The Hand of Justice (12 page)

‘Edward Mortimer and that Thorpe are always together,’ said Clippesby, who had a sleepy grass-snake in his lap. ‘A ram at
the Market Square said they are lovers, although I do not know whether to believe him. However, the Gonville cat, who gets
around at night, informed me that Master Thorpe of Valence Marie will not have his son in his College. Young Thorpe is living
with the Mortimers.’

‘Is he now?’ mused Michael. Clippesby was often in possession of valuable information, although the sources he claimed for
it were invariably improbable. Most of his conversations sounded like the ramblings of a deranged mind, but experience had
taught the monk that Clippesby was often well informed, so he usually made some effort to distil the truth from the wild fantasies
that encased it.

‘Master Thorpe told
me
he was appalled when his son appeared at Valence Marie and demanded to be welcomed home,’ said William, not to be outdone
with the gossip. ‘He had no hand in obtaining the King’s Pardon, and he wants no part of his boy.’

‘I visited Master Thorpe yesterday,’ said Langelee, joining in the competition to see who had the most news. ‘He said the
Mortimers had told him they planned to get a King’s Pardon for his son and Edward, but he did nothing about it, because he
sincerely believed that the King had no reason to grant one – their guilt was too clear. But he underestimated the power of
bribery.’

‘The Mortimers
did
bribe the King’s Bench clerks,’ said Clippesby. ‘One of the swans – who flies near Westminster at this time of year – told
me he saw gold changing hands.’

‘Poor Master Thorpe,’ said William. ‘His son is a dangerous man, and it took real courage for the father to disown him. I
would not want someone like young Thorpe angry with
me
.’

Michael nodded, a little impatiently. ‘He is brave. But none of this has any relevance to what I am trying to tell you about
the mills. We all know that the King owns the King’s Mill, and that a profit-making guild called the Millers’ Society leases
it from him.’

‘The Millers’ Society comprises the apothecary Lavenham and his hussy wife Isobel, Cheney the spice merchant, Deschalers
the grocer and Bernarde the miller – miserable sinners, every one,’ said Suttone, who enjoyed listing people who would die
when the plague next came. ‘And Mayor Morice.’

‘
Mayor
Morice!’ spat Langelee in disgust. ‘I could not believe it when that dishonest scoundrel was elected. Look what happened
when he was Sheriff! He was so brazen with his corruption that it took my breath away.’

‘It is
his
fault that Thorpe and Edward are back,’ agreed William. ‘He accepted gold from the Mortimers, in return for a letter saying
our town had no objection to the pardons being issued.’

Michael gave an irritable sigh, to indicate that their interruptions were interfering with his tale. He spoke
loudly. ‘So, we have the King’s Mill, leased from the King by the Millers’ Society. And Mortimer’s Mill – owned by Thomas
Mortimer – is
upstream
from it. And we all know that Mortimer’s Mill was recently converted from grinding grain to fulling cloth.’ He gazed around,
pursing his lips, as if he imagined he had made a significant point.

‘So?’ asked William eventually. ‘What of it?’

Michael grimaced at his slow wits. ‘Fulling needs more water than grinding corn – or so I am told – and the Mortimers keep
diverting water for the process, so the King’s Mill cannot operate. They refuse to settle the matter amicably, so it has gone
before the King’s Bench for a decision.’

‘Then doubtless there will be more bribery taking place as we speak,’ said Langelee acidly. ‘It seems to me that the King’s
clerks will make any decision you like, as long as you have the funds to pay for it. I knew they were corrupt, but—’

‘What did you think of my sermon this morning?’ interrupted William. They had discussed the subject of corruption among the
King’s officers at length that afternoon, and he was bored with it. However, he was proud of his work in the church earlier
that day, and clearly felt that some compliments were in order.

‘It did not dwell sufficiently on the Death,’ replied Suttone immediately. ‘It is our duty to point out that it
will
return, and that we will all die unless we repent of our sins.’

‘I repent every day,’ said William, the tone of his voice indicating he did not think he had much to confess. ‘And folk are
growing tired of hearing about the Death each Sunday. They want something more inspiring, and my oration today was just that.
They need to hear about the fire and brimstone of Hell.’ William knew far more about Hell than Bartholomew felt he should
have done.

