Bartholomew 10 - The Hand of Justice

by Susanna GREGORY

‘He saw the blaze this afternoon,’ said Tulyet. ‘He is just playing.’

  ‘No!’ said Bartholomew, leaning out of the window. ‘There is a fire. I can smell it.’

  He followed Tulyet out of the office and along a corridor to the pantries. A pile of kindling stood in the middle of the floor, and the room was full of thick, white smoke. Bartholomew snatched up a pan of water and dashed it over the flames, while Tulyet, Stanmore and Michael kicked the thing apart and stamped out the cinders. There was a rich stench of burning fat, and Bartholomew realised someone had added fuel to the sticks, to ensure the fire would catch.

  ‘How odd,’ said Stanmore, regarding it with a puzzled expression. ‘Which of your servants would light a fire on the floor, when there is a perfectly good hearth for that kind of thing?’

  ‘This is not the work of a servant,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Someone lit it with the express purpose of burning Dick’s house to the ground. The oil was added to make it burn more quickly. Besides, no retainer is foolish enough to set a blaze in the middle of a room, then leave it unattended.’

  ‘You mean someone wanted Dick to go the same way as Bernarde?’ asked Stanmore, aghast.

  ‘Bang!’ came Dickon’s strident voice from the garden. ‘Pow!’

  ‘Is anyone with him?’ asked Tulyet, watching as his wife and most of their household crowded into the pantry to inspect the mess. ‘It is getting dark, and I do not want him to let the chickens out.’

  ‘I will go,’ said Bartholomew, relieved to be away from the smoke, because his throat was still raw from inhaling so much of it earlier that day. He entered the cool garden and took a deep breath of spring-scented air before beginning to look for Dickon. It was not difficult to locate him. He was screaming happily as he whirled his wooden sword around his head.

  ‘Yah!’ he screeched, stabbing some bushes. Suddenly, there was a rustle and someone broke free and raced across the garden towards a wall at the rear. Dickon was after him in a trice, whooping his delight at the prospect of live quarry. His victim reached the wall and began to scale it, driven to a new level of acrobatic achievement by the sword. Dickon jabbed hard at the leg that dangled so tantalisingly in front of him, and there was a shriek of agony. The boy’s face creased into a satisfied grin, and the intruder disappeared over the top. There was a thud, a grunt of pain and then uneven footsteps as the would-be arsonist limped away.

  ‘Pow,’ said Dickon, pleased with himself. ‘He dead.’

  * * *

  ‘Are you sure you did not see who it was?’ asked Tulyet, as they sat in his office – barred again against juvenile invasion – and poured more wine to wash the smoke from their throats. ‘It would be good to know the identity of the man who just tried to incinerate me and my family.’

  ‘He was just a shadow and he ran too fast for me to see,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was unfortunate for him that he did not run faster still, because then Dickon would not have tried to sever his leg.’

  ‘It serves him right,’ said Tulyet unsympathetically. ‘Damn the fellow! Now I shall have to organise guards to protect my house, and I do not have men to spare. I need them all in the town. It felt very uneasy earlier tonight, as though we are on the brink of another riot.’

  ‘But who would want to kill you?’ asked Stanmore. ‘And damage the King’s Commission, since two arson attacks in a day are more than coincidence.’

  ‘Well, it was not Bernarde,’ said Tulyet. He had closed the window shutters, but the racket made by Dickon as he screeched his way around the herb beds was still very audible. ‘It was definitely his body we found in the ruins of Lavenham’s house. There were things other than his keys that allowed us to identify him – the buckles on his shoes, his mouth of crowded teeth, and a ring.’

  ‘So, if we assume that whoever killed Deschalers and Bottisham also set Lavenham’s fire, then Bernarde is in the clear,’ said Stanmore.

  ‘Actually, he is not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘How do you know he did not set the blaze, then get caught in it accidentally?’

  ‘That is unlikely,’ said Michael. ‘Only a fool would allow himself to be ensnared in the inferno he had created, and our killer is not a fool. However, I think Bernarde was innocent of all these crimes – although I cannot say the same for Lavenham and Isobel. They have disappeared, and if that is not a sign of guilt, then I do not know what is. We have a witness who saw Bess in their shop moments before she was poisoned, and they will know we want to interview them about it.’

