The Hand of Justice

CHAPTER 6

Bartholomew remained haunted by Mistress Lenne’s haggard, distraught face, so went with Redmeadow and Quenhyth to see her the following morning after prime. Redmeadow pulled his writing tablet from his bag and provided the physician with a detailed résumé of what had been said when he had visited her the previous evening. There was nothing of import, and Bartholomew had the impression that the old lady had become impatient with the student’s ponderous enquiries, and had wanted him to leave. It was not a bad sign: irritation was better than bleak hopelessness.

He and the students left the Lenne house, and turned towards the High Street. When they drew near St Mary the Great – with Redmeadow regaling Quenhyth with a rather fanciful theory about how Bishop Bateman came to be poisoned in Avignon – Bartholomew spotted two familiar faces among the throng that had gathered to pay homage to the Hand. Paxtone and Wynewyk stood close together, holding what seemed to be an intense discussion.

Bartholomew was surprised, since he had never seen the Michaelhouse lawyer and the King’s Hall physician together before. He started to walk towards them, intending to pass the time of day, but Paxtone happened to glance up and see him. He grabbed Wynewyk’s arm and hauled him towards the Trumpington Gate. Wynewyk stole a quick look behind him as they went, and walked even faster when he saw Bartholomew was watching. The physician stared in total mystification, wondering what had induced such odd behaviour in two people he regarded as friends.

‘There is Master Warde from the Hall of Valence Marie,’ said Redmeadow, pointing in the opposite direction. ‘He was the fellow who robbed us of victory in the Disputatio de quodlibet. It was a bad decision. Michaelhouse was much better than Gonville.’

‘We were not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Bottisham argued very elegantly, and so did Pulham.’

‘Rougham was rubbish, though,’ said Quenhyth, gnawing at a fingernail. ‘I do not like him. He shouted at Redmeadow, just because he fetched calamint from the apothecary the other day, not catmint.’ His voice was smug, as though he would not have made such a basic mistake.

‘He can be brusque,’ said Bartholomew. He watched as Warde hacked helplessly, struggling to catch his breath. ‘Warde has had that cough for a long time now.’

‘He is being treated by Rougham, and we all know how ineffective he is as a healer,’ said Quenhyth. ‘You are much better.’ He flashed an ingratiating smile, and Bartholomew winced.

‘Lord!’ exclaimed Warde hoarsely, as their paths converged. ‘This tickling throat will be the death of me. I have had it a full ten days, and it still shows no sign of abating. I have tried everything – even a potion from Egypt that Deschalers the grocer sold me before he died.’

‘What kind of potion?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And how do you know it came from Egypt?’

‘Deschalers told me Arabs use it when desert sand clogs their lungs, although it tasted like a simple syrup of honey and acid fruits to me.’ Warde shook his head sadly. ‘It is a terrible business with him and Bottisham. I was fond of them both. I cannot imagine what happened to them, or why they should have been together in the King’s Mill.’

‘Nor can we,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But they had an ancient disagreement over a field, then Deschalers pretended he was going to give Gonville money for their chapel but withdrew it at the last moment – to embarrass Bottisham, apparently. We also know that Bottisham planned to represent the Mortimers in the mill dispute – against Deschalers and the Millers’ Society.’

‘The situation was more one-sided than that,’ said Warde, coughing again. ‘Bottisham held no ill feelings for Deschalers; he told me so himself. But Deschalers harboured them for Bottisham. Deschalers was protective of his possessions, and did not like losing a field that was his by rights.’

‘Was it his by rights?’

Warde nodded. ‘Oh, yes. I reviewed the evidence when Bottisham accepted the case, some twenty years ago now. But the other claimant bribed witnesses. Deschalers wanted to do the same, but Bottisham refused. Deschalers was bitter about Bottisham’s incorruptibility, and said a lawyer’s principles should not come between a man and his property. I can see his point: he lost a valuable piece of land because Bottisham refused to employ tactics used openly by other clerks.’

‘Do you think this festered, and Deschalers decided to have his revenge while he still could?’ Bartholomew was sceptical. He did not really believe Rougham’s assurances that the dying man had mustered the physical strength for a final act of vengeance.

Warde shrugged. ‘I do not know. However, I must point out that most men who are mortally ill avoid committing sins close to the time when their souls will be weighed. Perhaps it was not Deschalers who killed Bottisham, but a member of the Mortimer clan.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Bottisham was going to work for them, as one of their lawyers.’

‘Quite,’ said Warde. ‘And who wants a clerk so scrupulous that he will lose a case before resorting to dishonesty? However, I have heard that no one else was in the mill when Deschalers and Bottisham died, so I am doubtless wrong in my speculations. What did you think of my lecture at Merton Hall last Wednesday?’

‘The one about the neglect of mathematics in academic studies?’ asked Bartholomew, casting his mind back to the lively debate that had taken place the morning before Isnard and Lenne were crushed by Mortimer’s cart. ‘You are right: mathematical principles underlie our most basic philosophical tenets, and we should ensure our students are well versed in their application.’

‘Because of that lecture, Doctor Bartholomew is going to talk about Euclid’s Elementa all day,’ said Quenhyth to Warde, clearly less than happy about the prospect. ‘Particularly the theory that parallel lines will never meet, even in an infinite universe.’

‘Good,’ said Warde, rubbing his hands over his oily yellow hair and coughing a little. ‘There is nothing like the Elementa to drive cobwebs from the mind.’

‘God must be able to make parallel lines meet,’ said Redmeadow thoughtfully. ‘He is omnipotent, after all, and it cannot be that hard to do.’

‘I imagine He has better things to do than confound Euclidean geometric universals,’ said Warde. A smile took the sting from his words. ‘Hah! There is Rougham. I must consult with him again about my cough.’

Rougham was in a hurry. He strode along the street in a flurry of flapping sleeves and billowing cloak, showing all who saw him that here was a man with important business to attend. It gave the impression that he was much in demand, and that patients who secured his services were gaining the attention of a man who knew what he was about. He carried a thick book by Galen, to indicate that he was learned as well as busy, but was not burdened down with battered bags full of potions and knives, like a common surgeon. Despite the fact that his rapid progress indicated that he had not a moment to spare before descending on his next lucky customer, he was prepared to stop and talk to Warde.

‘The syrup of blackcurrants did not work?’ he asked, making a show of consulting his book, although Bartholomew was certain Galen never mentioned this particular fruit in his analysis of foods with medicinal qualities. He said nothing, but Quenhyth was not so prudent.

‘Galen does not talk about blackcurrants in that,’ he declared, tapping a bony, ragged-nailed finger on Rougham’s tome. ‘He discusses blackberries, but not blackcurrants.’

If Quenhyth expected Rougham to be grateful for having his mistake pointed out in front of a patient, he was to be disappointed. ‘What do you know about physic, boy? You do not even know the difference between calamint and catmint.’

‘That was not me,’ objected Quenhyth indignantly. ‘It was Redmeadow. But that is beside the point. There is nothing about blackcurrants in Galen.’ He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Is there?’

‘We should be on our way,’ said Bartholomew tactfully. ‘We can talk about Galen as we go.’

‘No!’ cried Quenhyth stubbornly. ‘I am right. Tell him!’

‘Do you see this boy?’ roared Rougham suddenly, addressing the people who were nearby. Some stopped to listen, and Warde began to cough in agitation, uncomfortable with the scene Rougham was about to create. Redmeadow simply turned and fled, and Bartholomew wished he could do the same. ‘He thinks he is a great physician who can challenge his betters. But I advise you all to let him nowhere near you, because he will kill you with his inexperience and foolishness.’

Quenhyth’s normally pallid skin flushed a deep red. ‘I will not! I am–’

‘An imbecile,’ said Rougham, cutting through the student’s stammering objections. ‘A dangerous fool. Take my warning seriously, friends, or he will bring about your deaths with false remedies.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew quietly, moved by the tears of humiliation that spilled down Quenhyth’s downy cheeks. ‘He will make a good physician one day, and he is right about the blackcurrants. Galen does not mention them.’

‘I said blackberries,’ asserted Rougham loudly. He opened the book and pointed to a spot on the page, waving it far too close to the physician’s face for him to be able to read it. ‘Here. Do you see that? You are as bad as your dithering, blundering student.’

He snapped the book closed and stalked away. Quenhyth gazed after him, tears staining his face and his hands clenched at his sides. He was shaking so much that Bartholomew put an arm around his shoulders, but Quenhyth knocked it away. Seeing the show was over, people began to disperse, some laughing at the sight of physicians quarrelling publicly.