‘It was about how God killed a man called Uzzah for daring to touch the Ark of the Covenant,’ said Clippesby. ‘I was listening
to you, William. The oxen carrying the Ark stumbled, and Uzzah tried to stop it from falling to the ground. He was struck
dead for his audacity, but the oxen survived, so it was a tale with a happy ending.’

‘I do not think the cattle are relevant to the story,’ said William stiffly. ‘My point was that anyone who does not treat
sacred objects with respect and reverence will be similarly struck down. They will end up roasting in the Devil’s cauldrons,
surrounded by screaming demons with—’

‘You were referring to the Hand of Valence Marie,’ interrupted Michael distastefully. ‘Your message was quite clear: anyone
who disbelieves in the Hand’s power is ripe for holy vengeance.’

‘Precisely,’ said William comfortably. ‘I would not like my colleagues to vanish in a column of fire for treating holy relics
with disrespect.’ He shot a meaningful look in Bartholomew’s direction.

‘I have every respect for holy relics,’ replied Bartholomew, tired of being the one always accused of heresy and irreverence.
‘I would never dare touch a real one. But the Hand is
not
a real one – it belonged to Peterkin Starre. You were using your sermon as an opportunity to tout for business: you want
folk to visit the relic, so you can charge them to see it.’

‘Yes,’ agreed William, pleased with himself. ‘Many folk flock to it with their prayers and petitions, and I am keen to give
others the opportunity to—’

There was a knock at the door, and Quenhyth entered. The student marched across the conclave, heading for Bartholomew. There
was a book under his arm that he made sure everyone noticed, so they would know that while the other students were chatting
or playing games in the hall, he had devoted himself to more serious pursuits.

‘The reading of academic texts on a Sunday is forbidden,’ snapped William when he saw it. ‘You will be bound for Hell if you
disregard the proscriptions for this most holy of days.’

‘It is a theological text,’ replied Quenhyth virtuously. With one hand he proffered it for the Franciscan to inspect, while
the other went to his mouth for the nails to be gnawed. ‘It is an analysis of the Question: Let us debate whether the Body
of Christ became different after His soul separated from it.’

‘You do not need texts to answer that question, boy,’ growled William. ‘I can tell you. No.’

‘A most eloquent argument, Father,’ said Michael drolly. ‘Gonville must be quaking in their boots in anticipation of meeting
that kind of incisive logic at the next
Disputatio
.’

William nodded his pleasure at the compliment, and folded his arms. ‘However, I
have
read that particular text, as it happens. Well, not the whole thing, I admit – I just went straight to the end and looked
at the conclusion. I do not waste my time reading silly twists and turns, not when there are heretics to unveil and the University
Chest to protect.’

‘I see you chose well in becoming a scholar,’ said Wynewyk, raising his eyebrows in amusement. ‘Why would a theologian bother
with “silly twists and turns” in a scholarly debate?’

‘Quite,’ agreed William, the irony quite lost on him.

‘Sergeant Orwelle is here, sir,’ said Quenhyth to Bartholomew, bewildered by the exchange. His literal mind rendered him no
better with irony than did William’s. ‘There has been an incident at the King’s Mill, and you are needed. He says Brother
Michael should come, too, since one of the fatalities might be a scholar.’

‘
One
of the fatalities?’ queried Michael, reaching for his cloak. ‘I do not like the sound of this.’

Bartholomew and Michael hurried along streets that were dark grey with dusk. It was a cold evening, and the physician could
see his breath pluming in front of him as he walked. He wondered whether there would be a frost that night. The previous winter
had been one of the coldest anyone could recall, when snows had choked the roads and sealed the town from the outside world
for days. The river had frozen, too, and the town’s watermills had been unable to operate, because the millers were afraid
the ice would damage their machinery. This had driven up the price of flour, and people had died of starvation before winter
had finally loosened its frigid grip.

There was a stiff breeze that Sunday evening, which meant the smoke that rose from hundreds of fires was blown away, rather
than hanging over the town in a choking pall. Bartholomew could see the first stars appearing in the dark-blue sky and, when
he breathed deeply, he detected not only the sulphurous stink of the marshes that lay to the north, but the more pleasant
scent of early spring. He had seen primroses near Isnard’s house earlier that day, little lemon spots on a scrubby bank.

