Bartholomew 10 - The Hand of Justice

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘Quickly,’ called Master Thorpe from the dais at the far end of the hall. On the raised platform stood a table, which was generally regarded as one of the finest pieces of furniture in Cambridge, even better than the one in St Mary’s Guildhall, and was the envy of all the Colleges. Valence Marie Fellows had so much room, they were not obliged to sit sideways to make sure everyone had a place, and they had individual chairs rather than communal benches. Bartholomew ignored the brash luxury all around him, and strode to where Thorpe bent over someone who lay on the floor behind the table. Michael followed.

  The Master of Valence Marie was white with shock, and his normally immaculate cap of silver hair was in disarray. His eyes were anguished as he watched Bartholomew approach. The other Fellows who clustered around him seemed equally appalled. Bartholomew recognised a man named Thomas Bingham among them; Bingham had stepped into Thorpe’s shoes while he was in York, and had upset his colleagues with his poor table manners.

  ‘We had just finished our evening meal, when Bingham began to wipe his teeth on the tablecloth again,’ explained Thorpe unsteadily. He scowled at his Fellow. ‘None of us like that, and Warde took issue with him. They argued and Warde started to cough. We took no notice at first, because he has been doing it for the last two weeks. You must have noticed him at the Disputatio de quodlibet?’

  ‘I did,’ said Michael. ‘But most people thought he was doing it to create an atmosphere of suspense – he started just as he was about to announce the winner.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Bingham in a whisper. ‘I would not have quarrelled with him if I thought it would lead to this. Look what has happened.’ He gestured to the prostrate figure on the floor.

  Bartholomew knelt to examine the stricken man. Warde’s lips were pale, and he was having difficulty catching his breath. He gripped his throat with one hand, while the other clutched a crucifix.

  ‘Help me,’ he croaked, terror in his eyes. ‘I cannot breathe. I am hot and my mind is spinning.’

  ‘Lie still,’ said Bartholomew. He spoke softly, knowing a calm voice often soothed a patient’s anxiety, and helped to relax the constricting muscles that were part of the problem. He ordered the circle of onlookers away, thinking it would be better for Warde to recover without an audience. He heard Michael questioning them about what had happened, but they had little to add to Thorpe’s story. Warde had just consumed a broth of leeks and cabbage – from the bowl that had been shared by all – when he had argued with Bingham. After a few moments, he said he was short of breath. He then started to cough and fell to the floor, and Bartholomew had been summoned at Warde’s own request.

  ‘Bishop Bateman of Norwich habitually wiped his teeth on the tablecloth,’ whispered Michael to Bingham. ‘And look what happened to him.’

  ‘You think Bateman’s tablecloth was soaked in poison?’ asked Bingham in horror, crossing himself vigorously. ‘I shall never clean my teeth on communal materials again!’

  ‘That is my patient,’ came a loud voice from the far end of the hall. Bartholomew’s heart sank when he saw Rougham striding towards them. The Gonville physician had changed his wet clothes, although he still wore Bartholomew’s cloak. ‘Stand back, if you please.’

  Bartholomew could not argue. Warde was Rougham’s client, and he did not want another fracas with the man. Many physicians guarded their wealthier patients jealously, and Rougham was one of them. He stood and backed away, but Warde snatched at his hand.

  ‘No,’ he croaked. ‘Not Rougham. You.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Rougham, drawing up a chair and leaning over him. He was obviously not going to kneel, as Bartholomew had done. He smiled at the bewildered scholars who stood with Michael. ‘Thank you for summoning me, Bingham. You may well have saved your colleague’s life by ignoring his fevered demands for another medicus.’

  Bingham looked sheepish when Thorpe raised questioning eyebrows. ‘I sent word to both physicians, lest one should tarry or be unavailable,’ he confessed. ‘I am sorry, but I wanted to do all I could to help Warde.’

  ‘What is the matter?’ asked Rougham in a loud voice, as though his patient’s choking had also rendered him deaf and stupid. ‘Did you take the Water of Snails I prescribed? If you followed my recommendations I cannot imagine why you are in this state.’

  ‘Angelica,’ whispered Warde, clearly finding it difficult to talk. ‘Please, I have a …’

  ‘I did not hear you,’ bawled Rougham. ‘What about angelica?’

