The Hand of Justice

CHAPTER 7

‘You are a heartless man,’ said Michael approvingly, as he and Bartholomew walked home from Isnard the bargeman’s house later that day. ‘You dismayed half the town’s population, embarrassed Isnard, and exposed Thomas Mortimer as a fraud, all within a few moments.’

‘Mortimer is a selfish liar,’ declared Bartholomew uncompromisingly. ‘He informed everyone that Isnard’s leg had grown back because he had petitioned the Hand of Valence Marie on Isnard’s behalf. However, he knew it would not be long before someone noticed Isnard was still sans leg. When that happened, he planned to tell people that Isnard was so sinful, the cure had been withdrawn.’

‘It was a daring plan. Had it worked, it would have seen him free of all the venomous mutterings over the cart incident.’

‘He would have benefited enormously – at Isnard’s expense. However, when Isnard eventually wakes up from his drunken slumbers, he will find himself in great pain. His wound has reopened, because he allowed Mortimer to affix the wooden leg and take him out on it too soon. He might even die, if it does not heal.’

‘Isnard will do anything for a drink,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘Even sit in the company of the man who injured him. He allowed himself to be plied with ale, carried to St Mary the Great with his new leg, and paraded as though he was fully recovered.’

‘And the astonishing thing is that people were prepared to believe it, even though Isnard could not stand and there was blood seeping from the injury.’ Bartholomew was disgusted. ‘That was partly Rougham’s fault, for supporting Mortimer when he said Isnard’s leg had reappeared. Was he drunk, do you think, to make such a stupid assertion?’

‘He was sober,’ replied Michael sombrely. ‘And you have made yourself a greater enemy of him than ever, by pointing out his folly to the crowd. You should have seen his face when you removed the bandages to reveal a bloody stump and a wooden calf. If he had been a man for surgery, one of his knives would be embedded in you this very moment.’

‘And he accuses my students of being dull-witted!’ said Bartholomew angrily. ‘He did not even bother to inspect Isnard before making his proclamations about complete cures.’

‘How is Mistress Lenne?’ asked Michael, interrupting what was about to become a diatribe against the man his friend seemed to detest more at every encounter. He hoped it would not continue to escalate, because Cambridge was too small a town for bitter disputes between men whose paths crossed with some frequency. It was the sort of situation that might end in a brawl between Gonville and Michaelhouse, as students demonstrated solidarity with their masters.

‘She is dying,’ replied Bartholomew shortly. ‘The shock of losing her husband has made her listless and dull, and it will not be long before she joins him in his grave. I only hope her son will arrive from Thetford in time to say his farewells.’

‘That is curious,’ said Michael. Bartholomew followed his gaze and saw Wynewyk ducking into the small, dirty alley that ran down the side of St Botolph’s Church. As the Michaelhouse lawyer disappeared from sight he glanced in his colleagues’ direction, and grimaced when he realised he had been spotted. Bartholomew exchanged a puzzled look with Michael, then went to wait at the lane’s entrance until he came out. Wynewyk was a relative newcomer to the town, and did not know many of Cambridge’s seedier footpaths. But Bartholomew and Michael knew them well – and the one Wynewyk had chosen to dive down was a dead end.

‘What is he doing?’ asked Michael, bemused. ‘His shoes will be filthy when he emerges.’

‘He did not want us to see him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Just as he does not want us to know he holds secret meetings with Paxtone.’

It was some time before Wynewyk’s large nose eased through the lane’s entrance, followed by his head and the rest of his body, like a rodent leaving its nest after a long winter. He almost leapt out of his skin when Michael spoke to him.

‘You should not go down there alone. It is notorious as a daytime sleeping hole for those who prowl the streets at night for sinister purposes.’

‘In that case, the Senior Proctor should ensure they are ousted,’ said Wynewyk stiffly, trying to shake the muck from his shoes. ‘But I saw no sleeping villains. The only person there now is that madwoman, who is playing with her gold coins and singing some dirge to herself.’

‘Is she?’ asked Bartholomew, peering into the gloom and wondering whether he should go to see her. But the lane was odorously sticky, rank with rubbish dumped there by those who could not be bothered to walk to the river, and it had been used as a latrine for months. He glanced down at what was a fairly new pair of boots and decided to leave Bess in peace.

‘God alone knows where she got them from,’ gabbled Wynewyk, transparently relieved to be discussing something other than his own reasons for frequenting such a place. ‘Perhaps she has been plying her trade among the rich merchants. I heard she serviced Deschalers the day before he died.’

‘I do not see a fastidious man like Deschalers employing a creature like Bess,’ said Michael, echoing what others had said. ‘He preferred women of his own class, like Katherine Mortimer.’

‘I doubt he had his money’s worth on Saturday,’ said Bartholomew, rather crudely. ‘He was too ill, and Bess looked seriously uninterested. It would not have made for an energetic coupling.’

‘I find such images nasty,’ said Wynewyk primly. ‘But I must be on my way. I have a lot to do.’

‘Such as what?’ asked Michael nosily.

Wynewyk gave a strained smile. ‘The College is experiencing financial difficulties at the moment and there are people to see and arrangements to be made, if we are to eat next week.’

‘In that case, continue,’ said Michael, standing aside to let him pass. ‘However, last night, I was fed chicken giblets and a pile of stale barley. Such victuals are unacceptable, and I sincerely hope you plan to do better in the future.’

‘The food has only been poor over the last three weeks or so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Before that, we all noticed a great improvement when you started to help Langelee with the accounts.’

Wynewyk smiled at him. ‘Thank you, Matt. But we have had unforeseen expenses recently: we had to replace the guttering on the hall, then Bird got into the conclave and scratched the wax off all the writing tablets. And we have had to purchase new arrows.’ His mouth hardened into a thin line.

‘What for?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘Who do you plan to shoot?’

‘Thorpe and Mortimer,’ replied Wynewyk. ‘Or rather, Langelee does. An old lady came to inspect our weaponry this morning, and recommended we replace our old arrows, because they have become dangerously brittle. She seemed to know more about such things than most mercenaries.’

‘Dame Pelagia,’ said Bartholomew, not surprised that even an experienced warrior like Langelee should defer to her on issues of defence. ‘If ever you are in a brawl, you could not do better than to have her at your side. I would even take her over Langelee.’

‘I do not brawl,’ said Wynewyk distastefully. ‘But, as I said, I am busy, so you must excuse me.’ He pushed past them, and was gone, walking briskly down the High Street with fussy little steps.

‘That was odd,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Why was he trying to hide from us? Did you notice that he never did tell us what he was doing?’

‘I doubt it was anything too mischievous,’ said Michael dismissively. ‘I am more concerned with Bottisham and Deschalers. We have learned that they disliked each other, but we still do not know who took a nail to whom. Or why their disagreement should erupt into violence now, after all these years. Perhaps it was exacerbated by the mill case: Deschalers on one side, Bottisham on the other. Or perhaps Deschalers decided that if he was to die, then Bottisham was going to go with him.’

‘I am not sure about that. Perhaps Deschalers did draw vestiges of murderous strength from somewhere, as Rougham maintains – although I am not sure he is right – but is it likely? Deschalers was the kind of man whose idea of vengeance was to damage his enemy’s finances.’

‘As he did with his withdrawn donation for Gonville’s chapel,’ mused Michael. ‘So we are back to the solution where we have Bottisham the killer, and Deschalers the victim. Damn!’

‘I do not believe that,’ insisted Bartholomew stubbornly. ‘Not Bottisham.’

‘I know how you feel,’ said Michael with a sigh. ‘I find it difficult to accept, too. But we cannot allow our liking for the man to blind us to the facts. Deschalers deserves justice, too, and if Bottisham killed him, then it is our moral duty to tell people what happened. However, while it is never good when a scholar kills a townsman, it is far worse when that townsman was a wealthy burgess.’

‘Then we had better keep our theories to ourselves, until we are certain.’

Michael regarded him with raised eyebrows. ‘Are you suggesting we prevaricate? That we warp the truth? I see I will make a University man of you yet!’