Sergeant Orwelle led the way. He was a grizzled veteran of the French wars, who usually worked at the Trumpington Gate, where
he screened any strangers who wanted access to his town. The gate was not far from the King’s Mill, so Bartholomew supposed
someone had run to him for help when the ‘incident’ – whatever that was – had unfolded.

‘What happened?’ he asked as they went, with Orwelle
setting a cracking pace that had the overweight Michael gasping for breath. Bartholomew wondered whether Orwelle’s haste was
because casualties needed urgent medical assistance, or whether he simply wanted to be back at his familiar post and out of
the cold. ‘An accident?’

‘I would not say that,’ replied Orwelle, rather obtusely. ‘But then I know little of these things.’

‘What things?’ panted Michael.

‘The dead. You know,’ said Orwelle mysteriously.

Bartholomew began to have misgivings about the whole venture. There was a good deal of heavy machinery in a mill, and he had
been called to some very unpleasant crushing accidents in the past. He skidded to a standstill.

‘Are you sure I am needed? I deal with the living, not the dead. If I have a sinister reputation for performing the odd surgical
operation, then that is not going to be made better by my exploring mangled bodies at this hour of the night.’

‘You are the University’s Corpse Examiner,’ pronounced Orwelle uncompromisingly. ‘Everyone knows that. You are supposed to
look at their deceased. It is your job.’

‘It is not!’ exclaimed Bartholomew indignantly, appalled that the occasional helping hand he gave to Michael should be seen
as an official position. ‘I am a physician!’

‘You are both,’ said Orwelle, unmoved. They had reached the Trumpington Gate. ‘This is where we part company, gentlemen. I
have no desire to see
that
again.’

‘You are looking into the murder of Bosel the beggar,’ said Michael, dabbing his sweaty brow with a piece of white linen,
as he embarked on another subject. Bartholomew was not the only one who was unwilling to see what awaited him at the King’s
Mill. ‘What have you learned so far?’

‘Nothing, despite the fact that I have questioned virtually everyone in the town over the last two days.’ Orwelle sounded
dispirited. ‘Sheriff Tulyet says I should investigate
Thorpe and Edward Mortimer, because they are known killers.’

Bartholomew rubbed his chin. ‘It would be stupid to start murdering people as soon as they arrive, and they are not fools.
Perhaps someone killed Bosel in the hope that they would be blamed.’

Orwelle was appalled. ‘But there are hundreds of folk who want that pair gone from our streets! I will never narrow it down
to one suspect.’ He sighed, and became even more gloomy. ‘The Sheriff says I should look at
Thomas
Mortimer, too, because Bosel threatened to be a witness against him. He also suggested I probe the affairs of the madwoman
– Bess – who arrived here a few weeks ago.’

‘Who is she?’ asked Michael. ‘And why did you let her into our town, if you thought she might be dangerous?’

‘She is not dangerous,’ said Orwelle with great certainty. ‘And she did not kill Bosel, either. She came mumbling something
about finding a lost lover. She is clearly out of her wits, and I thought she might be able to beg a few pennies here before
she moves on, poor lass. She is too addled to know about poisons. But it is cold out here, and there is a fire in the gatehouse.’
Without another word, he turned and strode away, leaving the two scholars to complete the short journey alone.

‘Orwelle is right about your duties as Corpse Examiner,’ said Michael, as they passed Peterhouse and began to walk towards
the mill, which was a black mass against the darkening sky. ‘In fact, I discussed the matter with Tynkell only last week,
and we have decided to make the post a permanent one, with a proper stipend.’

‘Good,’ said Bartholomew with feeling. ‘You can offer it to Rougham. He can chase after you in the dead of night looking at
sights no physician ever ought to be asked to see. He may even enjoy it.’

‘I do not want Rougham,’ said Michael. ‘I want you. Rougham’s mind is too closed to allow him to be of use to me – and do
not suggest Paxtone, either. He is a pleasant fellow, but he is unimaginative, and would probably faint if I showed him a
corpse.’

‘I will not do it,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘It would mean I am never free to refuse you.’

‘You never refuse me anyway,’ Michael pointed out. ‘So you may as well be paid for your trouble. The Chancellor is willing
to provide fourpence for every corpse examined. At that rate, it will not take you long to earn enough to buy Roger Bacon’s
De erroribus medicorum
. You have wanted a copy of that ever since Paxtone lent you his, and I hear Gonville intends to sell theirs.’