The Hand of Justice (16 page)

Michael shuddered at the image. ‘However, you say there is no way to determine who was the murderer and who was the victim?’

‘They were both victims, Brother,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘No matter what we discover.’

Michael sighed and took a gulp of wine from the physician’s cup. ‘I do not suppose you recall details of some ancient dispute
that threw Bottisham and Deschalers together, do you, Dick?’

Tulyet frowned. ‘There was something about a field, now you mention it. But it happened too long ago for me to remember the
outcome. Why do you ask? Do you believe a long-forgotten argument may have led one to kill the other?’

Michael shrugged helplessly. ‘I do not know what to think. Poor Bottisham.’

‘Poor Deschalers,’ said Tulyet immediately, seeing where the monk’s sympathies lay. ‘He was arrogant, but he did not deserve
to die like that. But what makes you think Bernarde is not the killer? Has it occurred to you that he might be lying about
what he saw and heard, as he rushed to see what was making the odd noises in his property?’

‘Bernarde is not the killer,’ said Michael with great conviction. ‘For one very good reason: he would never make such a mess
in his beloved mill. I do not see him lying to protect the culprit, either. I think he would have told me if he had seen someone
running away after the second thump.’

Bartholomew agreed. ‘He did seem affronted by the damage.’

Tulyet swirled the wine around in his cup. ‘But Bottisham and Deschalers could not have killed each other with nails during
a fight. It would be improbable to the point of impossible. And I do not accept the notion of a suicide pact, either: it is
too neat. Therefore, I think you are right: the only plausible option is that one killed the other, then dispatched himself
in a fit of sorrow.’

‘Then who was the killer and who was the victim?’ asked Michael.

Tulyet turned to Bartholomew. ‘There was nothing on the bodies to help you determine that?’

‘Not a thing,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I think they died at more or less the same time – both were warm when we arrived. Also,
remember that Bernarde heard two thumps – bodies dropping into the workings – within a short period of each other once the
machinery had been engaged.’

‘Is it possible to drive a nail into your own palate, then throw yourself into the gears and cogs?’ asked Tulyet.

‘You could stand
near
the machinery when applying the nail, so you would fall into it,’ replied Bartholomew, trying not to show his distaste for
the discussion. He knew the various possibilities had to be investigated, but he did not like doing it when Bottisham was
one of the victims. He forced himself to continue. ‘It would be a good way to make sure you die – insurance against the nail
missing its mark or you not having the strength to drive it home.’

Tulyet winced, and looked back at his wine. ‘Deschalers has been ill recently – weary and listless. I doubt he had the strength
for murder, so I am inclined to think Bottisham is the culprit.’

‘No,’ said Michael, still unwilling to believe the kindly Bottisham would kill. ‘Deschalers is a more convincing suspect.
He was clearly up to something sinister, because someone invaded his house the moment he died.’

‘He was a wealthy man,’ Tulyet pointed out. ‘And he
lived alone. His house will be the target of every thief in the town until his heirs come to organise his affairs – including
the forty felons who have been detailed to repair the Great Bridge. You cannot read anything significant into your encounter
with that intruder.’

They were silent for a while, thinking about the deaths and the seemingly impossible task of discovering what had happened.
They knew they stood on the edge of a chasm: Tulyet had already made the assumption that the scholar was the killer, while
Michael was inclined to view the townsman as the villain. Others would do the same, and the situation needed to be handled
very carefully if they did not want more deaths and violence.

‘What happens now?’ asked Bartholomew eventually. ‘A townsman’s death must be investigated by the Sheriff, and a scholar’s
by the Senior Proctor. But they are the same case. What happens if your conclusions contradict each other?’

‘We must ensure they do not,’ said Tulyet soberly. ‘At all costs. Neither of us wants a riot over this. Therefore, I suggest
you
conduct this investigation, Brother – Deschalers’s death as well as Bottisham’s. I trust you to be impartial, and I promise
to bide by whatever conclusion you draw. That will eliminate some potential for dispute, at least.’

‘Very well,’ agreed Michael, although he did not look happy. ‘As long as you are willing to explain to Deschalers’s fellow
merchants why you have delegated the business to me.’