‘He did say blackcurrants,’ said Warde kindly to Quenhyth. ‘And he recommended blackcurrant syrup to me.’ He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Does this mean I asked Lavenham for the wrong thing?’

‘Someone spoke mine name?’ asked the apothecary, who happened to be passing with Cheney the spice merchant and Bernarde the miller. Their heads were down, as though they had been deep in serious conversation. ‘I here.’

‘I need a potion of blackberries for my cough,’ said Warde. ‘Do you have one?’

‘I give blackcurrant,’ said Lavenham in surprise. ‘Blackberry now? You want all black potions future? Bartholomew give black medicine for black bile. Charcoal for Una the prosperous–’

‘Una the prostitute,’ corrected Bernarde, jangling his keys. ‘She is not prosperous at all.’

‘She should charge her customers more, then,’ said Cheney, as though the solution to Una’s poverty was obvious. ‘These women call themselves the Guild of Frail Sisters, but then they cheat themselves by charging ridiculously low amounts for their services.’

‘They cannot demand too much,’ said Bernarde. It seemed he, too, was intimately acquainted with the Frail Sisters’ economic shortcomings. ‘Or men would just take what they could not afford. That happened with flour after the Death – people had no money, so they stormed the mill and stole what they needed. The Frail Sisters will not want that to happen to them.’

‘And there is issue for quality,’ added Lavenham knowledgeably. ‘Una do not ask much, because she not good. Not like Yolande de Blaston, who ask more, and is very good when she can be got.’

‘We should go,’ said Bartholomew, reluctant to become engaged in a public discussion about the town’s prostitutes. ‘Come on, Quenhyth.’

‘Rougham did not have to do that,’ sniffed Quenhyth, as he and Bartholomew left the burgeoning conversation about the town’s Frail Sisters and their value for money. Warde waited for it to finish so that he could order Rougham’s next ineffective remedy. Although syrups were good for coughs of short duration, Bartholomew felt Warde’s had lingered long enough to warrant something more powerful, and hoped Rougham would soon prescribe a remedy that might work.

‘Rougham was unkind,’ he agreed. ‘But do not take his words to heart.’

‘He confused me with Redmeadow,’ said Quenhyth in a broken voice. ‘That is the only explanation. I do not see why else he should attack me.’

‘There is Bess,’ said Bartholomew, hoping to distract him from his misery. ‘Shall we talk to her, and see whether she is more rational today?’

‘No,’ said Quenhyth, beginning to weep again. ‘I do not want to talk to anyone. I want to go to our room and hide. If you had not stepped in, he would still be abusing me now. I hate him! How can I visit your patients now? They will laugh at me and say I am not fit to be in their presence!’

‘They will not,’ said Bartholomew firmly. He took a phial from his bag that contained medicine for Isnard. It had to be delivered daily, because the bargeman had already tried to swallow a month’s worth in the mistaken belief that a larger dose would speed his recovery. ‘Take this to Isnard and ensure he takes it. Then check his pulse and ask him how he feels. If you conduct his daily examination, then I will not need to visit him today.’

Quenhyth’s eyes shone with sudden pride. ‘You trust me to see him? Alone?’

‘You have watched me for a week now, and you know what to do. Hurry. He will be waiting.’

‘Thank you,’ said Quenhyth, scrubbing his wet face with his sleeve. He gave a venomous glower in Rougham’s direction. ‘I look forward to the day when I qualify. Then we shall see who knows more about Galen and blackcurrants!’

Bartholomew returned to Michaelhouse, where he spent the rest of the morning and much of the afternoon discussing Euclid’s Elementa with a class that was not nearly as enthusiastic about geometry as its teacher. Redmeadow made a nuisance of himself by insisting that God could make exceptions to any universal laws of physics, and then demanded to know whether the Holy Trinity added up to 180 degrees, like one of Euclid’s triangles. Bartholomew became exasperated by the interruptions, and longed to order him to leave God out of the debate. But Father William was listening, and he knew what would happen if the fanatical Franciscan heard him make such a remark.

Bartholomew left the hall feeling drained, and walked to the fallen apple tree in the orchard, thinking that a few moments with Bacon’s De erroribus medicorum might restore his equilibrium. However, when he arrived, the gate was open, and he saw through the trees that Wynewyk was already there, also seeking some peace after three hours of teaching in a hall crammed with noisy, querulous undergraduates. Since he did not want to intrude on another’s solitude, Bartholomew walked farther into the orchard and found a sheltered spot among some bare-twigged plum trees.

He had not been reading for long when he heard the gate rattle. Assuming Wynewyk was leaving, and not comfortable under the plum tree anyway, Bartholomew decided to reclaim the apple trunk. He closed his book and strolled through the orchard, relishing the scent of early blossoms and the hum of a bee as it sailed haphazardly towards the hives at the bottom of the garden.

However, Wynewyk was not leaving; he was answering a knock at the small gate that opened on to St Michael’s Lane. Bartholomew watched him remove the stout bar that secured it, then take a key from his scrip to deal with the lock. He had been on the verge of calling to him, but, without knowing why, he hesitated. Instead of striding forward, he slipped behind a flourishing gooseberry bush and peered through its bright new leaves. Wynewyk opened the door and ushered someone inside, looking surreptitiously up and down the lane before closing it again. For some reason, he did not want anyone to know that Paxtone of King’s Hall was visiting him.

‘Well?’ he asked eagerly. ‘Do you have it?’

‘Not yet,’ replied Paxtone. ‘It is proving more difficult than I imagined, because they keep changing their minds. We may have to abandon it altogether.’

‘No!’ groaned Wynewyk. ‘Not after all our planning!’

‘Matt saw us today, you know,’ said Paxtone worriedly. ‘He looked right at us – and he will be even more suspicious if he catches us together again. We must be more careful.’

‘And whose fault was that?’ objected Wynewyk. ‘We could have brazened it out if you had not panicked and fled like a guilty criminal.’

Paxtone sighed. ‘I wish we had never started this. I am not good at subterfuge and secrecy.’ An expression of alarm suddenly crossed his homely features. ‘I hope he does not mention any of this to Brother Michael! I do not want him after me!’

Wynewyk glared at him. ‘Michael is too busy to bother with us. Besides, I did not put myself through all this inconvenience to give up now. We will persist.’

‘Very well,’ said Paxtone unhappily. ‘But it will not be easy. Rougham foils me at every turn, and is making a damned nuisance of himself. I may be forced to take some radical steps.’

‘Well, be careful,’ said Wynewyk. ‘If the merest whisper of this gets out, all our labours will have been for nothing. I do not want Rougham to spoil our fun.’

‘Do not worry about him,’ said Paxtone meaningfully. ‘But I cannot stay here – I am expected at Valence Marie. Be sure to close this gate properly after I leave. We do not want a small thing like an improperly secured door to give away our secret.’

Wynewyk ushered the physician into the lane, then closed the gate and barred it, before walking back to the apple tree. He collected the tome he had been reading, and tucked it under his arm. As he walked away, Bartholomew saw a severed chain dangling behind him, indicating it was a library book – and one that had been forcibly removed from its moorings, too. When he had gone, Bartholomew stared at the apple tree unhappily, wondering what wrongdoings the ancient bark had just witnessed.

Bartholomew was bothered by what he had seen in the orchard, but Michael was dismissive when he was told what had happened, and pointed out that there might be any number of innocent explanations. Bartholomew tried not to think about it, although a disagreeable nag at the back of his mind kept reminding him that there was unexplained business of a potentially sinister nature involving two people he liked. It was not a pleasant sensation.

‘It is time you and I visited the fabled Hand of Valence Marie, Matt,’ said Michael. There was still an hour before the evening meal. ‘I saw a large number of people lining up to be admitted to its presence earlier today, and I want to see it for myself.’

‘Perhaps we can steal it while William’s back is turned, and throw it in the river,’ suggested Bartholomew petulantly. ‘That would put an end to this nonsense.’

‘It might put an end to us, too,’ said Michael, beginning to walk up St Michael’s Lane. ‘I do not want to be summarily hanged by a mob for depriving the town of its sacred relic. You must try to control your thieving impulses for now – although I may make use of them later, when we will not be the obvious culprits.’

‘Your grandmother would be better than me,’ said Bartholomew, suspecting that the old lady would think nothing of outwitting the likes of Father William and making off with the University’s treasure with no one any the wiser.

‘True, but I do not want to ask her,’ said Michael. ‘She will think me a fool, unable to steal relics in his own town. I do not want her telling the King that her grandson is lacking in the requisite skills.’

