Bartholomew 10 - The Hand of Justice

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘You can come with me,’ said Bartholomew, deciding that if he was to forgo a meal, then Quenhyth could do so, too. He was not overly dismayed by the prospect of sacrificing breakfast. Michaelhouse fare had seen something of a downward turn in quality over the past ten days or so, and he knew he was not going to miss much. ‘And Redmeadow, too. We are going to discuss fevers this week, and this will give you some practical experience. Roger Bacon asserts the superiority of experience over authority and speculation, after all.’

  He shot a combative glance in Michael’s direction and the monk sighed, but declined to argue. If his friend wanted to play with the fires of heresy, and would not listen to advice about how not to burn himself, then Michael could do no more to help him. While Quenhyth sped across the yard to fetch his fellow student, Bartholomew leaned against the gate and surveyed the College that was his home.

  The centrepiece was Michaelhouse’s fine hall-house. It boasted a lavish entrance with the founder’s coat of arms emblazoned above it, which opened to a wide spiral staircase that led to the hall and conclave above. Below were the kitchens and various storerooms and pantries. At right angles to the hall were a pair of accommodation wings, both two storeys tall and with sloping, red-tiled roofs. A wall opposite the hall made an enclosed rectangle of the buildings, and its sturdy oaken gate meant that the College was well able to protect itself, should it ever come under attack. There was a second courtyard beyond the first, but this comprised mostly stables, storerooms and lean-to sheds, where the servants lived and worked. Past that was a long strip of land that extended to the river.

  Michael also decided to accompany Bartholomew, content to miss a Michaelhouse breakfast on the understanding that they ate a better one in a tavern later. He was just asking for more details about Isnard’s health when there was a sudden commotion in the kitchens. First came a screech of rage from Agatha the laundress – Agatha was the College’s only female servant, and she ran Michaelhouse’s domestic affairs with ruthless efficiency – and then a cockerel crowed. Within moments, the bird came hurtling out of Agatha’s domain in a flurry of feathers and flapping wings, followed by the laundress herself, who was brandishing a long carving knife. Agatha was an intimidating sight at any time, but being armed and angry made her especially terrifying.

  ‘I will chop off your head next time, you filthy beast!’ she bellowed, waving the weapon menacingly but declining to enjoin an undignified chase that the bird would win. It fluttered to a safe distance, fluffed up its feathers, then crowed as loudly as it could. Agatha started towards it, furious at being issued with what was clearly a challenge.

  ‘Leave him alone!’

  Walter the porter, who owned the cockerel, was out of the gatehouse and steaming across the yard, intent on rescuing his pet from the enraged laundress. He was a morose man, who seldom smiled and who cared for nothing and no one – except the annoying bird that had made an enemy of almost everyone who lived in the College. It crowed all night, keeping scholars from their sleep; it slipped into their rooms when they were out and left unwelcome deposits on their belongings; and it terrorised the cat, which people liked because it was friendly and purred a lot. The cockerel was not friendly, and did nothing as remotely endearing as purring.

  ‘Keep that thing away from the hens I am preparing for dinner,’ Agatha yelled at Walter. ‘It is a vile, perverted fiend, and if I catch it I shall serve it to you stuffed with eel heads and rhubarb leaves.’

  Michael turned to Bartholomew in alarm. ‘Should we allow her control of our kitchens if she has the ability to devise dishes like that?’

  ‘You would not dare to stuff Bird!’ howled Walter in fury. ‘I will kill you first!’

  ‘You could try,’ snarled Agatha, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. She still waved the knife and was clearly ready to inflict serious damage with it, preferably on something avian.

  Bartholomew stepped forward quickly. ‘Agatha, please. No harm has been done, and Walter will try to keep his bird out of your way in future.’

  ‘He had better do more than try, if he does not want me to wring its neck,’ she hissed, before turning on her heel and stalking back inside. The cockerel watched her with its pale, beady eyes and released a triumphant cackle. Fortunately for all concerned, the sound of smashing pottery came from the scullery at that point, and Agatha was more interested in what had been broken than in prolonging the duel with her feathered opponent.

  ‘Bird knows how to look after himself,’ said Walter to Bartholomew with considerable pride. ‘She will never catch him, no matter what she says.’

