Bartholomew 10 - The Hand of Justice

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘He was not,’ said Bartholomew, more sharply than he intended. ‘Besides, Rougham was Deschalers’s physician, and he disagrees with you. He says Deschalers was strong enough.’

  Paxtone pursed his lips, to indicate with silence what he thought of Rougham’s diagnosis. ‘Then perhaps one of them was fed some potion that made him different in character. I have read that the Italians know how to make such compounds. You should ask whether Thorpe and Mortimer went anywhere near Italy during their exile.’

  Bartholomew stared at him, wondering whether the answer could be that simple. It would certainly fit the physical evidence – that only Deschalers and Bottisham were present when they died and that one had killed the other. But would Thorpe and Mortimer have orchestrated such a thing? He concluded that they might, because it would set University against town and lead to chaos and disorder. What better way to avenge themselves on a place they felt had wronged them?

  ‘Or perhaps Thorpe and Mortimer had nothing to do with it,’ Paxtone went on. ‘Perhaps someone wants them blamed, so they can be re-exiled.’

  ‘It is possible, I suppose,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘The whole town would be delighted to see the back of them. But Bottisham’s life is a huge price to pay.’

  Paxtone patted his arm. ‘I do not envy you your investigation, Brother. I shall go to the Hand of Valence Marie and ask it to help you.’

  ‘You believe in its power, too?’ asked Michael with a groan. He began to walk away. ‘I feel I am one in a slowly dwindling minority who does not feel compelled to revere the damned thing.’

  With an apologetic smile for the monk’s brusqueness, Bartholomew left Paxtone and followed Michael along Milne Street to Deschalers’s luxurious home. Michael knocked at the door. It was opened by the old servant, who showed them into the tastefully decorated chamber on the ground floor that they had visited before. Michael’s attempts to question him were met with puzzled looks or odd statements about exotic foods, and it was not long before the monk abandoned the interrogation. The man either did not know anything, or was not prepared to be helpful; Bartholomew suspected the former, because nothing much seemed to catch his attention unless it involved eating. As soon as he had gone to fetch someone else to see to them, Michael – another man obsessed with his diet – homed in on the dishes of dried fruits that had been left for visitors, determined to scoff as many as possible as a small act of revenge against a household that yielded so little in the way of clues.

  ‘Oh,’ came a voice as the door opened and a woman swept in. ‘It is you two.’

  Michael almost choked on his apple ring, although he should have anticipated that the grocer’s untimely death would result in the appearance of the woman generally acknowledged to be his heir. Julianna Deschalers, his niece, had become his sole surviving kin after the plague had claimed all the others. She was tall, with a mass of fair hair that was coiled into plaits at the sides of her face. Her clothes were expensive and decorated with silver thread, and she held herself with the confident poise of someone used to having her orders obeyed. Bartholomew had met her before, and considered her headstrong and boorish.

  ‘Madam,’ said Michael, recovering from his surprise and bowing. Bartholomew did likewise, although he did not think she warranted such courtesy.

  ‘I am well, thank you,’ Julianna replied, in answer to the question she obviously felt they should have asked. ‘And so is my child.’

  ‘Child?’ echoed Bartholomew, startled. ‘Who is the father?’

  ‘That is not a question you should ask a respectably married woman,’ she replied indignantly. ‘But you know the answer anyway. My daughter’s father is Ralph de Langelee. He is Master of your College and he was my husband – until we agreed that our marriage should be annulled. You know I was pregnant when I married him, because you were both at our wedding. But I have remarried now – thankfully. It was not many weeks before Langelee decided he would rather frolic with men in a College than enjoy normal sexual relations with his wife.’

  ‘I hardly think—’ began Bartholomew, although the Master’s manly reputation needed no protection from him. There did not exist a more vigorous and practised lover, according to the many prostitutes who seemed intimately acquainted with his performances.

  ‘Never mind that,’ she interrupted impatiently. ‘I am now married to Edward Mortimer.’

  ‘Edward Mortimer?’ asked Bartholomew, shocked. ‘The exile?’

  She glared at him, angry at his reaction of horror when she obviously felt congratulations were in order. ‘How many other Edward Mortimers do you know?’

