason for ending his life. And you do not always commit him to a grave in unhallowed ground, either. I know exactly how Father Ailred of Ovyng perished – he was a suicide, without question – but he lies peacefully in St Michael’s churchyard.’

Quenhyth was right, and Bartholomew saw he would lose that particular argument. He turned his attention to Bess. He approached slowly and took her hand when he was close enough, so he could ease her away from the edge of the bridge. She regarded him with her flat black eyes, and then settled her gaze on Quenhyth.

‘Where is my man?’ she asked softly.

‘I do not know your man,’ said Quenhyth stiffly, evidently loath to be addressed by someone who was addled. ‘When did you lose him?’

‘He has gone away,’ she whispered. ‘Many moons ago. He went, and he never came back.’

‘I am sorry for you,’ said Quenhyth, not sounding at all sympathetic. ‘But you should step away from the bridge, madam. It is narrow, and a cart might come past and spray you with filth.’

‘Filth,’ said Bess blankly.

‘Muck,’ elaborated Quenhyth helpfully. ‘Dirt. Sewage. You know.’

‘I know,’ replied Bess distantly. ‘Have you seen my man? He went away.’

‘She is raving,’ said Quenhyth to Bartholomew, impatient to be away. ‘You have saved her from death, so we should leave her, and go to see Dickon before he pushes the pea so far into his ear that you will need to remove it through his nose.’

‘We cannot leave her alone,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps the Canons at the Hospital of St John will take her again. She seems distressed this evening, and I do not want her to harm herself.’

‘Do you know where he is?’ asked Bess, looking from Bartholomew to Quenhyth with desperation in her eyes. ‘Please take me to my man.’

‘What is his name?’ asked Bartholomew gently.

‘My man,’ echoed Bess softly. ‘He has a name. He has gone away.’

‘And so should we,’ said Quenhyth, growing even more impatient. ‘Give her a penny, sir. She can go to the King’s Head and buy a bed in the stable loft.’

‘I do not have a penny,’ said Bartholomew, feeling his empty purse.

Quenhyth regarded him in disbelief. ‘But we have visited seventeen patients over the last five days. They must have paid you something.’

‘Do you have one I can borrow? I will return it as soon as I am paid.’

‘You will forget,’ cried Quenhyth, clutching his bag protectively. ‘You care so little for your own money that you place scant importance on that belonging to others, too. But I am short of funds myself at the moment, and had to borrow from Deynman today. I was going to talk to you about a loan from one of the College hutches. I have no spare pennies to lend you.’

Bartholomew rifled through the contents of his medical bag, to see whether there was something that might be sold in order to raise the needed money. Or perhaps he could offer the landlord of the King’s Head a free consultation in exchange for a bed and a meal for Bess.

‘I have a penny,’ said Bess, reaching into the wrappings around her unsavoury person and producing a groat. ‘See? It is a pretty thing, is it not? It has the King’s face on it.’

‘Very pretty,’ said Bartholomew, pushing her hand back into her clothes and hoping no one else had seen it. A groat was a lot of money, and Cambridge was no place to flaunt coins, especially at dusk. Shadows writhed and slunk in dark doorways, where thieves waited to prey on the unwary and vulnerable. ‘Put it away, and do not show it to anyone else.’

As he glanced around, he became aware that a solution was at hand. Matilde was walking towards him, in company with the carpenter Robert de Blaston and his wife Yolande, who were staying with her. Their own house had collapsed during heavy winter snows, and Matilde had offered the family a home until it was rebuilt. Bartholomew was surprised to find himself maliciously gratified that Michael had had a wasted journey, if he had intended to visit her.

‘Matthew!’ Matilde exclaimed in pleasure, breaking away from the Blastons and coming to greet him. The couple lingered, unwilling to leave her at a time when decent folk were already inside their houses and the town became the domain of a rougher, more dangerous breed of people. Matilde’s eyes strayed to Bartholomew’s shorn hair. ‘Oh, dear!’

‘Lenne’s handiwork,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I was probably his last customer.’

‘Just as well,’ he heard Yolande mutter.

‘I heard about the deaths in the King’s Mill,’ said Matilde to Bartholomew. ‘Poor Bottisham. You must be upset, because I know you liked him. But I have been worried that you might become embroiled in another of those nasty plots.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew, grabbing Bess’s arm as she made to return to the Great Bridge. Her attention had wandered and she was muttering about flying over the pretty water. He supposed Quenhyth was right, and she did intend to hurl herself over the edge, although he did not know whether it would constitute a deliberate attempt to end her life, or whether her wits were too scrambled to understand the consequences. Either way he intended to prevent it.