‘That is not what I meant,’ said Bartholomew tartly. ‘I am not suggesting we stay quiet because I am politicking, but because I do not want unfounded speculations to cause rioting and mayhem – or to damage Bottisham’s reputation prematurely.’

Michael rubbed his eyes and sighed again. ‘And how do we do that? It has been four days since the murders, and we are no further on with our enquiries than when they first happened. Poor Bottisham! And poor Deschalers, too.’

They started to walk to Michaelhouse. Bartholomew kept his eyes on his feet as he stepped around the street’s worst filth, only to collide with someone doing the same thing as he came from the opposite direction. It was Master Thorpe from Valence Marie, and in his wake were Warde, Lavenham and Bernarde the miller: the King’s Commissioners.

Bartholomew had never seen a more unhappy group of men. Bernarde was so angry he was shaking, and his face was flushed a deep, dangerous red as he played with his keys. Bartholomew thought he needed to sit quietly and take some deep breaths before he gave himself a seizure. By contrast, Lavenham looked bewildered, as though he was still trying to understand what had transpired. Bernarde grabbed his arm and hauled him away, whispering into his ear in savage hisses. Meanwhile, Thorpe looked weary, while Warde coughed.

‘I take it the first meeting of the King’s Commissioners did not go smoothly?’ asked Michael, amused. ‘You have not resolved the dispute in an hour, as Lavenham predicted?’

Thorpe grimaced. ‘I wish I were not involved in this. I see no solution that will please everyone, so someone must expect to be disappointed.’ He spoke hoarsely, as if he had shouted a lot.

‘Everyone will be disappointed,’ said Warde. He cleared his throat, then spat. ‘Both sides want nothing less than the dismantling of the other’s mill. In a case like this, there is no mutually acceptable solution. In the interests of fairness, I am arguing for the Mortimers – since Lavenham and Bernarde are for the King’s Mill; Thorpe is attempting to mediate. But it is worse than suing the French for peace. No wonder Bishop Bateman was never successful in Avignon! How can you reach an agreement with folk who will not even listen to you?’

‘We appreciate there is a lot at stake,’ said Thorpe tiredly. ‘Both mills represent substantial incomes, plus there is the matter of employment. I do not want to hurt innocent labourers by closing down either mill. But it may come to that, if we cannot reach a compromise.’

Warde coughed again. ‘Damn this wretched tickle! But that angelica is helping, Bartholomew. I must pay you for your advice.’ He started to hunt for coins, but the physician stopped him.

‘You can recompense me by not saying anything to Rougham. I do not want him to accuse me of poaching his patients.’

Thorpe was dismissive. ‘Warde was your patient long before Rougham arrived. He poached from you, not the other way around.’

‘I wish I had kept you, Bartholomew,’ said Warde fervently. ‘Did you know Rougham recommended Water of Snails for my malady? Does he imagine me to be a Frenchman, to suggest such a remedy? And that Hand is next to worthless! I have prayed to it three times now, and it has not seen fit to make me better.’

‘I do not know what to do about the mill dispute,’ said Thorpe, returning to the issue that clearly worried him. ‘The Mortimers’ case will be presented by the lawyers at Gonville Hall. Do you know why they agreed to become embroiled in this, Brother? It is because the Mortimers promised them a handsome donation for their chapel if they win! As I said, the stakes are high for all concerned.’

‘They said nothing of this to me,’ said Michael indignantly. ‘And I asked Acting Master Pulham straight out whether Gonville had interests in the Mortimers’ venture.’

Thorpe looked unhappy. ‘Then he was lying to you.’

‘We should visit the King’s Mill again,’ said Michael two days later, when Saturday morning’s teaching was done and the Fellows were enjoying a cup of cheap wine and a plate of stale oatcakes in the conclave. The monk was depressed and worried – both about the lack of progress in his investigation, and about the continuing decline in College food. ‘I need to see what it looks like when it is working, and I want to ask Bernarde more about what he knows of the two men who died so horribly among the grinding mechanisms he operates. He is my last hope – I cannot think of anything else to do that might throw light on this matter.’

‘Did you ask Pulham about what Master Thorpe told us?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘About the Mortimers promising hefty donations, if Gonville can make the Commission find in their favour?’

‘Not yet,’ replied Michael shortly. ‘The Bishop of Ely summoned most of the Gonville Fellows to see him on Thursday afternoon – something about the deeds to a property Bateman did not properly transfer to them before he died. But I will catch them as soon as they return.’

‘Bottisham deserves to have his name cleared of the unpleasant rumours that are circulating around the town – that he killed Deschalers,’ said Father William, making Michael wince. It sounded like an accusation of incompetence. ‘The townsfolk’s anger against us is palpable when they come to visit the Hand. You should do all you can to prove him innocent, Brother.’

‘He is working as hard as he can,’ said Bartholomew sharply. ‘I have never seen a case where there are so few clues, and he is doing his best. He has barely rested since this started.’

‘I have barely eaten, either,’ added the monk in a plaintive voice, obviously considering this far more serious. ‘Will you come with me to the mill, Matt? Now?’

‘You should not have discredited the Hand with such relish on Thursday, Bartholomew,’ admonished Langelee, as the physician reached for his cloak. ‘It might bring the University a great deal of money, and it does not look good when our own scholars scoff at its powers.’

‘Hear, hear,’ said William, pouring himself a third cup of wine, despite the fact that there was not much left and neither Kenyngham nor Wynewyk had yet had any. ‘And you telling folk it is a fake does nothing for my status as Keeper of the University Chest, either.’

Bartholomew bit back a retort that told the sanctimonious friar exactly what he could do with his reputation. ‘The Hand is not sacred. It came from Peterkin Starre, who drooled over his food, had the mind of a five-year old and was frightened of the dark.’

‘Great wisdom often springs from the mouths of the simple,’ preached Suttone piously. ‘If we had listened to Peterkin, then perhaps the Death would not have visited us in all its terrible glory.’

‘If we had listened to Peterkin, then we would have been making mud pies in the gutters and singing our favourite lullabies when the plague came,’ said Bartholomew caustically.

‘But people say he was a saint – a prophet – who chose to deliver his message in the voice of a child,’ argued Suttone. ‘That is why his Hand can bring about miracles.’

‘Adjusting the story to fit the facts.’ Bartholomew shook his head in disgust. ‘There is no reasoning with fanatics, is there? They fabricate answers to every question, and when something does not sit well with their beliefs they either ignore it or dismiss it. Such attitudes explain why men commit such shameful acts – like the vicious persecutions of the Albigensians and the Templars.’

‘Those were perfectly justified,’ declared William, who had taken part in some vicious persecutions of his own before his Order had placed him in the University, where they felt he was less likely to do any harm. Sometimes Bartholomew thought they were very wrong.

‘I visited Albi once,’ said Wynewyk conversationally. ‘Albi was where the Albigensian persecutions took place – and where the heretical Cathars were finally eliminated. These days, it is a dirty place that smells of rotting olives, although its wine is very good.’ He looked disparagingly at the brew William was imbibing with such relish.

‘I do not accept the rubbish about the Hand’s sanctity, either,’ said Langelee to Bartholomew. ‘But we must be pragmatic. Do not denounce it publicly and make Michaelhouse an enemy of the town. Dame Pelagia recommends that we keep silent on the matter – at least until she has found a way to rid us of Thorpe and Mortimer without too much bloodshed. After that, the Hand will be quietly forgotten.’

‘I do not like the sound of “without too much bloodshed”,’ said the gentle Kenyngham in alarm. ‘Dame Pelagia does not intend to practise her knife-throwing skills on them, does she?’

‘I doubt it,’ said Michael. ‘If she had, she would have done it by now, and none of us would have been any the wiser. But the situation is delicate: that pair have the King’s Pardon, and even she cannot slip daggers into men who have powerful friends. We do not want the King imposing enormous fines on us because we have murdered people under his protection. Do we?’

‘No,’ chorused the Fellows as one. It was a punishment too horrible to contemplate, and might interfere with the purchase of new books or – worse – the contents of the wine cellars.

