Bartholomew 10 - The Hand of Justice

by Susanna GREGORY

  Near one of the walls, an old apple tree had fallen, and its sturdy trunk formed a pleasant bench for any scholar wanting a little tranquillity, away from the hubbub in the conclave and hall. It was sheltered from the prevailing wind, but placed to catch the best of the sun, and Bartholomew loved the way the branches swayed above him and created dappled patterns on the grass with the sunlight.

  It was pleasant to sit there that evening, despite the fact that the end of the day brought cooler temperatures and a wind that was biting. The distant sun was a glowing orange orb that lit the clouds in layers of purple and scarlet. The sounds so characteristic of dusk were beginning: the hoarse yell of a baker selling the last of his wares, the clatter and creak of carts making their way home, the weary voices of labourers returning from surrounding fields, and bells chiming for vespers. Bartholomew could hear the great bass of St Mary the Great, followed by the cracked treble of St Botolph’s.

  Michael shivered. ‘I do not know why you wanted to sit out here, Matt. It is freezing.’

  ‘It is peaceful,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘Besides, William is ranting in the conclave about some lecture he heard today. He claims the speaker’s points were wrong, because he was a Dominican – and being a Dominican rendered him incapable of rational argument. I do not want to listen to that sort of rubbish. I would rather be out here.’

  ‘William in full flow does change matters,’ agreed Michael, pulling his cloak more tightly around his shoulders. ‘But we should not stay here long. We both need a good night’s rest, if we are to be alert and perceptive when we interview the Gonville Fellows tomorrow. I did not like the fact that they refused to speak to me today.’

  ‘They were praying, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, who did not think it odd at all for Bottisham’s colleagues to spend the day of his burial on their knees. ‘And they declined to break their vigil out of concern for his soul.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ murmured Michael, knowing he was right. ‘We shall speak to them in the morning, and I shall have my answers. Perhaps it was just as well. I was tired and sluggish today when we interviewed Deschalers’s apprentices, and I need to be sharp for the men who defeated us in the Disputatio. The workmen told us nothing of relevance, and I do not want Gonville to do likewise, just because I am too weary to see through clever lies.’

  ‘The apprentices were not lying, Brother – they really do know nothing of any relevance. But you are right about being tired today. It was difficult to sleep last night. I kept thinking about Bottisham – and Deschalers, of course. But Bottisham was harder … because I liked him, I suppose.’

  Michael nodded. ‘I was restless, too. And attending Bottisham’s requiem this afternoon sapped the last of my energy. It was a sad business. I saw you there, with Master Warde of Valence Marie.’

  ‘He kept coughing,’ said Bartholomew, who had used the distraction to take his mind off the fact that they were burying someone of whom he had been fond. ‘Have you learned anything about what might have happened in the King’s Mill last night from other sources?’

  Michael banged his fist hard against the trunk, making Bartholomew jump. It was unlike the monk to be openly emotional. ‘No! But it is not from want of trying. I interviewed the Millers’ Society – Morice, Cheney, Bernarde and the Lavenhams – but learned nothing I did not already know.’

  Bartholomew closed his eyes, and it crossed his mind that they might never discover the truth about the deaths. They were silent for a while, each thinking about the bodies in the mill. Eventually, Michael spoke again.

  ‘Did I tell you Sergeant Orwelle has still not managed to find out who killed Bosel? He asked for my help this afternoon. No witnesses have come forward, and he cannot decide whether it is because there are none, or because they are too afraid to speak.’

  ‘Has he taken Dick Tulyet’s lead, and narrowed his list of suspects to Thorpe and the Mortimer clan? And that odd woman?’

  ‘That woman – Bess – barely recalls her own name, let alone whether she murdered someone. Perhaps you could talk to her, and see whether you can make sense of what she says. You have a way with the insane. You should do, given the practice you have in dealing with Clippesby.’

  ‘Tomorrow, after Gonville,’ offered Bartholomew, content just to lean against the wall and watch the sunset. ‘Will it count as a consultation for the Corpse Examiner, and earn me fourpence?’

  Michael glanced at him sharply before realising he was being teased. When the gate creaked, his expression hardened. ‘Here comes Quenhyth, to pester you with questions again. Is no time sacred to the boy? Can he not even allow you a few moments of peace at the end of the day? He is worse than a wife!’