‘I mean there are rumours that the murders relate to the quarrel between the Millers’ Society and the Mortimers.’

‘They might,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘Although I am not sure how.’

‘Well, there is the fact that Bottisham was one of the lawyers the Mortimers hired to present their case, for a start. You do not need me to tell you that the whole thing stinks of corruption and malice, Matthew. You should take care.’

‘I will,’ promised Bartholomew, although he felt he had no real cause for concern. He had nothing to do with either side in the dispute, and did not care who won the case that had been taken to the King.

‘I have something for you,’ said Matilde, turning to the carpenter and gesturing that he should pass her the basket he carried. She rummaged inside it and produced a package. Curiously, Bartholomew removed the protective cloth to reveal a scroll.

‘Trotula!’ he exclaimed in delight, turning it this way and that in an attempt to decipher some of the words in the failing light. It was a good copy, illustrated lovingly by some scribe who had taken pride in his work. ‘Her musings on childbirth.’

‘I thought you would like it,’ said Matilde, smiling at his pleasure. ‘It may come in useful soon, because Yolande has just informed me that she is pregnant again.’

‘Again?’ asked Bartholomew, regarding the woman in awe. It would be her eleventh. He looked at the scroll, then, with great reluctance, handed it back to Matilde. ‘I cannot accept this. It probably cost a good deal of money, and I do not have a penny.’

‘It is advance payment for the services you might soon render to Yolande,’ said Matilde firmly, pushing it back at him. ‘Do not refuse me, Matthew. I do not want to employ Rougham in your stead, and I might have to, if you will not accept your dues.’

‘Do not hire him for poor Yolande,’ said Quenhyth fervently. ‘Rougham knows nothing about women’s problems.’

‘Then thank you,’ said Bartholomew, although he suspected Yolande would need no help from him. She might require a midwife briefly, but she was strong and healthy, and he did not expect anything to go wrong with so experienced a mother. ‘I shall treasure it. But I need another favour. I do not want to leave Bess alone, but I have been summoned to attend Dickon …’

‘You want me to give her a bed,’ surmised Matilde. She smiled. ‘I am sure we can find a corner, although my little home is very crowded these days with an additional two adults and ten children under my roof. Another visitor arrived today, too. We are crammed inside like herrings in a barrel of salt.’

‘Who?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether he should be jealous. Matilde’s past life was a mystery to him; it was rumoured that she had been lady-in-waiting to a duchess before being dismissed for entertaining one too many courtiers at night. Matilde gave the impression that she found such stories amusing, and enigmatically refused to say whether or not they were true.

Matilde gave him a mischievous smile that made his heart melt, then cocked her head and started to laugh. ‘You will need to come for a drink when you finish with Dickon, Matthew. I can hear the little angel screaming from here!’

Bartholomew watched her walk away with Bess and the Blastons, then turned back to the Sheriff’s house. It was a sumptuous affair, with walls made from stone, rather than the more usual wattle-and-daub, and boasted a new roof that stood proudly above the rough reed thatches of its neighbours. It was three storeys high, and the Tulyets and their only son had enough room to claim a sleeping chamber to themselves, an almost unimaginable luxury when there were servants and retainers to be housed and a steady stream of visitors claiming hospitality.

Bartholomew knocked on the door, but the enraged screeches that emanated from within were so loud that he was obliged to hammer another three times before a harried maid finally heard him over the commotion. He was about to follow her inside when a tiny movement at the corner of his eye caught his attention. He spun round, and saw Thorpe leaning against a doorway, half hidden by shadows.

‘What are you doing there?’ he demanded, unsettled by the man’s sudden appearance.

Thorpe uncoiled himself and jerked a thumb in the direction of Tulyet’s home. ‘I was passing and heard a racket. I was curious to know what is going on. Will Brother Michael offer his services in the form of reinforcements tonight? It sounds as though you might need a burly arm.’

Bartholomew grimaced. ‘Dickon only fights battles he is sure he can win.’

‘Very wise,’ said Thorpe, giving one of his unpleasant grins before walking away towards the town centre. Bartholomew watched him go in puzzlement, but Dickon’s shrieks reached a new level in volume and the maid appealed to him with desperate eyes, so he pushed Thorpe from his mind and entered the small hell that comprised Dickon’s domain.