‘That is easy,’ said Tulyet bitterly. ‘I am obliged to spend most of my time watching the criminals working on the Great Bridge.
And
I must keep an eye on Rob Thorpe and Edward Mortimer. I barely have time to breathe, let alone look into what may be a complex
murder.’

‘Can you not use your soldiers for that?’ asked Michael, who would have set his beadles on tasks that sounded so time-consuming
and dull.

‘I dare not abandon the villains. Two slipped past my sergeants only this morning, and would have escaped if I had not been
there to catch them. And nor will I abandon my surveillance of Thorpe and Mortimer until I know what they plan to do. It would
not surprise me to learn that
they
had arranged the deaths of Bottisham and Deschalers.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael eagerly, ignoring the fact that they had just reasoned a third party involvement was impossible. ‘That
would be a neat conclusion. Why? Would it be because Deschalers once had an affair with Edward’s mother, and Edward wants
revenge on the man who sullied her virtue?’

Tulyet was startled. ‘I doubt it! Edward encouraged Katherine’s various liaisons, because they made her happy – and he liked
to see his mother happy.’

‘You are not surprised to hear that Deschalers and Katherine were close?’ asked Bartholomew.

Tulyet shrugged. ‘Katherine and my wife were friends, and I have known about her relationship with Deschalers for years. He
was deeply hurt when Katherine decided it was too risky to have a lover in the house next door – the affair meant far more
to him than it did to her. She soon found herself a replacement, but he never did. Apparently,
you
kept running into them, Matt, and Katherine was afraid you might say something to her husband.’

‘But she was not afraid her son might tell?’ asked Michael curiously.

Tulyet shrugged a second time. ‘Edward detested his father, so was only too pleased to see him made a cuckold. So, if he did
arrange for Deschalers to die, it would not have been over Katherine.’

‘What, then?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Is there another motive?’

‘None that I know – other than to make trouble between town and University by having a scholar and a merchant
murdered in the same place. He hates us, because we were instrumental in his capture. What better way to avenge himself on
Sheriff and Senior Proctor than to present us with an unsolvable crime? We will look incompetent, and it will bring about
riots at the same time.’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘I thought they would be here for a week or so, try to dispatch one or two “enemies”, and then disappear
when they see everyone is watching them. But they seem intent on staying and making careers for themselves.’

Tulyet agreed. ‘They are settling in more comfortably than I would like – even attending meetings of the burgesses. Edward
refused to work in his father’s bakery, and is helping at Mortimer’s Mill instead. Meanwhile, Thorpe has been accepted into
Gonville Hall to study. He tried his luck at Valence Marie first, but
his
father declines to have anything to do with him.’

‘He had the gall to apply to Michaelhouse, too,’ added Michael. ‘Damned cheek! Pulham told me that Gonville had accepted Thorpe
because he offered to sew altar cloths and chasubles for their new chapel. He learned how to make them during his apprenticeship
with your brother-in-law, Matt.’

Bartholomew was troubled. ‘Why not ask them to leave Cambridge, Dick? No one wants them here – with the exception of the Mortimer
clan, of course. And perhaps now Gonville.’

Tulyet looked pained. ‘How can I? They have the King’s Pardon. If I were to banish them, then I am effectively saying that
the King was wrong to invite them back to England. And that is treason. So, there is nothing I can do unless we actually
catch
them committing a crime.’

‘Damn Constantine Mortimer!’ said Michael. ‘He was the one who purchased these pardons.’

Tulyet shook his head in despair. ‘The Mortimers are
already quarrelling with the Millers’ Society over the issue of water, and I am sure Edward has turned the dispute more bitter.
The Millers’ Society thinks Bottisham and Deschalers were murdered in connection with the dispute, although I do not see why.’
He scrubbed at his eyes, frustrated by so many questions and so few answers.

They were silent again, as each tried to envisage a solution that would fit the evidence. How did one man come to drive a
nail into the palate of another? Did he choose that method because he hoped it would be undetectable once the machinery had
done its work? Was he hoping both deaths would be seen as accidents? But whatever solution Bartholomew devised merely left
him with more questions, and he saw he would not solve the riddle until he had more information.