  ‘He is all right,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is just keen to learn.’

  ‘I am sorry to disturb you, sir,’ said Quenhyth, approaching with his hat held in his hands. ‘But Sheriff Tulyet has asked you to go to his house. His son has had an accident.’

  ‘God’s teeth!’ swore Bartholomew in annoyance. ‘Not Dickon again! This will be the third time they have summoned me in as many weeks, and Dickon is not the easiest of patients.’

  Michael agreed. ‘The boy is a monster. I do not envy you your duty, Matt, not even for a goblet of Dick Tulyet’s fine wine.’

  ‘You will not come with me, then?’ asked Bartholomew, disappointed. ‘It would be good to have reinforcements.’ He did not add that it would be especially good to have someone of Michael’s size when dealing with Tulyet’s fiendish brat.

  ‘I will not,’ said Michael firmly.

  ‘I will,’ offered Quenhyth. ‘The messenger said something about a dried pea in the ear, and we learned about ears last week. I shall fetch your bag – assuming that Redmeadow has not been in it, stealing its contents, like he takes my ink and parchments.’

  ‘Redmeadow is not a thief,’ said Bartholomew, not looking forward to the imminent battle with Tulyet’s infant son, or to having Quenhyth with him while he did it.

  Quenhyth gave him a look that indicated he knew better. They set off, and Michael accompanied them as far as the Jewry, an area that had earned its name because it had once housed a number of Jewish moneylenders. They had been expelled from the country the previous century, although not before the King had confiscated all their property. When the monk stopped opposite King’s Childer Lane and claimed he had business nearby, Bartholomew was suspicious. The woman he secretly loved lived in the Jewry, and he suspected Michael planned to visit her and take advantage of the fact that she kept an excellent cellar, a good kitchen and cushioned benches around a pine-scented fire. He enjoyed spending evenings with Matilde himself, and was envious that Michael should be able to do so while he was obliged to see Dickon. He watched the monk stride into the maze of tiny alleys with considerable resentment.

  Quenhyth chattered as they walked the remaining distance to the handsome house on Bridge Street, where the Tulyets lived. Bartholomew listened reluctantly, not especially interested in the diagnosis that Cheney’s partiality to blood pudding rendered him choleric, or in the intelligence that Deynman had been seduced by Isobel de Lavenham. However, he was interested in the news that Deynman had been the butt of jokes following his announcement of Chancellor Tynkell’s pregnancy, and was determined to prove himself correct. He closed his eyes: preventing Deynman from doing something dreadful to the University’s figurehead was yet another task for which he would have to find time.

  He was about to approach Tulyet’s house when he saw a lonely figure standing on the Great Bridge. Because it was almost dark, the bridge was deserted, and the felons who were repairing it had been escorted back to the Castle. The figure was Bess, and she leaned over the scaffolding-swathed parapet in a manner that was far from safe. The way she stood, cupping her face in her hands, jogged his memory so sharply that his hand froze halfway to the door.

  ‘Katherine Mortimer!’ he exclaimed suddenly. ‘That is who Bess reminds me of.’

  ‘One of the Mortimer clan?’ asked Quenhyth, who
had not been in the town when the baker’s wife was still alive. ‘Bess has Edward’s colouring, I suppose.’

  ‘Katherine was his mother. The likeness has been nagging at me ever since I first saw Bess. It is just a coincidence. Bess is too young to be Katherine – and I was with Katherine when she died, anyway. But the likeness is uncanny.’

  ‘Perhaps they are related,’ suggested Quenhyth. ‘And that is why Bess came here from London.’

  ‘London?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Is that where she usually lives?’

  ‘So she says. It is a big city, with thousands of inhabitants, so it is possible. But perhaps she came here because her addled wits reminded her that she has kin in the town.’

  ‘What do you think is wrong with her?’ Bartholomew asked, curious to know whether his student would remember what he had been taught about ailments of the mind.

  ‘Melancholy?’ asked Quenhyth. ‘Perhaps she is about to jump.’

  ‘Then we should stop her,’ said Bartholomew, hurrying towards the bridge.

