‘You are asking whether I believe Deschalers was so distressed about his impending death that he murdered Bottisham and killed himself,’ surmised Rougham, who had evidently heard about the lack of a third party in the King’s Mill when the two men had died. ‘And the answer is yes. He was weak from his illness, but he could have mustered enough strength to perform one last act of violence. It is the only viable solution, because Bottisham cannot have murdered Deschalers.’
‘I heard they died from nails penetrating their brains via their mouths,’ said Pulham distastefully. ‘I do not see Bottisham inflicting that sort of injury – or any other, for that matter – on anyone. It seems an odd way to choose for a suicide. What was Deschalers thinking of?’
‘It does sound improbable, and I speak from my experience as a medicus,’ agreed Rougham. ‘I suppose the man must have used a nail on Bottisham, then felt obliged to dispatch himself in a like manner. Suicides are rarely rational in their thoughts as they prepare to die. He probably saw some contorted logic in his decision that is impenetrable to a sane mind.’
Bartholomew conceded that he was probably right, and the twisted reasoning of a deranged mind had led one of the two men to kill his enemy and then himself in this bizarre manner. He could think of no other explanation that made sense.
‘I heard Gonville will represent the Mortimer clan in their argument about water with the King’s Mill,’ said Michael, changing the subject. ‘Is it true?’
Pulham nodded. ‘We shall miss Bottisham’s incisive mind, though.’
‘Why have you chosen to support the Mortimers over the Millers’ Society?’ asked Michael. ‘Do you have shares in their venture, or have they promised to become benefactors?’
‘No,’ said Rougham shortly. ‘We took their case because they offered to pay us well.’
Ufford gave a rueful smile. ‘And because we are tired of seeing men like Deschalers, Morice, Cheney and Lavenham have their way in the town. They are all wealthy, yet they dabble in milling to make themselves richer still. It is time they learned they cannot always have what they want.’
‘But the Mortimers are wealthy and greedy, too,’ Michael pointed out. ‘And Thomas killed an innocent man by driving a cart when he was drunk. They are scarcely blameless.’
‘Bottisham was shocked by that,’ admitted Pulham. ‘I imagine that is why he visited Isnard and Mistress Lenne: to ease his troubled conscience.’
‘But you see no problem in representing them?’ asked Michael.
‘Not really,’ replied Pulham. ‘The Mortimers have been appealed by the Millers’ Society, and they need legal representation. That is the sum of our relationship with them: they are clients. We do not accept or decline folk on the basis of their moral standing; that is for God to decide.’
‘Damn it all!’ exclaimed Ufford, who had been gazing out of the window. ‘He is here. Who gave him a key?’
Bartholomew went to look, rashly handing his still-brimming goblet to Michael to hold. He saw Thorpe open the gate and saunter across the yard, whistling to himself. If the young man knew his new colleagues did not like him, he did not seem to care. He strutted confidently to the library door.
‘I did,’ said Rougham defensively. ‘He is entitled to one, because of the fees he pays. He is not here often anyway, so it does no harm. Make yourself scarce, if you want to avoid him.’
Ufford scowled, not liking the notion that he should be obliged to ‘make himself scarce’ because his colleagues had decided to house a ruffian. But he was in no condition to fight, and it was not long before he slunk out of a door at the back, clearly furious.
‘Thorpe,’ said Michael, as the man entered the library. He lifted Bartholomew’s cup in mock salute and downed its contents in a single swallow. ‘What a pleasant surprise.’
Thorpe was not pleased to see Michael. He pulled a disagreeable face, then went to sit at the carrel he had been allocated, slouching against the wall and ignoring the philosophical text that lay open in front of him. He shuffled restlessly for a few moments, then abandoned his pretence at scholarship, and started for the door. Bartholomew wondered if he had come with the express purpose of baiting Ufford, since he had clearly not come to study.
‘Is that it?’ asked Michael, as he watched Thorpe return the book to its shelf. ‘Is that the sum of your learning for the day? You will not pass your disputations like that!’
‘My disputations are not until summer,’ replied Thorpe. ‘That is a long way in the future.’ The expression on his face indicated he felt a lot could happen before then, and that he thought it unlikely Michael would ever have the opportunity to savage him in the debating hall.