‘Thank God,’ said Tulyet shakily, when Bartholomew was shown into the solar. ‘I do not think I can stand much more of this. He is in pain, but we do not know what to do.’

Young Dickon, a child of just over three years of age, was perched on his mother’s knee. His little face was scarlet with the effort of producing the ear-splitting screams that were having exactly the effect he wanted on his long-suffering parents. Adults fluttered around him, trying to calm him with kisses and sweetmeats, while the little hellion learned how he might manipulate them even more efficiently in the future.

Dickon already knew he could achieve almost anything with a tantrum, and had recently realised this could be taken to new heights if his doting parents thought he was hurt, too. As a consequence, Bartholomew was frequently summoned to treat minor bruises and scratches that most children would not have noticed, and an increasingly imaginative array of ‘accidents’ that included invisible splinters, an alleged surfeit of carrots, and an array of bizarre objects inserted into various orifices – although none embedded deeply enough to cause genuine pain. Dickon was not stupid.

‘You say there is a pea in his ear,’ shouted Bartholomew over the howls, kneeling next to Mistress Tulyet and taking the lad’s head to tilt it gently towards the light. Dickon’s reaction was instant and predictable. He twisted quickly, and his sharp little teeth clicked in empty air, just as the physician jerked his hands away.

‘Dickon!’ exclaimed Tulyet in horror. ‘You know you must not bite!’

Dickon began to scream again, this time because his attack had been thwarted and he was angry. Meanwhile, his mother petted and fussed over him, believing the shrieks were a result of the mishap with the pea. Bartholomew was baffled. Tulyet was astute when it came to dealing with the felons who came his way, and was seldom taken in by their lies and deceits. The physician had no idea why he did not apply the same rules to his son. As a baby, Dickon had been snatched by blackmailers, and his parents had coddled him ever since. They were now reaping the rewards of spoiling a boy who had needed a firmer hand.

Tulyet spread apologetic hands. ‘I am sorry, Matt. He is beside himself with agony and does not know what he is doing.’

Bartholomew thought Dickon knew exactly what he was doing. He took the child’s head in a firmer grip. There was an immediate struggle, with Dickon screeching his outrage when he saw he could not escape. His face turned from red to purple.

‘You are hurting him!’ cried Mistress Tulyet, trying to prise Bartholomew’s hands from her son.

‘I am not,’ replied Bartholomew, releasing his patient and wondering whether he would be obliged to wait until the brat fell asleep before removing the pea. It would not be a difficult operation, and would have taken only a moment with any other child. He sat back on his heels and considered his options, most of which involved sending the parents from the room, and a gag. Rescue – for patient and physician – came from an unexpected quarter.

‘Dickon,’ said Quenhyth brightly, kneeling next to the boy. ‘Would you like a rat?’

Dickon’s wails stopped abruptly. ‘Rats bite,’ he said. But he was clearly interested. His screeches did not resume, and he waited for Quenhyth to elaborate.

‘This one will not,’ said Quenhyth, gesturing to the horrified parents that he did not have a real rodent in mind. ‘And it will have a tail as long as a dog’s. Would you like to see?’

‘Give,’ said Dickon, thrusting out a hand that was sticky from the treats his mother had been feeding him ever since he had first looked her in the eye and pressed the pea into his ear.

‘Here,’ said Quenhyth, reaching into his bag – modelled rather obviously on the one Bartholomew carried – and withdrawing an object that was all stick legs and clumsily sewn fur. ‘I was making this for my little brother, but you look like a lad who will appreciate a rat.’

‘Give,’ ordered Dickon again, chubby fingers stretching for the prize.

‘It has proper eyes,’ said Quenhyth, flaunting the object just out of Dickon’s grasp. He reached into his bag a second time and pulled out a length of twine that had been woven to look uncannily like the tail of a rodent. ‘All I need to do is attach this, and it will be finished. What do you say?’

Dickon squirmed out of his mother’s arms, aiming to snatch the toy, but the student had anticipated such a move. He stood up quickly, and Dickon found himself unable to reach. He opened his mouth for another of his monstrous shrieks.

‘No,’ said Bartholomew sharply, before he could start. ‘You cannot have it if you screech.’

Dickon’s mouth snapped shut, eyes fixed on the toy that dangled so tantalisingly close. It was not an attractive thing, and Bartholomew thought normal children might have found it a little frightening. But Dickon was not a normal child. He was fascinated by the ugly wooden frame, inexpertly covered with fur salvaged from an old winter cloak. The four legs were of different lengths, the snout was long, thin and mean, and the eyes – made from polished stones – glittered in a way that was sinister. There was also a set of improbably large teeth, which had been fashioned from scraps of metal scavenged from the blacksmith’s forge and then hammered into its jaws.

