Bartholomew 10 - The Hand of Justice

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘I think you will find yourself given a lot of contradictory advice,’ replied Bartholomew, amused by the proposition. ‘You will compromise, and take the most appealing cures from each of us, and you will probably end up feeling worse.’

  ‘I thought you would say that,’ said Tynkell. ‘But I know how to resolve this conundrum. I shall have my horoscope from Rougham, my eating plan from Paxtone, and my medicine from you. Then I shall offend no one – Gonville, King’s Hall or Michaelhouse.’ He beamed, and Bartholomew saw that compromise and an unwillingness to offend was probably the root of his success as Chancellor – along with the fact that Michael made the real decisions.

  ‘We did not ask you here for a consultation,’ said Michael. He pushed a parcel across the table, an oblong shape wrapped in cloth. ‘This is for you, on the understanding that you accept the official post as Corpse Examiner for the next year, as you agreed last night.’

  Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘You did not waste any time!’

  ‘I believe in striking while the iron is hot,’ replied Michael smugly. ‘Purchasing Bacon’s De erroribus medicorum from Gonville was the first thing Chancellor Tynkell did this morning, and drawing up an official document to seal our pact was the second. Sign here.’

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew, reluctantly pushing the book away. ‘I had better take the fourpence per corpse instead. I realised this morning that I need the money more than a book.’

  ‘I suppose you want it to buy medicines,’ said Michael, regarding his friend astutely. ‘And since most of your rich patients have abandoned you in favour of Paxtone and Rougham, you find yourself short of funds, and your patients are without the benefit of your generosity. I wondered how long it would take before you discovered that the wealthy have their uses.’

  ‘I have no choice but to opt for the fourpence,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I waste my time if I recommend medicines that cannot be purchased. I may as well not bother to visit the sick at all.’

  ‘But this Bacon cost ten marks,’ said Tynkell, aggrieved. ‘Now you say you do not want it?’

  ‘I did not say I do not want it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I said I needed the coins more.’

  ‘Take the book,’ said Tynkell, thrusting it so hard across the table that Bartholomew had to leap forward to catch it before it fell. ‘You can consider it a long-term loan from the University to Michaelhouse – as payment for services already rendered. And you shall have your fourpence per corpse, too. You had better submit an invoice monthly, because if you send me one every time a body is discovered, I will be doing nothing other than processing your demands.’

  Bartholomew regarded him suspiciously. The University was not noted for its largess, and he did not want to accept something that would later come to cost a good deal more. ‘A loan? Why?’

  ‘To ensure we keep you,’ said Tynkell. ‘You are not the only one who wants this newly created post: Rougham is also interested in fourpence per corpse. But Brother Michael would rather have you. In fact, he organised the whole thing specifically for your benefit.’

  ‘He did?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. He saw Michael scowl at the Chancellor, but Tynkell was not to be silenced.

  ‘You should not hide your good deeds, Brother. It will do your reputation no harm for folk to know you occasionally act with compassion. Your friend has lost his wealthy patients, so you decided to help him with his predicament. I thought twopence per corpse was ample, but you insisted on more.’

  ‘It is a business arrangement,’ said Michael stiffly, disliking the notion that he should be seen as someone who acted out of the goodness of his heart. He preferred to be seen as a cunning and ruthless manipulator. ‘Nothing more, nothing less.’

  ‘Thank you, Michael,’ said Bartholomew sincerely.

  ‘Sign here,’ snapped Michael. Bartholomew took the pen and wrote his name, feeling as though he were making a pact with the Devil. Michael smiled in grim satisfaction. ‘Good. Now you are legally bound to inspect any corpse I discover for the next year.’

  ‘The first thing we must do is visit Gonville and ask why Bottisham was in the King’s Mill last night,’ said Michael, as they left the Chancellor’s office. Both took deep breaths, grateful to be away from the aromatic presence. ‘Then we will go to Deschalers’s house and see whether his apprentices or servants have anything more meaningful to tell us than recipes for rat custard and stoat soup.’