‘She needs to devise a solution that will see them safely removed – let us hope permanently – without it appearing that we had a hand in it,’ Michael went on. ‘It may take her a while, but she will not let us down, you can be sure of that.’

‘I never doubted it,’ said Langelee, pouring the remains of the wine into his goblet, then indicating with an apologetic shake of his head that Kenyngham was too late. ‘She is Dame Pelagia, after all.’

‘She put Rougham in his place the other day,’ chortled William. ‘We were all dining at the Franciscan Friary – my Prior likes to entertain – and Rougham advised me to take syrup of figs for a sore head on the grounds that it would cleanse my bowels. I informed him there is only one physician I allow near my bowels, and that is my esteemed colleague from Michaelhouse.’

‘You said that?’ asked Bartholomew, startled by the friar’s loyalty.

‘I did. Rougham then informed me that I would die if I took cures offered by you, and that I should listen to his advice if I wanted to get better. But Dame Pelagia informed him that only fools muddled their heads with their bowels, and suggested he had better work out which was which before he dispensed any more of his remedies.’ He guffawed furiously.

‘Really?’ asked Michael. He shook his head in fond admiration. ‘She has a quick tongue. What did Rougham say?’

‘There was little he could say. We all roared with laughter – jokes about bowels are popular in the friary – and no one heard what he mumbled in his defence. It was most gratifying. I do not like that man, especially since he has taken to slandering Matthew to anyone who will listen.’

‘You must have upset him deeply, Matt,’ said Wynewyk. ‘Have you contradicted him, or offended him in some way? Stolen away one of his wealthy patients?’

‘I do not know why he has taken against me so violently of late.’

‘Then you had better find out,’ advised William. ‘His slanderous attacks are growing increasingly vicious, and you will have no patients left if you do not silence him.’

Bartholomew and Michael left the conclave, Bartholomew silently pondering the problem of Rougham, and walked to the King’s Mill. It was working hard, and its great wheel creaked and thumped in a steady, endless rhythm as the strong current forced it round. The water downstream was frothy and brown, where silt and muck had been churned up. Bartholomew glanced upstream, to where Mortimer’s Mill stood silent and still.

Michael knocked at the door of the King’s Mill, but it was a pointless exercise given the thundering groans from the machinery inside. They entered and weaved around apprentices struggling under grain sacks, some being carried to storage bins for later milling and some for immediate grinding. The air was full of chaff and dust, and it caught in Bartholomew’s throat. Michael began to sneeze.

The noise increased as they made their way closer to the wheel. Rye was being poured into a hopper with a tapering ‘shoe’ that allowed its contents to trickle on to the millstones, where it was ground into flour. Bartholomew had heard that the rod – which connected the shoe to the hopper and rattled to shake the grain on to the stones – was called a ‘damsel’, because it was never silent when the mill was working. It was certainly not silent now, and he resisted the urge to place his hands over his ears.

The mill was a different place from the night Bottisham and Deschalers had died in it. Light streamed through its open windows, and the engine chamber was a flurry of activity. The miller’s boy stood sentinel by the hopper, monitoring the fall of the grain, while Bernarde himself flitted here and there as he gauged the running of this cog or that gear, making mental notes for later repairs or minute adjustments. Apprentices were everywhere, shouting orders or questions, and using expressions that were unfamiliar to Bartholomew, almost like a foreign language.

Bernarde saw his visitors and waved that he would be a moment, before turning his attention to a pinion with a wobble. The physician looked around him while they waited, and saw that the large pile of sacks, on which Michael had sat while he himself had inspected the corpses, had been dramatically reduced. Only three or four remained. An apprentice grinned cheerfully at him, as he squeezed around Michael to take one up in his burly arms.

‘Another three and Peterhouse will be done,’ he shouted over the racket.

Bartholomew watched him empty the sack into the hopper and come back for another. If he had not glanced down at the dust-covered floor as the man hefted the sack over his shoulder he would not have seen the object rolling from underneath it, heading towards a crack between the floorboards. He moved quickly, and managed to block the hole with his foot before the item disappeared.

‘What is it?’ yelled Michael.

‘A medicine phial,’ Bartholomew shouted back, leaning down to pick it up. ‘I wonder whether it has anything to do with Bottisham and Deschalers, or whether it has been here for ages and has nothing to do with anything.’

‘Is it empty?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘And the stopper is missing, so it is full of dust. I will never be able to tell you what it contained. However, I can tell you it was something powerful.’

‘How?’

‘Because apothecaries do not dispense weak or diluted potions in small pots like this. I wonder if it contained medicine prescribed by Rougham to help Deschalers with the pain of his illness.’

‘Keep it,’ Michael suggested. ‘We can ask him later.’

‘We cannot talk in here!’ yelled Bernarde, brushing dust from his hands by rubbing them on a tunic that was so deeply ingrained with the stuff that its original colour was impossible to guess. ‘And we are too busy to stop, even for a short while. It is unfortunate, because I am plagued with a sore head today, and even Lavenham’s strongest medicine has not made it better.’

‘What did he give you?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking about the phial in his bag.

Bernarde shrugged carelessly. ‘Something pink. I swallowed two doses of the stuff diluted in wine, but my head still aches. I should not have had so much ale in the King’s Head last night.’

But the phial Bartholomew had found was dry and dust-filled, and had not contained medicine consumed that morning. It had been empty and discarded for longer than that – days or weeks, rather than hours. He and Michael followed the miller outside, where the swish and creak of the waterwheel was a welcome relief after the deafening rattle and clank of the building’s inner workings. Bernarde led them a short distance upstream, stopping at a place where Mortimer’s Mill was in clear view, its wheel hoisted out of the water while people moved over it with hammers and nails.

‘A couple of their scoops broke this morning,’ he said casually. ‘Mortimer has been unable to work all day. I suppose they were damaged during that rain last night.’

‘Were they, indeed?’ mused Michael, his eyes glittering in amusement. ‘I had no idea such sturdy structures could be harmed by the odd downpour.’

‘Do most Colleges come to you with their grain?’ asked Bartholomew, who had no idea where Michaelhouse’s was milled. He tended to leave such matters to Langelee, who was paid to deal with them, or to Wynewyk, who enjoyed organising the everyday minutiae of College life.

‘Yes,’ said Bernarde. ‘Not Gonville, though. And Valence Marie informed me today that they will purchase ready-ground flour from the market until the dispute with Mortimer is resolved.’

‘Master Thorpe wants to be impartial,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘That is wise. He is one of the King’s Commissioners, so he should withdraw custom from both mills until this is over.’

‘He should not be so moralistic,’ countered Bernarde. ‘I am not.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael silkily. ‘In what way?’

‘I do not allow mere scruples to shake me from a position I know is just. Both mills worked perfectly well together until Mortimer decided to convert to fulling. We might have resolved the problem amicably if it had not been for Edward. It was his idea to take our dispute to the King. I was all set to fire the …’ His words trailed off, and he regarded the scholars uneasily, waiting to see whether they had noticed his careless slip.

‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘You planned to burn Mortimer’s Mill as an easy way to dispense with an unwanted rival. Were the other members of the Millers’ Society happy with this solution?’

‘Deschalers was not,’ said Bernarde bitterly, not bothering to deny the charge. ‘But the rest saw reason, and agreed that a fire would be best for all concerned.’

‘Not for the Mortimers,’ said Michael. ‘But this is interesting. Deschalers’s was the only dissenting voice?’

‘He said he did not want to commit such a grave sin when he was dying, but he would have come round to our way of thinking in time. Of course, Bottisham made an end of him before he could be persuaded.’

Michael shot Bartholomew a meaningful glance. Here was another motive for Deschalers’s murder: he had balked at arson. And since Bernarde had not been honest about that sooner, what else had he concealed? Was it really true that no one had left the mill after he claimed he heard bodies hitting the wooden engines? Was he protecting the murderer? Or was he the culprit himself, and had concocted the story about the wheel’s change in tempo, to throw them off the scent?