  ‘None, thank God,’ said Bartholomew, before he could stop himself.

  She glared again. ‘I was looking for a husband, and my uncle mentioned that Edward had recently acquired a King’s Pardon. Edward is heir to a great fortune, and so am I. So it was a good match. My name is Julianna Mortimer, now.’

  ‘Lord!’ breathed Michael, sitting down heavily in a delicate chair. Something cracked, and she scowled at him. ‘But you were betrothed to Edward once before, were you not? Before he was banished?’

  She bent to inspect the chair, and did not seem very interested in answering him. ‘Yes, I was. But I thought him a weakling then, and not worthy of me. However, he is a real man now. He learned at Albi, in the south of France, during his exile. I like him a lot better now he is no longer a silly boy.’

  ‘I am sure you do,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that a self-confessed killer would be very attractive to a woman like Julianna, who seemed to like rough, unmannerly men.

  She grabbed one of the chair’s legs and gave it a vigorous tug. She was a strong woman, and Michael was obliged to grab a windowsill to stop himself from being jerked off it. There was another snap, and she straightened with a satisfied expression. ‘There; that should do it. Edward plans to demand compensation from the town for the agonies it caused him with this nasty banishment. Did he tell you that?’

  There was an ominous groan from the chair, and Michael leapt to his feet. ‘But he cannot win such a case. He has been pardoned, which is not the same as being deemed innocent. He cannot claim compensation in those circumstances.’

  ‘Well, you are wrong,’ said Julianna firmly. ‘He will be paid lots of money, and we will both have a wonderful time spending it.’ She clapped her hands in delight at the prospect.

  ‘Sweet Christ!’ grumbled Michael under his breath. ‘What have we done to deserve her?’

  ‘What are you mumbling about?’ demanded Julianna immediately. ‘I had forgotten how you academics mumble. It is an unattractive habit. Why can you not speak at a normal volume?’

  ‘Tell me about your uncle’s death,’ said Michael, wanting to ask his questions and leave.

  ‘I will inherit everything,’ sang Julianna happily, twirling on her heels like a child. ‘Edward was so pleased when I told him. He must have forgotten I was Uncle’s sole heir.’

  ‘I imagine that is unlikely,’ muttered Michael acidly. He saw Julianna scowl because she could not hear him, and raised his voice again. ‘I was not referring to the disposal of your uncle’s worldly goods. I want to know why he went to the mill with Nicholas Bottisham.’

  ‘I do not know anything about that,’ said Julianna carelessly. ‘It is very sad, of course.’ She arranged her features into something that approximated grief, which Bartholomew could see was far from genuine. ‘Of course, he had been ill for some time.’

  ‘With a canker of the bowels,’ said Bartholomew.

  ‘With a wasting sickness,’ corrected Julianna primly. ‘We do not mention bowels in this gentle household. It is not polite.’

  ‘How long was he ill?’ asked Michael. ‘Weeks? Months? A year?’

  ‘A few months,’ she replied. ‘That was why I came to live in Chesterton – that pretty little village just to the north of here – after Christmas. I wanted to claim my inheritance as soon as he died, you see. You cannot be too careful these days, what with thieves and killers
at large.’

  ‘Did you ever see your uncle with Bottisham?’ asked Bartholomew, declining to mention that one such thief and killer was her new husband. ‘Did Bottisham visit him or send him messages? Do you know anything about the funds promised for Gonville’s chapel, which were later withdrawn?’

  ‘Uncle never donated anything to Gonville,’ declared Julianna, pronouncing the name with considerable disdain. ‘He occasionally gave money to Bene’t College, which he helped to build. But he was not interested in helping other halls and hostels.’

  ‘So Bottisham never visited your uncle here?’ clarified Michael.

  ‘I did not say that,’ replied Julianna. ‘I said Uncle did not donate money to Gonville. Bottisham did come here occasionally, because Uncle was the town’s best grocer. Many scholars do business with him, and Bottisham was no different.’

  ‘Did he come alone?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or were there other Gonville men with him?’