‘Requisite for what?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to imagine which career opportunities in the King’s service might list thievery as an essential qualification.

‘This and that,’ replied Michael vaguely. ‘But you see my point, Matt. No man wants his grandmother to see him as an inadequate burglar.’

‘Heaven forbid,’ said Bartholomew. He saw a familiar figure walking slowly along the High Street, reaching out a dirty hand to stop all who passed and asking everyone the same question. Most simply shook their heads and went about their business; others were less happy about being waylaid by such a filthy creature. Bess grabbed Bartholomew’s arm with fingers that were long, bony and surprisingly strong.

‘Have you seen my man?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Have you eaten today? Do you still have money to buy food and a bed for the night?’

She ignored him, and moved on to Michael. ‘Have you seen my man?’

‘What does he look like?’ asked Michael. ‘Tall, short, fat, thin?’

‘He is gone,’ she whispered. ‘And I am looking for him.’

‘Do you know the Mortimer family?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether Constantine had told the truth when he had said Bess was no relation of the dead Katherine.

‘Do they know where he is?’ she asked.

Her voice was flat, and Bartholomew thought she was probably too addled to recognise her man, even if she did manage to locate him. Without waiting for his reply, she headed for Deynman and Redmeadow, who were out for a stroll before the evening meal. She put her question, and Bartholomew listened to Deynman explain that he knew her from when she had discovered Bosel’s body. She waited until he had finished speaking, then went to talk to someone else.

‘She does not remember Bosel,’ said Michael, as Deynman joined them, hurt that his kindness should have been so quickly forgotten. ‘Why did you ask whether she knows the Mortimers, Matt? Do you think one of them is the fellow she hunts so ardently?’

‘I asked only because of her resemblance to Katherine,’ said Bartholomew.

‘It is an uncanny likeness,’ agreed Michael. ‘A few days ago, I asked you to examine Bess and tell me whether she might be feigning madness to disguise her real identity as a killer. Did you do it?’

‘I have had several conversations with her, Brother, but I can tell you no more now than when I first met her – except that she has been here for a month or so, and that she came from London. Her insanity seems real to me, but I would not stake my life on it. I am not good with ailments of the mind, and find it hard to distinguish genuine cases from false ones.’

They watched Bess accost Bernarde the miller, who shoved a coin into her hand without breaking stride. She stared at it blankly, then dropped it in the mud of the street. Next, she seized Clippesby of Michaelhouse. The Dominican listened carefully, then recommended she ask the town’s cats about her husband’s whereabouts, on the grounds that they were more knowledgeable about such matters than people.

‘I cannot listen,’ said Redmeadow, starting to walk away with Deynman in tow. ‘Witnessing a conversation between mad Master Clippesby and addled Bess is more than anyone should be asked to do. We are off to see the Hand of Valence Marie. Father William has promised us a private viewing.’

‘Good,’ said Michael, catching up with them. ‘He can show it to us at the same time.’

‘But then it will not be private,’ objected Deynman.

‘You will not notice us,’ promised Michael, patting the student’s arm. ‘We will be quiet. But why are you so keen to see the thing? Surely you know it is not genuine?’

‘Actually, I think it is,’ said Deynman seriously. ‘Father William says that more than two hundred people have been to see it, and we all know that two hundred people cannot be wrong.’

Michael gave him a sidelong glance to indicate that he had no such faith in the populace’s ability to determine such matters. He led the way to St Mary the Great, where a line of about twenty folk were waiting. The relic appealed to the wealthy as well as the poor, which made for a curious mixture of supplicants. Cheney the spicer was next to grizzled Sergeant Orwelle, while Yolande de Blaston and the wealthy Isobel de Lavenham stood side by side.

‘We were here first,’ called Cheney, as Michael pushed past them to enter the church. ‘You must wait your turn. It is only fair.’

‘He is right,’ agreed Isobel, pouting her voluptuous red lips. ‘You must stand here, next to me.’

‘I am not a penitent,’ replied Michael haughtily. ‘I have business with the Chancellor.’

‘Very well, then,’ said Yolande coolly. ‘But I would not like to think you were pushing in.’

‘The Hand of Valence Marie is for everyone,’ said Orwelle. ‘We all have important reasons for being here. I have come to ask for help with Bosel’s murder, since I am getting nowhere on my own – and it has been a week now. I need some divine assistance, or the Sheriff will think me incompetent.’

Michael smiled sweetly and entered the airy interior of the church with Deynman, Redmeadow and Bartholomew behind, all uncomfortable with Michael’s lies. Without the slightest hesitation, Michael made straight for the spiral staircase that led to the tower, and climbed to the first floor, where Tynkell was busily filing documents on nail-spiked pieces of wood.

‘I am finding it difficult to work with folk clattering up and down the stairs all day long,’ he grumbled as Michael entered. Bartholomew and the students hovered on the stairs outside, loath to be in a room containing the odorous Chancellor, especially a small one in which the windows did not open. ‘I am beginning to wish you had never created the position of Keeper of the University Chest for William. The Hand lay forgotten and buried until he came along and resurrected the thing.’

‘I know,’ said Michael grimly. ‘You should have removed it from the Chest before he took charge. But the deed is done now, and we shall have to live with your blunder.’

‘How are you, sir?’ asked Deynman, looking directly at the Chancellor’s stomach before the man could object to Michael’s brazen blame-shifting. ‘The life inside you, I mean?’

Bartholomew’s heart sank when he realised Deynman was about to try to prove Tynkell was a pregnant hermaphrodite. While Redmeadow sniggered softly, the physician flailed around for ways to stop him before the situation became embarrassing. But nothing came to mind.

Tynkell regarded the student uneasily. ‘The life inside me?’

‘You know,’ said Deynman earnestly.

Tynkell cleared his throat, then shot a glance at Bartholomew to indicate he would like some help. ‘Well enough under the circumstances,’ he replied carefully, when the physician did nothing to oblige.

‘Good,’ said Deynman brightly, giving Bartholomew a hard nudge, to ensure his teacher had noticed that the Chancellor did not deny the charge. ‘Do feel free to call on Doctor Bartholomew, should you require a physic for your condition. Or on me, of course.’

‘Right,’ said Tynkell, becoming flustered and busying himself with his parchments.

‘I know these things can be awkward for men … for people like you,’ said Deynman, pressing his point relentlessly. ‘But I can be very discreet, and I am shocked by very little these days.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ replied Tynkell. He swallowed hard, uncomfortable with an interview loaded with double meanings he did not understand. ‘Have you come to see the Hand?’

‘I shall say a prayer for you,’ said Deynman generously. ‘People in your condition need them.’

Bartholomew bundled his student up the stairs with Redmeadow giggling uncontrollably behind him, but then wondered whether he should have let the conversation run its course. If Deynman was sent down for claiming the Chancellor was the wrong sex, then it would solve one problem. Hopefully, Deynman’s father would not allow him to practise medicine if he ended his academic career in disgrace, and hundreds of prospective patients would be spared. Bartholomew wished he had not been so hasty to defend Tynkell’s sensibilities.

William was just ushering Bernarde the miller out, when Bartholomew, the students and Michael arrived at the University Chest on the floor above the Chancellor. Bernarde enquired after the investigation into the mill deaths, but did not seem surprised when the monk informed him there was nothing new to report.

‘There are folk downstairs who have been waiting for hours,’ said William, when Bernarde had gone. ‘It would not be fair to allow my own colleagues to petition the Hand before them. Take your place in the queue.’

‘Bernarde has not been waiting for hours,’ Michael pointed out. ‘I saw him not many moments ago, hurrying along the High Street and shoving coins at Mad Bess when she tried to waylay him.’

‘He is different,’ replied William, unperturbed that he had been caught out in an inconsistency. ‘He made a substantial donation for the privilege – something I am sure you do not intend to do.’

‘How much do you usually charge?’ asked Bartholomew curiously, thinking that Yolande would be unlikely to afford the sort of payment Bernarde – or Isobel, Cheney or even Orwelle – might make.

William raised his shoulders. ‘It depends on the individual. They give what they can – or what their consciences dictate they should. Some folk pay nothing at all, because they are too poor, while others pay in gold. It is between them and God.’

‘And you,’ said Bartholomew, indicating a box on the windowsill that was full to overflowing.

‘I am merely the collector,’ said William loftily. ‘And do not look so disapproving, Matthew. Some of this will be used to pay you, when you are next required as Corpse Examiner. The University is doing rather nicely from the revenues raised by the Hand.’

‘How nicely?’ asked Michael suspiciously.