  ‘I agreed to examine corpses for you, Brother,’ said Bartholomew warningly. ‘But that does not mean I am at your beck and call to help with all your murder investigations from now on.’

  Michael slapped his friend on the shoulder. ‘That is better, Matt. I was beginning to think there was something seriously amiss when you agreed so readily to become my Corpse Examiner. No terms, no conditions – it was most unlike you. But here you are, complaining as usual, and I see all is well. However, you did offer to help me with Bottisham’s investigation.’

  ‘I will,’ promised Bartholomew, not sure what he could do on that front, much as he had liked the Gonville lawyer. It was depressing to have no encouraging leads. ‘But first, I must visit Isnard, and then I promised to show my students how to mix a potion for Una. She has a sore stomach again.’

  ‘It is all the claret she drinks,’ remarked Michael. ‘It is too little like wine and too much like vinegar. That is what ails her.’

  ‘I imagine she would not be able to carry out her professional duties if she did not have some strong drink inside her – and then she would starve for certain. Come with me. She likes you.’

  ‘They all do,’ said Michael, leaving Bartholomew wondering who was meant by ‘all’ and how the monk had interpreted ‘likes’. ‘But not if Quenhyth is going, too. He is the least likeable student in the University, and I do not know why you are so patient with him.’

  ‘Because he may make a good physician one day. He works hard and, although he will never be a popular healer, he may become an effective one, and that is all that really matters.’

  ‘If you say so. We are beset by unpleasant young men these days: Thorpe, Mortimer, Quenhyth. Damn! I should have held my tongue. All three of them are suddenly coming our way.’

  Bartholomew saw he was right. Thorpe and Edward Mortimer were striding along the High Street from the direction of the Great Bridge, while Quenhyth and Redmeadow were making their way up St Michael’s Lane from the College. Bartholomew was tempted to duck into the nearest church and avoid them all, but Michael was not so squeamish. He bared his small yellow teeth in a grin of false welcome as the two felons drew level, watching them exchange nudges and glances, and clearly intent on aggravation. The students reached them at the same time, and stood behind Bartholomew, expressing silent solidarity.

  ‘You two caused a lot of trouble in the King’s Head last night,’ said Michael without preamble. ‘You should be careful. You are not popular, and taverns have a reputation for unsolved murders.’

  ‘No one would dare harm us,’ said Mortimer smugly. ‘We enjoy the protection of the King. If anything happened to us he would descend on Cambridge, and every man, woman and child would learn they had crossed the wrong man.’

  ‘That may be true,’ said Michael. ‘But the patrons of taverns are not noted for their forward thinking while in their cups. They strike first, and think about the consequences later. Having the King impose heavy fines will not help you if you are dead, will it?’

  ‘We heard about Bottisham and Deschalers,’ said Thorpe, when his friend declined to answer. A malicious grin curled the corners of his mouth and he winked at Mortimer, coaxing a smile from him. ‘What were they doing together in the mill in the middle of the night?’

  ‘You tell me,’ said Michael, resisting the temptation to react with anger. He shot Bartholomew a glare: he could see the physician was less sanguine about the matter, and looked ready to respond with curt remarks. ‘Have you heard rumours?’

  ‘Oh, plenty,’ said Thorpe. ‘But I would not repeat
them to you. I hear you are easily shocked.’

  ‘Where were you last night?’ demanded Michael. ‘Before you arrived at the King’s Head?’

  The two men exchanged expressions of feigned horror, and Mortimer placed one hand on his chest, to indicate that the implied accusation had wounded him. ‘You think we killed them?’

  ‘Well, someone did,’ replied Michael.

  Thorpe sneered. ‘You should watch where you aim your accusations, Brother. They are offensive, and I may sue you in a court of law for an apology.’

  Michael was about to reply when there was a sharp snap, followed by a rattle. Someone had thrown a stone. His eyes narrowed, and he studied the mass of humanity that moved up and down the High Street. Who had thrown the missile? Was it the troublesome Franciscans from Ovyng Hostel, a clutch of whom had just emerged from St Michael’s Church? Was it Robin of Grantchester, aiming his pebble at Bartholomew for operating on Isnard’s leg? Or was it one of the many folk who glanced uneasily at Thorpe and Mortimer as they passed, most too afraid to make an open protest about their unwelcome presence?

