Bartholomew 10 - The Hand of Justice

by Susanna GREGORY

  Michael gazed at him. ‘Did you? That was naïve, even by your standards!’

  The servant cut across Bartholomew’s defensive reply. ‘My poor master was never the same after she threw him over. When she died, he grieved far more deeply than her husband did. He—’

  ‘What was that?’ asked Bartholomew, as an odd rattle sounded in the chamber above, followed by a heavy thump. ‘There is someone else in here!’

  He darted back up the stairs and looked into the office, but it was empty. Then he saw that the window in the adjoining bedchamber was wide open. He ran across to it and leaned out, just in time to see a figure drop to the ground and make his escape down the narrow alley that led to the river. Without thinking, Bartholomew started to follow, but his cloak caught on a jagged part of the shutter and he lost his balance trying to free it. His stomach lurched when he saw he was about to fall – and it was a long way to the ground. He flailed frantically, but there was nothing to grab. With infinite slowness, he felt himself begin to drop.

  He did not go far. With almost violent abruptness, a hand shot out of the window above his head and hauled him roughly towards the sill, which he seized with relief. For a moment, he did nothing more than cling there, aware of a slight dizziness washing over him at his narrow escape. While the fall would probably not have killed him, it certainly would have resulted in broken bones.

  ‘Thank you, Brother,’ he said unsteadily. ‘There is no point giving chase now. Whoever it was will have reached the river, and there are too many places for him to hide. Give me your hand.’

  ‘Crow pie is one of my favourites,’ said the servant, reaching out to help the physician clamber through the window again. The monk was not there, and Bartholomew was surprised that the elderly man had possessed the strength to save him; he was obviously less frail than he looked. ‘Is that what you were doing out there? Looking for crows? You should be careful. You might have fallen.’

  Bartholomew tumbled over the sill and climbed to his feet, leaning against the wall while he caught his breath and tried to regain his composure. He smiled wan thanks at the retainer, then followed him down the stairs to where Michael was talking to an old woman in the room where Deschalers received his guests – a pleasantly large chamber with comfortable chairs and dishes of dried fruits set out for those who were hungry.

  ‘Did you see anyone?’ the monk asked of his friend.

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘But he escaped through the window. I tried to follow, but it was not a good idea.’ He smiled his thanks at the old man a second time.

  ‘Crows,’ said the servant to the old woman. ‘He was after the crows that roost on the chimney.’

  ‘Did you get one?’ she asked keenly. ‘Crow pie is delicious, especially if you add cabbage.’

  ‘I do not eat cabbage,’ said Michael superiorly. ‘How can any right-thinking man enjoy something that is popular with snails?’

  ‘I wonder who it was,’ said Bartholomew, still thinking about the intruder. ‘It was not someone with a legitimate purpose, or he would not have been skulking around in the dark. It was probably the same shadow I saw when you first started knocking, too.’

  ‘It is suspicious,’ agreed Michael. ‘Particularly given what happened to Deschalers tonight. I would be inclined to say it might have been his killer, but Bernarde’s evidence tells us that is not possible. Deschalers’s murderer was either Deschalers himself or Bottisham.’

  ‘Deschalers was a merchant,’ Bartholomew pointed out soberly. ‘Who knows what secrets he harboured or marginal business he conducted? The burglar may have nothing to do with his death.’

  ‘Minced fox has an unusual flavour,’ declared the old man with considerable authority. ‘But it leaves an unpleasant aftertaste in the mouth.’

  ‘So does your master’s untimely death,’ murmured Michael softly.

  The tinny little bell in the Carmelite Friary was chiming for the night office of nocturn by the time Bartholomew and Michael returned to Michaelhouse. The College was silent, and most scholars had been asleep in bed for at least four hours. Two lights still burned. One gleamed in the chamber Deynman shared with two Franciscan novices called Ulfrid and Zebedee, who were notorious for enjoying the night hours and emerging heavy-eyed for the obligatory masses at dawn. The second was in the conclave, where Bartholomew imagined Langelee and Wynewyk would be going over College accounts, or perhaps Suttone or Clippesby was preparing lectures for the following day. The physician was exhausted, but since he knew his teeming thoughts would not allow him to sleep, he accepted Michael’s offer of a cup of wine while they discussed the events of the night.