William looked smug. ‘Well, just yesterday I had three pennies from Rougham, a groat from Lavenham the apothecary, and a skin of wine from Warde of Valence Marie. And you enjoyed some of that wine yourself last night, Brother, so do not tell me I should not have accepted it.’

‘But you should not,’ exclaimed Michael. ‘God’s teeth, man! Do you not see how dangerous this might become? You cannot accept bribes and bring them to Michaelhouse. This must stop!’

‘But I have secured six pounds over the last few weeks!’ cried William, horrified that his foray into commerce might be about to meet an abrupt end. ‘And every penny has gone into the University Chest – I keep a record, if you want to see it. And what shall I say to the folk who come? That the University has decided no one is allowed access? Do you not see that would be equally dangerous?’

‘He has a point,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘Now this has started, it may be difficult to stop.’

‘Damn it, William,’ muttered Michael. ‘You have unleashed a monster.’

‘It was a monster you should have destroyed a long time ago,’ said Bartholomew, thinking the monk should bear some responsibility for the situation. It had been his decision to keep the Hand, and he had promoted William to Keeper of the University Chest, knowing the Hand was in it. It did not take a genius to predict what William was sure to do with it.

‘You would not believe the things I have heard folk tell the Hand,’ said William, hoping to convince Michael that the relic had its uses. ‘Deschalers came, before he died. He was one of the first merchants to visit.’

‘What did he say?’ asked Bartholomew, grateful that William had added the caveat ‘before he died’. He did not like to imagine the Hand petitioned by the dead, as well as the living.

‘He prayed for forgiveness,’ said William. ‘I am bound by the seal of confession, so cannot give you too many details. But he prayed for Bottisham, and he asked for a cure for his own ailment. He told the Hand it was his last hope, and said he hoped his plan would work.’

‘I am glad you did not reveal too many details,’ muttered Bartholomew; William had been rather free with what had, after all, been a genuine confession and should have been kept confidential.

‘Did he pray for Bottisham in the kind of way that indicated his victim would soon die?’ asked Michael keenly, constrained by no such moral dilemmas. ‘And exactly what was this plan?’

‘He prayed for lots of people, but for Bottisham in particular. I do not recall him saying he planned murder obviously, or I would have stopped him. But he did not say he was not.’ William pursed his lips, as though Deschalers not mentioning a crime was as damning as an admission.

‘And the plan?’ asked Michael.

The friar shrugged. ‘I am sorry, Brother. I did not hear that bit. He spoke too softly.’

‘Let us see this Hand, William,’ said Michael wearily. ‘And then we will leave you in peace.’

‘It is in its reliquary,’ said William, indicating a hand some box that stood on the table in the centre of the room. It was a beautiful thing, covered in precious stones and delicately carved.

‘That box contains a piece of the True Cross,’ cried Michael, shocked. ‘Have you shoved Peterkin Starre’s severed limb on top of what is a genuine relic?’

‘The box was empty when I did an inventory of the University Chest’s contents,’ said William, unperturbed by Michael’s horror. ‘Since it has not been opened in years, I am inclined to believe that the True Cross was never there in the first place – or it was stolen so long ago that the thief is long since burning in Hell. It seemed a shame to have a glorious reliquary with no relic, so I put the Hand in it instead. I could show you the Hand, but I usually keep it locked away. It does not do to allow the peasantry to become too familiar with sacred objects. It might send them insane.’

‘I am not a peasant,’ said Michael indignantly. ‘Nor will I start baying at the moon because I set eyes on a few dead fingers.’

William cast him the kind of glance that indicated he was not so sure, but bent over the box and, with great reverence, removed a satin parcel that held the yellow-white bones. They were exactly as Bartholomew remembered, with sinews cleverly left to hold the hand together – except for one place where they had broken and were mended with a cunningly concealed pin. The bones were huge, and belonged, without question, to the simpleton whose gigantic corpse had provided a convenient source of material for men who had thought Cambridge needed a relic of its own. The little blue-green ring it wore was still there, too – a cheap thing, but pretty enough.

‘There!’ breathed Michael. ‘The bones that caused us so much trouble when wicked men used them for their own vile and selfish purposes. They look just as they did two years ago, when they brought about so much unhappiness and tragedy.’

‘They are causing us problems now, too,’ said Bartholomew, somewhat accusingly. ‘The University should not be taking money from folk to visit them. It is not right.’

‘If you stop now, you will learn the true meaning of trouble,’ warned William. ‘People like the Hand. They believe it has the power to answer their prayers, and will not take kindly to you saying they can no longer use it. They would storm the church and snatch it away.’

‘You are probably right,’ said Michael. ‘We shall have to devise another way to put an end to this madness. But I have seen enough. It is almost time for our evening meal.’

‘If you are hungry, then do not go to Michaelhouse,’ advised Redmeadow. ‘We are so short of funds that Agatha is serving stale bread and pea pottage tonight. We are going to visit Deynman’s brother at Maud’s Hostel, where there will be roasted goose.’

‘And I am dining at the Franciscan Friary,’ said William. ‘A man who has been working hard all day deserves more than mouldy bread and green paste. I intend to partake of fish soup and turnips.’

‘I want meat,’ said Michael, who did not feel he had eaten unless half a sheep was involved. He glanced down at the table. ‘But nothing with bones in it.’

‘I shall say a prayer for Chancellor Tynkell, and then I shall be finished here,’ said Deynman, kneeling down. He looked up at William. ‘He is a herbivore, you know.’

William’s eyebrows went up, and he looked thoughtful. ‘Perhaps that explains his peculiar aroma. A man who eats grass must surely smell differently from the rest of us.’

It was Deynman’s turn to look bemused, but he put his hands together, closed his eyes and the conversation was mercifully at an end. William began to lock the Hand away while the two students prayed, and Bartholomew and Michael took the opportunity to leave.

‘Lord!’ said Michael, beginning to laugh as they walked into the evening sunlight. ‘Deynman is a kindly boy, but he has the sense of a gnat! Tynkell is a herbivore indeed! Is that why he was asking after his health earlier? He believes the Chancellor has the digestive system of a cow?’

‘He thinks Tynkell is a hermaphrodite, but could not remember the correct word. I will spare you the contorted logic he went through to reach this momentous conclusion.’

‘His logic may be contorted,’ said Michael, his laughter dissipating. ‘But his conclusions are not. Tynkell is indeed a hermaphrodite, although I would rather keep this between ourselves. I do not want men like William claiming that a woman cannot hold the post of Chancellor. Tynkell is malleable, and does what I ask. I do not want him expelled, just because of an accident of birth.’

Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘I do not believe you.’

‘Have you not noticed that he never removes his clothes?’ asked Michael. ‘Or wondered why he refuses to let anyone see his body? Even you have not seen it, and you were his physician. Also, you must be aware that he does not bathe. That is because he cannot risk anyone intruding and viewing what he has sought to hide all these years.’

‘No!’ said Bartholomew in disbelief. ‘You cannot be right!’

Michael shrugged. ‘It is your prerogative to be sceptical. But look more closely at his shape when you next have the opportunity. You will notice swellings in the chest. And in the latrines–’

‘But the condition is so rare,’ interrupted Bartholomew, trying to recall what he had learned about a physiology he never thought he would see. ‘I read about it, but I have never seen it manifest itself.’

‘I imagine folk so afflicted do not make themselves available for general viewing. Most hide it, as Tynkell has done. It is safer, considering we live in a world populated by the intolerant and fanatical.’

‘So Deynman’s diagnosis was right?’ Bartholomew narrowed his eyes. ‘You are jesting with me!’

‘Yes,’ said Michael, convulsing with laughter.

‘We are left with a mystery, Matt,’ said Michael the next morning, as he and Bartholomew walked to St Michael’s Church. Father William, ahead of them in the line of scholars that filed along the lane, turned to mutter about them setting a poor example to students by talking in the procession.

It was a pretty day, with a pale blue sky flecked by wispy clouds. The scent of spring was in the air, and bluebells and tiny white violets lined the grassy banks along the edge of the alley. Scruffy children were already gathering them to sell in the streets and at church doors. If they were lucky, they might earn enough to exchange for bread or an onion.

Despite the early hour, the town was busy. Traders gathered in the Market Square to sell their wares, and beggars were out in force, displaying sores and wounds, and raising piteous voices in an appeal for spare coins. Many gathered around the High Street churches, hoping to catch scholars in a pious frame of mind as they left their morning prayers.

