Bartholomew 10 - The Hand of Justice

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘Orwelle is a good man,’ said Bartholomew, although he thought it a pity that Bosel was to be deprived of the superior talents of the Sheriff. ‘He will do his best to solve this crime.’

  ‘And he has a limited number of suspects,’ added Michael. ‘Thomas Mortimer and his clan are the only ones with a known motive.’

  ‘Well, there is her,’ said Tulyet, pointing at the woman. ‘However, I have a feeling you are right: Bosel’s death probably does have something to do with the Mortimers. Bosel’s evidence was not worth much, but without it I have nothing.’

  Bartholomew and Michael left the Sheriff, and resumed their walk to Isnard’s house with Quenhyth and Redmeadow trailing behind them; Deynman had been charged with taking the woman to St John’s Hospital. They passed through the Trumpington Gate, then cut down the narrow lane opposite the Hall of Valence Marie, which was rutted with water-filled potholes deep enough to drown a sheep. Isnard’s home was on the river bank, overlooking the Mill Pool.

  The bargeman’s residence was not in a good location. It was near both the Cam and the King’s Ditch, both of which were stinking open sewers that contained all manner of filth. Being by the Mill Pool did not help either, since the current slowed there, causing the foulness to linger rather than being carried away. The pool was fringed with reeds and, in the spring and summer, Bartholomew imagined the bargeman would be plagued with swarms of insects. The house was near the town’s two largest watermills, too, and, although Bartholomew supposed their neighbours would grow used to the rhythmic clank and rumble of their mighty wheels, he did not think he would ever do so. As he picked his way along the muddy path to Isnard’s home, he studied them.

  The King’s Mill was a hall-house located a few paces upstream from the Mill Pool. It spanned an arm of water that had been artificially narrowed to make it run faster and stronger. Its vertical wheel was of the undershot style, designed so that water struck its lower blades to set it in motion. The power generated was transferred to the mill itself by means of an ‘axle tree’ – a shaft connected to a series of cogs and wheels. It was not just the swishing, clunking sound of the wheel as it turned that was so noisy, but the rattle of the machinery, too.

  Standing a short distance from the King’s Mill was Mortimer’s Mill, owned and run by the man who had injured Isnard. It was smaller than its competitor but just as noisy, and a good deal more filthy. The King’s Mill ground grain for flour, but Mortimer’s Mill had recently been converted for fulling cloth, a process that entailed the use of a lot of very smelly substances, all of which ended up in the river. The bargeman would be able to see Mortimer’s enterprise from his sickbed, and Bartholomew wondered what he thought as he lay maimed and fevered, while the author of his troubles continued with the work that was making him a very wealthy man.

  As Bartholomew listened to the repetitive rattle coming from the King’s Mill, he became aware that it was slowing down. There was not as much water in each of the wheel’s scoops, and the busy sound of its workings faltered, as though it had run out of energy. By contrast, Mortimer’s Mill was operating at a cracking pace, and, if anything, was going even faster. He saw people hurry from the King’s Mill and start to inspect their wheel, as if they could not understand why it had lost power. He watched their puzzled musings for a moment, then turned to enter his patient’s home.

  The house was poor and mean. Its thatched roof was in need of repair, and plaster was peeling from its walls, exposing the wattle and daub underneath. A chamber on the ground floor held a table, a bench, a hearth and a shelf for pots; an attic, reached by a ladder, was where Isnard usually slept. Since the bargeman’s injury meant he could not climb the steps, Bartholomew had carried his bedding downstairs the previous day.

  The physician was fully expecting him to develop a fever that might kill him, and was surprised, but pleased, to discover that the burly bargeman had not succumbed. He was even more surprised to find him sitting up and talking to a visitor – a man named Nicholas Bottisham, who was Gonville Hall’s Master of Civil and Canon Law. Bottisham was regarded as one of the finest scholars in the University, possessing a mind that retained facts and references and made him a superb disputant. He had recently taken major orders with the Carmelites, and his new habit was still pristine. His complexion was florid and uneven, as a result of a disfiguring pox contracted in childhood, and his hair was cut high above his ears in a way indicating that Barber Lenne had been at it. He stood when Bartholomew, Michael and the two students entered.