‘Why do you want to become a scholar?’ asked Michael conversationally. ‘Are you attracted to philosophy or the sciences? Or do you simply enjoy the company of erudite men, like me?’
‘No, I do not enjoy the company of men like you,’ replied Thorpe ambiguously.
‘Your father must be proud,’ probed Michael, knowing that mention of the kin who had disowned him would annoy Thorpe.
‘He has not said so,’ replied Thorpe stiffly. ‘Not yet.’
‘Where is our new altar cover?’ demanded Rougham, breaking into their discussion. ‘You have not shown us the cloth you intend to use yet, and it might not be suitable.’
‘In time,’ said Thorpe coolly. ‘There are more pressing matters to attend first.’
He left as abruptly as he came, leaving Bartholomew uneasy and unsettled. Thorpe had not enrolled at Gonville to study, so he obviously had something else in mind. The possibilities were many and all unpleasant.
‘I do not like that young man,’ said Pulham worriedly. ‘Brother Michael is right: we should tell him to leave. Everyone says he is dangerous, so why should we have him in our College?’
‘I do not like him, either,’ said Thompson the priest, speaking for the first time. ‘There is something about him I find distasteful. I do not judge others on rumour and speculation, so I base my assessment on my own interpretation of his character: he is not a good man, and he will bring us trouble we cannot afford. I recommend we repay his fees and ask him to go.’
‘We have already spent his fees on timber for the chapel,’ replied Rougham shortly, displeased to be outvoted on all sides. ‘He must remain until at least the summer. So, since we cannot undo what has been done, I suggest we abandon this tedious subject and discuss something more appropriate for learned men in a Cambridge College.’
‘Then you can tell me why you are convinced of the authenticity of the Hand of Valence Marie,’ suggested Michael. ‘I cannot understand how you, intelligent men, should believe that thing is real.’
‘I have already told you: we do not,’ said Pulham. ‘Only Rougham and Ufford are believers. Thompson, Deschalers and I see it for what it is: the illegally severed limb of Peterkin Starre.’
‘No one is saying it did not come from Peterkin,’ replied Rougham impatiently. ‘However, Father William – a devout Franciscan from your own College, Brother – says Peterkin was a saint.’
‘Does he?’ asked Pulham, aghast. ‘I thought he had more sense than to fabricate tales like that. Who knows where they will lead? You should stop him, Brother.’
‘Oh, I shall,’ vowed Michael with grim determination.
‘The Hand is holy,’ persisted Rougham. ‘It effects miraculous healings.’
‘Name one,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Other than Ufford’s “leprosy”.’
‘There was an incident just today,’ flashed Rougham. ‘Una the whore petitioned for an end to the ache in her guts, and was rewarded by a cure that was virtually instant.’
‘I gave her medicine this morning,’ said Bartholomew. ‘She must have felt better after taking it.’
‘An Arab potion, I presume,’ said Rougham, his voice dripping with contempt. ‘Well, I can tell you for a fact that that rubbish would not have worked. What was in it, anyway?’
‘Charcoal and chalk, which are hot and m
oist to counteract the cold dryness of black bile, mixed with poppy juice. It is not an Arab potion, but one known to English physicians for centuries.’
‘You gave her burned wood and stones?’ demanded Rougham in horror. ‘My God, man!’
‘They are ingredients recommended by Dioscorides,’ said Bartholomew tartly. ‘Not to mention Galen and Hippocrates.’
‘Did you actually see her take your “remedy”?’ asked Rougham, not wanting to argue against the great Greeks, so changing the line of his attack. ‘Because, if you did not, then I imagine she took one look at it, and decided against pouring it in her innards.’
‘I left Redmeadow and Quenhyth to do that.’
‘Redmeadow!’ spat Rougham. ‘He is as loathsome a vermin as I have ever encountered. I would never have accepted such a student at Gonville!’
‘Why not?’ asked Bartholomew, startled by the man’s vehemence. Redmeadow did not usually induce a strong dislike in people.
‘He is inefficient and careless,’ snapped Rougham. ‘I gave him a penny to fetch me some catmint from Lavenham the apothecary. But he brought me calamint instead. Fool!’