‘We still have no idea whether Deschalers killed Bottisham, then committed suicide, or the other way around,’ Michael went on. ‘Nor do we know why. We have established that Deschalers and Bottisham knew each other, and that they had quarrelled in the past. Warde told you Bottisham’s antagonism had long since evaporated, but who knows whether that was really true? And, regarding the ancient dispute about the field, it is difficult to decide which of the two men was in the right.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. ‘Deschalers should not have been angry with Bottisham because he declined to break the law. I would say Bottisham was in the right.’

‘And I would say Deschalers was. If Bottisham was squeamish about what needed to be done for his client, then he should not have agreed to represent him in the first place. But it does not matter what we think. What is important is what they thought. By all reports Deschalers was barely civil to Bottisham, so what led them to meet each other in such a curious place the night they died?’

‘They must have agreed to go there,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The King’s Mill is not somewhere you would happen upon by accident.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael, ignoring William’s black scowl.

‘I might have suggested that Deschalers visited the mill to inspect the property he had invested in, and Bottisham spotted lights in a building usually locked at that time of night and went to investigate. But that is not possible: no one passes the mill by chance, because it is on a path that leads nowhere.’

‘True. Then what about the possibility that one caught the other committing suicide, and ended up dead when he tried to stop him?’ Michael shook his head and answered his own question. ‘No. Neither was the kind to kill himself.’

‘We know Deschalers intended to go to the mill, because he had the key with him,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘But why he was there is not really the question we need answered: we need to know why Bottisham was there with him.’

‘We must come up with a solution soon, or people are going to start accusing the University of covering up a murder. It is one thing when someone lowly is killed by a scholar, but there will be a furious outcry about Bottisham killing a rich man like Deschalers.’

‘It may have happened the other way around. In fact, if I were to wager on the outcome, that would be my choice: Deschalers was ruthless and inclined to be vicious, whereas Bottisham was more likely to wound with his tongue.’

‘We will never prove either theory with the information we have now. I think–’

‘If you must persist with this unseemly chattering, then leave the procession,’ boomed William, finally driven to anger. Several students smirked at the sound of discord among the Fellows. ‘I know you have murders to solve, but there is a time and a place for everything, and your investigations do not belong here.’

‘He is jealous,’ whispered Michael to Bartholomew, as William moved on. ‘Now he is no longer my Junior Proctor, he feels left out when I am on a case.’

‘Who will replace him? Do you have someone in mind?’

‘I do not want a replacement.’

Bartholomew looked at him sharply. ‘You did not use the Junior Proctor’s honorarium to pay for a Corpse Examiner, did you? I am effectively your subordinate, but with a different title?’

‘Well, why not?’ asked Michael, not bothering to deny that he had manipulated the situation. ‘I know where I am with you. And better the devil …’

‘And you certainly should not discuss the Devil while you process to mass!’ screeched William. ‘I am Keeper of the University Chest, and I will not stand by and see College rules shamelessly flaunted by Fellows who should know better.’

‘And I am Senior Proctor, and outrank you,’ snapped Michael.

‘I am an important man,’ argued William, although his voice dropped to a more reasonable level. He knew Michael was right. ‘Particularly now the Hand of Valence Marie is in my care.’

Michael regarded him with cool, green eyes. ‘And you must see how badly that will end. You have drawn attention to the fact that the University holds a relic that was discovered in the town’s ditches. Note I say town’s ditches, Father. It is only a matter of time before the burgesses claim we have taken something that is rightfully theirs.’

‘I am doing what I think is ethical,’ declared William hotly. ‘The Chest is in my care, and I shall decide how to deal with its contents. I will not have you telling me what I can and cannot do.’

Michael continued to glare. ‘Actually, you have no choice. I created the post of Keeper, and I can just as easily dispense with it. If you want to stay in power, then you will do as I say. You must devise a way to stop people coming to view the Hand without it resulting in ill feelings – or worse.’

‘But I–’ objected William.

Michael overrode him. ‘This is not something for debate. The Hand is dangerous, so you must ensure it is quietly forgotten. You have a week to devise a plan – or you will be Keeper no more.’

‘Do not talk while we are processing to the sacred mass,’ snapped William, unable to think of anything else to say. ‘It creates a bad impression on the students.’

‘Unless he puts an end to his little enterprise, creating bad impressions will be the least of our worries,’ muttered Michael behind the friar’s stiff, unbending back as they entered the church.

When the mass was over, Bartholomew went with his students to see Isnard. Unfortunately, the bargeman had appended his new wooden leg to the stump that was still healing, apparently anticipating that once he had made one or two trial circuits around his house, he would resume his previous life as though nothing had happened. He had not expected the pain of a reopened wound, nor had he known that walking with a false limb required more practise than twice around the hearth.

‘I do not understand,’ he cried when he saw Bartholomew. ‘The bleeding had stopped, and you said it was better. I thought I would be back on my feet – my foot – in a few days.’

‘I told you it would take longer,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘You cannot bind a wooden leg to a raw wound and expect it not to chafe.’

‘What do you two want?’ demanded Isnard, as Quenhyth and Redmeadow sidled into the chamber with Deynman. ‘You are not giving me another of them clysters. It did not ease my headache as you promised, and I do not like other men shoving pipes in my bowels. Well, who does?’

‘Chancellor Tynkell enjoys–’ began Deynman brightly.

Bartholomew cut him off, regarding the other two students uneasily. ‘What did you do?’

‘Isnard was unwell when we came to deliver his medicine last night.’ Redmeadow’s tone was defensive. ‘So we persuaded him that a clyster would help. Quenhyth said–’

‘How many times must we go over this?’ asked Bartholomew quietly, fighting to control his anger. ‘You must not prescribe medicines or treatments without my permission.’

‘But we did have your permission,’ objected Quenhyth, while Redmeadow hung his head. ‘You said yesterday – after that nasty business with Rougham – that I was to examine him. I was acting on your orders.’

‘But I did not tell you to start giving clysters,’ said Bartholomew, exasperated. ‘Bowels are delicate, and you need to be taught how to insert clyster pipes, so you do not rip them. You can cause a lot of harm if you do it badly.’

‘It was not pleasant,’ agreed Isnard. ‘And I have never seen so much lard smothered on an implement in my life. I am sure half of it is still inside me.’

‘We will talk about this later,’ said Bartholomew, swallowing his ire and supposing that lard in the quantities Isnard described might have protected the unsuspecting bargeman to some extent. Perhaps his instructions had led Quenhyth to assume a freer hand than he had intended, but all the students knew the rules about what could and could not be done to patients unsupervised. There were no excuses for what they had done.

‘You should not have removed the limb in the first place,’ said Isnard to Bartholomew, rubbing the stump resentfully. ‘It might have healed.’

‘It would not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You saw for yourself that it was smashed beyond repair. If we had left it, then you would be dead by now.’

‘Perhaps that would have been a blessing,’ said Isnard quietly. ‘How can I work if I cannot walk? Now Bottisham is dead I am running out of funds. I cannot stay here for ever, begging from friends.’

‘I could ask Thomas Mortimer to give you some money,’ offered Deynman. ‘After all, it was his carelessness that brought you to this. He should be the one to support you.’

Isnard grimaced. ‘I have already sent a message to Mortimer demanding funds, and he refused to acknowledge me. Redmeadow made his best writing, too.’

‘I used large letters that are easy to decipher,’ said Redmeadow proudly. ‘Of course, Edward could have read it to his uncle, but I do not know how well they like each other these days.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Edward and Thomas work together at the mill, so they cannot dislike each other too much.’

‘I heard them arguing when I went to deliver Isnard’s note,’ said Redmeadow. ‘Edward called his uncle a drunken sot, not fit to have the care of a whipping top, let alone a mill. And Thomas called his nephew a cold-hearted killer, and said he would rot in Hell.’

‘It is common knowledge that the Mortimer clan is fragmenting,’ said Quenhyth, not to be outdone in gossip. ‘And it is all Edward’s doing. They no longer cleave together like treacle and feathers.’

‘After Edward had finished yelling at his uncle, everyone else joined in,’ continued Redmeadow. ‘Cousins, uncles, aunts and brothers – all taking sides and squabbling. Constantine sat in the middle with his head in his hands, and said he wished he had never bribed the King’s officials. Edward took his knife from its scabbard and looked at him. I saw it, quite clearly, through the window.’

‘Edward threatened his father with a dagger?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘He removed the weapon and fingered it, eyeing his father with this strange expression. It was not brazenly threatening, but it was a warning nonetheless. Constantine went white and left shortly afterwards. I caught him on his way out, and asked him to go back and deliver Isnard’s message. He obliged – he feels bad about you, Isnard, even if his brother does not – and I watched him pass it to Thomas. Thomas read it, but then he threw it away.’