  Michael’s room-mates were a pair of sober Benedictine theologians, but they were keeping a vigil in St Michael’s Church for Lenne, so Michael had the chamber to himself that night. The monk had done no more than present his guest with the smaller of his two goblets, when Walter poked his head around the door.

  ‘The Sheriff is here to see you,’ said the porter, trying to keep his cockerel from entering by blocking its path with his foot. ‘Should I let him in?’

  ‘Of course you should let him in!’ exclaimed Michael, horrified at the notion of influential townsmen being kept waiting on the doorstep. ‘We can hardly discuss our work in the street.’

  Walter was unmoved. ‘Father William says we should not allow seculars in, so I am only doing what he says. But as long as you are certain the Sheriff is welcome here, then I shall admit him.’

  He closed the door and they heard his footsteps echo in the yard as he walked to the gate. The hinges squeaked, then came the sound of voices kept low out of consideration for those sleeping. A dog barked far in the distance. Suddenly, Walter’s cockerel gave a brassy and prolonged trill. There was a chorus of weary groans as scholars awoke. Bartholomew heard Deynman shouting at it, and Walter howling something threatening in reply.

  There was a tap on Michael’s door, and Tulyet was ushered inside. He looked tired: keeping peace in the violent Fen-edge town was not easy. The town hated the University for its arrogance and superiority, and scholars despised merchants and landlords for trying to cheat them at every turn. It was an uneasy and volatile mix, and Michael and Tulyet worked hard to keep it under control. Both men knew the deaths of Bottisham and Deschalers might well tip the balance, and lead to fighting and riots as both sides accused each other of the crime. Tulyet listened in grim silence as Bartholomew summarised his findings.

  ‘So, what do you think happened?’ he asked, flopping on to the stool near the hearth and helping himself to Michael’s wine. He raised his eyebrows in surprise at its quality. Michael was a man of impeccable and expensive tastes when it came to selecting clarets for his own consumption.

  ‘Deschalers and Bottisham were killed by nails through the palate,’ replied the monk bluntly.

  ‘I am impressed you spotted that; I had eyes only for their mangled limbs,’ said Tulyet. ‘I have just come from the King’s Mill, and Bernarde is having great difficulty cleaning his millstones. I shall have to tell my wife to buy flour elsewhere for the next few days. I do not want bits of Bottisham and Deschalers in my daily bread.’

  Michael shuddered involuntarily. ‘Those poor men! God only knows what happened tonight. At first, we thought a third party had killed them both, but that seems impossible in the light of Bernarde’s testimony. The only logical conclusion is Matt’s: that one killed the other and then himself – although it is an odd means of suicide, to say the least.’

  ‘Very odd,’ agreed Tulyet. ‘Is it even possible?’

  ‘Just,’ said Bartholomew. ‘By a desperate man. I can only assume he put the nail into position and then hurled himself into the moving engines to ensure it was driven home.’

  Michael shuddered at the image. ‘However, you say there is no way to determine who was the murderer and who was the victim?’

  ‘They were both victims, Brother,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘No matter what we discover.’

  Michael sighed
and took a gulp of wine from the physician’s cup. ‘I do not suppose you recall details of some ancient dispute that threw Bottisham and Deschalers together, do you, Dick?’

  Tulyet frowned. ‘There was something about a field, now you mention it. But it happened too long ago for me to remember the outcome. Why do you ask? Do you believe a long-forgotten argument may have led one to kill the other?’

  Michael shrugged helplessly. ‘I do not know what to think. Poor Bottisham.’

  ‘Poor Deschalers,’ said Tulyet immediately, seeing where the monk’s sympathies lay. ‘He was arrogant, but he did not deserve to die like that. But what makes you think Bernarde is not the killer? Has it occurred to you that he might be lying about what he saw and heard, as he rushed to see what was making the odd noises in his property?’

  ‘Bernarde is not the killer,’ said Michael with great conviction. ‘For one very good reason: he would never make such a mess in his beloved mill. I do not see him lying to protect the culprit, either. I think he would have told me if he had seen someone running away after the second thump.’

