‘Are you sure?’ asked Pulham. Exhausted, he flopped into a handsome wooden chair. ‘We have saved our College?’
‘We have saved your College,’ corrected Michael crisply. ‘Matt, my beadles and I. You spent your time uselessly ferrying objects here and there. Well, you can carry it all back inside again now.’
‘The fire is truly out?’ asked Rougham, staring at the building as though he hoped it was not, just so he would not be proven wrong.
‘It is,’ said Michael. ‘You will have to abandon your chapel in order to repair your roof, but you are lucky you still have walls. You were foolish not to have listened to Matt.’
‘But I was right,’ objected Rougham. ‘Our first duty was to save what we could from indoors—’
‘You were wrong,’ interrupted Pulham angrily. It appeared he had had enough of Rougham and his opinions. ‘You were wrong about that, and you are wrong about Thorpe and the Hand of Justice, too. I would rather have Thompson, Ufford and Despenser, than Thorpe and a false relic.’
‘Now, you listen to me—’ began Rougham sternly.
‘No, you listen to me!’ shouted Pulham. ‘I am Acting Master here, and it is for me to decide what to do. So, Thorpe will leave, and I shall write to Colton in Avignon and see what he wants to do about the Hand.’
‘Very well,’ said Rougham stiffly. He gave Bartholomew a hostile glower, and ordered the students to carry the furniture inside again. They groaned and complained bitterly, but the first splatters of a spring shower began to fall, and Michael called gleefully that they would have to look lively if they did not want their fine wood spotted with raindrops. They began to hurry, and had soon forgotten about Bartholomew, Michael and the beadles.
Bartholomew slumped against a wall, exhausted by the physical effort of scaling ladders and struggling with blankets made heavy with water. He flexed his shoulders, knowing they were going to be stiff the next morning, and took a deep breath of smoke-tainted air. Gonville might be safe, but there were other buildings still battling with flames.
‘They did not even have the courtesy to offer us a drink to slake our thirst,’ said Michael, aggrieved. His face was black with soot, and his normally immaculate gown was filthy with burned thatching. His hair was lank and oily, and sweat had given him a streaked appearance, like tigers and other mythical beasts Bartholomew had read about in the writings from the East. He suspected he did not look much different himself.
‘You must forgive our manners,’ said Pulham, emerging on cue with two goblets of claret. ‘In all the confusion, we did not thank you.’
‘Rougham never will,’ said Bartholomew, drinking some, then pointedly passing the cup to Beadle Meadowman, who had worked as hard as anyone.
Pulham pulled a disagreeable face as he watched his best silver goblets pass between the rough hands of the University’s beadles. ‘Rougham means no harm. It is just his way.’
‘He does mean harm,’ said Michael, trying not to laugh as his beadles amused themselves by aping manners they thought might be employed by scholars at the high table – cocked fingers and grotesquely puckered lips – as they sipped from vessels that would cost them a year’s pay. ‘He has accused Matt of killing Warde, when it was the medicine he prescribed that did the harm.’
‘I am sorry he has been abusive. But you know what medical men are like. They are obliged to be arrogant and overbearing, because that is the only way to make their patients take the unpleasant potions they prescribe. They are all the same.’
‘Are we?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking that Pulham was probably right, generally speaking. A patient was far more likely to swallow something horrible if his physician bullied him into doing it.
‘I did not come to argue,’ said Pulham wearily. ‘I came to thank you. I shall write to Colton, and he can decide whether we accept the Hand of Justice. It is too momentous an issue for me. Meanwhile, we are lucky the Mortimers have hired our legal skills, or we would be destitute. I do not suppose you know the Commissioners’ verdict – about whether there will be a formal hearing?’
‘The meeting was still in progress when the fire broke out,’ said Michael. ‘We do not know if everyone escaped, and the Commissioners’ decision – if they reached one – seems unimportant now.’
‘It will certainly be unimportant to Lavenham,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He has lost his house, his property and his livelihood.’
