Bartholomew 10 - The Hand of Justice

by Susanna GREGORY

  The monk ripped the leg off a chicken. ‘Those peas are all yours, by the way. Peas are a waste of stomach space.’

  ‘We should discuss these murders,’ said Bartholomew, watching Michael feed with weary resignation. The monk’s restricted diet had lasted a mere two days. ‘Where shall we start?’

  ‘At the beginning: with Deschalers and Bottisham.’ Michael took a knife from his scrip and began to hack chunks of pork from a bone. ‘They did not die naturally, but we do not know whether we have two murders, or a suicide and a murder. If the latter is true, we do not know which of the pair killed the other or why. We know they disliked each other, and we know Deschalers played cruel tricks on Bottisham. Each had a motive to kill.’

  ‘Deschalers may have used the last of his strength to stab Bottisham, but I am not convinced. I still think he was too ill.’

  ‘In which case we have Bottisham killing Deschalers, then himself. If he slew Deschalers by accident – although it is hard to imagine how he “accidentally” slipped a nail into his rival’s palate – then I suppose he may have decided that suicide was the only way to escape from his predicament without shaming his College. Still I find it hard to imagine anyone killing himself by driving a nail into his mouth. It cannot have been easy.’

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘Neither man had been dead long before the bodies were discovered, and Bottisham was not the kind of man to make such a momentous decision without careful consideration. Besides, I still cannot believe that Bottisham would kill anyone, even an ancient enemy like Deschalers. I liked him, Brother. He was a good man.’

  ‘I know,’ said Michael, his mouth full of meat. ‘But we cannot afford to let sympathy cloud our judgement. However, do not forget the phial you found at the King’s Mill. It is possible there was something in that which lent Deschalers the strength to commit murder – or something that turned gentle Bottisham into a killer.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ acknowledged Bartholomew.

  ‘Bernarde,’ mused Michael. ‘What about him as the culprit?’

  ‘I can see him dispatching Bottisham, who was due to argue against him in the mill dispute. But not Deschalers, who was on his side.’

  ‘But Deschalers was not on his side,’ said Michael, spearing a slab of beef. ‘He refused to burn Mortimer’s Mill when the rest of Millers’ Society thought it was a good idea. And do not forget that he had recently become Edward Mortimer’s kin by marriage.’

  ‘I am more inclined to look elsewhere for our culprits – towards two men who we know have a liking for violent death.’

  ‘Thorpe and Edward,’ said Michael. ‘They arrive in the town, and within days two men are dead in odd circumstances. It is suspicious. But neither is stupid. Why would they indulge in a killing spree as soon as they return to the place that has charged them with such crimes before?’

  ‘Because Edward has gained a good deal from Deschalers’s death? He is now a wealthy man.’

  ‘But he will not reap the benefits of what has been a thriving business,’ said Michael, chewing thoughtfully. ‘He dismissed the trained apprentices, and it is only a matter of time before the enterprise Deschalers crafted so lovingly withers away.’

  ‘Do you think Edward is damaging it intentionally, to spite the town? Deschalers was a good grocer, and the loss of his services will be a serious blow to his customers.’

  ‘Possibly. Where else will we purchase fruit, onions, cheese and dried beans? But perhaps he just does not care about what might happen tomorrow. He is a young man, and they are often prone to live for the moment, with no thought for the future.’

  ‘But why kill Bottisham? Bottisham had never harmed either him or Thorpe.’

  ‘Perhaps Bottisham was in the wrong place at the wrong time,’ suggested Michael. ‘Or perhaps Thorpe and Edward did the killing together. It would make sense. It could not have been easy to murder two men one after the other – one would have tried to escape. If Edward and Thorpe acted together, they could have dispatched both victims simultaneously. However, this assumes Bernarde and his boy are lying: that there were other people in the mill when they say it was empty.’

  ‘We must not forget Rougham, either,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There was henbane in the Water of Snails he is alleged to have sent one man. Gonville wants to make a great deal of money from the Mortimers, so we can conclude that Rougham did not care for their enemy Deschalers, despite the fact that he was a patient. He may well have poisoned Deschalers.’