  Bartholomew agreed. ‘He did seem affronted by the damage.’

  Tulyet swirled the wine around in his cup. ‘But Bottisham and Deschalers could not have killed each other with nails during a fight. It would be improbable to the point of impossible. And I do not accept the notion of a suicide pact, either: it is too neat. Therefore, I think you are right: the only plausible option is that one killed the other, then dispatched himself in a fit of sorrow.’

  ‘Then who was the killer and who was the victim?’ asked Michael.

  Tulyet turned to Bartholomew. ‘There was nothing on the bodies to help you determine that?’

  ‘Not a thing,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I think they died at more or less the same time – both were warm when we arrived. Also, remember that Bernarde heard two thumps – bodies dropping into the workings – within a short period of each other once the machinery had been engaged.’

  ‘Is it possible to drive a nail into your own palate, then throw yourself into the gears and cogs?’ asked Tulyet.

  ‘You could stand near the machinery when applying the nail, so you would fall into it,’ replied Bartholomew, trying not to show his distaste for the discussion. He knew the various possibilities had to be investigated, but he did not like doing it when Bottisham was one of the victims. He forced himself to continue. ‘It would be a good way to make sure you die – insurance against the nail missing its mark or you not having the strength to drive it home.’

  Tulyet winced, and looked back at his wine. ‘Deschalers has been ill recently – weary and listless. I doubt he had the strength for murder, so I am inclined to think Bottisham is the culprit.’

  ‘No,’ said Michael, still unwilling to believe the kindly Bottisham would kill. ‘Deschalers is a more convincing suspect. He was clearly up to something sinister, because someone invaded his house the moment he died.’

  ‘He was a wealthy man,’ Tulyet pointed out. ‘And he lived alone. His house will be the target of every thief in the town until his heirs come to organise his affairs – including the forty felons who have been detailed to repair the Great Bridge. You cannot read anything significant into your encounter with that intruder.’

  They were silent for a while, thinking about the deaths and the seemingly impossible task of discovering what had happened. They knew they stood on the edge of a chasm: Tulyet had already made the assumption that the scholar was the killer, while Michael was inclined to view the townsman as the villain. Others would do the same, and the situation needed to be handled very carefully if they did not want more deaths and violence.

  ‘What happens now?’ asked Bartholomew eventually. ‘A townsman’s death must be investigated by the Sheriff, and a scholar’s by the Senior Proctor. But they are the same case. What happens if your conclusions contradict each other?’

  ‘We must ensure they do not,’ said Tulyet soberly. ‘At all costs. Neither of us wants a riot over this. Therefore, I suggest you conduct this investigation, Brother – Deschalers’s death as well as Bottisham’s. I trust you to be impartial, and I promise to bide by whatever conclusion you draw. That will eliminate some potential for dispute, at least.’

  ‘Very well,’ agreed Michael, although he did not look happy. ‘As long as you are willing to explain to Deschalers’s fellow merchants why you have delegated the business to me.’

  ‘That is easy,’ said Tulyet bitterly. ‘I am obliged to spend most of my time watching the criminals working on the Great Bridge. And I must keep an eye on Rob Thorpe and Edward Mortimer. I barely have time to breathe, let alone look into what may be a complex murder.’

  ‘Can you not use your soldiers for that?’ asked Michael, who would have set his beadles on tasks that sounded so time-consuming and dull.

  ‘I dare not abandon the villains. Two slipped past my sergeants only this morning, and would have escaped if I had not been there to catch them. And nor will I abandon my surveillance of Thorpe and Mortimer until I know what they plan to do. It would not surprise me to learn that they had arranged the deaths of Bottisham and Deschalers.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Michael eagerly, ignoring the fact that they had just reasoned a third party involvement was impossible. ‘That would be a neat conclusion. Why? Would it be because Deschalers once had an affair with Edward’s mother, and Edward wants revenge on the man who sullied her virtue?’

  Tulyet was startled. ‘I doubt it! Edward encouraged Katherine’s various liaisons, because they made her happy – and he liked to see his mother happy.’