  ‘We should not,’ said Quenhyth, snatching at his sleeve and missing. He sighed and ran to catch up. His teacher tended to move very quickly when he thought someone needed his help. ‘We should let her choose her own destiny, sir. She is clearly unhinged and deeply unhappy, so why should we condemn her to more misery by forcing her to live?’

  Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘Do you know what the Church teaches about suicide? And what it teaches about those who stand by and do nothing while it happens?’

  ‘I know what you think,’ countered Quenhyth. ‘You do not always condemn suicide when you think the victim has good reason for ending his life. And you do not always commit him to a grave in unhallowed ground, either. I know exactly how Father Ailred of Ovyng perished – he was a suicide, without question – but he lies peacefully in St Michael’s churchyard.’

  Quenhyth was right, and Bartholomew saw he would lose that particular argument. He turned his attention to Bess. He approached slowly and took her hand when he was close enough, so he could ease her away from the edge of the bridge. She regarded him with her flat black eyes, and then settled her gaze on Quenhyth.

  ‘Where is my man?’ she asked softly.

  ‘I do not know your man,’ said Quenhyth stiffly, evidently loath to be addressed by someone who was addled. ‘When did you lose him?’

  ‘He has gone away,’ she whispered. ‘Many moons ago. He went, and he never came back.’

  ‘I am sorry for you,’ said Quenhyth, not sounding at all sympathetic. ‘But you should step away from the bridge, madam. It is narrow, and a cart might come past and spray you with filth.’

  ‘Filth,’ said Bess blankly.

  ‘Muck,’ elaborated Quenhyth helpfully. ‘Dirt. Sewage. You know.’

  ‘I know,’ replied Bess distantly. ‘Have you seen my man? He went away.’

  ‘She is raving,’ said Quenhyth to Bartholomew, impatient to be away. ‘You have saved her from death, so we should leave her, and go to see Dickon before he pushes the pea so far into his ear that you will need to remove it through his nose.’

  ‘We cannot leave her alone,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps the Canons at the Hospital of St John will take her again. She seems distressed this evening, and I do not want her to harm herself.’

  ‘Do you know where he is?’ asked Bess, looking from Bartholomew to Quenhyth with desperation in her eyes. ‘Please take me to my man.’

  ‘What is his name?’ asked Bartholomew gently.

  ‘My man,’ echoed Bess softly. ‘He has a name. He has gone away.’

  ‘And so should we,’ said Quenhyth, growing even more impatient. ‘Give her a penny, sir. She can go to the King’s Head and buy a bed in the stable loft.’

  ‘I do not have a penny,’ said Bartholomew, feeling his empty purse.

  Quenhyth regarded him in disbelief. ‘But we have visited seventeen patients over the last five days. They must have paid you something.’

  ‘Do you have one I can borrow? I will return it as soon as I am paid.’

  ‘You will forget,’ cried Quenhyth, clutching his bag protectively. ‘You care so little for your own money that you place scant importance on that belonging to others, too. But I am short of funds myself at the moment, and had to borrow from Deynman today. I was going to talk to you about a loan from one of the College hutches. I have no spare pennies to lend you.’

  Bartholomew rifled through the contents of his medical bag, to see whether there was something that might be sold in order to raise the needed money. Or perhaps he could offer the landlord of the King’s Head a free consultation in exchange for a bed and a meal for Bess.

  ‘I have a penny,’ said Bess, reaching into the wrappings around her unsavoury person and producing a groat. ‘See? It is a pretty thing, is it not? It has the King’s face on it.’

  ‘Very pretty,’ said Bartholomew, pushing her hand back into her clothes and hoping no one else had seen it. A groat was a lot of money, and Cambridge was no place to flaunt coins, especially at dusk. Shadows writhed and slunk in dark doorways, where thieves waited to prey on the unwary and vulnerable. ‘Put it away, and do not show it to anyone else.’

  As he glanced around, he became aware that a solution was at hand. Matilde was walking towards him, in company with the carpenter Robert de Blaston and his wife Yolande, who were staying with her. Their own house had collapsed during heavy winter snows, and Matilde had offered the family a home until it was rebuilt. Bartholomew was surprised to find himself maliciously gratified that Michael had had a wasted journey, if he had intended to visit her.