‘Do you think Deschalers told anyone else about the plan to burn Mortimer’s Mill?’ asked Bartholomew. One of the Millers’ Society – even Bernarde himself – might have murdered the grocer for revealing trade secrets.

‘He told Edward Mortimer,’ replied Bernard. He spat into the river. ‘His new nephew by marriage.’

‘You said it was Edward’s idea to take the dispute to the King,’ said Michael. ‘Did he do that because you cannot burn his uncle’s property if the King knows there is a quarrel between you? Obviously, you cannot fire your rival’s mill now, without awkward questions being asked.’

Bernarde’s expression was resentful. ‘If that was his intention, then it has worked very well.’

‘Was Deschalers reluctant to burn Mortimer’s Mill because it belonged to his new family-by-marriage?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I doubt Deschalers would have been swayed by something as foolish as in-law loyalty,’ said Bernarde. ‘But I must go. I have to finish grinding Peterhouse’s flour.’ Abruptly, he hurried away, and Bartholomew saw puffs of dust rising from his hair and clothes as he trotted along the path.

‘That was revealing,’ mused Michael. ‘We can no longer take Bernarde’s word that there was no third party in the mill now we know he is not a straightforward man. But I can tell you one thing for certain: his name has just been added to my list of suspects.’

‘Mine, too,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Along with the other members of the Millers’ Society – Cheney, Morice and the Lavenhams. And Edward’s has been underlined.’

Bartholomew and Michael were silent as they took the river path back towards Michaelhouse, each engrossed in his own thoughts about the murders at the mill. The more Bartholomew considered the facts, the more likely it seemed that the Mortimers were somehow involved. Thomas had killed Lenne and maimed Isnard without remorse – and had probably had Bosel poisoned – while murder came naturally to Edward. Either one might have killed Bottisham and Deschalers.

He watched the river as he walked, seeing bubbles and eddies from the churning it had suffered at the King’s Mill waterwheel. He wondered what the river was like when both mills were running at the same time. Even as he looked, a subtle change took place in the water. It became rougher and murkier, and he became aware that the groaning of wooden joints and cogs was louder. He glanced upriver, and saw that whatever Bernarde had done to Mortimer’s Mill had not been too serious, because it was working again.

The water in the River Cam had never been clean, but Bartholomew saw a creeping stain float slowly but inexorably towards the town. It was a dirty, creamy-grey colour, residues from the ‘fuller’s earth’ that was used to remove the grease from raw cloth. The discoloration kept pace with them all the way to St Michael’s Lane, and Bartholomew was fascinated by the way it moved as it caught in tiny whirlpools. It reminded him of a thesis by Roger Bacon about the way liquids with different properties interacted with each other, and he forgot about the mill murders as he turned his mind to physics. However, his attention snapped back to more practical matters when he spotted Yolande de Blaston kneeling over one of the dilapidated piers with a pair of buckets in her hand.

‘What is she going to do with those?’ he wondered aloud. ‘If she is taking them to Matilde’s house, then I hope she does not plan on cooking with their contents. Not when the river is full of whatever Mortimer is pouring into it. Not to mention sewage and that dead duck.’

‘Ask her,’ suggested Michael wickedly, knowing the feisty Yolande would not appreciate such an enquiry.

‘Matilde will not let me cook with river water, thanks to you,’ replied Yolande, somewhat unpleasantly when the physician voiced his concerns. ‘She makes me collect clean stuff from the well these days. I use this for laundry.’ She drew herself up to her full height and spoke with pride. ‘Did you know I am laundress of Gonville now? Matilde arranged it.’

‘Congratulations,’ said Bartholomew, pleased for her, despite the fact that he thought washing the scholars’ clothes in river water would not render them much cleaner. ‘That is good news.’

‘It is,’ agreed Yolande. ‘Matilde says I should not ply my other trade now I am pregnant again, although being a laundress is far harder than life as a Frail Sister. However, I have kept one or two favourite clients, to make sure I do not lose my touch.’

‘Like Horwood, who was mayor last year?’ asked Michael nosily, always keen to hear gossip about prominent townsmen; such information sometimes came in useful.

‘Him, of course,’ said Yolande. ‘We have met every Friday night for years now. And I have kept Apothecary Lavenham, because he makes me laugh with his funny English.’

‘Lavenham hires you?’ asked Michael in surprise. ‘Does his wife not see to him?’

‘Isobel goes out a lot,’ replied Yolande ambiguously. ‘And I entertain Bernarde when I am short of flour, and dear Master Thorpe of Valence Marie, now he is back from York.’

‘Thorpe!’ said Michael, his eyes glinting with mischief. ‘I had no idea!’

‘Few do. He says his evenings with me give him a proper perspective on life, which I imagine is a good thing. But there are some customers I was only too pleased to drop – such as Mayor Morice. I do not like his glittery eyes and pawing hands. And I told Chancellor Tynkell I did not want him, either. I am sorry if I offend you, Brother, but he smells. His hands are always sticky, and I do not like seeing the same dirty marks for weeks on end.’

‘You have seen Tynkell undressed?’ asked Bartholomew keenly. Michael started to laugh, knowing exactly what had prompted the enquiry.

‘Not exactly,’ said Yolande. ‘He is one of those men who prefers to remain clothed. He usually wants the candles extinguished, too, so we cannot see what we are doing.’

‘What do you do?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

Yolande regarded him coolly. ‘I have heard about men like you, who like to hear about the antics of others. But what I do with the Chancellor is none of your affair – although I can tell you that it is easy money for me. He does not like being touched, you see.’

Bartholomew decided he had better change the subject, before Yolande reported his interest to Matilde – and he did not want her, of all women, to think badly of him. He would have to learn more about Tynkell’s intriguing physiology another way. ‘What about the Mortimers? Do you entertain any of them?’

‘I would not touch Edward,’ said Yolande firmly. ‘But I like Thomas, when he is sober. However, he is mostly drunk these days. It must be because he is frightened of his nephew.’

‘Thomas cannot be frightened of Edward,’ said Michael. ‘He would not let Edward work at his mill if he were.’

‘Edward said he would burn it to the ground if Thomas refused to employ him,’ replied Yolande. ‘And Thomas told me last night that he feared Edward might do it anyway, just for spite.’

‘But why would he do that?’ asked Michael. ‘Then he would have nowhere to work.’

‘He does not need it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘His wife has just inherited Deschalers’s fortune.’

They had reached the end of St Michael’s Lane, where their ways parted. To the right, Bartholomew could see the ever-present crowd milling in front of St Mary the Great. Some people knelt, while others stood with their heads bowed. Not everyone was there to pray: he saw several known pickpockets moving among the throng. Meanwhile, some of Constantine Mortimer’s apprentices sold small, sweet loaves from trays balanced on their heads, while Cheney’s men hawked tiny packets of cinnamon and pepper. The Hand represented a business opportunity, as well as a place to ask for divine favours.

‘There is strife among the Mortimer clan,’ said Yolande, shifting the brimming pails in her strong hands. ‘A few weeks ago, you would never have seen one argue with another, but they fight all the time now. And Edward fans their disputes to make them burn more fiercely. But mention the Devil and he will appear.’ She gestured down the High Street with her head. ‘Edward and his rotten friend are coming this way, and I do not want to be anywhere near them, thank you very much!’

She hurried away, water slopping from her buckets as she went. Bartholomew was surprised at her reaction. Yolande was a hard, unbending woman whose dealings with some of the wealthiest and most influential men in the town meant she was normally afraid or in awe of no one. But she seemed afraid of Mortimer and Thorpe.

The two ruffians strutted confidently along the centre of the High Street, where the rubbish and ordure was piled less deep, and Bartholomew noticed that Yolande was not the only one who was reluctant to meet them. He saw the Lavenhams dive down a dirty alleyway they would not normally deign to use, and even the swaggering Morice shot back inside the tavern he had just vacated when he saw them coming.

‘You have no right to keep the Hand of Justice in that tower,’ said Thorpe to Michael as they approached. ‘It does not belong to you.’

‘The “Hand of Justice”?’ echoed Michael in rank disdain. ‘And what, pray, is that?’

