‘I thought Rougham would tell you,’ said Wynewyk defensively. ‘He heard the conversation as well as I did, and it was his colleague who was killed, not mine.’
‘Well, he did not,’ said Michael shortly. ‘And you must have heard that Rougham is not enamoured of Michaelhouse at the moment?’
‘He is not enamoured of Matt, but I have not heard him criticising the rest of us.’
‘So, why did Bottisham and Deschalers meet at the King’s Mill?’ asked Michael, stifling a sigh. ‘Why not at Deschalers’s house, where there are plenty of refreshments to hand, and where he could show his reluctant guest some sumptuous hospitality?’
‘Probably because Bottisham declined to enter the lion’s lair, so they agreed to meet on neutral territory,’ suggested Wynewyk. ‘Would you go to the house of a man who hated you, where he could slide a dagger into your ribs and bury you in his garden with no one the wiser?’
‘But surely Bottisham would consider a deserted mill at midnight equally dangerous,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Your reasoning makes no sense.’
‘It does,’ insisted Wynewyk. ‘Deschaler’s house would be full of his retainers and apprentices – he could hardly be expected to oust them from their beds just because Bottisham was soon to arrive. But the mill was different: Bottisham could have watched it for hours to ensure no one was there but Deschalers. I certainly know which venue I would choose, if I had been Bottisham.’
‘You may be right,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘We know Deschalers had a key to the mill, and where better for a quiet discussion? Deschalers knew it would be closed for the night, and that they would not be interrupted.’
‘He must have rammed the nail through Bottisham’s palate, taking him by surprise, then engaged the wheel and tossed him in its gears to disguise the injury,’ surmised Michael. ‘But it did not work as well as he had hoped, because the stones did not grind his victim up. Instead, the sudden noise attracted the attention of the miller. And then what?’
‘We found the phial of medicine, remember?’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was in the type of pot used for very strong potions – such as that prescribed for painful conditions like a canker in the bowels. Deschalers took it to dull his senses, then drove a second nail into his own mouth, making sure that he, too, would fall into the moving machinery.’
‘I do not know about this,’ said Wynewyk unhappily. ‘It sounds rather contrived. Why would Deschalers bother to hide his crime when he was going to die anyway? And he must have killed himself very quickly after dropping Bottisham into the wheel, if Bernarde is to be believed.’
‘Quite,’ said Michael grimly. ‘“If Bernarde is to be believed.” We have wondered about that from the start. We shall have to have more words with our friend the miller, and find out whether he helped Deschalers with his suicide and its attempted disguise.’
* * *
While Michael went to see Chancellor Tynkell, to explain his tentative suspicions and conclusions, Bartholomew reflected on the audacity of a man who had dared to sit in the hall of another College and file away the chains that secured its valuable books. He accompanied Wynewyk to the blacksmith’s forge, aware that the lawyer was nervous and ill at ease in his company. When they finished, and the smith had agreed to have the chain repaired by the end of the following day, Wynewyk escaped gratefully, claiming he had private business elsewhere.
For want of anything better to do, and because he was nearby, Bartholomew went to visit Paxtone at King’s Hall. He longed to hear that his medical colleague’s odd meetings with Wynewyk were harmless, and knew the matter would prey on his mind until it was resolved, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it. He hoped Paxtone would mention in passing some perfectly reasonable explanation for his strange behaviour, and obviate the need for an unpleasant interrogation. But he knew he was deluding himself. Whatever Paxtone and Wynewyk were up to involved secret meetings that necessitated lies, and Bartholomew knew their antics were unlikely to be innocent.
Paxtone was reading Philaretus’s De pulsibus to his students, and was behind with his timetable; Bartholomew had finished Philaretus and his commentaries weeks before. Paxtone was a thorough teacher and his lectures were well organised, but he made dull work of explaining what was an exciting text. Most of his class was bored, and some were even asleep.
While he waited for Paxtone to finish, Bartholomew found a roaring fire and a pile of spiced oatcakes at the back of the hall. He ate four, then wished he had stopped at three, but the cakes contained cinnamon and sugar, both of which were a rare treat, and it was difficult to resist anything that smelled so delicious. He ate a fifth and began to feel queasy.