  ‘She might,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘I have seen her move like lightning in the past, and Bird is becoming overconfident. You should lock him away if you do not want him cooked.’

  Walter strode to the tatty creature and scooped it under his arm. If anyone else had tried to do the same, there would have been a frenzy of flailing claws and snapping beaks, and Bartholomew marvelled that Walter had made a connection with such a surly beast. He supposed that each of them must have recognised a kindred spirit.

  ‘There now, Bird,’ Walter crooned, kissing the top of its feathered head with great tenderness. ‘You are safe now. I will not let anyone stuff you – and especially not with eels and rhubarb.’

  ‘I do not blame Agatha for wanting to dispense with Bird,’ said Michael, as the porter entered his gatehouse and slammed the door behind him. ‘It ate a page from the Insolubilia I am writing the other day – the part where I expand on dialectic being the only science to prove the existence of God. All that brilliance, and it ended up in the gullet of that foul creature.’

  Bartholomew was not amused when Quenhyth arrived not only with Redmeadow, but with Rob Deynman, too. Deynman was a student tolerated at Michaelhouse because his father paid extra fees, but he was becoming an embarrassment, because he was the oldest undergraduate in the University and would never pass his disputations. Bartholomew had also learned from bitter experience that the lad could not be allowed near patients, either. That morning, however, he did not have the energy to send him on a different mission, so Deynman formed part of the small procession that hurried along Milne Street on its way to Isnard’s house.

  ‘There is that strange woman again,’ said Deynman, pointing towards the churchyard of St John Zachary. ‘She arrived here two or three weeks ago, and does not know who she is. People say she is looking for a lover who died in the French wars.’

  Bartholomew followed the direction of his finger and saw a dirty, huddled figure sitting atop one of the tombs, rocking herself back and forth. She was so encased in layers of rags that it was impossible to tell what she looked like, but he could see long, brown hair that had probably once been a luxurious mane, although it was now matted with filth, and a white, pinched face that had a half-starved look about it. She was singing, and her haunting melody cut through the noise of the street, its notes sad and sweet above the clatter of hoofs and the slap of footsteps in mud.

  ‘Then she will not find him here,’ said Quenhyth unsympathetically. ‘She should visit Paris or Calais instead. We should hurry, Doctor. Isnard’s summons sounded urgent.’

  ‘She looks familiar,’ said Bartholomew, pausing to look at her and ignoring Quenhyth’s impatience at the delay. The student was hoping they would tend Isnard and still be back at Michaelhouse in time for breakfast; being impecunious, he tended to be less fussy about what he ate, especially when it was free. ‘But I cannot place her face.’

  ‘You cannot know her,’ said Deynman. ‘She is a stranger here.’

  ‘She should go to the Canons at St John’s Hospital,’ suggested Redmeadow, ready to foist the problem on to someone else. The kindly Canons often found a bed and a meal for those who were out of their wits, and all budding physicians knew they provided a quick and easy solution for some of their more inconvenient cases.

  ‘I took her there last week,’ said Quenhyth, grabbing Bartholomew’s sleeve in an attempt to drag him a
way. ‘She was in the Market Square talking to some onions, and it occurred to me that there might be something amiss with her wits.’

  ‘Such an incisive diagnosis,’ muttered Redmeadow. ‘She talks to onions, and it crosses his mind that she might be addled.’

  Quenhyth did not dignify the comment with a reply, and continued to address Bartholomew. ‘I escorted her to the Canons, but she ran away from them the next day. They told me she will leave Cambridge when she realises that whatever she is looking for is not here, and will head off to haunt some other town. They say they have seen many such cases since the plague.’

  Bartholomew pulled away from Quenhyth, not liking the way his student had taken to manhandling him on occasions. He rummaged in his scrip and found some farthings. ‘Give her these,’ he said to Deynman. ‘Or better still, go with her to Constantine Mortimer’s shop, and ensure she buys bread – not ribbons or some such thing.’

  ‘But by that time you will have finished Isnard’s treatment,’ cried Deynman in dismay. ‘And I will not have seen what you did.’

  ‘Go and help her, Deynman,’ said Bartholomew softly, moved by the sight of the pitiful creature who rocked and sang to herself. ‘She needs you.’