  ‘We need look no further than Thorpe and Edward Mortimer for all this chaos,’ said Tulyet firmly. ‘They are the obvious culprits. Perhaps one of them attacked my house, too. Could the intruder have been either of them, Matt?’

  ‘I could not tell,’ repeated Bartholomew. ‘Dickon had him on the run too soon. It could have been anyone – Rougham, for example. His College is deeply involved with the Mortimers, and we cannot discount the possibility that he poisoned Warde with Water of Snails. Also, he is so keen to claim the Hand of Justice for Gonville that I think he would stop at nothing to get it.’

  ‘No,’ said Stanmore. ‘Young Thorpe and Edward will be behind this. You mark my words.’

  ‘Or Cheney and Morice,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They are desperate for the King’s Mill to win its case, and they bought Water of Snails from Lavenham. We have that in black and white – or we would have done, had the fire not destroyed Lavenham’s record books.’

  ‘So, we all believe in different suspects,’ said Tulyet. ‘Matt thinks Rougham, Cheney or Morice are to blame; Michael has Lavenham in his sights; and Oswald and I think our culprits are Thorpe and Mortimer. Some of us must be wrong – either that or we must concoct a solution that has all of them acting together. And I cannot see how that could be.’

  ‘There are simply too many victims,’ said Stanmore. ‘Deschalers, Bottisham, Warde, Bosel, Bess and now Bernarde. A grocer, two scholars, a beggar, a madwoman and a miller. How are we supposed to identify the connections between these people?’

  ‘Perhaps there are none,’ said Tulyet. ‘At least, not between all of them.’

  ‘Their deaths are related to each other,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Deschalers and Bottisham died in Bernarde’s mill, and Bess, Bosel and Warde were poisoned. Paxtone did some tests this morning, and he is certain Bess died from ingesting henbane, just like Warde.’

  ‘Paxtone,’ mused Stanmore. ‘He and Wynewyk have been acting very oddly lately. They are constantly scurrying in and out of dingy alleys together. It is most unbecoming in senior scholars.’

  ‘There is nothing to suggest Paxtone had anything against these victims,’ Bartholomew pointed out, still reluctant to see the pleasant King’s Hall physician implicated in such horrible murders, despite the evidence that was mounting against him.

  ‘You defend him because you like him,’ said Stanmore. ‘But you know as well as I do that murderers can be the most charming of folk.’

  ‘I cannot vouch for Paxtone, but I do not believe Wynewyk is our killer,’ said Michael, holding out his cup to be refilled. ‘He has no motive.’

  ‘None that we know about,’ corrected Stanmore. ‘He told me not long ago that he has been to France. Perhaps he met Thorpe and Mortimer there.’

  As he spoke, fragments of information began to melt together in Bartholomew’s mind, and he frowned as he concentrated. Then the answer was there, in a flash. ‘Albi! Wynewyk said he was in Albi, in southern France.’

  ‘That town has a reputation for violence,’ mused Tulyet. ‘I recall being told about a vicious inquisition that once took place there, with hangings and burnings aplenty.’

  Bartholomew turned to him. ‘Quite. And where better to learn the secrets of soldiery and killing? However, I also know that Albi was where Edward Mortimer became a man, because Julianna told me. Thorpe also mentioned Albi as somewhere he visited during his banishment – he did so just this afternoon, when we were inspecting Thomas Mortimer’s body in St Mary the Great.’

  ‘Y
ou think Wynewyk met them in Albi?’ asked Michael. ‘It must have been well before we knew Wynewyk, since he took up his Fellowship months after they had been exiled. You think they might be in this nasty business together?’

  ‘I do not know,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Wynewyk says he is terrified of them, and claims they stole his purse while they were waiting to pray to the Hand. That might mean they are not allies, but enemies – and Wynewyk wants them accused of these crimes.’

  ‘Are you saying Wynewyk killed six people with the express purpose of having Thorpe and Mortimer blamed for it?’ asked Stanmore uncertainly.

  ‘I do not know about this, Matt,’ said Michael, also doubtful. ‘Why kill innocent men to strike at your enemies? Why not just kill your enemies? It would be simpler and probably a lot more satisfying.’