‘You know what it is,’ said Thorpe. ‘Some call it the Hand of Valence Marie, but we prefer the title “Hand of Justice”, because of what it represents.’

‘What does it represent?’ asked Michael coolly.

‘It represents justice,’ replied Thorpe. He continued to speak before Bartholomew could point out that he had not really answered the monk’s question. ‘It does not belong to the University, to be shut away where honest folk cannot get at it.’

‘I wish to God it belonged to no one,’ said Michael fervently. ‘I should have hurled it in the marshes when I had the chance.’

‘Throwing it away would have been a terrible sin,’ said Mortimer softly. ‘Did you know that the Hand of Justice belonged to a great prophet, who came to Earth in the guise of a simpleton? He imparted much wisdom before he died, but folk did not listen. They are listening now.’

‘Rubbish!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, unable to help himself. ‘Peterkin Starre was no prophet – anyone who remembers him will tell you that.’

‘Folk are reassessing their memories,’ said Thorpe, nodding at the pilgrims who knelt outside the tower. There was also a queue by the south door, and Bartholomew could see Father William bustling about importantly. He supposed the friar had chosen to disregard Michael’s orders, and was still showing the Hand to people who asked. Or perhaps he was just not up to the task of solving the problem, so was simply continuing what he did well – making money for the University.

‘Then they are wrong,’ declared Michael, as dogmatic in his refusal to believe as others were in their desperation to accept. ‘Who came up with this ridiculous title – the Hand of Justice – anyway?’

‘We did,’ said Mortimer coldly. ‘It is amazing how quickly these things catch on once you mention them in one or two pertinent places. The Hand did right by us. We prayed to it after we were exiled – that justice would be done – and it did not let us down.’

‘Then let us tell people that,’ encouraged Michael innocently. ‘They will see it as another miracle.’

‘Later,’ said Mortimer, seeing the implications of Michael’s suggestion immediately. He was not stupid, and guessed few would thank the Hand for arranging that sort of ‘justice’.

Thorpe looked around him in disdain. ‘I do not like this town. I have no desire to endure hostile glares and snide comments in voices that are only just audible. But needs must.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

‘My original plan was to ask the King if Valence Marie could have the Hand of Justice back,’ said Thorpe. ‘They were its first owners – because my father was the man who fished it out of the King’s Ditch – and I feel it should reside with Valence Marie, not in the University Church. But my father says he does not want it. He is a fool, and I am disappointed in him.’

‘Not nearly as disappointed as he is in you,’ said Michael, intending to wound.

It worked, and Thorpe’s eyes flashed with rage, although it was quickly suppressed. ‘However, my colleagues at Gonville Hall are interested in having it instead. Rougham visits it regularly, and Ufford is devoted to it. Even Thompson, Pulham and Despenser have been to see it – although they claim they are not believers. Gonville can capitalise on the financial rewards it will bring, if Valence Marie is stupid enough to decline. Look at how many pilgrims are here already, and then imagine what it will be like when the Hand’s fame has spread.’

‘I see,’ said Michael wearily. ‘You intend to set College against College, and town against University by taking the Hand from one institution and passing it to another. That is why you came back. Really, boys! I expected something a little more imaginative from you when you staged your revenge.’

Thorpe shrugged, to indicate he did not care what the monk thought. ‘All we want is for the Hand of Justice to be where it will do some good. The revenues raised from pilgrims will pay for Gonville’s new chapel – and what better way to pay for a church than with money raised from a holy relic? Bishop Bateman would approve.’

Bartholomew watched them stride away, scattering folk before them as if they were feared invaders from a hostile land. He saw Sergeant Orwelle step to one side to avoid them, and was appalled to think that even the forces of law and order seemed to be intimidated.

‘At least we now know what they plan to do,’ said Michael. ‘I should have guessed they had this sort of thing in mind. But I expected them to come up with something more original.’

Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘William may be a fool, but he is honest, and it would be very difficult for anyone to make off the Hand as long as it is in his care. However, it will be a lot easier to steal it from Gonville. They have no experience of looking after valuable and popular relics.’

‘Especially if Thorpe is a member there,’ mused Michael. ‘With his own key. And, if the thing disappears, there will be a riot for certain – with the town furious at the University’s incompetence.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘They are right about one thing, though. It will not be long before an attractive name like the “Hand of Justice” catches on – and then the damned thing will become more popular than ever.’

Later, Bartholomew visited Mistress Lenne, who lay wretchedly miserable as she awaited the arrival of her son from Thetford. Michael declined to enter the house with him, and slouched outside, his green eyes bleak and angry. When he emerged and saw the dangerous expression on the monk’s face, Bartholomew tried to think of something that would take his friend’s mind off the elderly woman’s suffering.

‘You said you were going to look at Deschalers’s will. To see if he planned to change it.’

Michael nodded. ‘I want to know if he threatened to disinherit Julianna. I doubt she has the intelligence to stage the cunning murder of an uncle, but her new husband certainly does.’

Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘Planned to change his will. Father William said he heard something about a “plan” when Deschalers made his confession to the Hand. Do you think that is what Deschalers was talking about?’

Michael shrugged; even the prospect of solving a little part of the mystery did not take his mind off Mistress Lenne. ‘It is possible, I suppose, although I would not class making a will as a “plan”. However, Deschalers might have done, and we should bear it in mind. We should go and ask Julianna about it now.’

Bartholomew was unenthusiastic about the prospect of another encounter with Julianna, but since he had made the suggestion, he felt obliged to accompany the monk to Deschalers’s house. They knocked on the door, and were shown into the ground-floor parlour by the elderly servant, who muttered something about fried cat before going to tell Julianna she had guests. While they waited for her to come, Michael sullenly devoured those dried fruits he had missed on the previous occasion.

The house was filled with voices, although none were lowered as a mark of respect to the recently dead. They did not seem to be especially friendly, either, and it sounded as though an argument was in progress. Bartholomew could hear Thomas, Constantine and Edward Mortimer among the clamour; Edward’s tones were low and measured, in stark contrast to the bickering, savage tenor of his uncle and father.

‘What are they saying?’ whispered Michael, straining his ears.

‘Something about who has the right to live where,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘This is a nice house, and I think Edward wants to stay here with Julianna, but Constantine has other ideas. It would be convenient for him: he lives next door, and could combine the two premises into an impressive mansion.’

‘And something about death duties,’ said Michael, cocking his head. ‘Wills.’

‘The King usually claims part of any large inheritance.’ Bartholomew’s hearing was sharper than Michael’s. ‘I think they are debating how much they should give him.’

‘I cannot make out their words,’ said Michael in frustration. He pressed his ear against the wall, but had not been in position for long when he became aware that someone was watching from the door.

‘Brother Michael?’ asked Julianna coolly. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Worms,’ said Michael unabashed, although Bartholomew cringed with embarrassment on his behalf. ‘I can hear them, chewing. You do not want those in your timbers, madam. I have seen houses collapse from the labours of their teeth.’

‘Worms do not have teeth,’ said Bartholomew, before he could stop himself.

‘No,’ agreed Edward, entering the chamber behind his wife, ‘and neither do beetles, which is the nature of the creature that destroys wood.’ The expression on his face was unreadable. ‘We meet again, gentlemen. You seem to be everywhere today.’

Bartholomew glanced at the door, and saw that Edward and Julianna were not the only ones who had left the family squabble to see to their guests. Behind Edward, short and stocky in scarlet cote-hardie and matching hose, was Constantine. His face was flushed and he seemed out of sorts. Thomas was next to him, a goblet clasped in his hand. His red-rimmed eyes possessed a glazed, dull sheen that indicated he had been drinking most of the day. Bartholomew scowled at him: he had not forgotten what the man had done to Isnard. Raised voices continued to echo from the adjoining chamber, where uncles, aunts and cousins declined to allow the unannounced arrival of visitors to prevent them from finishing their quarrel.

‘Quite a gathering,’ said Michael. ‘Are they here to see what Edward has inherited?’