  Reluctantly, Deynman did as he was told. Bartholomew saw him bend to speak to her, then politely offer his arm, as he might to any lady in his rich father’s house. Physician Deynman would never be, but he had better manners and a kinder heart than his classmates. Bartholomew was about to resume his journey to Isnard when Deynman issued a shriek of horror.

  Bartholomew’s blood ran cold. The woman had seemed more pathetic than violent, and he had thought she was not the kind to harm anyone who might try to help her. But he could have been wrong – and if he were, then he had forced Deynman to pay the price for his misjudgement. He stumbled across the ancient graves towards them, fearing the worst. But it was not Deynman who had come to grief; it was Bosel the beggar. The alms-hunter lay curled on his side in the long grass of the churchyard, his skin waxy with the touch of death.

  ‘Poisoned?’ asked Michael in surprise. He watched Bartholomew examine the beggar’s corpse as they waited for the Sheriff to arrive. ‘Are you sure? Who would poison Bosel? He is harmless.’

  ‘You would not think that if you were one of the people he had burgled,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Or if you were Thomas Mortimer, and had him claiming you deliberately ran over Lenne and Isnard.’

  ‘You think Mortimer killed Bosel?’ asked Michael. He rubbed his chin, nodding to himself. ‘Ridding yourself of an inconvenient witness is a powerful motive for murder.’

  ‘I thought he had more sense, though,’ said Bartholomew, prising open Bosel’s mouth to show Michael the discoloured tongue and bloodied gums. ‘He must have known he would be the obvious suspect.’

  ‘Desperate men are not always rational,’ replied Michael, looking away quickly before he lost the illicit early breakfast he had eaten in his room before mass that morning. Bosel’s mouth was not a pretty sight. ‘But Thomas is constantly drunk these days. I am surprised he could carry out a murder using as discreet a means as poison.’

  ‘His family, then,’ said Bartholomew. ‘His brother Constantine and all those nephews and cousins. Still, I am surprised. Poisoning Bosel is an utterly stupid thing to do.’

  Michael agreed. ‘Poor Bosel. I shall miss his insolent demands for spare change on the High Street. What killed him?’

  ‘He ate or drank something caustic that burned his mouth and innards,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It would not have been an easy death.’

  ‘She might have killed him,’ suggested Quenhyth, nodding to where Deynman was sitting on a tomb with his arm around the shoulders of the madwoman. It was not quite clear who was comforting whom, and Deynman seemed to be deriving as much relief from the warm, close presence of another living person as was the woman herself. ‘She was discovered next to his corpse, after all.’

  ‘She does not have the wits,’ said Michael, although Bartholomew remained sceptical. His alarm when he had thought she might have harmed Deynman was still bright in his mind.

  ‘She says she was keeping his body company,’ said Redmeadow, eyeing her uneasily, as if he did not know what to believe. ‘She claims she found him at dawn this morning, and did not want him to be alone. She was waiting for a priest to come and relieve her of her vigil. She told me Deschalers the grocer gave Bosel his new clothes, though. Perhaps that is significant.’

  Bartholomew did not see why it should be. ‘Bosel was a beggar, and people were always giving him things. It is how he made his living.’

  ‘I do not see Deschalers poisoning him to get them back, either,’ said Michael, surveying what had once probably been some decent garments, but that had become soiled and ragged in Bosel’s possession. He glanced up and saw the Sheriff striding towards him. ‘But this is his problem, not mine. The victim here is a townsman.’

  Tulyet listened in silence to Bartholomew’s opinion that Bosel had died from ingesting something highly caustic. The physician pointed out an empty wineskin and a pool of vomit near the body, which he thought indicative that Bosel had died fairly soon after swallowing the substance. He did not possess the skill claimed by some of his medical colleagues to determine an exact time of death, but a lump of bread in Bosel’s scrip was unmistakably the kind handed out by the Canons of St John’s Hospital at seven o’clock each evening. Therefore Bosel had died later than seven. The body was icy cold, suggesting it had been dead several hours. Tulyet bullied and cajoled Bartholomew until he had the physician’s best guess: Bosel had probably died late the previous evening, most likely before midnight.

  Tulyet frowned. ‘Did he do this to himself? Is he a suicide?’