  ‘Do not speak, Warde,’ said Bartholomew. It was hard to stand by and see the man struggle to converse when it was obviously making his condition worse. ‘Lie still and take deep breaths.’

  ‘Angelica,’ pronounced Rougham, eyeing Bartholomew coldly. ‘That is something I would never prescribe, so it is doubtless one of your remedies. It is your fault Warde is in this state. If he had followed my advice, then he would not be lying here, on his deathbed.’

  Warde’s gagging grew more frenzied, and Bartholomew saw he had gripped the crucifix so tightly that it had cut his hand.

  ‘Tell me,’ demanded Rougham, taking Warde’s arm and giving it a shake. ‘Did you take angelica instead of the Water of Snails? Did you go against the express orders of your own physician in favour of a man whose methods are so dangerously irregular?’

  Warde drew breath with difficulty, and Bartholomew felt anger rise inside him. ‘Do not speak, Warde,’ he said tightly, longing to push Rougham away from the ailing man. ‘Just concentrate on breathing. We can talk later, when you are recovered.’

  Rougham sneered. ‘You are trying to silence him, so he will go to his grave without incriminating you. You have killed him with your angelica, and you are trying to cover your tracks.’

  The Valence Marie scholars listened with open-mouthed astonishment. Warde’s breathing grew more laboured, as a result, Bartholomew thought, of Rougham agitating him by mentioning deathbeds and graves. He moved away, thinking that if he was out of Rougham’s presence, the Gonville physician might not rant so. He would take him to task about his appalling bedside manners later, when there was no one to hear him tell the man he was a pompous fool.

  ‘And now you are running away,’ jeered Rougham. ‘You are unable to watch a man die, knowing you are responsible.’

  ‘Ignore him, Matt,’ warned Michael, sensing his friend’s growing anger. ‘Angelica never did anyone any harm. My grandmother chews it all the time.’

  ‘Warde was better after he took the angelica,’ said Thorpe, joining the debate in a wary voice. ‘His coughing eased, and he had a better night of sleep than he has enjoyed in a long time – we all did. We thought he was on the mend. Until now.’

  ‘It is a delayed reaction,’ pronounced Rougham authoritatively. ‘With angelica you think you are well, but find you are suddenly worse.’ He turned back to Warde again. ‘I ordered you to pray to the Hand of Justice for a cure, too. Did you do it? I thought I saw you with the other petitioners.’

  ‘Water of Snails!’ rasped Warde, and everyone craned forward to hear him. ‘I took it. Before the meal. Look on the table.’ He coughed again, and Bartholomew itched to go to him, to ease him into a position where he could breathe easier. ‘Not Bingham’s fault.’

  All eyes went to Warde’s place at the high table, and Bartholomew recognised the little phial containing the Water of Snails that Lavenham had prepared two days before. He wondered how Warde had come to have it, since Master Thorpe had said he would never persuade his colleague to drink such a potion, and had declined to purchase it for him.

  ‘Oh,’ said Rougham, knocked off his stride. He recovered quickly. ‘But the harm was already done with the angelica, and my Water of Snails was taken too late to help.’

  ‘It came from you,’ wheezed Warde accusingly. ‘You sent it. With a note. I took it. Because I was feeling better. But I wanted a quicker cure. The sermon.’

  ‘He is due to give the public address at St Mary the Great tomorrow,’ explained Thorpe. ‘He has b
een worried that he will be unable to do it, because of the cough. I suppose he took the Water of Snails as a precaution. I can think of no other reason that would induce him to swallow the stuff.’

  Warde’s vigorous nodding showed his Master’s assumptions were right. Bartholomew noticed there was a bluish tinge around his nose and mouth that had not been there before, and grew even more concerned. He saw students standing in a silent semicircle nearby, exchanging distraught glances. A kind, patient scholar like Warde would be sorely missed if anything were to happen to him.

  ‘But I did not send you Water of Snails with any note,’ said Rougham, puzzled. ‘I gave a recipe for the concoction to Master Thorpe, who took it to Lavenham to be made up.’

  ‘You sent it,’ asserted Warde in a feeble voice. ‘Today.’ This time his coughing was so vigorous that he began to make gasping, retching sounds that were painful to hear.

  ‘What are you saying?’ demanded Rougham. ‘Why would I send you such a thing, when I had already issued your Master with instructions and a list of ingredients?’