  ‘You are a popular man, Isnard,’ said Bottisham, picking up his cloak from the table. ‘I shall leave you, before you have so many guests that your walls burst and your house tumbles about your ears.’

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ said Isnard, reaching out to take the man’s hand. ‘It was kind.’

  ‘I will come again tomorrow,’ promised Bottisham. ‘And I shall visit old Mistress Lenne. I will see she is looked after until her son arrives from Thetford, just as you ask.’

  ‘And what about Thomas Mortimer?’ asked Isnard, his voice angry. ‘Will you detain him in a dark alley and chop off his legs with an axe? I asked you to do that, too.’

  Bottisham smiled indulgently. ‘You can do that yourself, when you are better.’

  Isnard grinned without humour. ‘It will give me something to look forward to. I will teach him that he cannot drive when he is full of ale, and kill honest old men as they stand chatting in the streets. Thank God Bosel is prepared to stand up and tell the truth.’

  Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a glance. Isnard did not notice, but Bottisham was an observant man and immediately sensed something amiss.

  ‘Has Bosel retracted his statement already?’ he asked in dismay. ‘I did not think Mortimer would act quite so soon. I assumed he would wait to see what kind of case the Sheriff put together before spending money on bribes that might not be necessary.’

  ‘Bosel will not be bribed by Mortimer,’ predicted Isnard confidently. ‘He will tell the truth. I have already made sure of that by offering three groats more than Mortimer’s highest price.’ He smiled in satisfaction at his foresight.

  ‘Bosel is dead,’ said Michael bluntly. ‘He will not be telling the “truth” for anyone.’

  ‘Mortimer murdered Bosel, so he cannot speak for me?’ asked Isnard, aghast.

  ‘The Sheriff says Mortimer was at a meeting all last night, so cannot be responsible,’ said Michael. ‘He will have to make his case without Bosel.’ He did not add that Tulyet considered this impossible.

  ‘I will dispense a little justice of my own, then,’ said Isnard, wringing his bed-covers furiously. ‘I will not lie here with Lenne and Bosel slain, and let Mortimer get away with it.’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Bartholomew, concerned that Isnard might persuade some crony to help him leave his sickbed too soon, resulting in a third death.

  Isnard shook his head, already spent and too unwell to sustain his temper for long. ‘I am full of words, and not the type to stalk merchants and take axes to them.’ Bartholomew said nothing, knowing he was exactly that kind of man – or had been, when in possession of all his limbs. ‘But I mean what I say about justice. I will see Mortimer punished for what he did, even if it means visiting the King himself to put my case.’

  ‘I will tell you how to go about it,’ offered Bottisham generously. ‘The law is complex, and there are certain procedures you must follow. But your physician is waiting to tend you, and I should not linger here and make a nuisance of myself. Rest, Isnard. I will pray for you.’

  He patted the bargeman’s shoulder, nodded a friendly farewell to Bartholomew and Michael, and squeezed past Quenhyth and Redmeadow to reach the door.

  ‘I am delighted to see you looking so well,’ said Michael, plumping himself down on Isnard’s single bench with such force that Bartholomew thought it might break. ‘When I heard you had summoned Matt this morning, I assumed you had taken a turn for the worse.’

  ‘I need something fo
r the itching, Doctor,’ said Isnard sheepishly. ‘I am sorry to drag you from your breakfast, but it could not wait. It is driving me to distraction.’

  ‘Itching?’ asked Bartholomew, assuming that now Isnard was confined to his bed, he was unable to escape the fleas that flourished in his filthy blankets. Cleansing the house of all the small creatures that bit and sucked blood would be an imposing task, and Bartholomew was not sure it could be done.

  ‘My foot,’ whispered Isnard hoarsely. ‘It itches something fierce.’

  ‘Scratch it, then,’ suggested Redmeadow helpfully. He flexed one of his hands, revealing some lengthy nails. ‘I will do it for you, if you like.’

  ‘No, the other one,’ said Isnard, still in a whisper, as though he considered it unlucky or dangerous to speak in a normal voice about a limb that was no longer attached.

