The Hand of Justice (17 page)

‘I have just interrogated Bernarde’s boy, who is slow witted and an uneasy liar, and he corroborates his father’s story very
convincingly. Bernarde left his house just as he says – after the change in the wheel’s pitch alerted him to the fact that
something was not right. I do not see why Bottisham should kill Deschalers anyway.’ Michael sighed miserably. ‘None of this
makes sense. I hate cases where I am obliged to investigate the death of a man I liked. They make me feel guilty when my enquiries
do not proceed as quickly as they should.’

‘Then I suspect we will both be feeling guilty about this one, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I cannot imagine where we will
begin.’

Michael gave a wan smile. ‘You plan to help me? That is good news. I do not think I will be able to solve this alone.’

They were about to leave the mill and return to Michaelhouse, when they saw they were not the only ones keen to explore the
scene of the crime in the cold light of day. Members of the Millers’ Society assembled as the sun began to rise and the day
lost the delicate silver shades of early dawn. Mayor Morice was there with the burly Cheney, while the Lavenhams stood arm
in arm nearby, listening to Bernarde’s assurances that most of the gore had been removed from those parts of the mill that
mattered.

‘I assume you have finished now?’ asked Morice, approaching Michael. ‘We cannot allow the mill to stand idle any longer. We
have twenty sacks of grain left from yesterday, and we are expecting a consignment from Valence Marie this morning. Their
flour is almost completely exhausted, and we have promised that their corn will be milled by this evening.’

‘Then they will have to buy some from the Market Square
instead,’ said Michael coolly, not about to be bullied by Mayor Morice. ‘I am conducting a murder investigation, and that
takes precedence over any trading agreements you might have.’

Morice’s expression was disdainful. ‘Although one of the bodies was a scholar’s, this mill is not University property and
you have no right to tell us what to do. It will start working in an hour.’

‘We will see what Dick Tulyet says about that,’ argued Michael. ‘He—’

‘Tulyet should be ashamed of himself,’ spat Morice in disgust. ‘He told us this morning that
you
will be looking into Deschalers’s death on his behalf. Delegating to scholars! That would not have happened when
I
was Sheriff.’

‘It is because of the Great Bridge,’ said Cheney uneasily. ‘He needs to watch the felons – and Mortimer and Thorpe. I am just
as glad to see him doing that, and—’

‘There are a lot of things that would not have happened when you were Sheriff, Morice,’ retorted Michael icily, ignoring the
spicer. ‘And a thorough investigation was one of them. However, I
have
finished here, so the mill’s reopening depends on whether Bernarde feels his equipment is properly cleaned.’

‘I asked the Hand of Valence Marie to bless it,’ Bernarde told his assembled colleagues. ‘That should take care of any lingering
evil spirits. And I spent most of the night washing blood and lumps from the cogs, so the wheel should run smoothly now.’

‘Never mind that,’ said Isobel de Lavenham. ‘What about the parts that grind the corn? We do not want complaints that our
flour contains meat as well as grain. We might be fined!’

There were dismayed mutterings at that prospect, and Bernarde was enjoined to go back inside and check his
millstones. The miller declared that he and his boy had been scrubbing them for hours, and that he was more concerned about
expensive damage to his delicate mechanisms than about stray fingers in the flour. The debate raged back and forth until Bernarde
told them exactly how much it would cost to repair a damaged spur wheel or a wallower. Then it stopped. Bartholomew was disgusted
with them all for thinking more about profits than the death of one of their colleagues – and of Bottisham.

Now seriously worried that the incident might affect him financially, Morice turned on Michael and pointed an accusing finger.
‘It was a waste of time summoning you last night. All we have done is ensure you begin one of your ponderous enquiries, which
will interfere with every aspect of our lives. You detest townsfolk, and an opportunity like this will give you the excuse
you crave to make a nuisance of yourself.’

‘I do not detest townsfolk,’ replied Michael calmly. ‘It is you I do not like.’

‘We had no choice,’ replied Cheney, his local burr conciliatory as he addressed the Mayor. He was flushed that morning, and
Bartholomew could smell wine on his breath. ‘Bernarde was obliged to tell someone in authority that two bodies were in his
mill.’