‘Rougham has finished Philaretus and is on Galen’s Aphorismi,’ said Paxtone gloomily, when his students had clattered out at the end of the lesson. ‘I do not know how he manages it.’
‘But how well do his students know the material?’ asked Bartholomew, declining to mention that he had finished the Aphorismi, too. ‘Still, I suppose we shall find out at their disputations.’
‘If you fail anyone from Gonville, Rougham will claim it is revenge for this business with Warde,’ warned Paxtone. ‘I know you are not the kind of man to strike at Rougham through his students, but that will not stop him from making accusations. He is a fool. It will not be long before Michael unearths proof that his Water of Snails was responsible for Warde’s death – whether Rougham killed him deliberately or not.’
‘His Water of Snails contained henbane,’ said Bartholomew, watching Paxtone’s jaw drop in horror. He knew he should have said nothing, since the rumours about Warde’s death were escalating out of control, but decided to press on regardless, to see whether his revelations induced any meaningful reactions in a man whose own behaviour was also suspect. ‘We do not know whether Rougham added it himself, whether Lavenham made a mistake, or whether someone else decided to dispatch one of the King’s Commissioners.’
‘My God!’ breathed Paxtone. ‘Henbane? Are you sure? I understand it can be deadly when swallowed in large amounts.’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘We found a similar phial in the King’s Mill, after Deschalers and Bottisham died. Do you know what Rougham prescribed for Deschalers’s sickness?’
‘Nothing in a phial. We argued about it, actually, because I said Deschalers needed something more than barley water.’
‘Rougham prescribed barley for a debilitating and painful disease?’ asked Bartholomew, shocked. ‘But that is tantamount to giving him nothing at all! Deschalers would have needed a powerful pain-reliever. In fact, he must have been getting one from somewhere, or he would not have been able to leave his house, let alone ride about the streets of Cambridge.’
‘I did not prescribe him one,’ said Paxtone. ‘But Lynton may have done. He was also appalled by Rougham’s refusal to give Deschalers what we felt he needed.’
‘But why did Rougham do such a thing? Was it revenge for the time when he withdrew the funds offered for Gonville’s chapel?’
‘He said Deschalers’s ailment was incurable,’ said Paxtone with some disgust. ‘And he believes there is no point in giving medicine to a man who cannot be made well again. He says such practices are a criminal waste of the patient’s money.’
‘He said that? Did he imagine Deschalers would want to save his treasure for the future, then?’
‘I would have recommended henbane seeped in hot mud, had Deschalers asked for my advice,’ said Paxtone. ‘Not taken internally, of course, because henbane causes warts, but applied as a plaister to the skin of the stomach.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, thinking Deschalers had had a narrow escape from Paxtone’s ministrations, too. He only hoped Lynton had had the sense to give the poor grocer a sense-dulling potion, since the other two physicians had failed him.
‘Was there henbane in the phial you found in the King’s Mill?’ asked Paxtone. ‘As well as the one that did away with Master Warde?’
‘It was empty, so I could not tell. But, if it d
id, then I do not think Deschalers could have killed Bottisham. The henbane would have made that impossible.’
‘Then perhaps it did not include any such thing,’ suggested Paxtone. ‘Perhaps it just contained some strong decoction of poppy, which is what Lynton – and you, no doubt – would have recommended for Deschalers. If that were the case, then Deschalers might have swallowed it to dull the ache in his innards before he killed Bottisham. I knew Bottisham was no killer.’ He gave a grim smile of satisfaction.
Bartholomew supposed it was possible – just. But, even without the agonising pain of his sickness to contend with, he was not sure whether Deschalers could have mustered the strength to overpower Bottisham with nails. Paxtone seemed eager for Deschalers to bear the blame. Was it because he, like Bartholomew himself, had been fond of the gentle Bottisham? Was it because the town would have no excuse to attack the University if it was found that a townsman had killed a scholar and not the other way around? Or did he have his own reasons for wanting such a solution accepted?
‘But do not look to me for answers about Deschalers, Matt,’ Paxtone went on, when the physician did not reply. ‘I do not interfere with Rougham’s patients, no matter how wrong I think his treatments are. Have you considered the possibility that Deschalers stole the phial from him, in desperation?’