‘You see?’ said Isnard, disgusted. ‘He did not even bother to reply.’

‘You live dangerously,’ said Bartholomew to Redmeadow, thinking the student should have knocked on the door with his missive, as most folk would have done. ‘What would have happened if the Mortimers had caught you spying on them through their windows?’

‘They would have slaughtered him,’ said Quenhyth salaciously. ‘Most folk believe the Mortimers killed Bosel the beggar, and they would have killed Redmeadow, too.’

‘Quite,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So, I want you two to stay away from them from now on. You, too, Isnard. I had fourpence for examining a Peterhouse student who died from eating bad fish yesterday. You can have half.’ He put the coins into Isnard’s callused hand. ‘That should keep you in bread for a day or two, and when it is gone we shall think of something else.’

Isnard’s eyes filled with grateful tears. ‘There is something else you can do for me, too. The fleas in my clothes are driving me to distraction, and I cannot rid myself of them lying here. You gave Una the whore a potion for her lice last year. Can I have something, too? They will kill me sooner than any rubbed stump!’

Since Isnard’s clumsy attempts to attach his new leg had chafed the wound, Bartholomew decided he had better visit the apothecary, to purchase the ingredients he would need to make a healing poultice – along with the remedy for fleas. The students looked pleased: they were always willing to visit Isobel and be on the receiving end of her alluring glances. They set off, aiming for Milne Street, where Lavenham’s shop was located. At the door they met Paxtone. The King’s Hall physician waved a phial at Bartholomew, and said he was going to conduct experiments on the efficacy of pear juice on a spotty complexion. He promised to share the results, since there were many adolescents in the Colleges and hostels who were in need of such a remedy. As he left he patted Quenhyth’s shoulder.

‘Do not let Rougham distress you with his insults.’ He winked conspiratorially. ‘No one should take any notice of a man who does not know his blackberries from his blackcurrants.’

Quenhyth grinned at him, and Bartholomew opened the door to enter Lavenham’s house. It was a sturdy affair with thick, oaken window shutters and an immense door that protected the dangerous and valuable substances stored inside. It had two rooms on the ground floor – the shop, which was open to customers, and the apprentices’ working area, which was not – and a larger chamber above that served as hall and sleeping quarters for the Lavenhams and their household.

The shop had a stone floor that could be easily cleaned. There was a bench along one wall, where clients waited for their orders to be assembled, while the other walls were filled with shelves holding bottles, boxes and casks. A long counter in the middle of the room served as a workbench for making up innocuous concoctions; stronger ones were mixed in the privacy (and safety) of the apprentices’ area next door. Bartholomew loved the building’s smell, which was rich with the scent of the herbs drying in the rafters, exotic powders known to have therapeutic values, and the honey and sugar used to make syrups.

Isobel was sitting behind the counter sewing, while her husband haggled with Robert Thorpe, the Master of Valence Marie. Thorpe was a tall, slender man with a neat cap of silver hair. He looked tired, and Bartholomew wondered whether he lost sleep worrying about his son, or whether Warde’s irritating cough still kept his colleagues from their rest.

‘Why, hello,’ said Isobel, standing to greet Bartholomew. She leaned across the counter in a way that was sure to reveal that her kirtle was unusually low cut. He heard a strangled gasp from Redmeadow, and was aware of the three students jostling for space behind him. Isobel rewarded them with one of her sultry looks, all fluttering lashes and smouldering eyes. She indicated the garment she had been making, and turned her gaze on Bartholomew. ‘I have been sewing a tunic for Chancellor Tynkell and it is almost finished. Perhaps you could ask him to collect it, when you see him.’

‘I seldom meet him,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But one of my students–’

‘I will take a message,’ said Deynman, pushing forward, eager to offer his assistance.

‘No, me,’ said Redmeadow. Quenhyth looked as though he would dearly like to compete, too, but he preferred to retain a dignified aloofness in front of Isobel. He stood quietly as his classmates vied for her attention.

‘You can both go,’ said Isobel, favouring them with a wink that promised all sorts of favours when they returned. They darted from the shop to do her bidding, while Bartholomew glanced uneasily at her husband, hoping he had not noticed. He did not want it said that Michaelhouse students tried to ravish the wives of wealthy merchants, regardless of who had been seducing whom. But Lavenham’s attention was on his customer, and Isobel was free to do as she pleased.

‘It is an odd shape,’ he said, nodding to the linen item Isobel shook out to fold.

‘So is Tynkell,’ she replied. ‘But you probably have not noticed it under his academic robes. He says it is difficult to find clothes he likes, and regards me as something of a treasure, because I do not mind how he wants his undergarments sewn.’

‘Have you seen him without them on?’ Bartholomew asked, medical curiosity making him forget that it was an inappropriate question to ask a lady while her husband was in the room.

Even Isobel seemed taken aback by his candour. ‘I have not!’ she said, half shocked and half amused. ‘He is a very private man, and disapproves of physical flaunting. That is what he told me. I do not know of anyone who has seen him dishabille.’

As she leaned across the counter, her bosom straining at its confines, Bartholomew knew exactly why the Chancellor had raised such a subject. Of all members of the University he was the one who could least afford to be seen breaking the rules regarding women, and the physician supposed Tynkell had been warning Isobel to keep her cleavage to herself. He wondered whether Tynkell’s penchant for peculiarly moulded undergarments was evidence of the condition Deynman had ascribed to him, but knew it was equally likely that he was just a man who liked his clothes made in a certain way. Bartholomew empathised, since he preferred unfashionably loose leggings to the modern trend for tight hose.

‘I need some Pastilli Adronis,’ he said, changing the subject before they embarrassed each other further. ‘I ordered it last week.’

‘Here,’ said Isobel, reaching for a package on a high shelf, careful to reveal a goodly portion of leg as she did so. ‘It has been ready since yesterday, and I was beginning to think you did not want it.’ She waggled her hips to indicate that he should have fetched it sooner.

‘And resin of henbane,’ added Bartholomew, tearing his eyes away. ‘For Isnard’s fleas.’

‘An excellent solution,’ said Isobel, disappearing into the back room. There was a jangle of keys and the sound of a cupboard being opened and closed. ‘Fleas can drive men mad when they are confined to their beds. But henbane is a dangerous substance – especially ours, which is highly concentrated. You must tell him not to ingest it.’

‘I will make a decoction for soaking his clothes. It will smell too bad for him to drink.’

‘Isnard will drink anything,’ said Isobel, truthfully enough. Bartholomew realised he might have to add something even more rankly aromatic to prevent the bargeman from testing whether the flea-killer had pleasant intoxicating effects.

‘Doctor Bartholomew,’ called Lavenham, spotting him and taking the trouble to court a man who, as a physician, was obliged to do a good deal of business with him. ‘I hope you are well.’ He looked pleased with himself and Bartholomew supposed he had been practising his English, since it was the first grammatically correct sentence he had heard the man utter.

Master Thorpe glanced up from his examination of a milky-red solution in a small pottery phial. He held it out for the physician to inspect. ‘What do you think of this?’

‘Watyr of Snayels,’ said Bartholomew, reading the tiny letters on the label. ‘Nasty.’

‘Nasty, no!’ exclaimed Lavenham, affronted. His English took a downward turn as he began to defend himself. ‘He is purest quality, and he took my apprentice three day to made.’

‘What is it for?’ asked Bartholomew, aware that it was none of his affair. Water of Snails was an old-fashioned remedy that was seldom used, and he saw that Lavenham’s concoction had not been properly filtered through sand, as Galen recommended, because it was murky. He thought swallowing such a tincture would probably do little good, and might even cause some harm.

‘It is for Warde,’ replied Master Thorpe. ‘He cannot rid himself of his cough, and none of us have slept in days because of it.’ He regarded the phial doubtfully. ‘I do not know how I shall persuade him to drink this, though. I would not want snail juice washing around inside me.’

‘Rougham recommended it,’ said Isobel.

‘What do you think?’ asked Master Thorpe, still regarding the bottle with rank suspicion. ‘Should I buy it? Or shall we persist with the syrups instead? Warde does not mind taking those.’

‘Water of Snails has proven effective, if there is nothing else,’ said Bartholomew ambiguously.

‘But you would not swallow it yourself,’ surmised Master Thorpe, reading Bartholomew’s mind. He thrust the phial back into Lavenham’s unwilling hands. ‘Thank you, apothecary, but I think I will decline. What shall I have instead, Bartholomew?’

