Reluctantly, Michael complied, while Bartholomew held his breath, half anticipating that the room would fill with a blinding light that would incinerate them all. Michael pulled out the satin parcel and unwrapped it, looking like a man who expected to discover something terrible inside.
‘It is a glove’ said Michael in surprise, shaking the object out on to the table. ‘A glove stuffed with old wool, or some such thing.’
Bartholomew inspected it carefully, noting the rough stitches and the way its creator had used odds and ends to assemble something that might fool a busy friar at a pinch – it was the same shape and size as the original Hand, and would pass for the real thing as long as it was inside the satin. The glove used was old and cheap, and might have been discarded by just about anyone, now that winter was over.
‘My relic has been a glove for the past five days!’ wailed William, flopping on to the University Chest and rubbing his eyes. ‘At least, that was when I first became aware that the original Hand had gone – last Friday. God only knows when it really disappeared.’
‘But you have continued to accept money from folk who want to pray to it,’ said Bartholomew accusingly.
‘Well, why not?’ snapped William. ‘Their prayers are still being answered, even though the Hand is not here. Mistress Lenne appealed to it on Monday – three days after I noticed it was missing – and Thomas Mortimer died, just as she requested.’
‘Never mind the Hand,’ said Michael, looking at Lavenham and his wife. ‘What is going on here? You are right to be defensive, William. This situation does indeed look suspicious. This pair are needed to answer questions, and they appear just when you confess that your relic has been stolen.’
‘It might not have been stolen,’ procrastinated William. ‘It might have gone of its own volition.’
‘Leaving a stuffed glove behind it?’ asked Michael archly. He turned his attention back to the Lavenhams, who looked apprehensive. There was a small box on the bench next to them; its lid was open, and it was so full of gold that it was overflowing. ‘What do you have to say for yourselves?’
‘They went to the Chancellor after the fire, in fear of their lives,’ said William, speaking for them. ‘Tynkell asked for my help, so I brought them here. It is only for a night. They will be away at dawn tomorrow, back to Lavenham.’
‘So, no one was hiding in the church when it was locked up for the night,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘Both William and Tynkell have keys.’
‘We cannot go back to Lavenham, Father,’ said Isobel pedantically. ‘We have never been there. I am from Peterborough, and my husband is from Norway.’
‘Hah!’ exclaimed Michael. ‘I always thought there was something strange about you.’
Bartholomew did not think hailing from Peterborough or Norway implied strangeness, although it certainly suggested a degree of deception. But it was a minor one, and lying about one’s antecedents was not a particularly suspicious thing to have done. He said so.
‘You are right,’ said Isobel. She made an effort to pull herself together, and managed to give Michael a flash of her cleavage. The monk’s glare did not waver, and Bartholomew admired his self-restraint. Isobel’s expression turned sulky. ‘We have done nothing wrong, so do not glower so! When someone set our house alight, we decided this town was too dangerous for us, and made up our minds to leave. We do good business here, but it is not worth dying for.’
‘Someone deliberately fired your shop,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We assumed it was to harm the Commissioners. Were we wrong?’
Isobel exchanged a glance with her husband. ‘We do not know who was responsible. But when we saw what happened to Thomas Mortimer, we decided to leave before his kinsmen blamed us for his death – even though it was not our fault.’
‘He was trampled,’ said Michael. ‘Did you see someone drive a panicked horse in his direction?’
Isobel grimaced. ‘If only we had! Human violence is something I can understand, but this was something else altogether. Just after the alarm was raised, he entered our yard and started stuffing things into his bag.’ She shook her head, as though she could scarcely credit such behaviour. ‘It was brazen theft, but at least he had the grace to blush when he saw us. He turned to run away – loaded down with our possessions, I might add – when a beam fell from an upper floor and crushed him.’
‘But he was not found in your yard,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘He was found in the street.’
‘The Mortimers are always trying to make money from others’ misfortunes,’ said Isobel. ‘I am disgusted by the compensation the town is forced to pay Thorpe and Edward, and I did not want Thomas’s corpse found on our property: I did not want them blaming us for his death.’