  ‘I do not know,’ replied Julianna with a bored sigh. ‘I have not been living here with him, have I? I have a house in Chesterton, where I reside with my husband and my daughter. And Rob Thorpe on occasion, although I do not like him.’ Her face took on a sulky expression. ‘When he is present, Edward ignores me, and all they do is sit together and scheme.’

  ‘What do they talk about?’ asked Michael, exchanging a glance with Bartholomew. Perhaps she would tell them what the pair intended to do in Cambridge.

  ‘Plotting,’ replied Julianna guilelessly. ‘Planning. You know the kind of thing.’

  ‘Enlighten me,’ invited Michael.

  ‘They have been deciding what they will do,’ said Julianna slowly, as though speaking to her infant daughter. ‘They agreed that Edward will work for his uncle – Thomas the miller – and Rob was going to study with his father. But his father will not have him, so he went to Gonville instead.’

  ‘But why?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘Do they envisage staging some sort of revenge?’

  ‘I expect so,’ said Julianna, with a shrug to indicate she did not care. ‘They do not tell me the details, and I am not interested in their dull discussions anyway. But I thought you came here to talk about my uncle. You should try catching whoever broke into his house the night he died. That might help you with your investigation into his sad death.’ She was unable to suppress a grin, knowing what that ‘sad death’ meant for her future.

  ‘He was burgled?’ asked Bartholomew, although he knew the answer to that: he had seen the fellow himself. ‘What was taken?’

  ‘Nothing, as far as I know, but documents were tampered with. They did not steal the will though, thank the Lord!’

  ‘Who would be interested in his documents?’ asked Michael.

  ‘I have no idea, but you should find out. I do not like the rumours circulating that say poor Uncle murdered this scholar. I am sure it was the other way around.’

  CHAPTER 6

  Bartholomew remained haunted by Mistress Lenne’s haggard, distraught face, so went with Redmeadow and Quenhyth to see her the following morning after prime. Redmeadow pulled his writing tablet from his bag and provided the physician with a detailed résumé of what had been said when he had visited her the previous evening. There was nothing of import, and Bartholomew had the impression that the old lady had become impatient with the student’s ponderous enquiries, and had wanted him to leave. It was not a bad sign: irritation was better than bleak hopelessness.

  He and the students left the Lenne house, and turned towards the High Street. When they drew near St Mary the Great – with Redmeadow regaling Quenhyth with a rather fanciful theory about how Bishop Bateman came to be poisoned in Avignon – Bartholomew spotted two familiar faces among the throng that had gathered to pay homage to the Hand. Paxtone and Wynewyk stood close together, holding what seemed to be an intense discussion.

  Bartholomew was surprised, since he had never seen the Michaelhouse lawyer and the King’s Hall physician together before. He started to walk towards them, intending to pass the time of day, but Paxtone happened to glance up and see him. He grabbed Wynewyk’s arm and hauled him towards the Trumpington Gate. Wynewyk stole a quick look behind him as they went, and walked even faster when he saw Bartholomew was watching. The physician stared in total mystification, wondering what had induced such odd behaviour in two people he regarded as friends.

  ‘There is Master Warde from the Hall of Valence Marie,’ said Redmeadow, pointing in the opposite direction. ‘He was the fellow who robbed us of victory in the Disputatio de quodlibet. It was a bad decision. Michaelhouse was much better than Gonville.’

  ‘We were not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Bottisham argued very elegantly, and so did Pulham.’

  ‘Rougham was rubbish, though,’ said Quenhyth, gnawing at a fingernail. ‘I do not like him. He shouted at Redmeadow, just because he fetched calamint from the apothecary the other day, not catmint.’ His voice was smug, as though he would not have made such a basic mistake.

  ‘He can be brusque,’ said Bartholomew. He watched as Warde hacked helplessly, struggling to catch his breath. ‘Warde has had that cough for a long time now.’

  ‘He is being treated by Rougham, and we all know how ineffective he is as a healer,’ said Quenhyth. ‘You are much better.’ He flashed an ingratiating smile, and Bartholomew winced.

  ‘Lord!’ exclaimed Warde hoarsely, as their paths converged. ‘This tickling throat will be the death of me. I have had it a full ten days, and it still shows no sign of abating. I have tried everything – even a potion from Egypt that Deschalers the grocer sold me before he died.’