Bartholomew was uncomfortable; it was not good manners to recommend cures for other physicians’ patients. ‘You must ask Rougham. It is not for me to interfere.’

‘Rubbish!’ exclaimed Master Thorpe. ‘He is always recommending alternative therapies to your patients, so I do not see why you should not do the same for his. He told Father William – he is yours – to drink fig juice to purge his bowels the other day, when he complained of a sore head.’

‘Then try powdered angelica root,’ suggested Bartholomew, wondering whether William was foolish enough to believe that purged bowels would cure a headache. ‘Mix it with wine.’

‘That sounds like something he would accept,’ said Master Thorpe with satisfaction, as Isobel went to the back room to fetch some. ‘Thank you. I–’

What he was about to say was drowned by a low rumble, followed by a good deal of laughter from the apprentices. Isobel appeared with her hands on her hips and an angry expression.

‘That pile of firewood you insist on gathering has collapsed,’ she snapped to her husband. ‘How much longer will it be before you stack it inside the shed? It will be no good for burning if it rains.’

‘My apprentices too busy for woods,’ replied Lavenham. ‘It must await my intentions.’ He watched her flounce out again.

‘Had you heard news? I have been wrote by King himself. He give me a tusk.’

Bartholomew regarded him uncomprehendingly. ‘Ivory?’ he asked eventually, not sure what else to say, and feeling obliged to make some comment, since the apothecary was obviously expecting one. ‘From the sea elephants of the north?’

It was Lavenham’s turn to look blank. ‘I refer to a great tusk set for me by King. He want me to examine matter of Mortimer’s Mill.’ He stood taller, clearly proud of himself.

‘It is true,’ said Master Thorpe. ‘We heard this morning that the King has appointed four commissioners to examine the complaints about Mortimer diverting water from the King’s Mill.’

‘And I am first,’ said Lavenham grandly. ‘He want good and loyal Englishmen to do his work. He choose me, because he hear I am fine servant to His Royal Majesty.’

‘Warde is another, and Miller Bernarde is the third,’ added Master Thorpe.

‘But Bernarde is the one who made the complaint,’ said Bartholomew, startled. He looked at Lavenham. ‘And you are in the Millers’ Society. It is an odd choice for an unbiased decision.’

‘That is why it good I King’s commissioner,’ declared Lavenham. ‘I will see justice done right, by destroy Mortimer.’

‘See what I mean?’ said Bartholomew to Master Thorpe.

He nodded. ‘But Warde is a fair-minded man, and so, I hope, am I.’

‘You are the fourth commissioner?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking it was not a task he would have accepted for a kingdom. There were far too many ways to offend people and cause strife and, no matter what decision was made, it would make someone unhappy and resentful.

‘I would not have chosen to do it,’ confided Master Thorpe. ‘But I am indebted to the King for reinstating me as Master of Valence Marie after my spell in York, and I am not in a position to refuse. But Warde is a fair man, as I said. Hopefully we shall reach a compromise that satisfies all parties. We intend to discuss it together this afternoon.’

‘We soon have this mess resolve,’ boasted Lavenham. ‘We finish by dusk, and then we all go to King’s Head for celebration ales.’

‘We shall not,’ said Master Thorpe firmly, accepting a pot of angelica root and handing some coins to Isobel. ‘It is only a preliminary meeting, and we cannot hope to forge a solution so quickly. I anticipate we will be working on this for some time to come – hearing witnesses and the arguments of lawyers for both sides.’

‘We see,’ said Lavenham smugly.

The physician nodded his thanks to Lavenham, ignored the wink thrown in his direction by Isobel, and followed Master Thorpe outside. He was immediately aware of how the shuttered windows banished sounds, for it was noisy in the street. Carts clattered as their wooden wheels snapped across a section of the road that had recently been cobbled, and a cacophony of animal sounds emanated from the Market Square. A cow lowed, probably being led to Slaughterhouse Lane, and a group of pigs squealed in voices that were eerily human. People hollered back and forth, while a mangy yellow dog yapped at a group of boys who were pelting it with mud.

‘I am sorry my son is here,’ said Master Thorpe quietly, as they walked to the High Street with Quenhyth trailing behind them. Like Constantine Mortimer, the Master of Valence Marie had changed since his son’s trial. He had lost his arrogance, and seemed kinder and more humble. ‘I tried to persuade him to leave again, but he is no longer a boy, and he listens to nothing I say.’

‘I doubt he listens to anyone,’ said Bartholomew, sensing the man’s distress. ‘It is not your fault he turned bad.’

Thorpe swallowed hard. ‘I hear Brother Michael is investigating the odd case of Deschalers and Bottisham in the King’s Mill. My son is a … I am afraid …’

Bartholomew understood what he was trying to say. ‘There is no evidence that your son had anything to do with it,’ he said, but suspected he did not sound very convincing. ‘Bernarde the miller would have seen him running away, had he been responsible.’

Thorpe was not so easily convinced. ‘He is a cunning lad, Bartholomew, and fooling a miller would be no great challenge for him. He has killed before, and the murders of Deschalers and Bottisham have already set town and University against each other. Perhaps that is why he came back: to start a riot that will damage us all. He has always been spiteful, and his exile has made him worse.’

Bartholomew suspected that nothing he could say would allay Master Thorpe’s fears. They ran deep, and there might even be something in them. Bartholomew had always thought it an odd coincidence that two dreadful murders should have occurred just after Thorpe and Mortimer had reappeared. But could Bernarde’s testimony be overlooked? And would the two young men really be so stupid as to kill as soon as they had been granted their royal pardons? He did not know the answers, but he did know that such a solution would exonerate Bottisham from the accusations that were beginning to circulate around the town. It was therefore an appealing one.

Master Thorpe said no more, and he, Bartholomew and Quenhyth walked in silence until they reached St Mary the Great. A small knot of people knelt outside the tower, eyes raised devoutly towards the chamber where the University Chest and its dubious contents were housed.

‘I wish you had never found that Hand,’ Bartholomew said fervently to Thorpe. ‘Even though we proved it was not a real relic, there are still folk who insist on its authenticity.’

‘I explained that phenomenon to you years ago,’ said Master Thorpe, a little condescendingly. ‘It does not matter whether it is authentic or not; what matters is what people believe. And people believe in the Hand. But you should not condemn folk for visiting it. Where lies the harm in giving them hope for hopeless causes?’

‘Because it is not real,’ said Bartholomew, wondering how many times he would need to say it. ‘It is not the hand of a saint or a martyr. It is Peterkin Starre’s.’

Master Thorpe sighed. ‘You are still missing my point. Its authenticity does not matter! Do you really believe that the blood of Thomas à Becket can cure the blind? Or that St Etheldreda at Ely lies uncorrupted in her shrine? Of course not! We are men of science, who naturally question such claims. But others believe. And it is they, not the doubters, who are important here.’

‘Are you saying the University should encourage people in this lie? Give them false hope?’

‘I am saying the University should not keep the Hand from folk who think they need its comfort. Michael should make it available to everyone. There will be “cures” and “miracles”, and the University should accept the gratitude of successful petitioners. And then there will be fewer prayers answered than requests made, and people will begin to lose faith. Gradually it will be forgotten, and then you can throw it in the river.’

‘You mean we may be strengthening the cult by restricting access to the Hand?’

‘Precisely. By keeping it secret, you merely tell people it is important. Once it is freely accessible, and people can see it, then it will lose its mysterious appeal. You should act on my advice, Doctor: it is the only way to deal with the Hand of Valence Marie.’

Bartholomew was on his way to take the poultice to Isnard when three familiar figures approached him. He was appalled when he saw that one was his brother-in-law, Oswald Stanmore. He had been under the impression that his family had intended to remain in Huntingdon for some weeks, and was horrified that they were home early now that young Thorpe was at large. Matilde was with Stanmore, on her way home from the Market Square, and two of Yolande de Blaston’s children staggered under the weight of her purchases. The third familiar figure was Michael, who was rummaging in her baskets and brazenly helping himself to whatever edibles he could find. The children were far too sensible to try to deter the monk, while Matilde was so deeply engrossed in her discussion with Stanmore that she had not noticed what Michael was doing.

‘Why are you here?’ Bartholomew demanded of his brother-in-law when they drew level. ‘You should be in Huntingdon. Where is my sister?’

‘There is an affectionate greeting,’ said Stanmore to Matilde, his tone wry. ‘I have not seen Matt for nigh on six weeks, and this is how he hails me.’

‘Edith is still in Huntingdon,’ replied Matilde, understanding the reason for Bartholomew’s sharpness. ‘She will not return for some weeks, so do not worry about her.’