‘What I want to know is what Bottisham was doing here in the first place,’ said Isobel unhappily. ‘Deschalers I can understand:
he had a key – and he had every right to inspect the property he invests in, no matter what the time of day or night. But
Bottisham did not.’

‘Did Deschalers invite him, then?’ suggested Cheney thoughtfully. ‘Were they meeting for some reason? I thought they tended
to avoid each other.’

‘What do you know about that?’ pounced Michael. ‘Were they enemies?’

‘I am not certain,’ replied Cheney, glancing around at
his companions, who shrugged. ‘I recall something bad happened between them, but it was a long time ago.’

‘Bottisham be the rascal,’ said Lavenham hotly, pushing his apothecary’s hat back on his head. His accent was pronounced that
morning, and agitation about the state of the mill seemed to deprive him of the ability to speak good English. ‘He be one
with crime. Deschalers he not.’

‘We shall see,’ said Michael. He turned to Bernarde. ‘What time did you close the mill last night?’

‘About seven o’clock,’ replied Bernarde. ‘I locked the door myself, after my boy had finished sweeping. And it was empty,’
he added, anticipating Michael’s next question. ‘And the machinery was disengaged as I told you – the wheel was still turning,
but the millstones were not. However, it is simple to start them up again. Even a scholar would be able to work out what to
do.’

‘Who has access to your key?’ asked Bartholomew, ignoring the slur.

‘Me and my boy,’ replied Bernarde, jangling the metal on his belt. ‘My wife did, but she died of the Death, as you know, Doctor
– you tried to save her. But we are not the only ones with keys: Morice, Cheney and Lavenham all have one, as did Deschalers.’

‘Why is that necessary?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘It is stipulated in the Millers’ Society charter,’ explained Cheney. ‘I have never understood why, but we keep them anyway.’
He rummaged about his plump person and produced a key made from ancient black metal. ‘Here is mine.’

‘There was one like that in Deschalers’s scrip,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘I saw it when I examined him last night. I
assumed it was for his house, but it seems I was mistaken.’

‘I carry mine never,’ declared Lavenham. ‘My wife, he cares for these thing.’

‘It is at home, locked in the cupboard where we keep our strongest medicines,’ said Isobel. Her smile became predatory. ‘I
can show you, if you like, Brother.’

‘I will take your word for it,’ said Michael primly.

‘Mine is here,’ said Morice, and Bartholomew heard the tinkle of metal as he fumbled on his belt. ‘So, they are all accounted
for. What does this tell you, Brother? What have you deduced by asking who has these keys?’ His jeering tone made Bartholomew
want to punch him.

‘It has allowed me to conclude that Deschalers probably came here willingly, and that he used his key to let himself in,’
replied Michael, less aggravated by the Mayor’s insulting manners than the physician. ‘And the fact that it was in his scrip
– rather than on a belt or a chain around his neck – indicates he was not in the habit of carrying it, but that he took it
specifically to come here last night.’

‘So?’ demanded Morice, irritated that the monk could indeed make inferences from the results of his questioning. ‘What does
that mean?’

‘It
means
he intended to come here,’ said Michael. ‘And that Bottisham is unlikely to have arranged it, because Deschalers was the
one with the key.’

‘So, Isobel was right,’ said Cheney thoughtfully. ‘The real question we should ask is what was
Bottisham
doing here, not Deschalers. Bottisham was a scholar, after all, and not the sort of man with whom Deschalers would normally
deign to fraternise.’

‘And he was from Gonville Hall,’ added Morice meaningfully.

‘Why is that significant?’ asked Michael.

Cheney replied. ‘Because Gonville are representing Mortimer’s Mill – our rivals – in the case we intend to bring before the
King. We are suing them because they keep stealing our water.’

Morice’s expression was smug. ‘But we will win this case, because some of our profits go to the King – and the King is not
a man to let the Mortimers interfere with the contents of his coffers.’

Bartholomew was sure he was right. The King was always in need of money, and would not let the Mortimers deprive him of what
seemed to be a fairly regular and easy source of income. He would be almost certain to find in the Millers’ Society’s favour.
However, the scholars of Gonville were skilled and clever lawyers, as he had seen for himself in the
Disputatio
. It was possible that the Mortimers’ case was not so hopeless after all.