Bartholomew could see her point. ‘You moved him?’
She nodded. ‘I do not know who started the rumour that our horses killed him, but it is not true. He died from falling timber – and because he was so drunk that he could not move quickly enough to save himself when the roof started to collapse.’
Bartholomew believed her, and supposed blaming the horses had been the Mortimers’ idea. It would be easier to claim compensation from the owner of a stampeding nag than from the owner of a burning house that Thomas had been busy looting.
Isobel continued. ‘But, on reflection, we decided not to stay here anyway. We salvaged our gold from what is left of our home, and we will leave Cambridge at first light tomorrow.’
‘Chancellor find us hide in cemetery,’ added Lavenham. ‘He help us good.’
‘Why should Tynkell help you?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.
‘I know things,’ replied Isobel vaguely.
‘It would not be about the Chancellor’s unusual medical condition, would it?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling that she sewed his undergarments.
‘Do not press me to betray his trust,’ said Isobel softly. ‘He has been kind to us.’
‘Bess,’ said Bartholomew, trying another line of enquiry. ‘Did you sell her poison?’
‘Of course not!’ said Isobel crossly. ‘She was witless and would have swallowed it. She came to our shop asking about her man, and I could see she was not well, so I gave her a comfit to suck. I heard she died shortly afterwards, but it had nothing to do with us.’
‘Is that what Alfred de Blaston saw in her hand?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘A comfit?’
Isobel nodded. ‘I expect so. I saw her toss it away as soon as she was outside.’
‘How do we know you are telling the truth?’ asked Michael. ‘How do we know you did not set the fire, kill Thomas and even steal William’s relic?’
‘I can answer that,’ said Bartholomew, sitting next to Isobel. ‘I should have pieced this together sooner. Master Thorpe said the fire broke out while the three Commissioners – including Lavenham – were arguing in the solar, which means Lavenham could not have lit it himself. And I saw Isobel in the street when the arsonist would have been at work. They are innocent of that charge.’
‘And Thomas Mortimer’s death?’ asked Michael.
‘I would say they are telling the truth about that, too: his injuries suggest crushing, not trampling. And they did not steal the relic, either. You can see their worldly goods in that box of gold, and the Hand is not in it.’
Isobel smiled at Bartholomew, underlining her appreciation with a flash of bosom. ‘Thank you, Doctor. You have absolved us of these vile accusations.’
‘Not all of them,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I still have questions about the potion that killed Warde and Bess. Did you add henbane to your Water of Snails? Accidentally?’
Lavenham bristled indignantly. ‘I not! I make Baker Dozen – thirteen phial. You see entry in my book, and know how many I sell. Two of Cheney, two of Bernarde and two of Morice in first batch. In second, four of Rougham and three spare. Bernarde, Cheney and Morice drank and still alive.’
‘Bernarde is not,’ said Bartholomew, although he did not think Water of Snails was responsible.
&nbs
p; ‘Rougham gave three of his phials to his Gonville colleagues, and they are not dead,’ said Isobel. ‘So, you cannot accuse us of adding henbane to the one he prescribed for Warde. Warde and Bess must have died from something else.’
‘Rougham,’ mused Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘We are back to him. I do not suppose he has purchased other toxic substances from you recently, has he?’
‘He is a physician, and is obliged to use plants like henbane occasionally,’ said Isobel. ‘You also purchased some – for Isnard’s lice. And Paxtone bought a little for his Warden’s gout.’
‘Rougham bought henbane?’ pounced Bartholomew, ignoring Paxtone for a more promising villain. ‘What for?’
‘We did not ask,’ said Isobel indignantly. ‘It is not our business to question our customers. He bought a lot of it about a month ago, but he did not tell me why.’
‘Isobel has given me a gold noble for my help tonight,’ said William, becoming bored with murder. ‘For the University Chest, of course. Perhaps I can use it to purchase another Hand …’
‘No!’ said Michael quickly. ‘We have had enough of those, thank you very much.’