  ‘You mean the one that is gone?’ asked Michael warily. ‘How do you know it is itching? I doubt Matt told you what he did with it. He usually declines to share such ghoulish information.’

  ‘It itches,’ persisted Isnard stubbornly. ‘And I do not mean from the river, or wherever he disposed of it. I mean it itches at the bottom of my leg, where it used to live.’

  ‘I have heard such complaints before,’ said Bartholomew, aware that Michael was looking around for evidence that Isnard had been drinking. He recalled an archer in France telling him the same thing about an amputated arm. ‘It is not unusual to imagine a limb is still there for some time after it has been removed. And I did not throw it in the river, by the way. People drink from that.’

  ‘But what can I do about it?’ asked Isnard, distressed. ‘I cannot think about anything other than this itch, and yet I cannot put an end to it. Will it last for the rest of my life? If so, I do not think I can stand it.’ His voice was unsteady.

  ‘I can dig it up and give it a good scratch, if you like,’ offered Redmeadow, trying hard to be useful. ‘That might cure you.’

  ‘He needs a purge,’ countered Quenhyth with great conviction. ‘A tincture of linseed fried in fat should put an end to his miseries. Or perhaps mallow leaves stewed in old ale.’

  ‘It might put an end to him, too,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I do not want his humours unbalanced by purges. He needs to gain strength from his food, not lose it by vomiting.’

  ‘A clyster, then,’ said Quenhyth with unseemly relish. ‘I can prepare a potion of green camomile, salt, honey and lard, and you can squirt it into his anus and cleanse his bowels.’

  ‘I do not like the sound of this,’ said Isnard uneasily. ‘My bowels are my own affair, and not for others to explore as they please.’

  ‘I quite agree,’ interposed Michael, the expression on his face indicating that he found the discussion distasteful. He changed the subject. ‘Why was Bottisham visiting you, Isnard? I did not know the two of you were acquainted.’

  ‘I regularly haul barges for his College – Gonville,’ replied Isnard. ‘And Master Bottisham has always been kind to me. He came to ask if there was anything I need, but, apart from strong ale, which Doctor Bartholomew says I cannot have, I am well looked after by my neighbours.’

  ‘I prescribed a clyster for Master Bernarde the miller when he had an aching elbow,’ said Quenhyth sulkily. ‘It worked very well.’

  Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘You did what?’

  ‘You were out inspecting corpses with Brother Michael,’ said Quenhyth, becoming defensive when he saw his teacher was shocked. ‘What am I supposed to do when a patient comes wanting help? Send him away empty handed?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew in exasperation. ‘And then tell me, so I can visit him myself. You must not dispense medicines to my patients. You are not qualified, and you do not have enough experience to start giving out remedies of your own.’

  ‘I have been watching you for six months,’ objected Quenhyth, making it sound like a decade. ‘And I am a quick learner. I know more than you give me credit for.’

  ‘But still not enough,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I will not argue with you. Either you do as I say or you can find yourself another teacher.’

  ‘I will obey you,’ said Quenhyth in the kind of voice that indicated he considered it an immense favour. ‘But I was only trying to help.’

  ‘Then go back to Michaelhouse,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘And do not “help” without my permission again.’

  ‘I do not want him tampering with my personal places, thank you very much,’ said Isnard after Quenhyth had gone. ‘He can take his green camomile and lard and shove them up his own arse.’

  ‘I am sorry, Isnard,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And I cannot help with your itch, either. I do not know what can be done to alleviate it.’

  Isnard sat back with a grimace and folded his arms. ‘Do not worry about that, Doctor. I am already cured. The notion of that boy loose on my bowels has quite put the itch out of my mind.’

  CHAPTER 2

  ‘And there were doucettes and a rose pudding to follow,’ enthused Michael gleefully the following Saturday, as he walked with Bartholomew and Michaelhouse’s Master of Civil Law, John Wynewyk, to the Church of St Mary the Great. ‘Along with more Lombard slices than I have ever seen in one place, although I prefer the almond variety to the date.’

