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.’
Bartholomew 10 - The Hand of Justice Page 27