‘I suppose someone stole it when I was out of the chamber,’ said William, frowning as he tried to identify a culprit. ‘I occasionally leave trusted individuals alone, so they can make their petitions in private. I do not want to be party to too many guilty secrets and hidden desires.’
‘You told us you always keep the reliquary locked,’ said Bartholomew, suspecting that trust and bribes went hand in hand with William. ‘So, how did it come to be stolen?’
‘I have been busy,’ said William in a whine. ‘I may have forgotten to secure it once or twice. So many people came to appeal to the Hand …’
‘Who?’ demanded Michael.
‘Bernarde for one,’ replied William. His jaw dropped. ‘You do not think he took it, and that is why he was burned to a cinder in the inferno? The Hand of Justice repaid him for his audacity?’
‘There is no proof of that,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Who else?’
‘I left Edward and young Thorpe unattended, because Wynewyk was with them, and I assumed he would prevent any mischief. But he now tells me they robbed him.’
‘That is why we have been dining on nettles and stale bread for the past three weeks. Who else?’
William began reeling off names. ‘Mayor Morice would be my first suspect, but he took nothing with him because I would have seen it bulging under his tight-fitting tunic. Stanmore came, but he is an honest man. Quenhyth prayed briefly. Paxtone visited, but Pulham was with him, and I do not think they are close enough to trust each other with theft. Thomas and Constantine Mortimer popped in, bringing their servants. Cheney was in company with Langelee and Redmeadow. Clippesby and Kenyngham. Rougham came several times …’
‘Rougham,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is determined to have the Hand for Gonville. He took it!’
‘My money is on Thorpe and Mortimer,’ said Michael. ‘But since the thing is a fraud anyway, I do not think we need waste any more time on it.’ He gazed at the Lavenhams. ‘I appreciate why you are keen to leave, but you must remain here a little longer, in case we have more questions.’
‘Very well,’ said Isobel reluctantly. ‘We will stay tomorrow – if we are permitted to hide in this chamber. But we go at dawn on Friday, whether you have questions or not.’
‘Rougham,’ said Bartholomew, as they walked home from mass the following morning, ‘I knew he was involved. We should confront him with what we know, before he has the same idea as Lavenham and slips away with his ill-gotten gains.’
Michael did not think Rougham’s visits to the Hand necessarily implied that he had stolen it, but agreed that another trip to Gonville was in order. Rougham had not been honest about the fact that he had purchased four phials of Water of Snails from Lavenham, and the monk felt he needed to explain why he had lied and what he had done with them.
There were only two Gonville Fellows left, following the death of Bottisham and the flight of Ufford, Despenser and Thompson. Rougham and Pulham were in the conclave finishing breakfast together and, judging by the pleasure with which Pulham greeted the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner, he considered the interruption a timely one. Rougham sat morosely silent, and his face turned sour with disapproval when the Acting Master waved the guests in.
‘Have some claret,’ said Pulham, ignoring Rougham’s angry sigh. ‘Bishop Bateman brought it the last time he visited. We shall miss him in more ways than you can imagine.’
‘What do you two want here?’ demanded Rougham. ‘I have already said you are not welcome.’
‘You have questions to answer,’ said Bartholomew sharply, not liking his tone.
‘I do not answer questions put by you,’ retorted Rougham, his voice dripping with contempt.
Bartholomew’s patience finally broke. ‘What is the matter with you? Why are you acting in this way? What have I done to offend you?’
Rougham looked as though he would not deign to reply, but Pulham joined the affray. ‘He is right, Rougham. Your manners are worse than those of a ploughboy when he appears. It is unlike you to be discourteous.’
‘What would you have me do?’ Rougham shouted, appealing to his colleague. ‘The man is healing patients under false pretences, and using his successes to belittle me.’
Bartholomew was astounded by the charge. ‘What do you think I have done?’
‘The secretum secretorum,’ hissed Rougham angrily. ‘The thing Bacon described, which turns lead to gold, and an old person to youth again. You have one.’ He glared at Bartholomew.
Bartholomew stared back, wondering whether the man had lost his wits. ‘But it does not exist.’