  Tulyet cleared his throat and looked unhappy. ‘There is something I have not told you. I did not know whether it was important, and I was afraid of leading your investigation astray with speculation, so, I kept it to myself. But …’

  ‘What?’ asked Michael warily, not liking the tone of the Sheriff’s voice. He suspected he was about to hear something he would not like. He was not mistaken.

  ‘I rode hard from Trumpington when I saw smoke in the sky above Cambridge, but just as I reached the Gate I saw something odd. Everyone was rushing towards Lavenham’s house – to help or to watch. Except one person. He was running – very fast – in the opposite direction.’

  ‘Who?’ demanded Michael. ‘Who was fleeing the scene of his crime?’

  ‘You cannot assume he was doing that—’ began Bartholomew, ready to point out that the two events might be unrelated. Michael waved him to be quiet, so Tulyet could speak.

  ‘I do not know who it was,’ said Tulyet. ‘But he was wearing a scholar’s tabard.’

  Bartholomew and Michael were silent as they walked home from Tulyet’s house. They had discussed the case until their heads span, but were no closer to any answers. Bartholomew fretted about Paxtone and Wynewyk’s odd behaviour, while Michael confessed that he felt his lack of progress was an insult to the memories of Bottisham and Warde. Stanmore mourned the loss of Deschalers, while Tulyet was distressed because Dickon was tearful over the destruction of his beloved toy. He offered an enormous sum to encourage Quenhyth to make a new one, and Bartholomew contemplated abandoning medicine to enter the toy-making business instead, since it was a good deal more than he had ever earned for treating a patient.

  It was a dark evening, with any light from stars or moon shielded by a thick layer of cloud. Rain was in the air, which smelled of damp earth, the marshes to the north and the scent of spring. There was also Michael’s rosewater. Shadows flitted back and forth, lurking in doorways and slipping down black, sinister alleys when they recognised the portly frame of the University’s Senior Proctor. No felon wanted a set-to with a man of Michael’s reputation.

  ‘Thomas Mortimer,’ said Michael out of the blue. ‘I am not sorry to see him dead, and I cannot think of a more appropriate way for him to perish, given what he did to Lenne and Isnard. But I am not happy about it.’

  Neither was Bartholomew. ‘The horses were terrified by the smoke. We both heard them screaming, and it was obvious that when they had kicked their way out of the stable they were going to bolt. But I have seen men trampled to death before, and Thomas did not have the right marks on his body. He looked crushed, but not by hoofs.’

  Michael was thoughtful. ‘I certainly do not believe Mistress Lenne caused his death by an appeal to the Hand of Justice. There may well be a hand of justice working here, but it is not a divine one.’

  ‘Lenne’s son?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He seems the obvious suspect to batter Thomas to death and blame it on fleeing nags.’

  ‘Unfortunately not – unfortunately for us, that is, because it would have made for a neat ending to this unsavoury incident. But Lenne’s son had already left Cambridge when the fire started. Sergeant Orwelle rode with him as far as Drayton, way up in the Fens, so I know it is true.’

  Bartholomew took a deep breath, and thought about Mistress Lenne’s lonely death and Isnard’s pain and anguish. ‘Perhaps you should not look too closely into the details of Thomas’s death, Brother. You may not like what you find.’

  Michael shot him an unreadable glance. ‘You did not kill him, did you?’

  ‘I did not!’ said Bartholomew, offended that the monk should ask. He regarded his friend askance. ‘Why? Did you?’

  Michael did not deign to reply. ‘I wonder if my grandmother … Her sense of justice is strong …’

  He let the thought trail away, and Bartholomew did not feel like passing comment on it. Dame Pelagia had a sense of justice all right, but it was not always one that corresponded with his own. They were about to leave the High Street and turn down St Michael’s Lane, more than ready for sleep after the trials of the day, when Michael stopped dead in his tracks and peered down the shady road. The sturdy huddle of St Michael’s was to their left, while Gonville lay to their right. Further along was the bigger, blacker mass of St Mary the Great, silhouetted faintly against the sky.

  ‘Why is there a light in the tower?’ asked Michael, straining his eyes in the gloom. ‘No one should be there now. The church should be locked, and William will be tucked up in his bed.’