‘Or perhaps Rougham misled you, and he did prescribe something strong.’ Bartholomew sighed; every fact he uncovered seemed to raise more questions than ever.
‘Bishop Bateman was poisoned, too,’ observed Paxtone philosophically. ‘At Avignon. That papal court sounds a dangerous and disagreeable place – full of Frenchmen. But speaking of disagreeable, I attended a stabbing today. A debate spiralled out of control at Gonville, and knives were drawn.’
‘Gonville? Then why was Rougham not called? It is his College.’
‘He could not be found, and they needed someone quickly. Ufford came looking for you or me. He found me first.’
‘I assume Thorpe was the culprit?’
Paxtone nodded. ‘He had inflicted a shallow wound that bled a lot and frightened everyone.’
‘Who did he stab?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Not Rougham if he was away, more is the pity.’
‘The priest, Thompson. By all accounts, Thompson was trying to prevent the fight, and received a blade in the arm for his pains. Young Despenser was the real object of Thorpe’s ire. They were quarrelling over the Hand of Justice, apparently.’
‘Oh, that,’ said Bartholomew in disgust.
‘It is gaining in popularity. I know what you think about it, but you are in a dwindling minority. I petitioned it myself recently, and confess I felt better afterwards. God invests power in unusual things, so who is to say the hand of your pauper cannot inspire miracles?’
‘There have been no miracles. Isnard’s severed leg did not regrow. Una is still suffering from bile in the stomach. Old Master Lenne is still dead.’
‘But Thomas Mortimer claims the Hand has absolved him of responsibility in that death – and folk believe him. The furious whispers against him have abated.’
‘Lenne’s son’s have not, and neither did his wife’s.’
‘Two dissenting voices in a host of believers,’ said Paxtone. ‘I prayed that Michaelhouse’s cock would desist from waking me with its crowing in the middle of the night. That was answered.’
‘Quenhyth killed Bird,’ said Bartholomew, thinking it an unkind petition to have made. ‘Damn! If folk believe the Hand can achieve that sort of thing, there will be no end to the trouble it will cause. As you said, there are already quarrels in Gonville about it.’
‘Thorpe offered to ask the King if Gonville can have the Hand – to raise funds for their chapel,’ Paxtone went on. ‘But Despenser told him they have no right to it, and is afraid it will lead to Gonville being attacked by jealous townsfolk. That is why they fought. Acting Master Pulham told Thorpe that if he tries to win an argument with knives again he will be expelled – Hand or no. Of course, Pulham’s heart was not really in the reprimand.’
‘Of course,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That would mean the loss of the Hand, as well as a student.’
Stanmore had taken pity on his brother-in-law’s starving colleagues, and had asked Kenyngham, Clippesby and Langelee to dine with him that evening, as well as Michael and Bartholomew. Wynewyk, William and Suttone were pointedly excluded from the gathering, on the grounds that the merchant did not like William’s fanaticism, Suttone’s obsession with the Death, or Wynewyk’s habit of diving in and out of seedy alleys. Dame Pelagia was also present, although, judging by Stanmore’s stammering surprise when she was shown in, the merchant had evidently not expected her. The food was excellent, the fires burned warmly in the hearth, and plenty of wine flowed, but it was a gloomy party nonetheless.
The scholars were weighed down by their concerns regarding the possibility of a riot over whether Bottisham had killed Deschalers – except Clippesby, who was more worried that the continued cold weather might make life difficult for hibernating dormice – while the clothier fretted about the state of commerce in the Fen-edge town. He railed to the uninterested Fellows that Edward Mortimer had encouraged his uncle to raise fulling prices to a ridiculous level, and had already all but destroyed Deschalers’s empire. The repercussions were expected to be enormous, and the burgesses had suspended their payments for the repair of the Great Bridge until the matter was resolved. The last statement grabbed their attention, and all five scholars regarded him uneasily.
‘But the carpenters have dismantled parts of it,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘It cannot be left as it is. It is dangerous – and people are still using it.’