  ‘Matthew!’ Matilde exclaimed in pleasure, breaking away from the Blastons and coming to greet him. The couple lingered, unwilling to leave her at a time when decent folk were already inside their houses and the town became the domain of a rougher, more dangerous breed of people. Matilde’s eyes strayed to Bartholomew’s shorn hair. ‘Oh, dear!’

  ‘Lenne’s handiwork,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I was probably his last customer.’

  ‘Just as well,’ he heard Yolande mutter.

  ‘I heard about the deaths in the King’s Mill,’ said Matilde to Bartholomew. ‘Poor Bottisham. You must be upset, because I know you liked him. But I have been worried that you might become embroiled in another of those nasty plots.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew, grabbing Bess’s arm as she made to return to the Great Bridge. Her attention had wandered and she was muttering about flying over the pretty water. He supposed Quenhyth was right, and she did intend to hurl herself over the edge, although he did not know whether it would constitute a deliberate attempt to end her life, or whether her wits were too scrambled to understand the consequences. Either way he intended to prevent it.

  ‘I mean there are rumours that the murders relate to the quarrel between the Millers’ Society and the Mortimers.’

  ‘They might,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘Although I am not sure how.’

  ‘Well, there is the fact that Bottisham was one of the lawyers the Mortimers hired to present their case, for a start. You do not need me to tell you that the whole thing stinks of corruption and malice, Matthew. You should take care.’

  ‘I will,’ promised Bartholomew, although he felt he had no real cause for concern. He had nothing to do with either side in the dispute, and did not care who won the case that had been taken to the King.

  ‘I have something for you,’ said Matilde, turning to the carpenter and gesturing that he should pass her the basket he carried. She rummaged inside it and produced a package. Curiously, Bartholomew removed the protective cloth to reveal a scroll.

  ‘Trotula!’ he exclaimed in delight, turning it this way and that in an attempt to decipher some of the words in the failing light. It was a good copy, illustrated lovingly by some scribe who had taken pride in his work. ‘Her musings on childbirth.’

  ‘I thought you would like it,’ said Matilde, smiling at his pleasure. ‘It may come in useful soon, becau
se Yolande has just informed me that she is pregnant again.’

  ‘Again?’ asked Bartholomew, regarding the woman in awe. It would be her eleventh. He looked at the scroll, then, with great reluctance, handed it back to Matilde. ‘I cannot accept this. It probably cost a good deal of money, and I do not have a penny.’

  ‘It is advance payment for the services you might soon render to Yolande,’ said Matilde firmly, pushing it back at him. ‘Do not refuse me, Matthew. I do not want to employ Rougham in your stead, and I might have to, if you will not accept your dues.’

  ‘Do not hire him for poor Yolande,’ said Quenhyth fervently. ‘Rougham knows nothing about women’s problems.’

  ‘Then thank you,’ said Bartholomew, although he suspected Yolande would need no help from him. She might require a midwife briefly, but she was strong and healthy, and he did not expect anything to go wrong with so experienced a mother. ‘I shall treasure it. But I need another favour. I do not want to leave Bess alone, but I have been summoned to attend Dickon …’

  ‘You want me to give her a bed,’ surmised Matilde. She smiled. ‘I am sure we can find a corner, although my little home is very crowded these days with an additional two adults and ten children under my roof. Another visitor arrived today, too. We are crammed inside like herrings in a barrel of salt.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether he should be jealous. Matilde’s past life was a mystery to him; it was rumoured that she had been lady-in-waiting to a duchess before being dismissed for entertaining one too many courtiers at night. Matilde gave the impression that she found such stories amusing, and enigmatically refused to say whether or not they were true.

  Matilde gave him a mischievous smile that made his heart melt, then cocked her head and started to laugh. ‘You will need to come for a drink when you finish with Dickon, Matthew. I can hear the little angel screaming from here!’

  Bartholomew watched her walk away with Bess and the Blastons, then turned back to the Sheriff’s house. It was a sumptuous affair, with walls made from stone, rather than the more usual wattle-and-daub, and boasted a new roof that stood proudly above the rough reed thatches of its neighbours. It was three storeys high, and the Tulyets and their only son had enough room to claim a sleeping chamber to themselves, an almost unimaginable luxury when there were servants and retainers to be housed and a steady stream of visitors claiming hospitality.