  ‘I do not see why,’ said Bartholomew. ‘First, he had no funds to buy poison. And secondly, I imagine he was going to demand money from the Mortimers – by offering to retract his story about the incident with Lenne and Isnard. His future was looking rosy.’

  ‘It was,’ agreed Tulyet thoughtfully. ‘The obvious conclusion is that Thomas Mortimer did this: mixed poison with wine and gave it to Bosel to drink. However, if Bosel was murdered between seven and midnight, then Mortimer is innocent. He was at a meeting of the town burgesses during those hours, discussing repairs to the Great Bridge. I know, because I was there.’

  ‘One of his family, then,’ said Michael. ‘God knows, there are enough of them. And do not forget that they now include his nephew, Edward, whom we know is a killer.’

  ‘Edward was at this meeting, too,’ said Tulyet. He grimaced. ‘And so was young Rob Thorpe.’

  ‘Thorpe and Edward,’ mused Quenhyth, who was listening uninvited to their discussion. ‘The two felons who were found guilty by the King’s Bench but who then secured themselves pardons.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Tulyet bitterly. ‘Two ruthless criminals given the liberty to roam free in my town. I have enough to worry about, without watching them day and night.’

  ‘You should not have recommended them for a King’s Pardon, then,’ said Michael tartly. ‘I made some enquiries about that, and learned it was a letter from the Sheriff of Cambridgeshire that tipped the balance in their favour. Without that letter, they would still be in France.’

  Tulyet shot him a withering look. ‘That may well be true, but I was not Sheriff when their case came under review. Stephen Morice was. He was the one who claimed the town had no objection to their release, not me.’

  ‘Do you think Thorpe and Edward killed Bosel?’ asked Michael of Bartholomew, ignoring the Sheriff’s ire that he should be blamed for something his predecessor had done.

  Tulyet raised his eyebrows and spoke before the physician could reply. ‘I have just told you they were both in a meeting last night. How can they be responsible?’

  ‘Because you do not need to be present when your victim dies of poison,’ Michael pointed out. ‘They could have given Bosel the doctored wine hours before they went to this meeting.’

  Tulyet c
onsidered, then nodded towards the madwoman. ‘In my experience the person who finds a murdered corpse is often its killer, and she seems to have no rational reason for being with Bosel. Do I know her? She looks familiar.’

  ‘Where would she find the money to buy wine and poison?’ asked Michael. ‘And why kill Bosel when she is a stranger in Cambridge, with no reason to harm any of its inhabitants?’

  ‘How do you know she had no reason to harm Bosel?’ asked Bartholomew reasonably. ‘We know nothing about her, not even her name. And she is out of her wits, so is not rational. She may have killed him because she thought he was someone else.’

  ‘Shall I arrest her, then?’ asked Tulyet. ‘I will, if you think she is guilty.’

  ‘I do not know,’ said Bartholomew, unwilling to condemn anyone to the Castle prison. It was a foul place, full of rats and dripping slime. ‘She might be telling the truth – that she found the body and did not like to leave it alone until a priest came.’

  ‘Perhaps she stole the wine,’ suggested Tulyet, reluctant to dismiss a potential culprit too readily. ‘Or Bosel did – and got more than he bargained for. Unfortunately, I am too busy to look into this myself. Repairs to the Great Bridge begin today, and I must be there to supervise.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘That is the burgesses’ responsibility, not yours.’

  Tulyet’s face was angry. ‘Because the burgesses, in an attempt to cut costs, want to use the cheapest labour available: the prisoners in my Castle. That is why we had that meeting last night. I objected very strongly, but I was outvoted on all sides, so debtors, thieves and violent robbers will be set free to work on the bridge this very afternoon. I need to make sure they do not try to escape – or that my soldiers will know how to stop them, if they do.’

  ‘When they do,’ muttered Bartholomew.

  ‘It is about time the bridge was mended,’ said Michael. ‘It almost collapsed when I last used it.’

  ‘It has been subjected to some very heavy loads recently,’ agreed Tulyet. ‘But, besides watching forty able-bodied villains, I am also obliged to keep a close watch on Thorpe and Edward. I am sure they came here intending mischief. I shall have to delegate Bosel’s murder investigation to Sergeant Orwelle.’