‘You are not in a position to make comments about the integrity of others, Morice,’ countered Michael acidly. ‘I understand
it was an endorsement from
you
that allowed King’s Pardons to be issued to Edward Mortimer and Rob Thorpe.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Morice calmly, and if he was concerned that his colleagues were regarding him uneasily, then he did not show
it. ‘That had nothing to do with me. It must have been a forgery. These Westminster clerks are good at that sort of thing.
They learn such skills in the universities.’

Bartholomew put his hand on the monk’s shoulder, to prevent the caustic retort he was sure was coming. They needed answers,
not an argument with a man who could barely speak without uttering some falsehood. ‘But if Gonville’s clerks intend to represent
the Mortimers, then it is
very
odd that Deschalers should be in this mill with Bottisham – a Gonville scholar,’ he said.

‘Very,’ agreed Cheney. ‘It looks as though Deschalers was consorting with the enemy. However, we must remember that he was
a clever man, and may have been trying to make some sort of arrangement to our advantage. I do not think his liaison with
Bottisham necessarily implies he was doing something that might harm the Society.’

‘I am not so sure,’ said Bernarde worriedly. ‘If he was being honest, then why not meet Bottisham during the day, in a tavern
or a church? You are wrong, Cheney. The fact that Deschalers was here alone in the dark with Bottisham indicates that he
was
up to no good as far as I am concerned.’

‘He was probably buying shares in the Mortimers’ enterprise,’ said Morice angrily, quick to condemn. ‘And that would have
weakened our case. Damn the man! What was he thinking of?’

They continued to bicker, so Bartholomew went inside the mill again, thinking he should conduct a final search if it was going
into action in an hour. Once the waterwheel started to turn, any remaining evidence would quickly be obliterated. He felt
under considerable pressure to find something, but although he exhausted himself by frantically hauling bags of grain this
way and that as he hunted for clues, his Herculean efforts went unrewarded.

When he had finished, he stood still, trying to catch his breath. The complex mess of gears and cogs had been scoured and
lovingly coated with grease, while the millstones had been scrubbed spotlessly clean. Bernarde’s boy was still working on
them, and Bartholomew thought no one need have concerns about finding body parts in their bread. As the great wheel was lowered
into the water to commence its work, Bartholomew dropped to his knees and began one last, desperate inspection of the floor,
ignoring the splinters that stabbed his hands as he groped under sacks and bins.

Bernarde’s apprentices started to arrive, tripping over him and treading on his fingers, and at last he was forced to concede
defeat. He stood again, thinking that Michael’s assumptions must be correct: Deschalers had indeed met Bottisham after dark,
when he knew the mill would be locked. It would be an ideal location for an assignation
he did not want anyone to know he was having. But why? Was Morice correct: that the grocer had been trying to strike some
sort of bargain with a man who was legally representing his adversary? Or was it nothing to do with the mill dispute, and
the two men had other things to discuss?

‘There is nothing here, Brother,’ he said, when Michael came to join him. The monk regarded him with amusement, and when he
looked down he saw his clothes were covered in dust, giving him a ghostly appearance. He brushed irritably at his tabard,
raising a cloud of white. ‘I hope it does not rain today, or I will find myself encased in pastry.’

‘No,’ said Michael, after a moment of serious thought. ‘You need butter and lard to make pastry, so you will be encased in
glue. What do you think of them, Matt? The Millers’ Society, I mean?’

‘They are like all merchants – there is good and bad in each. Except Morice, of course. There is no good whatsoever in him.
He is unashamedly corrupt, and is motivated purely by self-interest.’

‘What of the others? Cheney? The Lavenhams?’

‘Cheney is pompous, but decent enough. Lavenham is as untrustworthy an individual as I have ever met. He knows I re-weigh
the medicines he sells me, so he has stopped cheating me now. Isobel is very popular with my students, because she seduces
them each time they visit her shop.’

‘And what do you think about this dispute with the Mortimers over water?’

‘I think they should resolve the issue like rational men. I do not approve of rushing to the King each time there is a squabble.
The Mortimers should be careful about how much water they divert, and the Millers’ Society should devise some sort of timetable
to avoid clashes. It cannot
be that difficult. They worked perfectly well together until recently.’