‘They are both used for similar ailments,’ said Bartholomew, thinking Rougham was over-reacting. ‘A confusion between calamint and catmint is unlikely to prove overly disastrous. Bacon said that—’
‘Bacon!’ Rougham pounced with distaste. ‘A heretic!’
‘He was not a heretic,’ said Bartholomew. He reconsidered. ‘Although, I confess I am sceptical of his theories regarding the secretum secretorum – the fabled remedy for all ills, which is also alleged to restore youth to the aged. That seems a little fabulous to me.’
‘Really,’ said Rougham flatly. ‘You only mentioned that because you know it is the only aspect of Bacon’s work that I find remotely believable.’
‘Surely not!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, who had known no such thing. ‘The notion of a secretum secretorum flies in the face of all reason! How could there be such a phenomenon? All empirical evidence indicates that it is nothing more than wishful fancy.’
‘Your contention does not surprise me, given that you also dismiss the holy power of relics,’ said Rougham icily. ‘But you came to discuss Bottisham, not the Hand.’
‘True,’ agreed Michael. He took a deep breath, knowing the unpleasant part of the interview could be postponed no longer. ‘Were any of you aware that Bottisham and Deschalers knew each other?’
‘Of course,’ sighed Rougham. ‘Deschalers was a grocer and Bottisham’s duties as a Fellow included purchasing our College’s victuals. They did a lot of business together.’
‘What can you tell me about Bottisham? Did he have any enemies who might wish him harm? Or a lover who—’
‘No,’ said Pulham firmly, before he could continue. ‘I knew you would do this: rummage through Bottisham’s personal affairs in search of scandal. But you will not succeed, Brother. There were no shameful secrets in his past. He had just taken holy orders with the Carmelites, and his life was blameless. He was the victim here, not the perpetrator.’
‘We do not know who killed whom yet,’ said Michael carefully.
‘Bottisham was not the villain,’ stated Rougham. ‘He was a good man – gentle and kind – and he would never hurt anyone. I have already told you that Deschalers could have summoned the strength to kill, so the case is closed as far as I am concerned. Deschalers killed Bottisham, then made an end of himself in a fit of remorse.’
‘If Bottisham was so gentle and kind, then why would Deschalers want him dead?’ asked Michael.
Rougham glared at him. ‘There are all kinds of possible explanations. Deschalers might have mistaken Bottisham for someone else. Or perhaps Deschalers did not intend to kill anyone, and the whole thing was an accident. Who can say?’
‘You do not “accidentally” drive a nail into a man’s brain,’ said Michael. ‘And every member of the Millers’ Society thinks Bottisham is the killer – that he followed Deschalers into—’
‘No!’ cried Thompson, distressed. ‘Bottisham would never do such a thing! How can you even think it? I thought you liked him.’
‘I did – do,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘But if we want to solve this crime, then we must explore every possible angle, and – unfortunately for those of us who admired him – that means prying into aspects of his life that he might have preferred to keep to himself.’
‘I have already told you that you will be disappointed if you go that way,’ warned Pulham angrily. ‘Bottisham had no sordid secrets.’
‘We all have something we would rather no one else knew,’ said Michael softly. ‘I have been Senior Proctor for long enough to learn that, at least.’
‘Bottisham believed Deschalers was a wicked man,’ said Pulham, raising a hand to prevent another enraged outburst from Rougham. ‘He often commented that he was corrupt and nasty. We saw that side of Deschalers for ourselves, when he promised funds for our chapel and then withdrew them at an inconvenient time. Remember that, Thompson?’
Thompson turned to Michael and Bartholomew. ‘About two years ago, Deschalers offered Gonville a donation that would have gone a long way to raising our chapel walls, if not the roof, too. But, just as the work was about to begin, he withdrew the entire amount. I was sure the whole thing was engineered to embarrass Bottisham.’
‘There was also some ancient quarrel involving a field,’ said Michael. ‘Do you know anything about that?’
Thompson nodded. ‘Deschalers owned a field in Chesterton, but the Bigod family said it was theirs. Deschalers took the case to the King’s Bench, and employed Bottisham to argue for him. Bottisham lost, and Deschalers was angry, because he believed his claim was solid.’