‘You have made one,’ said Rougham accusingly. ‘That is why you read so many foreign books, and why you were so determined to buy our Bacon. I would never have sold it, had I known it was going to you. You outwitted me shamelessly by asking the Chancellor to purchase it on your behalf.’
‘I did not—’ objected Bartholomew.
But Rougham was in his stride now. ‘You scoured Arab texts for the secret, and you learned it. That is why you have no need to petition the Hand of Justice for cures, like the rest of us.’
‘And how did you reach this conclusion?’ asked Bartholomew, more convinced than ever that the man’s mind had become impaired. He recalled the argument they had had about Bacon earlier, when Rougham had professed himself to be a believer in the secretum secretorum.
‘Redmeadow told me. He said you can heal all ailments, and that you will teach him how to do the same. He confessed to it when I berated him over that confusion between catmint and calamint.’
‘You drove him to anger when you embarrassed him, and he spoke out of spite,’ said Bartholomew. He could see that Pulham and Michael also thought Rougham was addled. ‘Redmeadow has a fiery temper and is always blurting things he does not mean in the heat of the moment.’
‘Then why do your patients live when you conduct surgery? And how do you heal old women and peasants, who are in poor health to start with?’
‘By using all the means at my disposal – the techniques my Arab master taught me, as well as those learned from books. There is no magic.’
‘Then what about Bishop Bateman?’ demanded Rougham, still on the offensive. ‘The Chancellor said you poisoned him.’
‘What?’ gasped Michael, astonished. ‘But Matt was not in Avignon when Bateman died.’
Bartholomew thought back to the discussion in St Mary the Great on the day of the Disputatio de quodlibet, when Tynkell had asked odd questions about poisons and Rougham had been present. He recalled the shocked expression on Rougham’s face and cursed the Chancellor for his insensitivity.
‘You do not need to be with your victim when he dies of poison,’ said Rougham sulkily.
‘Tynkell does not think Matt killed Bishop Bateman,’ said Michael firmly. ‘I have never heard a more ludicrous suggestion. The Chanc
ellor has griping stomach pains – you tend them yourself on occasion – and it crossed his mind that poison might be the cause. But it was not.’
‘No one would bother to poison Tynkell,’ said Pulham to Rougham with calm reason. ‘It would be a waste of time, because he has so little real authority. And, although there are rumours that Bateman died from foul means, there is no proof of that, either. These tales are inevitable when important men die in foreign places. You are wrong to accuse Bartholomew.’
‘And this is why you have been so hostile lately?’ asked Bartholomew, unsure whether to be angry or amused. ‘You believe I dabble in sorcery, and think I am capable of poisoning bishops hundreds of miles distant?’
‘You did nothing to dissuade me from my beliefs,’ said Rougham coldly. ‘It is your fault our rivalry grew so bitter.’
Bartholomew did not bother to point out that he could hardly correct Rougham’s misapprehensions when he did not know what they were. He only wanted to ask his questions about the murders and leave, hoping that the next time they met, Rougham would at least be civil to him.
Rougham was still seething with resentment when a servant arrived with platters of breakfast food. There were eggs, salted herrings, fresh bread and pickled walnuts to eat, and Bartholomew thought it was not surprising that the College was running short of funds if its Fellows regularly devoured such sumptuous victuals. He ate little, because it was hard to raise an appetite with Rougham scowling so furiously at him, although Michael did not seem to notice and attacked the meal with gusto.
‘You bought four phials of Water of Snails from Lavenham,’ said Bartholomew, wanting the uncomfortable meal to end, so he could leave. ‘You used one for Warde. Where are the others?’
Rougham shook his head in exasperation. ‘I did not give Water of Snails to Warde! How many more times must I tell you that? I gave one each to Ufford, Despenser and Thompson.’ He reached into his scrip and produced a familiar little pot. ‘And I have the fourth here. I doctored them, but it did not work.’
‘Doctored?’ asked Bartholomew warily, laying down his knife. ‘In what way?’
Bartholomew 10 - The Hand of Justice Page 47