  ‘Enough!’ snapped Bartholomew, finally angered sufficiently to step forward and assert himself. Warde’s breathing was becoming increasingly laboured, and he saw that unless Warde stopped trying to talk he would indeed die. ‘Close your eyes and take deep, even breaths. Do not speak.’

  Rougham drew breath to argue, but Bartholomew shot him a look so full of barely controlled rage that he closed his mouth with a snap audible at the other end of the hall.

  ‘I saw the package and the letter,’ said Bingham to Rougham. ‘You sent Warde the phial, along with a message carrying instructions for him to swallow every drop.’

  ‘But I did not send him anything!’ insisted Rougham, becoming alarmed. ‘I did not even know he had ignored my advice and taken angelica.’ He almost spat the last word as he treated Bartholomew to a glare of his own.

  Bingham crouched down and rummaged in Warde’s scrip, producing a note scrawled on parchment: it was unquestionably Rougham’s spidery hand. He handed it to Thorpe.

  ‘“Drink all herein of Aqua Limacum Magistr. for purge of phlegm and consumptions of the lungs”,’ read Thorpe. He looked at Bartholomew. ‘Aqua Limacum Magistr.?’

  ‘Limacum Magistralis is the Latin description for Water of Snails,’ explained Bartholomew absently, more concerned by the patient’s rapidly deteriorating condition. ‘We can discuss this later. I want you all to leave, so Warde can lie quietly, and—’

  ‘One of my students must have attached that message to the Water of Snails, and sent it to Warde by mistake,’ interrupted Rougham. ‘That is the only possible explanation. I prescribe Aqua Limacum Magistralis to lots of people. But enough of that. Warde must rouse himself and walk, so that exercise will clear his lungs of the phlegm that chokes them.’

  ‘Leave him alone,’ said Bartholomew quietly, as the Gonville physician stepped towards Warde. He hauled the cloth from the table and bundled it under Warde’s head, to make a pillow.

  ‘Water of Snails,’ whispered Warde weakly. ‘Killed me.’

  ‘You will not die,’ said Bartholomew, although he was now not so sure. He struggled to hide his concern as he spoke gently to his patient, again hoping that a calm voice might work its own magic. ‘Lie still, close your eyes and take a breath. And now release it slowly. And …’

  He faltered, and the watching scholars strained forward to see why he had stopped speaking.

  ‘What is it, Matt?’ asked Michael quietly. ‘What is wrong?’

  Bartholomew sat back on his heels and looked accusingly at Rougham. ‘He is dead.’

  Rougham looked as shocked as Bartholomew felt. ‘It was you who tended him as he breathed his last, not me. You are the one who killed him. You probably did it for the fourpence you will earn as Corpse Examiner. I always said it was not a good idea to appoint a man who needs the money.’

  Warde had been a popular man, not just in the University, but in the town, too, and people were dismayed by his death. In Michaelhouse the following day, Suttone, the gloomy Carmelite, began to speculate about whether Warde’s fatal cough meant that the plague had returned, pointing out that the pestilence had also carried folk away with horrifying speed. Bartholomew argued that it was not, but neither could convince the other, so they eventually fell silent by mutual consent, having thoroughly depressed anyone who had listened to them.

  ‘No one believes Rougham’s claim that you killed Warde, Matthew,’ said Father William kindly, as the Fellows took their places at the high table for breakfast. It was a Sunday, and the sun was shining through the hall windows.

  ‘He is saying that publicly?’ asked Bartholomew, dismayed. ‘Already? But Warde only died last night.’

  ‘Rougham is an evil man,’ declared Suttone. ‘When the Death returns, he will be first to go.’

  ‘You identify a good many people who will “go” the instant the pestilence appears,’ observed Langelee, reaching for the ale jug and pouring himself a generous measure. ‘Are we to assume that it will be of short duration, then? All the evildoers will be struck dead in the first few moments?’

  ‘And the rest of you shortly thereafter,’ replied Suttone, fixing him with a cool gaze. ‘The wicked first, normal sinners second.’

  ‘Who will be left?’ asked Michael, snatching the bowl of egg-mess flavoured with lumps of mutton fat, just as Clippesby was reaching for it. ‘You and which other saint?’