‘It will remain that way until we know where we are with our finances,’ replied Stanmore firmly. ‘But, hopefully, the King’s Commission will find against the Mortimers, and business will return to normal. Once we are comfortable with the situation again, the repairs can be restarted.’
‘But there are broken spars and bits of half-built scaffolding everywhere,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Sergeant Orwelle bruised his ankle there yesterday, and one of Yolande de Blaston’s children suffered a badly cut hand on a carelessly placed nail. It cannot stay as it is.’
‘The cat from the Hospital of St John said the same,’ agreed Clippesby. ‘A duck was killed by falling masonry, and Robin of Grantchester’s pig had a splinter in her tail. She is very angry about it.’
‘A duck is dead?’ asked the gentle Kenyngham, reaching out to touch the Dominican’s hand in a gesture of sympathy. Clippesby’s eyes filled with tears, and he looked away.
Michael looked down at his platter uneasily. ‘Is this duck?’
‘Cockerel,’ replied Stanmore.
Clippesby jumped up in horror. ‘Not Bird!’
‘No,’ said Langelee. ‘We are having him tomorrow – if we have not been burned in our beds by angry townsmen by then. Dame Pelagia, do you think we should write to the King, and ask whether he will rescind the pardons granted to Thorpe and Edward? I am sure most of our problems would evaporate if they left our town.’
‘I would not try it, unless you intend to accompany the letter with a handsome sum of money,’ advised Dame Pelagia. ‘King’s Pardons tend to be the last word in such cases, and it costs a good deal to have them overturned.’
‘What about the compensation we are ordered to pay?’ asked Stanmore. ‘What if we offered these corrupt clerks that money, instead of giving it to Thorpe and Mortimer?’
‘It would not be nearly enough,’ replied Dame Pelagia. ‘Royal justice does not come cheap, you know. I am not surprised Constantine Mortimer wants Deschalers’s house to help defray the original costs of the pardons. If it were not for the additional money earned from his brother’s fulling mill, he could never have afforded to buy his son’s release.’
‘Damn them all!’ muttered Stanmore venomously. ‘I went to the Hand of Justice yesterday, and asked it to do something about the situation. Since I do not believe in the sanctity of
the thing, and since I know perfectly well that it came from poor Peterkin Starre, you can see the depths to which I am prepared to sink to rid my town of these louts.’
‘I am not one of its followers, either,’ said Langelee. ‘But I must admit that William’s treatment of it is very clever. He has it in a splendid reliquary – which always impresses the poor – and he makes sure that pretty blue-green ring can always be seen when he gets it out.’
‘A tawdry bauble,’ said Dame Pelagia dismissively. ‘But unusual enough to catch the eye and draw the penitent’s attention away from the pins that hold the thing together. You should not have allowed this cult to gain such momentum, Michael. It is dangerous, and will certainly end in trouble.’
Michael flushed at the reprimand, and Bartholomew did not think he had ever seen the monk so discomfited.
‘Sheriff Tulyet still has not discovered the identity of that poor corpse,’ said Kenyngham in the silence that followed. ‘It is a shame, because I like a name when I pray for a soul.’
‘The duck’s name was Clement,’ said Clippesby in a small voice. ‘He hailed from Chesterton.’
‘Actually, I meant the man in the snow bank outside Bene’t,’ said Kenyngham. ‘I found him a few weeks ago if you recal.’
‘Oh, him,’ said Langelee, not very interested. ‘Bartholomew had a look at his body, but there were no wounds, and it was concluded that he had been standing under the roof when the snow sloughed off it. It was a case of a fellow being in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
‘But the Sheriff wants to find out who he was, nonetheless,’ said Kenyngham. ‘His clothes were decent, so he was not a beggar. He was not from the town or the nearby villages, and we think he was probably a messenger.’
‘A messenger?’ asked Dame Pelagia curiously. ‘What makes you draw that conclusion?’
‘Because he carried a letter from a London merchant to a Cambridge friar. The Sheriff said it was professionally written, and that this man’s boots were worn in a way that suggested he spent a lot of time travelling. Unfortunately, the friar to whom the missive was addressed – Godric of Ovyng Hostel’s predecessor – is dead, so we cannot ask him about it.’
Bartholomew 10 - The Hand of Justice Page 39