‘We have come to offer our condolences to Julianna,’ said Constantine. ‘And I have no need to assess Deschalers’s property. We were neighbours for decades, and I know exactly what he owned.’

‘Then who will inherit?’ asked Michael bluntly. ‘How many people will benefit from his will?’

‘Two,’ said Edward. ‘He left a chest to his scribe, but, other than that, Julianna has everything – this house, two properties on Bridge Street, a shop near Holy Trinity, his business and all his money.’

‘Of which there is a great deal,’ slurred Thomas, leering at Julianna. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘No reason,’ lied Michael. ‘What is the name of this scribe? And why was he singled out for such a lordly prize, when none of the apprentices were remembered?’

‘A box is scarcely a “lordly prize”, Brother,’ said Julianna. She looked the monk up and down. ‘Well, it might be for someone like you, I suppose.’

‘I could say that how Deschalers chose to dispose of his worldly goods is none of your affair,’ said Edward, cutting across Michael’s indignant response. ‘And I would be within my rights to do so. However, we have nothing to hide, so we will answer you. Deschalers did not like his apprentices. He considered them lazy.’

‘Then why did he keep them on?’ asked Michael, glaring at Julianna. He was the son of a minor Norfolk nobleman, and considered himself a cut above merchants, so found her comments highly insulting. ‘There are plenty of honest, hard-working lads who would relish an opportunity to train as grocers.’

‘He did not want the bother of educating more,’ said Constantine. ‘And it has not been easy to find good workmen since the Death. They either died or became too expensive.’

‘I own the business now,’ said Edward, oblivious to the furious glance shot in his direction by Julianna. She clearly disagreed with the law that a wife’s inheritance became the property of her husband. ‘And Deschalers was right: they are lazy. I have dismissed most of them.’

‘This scribe?’ pressed Michael. ‘Does he have a name?’

‘Not one I remember,’ said Julianna. She frowned. ‘It is odd, actually, because Uncle did not like him any more than he did his apprentices, and I do not know why he was singled out for reward. Perhaps it was because he always came the moment he was summoned.’

‘So Deschalers left this lucky man a chest,’ said Michael. ‘A chest of what?’

‘Just a chest,’ replied Julianna. She gestured to a substantial wooden affair under the window. ‘There it is – just a piece of furniture. Uncle said he wanted the scribe to have it, so the fellow could lock away his possessions when he finally earns some.’

Bartholomew inspected the box without much interest. Plain and functional, it was not an attractive piece. The only noteworthy thing about it was its sturdy – and extremely greasy – lock, which comprised a complex system of iron rods. Julianna raised the lid, to show them it was empty. It went through Bartholomew’s mind that selecting the clerk to be the recipient of such a reward might be Deschalers’s way of insulting him.

‘Uncle said it needed a thorough clean,’ she said, wrinkling her nose. Bartholomew knew what she meant: an unpleasant odour hung around the box, as though it had been used to store something nasty. ‘He planned to do it himself, but died before he got around to it. Still, I am sure the scribe will not mind spending a few moments with a rag.’

‘You seem very well acquainted with the contents of your uncle’s will,’ said Michael. ‘I thought lawyers took their time over such matters, particularly when large sums of money are involved. After all, the King will want his share.’

Edward looked smug. ‘Full inheritance of Deschalers’s goods is part of my pardon. The King’s clerks said it would serve as part-compensation for the suffering I endured in exile. They plan to reclaim death taxes from the town instead. So, Brother, you will be paying the King, not me.’

He began to laugh, and Bartholomew gaped at him, scarcely believing his ears. Not only was a killer walking free and unrepentant, but he was even making the town pay for the privilege.

‘But it is not right, Edward,’ said Constantine unhappily. ‘My fellow burgesses will never agree to give the King what he should have had from Deschalers. It will cause all manner of strife. If you want to live here unmolested, you should do the honourable thing and pay it yourself. After all, you have plenty. Deschalers left Julianna a large fortune.’

‘It will not be large once you have stolen my house,’ snapped Edward.

‘But that is my privilege,’ objected Constantine. ‘I am still out of pocket from buying your pardon.’

‘That is not my problem,’ snarled Edward. ‘If you had been a proper father, I would not have been obliged to go to France in the first place. I owe you nothing.’

‘One can never have enough money,’ said Julianna comfortably, oblivious to the simmering emotions that boiled around the Mortimers. She sauntered across to the dish of dried fruits and, finding it empty, began to look under the table, as if she imagined they might have fallen there. ‘But we have been through this before, Constantine: the King absolved Edward from paying death taxes on Uncle’s estate, and wants the town to pay instead. There is no more to be said on the matter.’

‘But it is not wise to antagonise the other merchants,’ pressed Constantine. He appealed to his brother. ‘Tell him, Thomas! Do you want to pay the King on Edward’s behalf?’

Thomas shrugged, and almost overbalanced. He took a gulp of wine to steady himself. ‘I will have won the mill dispute by then, so will have funds to spare. Edward should keep the money and the other merchants be damned. After all, look what Bernarde, Lavenham and Cheney are doing to me. I hate the lot of them. They should pay.’

‘But it will cause bitterness and resentment,’ cried Constantine, becoming desperate. ‘We cannot run a decent business if everyone is against us.’

‘I disagree,’ said Thomas, tottering to the table where a jug and matching goblets stood on a tray. He poured himself a generous dose. ‘All the merchants are against me, and I am doing rather well.’

‘Edward!’ pleaded Constantine. ‘This is not right, son.’

‘Do not call me son,’ hissed Edward. ‘And do not expect me to believe that your motives were altruistic when you bought my pardon. It was not my name you wanted cleared, but that of Mortimer.’

‘But I did–’

His words went unheard as Edward stamped out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The glass in the windows rattled, and the fire flared and guttered in the sudden draught. Michael watched, his eyes alight with interest, while Bartholomew merely felt uncomfortable at having witnessed a family spat that should have been held in private.

‘Edward is very irritable these days,’ said Julianna, who did not seem at all embarrassed. ‘I cannot imagine why, when he has recently acquired me and a fortune. He has everything a man could possibly desire.’

‘I agree,’ said Thomas, patting her shoulder in a fatherly way. Bartholomew saw which side the miller favoured: Deschalers’s fortune had made Edward and Julianna far richer than Constantine, and he intended to stick with them. He clenched his fists and experienced an uncharacteristic urge for violence. While Isnard lay at the mercy of benevolent donations, Mortimer’s eyes were fixed on Julianna’s massive fortune. He thought about the cruel plot to convince the bargeman that his leg had miraculously re-attached itself, and was hard pressed to control himself. Michael noticed, and rested a calming hand on his shoulder.

‘You should have supported me, Thomas,’ said Constantine resentfully. ‘You know I am right. Edward will ruin us if he makes the town fund his taxes.’

‘It is your own fault,’ said Thomas nastily. ‘I told you not to spend good money on a pardon, but you ignored me. Well, you have what you wanted, and now you must live with the consequences.’

‘I wish to God I had let matter lie,’ said Constantine bitterly. ‘I have made a terrible mistake.’

‘You certainly have,’ agreed Michael.

Bartholomew and Michael left Deschalers’s house with some relief, despite the fact that they still did not know whether the grocer had intended to change his will from the one that made Julianna virtually the sole beneficiary. In the yard, the apprentices were leaving. Packs of personal belongings lay in a pile, and a pony was being harnessed to a cart. Men stood in a huddle, talking among themselves, and Bartholomew became aware that he and Michael were on the receiving end of some very hostile looks. It occurred to him that if there were rumours that a scholar had killed Deschalers, then the apprentices might well hold the University responsible for the loss of their livelihoods.

‘That was revealing,’ said Michael, as they walked briskly away from the festering resentment. ‘Relations are not all they were in the Mortimer clan, and it seems more obvious than ever that Edward has some unpleasant plan in mind – other than giving the Hand to Gonville. If he is prepared to burn his bridges with the other merchants – Constantine was right about them not wanting to pay those taxes – then I would predict he does not intend to stay here long.’