‘And was it?’ asked Michael. ‘Solid?’
‘It appeared to be, on parchment. But courts do not always operate on the principle of justice and right, as you have no doubt observed. Bribes change hands. Bottisham was honest, and would never have indulged in such corruption. I imagine that was at the heart of their schism.’
‘Deschalers lost his field because Bottisham refused to negotiate a bribe?’ asked Bartholomew.
This time, it was Pulham who nodded. ‘Deschalers was furious that he had lost land, just because Bottisham refused to compromise his personal integrity. And they were enemies thereafter.’
‘But Bottisham’s anger was passive,’ added Thompson. ‘He was not a man to engage in noisy and public quarrels. Deschalers was more vocal, and the distasteful incident of the withdrawn funds is just one example of sly tricks designed to hurt Bottisham. Bottisham genuinely believed Deschalers wanted to bury the hatchet when he offered us that donation. We should all have known better.’
‘We should,’ agreed Rougham. ‘So, you can dig and pry all you like, Brother, but you will never find anything sinister or corrupt in Bottisham’s past. He is sinless, and he was ruthlessly murdered by a man who hated him. Deschalers is your killer, and that is that.’
Bartholomew was relieved when the monk stood to leave, bringing the uncomfortable interview to a close.
‘Thank God that is over,’ said Michael vehemently, as he and Bartholomew left Gonville Hall. ‘You cannot imagine how distasteful it was, demanding to know nasty secrets about poor Bottisham.’
Bartholomew felt he could imagine very well, and thought it – combined with Rougham’s inexplicable hostility – made for one of the least pleasant encounters he had ever endured at another College. He started to turn right, towards Michaelhouse, but the monk had other ideas, and he found himself steered to the left instead. ‘Where are we going?’
‘To Deschalers’s house. I have already spoken to his apprentices, and today I want to talk to the servants. We learned virtually nothing from Gonville, so we had better hope we hear something useful from Deschalers’s people, or we shall be at a dead end again.’
‘Tulyet told me that Deschalers was a very private man, so I doubt you will learn much from servants. And he had no close friends –
not since the plague took them, at least.’
‘Rougham does not like you,’ remarked Michael, changing the subject. ‘And the feeling is mutual. I have seldom seen such a disgraceful display of sniping and snapping.’
‘It is a pity,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Physicians are not so numerous in Cambridge that we can afford to spurn each other’s company, and yet I find Rougham a deeply repellent man. He seemed much worse today than usual, though. We have always managed a show of civility in the past.’
‘He invited you to dine last Wednesday,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘Yet, just a week later, he can barely stand to be in the same room as you.’
‘Perhaps he was offended that I amputated Isnard’s leg instead of eating with him.’
‘Physicians are often called away from pleasant social occasions by their patients. I am sure he understands that. No, Matt, his antagonism goes a lot deeper than a missed meal. He was accusing you openly of holding fast to heretical ideals. I told you to be careful of him with your casual approach to what he considers anathema, and I was right. You have clearly done something to tip him over the edge and shatter the illusion of tolerance between you.’
‘Perhaps he is angry with Redmeadow over the catmint episode, and holds me responsible. But here comes a physician who is fair-minded and pleasant company: Paxtone from King’s Hall.’
‘Matthew!’ exclaimed Paxtone, his round features breaking into a smile. ‘I was hoping to see you. Rougham is selling all Gonville’s medical books that are not by Greeks, and I have purchased the writings of Lanfrank of Milan on surgery. I would value your opinion. Will you visit me later?’
‘I would like to come now,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘But I am going to Deschalers’s house, to see if we can discover why he and Bottisham were found dead together.’
Paxtone shuddered. ‘Poor souls! What have you learned so far? It grieves me to say so, but Deschalers did not harm Bottisham – he was too ill. And since Bernarde the miller says they were the only two people there, then it stands to reason that Bottisham must have killed Deschalers. But Bottisham did not seem like the kind of man to kill …’ He trailed off uncomfortably.
Bartholomew 10 - The Hand of Justice Page 20