  ‘Not Peterkin Starre, whose Hand lies in St Mary the Great, because he is dead already,’ said Clippesby, who had brushed his hair with a teasel in honour of the Sabbath, and did not look quite as peculiar as usual. ‘Walter’s cockerel informs me that he was no saint anyway. Bird believes the whole business with the Hand of Justice is shameful, and says someone should put an end to such gross deception by telling the truth about it.’

  ‘Does he, indeed?’ asked William archly, not pleased that the enterprise he had created should be criticised from avian quarters. ‘And what would Bird know of holy matters? He does not even know the correct time to crow. He woke up the entire College last night by braying at three o’clock in the morning. The scholars of Ovyng Hostel and Paxtone of King’s Hall complained about him again today.’

  ‘That thing is asking for its neck to be wrung,’ agreed Langelee. ‘Unfortunately, it is not easy to catch. I have tried, believe me, and so has Agatha.’

  ‘Bird enjoys being chased,’ said Clippesby, taking the bowl that had contained the egg-mess from Michael. He looked from the monk’s heaped trencher to the empty vessel with narrowed eyes. ‘I think you have taken my share there, as well as your own, Brother.’

  ‘Have I?’ asked Michael breezily. He rammed his knife into the eggs, and transferred a minuscule amount to Clippesby. ‘There you are. The dish was half-empty this morning. I suppose it is just another example of Michaelhouse cutting costs.’ He glared at Wynewyk.

  ‘More,’ said Clippesby, surveying the two unequal portions with dissatisfaction.

  Michael sighed in annoyance, but did as he was told. Displeased about losing half his breakfast, the monk went on the offensive, determined to vent his temper on someone. ‘When Matt and I were walking back from Valence Marie last night, after dealing with poor Warde, I saw someone lurking in the churchyard of St John Zachary. Now, what would an honest and law-abiding scholar be doing in such a place at such a time?’

  Silence greeted his words, until it was broken by Langelee. ‘None of us understands what you are talking about, Brother. Who do you mean?’

  ‘Wynewyk,’ said Michael, turning to fix steady eyes on the hapless lawyer. ‘I saw him quite clearly, and he saw us – which was why he darted for cover, I imagine. He did not expect any of his colleagues to be abroad at such an hour.’

  Bartholomew regarded Wynewyk in surprise. He had not seen anyone hiding behind bushes on his way home. However, he had not noticed very much, because his mind had been teeming with questions about Warde’s death, and he had been furious ab
out Rougham’s accusations.

  ‘It is not easy to stretch Michaelhouse’s paltry income to cover all our needs,’ replied Wynewyk stiffly. ‘And, in order to make it go further, I am occasionally obliged to deal with men who make better offers than our regular suppliers. It sometimes requires the odd nocturnal assignation.’

  ‘I do not like the sound of this,’ said Suttone sanctimoniously. ‘I do not want my College associated with shady deals that see me eating victuals that “fell off the back of a cart”.’

  ‘Nor do I,’ agreed William. ‘I have my reputation as Keeper of the University Chest to uphold. It would not look good for my College to be implicated in dishonest dealings.’

  Bartholomew saw several students start to laugh, evidently thinking that the friar’s conduct regarding the Hand of Justice was as dishonest as anything else happening in the town.

  ‘It was nothing illegal,’ protested Wynewyk, offended. ‘I would never do anything to bring the College into disrepute. I am a respectable, God-fearing man. You will just have to trust me.’

  ‘I trust you,’ said Langelee. ‘That is why I appointed you to help me in the first place. But time is passing and I want to visit the Hand of Justice. So, benedictus benedicat, and good day to you all.’

  Fellows and students hastened to stand for the final grace, but most were still sitting when Langelee wiped his lips on his sleeve and strode from the hall, Wynewyk scurrying at his heels. Michael shook his head as they went, muttering that the lawyer was clearly engaged in something odd, and that it was only a matter of time before he learned what. Bartholomew preferred not to think about it, mostly because he felt he had enough to worry about with the mill murders and Warde’s sudden death. He abandoned the high table and made for the stairs.

  ‘I wonder whether all our concerns and problems are connected,’ mused Michael, joining him in the yard. ‘Thorpe and Mortimer return to Cambridge and begin to meddle in matters that they know will cause ill feeling between town and University. We have the “Hand of Justice” discussed on every street corner, and a brewing row about who should own it.’