‘Only if he is lucky,’ said Michael. ‘Let us hope he has not lost his life, too. But we should see what is happening elsewhere, and leave these scholars to quarrel about where to put their furniture.’
Pulham was dazed and unhappy as he escorted Bartholomew and Michael to the gate. His hands were unsteady, and the physician wondered whether he was up to the task of running a College in his Master’s absence. Rougham was dismissive of him, and might well stage some sort of coup.
‘Thank you, again,’ he said, opening the door to let them out. ‘If I can reciprocate in any way, then you must let me know. I am in your debt, and, if you make a request of me that is within my power to grant, I shall try my best to oblige you.’
‘Then abandon the business with the Hand,’ said Michael immediately, turning to face him. ‘You must see it is more trouble than it is worth.’
‘I know,’ said Pulham wearily. ‘But Rougham’s voice is a powerful one, and he will also write to Colton and put his views. You may have asked for something beyond my capabilities to give.’
‘Then tell me something about Bottisham that may help me solve his murder,’ suggested Michael. ‘I know there are things I have not been told because you want to preserve Gonville’s integrity.’
‘There are not—’ began Pulham, glancing uneasily behind him.
Michael overrode him. ‘There are. One small detail you neglected to pass on concerns the Mortimers – that they promised a handsome donation for your chapel if you took their case against the King’s Mill. Master Thorpe mentioned it to me. Since Bottisham was to be one of the lawyers for this event, the offer of a large amount of money is surely pertinent information for a Senior Proctor investigating his murder? But I asked you about it twice, and you denied it.’
Pulham sighed in resignation. ‘The donation was supposed to have been kept quiet until the dispute had been resolved, so we would not be accused of improper practices. Besides, there is always the possibility that we will lose, in which case the Mortimers will give us nothing.’
‘Nothing stays secret for long in a place like Cambridge,’ said Michael. ‘But the time for games is over, Pulham. I want to know anything that might have a bearing on Bottisham’s murder.’
Pulham rubbed his hands over his face, smearing it with soot. ‘Very well. Deschalers sent messages offering Bottisham a truce, but Bottisham had fallen foul of that trick once, and was not about to let it happen again. You see, Deschalers had once offered to help pay for our chapel, claiming it would mark an end to the enmity between them, but then he withdrew with devastating effect.’
‘We know that,’ said Michael. ‘It is common gossip in the town.’
Pulham nodded. ‘Deschalers made no secret of the fact that he had made a fool of Bottisham. But about a month ago, he tried it again – he kept sending messages, begging Bottisham to parley with him. He even followed him to matins and lauds one night, and encouraged him to slip away from his devotions and speak to him in St Michael’s graveyard! Bottisham refused his “hand of friendship”, but Deschalers was persistent. In fact, Bottisham received a letter from him the morning before they died. He wanted to meet that very day, to discuss the terms of a truce.’
‘We know this, too,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But why would Bottisham entertain meeting such a bitter enemy in a place like the King’s Mill – and in the dark?’
Pulham frowned. ‘But that is the odd thing. The letter did not suggest the King’s Mill at night. It recommended the Brazen George at noon – in one of those private chambers at the back that the landlord keeps for sinister assig
nations.’
‘Did Bottisham go?’ asked Michael, not mentioning the fact that he used one of those chambers himself on a regular basis.
‘I advised against it. But when he showed me Deschalers’s letters, I felt they had a note of genuine contrition, and we knew he was mortally ill. It seemed churlish not to see what he wanted, so I offered to go in Bottisham’s place.’
‘So you went to the Brazen George at noon on the day they died,’ surmised Michael, trying to keep his temper under control about the fact that Pulham had not been more honest earlier. ‘Then what? Was Deschalers peeved that you arrived instead of Bottisham? Did he refuse to speak to you?’
‘He understood why Bottisham declined to meet him. He was disappointed, but not surprised. Then he said he was thinking of changing his will in a way that would see a princely sum come Bottisham’s way – for our chapel.’
‘I see,’ said Michael flatly. ‘And did you believe him?’
‘Yes. I think he was sincere this time.’