  ‘You may be right about that, but he liked Bottisham – who was going to defend Mortimer’s Mill to the Commission, and who was a respected member of his own College. I doubt very much whether Rougham killed him.’

  But Bartholomew was not so sure. ‘This chapel is important to Rougham, and I believe he will do virtually anything to see it built. Do you recall why Deschalers hated Bottisham? Because Bottisham refused to resort to bribery to win a case. It is possible that Rougham prefers his lawyers corruptible, too, so he can be certain Gonville will win for the Mortimers – and secure a handsome donation for the chapel into the bargain.’

  Michael’s eyes were bright. ‘You argue this very strongly. It was not many hours ago that you were telling me the evidence against Rougham was thin.’

  ‘That was before we knew for a fact that Warde was murdered,’ replied Bartholomew tersely. Paxtone flashed into his mind, but he kept the thought to himself. ‘Also, we must not neglect Lavenham. He mixed Warde’s potion.’

  Michael rubbed his chin. ‘And he might have added a fatal dose of henbane to it.’

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘Either because he made a terrible and careless mistake. Or because Warde intended to represent the Mortimers’ arguments to the Commission.’

  Michael was thoughtful. ‘The Water of Snails arrived with the note, and Bingham took both to Warde. But who knows what happened to the phial while it was in Warde’s room? Any of his colleagues might have got to it. Last time I mentioned this, you told me they have no motive, but it may be that we just have not discovered one yet.’

  Bartholomew sighed. ‘So, our suspects for Deschalers’s murder are the Mortimers, Thorpe, Rougham and Bottisham. Our suspects for Bottisham’s death are the Mortimers, Thorpe, Rougham, Deschalers and the Millers’ Society. And our suspects for Warde’s death include Rougham, Lavenham and the scholars of Valence Marie.’

  ‘And the Millers’ Society. Do not forget who else bought Water of Snails, besides Rougham – Cheney, Morice and Bernarde.’

  Bartholomew was disheartened. ‘So, we have a wealth of potential culprits, a few patchy motives, but not much else. We do not know what Deschalers and Bottisham were doing in the mill together. Nor do we know whether we can believe Bernarde’s testimony that they were alone when they died.’

  ‘But there is a common thread: Bernarde’s name crops up more often than it should. However, I have pushed him as far as I can without actually accusing him of lying. We shall just have to wait.’

  ‘Wait for what?’

  ‘To see if our felon leaves us any better clues the next time he claims a victim.’

  CHAPTER 10

  After leaving the Brazen George, Bartholomew and Michael saw a tabarded figure huddled in a nearby doorway with a large book under his arm. They watched Wynewyk nod quickly to someone, as though concluding a discussion, then glance around quickly before leaving. Wynewyk was not very good at conducting secret business without being seen, for he did not notice that Michael was observing his antics intently. But compared to Paxtone, who left their hiding place openly, as though there was nothing odd about two grown men crushed into a small place and muttering together, he was a veritable master of discretion.

  While Paxtone headed for the Trumpington Gate, Wynewyk went north, but balked when he saw his Michaelhouse colleagues. He crossed the High Street so their paths would not meet. Michael’s eyes narrowed as he, too, cut across the road, ignoring the angry yell from a carter whose horse reared at the sudden movement. Wynewy
k held his ground until the very last moment, when he shot back across the street. He was not pleased when he found Bartholomew blocking his way.

  ‘Going somewhere?’ asked the physician. His eyes strayed to the book under Wynewyk’s arm. A chain was attached to it, one end secured to the spine and the other hanging free. There were marks, where someone had taken a file and hewn through the links, releasing the tome from its secure place in a hall or a library. The damage looked new, and he recalled Wynewyk touting a book with a broken chain on a previous occasion.

  ‘Please,’ said Wynewyk, trying to nudge his way past. ‘I do not want to stop here.’

  Bartholomew glanced across the road, and saw Michael pause to give Rob Thorpe a long, hard stare as they met. Thorpe glared back, his expression loaded with malice, but Michael was used to dealing with rowdy and occasionally violent undergraduates, and the ruffian found himself unable to intimidate the monk as he had many others in the town. Michael continued to glower until Thorpe was forced to look away and move on.