  ‘That was Cheney,’ whispered Bartholomew. ‘I saw him.’

  ‘At me?’ asked Michael, wondering whether the Millers’ Society did not trust him to investigate the murder of one of their own and had intended to prevent him from doing so.

  ‘At Mortimer, I suspect – for being one of the clan stealing the King’s Mill water.’

  ‘Why do you insist on remaining here?’ asked Michael, addressing the two felons, who seemed to care little that they were on the receiving end of hostile looks from the passing populace. ‘You must know that folk are not pleased to see you, and I cannot imagine what it must be like to live in a place where everyone is longing for you to leave.’

  ‘It is just like France,’ said Mortimer expressionlessly. ‘We were not welcome there, either, because we are English. It is not so different here.’

  ‘We have scores to settle,’ said Thorpe, fixing his glittering eyes on Bartholomew. ‘We were accused of and punished for heinous crimes.’

  ‘That is because you were guilty,’ said Michael.

  ‘Maybe so, but that is irrelevant,’ said Thorpe. ‘The King’s Pardon says we are forgiven now. And I want compensation.’

  ‘Money?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering how many corpses he would have to examine before he had earned enough to send them on their way. ‘Is that what you want?’

  ‘In part,’ said Thorpe. ‘But we deserve to be compensated in other ways, too, for the unjust suffering we endured.’

  ‘It was not unjust,’ Bartholomew pointed out reasonably. ‘You confessed.’

  ‘I said that is irrelevant!’ snarled Thorpe, taking a step towards the physician that could only be described as menacing. Quenhyth shrank back in alarm, but Redmeadow held his ground. His hand dropped to the knife he carried in his belt. Bartholomew saw the lad’s jaw tighten with anger, and hoped he would not lose his temper.

  ‘It is not irrelevant,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘You cannot start demanding vengeance from people just because you committed felonies and were caught.’

  ‘Now we have the King’s Pardon, we can do what we like,’ countered Mortimer. ‘This town is going to pay handsomely for our two years’ banishment. And so is that vile old woman. It was her testimony that sealed our fate. The justices listened to her as though she was one of God’s angels.’

  ‘What vile old woman?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled. He had not attended the young men’s trials himself, because there were so many other witnesses with first-hand knowledge of their crimes that he had not been needed.

  ‘The nun,’ elaborated Thorpe. ‘The one with the long nose and the brown face, whom everyone thought was so wonderful. She was nothing but a wizened hag, and she had no right to tell people we did all those things – even if we did them.’

  Bartholomew glanced at Michael, whose mouth was set in a hard, thin line. ‘I sincerely hope you are not referring to my grandmother,’ said the monk coldly. ‘Dame Pelagia is a noble lady, so I advise you to keep a civil tongue in your head when you mention her.’

  ‘Dame Pelagia,’ said Mortimer, pronouncing the name with satisfaction, pleased to see that he had discovered a weak spot in Michael’s armour. ‘That was the harridan’s name. Everyone said she was one of the King’s agents, although I do not think it was true. The King is not so desperate for spies that he is obliged to scour nunneries, looking for withered old crones to serve him.’

  Michael lunged suddenly and had Mortimer by the throat before the man knew what was happening. The monk’s bulk was deceptive, and he could move like lightning when required. ‘If I hear you mention her name with disrespect again, I will have you arrested – King’s Pardon or no.’ He shoved Mortimer away with considerable vigour, then wiped his hands on the sides of his habit, as though they were stained with something nasty.

  Mortimer shrugged, quickly recovering his composure and his balance. ‘Is she here?’

  ‘No,’ said Michael shortly.

  ‘There are a number of folk we shall visit now we are free,’ said Thorpe silkily. ‘She is one of them. I will see Bartholomew’s sister and her husband, too. They were far too quick to throw me to the wolves.’

  ‘They stood by you longer than you deserved,’ said Bartholomew, grateful they were away.