‘You should not let him have that,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that Quenhyth had probably gone to some trouble to make it. It would not last long with Dickon, who tested new toys by hurling them against walls or dropping them from upstairs windows. ‘You are unlikely to get it back in one piece.’

‘I do not think my brother will like it, actually,’ admitted Quenhyth ruefully. ‘It did not turn out the way I expected. It ended up looking a trifle … demonic.’

‘It certainly has,’ said Tulyet, regarding it uneasily.

‘I have been carrying it about for weeks now,’ Quenhyth went on. ‘It seems a shame to throw it away, since it took me the best part of four Sundays to make. I am happy for Dickon to have it.’

‘It is very kind,’ said Mistress Tulyet gratefully. ‘It has already distracted him from his pain, and he has stopped that terrible crying.’

‘Thank God,’ muttered Bartholomew. He edged closer to the boy again, ready to retreat if the brat tried to bite, kick, scratch, thump or pinch. He had suffered enough bruises from Dickon in the past to be cautious, even when it appeared his attention was captured by something else. ‘If you want the toy, Dickon, you must sit on your mother’s lap and tilt your head to one side. Quietly.’

Dickon regarded Bartholomew venomously, knowing that the pea was about to be removed, and that it might result in a little discomfort.

‘Let him have the toy first,’ suggested Mistress Tulyet. ‘He will sit still while he inspects it.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew. Once Dickon had the rat in his possession he would never do as he was told. ‘Pea first, rat second.’

Dickon’s expression was murderous, but he crawled on to his mother’s knee and put his head to one side. Bartholomew selected a tiny pair of forceps and had secured the pea before the lad had even taken a breath to bray his displeasure. Dickon eyed the pulse in astonishment, and Bartholomew saw the realisation register that he would have to find another excuse if he wanted to indulge in more bad behaviour that evening. The lad wriggled away from his mother and dashed to Quenhyth.

‘Give,’ he said firmly.

‘Do you want it to have a tail?’ asked Quenhyth. Dickon nodded slowly. ‘Then you will have to wait while I sew it on. Sit with me by the hearth, and watch.’

To Bartholomew’s surprise, Dickon squatted by Quenhyth as meekly as a lamb, and there was blessed silence while he watched the tail being appended. Tulyet heaved a sigh of relief.

‘I was beginning to think we might be up all night with the poor child. I shall pay your student as much as I give you for this consultation, Matt. I shall always be in his debt.’

Bartholomew smiled. ‘It means Dickon will be his first official patient, and not one he will easily forget.’ He did not mean it as a compliment.

Grateful that another domestic crisis was over, Tulyet turned the discussion to town affairs, while Quenhyth and Dickon sat by the fire and Mistress Tulyet watched with a doting smile. Bartholomew noticed the servants were not nearly so soft-hearted. They exchanged glances indicating that they knew exactly how to deal with small, calculating fiends who frightened their parents and threw the whole household into disarray.

‘I am worried about Mistress Lenne,’ said Tulyet, pouring Bartholomew some wine. ‘She was ailing anyway, but her husband’s death under Mortimer’s cart has hastened her journey to the grave.’

‘Her son will be here soon,’ said Bartholomew, thinking about what Bottisham had told him – before he had met his own grisly end. He also recalled that Bottisham had been visiting both Isnard and the old woman, helping them with small, practical donations of money and food. He hoped someone else would take up where he had left off, and realised yet again what a good man the lawyer had been.

‘It is not right,’ said Tulyet bitterly. ‘Mortimer was clearly drunk, yet I am powerless to bring him to justice. Bosel was a poor witness, but at least he was something. Without him I have no case.’

‘Orwelle thinks no one will ever be charged with Bosel’s murder, either.’

‘It looks that way. If Mortimer had not been at that town meeting, I would have arrested him immediately. But I saw him with my own eyes – and what better alibi can he claim than me?’

‘I told you: he may have given Bosel the poison earlier in the day. Bosel drank it in the evening, but Mortimer may have passed it to him much sooner.’

Tulyet disagreed. ‘We are talking about Bosel here, Matt. He would not have waited before consuming a gift of wine. First, he would not have had the self-control, and second, he would have been afraid that someone would take it from him, if he did not swallow it immediately.’

