‘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.’
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br /> ‘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 occurr
ed 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.’
Bartholomew 10 - The Hand of Justice Page 28