  ‘You are not surprised to hear that Deschalers and Katherine were close?’ asked Bartholomew.

  Tulyet shrugged. ‘Katherine and my wife were friends, and I have known about her relationship with Deschalers for years. He was deeply hurt when Katherine decided it was too risky to have a lover in the house next door – the affair meant far more to him than it did to her. She soon found herself a replacement, but he never did. Apparently, you kept running into them, Matt, and Katherine was afraid you might say something to her husband.’

  ‘But she was not afraid her son might tell?’ asked Michael curiously.

  Tulyet shrugged a second time. ‘Edward detested his father, so was only too pleased to see him made a cuckold. So, if he did arrange for Deschalers to die, it would not have been over Katherine.’

  ‘What, then?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Is there another motive?’

  ‘None that I know – other than to make trouble between town and University by having a scholar and a merchant murdered in the same place. He hates us, because we were instrumental in his capture. What better way to avenge himself on Sheriff and Senior Proctor than to present us with an unsolvable crime? We will look incompetent, and it will bring about riots at the same time.’

  Michael was thoughtful. ‘I thought they would be here for a week or so, try to dispatch one or two “enemies”, and then disappear when they see everyone is watching them. But they seem intent on staying and making careers for themselves.’

  Tulyet agreed. ‘They are settling in more comfortably than I would like – even attending meetings of the burgesses. Edward refused to work in his father’s bakery, and is helping at Mortimer’s Mill instead. Meanwhile, Thorpe has been accepted into Gonville Hall to study. He tried his luck at Valence Marie first, but his father declines to have anything to do with him.’

  ‘He had the gall to apply to Michaelhouse, too,’ added Michael. ‘Damned cheek! Pulham told me that Gonville had accepted Thorpe because he offered to sew altar cloths and chasubles for their new chapel. He learned how to make them during his apprenticeship with your brother-in-law, Matt.’

  Bartholomew was troubled. ‘Why not ask them to leave Cambridge, Dick? No one wants them here – with the exception of the Mortimer clan, of course. And perhaps now Gonville.’

  Tulyet looked pained. ‘How can I? They have the King’s Pardon. If I were to banish them, then I am effectively saying t
hat the King was wrong to invite them back to England. And that is treason. So, there is nothing I can do unless we actually catch them committing a crime.’

  ‘Damn Constantine Mortimer!’ said Michael. ‘He was the one who purchased these pardons.’

  Tulyet shook his head in despair. ‘The Mortimers are already quarrelling with the Millers’ Society over the issue of water, and I am sure Edward has turned the dispute more bitter. The Millers’ Society thinks Bottisham and Deschalers were murdered in connection with the dispute, although I do not see why.’ He scrubbed at his eyes, frustrated by so many questions and so few answers.

  They were silent again, as each tried to envisage a solution that would fit the evidence. How did one man come to drive a nail into the palate of another? Did he choose that method because he hoped it would be undetectable once the machinery had done its work? Was he hoping both deaths would be seen as accidents? But whatever solution Bartholomew devised merely left him with more questions, and he saw he would not solve the riddle until he had more information.

  Tulyet reached for his cloak. ‘Thorpe and Mortimer are still drinking in the King’s Head, so I cannot stay here too long, lest they make trouble. You know what a volatile place that is.’

  ‘They are there now?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘But it is the middle of the night!’

  ‘If Thorpe is now a scholar, then I can fine him for being in a tavern,’ said Michael, downing the last of the wine and preparing to carry out his duty immediately.

  ‘No,’ said Tulyet, putting out a hand to stop him. ‘He is trying to antagonise us, to see how far he can go. The best thing you can do is have a word with Gonville, and see if they will dismiss him. If all the Colleges refuse to house him, he may move on – perhaps to Oxford.’

  ‘You assume he wants to study,’ said Michael. ‘But he is no more eager to learn his Aristotle than Edward is to become a miller. They have other reasons for inflicting their presence on us.’

  ‘True,’ said Tulyet. ‘They were found guilty of all manner of crimes – most of which they freely admitted. But their guilt will not prevent them from wanting revenge on us all.’