  ‘And my father,’ added Thorpe. ‘He wants nothing to do with me – he will not even accept me into his own College. I was obliged to apply to Gonville instead.’

  ‘We will have words with you two at some point, too,’ said Mortimer with icy menace, gazing first at Michael and then Bartholomew. ‘In some quiet, secret place, where we will not be overheard.’

  ‘Are you threatening us?’ demanded Michael, speaking loudly enough to gather an audience. ‘Are you saying you mean to lure us into a remote place and dispatch us? If so, then no one will need to look far for the culprits. Look at how many people heard you.’ He gestured to at least a dozen folk – scholars and townsmen – who were listening with rapt interest.

  Mortimer saw he had been outmanoeuvred, and declined to take the conversation further. He nodded a farewell to the monk, and the cold light in his eyes made Bartholomew’s blood run cold. Thorpe was less willing to admit defeat, and opened his mouth to say something else, but Mortimer took his arm and pulled him away. Unlike his younger friend, he was intelligent enough to see that nothing more could be gained from prolonging the encounter – but that a good deal might be lost.

  ‘Their absence has made them bitter as well as dangerous,’ said Bartholomew, watching them walk away. ‘I wish they were not here.’

  ‘You are not alone,’ said Michael gravely. ‘There have been all manner of complaints about them, but unfortunately nothing serious enough to warrant prosecution. Dick was right: if we expel them without irrefutable and incontestable evidence, it will appear as though we are criticising the King’s Pardon. His Majesty will not like that, and it should be avoided at all costs.’

  ‘What sort of complaints?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘About their manners, for a start,’ said Quenhyth, back at Bartholomew’s side now the two louts had gone. ‘Edward especially is rude and overbearing. You are right to include him in your investigation into the deaths of Deschalers and Bottisham.’

  ‘Why do you think he is part of that?’ asked Michael.

  Quenhyth looked superior. ‘It is obvious that he and his friend are the culprits, and common sense dictates that you must arrest them immediately.’

  ‘But they have learned to fight, so challenge them with care,’ added Redmeadow, who had been in Cambridge when the pair had first come to public attention. ‘They were apprentices, so they already knew how to brawl, but in France they were taught how to use swords and knives.’

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Michael, fixing him with a steely glance. ‘Have you been listening to gossip in taverns, and thus breaking University rules?’

  ‘I have not,’ said
Quenhyth sanctimoniously. ‘I would never do such a thing.’ He looked smugly at his discomfited colleague.

  Redmeadow blushed, but shook his head. ‘A tavern is not where I witnessed their newly acquired fighting skills. It was near St Mary the Great. They picked a quarrel with Ufford from Gonville Hall – or perhaps he picked one with them. Regardless, Ufford was lucky they did not kill him.’

  ‘Ufford is a son of the Earl of Suffolk,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘He has been well trained in the knightly arts and should know how to take care of himself.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Redmeadow, nodding vigorously. ‘That is why I was surprised when they defeated him. I would have nothing to do with them, if I were you, Doctor. Leave them to the Senior Proctor.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ said Michael flatly.

  There was a glorious sunset that evening. Bartholomew and Michael walked through the kitchens to where the College grounds stretched in a thin strip down to the river. The part nearest the door was planted with herbs and vegetables; some of the beds were dug ready to receive annual seeds and bulbs, while others were the kind that grew all year. The herb garden, Agatha’s pride and joy, was laid out in neat squares, each section containing a different kind of aromatic or edible plant. She was less interested in the vegetables, and their management was left to the cook and his two assistants. One was there now, hoeing a space for the powerful little leeks she used to disguise the taste of meat that was past its best.

  Behind the vegetable plots a gated wall separated the cultivated part of the garden from the orchard. The orchard was one of Bartholomew’s favourite places, mainly because only he and Michael ever seemed to use it. The fruit – largely apples and pears, but some cherries and plums – was harvested each year, but for the most part the trees were left unattended. The cook occasionally directed one of his helpers to cut the grass, which was gathered, dried and used as hay, but such activities were infrequent, and the fragrant little wood was invariably deserted and peaceful.