Michael could contain himself no longer. ‘Then why did you not tell me all this sooner?’ he exploded. ‘Surely you must see it has a bearing on the case?’
Pulham was defensive. ‘But I really do not believe Deschalers’s will had anything to do with Bottisham’s death – and that is why I did not mention my meeting to you. I did not want to lead you astray with information that was irrelevant and confusing.’
Michael was angry. ‘That is for me to decide. Do you think me a fool, unable to distinguish between what is important and what is not?’
Bartholomew could see Pulham regretted having spoken to Michael, and that the monk’s ire was likely to make him wary of confiding anything else. He laid a warning hand on Michael’s shoulder. ‘What else can you tell us, Master Pulham?’ he asked gently.
Pulham took a deep breath. ‘When we were at the Brazen George, Deschalers showed me his new will. This had been signed, but not sealed. It was quite simple. Bottisham was to have a house on Bridge Street, and Julianna was to have the rest. Two beneficiaries. He said it was to atone for years of bitterness and anger that should have been avoided. But he said he would not seal it – so it would not be legal – unless Bottisham came to him in person.’
‘The will was made out?’ asked Bartholomew, angry in his turn. ‘Here is something Quenhyth neglected to mention.’
‘I doubt Quenhyth wrote this,’ said Pulham. ‘That boy has neat, rather lovely writing. This one was scribbled, as though it was jotted down in great haste. Deschalers told me it was his third will. The first made a bequest to his apprentices, but he had decided against doing that a month ago. The second left everything, except a chest, to Julianna. And the third was to have benefited Bottisham.’
‘I see,’ asked Michael tightly. ‘And then what happened?’
‘I do not know. I returned to Gonville, and told Bottisham what had transpired, but it was the last conversation we ever had. I do not know whether he believed Deschalers’s sincerity, and I do not know whether he contacted Deschalers and asked to meet.’
‘This is all very intriguing,’ said Michael icily. ‘But Deschalers’s will was not changed. Julianna inherited everything except Quenhyth’s box – and Bottisham died before he could acquire this Bridge Street house anyway.’
Pulham nodded. ‘So you see why I said nothing about this earlier. And yet …’ He trailed off.
Michael regarded him with beady eyes. ‘And yet what?’
Pulham closed his eyes, and seemed to be undergoing some sort of inner battle. Bartholomew watched in fascination. He had never seen so many emotions – worry, doubt, fear and unhappiness – so clearly etched on the face of a man. Eventually, Pulham opened his eyes and began to fiddle with the purse he carried at his waist. Wordlessly, he handed Michael a document. The monk scanned it, then passed it to Bartholomew. It was a deed, badly written and bearing a mark that the physician recognised as Deschalers’s ‘signature’ – a crude letter D.
‘It is Deschalers’s new will,’ he said, returning the parchment to Michael. It amounted to powerful evidence, and he did not think Pulham should have it back. ‘It gives Bottisham the Bridge Street house and Julianna the rest of his property.’
Pulham nodded miserably. ‘It is the one Deschalers showed me in the Brazen George – signed, but not sealed.’
‘Deschalers gave you this?’ asked Bartholomew, slightly puzzled. Pulham shook his head, and several facts came together in the physician’s mind. ‘It was you who burgled Deschalers’s house the night he died? I almost caught you, and you escaped by climbing down the back of the house.’
Pulham looked startled. ‘I assure you I did not! Do you imagine me capable of that sort of agility? I was hiding under the bed, waiting for you to leave.’
‘But you emerged to stop me from falling through the window,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I knew that old servant did not have the strength to haul me to safety! It was you.’
Pulham flushed bashfully. ‘I only just managed to reach you in time. I escaped when the servant came and started burbling about crow pie – I just walked down the stairs and left through the front door. However, the window shutters opened in Cheney’s house as I left, and I think he saw me.’
‘His prostitute did,’ said Bartholomew. He turned to the monk. ‘When Una claimed she saw someone leave through Deschalers’s front door, we assumed she was either mistaken about the time, or drunk. But she was right, she did see a burglar: Pulham.’