Bartholomew knew this was true. Bosel was not the only beggar in Cambridge, and if any of them had seen him with wine they would have demanded a share – or would have taken it by force.

‘Still,’ mused Tulyet, ‘perhaps Thomas will lose his lawsuit against the King’s Mill. That would hurt him far more than a mere charge of murder.’

‘How will the King investigate the mill dispute?’ asked Bartholomew, wanting to talk about something other than murderers who might go unpunished.

‘Four men will be appointed as commissioners, and they will reach a verdict based on an impartial assessment of the facts. Whatever they decide will be law in the King’s name.’

‘Will these men be the same ones who pardoned Thorpe and Edward? Because if so, then justice will have nothing to do with their decision. Whoever offers the largest bribe will.’

‘Now, now, Matt,’ admonished Tulyet mildly. ‘Watch what you are saying. I do not want my son’s physician hanged for treason. But how is Michael faring with the other business – Deschalers and that scholar … what was his name?’

‘Bottisham,’ said Bartholomew, displeased that the Sheriff had forgotten. ‘Nicholas Bottisham. And Michael is not faring at all. He has learned nothing to help him unravel the mystery.’

‘Then I hope he has better luck tomorrow. There are already rumours in the town that Deschalers was murdered by a scholar, and ill-feeling is beginning to fester. Cambridge will be in flames if he does not have a culprit soon.’

Bartholomew and Quenhyth took their leave of the Tulyets with grateful thanks ringing in their ears. Quenhyth hummed happily, and Bartholomew saw the student was pleased with himself – because of the Tulyets’ adulation as well as the much-needed donation of funds. Bartholomew congratulated him on his performance, and was surprised to see him blush as he admitted a talent for dealing with children. Bartholomew decided he would take Quenhyth with him the next time he was summoned to tend Dickon. Perhaps he could eventually relinquish him as a patient, since Dickon’s ailments were never anything a student could not handle. The future began to look brighter.

They parted company at the Jewry, where Bartholomew tried to guess the identity of the visitor to whom Matilde had alluded, hoping he would not be obliged to exchange pleasantries with one of her former lovers. He dragged his feet a little as he made his way to her home, apprehension mounting as he drew closer. She owned a handsome, albeit small, house that stood near the crumbling church of All Saints in the Jewry. He knocked on her door with some trepidation, and was ushered in by Matilde herself, who smiled her pleasure at his arrival. She gestured that he was to precede her into the comfortable ground-floor chamber where she entertained her guests.

The room was crammed full of people, with children perched on every knee, lap and available scrap of floor, and several adults sitting on the cushioned benches that ran around the walls. Michael was squashed uncomfortably between Yolande and her husband. He had a goblet of wine in one hand and Yolande’s smallest baby in the other. He was clearly nervous of the tiny scrap of humanity – not that his large hands might damage it or make it cry, but that something might leak through its swaddling clothes and leave a stain on his habit. He held it at arm’s length, like a man showing off a prize vegetable. The child surveyed the room from its unusual vantage point with startled eyes.

At first, Bartholomew could not detect any unexpected visitor in the sea of faces that greeted him. Then he realised that every single person, regardless of age or sex, was facing in one direction, towards a figure who sat in the seat of honour next to the blazing hearth. It was almost as though no one else existed; even the baby’s great blue orbs were drawn that way.

An old lady sat there, small, slight and almost swallowed up by an array of cushions and blankets. Yet she was upright and spry, and exuded the sense that here was a woman of great strength and determination. Her emerald eyes were unreadable, but unmistakably intelligent, and she had a large hooked nose. Bartholomew recognised her immediately and a sense of foreboding flowed through him. Matilde gestured to the old woman with an elegant hand.

‘You remember Dame Pelagia, I am sure, Matthew,’ she said. ‘She is Michael’s grandmother, and the King’s best and most famous agent.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Bartholomew, as he fought to remember his manners and make a bow that was suitably low and deferential. It would not do to offend a woman like Dame Pelagia with inadequate shows of obsequiousness, even inadvertently. ‘Now the corpses will start piling up.’

Dame Pelagia’s elderly appearance was deceptive, and her hearing was just as sharp as it had been when she was a comely young maiden some sixty years before. Her smile was enigmatic and impossible to interpret.

‘Do not complain, Matthew,’ she replied, her green eyes, so like Michael’s, gleaming with mischief. ‘My grandson tells me you need all the fourpenny fees you can get.’