Tulyet reached for his cloak. ‘Thorpe and Mortimer are still drinking in the King’s Head, so I cannot stay here too long,
lest they make trouble. You know what a volatile place
that
is.’

‘They are there now?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘But it is the middle of the night!’

‘If Thorpe is now a scholar, then I can fine him for being in a tavern,’ said Michael, downing the last of the wine and preparing
to carry out his duty immediately.

‘No,’ said Tulyet, putting out a hand to stop him. ‘He is trying to antagonise us, to see how far he can go. The best thing
you can do is have a word with Gonville, and see if they will dismiss him. If all the Colleges refuse to house him, he may
move on – perhaps to Oxford.’

‘You assume he wants to study,’ said Michael. ‘But he is no more eager to learn his Aristotle than Edward is to become a miller.
They have other reasons for inflicting their presence on us.’

‘True,’ said Tulyet. ‘They were found guilty of all manner of crimes – most of which they freely admitted. But their
guilt will not prevent them from wanting revenge on us all.’

‘I do not understand,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘How can they want revenge when they know they are in the wrong?’

‘Because they were caught,’ said Tulyet. ‘And
that
rankles.’

Michael and Bartholomew returned to the King’s Mill early the following morning to inspect the building in daylight. It was
William’s turn to recite the daily mass again, and he shot through the office at such a speed that there was ample time to
visit the mill and search for clues among its dusty corners before teaching began at eight o’clock. They explored every crack
and crevice in the rambling building, but to no avail: there was nothing to help them ascertain what had caused Bottisham
and Deschalers to die in such bizarre circumstances. Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair in frustration, wanting desperately
to find something that would tell him what had happened, but not knowing where else to look or what else to do.

‘You see this dust?’ asked Bernarde, pointing to a thick, even layer of grainy-grey powder that lay across the floor. ‘It
has not been disturbed since my boy swept it last night. Watch.’

He took a few steps across it, keys bouncing importantly at his waist, and Bartholomew saw his footprints quite clearly as
they left a distinctive trail behind him.

‘We always sweep the floor before retiring for the evening,’ Bernarde went on. ‘Then we bag up the dust and sell it at a reduced
rate to the lepers at Stourbridge. The only footprints when I arrived last night were the ones made by Bottisham and Deschalers,
as they came in through the door and made for this end of the building. These have now been overlain by our own. But you can
see for
yourselves that no one went anywhere else to hide – as you suggested yesterday. There would be marks leading to his hiding
place, and there are none.’

‘So, this really does discount the possibility of a third party,’ said Bartholomew, disheartened when he saw the miller was
right. There were no trails leading to dark corners, and the killer would have been seen had he remained in the chamber with
his victims. ‘Unless he escaped before the second body fell …’

‘Not possible,’ countered Bernarde immediately. ‘I left my house very quickly after I heard the machinery engage, and I would
have seen anyone leaving. I am sorry, Doctor, but there were only two men here last night: Bottisham and Deschalers.’

Bartholomew wandered outside, to see whether there were windows or cracks that might be used to effect an escape, but mills
suffered from interested rats and tended to be fairly well sealed. There was no other exit, except a gate high on the upper
floor that was used to hoist sacks of grain to the storage bins. But Bartholomew knew this had been barred from the inside
the previous night, because he had seen it himself. He sat on the river bank and looked across the Mill Pool to Isnard’s cottage.
Bottisham’s pleasant face kept swimming into his thoughts.

‘Bernarde
could
have killed one or both of them,’ he said, when Michael joined him.

The monk glanced behind him, to ensure the miller was not listening. ‘You would not say that if you heard the fuss he was
making about bits of bone in his pinions – whatever they are. He is furious about it. Besides, Deschalers was a member of
the Millers’ Society, and I do not see why Bernarde would do away with a colleague and an investor.’

Bartholomew rubbed his hands together, noting that they were deeply impregnated with pale dust. ‘Do you think Bottisham killed
Deschalers, and then Bernarde
stabbed Bottisham in revenge? Bernarde then could have thrown them both in the workings to confuse us.’