‘Good,’ said Bartholomew fervently. ‘But you should not be here either, Oswald, not with Thorpe stalking around. You should return to Huntingdon and stay there until he leaves.’

‘I certainly shall not,’ retorted Stanmore indignantly. ‘This is my home, and no ex-apprentice will drive me from it. Besides, it is not my fault he committed murder and was caught. I do not see how he can hold me responsible for his downfall, just because he was living in my house when it happened.’

Bartholomew saw there was no point in arguing, although he was certain that was not how Thorpe viewed the situation. He looked at Matilde. ‘How is Bess? Is she still with you, or have you found her somewhere else to sleep?’

Matilde frowned worriedly. ‘She owns a huge hoard of coins. I cannot imagine where it came from. Not from a grateful customer – it is far more than the usual going rate for Frail Sisters in Cambridge – even the very good ones.’

Michael chuckled, his cheeks flecked with pastry as he investigated another of her parcels. ‘Perhaps it came from Deschalers. I saw him towing her home at one point.’

‘So did I,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was last Saturday, the day before he died.’ He saw Stanmore’s thoughtful expression. ‘But I do not think she is Deschalers’s killer.’

Michael agreed. ‘Especially if Bernarde is telling the truth about no one else being inside the mill.’

‘I would be surprised if Bess is your culprit, too,’ said Matilde. ‘She is too addled, poor thing. I sewed a secret compartment in her cloak for her coins, but I doubt she will keep them long, because she does not understand their value. She is staying with Una tonight.’

‘What about Dame Pelagia?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Has she gone, too?’

‘She has. It is just me, Yolande, Robert and their ten children now,’ said Matilde with a smile. ‘My house feels almost empty!’

‘Have you heard about the King’s Commission?’ asked Stanmore, who found town politics far more interesting than sleeping arrangements for madwomen.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Master Thorpe and Warde are good choices, but I do not think it was wise to have Bernarde and Lavenham on the committee, too.’

‘Why not?’ asked Stanmore. ‘They will ensure the Millers’ Society is properly represented.’

‘But there is no one to put the Mortimers’ side of the argument,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

Stanmore waved a dismissive hand. ‘That is unnecessary. They have no side worth presenting.’

Bartholomew was startled. ‘Why are you against them?’

‘The Mortimers full cloth at that mill, and it interferes with my business,’ replied Stanmore grimly.

‘But the next nearest fulling mill is in Ely,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘Surely Thomas Mortimer provides you a valuable service?’

‘Not at the prices he charges,’ said Stanmore stiffly. ‘His brazen extortion is exactly the kind of sinful behaviour that will bring the pestilence back again.’

‘I have never understood fulling,’ said Michael, interrupting Bartholomew, who was about to argue that the price of cloth had nothing to do with whether the plague returned. ‘What is it, exactly?’

‘Only light cloths, like worsteds, are good without fulling,’ said Stanmore, sounding pompous as he lectured on something he knew a lot about. ‘But most materials these days are heavy broadcloths, and need to be felted. We do this by soaking them in an alkaline solution and pounding them. In the old days, this was done by men and women trampling the cloth with their feet, but we have moved on from primitive technology and use fulling mills now. These batter the cloth with wooden hammers that are driven by water. It is all very sophisticated. That is what happens at Mortimer’s Mill.’

Michael rummaged in another of Matilde’s baskets. ‘Is that it? Cloth is soaked, then thumped with hammers?’

‘Not at all,’ said Stanmore crisply. ‘That is only the beginning. After the pounding, the cloth is dried, then stretched on a device we call a “tenter”. The nap is raised by rubbing with teasels, and then evened with shears. It is difficult and exacting work, and one wrong move can destroy hours of labour. Then it is dyed. That is where I come in.’

‘That is a skilled process, too, I imagine,’ said Matilde politely.

The clothier puffed himself up. ‘It certainly is! I need to decide exactly how much of each dye will achieve the colour my customer wants, and I need to assess how long to leave a material soaking – too long may rot the cloth, too short will see it wash out. But it will not be long before Mortimer turns his hand to dyeing, too, and then where will I be? I have prayed to the Hand that he will lose his case, and that the King will order him to dismantle his mill before he does me harm.’

‘But the Commission comprises two men who have a vested interest in finding against him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Mortimer may decide to ignore its decision.’

‘No one would dare go against the King,’ said Stanmore. ‘His word is law.’

‘Until he changes his mind,’ said Bartholomew bitterly. ‘Look what happened with Thorpe and Edward and their royal pardons.’

Stanmore glanced around uneasily. ‘You should watch what you say, Matt. It is not wise to criticise our monarch so openly. You do not know who might be listening. I admire Dame Pelagia, as you know, but she is the King’s agent, and she may report you, if you are not careful.’

‘She would not,’ said Michael confidently, thrusting cake into his mouth. Matilde became aware that he was seriously depleting her supplies, and gestured for the children to move away. Michael sighed his annoyance, but still managed to secure some bread before they left.

‘You would not know she was listening,’ persisted Stanmore. ‘She is like a shadow: here one moment and vanished the next. Still, I feel better knowing she has come here to help us.’

‘She went to see Tynkell and Dick Tulyet today,’ said Michael. ‘Dick promised to lend her soldiers whenever she needed them. She says she plans to need them very soon.’

‘God help us,’ muttered Bartholomew. It was a bizarre situation indeed when men of power like the Chancellor and the Sheriff relied on an old lady to solve their problems.

‘Constantine admits he made a mistake in buying a pardon for his son,’ said Matilde. ‘He all but killed the fatted calf when Edward returned, but Edward declines to have anything to do with him.’

‘It is a pity Deschalers is dead,’ said Stanmore. ‘He could control Edward, because the lad is his kin by marriage to Julianna – and obeyed him to be sure of inheriting his wealth. There are rumours that Edward had him killed, and that he hired Bottisham to do it.’

Bartholomew was horrified, thinking that while Edward might well have had a hand in Deschalers’s death, Bottisham was unlikely to have been his willing tool. ‘Surely you do not believe that?’

Stanmore shook his head. ‘No, I do not. Edward and Thorpe are far too clever to start killing as soon as they arrive back in the town. But …’ He hesitated, and regarded Bartholomew uneasily.

‘But what?’ asked Bartholomew, with the sense that he was about to hear something he would not like.

‘But Bottisham is a different matter,’ said Stanmore. He held up a hand to quell the physician’s objections. ‘I know you liked him, Matt, but he and Deschalers had a history.’

‘We know,’ said Michael, throwing the bread to a hopeful dog. The discussion of the mill deaths had deprived him of his appetite. ‘About the field and the funds for the chapel.’

Stanmore nodded. ‘Deschalers’s abrupt withdrawal made other benefactors rethink, too, and Gonville was left in a terrible mess. He once told me that he had managed the whole thing out of spite, to humiliate Bottisham. It would not surprise me to learn Bottisham was so angry that he lured Deschalers to the King’s Mill and slew him. Then he killed himself when he realised he would hang.’

‘People do not hang for murder these days,’ said Matilde acidly. ‘They spend a couple of years in France, then return to claim compensation for false conviction.’

‘But Bottisham did not kill Deschalers, anyway,’ said Bartholomew, finding the discussion distasteful. ‘He would be more likely to use the law for vengeance.’

‘Deschalers was very rich,’ said Matilde thoughtfully. ‘I should inspect his will, if I were you, to ascertain whether he intended to change or amend it. It would not be the first time a man expressed a desire to leave his wealth to someone different, and those about to be disinherited took matters into their own hands. You should not strike anyone from your list of suspects yet, and …’

She trailed off as she became aware of a commotion near St Mary the Great, where a large number of people had gathered, as usual. As they moved towards the massing crowd, one word could be heard spoken over and over again. Bartholomew’s heart sank when he realised it was ‘miracle’.

‘Master Thorpe warned me about this,’ he said to Matilde. ‘He said there would be “miracles” if we continue to keep the Hand in a sealed room, and restrict access to it.’

‘He is right,’ replied Matilde. ‘Folk are far more interested in things that are forbidden. Bring the Hand out and display it, and it will be forgotten in a few months.’ She caught the arm of Una, who was hurrying away with her face set in a broad grin. ‘What is it? What is going on?’

‘A miracle,’ declared Una. ‘We knew it would only be a matter of time before one occurred, and we were right. This will be the first of many.’

‘What kind of miracle?’ asked Bartholomew warily.

‘Isnard the bargeman,’ said Una joyfully. ‘His severed leg has just regrown!’