‘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 appearin
g 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 10 - The Hand of Justice Page 26