Bartholomew agreed. ‘And since he has benefited so handsomely from Deschalers’s death, perhaps we should look no further than him for our killer. One possibility is this: Deschalers lured Bottisham to the mill with talk of a reconciliation. Edward followed Deschalers and killed him, then was obliged to kill Bottisham, too.’

‘And engaged the engines and hurled the bodies into them to confuse us,’ mused Michael. ‘I suppose that makes sense – especially now we have learned that we should discount Bernarde’s tale about no one being in the building but Bottisham and Deschalers. But this means that Bernarde lied to protect Edward. Why would he do that? The Mortimers are Bernarde’s enemy.’

‘Fear?’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘People are afraid of Edward.’

Michael considered. ‘Bernarde did not seem afraid to me. Frightened people betray themselves by being brittle, hostile or overly willing to please. Bernarde was none of these. If he was lying, then it was not from fear.’

‘But he was angry about bodies damaging his pinions. And you said you believed Bernarde’s son when he told you his father dashed out the moment he heard the wheel’s change in tempo. Are you sure we should dismiss Bernarde’s testimony as untruthful?’

‘No,’ admitted Michael. ‘But I am not sure about anything. I do not think I have ever been so confounded when trying to solve a case.’

They walked slowly, taking the long way back along the river bank, since it was still too early for the evening meal, and neither wanted to sit in the conclave while William boasted about the revenues he was amassing from the ‘Hand of Justice’. Bartholomew heard several folk discussing the relic as they went, and was unsettled to hear its new name already in common usage. Edward was right: the epithet was one that people would readily adopt.

Early evening was a pleasant time in Cambridge, particularly when a blossom-scented breeze blew away the stench from the river and the manure-carpeted streets. The sun shone, giving an illusion of warmth, and seemed to cheer people as they wended their way home. Someone sang a popular song in a loud, toneless voice, and a small group of children, who had spent an exhausting day selling spring flowers, sprawled at the water’s edge to chatter and laugh.

A barge had arrived from the Low Countries, bringing fine cloth for Stanmore, and his apprentices hurried to transfer the valuable cargo to his warehouses before daylight faded and the wharves became dangerous. Bartholomew was delighted to see that he and Michael were not the only ones taking an evening stroll. Matilde was also out, holding the hand of a reluctant Bess. As they closed the gap between them, he admired Matilde’s slender body and the natural grace with which she moved. He hoped Yolande’s husband would finish his house soon; he longed for the family to move out, so he could have her alone again. It had already been far too long.

‘Your shadows are not with you tonight?’ Matilde asked, looking around as they met. ‘Quenhyth, Redmeadow and Deynman?’

‘Redmeadow and Deynman are at St Mary the Great,’ replied Michael. ‘Asking the Hand to tell them ways to discover whether Tynkell is afflicted with a certain rare physiology.’

‘Redmeadow is a curious young man,’ said Matilde. ‘I saw him early last Monday morning covered in pale dust, so he looked like a ghost. He was brushing at it furiously, but the stuff was difficult to get off. He told me it was the result of a practical joke Deynman had played on him, but I am sure he was lying. I suspect he had been with a woman.’

Bartholomew recalled seeing a whitish powder ingrained on the student’s sleeve, too, and supposed Redmeadow had used his teacher’s convenient absence on Sunday night – while he investigated the bodies at the mill – to secure himself a lover. Some of the town’s Frail Sisters used chalky substances on their faces, and Bartholomew knew such stains could be very difficult to remove.

‘Quenhyth is studying,’ said Michael, making it sound like the most dreadful of vices. ‘He does nothing else, and is as tedious a young fellow as I have ever encountered. He will make an extremely dull physician one day, who will kill his patients by boring them to death.’

‘He needs something to take his mind away from himself,’ said Matilde. ‘Also, he has the look of a young man who has been crossed in love.’

‘Quenhyth?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking of the student’s prim manners. ‘I do not think so!’

‘You mark my words,’ said Matilde. ‘I am not saying he was involved in a physical affair, only that he loved someone who perhaps did not return his adoration. He is a passionate young man.’

Bartholomew supposed that was true. ‘But all his passion is aimed at his studies.’

‘For now,’ said Matilde. ‘But I would not like to be the woman – or the man – who attracts his devotion. He is very single-minded.’

‘She does not look as if she wants to go with you,’ said Michael, indicating Bess with a nod of his tonsured head. ‘Where are you taking her?’

‘To Una again,’ said Matilde. ‘I do not know what else to do with her. Nothing she says makes any sense. I wonder how long she has been looking for her man.’

‘My man,’ murmured Bess, looking as if she expected him to appear. ‘Have you seen him?’

‘What does he look like?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking that if he asked often enough he might have an answer.

Bess smiled for the first time since he had met her. ‘Beautiful and strong. Like a tree, with long limbs and smooth bark.’

‘I have seen no one answering that description,’ said Michael. ‘Have you tried the forest?’

‘My man does not visit woods,’ replied Bess, unusually communicative. ‘He prefers taverns.’

‘Do you remember his name?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And what makes you think he is here?’

‘He might be here,’ she agreed. ‘His name was to have been “husband”.’

‘She had a lot of money two days ago, but there is not a penny left now,’ said Matilde. She turned to the woman. ‘Bess? Where is all that gold you had? Did someone take it?’

‘He promised,’ said Bess, her eyes filling with tears. ‘He said he would tell me.’

‘Someone promised to take you to your man if you gave him coins?’ asked Bartholomew.

Bess nodded. ‘But he did not know. I cannot find him. I have been looking since the snows fell.’

Matilde’s face was a mask of fury. ‘I knew some villain would cheat her. Have people no shame? How could they take advantage of someone who is out of her wits?’

‘Many felons will see her as fair game,’ said Michael. ‘I will ask my beadles to look for men spending gold they cannot explain, but I doubt we shall get it back for her.’

Bess went to stand at the edge of the river, gazing at the eddies created by the mills upstream.

Matilde watched her. ‘I think her man is dead, and his demise damaged her mind. She could spend the rest of her life looking for someone who is already in his grave,’ she said.

‘She looks like Katherine Mortimer,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I see Katherine each time I meet Bess now.’

‘But a very shabby and ill-conditioned Katherine Mortimer,’ said Matilde. ‘I wondered whether they might be related, too, and asked the Mortimers about it, but none admit to owning her as kin.’

‘We have just been to Deschalers’s house,’ said Michael, bored with the subject of the madwoman. ‘The Mortimers are squabbling over his estate like dogs with a carcass. It is not an edifying sight.’

‘That does not surprise me,’ said Matilde. ‘Deschalers was wealthy, and there is a good deal to fight over. I heard they quarrel frequently now Edward is back, whereas before they were rather taciturn. The Frail Sisters do not enjoy visiting members of the Mortimer clan these days, although they enjoyed the rare occasions when Deschalers summoned them.’

‘I did not know Deschalers regularly enjoyed whores,’ said Michael baldly.

‘He did not,’ said Matilde shortly, not liking the crude reference to women she regarded as her friends. ‘He liked an occasional female companion – but only after Katherine had ended their affair. He was also fond of Bernarde the miller’s wife – before she died of the Death, obviously.’

‘Bernarde’s wife?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise. He exchanged a glance with Michael. Here was another reason why the miller might have killed Deschalers. No man liked being a cuckold, and Bernarde’s wife had been a pretty lady.

‘It was a long time ago,’ said Matilde. ‘I do not know whether Bernarde was aware of it or not.’

‘Would Deschalers have hired Bess?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking about the day she had followed the merchant’s horse, clearly bound for his home.

Matilde laughed. ‘Of course not! He would never have gone with an unclean thing like her. He prided himself on his standards.’

‘Then why was she with him on the High Street last Saturday?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I have no idea,’ said Matilde. ‘Perhaps she was following him in the hope of information about her man.’

‘Could Deschalers have known what happened to him?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I doubt it,’ replied Matilde. ‘Unless he hired the fellow to guard his goods or some such thing. Unfortunately, with Deschalers dead, there is no one to ask. His apprentices are unlikely to co-operate, given their bitterness over being left nothing in his will and then dismissed by Edward, and Julianna will not know.’