  ‘We should ignore that, too,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘It may be someone in the process of stealing the Hand, and I would not be sorry to see that thing go!’

  ‘There are other valuable items in the University Chest besides the Hand,’ said Michael urgently. ‘There are property deeds, charters and all manner of documents, not to mention all those payments William has collected from displaying that vile relic. We cannot ignore it.’

  ‘Come on, then,’ said Bartholomew reluctantly, heading for the University Church. He drew a knife from his medicine bag, and pushed his cloak back over his shoulder, so his arm would not become entangled in the cloth if there was a fight. He glanced up at the tower as they made for the door, and saw a shadow cross the window in the chamber where the Hand was stored. Someone was definitely there. Michael produced a key, and Bartholomew winced as sharp metallic clinks echoed around the silent churchyard. He wondered whether they would be audible to the thieves inside.

  ‘This is interesting,’ whispered Michael, indicating that the gate had been locked. ‘This is the only door not barred from the inside – it is always secured with a key.’

  ‘Who has keys?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘William, who will be asleep by now. Chancellor Tynkell, who I happen to know is dining with my grandmother and Mayor Morice this evening. And me. Therefore, only one conclusion can be drawn: whoever is in the tower must have hidden in the church before it was secured for the night.’

  ‘In that case, I have two questions,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The first is why are the premises not checked before they are locked, to prevent this sort of thing? And the second is why do we not summon the beadles to help us confront whoever is here?’

  ‘They are checked,’ snapped Michael. ‘So, I imagine we are dealing with someone who is extremely good at hiding himself.’ He stepped into the dark interior.

  ‘The beadles, Brother,’ said Bartholomew firmly, stretching out a hand to stop him. ‘I do not want to tackle these intruders alone.’

  ‘I will be with you,’ said Michael, as if that were enough. ‘And I do not want to wait for reinforcements if there are felons after the University Chest. It is far too valuable.’

  Bartholomew was unhappy, but the monk dismissed his concerns as he made his way to the tower. In the dead silence of the church Bartholomew could hear the monk’s soft breathing, and the way his leather boots creaked as he walked. With infinite care, Michael opened the tower door and began to ascend the spiral staircase. They passed the document-storage room, and continued to the second floor, where the Chest was kept.

  Bartholomew heard voices as they climbed, and his misgivings increased when he realised
there was not one intruder in the tower, but two or three. He wondered how he and Michael would be able to contain them, using only a surgical knife and a pewter candlestick Michael had grabbed from the nave. When they reached the door, Michael threw it open with such force that the crash made Bartholomew’s teeth rattle. The monk leapt into the chamber with a challenging shriek, candlestick held ready to brain anyone who tried to pass him.

  ‘William!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, entering a little less dramatically.

  ‘Lavenham!’ said Michael, eyeing the terrified apothecary with cold, angry eyes. ‘And Isobel! What are you doing here?’

  CHAPTER 12

  ‘This is not as it looks,’ said William nervously, moving forward with what Bartholomew felt was a good deal of agitated menace.

  ‘No?’ asked Michael mildly, indicating with a nod that Bartholomew was to remain by the door and prevent a bid for escape – by any of the room’s occupants.

  ‘It looks as though I am supervising the theft of the Hand of Justice,’ said William unhappily. The Lavenhams sat side by side on the window bench, and said nothing. ‘But I am not. I cannot.’

  ‘And why is that, pray?’ asked Michael coolly.

  ‘Because it is not here,’ said William with a strangled cry. He picked up the handsome reliquary and lobbed it across the room. ‘See?’

  Michael almost dropped the box, and the candlestick he had been holding clattered to the ground. ‘God’s blood, man, have a care! You do not toss these things around as though they were juggling balls! I know I have been sceptical of the Hand of Justice, but I do not want to risk the wrath of an irked saint by treating the thing with brazen disrespect.’

  ‘Open it,’ suggested William.

  ‘Do not,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘Men have been struck down for tampering with holy relics. Remember William’s sermon about the man who touched the Ark of the Covenant?’

  ‘But you do not believe this particular relic is holy,’ William pointed out with impeccable logic. ‘Neither of you do. So open the box, Brother.’