  ‘What kind of potion?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And how do you know it came from Egypt?’

  ‘Deschalers told me Arabs use it when desert sand clogs their lungs, although it tasted like a simple syrup of honey and acid fruits to me.’ Warde shook his head sadly. ‘It is a terrible business with him and Bottisham. I was fond of them both. I cannot imagine what happened to them, or why they should have been together in the King’s Mill.’

  ‘Nor can we,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But they had an ancient disagreement over a field, then Deschalers pretended he was going to give Gonville money for their chapel but withdrew it at the last moment – to embarrass Bottisham, apparently. We also know that Bottisham planned to represent the Mortimers in the mill dispute – against Deschalers and the Millers’ Society.’

  ‘The situation was more one-sided than that,’ said Warde, coughing again. ‘Bottisham held no ill feelings for Deschalers; he told me so himself. But Deschalers harboured them for Bottisham. Deschalers was protective of his possessions, and did not like losing a field that was his by rights.’

  ‘Was it his by rights?’

  Warde nodded. ‘Oh, yes. I reviewed the evidence when Bottisham accepted the case, some twenty years ago now. But the other claimant bribed witnesses. Deschalers wanted to do the same, but Bottisham refused. Deschalers was bitter about Bottisham’s incorruptibility, and said a lawyer’s principles should not come between a man and his property. I can see his point: he lost a valuable piece of land because Bottisham refused to employ tactics used openly by other clerks.’

  ‘Do you think this festered, and Deschalers decided to have his revenge while he still could?’ Bartholomew was sceptical. He did not really believe Rougham’s assurances that the dying man had mustered the physical strength for a final act of vengeance.

  Warde shrugged. ‘I do not know. However, I must point out that most men who are mortally ill avoid committing sins close to the time when their souls will be weighed. Perhaps it was not Deschalers who killed Bottisham, but a member of the Mortimer clan.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Bottisham was going to work for them, as one of their lawyers.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Warde. ‘And who wants a clerk so scrupulous that he will lose a case before resorting to dishonesty? However, I have heard that no one else was in the mill when Deschalers and Bottisham died, so I am doubtless wrong in my speculatio
ns. What did you think of my lecture at Merton Hall last Wednesday?’

  ‘The one about the neglect of mathematics in academic studies?’ asked Bartholomew, casting his mind back to the lively debate that had taken place the morning before Isnard and Lenne were crushed by Mortimer’s cart. ‘You are right: mathematical principles underlie our most basic philosophical tenets, and we should ensure our students are well versed in their application.’

  ‘Because of that lecture, Doctor Bartholomew is going to talk about Euclid’s Elementa all day,’ said Quenhyth to Warde, clearly less than happy about the prospect. ‘Particularly the theory that parallel lines will never meet, even in an infinite universe.’

  ‘Good,’ said Warde, rubbing his hands over his oily yellow hair and coughing a little. ‘There is nothing like the Elementa to drive cobwebs from the mind.’

  ‘God must be able to make parallel lines meet,’ said Redmeadow thoughtfully. ‘He is omnipotent, after all, and it cannot be that hard to do.’

  ‘I imagine He has better things to do than confound Euclidean geometric universals,’ said Warde. A smile took the sting from his words. ‘Hah! There is Rougham. I must consult with him again about my cough.’

  Rougham was in a hurry. He strode along the street in a flurry of flapping sleeves and billowing cloak, showing all who saw him that here was a man with important business to attend. It gave the impression that he was much in demand, and that patients who secured his services were gaining the attention of a man who knew what he was about. He carried a thick book by Galen, to indicate that he was learned as well as busy, but was not burdened down with battered bags full of potions and knives, like a common surgeon. Despite the fact that his rapid progress indicated that he had not a moment to spare before descending on his next lucky customer, he was prepared to stop and talk to Warde.

  ‘The syrup of blackcurrants did not work?’ he asked, making a show of consulting his book, although Bartholomew was certain Galen never mentioned this particular fruit in his analysis of foods with medicinal qualities. He said nothing, but Quenhyth was not so prudent.