‘Why did you do it?’ asked Michael, regarding Pulham with rank disapproval. ‘You are Acting Master of a highly respected College. Theft should not be something you enjoy.’
‘I did not enjoy it,’ cried Pulham, distressed. He made an attempt to calm himself. ‘When I heard Bottisham and Deschalers had died in peculiar circumstances within hours of Deschalers making his new will, I knew what people would say. Bottisham was a good man, and I did not want his reputation besmirched by scandals and rumours.’
‘You thought folk would assume he had killed Deschalers for the Bridge Street house,’ surmised Michael. ‘But what did you intend to do with the new will, once the fuss had died down? Contest Julianna’s inheritance?’
‘I could not, even if I wanted to. I am a lawyer and I know about this kind of thing. This will is signed, but it bears no seal. As far as the courts go, it is not worth the parchment it is written on. But can you imagine what folk would have made of such a thing anyway?’
‘People do not care about legal niceties,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘They would only see the fact that Deschalers changed his will in Bottisham’s favour – and died suddenly in Bottisham’s company.’
‘Quite. They would have claimed Bottisham had tried to murder him, and the two engaged in a fatal struggle. I took the will to protect them both. I probably should have destroyed it.’
‘I am glad you did not,’ said Michael. ‘It is evidence. Is there anything else you want to tell me?’
‘Just one thing,’ said Pulham. ‘I was not the only one raiding Deschalers’s house that night. Someone else was there, too, creeping around in the dark. He gave me quite a fright, I can tell you.’
‘Who?’ asked Michael.
‘I have no idea. I thought it might be Julianna, Edward Mortimer or young Thorpe. Or even a merchant, looking for incriminating documents about past unsavoury business deals. But I did not see his face, so I cannot tell you who he – or she – was. Just that he slithered out of the back window.’
‘And you cannot identify him, can you, Matt?’ asked Michael accusingly, as though the physician was deliberately trying to thwart him.
‘I have already told you it was too dark,’ said Bartholomew patiently. ‘It could have been anyone – man, woman, scholar, townsman. But at least we know why Una’s account conflicted with mine.’
‘Yes, but it does not help,’ said Michael crossly. ‘It is only yet another loose end to clear up.’
Bartholomew and Michael walked the short distance from Gonville to L
avenham’s shop. The entire town seemed to have been affected by the blaze, even though the damage had been mostly confined to the houses immediately adjacent to Lavenham’s home. People darted here and there, calling loudly to each other in excitement, and pools of water from slopped buckets lay in every pothole and dip in the road. A greasy veneer of soot coated many buildings, and the streets were even more littered with rubbish than usual.
Lavenham’s home had been reduced to a black skeleton, punctuated by jagged, charred pieces of fallen timber. The houses next door had fared little better; one still had its roof, but neither would be safe for human habitation again. The air around them was rank with the stench of burning, and Bartholomew detected something rotten and unsettling underneath, where potions that should not have been heated or mixed had combined to deadly effect.
‘Have you discovered what happened?’ asked Michael when he saw Tulyet, who looked as weary as Bartholomew felt. The Sheriff’s clothes were stained and sodden, indicating that he had been in the thick of the action. Morice and Cheney, who still hovered near the seat of the fire, were relatively pristine, suggesting their role had been confined to spectating. This had not gone unnoticed, and they were being given a wide berth and plenty of dark looks by townsfolk and scholars alike. Neither seemed to care.
‘The fire started in Lavenham’s shop,’ said Tulyet. ‘We do not know how yet, but an apothecary is always boiling some potion or other, so it is not surprising something was forgotten and caught alight. Accidents happen, even in the most careful of households.’
‘An accident?’ asked Michael cautiously. ‘But the King’s Commissioners were inside at the time.’
‘So?’ asked Tulyet. He caught the glance exchanged between monk and physician. ‘You think the fire was started deliberately, to interfere with the Commissioners’ business?’
Bartholomew 10 - The Hand of Justice Page 43