  ‘I am late,’ said Wynewyk, trying to push Bartholomew out of his way. The physician declined to let him. He was growing tired of Wynewyk’s suspicious behaviour, and wanted some answers.

  ‘You see a lot of Paxtone these days,’ he said.

  ‘Who?’ demanded Wynewyk testily. ‘I know no one of that name.’

  Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly, thrown off guard by such flagrant lying. He saw Wynewyk’s shifty eyes and uncomfortable manner, and was about to demand the truth when Michael arrived. The monk snatched up the severed book chain and gazed accusingly at Wynewyk.

  ‘You could have borrowed a key to unlock this. You did not have to destroy the chain to get at it – they are expensive, you know.’

  ‘I do know,’ snapped Wynewyk. ‘I am in charge of the College accounts, remember? It is my duty to purchase chains, and I assure you that I am aware of exactly how much they cost. And I can also tell you we can ill afford to replace this one.’

  Michael prevented Wynewyk from walking away. ‘What are you doing out with Michaelhouse’s much-prized copy of John Dumbleton’s Summa logicae et philosophiae naturalis?’

  ‘Someone has sawn halfway through its moorings,’ replied Wynewyk coldly. He waved the jagged end in Michael’s face. ‘So, I completed the task, and I am taking it to the smith for repairs. What would you have me do? Leave it for the would-be thief to steal when he finds time to complete his work? It is not the first time it has happened, either. Now, if you will excuse me—’

  ‘You should have reported it,’ said Michael, stopping him again. ‘Then I would not have assumed you were the thief.’

  When it dawned on him that Michael had him marked down for a very grave crime, Wynewyk’s expression was one of open-mouthed horror. ‘You jump too readily to the wrong conclusions, Brother! Why would I want Dumbleton? I am a lawyer, not a philosopher. And why would I steal from my own College when, as you pointed out, I can borrow a key any time I like?’

  ‘That is the only copy of the Summa logicae in Cambridge,’ said Bartholomew, not bothering to point out that while Dumbleton’s text did indeed deal with philosophical issues, it was better known for its application to the study of logic. And logic was the basis of any academic discipline. ‘It deals with the intention and remission of certitude and doubt, and is very valuable.’

  ‘What are you implying?’ asked Wynewyk, red with indignation. ‘That I intend to sell it?’

  Michael answered with a meaningful silence.

  Wynewyk sighed and glanced behind him again. ‘I see what you are thinking. You imagine I was avoiding you when I crossed the road. Well, you are wrong. It was him.’

  He pointed down the High Street at Thorpe who, as if he knew he was being discussed, stopped suddenly and turned to give them an insolent wave. Wynewyk took a gulp of breath, then released it in a gust of relief when Thorpe walked on.

  ‘Thank God you were here, or he would have had this tome away from me in an instant,’ he said. ‘He is at Gonville, and they are teaching him well – he would guess it is worth a lot of money.’

  ‘How do you know him?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘You are a newcomer to the town, and you were not here when he committed his first spate of crimes.’

  ‘I had the misfortune to find myself in his company when I went to visit the Hand of Justice three weeks ago – Thorpe and his horrible friend Edward Mortimer. I had heard about the Hand, and I wanted to see it for myself. Actually, that is not true – I went to ask whether it might intercede on our behalf in the Disputatio de quodlibet. I had a feeling we would not do well, and I so wanted to win.’

  Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘But you had me and Matt to argue by your side.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Wynewyk. ‘And you are the best Michaelhouse has to offer. However’ – here the drop in his voice indicated he thought Michaelhouse’s best was somewhat below par – ‘Matt’s logic is sometimes flawed, while your mind is too often on your other duties, Brother.’

  ‘I see,’ said Michael coldly. ‘Pray continue. You asked the false relic to help you, because you believed Matt and I were not up to the task.’

  ‘I was right,’ retorted Wynewyk haughtily, refusing to be intimidated. ‘We lost, did we not?’

  ‘Then you must conclude that the Hand did you no good, either,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

  ‘I do not think the Hand is as holy as folk say,’ said Wynewyk. ‘I have seen many relics – in Albi among other places – and our Hand does not possess the proper aura of sanctity. Father William touches it for a start, and you do not toss real relics around as though they are pomanders. However, all this is irrelevant. I was trying to tell you how I met Thorpe and Mortimer.’