‘I do not suppose you have heard anything about Deschalers or Bottisham through the Frail Sisters?’ asked Michael hopefully. A network of gossip was accumulated by the town’s prostitutes and fed to Matilde, who was very good at making sense of disparate details and putting them into context.

‘Not really,’ said Matilde. ‘I have asked them to listen for anything that may be important, but no one has said anything yet. Certainly no client has boasted of being the killer, or of knowing who the killer is. There is a lot of speculation, of course, but no evidence.’

‘And what does this speculation say?’ asked Michael, somewhat desperately.

‘That Thorpe and Edward are responsible, so that the University will rise up and attack the town.’

‘And what about Bosel the beggar?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He has been all but forgotten.’

‘Bess is alleged to have made an end of him,’ said Matilde. ‘It is said that Thomas Mortimer hired her, to prevent Bosel from speaking against him over the accident that killed Lenne. But you can see for yourself that she is incapable of carrying out even the most simple of tasks – and murder would be wholly beyond her.’ She turned to Bartholomew. ‘How is Mistress Lenne?’

‘She is waiting for her son to arrive, but I think she will let herself die when he comes.’

‘Should we take her to the Hand of Justice?’ asked Matilde wickedly. ‘It may answer an entreaty from her, since she has been the victim of a particularly dreadful miscarriage of justice.’

‘Have you seen my man?’ came Bess’s pitiful voice from the river bank as she addressed someone who was passing.

Bartholomew turned just in time to see young Thorpe raise his hand to slap her so that she tumbled backwards on to the grass. Matilde gave a strangled cry and rushed to her side, while Bartholomew stepped forward and shoved Thorpe in the chest as hard as he could. He saw the young man’s face run through a gamut of emotions before he lost his balance: satisfaction, followed by alarm, ending with shocked indignation. Then he hit the water with a tremendous splash.

Stanmore’s apprentices released a great cheer when Thorpe disappeared under the sewage-dappled surface of the River Cam. The nearby bargemen started to laugh, and a number of children screeched their delight in high voices. Others flocked to join them, and soon a small but vocal crowd was watching the events that were unfolding on the river bank. It comprised scholars and townsmen, all united in a common purpose: when Thorpe emerged spluttering and spitting, they jeered at him with a single voice.

‘I am not sure that was wise, Matt,’ said Michael, watching with folded arms. ‘No man likes to be made a fool of, and you have turned Thorpe into a spectacle for all to mock.’

‘Help me!’ cried Thorpe as he floundered. Bartholomew was not unduly alarmed. The river was deep at that point, but Thorpe was easily reachable. ‘I cannot swim!’

‘Let him drown!’ called one of the apprentices. His sentiment was applauded by his fellows.

‘Is she all right?’ asked Bartholomew, kneeling next to Bess. There was a trickle of blood from a split lip, but she seemed more shocked than harmed. ‘I do not like men who hit women.’

‘Neither do I,’ said Matilde furiously. ‘And if you had not punched him, then I would have done so.’

‘Help!’ gasped Thorpe, his voice barely audible over the sound of splashing. ‘Please!’

‘Pull him out, Matt,’ ordered Michael. ‘Tempting though it is to leave him there, my monastic vocation does not allow me to stand by while men die. Give him your hand.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He will drag me in with him.’

‘Is this your idea of practising medicine?’ came an angry voice at Bartholomew’s shoulder. It was Rougham, and he wore a pained expression on his face. ‘You stand gossiping while a man drowns?’

‘I thought you were in Ely,’ said Michael. ‘With the other Gonville Fellows.’

Rougham looked smug. ‘Someone needs to stay here and look after College business. I have been entrusted with Gonville’s safe keeping until Acting Master Pulham and the others return.’

‘In that case,’ said Michael, ‘you can tell me why they all lied about the Mortimers’ donation–’

Rougham brushed him aside. ‘I will not answer questions put by the likes of you while a member of my own College perishes before my very eyes. I will save him!’

‘He can swim,’ said Bartholomew.

‘He is dying,’ countered Rougham firmly. He turned to the crowd. ‘Bartholomew may be content to stand by and watch a man perish, but I, William Rougham of Gonville Hall, am not. Remember that when you next summon a physician.’

‘Wait, Rougham,’ began Bartholomew. ‘He has–’

‘We can discuss your refusal to save lives later,’ said Rougham harshly.

He turned around, and made a great show of preparing himself. With much grunting and wincing, to demonstrate that what he did was not easy, he knelt on the river bank and offered an arm to the figure in the water. Thorpe flopped towards it, took the proffered hand and gave an almighty heave. Rougham went into the water head first, to emerge coughing and spluttering some distance away. There was another howl of delighted amusement from the onlookers.

‘We shall remember you, William Rougham of Gonville Hall,’ called Agatha the laundress, drawing more mocking laughter from the crowd. ‘But I prefer my physicians dry, thank you!’

Thorpe hauled himself from the river with one easy, sinuous movement. He stalked over to Bartholomew, and, for an instant, the physician thought he might draw a knife or strike him with his balled fists. But Thorpe was not stupid, and was aware of Michael standing nearby, not to mention Agatha. Since harming Bartholomew and escaping unscathed was impossible – Michael had grabbed a stout stick, while Agatha was casually inspecting one of her cooking knives – Thorpe settled for a warning.

‘I will not forget this, physician,’ he hissed venomously. ‘Your time will come.’

‘Help me,’ came an unsteady voice from the river.

‘If you harm another woman,’ said Bartholomew, in a quiet, calm voice that held far more menace than Thorpe’s hiss, ‘I will make sure you never feel safe again. That is not a threat, because threats are not always carried out.’

He shouldered Thorpe out of the way with more force than was necessary, and knelt on the bank to offer his arm to the floundering Rougham, hoping the Gonville physician did not also intend to drag his rescuer into the water. But Rougham was far too shaken to do anything of the kind. He grasped Bartholomew’s hand with a grip that was painful, and allowed himself to be helped out, to lie on the grass gasping like a landed fish.

‘He could swim,’ he panted furiously. ‘He said he could not. He deceived me!’

‘My brother-in-law teaches all his apprentices to swim,’ said Bartholomew, removing his cloak and offering it to his shivering colleague. ‘It is an essential part of their training, because they unload barges at the quays, and they occasionally fall in. I tried to warn–’

Rougham snatched the shabby garment. ‘You deceived me, too,’ he declared. ‘You happily allowed me to fall foul of that trick. Thorpe is not the only one who will have his revenge.’

Michael sniggered at the sight of the portly physician waddling away up the towpath with water slopping from his boots. ‘I did not think Rougham could despise you any more than he already does, Matt, but I see I was wrong. You have achieved the impossible!’

‘It was his own fault for not listening to me.’ Bartholomew gave a sudden grin. ‘But it was worth it! Who would have thought we would see Rougham and Thorpe take an unintentional swim? But it is cold here with no cloak. I am going home.’

They had barely reached the bottom of St Michael’s Lane when they met Walter. The porter was wearing one of his rare smiles, and Bartholomew supposed he had been among those who had witnessed the lessons meted out at the riverside.

‘You are needed at Valence Marie, Doctor,’ he said. ‘Urgent. Someone has been struck down and they want you to come. In fact, Master Thorpe said he would pay you double if you run.’

‘You had better go to it, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘I shall return to Michaelhouse, and you can give me the grisly details later – but not while I am eating.’

‘It is Warde,’ elaborated Walter. ‘He was eating his evening meal, when he began to cough. He is unable to stop and they think he will die.’

‘You should come with me, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, aware of a gnawing unease growing in the pit of his stomach. ‘Warde has a tickling throat, not a disease of the lungs. He should not cough so much that his colleagues are in fear of his life.’

‘What are you saying?’ demanded Michael, alarmed. ‘That someone has done something to him?’

‘I think we should bear it in mind,’ said Bartholomew, breaking into a run, not because of the promised double fee, but because he liked Warde. ‘Do not forget that Warde is one of the King’s Commissioners.’