  ‘We will be late,’ warned Wynewyk, more interested in the debate they were about to engage in than his colleague’s detailed analysis of the repasts he had enjoyed at various academic and religious institutions during the week. ‘I do not want Gonville to win the Disputatio de quodlibet by default, just because we fail to arrive on time.’

  ‘All right,’ muttered Michael, not pleased to have his culinary reminiscences cut short. ‘I am going as fast as I can. I thought you would be interested in what is eaten at the high tables of other Colleges, since you hold Michaelhouse’s purse strings these days. Gonville keeps a remarkably fine table, and Michaelhouse … well, Michaelhouse does not.’

  ‘Langelee trusts me to spend our funds sensibly,’ said Wynewyk primly. ‘That means peas for pottage and flour for bread, not cream and sugars for custards.’

  Although the monk complained constantly that Michaelhouse’s fare was inferior to that of other institutions, and his colleagues had learned to take his grumbles with a grain of salt, Bartholomew thought his gripes were currently justified. For some unaccountable reason the standard of College food had plummeted dramatically during the last two weeks, and even the least discerning scholars had been prompted to comment on it. Bartholomew supposed that Wynewyk had been obliged to use the funds usually earmarked for victuals for some other – doubtless equally deserving – purpose, and just hoped the situation would not be permanent. It was not pleasant to be hungry all the time.

  He was about to ask, when there was a clatter of hoofs behind them. With the memory of Isnard’s shattered leg fresh in his mind, Bartholomew darted to one side of the road, with his friends not far behind; even the obese Michael could move quickly when life and limb were under threat. A horse galloped past, too fast for a narrow thoroughfare like St Michael’s Lane. It reached the end of the street and its rider wheeled it around, to return at a more sedate trot.

  ‘Rob Thorpe,’ said Michael heavily when he recognised the culprit. Wynewyk immediately raised his hood and bowed his head, and Bartholomew saw that Thorpe’s reputation had gone before him. Even men like Wynewyk, who had not been in Cambridge when the lad had embarked on his spree of violence, were unwilling to attract his attention. ‘So, it is true. You have indeed decided to return to the town you used so badly.’

  Thorpe had changed during the two years that he had been in exile. He was no longer a bony, gangly youth with immature fluff framing a childish face. He was a man, with a man’s strength and a man’s confidence, even though he was not yet twenty. He was clean shaven, and wore a close-cut quilted tunic with buttoned sleeves – called a gipon – over which was thrown a shoulder-cape fastened with a gold pin. His hose were soled, rendering shoes unnecessary, and his hood turban
was one of the most elaborately decorated Bartholomew had ever seen. It comprised a triangle of scarlet worsted with a hole for the head, and the two ends fell elegantly over his shoulders in the fashion currently popular at the King’s Court.

  ‘I have been meaning to pay you a visit, monk,’ said Thorpe insolently. The smile that played around his full, red lips did not reach his eyes. His gaze shifted to Bartholomew, and he bowed his head in a gesture that was more insulting than polite. ‘And you, too, Bartholomew, although I did not think you would still be here.’

  ‘Where else would I be?’ asked Bartholomew, a little surprised by the statement.

  ‘I thought you would have been burned at the stake for using unorthodox and dangerous remedies,’ Thorpe replied nastily. ‘But perhaps people are more forgiving these days. Times change, I suppose.’ The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable.

  ‘What do you want?’ demanded Michael curtly. ‘You must know you are not welcome in Cambridge. You were found guilty of several vicious murders, and you are fortunate you were not hanged. You are not the kind of man we want in our town.’

  ‘I have come to visit old friends,’ replied Thorpe, unruffled by the monk’s hostility. His eyes were spiteful as he addressed the physician. ‘I intend to pay my respects to your family soon – your sister Edith and her husband Oswald Stanmore. I am sure they will be delighted to see me after all these years.’

  ‘“All these years”?’ echoed Michael in disbelief. ‘It has only been twenty-six months.’

  Bartholomew knew delight would be the last thing on his family’s mind if they were visited by Thorpe. Stanmore was a wealthy clothier, and Thorpe had been one of his apprentices. He and Edith had taken the lad into their house and treated him like a much-loved son. Their sense of betrayal when they discovered they had nurtured a killer was still not forgotten.