  ‘Then do so,’ suggested Michael, as the lawyer paused to gather his thoughts – or his lies.

  ‘The day I decided to visit the Hand was the one they happened to choose, too. William took the three of us to see it together. We went into the tower and knelt, but when William went to an upper chamber to fetch the Hand, Thorpe demanded my purse. I could not believe my ears! They were robbing me, not only in the sacred confines of a church, but within spitting distance of a holy relic. I was disgusted with myself for being terrified of them, and even more disgusted when I handed my purse over without a word. Unfortunately, it contained Michaelhouse’s monthly food allowance.’

  Michael gazed at him. ‘Is that why we have been living like peasants recently?’

  Wynewyk nodded miserably. ‘I probably should not have relinquished it quite so easily, but I am not a man for fighting. However, it is easy to be wise – and brave – about events once they are over. That is what Master Langelee said, when I told him what had happened.’

  Bartholomew thought back to his first encounter with Thorpe – in St Michael’s Lane on the day of the Disputatio. Wynewyk had been with him, and he recalled the lawyer raising his hood to hide his face. He had assumed Wynewyk had not wanted a man with such a violent reputation to see and remember him, but it had been because Wynewyk had been afraid that Thorpe would recognise a man who had already fallen prey to his intimidation.

  ‘What else did Langelee say?’ asked Michael angrily. ‘And why did you not tell me?’

  ‘He said their pardons make them untouchable – even by you. He did not want you to demand our money back, and have them complain about you to His Majesty. He also believes the town will tolerate their vile behaviour for a while, but that they will soon vanish, never to be seen again anyway.’

  Bartholomew was sure the Master had reached this conclusion when Dame Pelagia had arrived. She had a way of making people disappear quietly, and Langelee greatly admired her for it.

  ‘The sooner the better,’ said Michael fervently. ‘But you should have confided in me, man. I do not stand by while my colleagues are robbed in broad daylight.’

  ‘Please do not tackle them about it,’ begged Wynewyk. ‘I do not want them coming after me for getting them into trouble.’

&nb
sp; ‘You should know me better than that. Besides, they would deny the incident if I approached them directly. But I shall repay them for what they did.’

  ‘So, who tried to take the book?’ asked Bartholomew, pointing to the tome under Wynewyk’s arm. It crossed his mind that the lawyer might plan to exchange it for groceries. There were plenty of scholars in Cambridge who would love to acquire a copy of Summa logicae.

  ‘I have my suspicions,’ said Wynewyk, looking down the street to where Thorpe was still a figure in the distance. ‘He was in our hall recently, after all.’

  ‘He did sit near the books,’ recalled Bartholomew. ‘I did not notice him sawing, though.’

  ‘Obviously, or you would have told him to stop,’ said Wynewyk, who evidently thought the physician should have been ready to confront Thorpe, even though he had failed to do so himself. He turned to Michael. ‘How is your investigation, Brother?’

  Wynewyk had relaxed now that Thorpe had disappeared from sight. He shifted the book under his arm, and Bartholomew watched unhappily, not convinced by his explanations. Something told him that Wynewyk was lying, which unsettled him. He did not want the lawyer to be embroiled in something that would see him dismissed from his Fellowship – or worse.

  ‘Not well,’ replied Michael. ‘In fact, it is essentially at a standstill.’

  ‘I dined at Gonville a few nights before Bottisham died,’ said Wynewyk, eager to be helpful now he felt he was off the hook. ‘I am friendly with their lawyers. Bottisham talked about Deschalers and how the grocer wanted an end to their feud. But he was suspicious.’

  ‘You think Deschalers summoned Bottisham to discuss a pact, and then killed him?’

  Wynewyk nodded. ‘That would be my conclusion. Deschalers had wanted to meet Bottisham fairly soon, and this was a few days before they died. It seems to me that Bottisham allowed himself to be convinced that Deschalers meant well, and was murdered for his trust.’

  ‘Why did you not mention this before?’ asked Michael irritably.