The Hand of Justice (19 page)

‘I am not telling you to resort to extremes,’ said Tynkell hastily. ‘You just need to buy a tabard with long sleeves. Then
no one will notice your dirty tunics. I recommend Isobel de Lavenham, who has a nimble needle and offers good rates.’

‘I have done nothing about the deaths of Bottisham and Deschalers since we were at the King’s Mill this morning,’ Michael
said to Bartholomew, his voice taking on a curious, echoing quality as it came through the cup. ‘I was obliged to pay a visit
to the King’s Head, because Thorpe – now flaunting himself as a scholar – made trouble there, and I do not want him to be
the cause of a riot between students and apprentices.’

‘No,’ agreed Tynkell, rubbing his stomach and wincing. ‘That must be avoided at all costs. Do you think
they
murdered Deschalers and Bottisham, Brother?’

‘It is possible,’ said Michael.

‘I am not so sure,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Bernarde would have seen them.’

‘Such details are not important,’ said Tynkell firmly. ‘I want the perpetrator of this monstrous crime in a prison cell as
soon as possible. We can work out their motives and methods later, when the danger is no longer stalking our streets. We cannot
afford to dally with this, Brother.’

Michael’s expression hardened. ‘I know that. However, I need clues in order to solve the mystery, and they have not been forthcoming.
Unfortunately, at the moment, the most likely theory is that Bottisham killed Deschalers, then did away with himself in a
fit of remorse, and—’

‘No!’ exclaimed Tynkell. ‘That cannot have happened! Not a scholar murdering a townsman! That would cause a riot for certain
– especially since the victim was wealthy.
The burgesses would appeal to the King for justice, and God knows where that might lead.’

‘We do not know what took place,’ said Bartholomew, also reluctant to believe that the gentle Bottisham would kill Deschalers.
However, he was painfully aware that if Deschalers could not summon the energy to retrieve a dropped purse, then he certainly
would think twice about attempting to stab a fit and healthy scholar and throw him in the workings of a mill. ‘But we will
try to find out.’

‘You must do more than try,’ snapped Tynkell. He rubbed his stomach a second time, grimacing with the pain. ‘Since you are
here, Bartholomew, I am suffering acutely from that complaint we discussed a month ago – an excess of bile in the spleen,
you said.’

Bartholomew immediately thought of Deynman’s theory, and drank some wine in an attempt to compose himself. He looked the Chancellor
up and down, aware that he was actually a very unusual shape. ‘Bile in the spleen can be uncomfortable,’ he managed eventually.

‘I hope I am not being poisoned,’ Tynkell went on nervously. ‘As Bishop Bateman was poisoned in the papal court at Avignon.’

‘So
that
is why you asked me about poisons at the
Disputatio
,’ said Bartholomew, greatly relieved. ‘You thought someone might be using a toxin that is giving you gripes in the stomach.
I thought you wanted the information so you could use it on an enemy.’

Tynkell regarded him icily, while Michael’s green eyes grew as huge and round as those of an owl. ‘Have a care, Matt,’ he
muttered. ‘Accusing the Chancellor of plotting to murder his adversaries is no way to further your University career.’

‘I asked those questions because I have been unwell for so long,’ replied Tynkell stiffly. ‘Bishop Bateman was also ill for
some time, and it occurred to me that someone
might be feeding me a noxious, slow-acting substance to bring about my death.’

‘In that case, you should eat only from dishes shared by your colleagues, and never accept gifts of food and wine,’ suggested
Bartholomew. ‘I wish you had mentioned this on Saturday. Our discussion gave Rougham entirely the wrong impression.’

Tynkell was not interested in the damage he might have done to Bartholomew’s reputation. ‘You are the University’s Senior
Physician, so of course I consulted you about my concerns. Who else should I ask?’

‘I do not think anyone is poisoning you,’ said Bartholomew, although it crossed his mind that the Chancellor might well be
poisoning himself – with his powerful personal odours. ‘But you should discuss this with your own physician, not me.’

‘I do not know what to do about these gripes,’ Tynkell went on, ignoring the advice. ‘I summoned Rougham first, then Paxtone,
and they were both very thorough. Rougham composed a horoscope, and Paxtone wrote out details of a dietary regime involving
beet juice that he said would have me better within a week. But I am not better, and I prefer your unorthodox treatments to
their conventional ones: your cures work, and theirs do not.’

Bartholomew hid a smile. ‘So, are you abandoning them to return to me?’

‘I have not been well since I defected,’ admitted Tynkell. He hesitated, never a man to be decisive. ‘But perhaps I could
keep all three of you. What do you think of that?’

‘I think you will find yourself given a lot of contradictory advice,’ replied Bartholomew, amused by the proposition. ‘You
will compromise, and take the most appealing cures from each of us, and you will probably end up feeling worse.’

‘I thought you would say that,’ said Tynkell. ‘But I know
how to resolve this conundrum. I shall have my horoscope from Rougham, my eating plan from Paxtone, and my medicine from you.
Then I shall offend no one – Gonville, King’s Hall or Michaelhouse.’ He beamed, and Bartholomew saw that compromise and an
unwillingness to offend was probably the root of his success as Chancellor – along with the fact that Michael made the real
decisions.

‘We did not ask you here for a consultation,’ said Michael. He pushed a parcel across the table, an oblong shape wrapped in
cloth. ‘This is for you, on the understanding that you accept the official post as Corpse Examiner for the next year, as you
agreed last night.’

Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘You did not waste any time!’

‘I believe in striking while the iron is hot,’ replied Michael smugly. ‘Purchasing Bacon’s
De erroribus medicorum
from Gonville was the first thing Chancellor Tynkell did this morning, and drawing up an official document to seal our pact
was the second. Sign here.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, reluctantly pushing the book away. ‘I had better take the fourpence per corpse instead. I realised
this morning that I need the money more than a book.’

‘I suppose you want it to buy medicines,’ said Michael, regarding his friend astutely. ‘And since most of your rich patients
have abandoned you in favour of Paxtone and Rougham, you find yourself short of funds, and your patients are without the benefit
of your generosity. I wondered how long it would take before you discovered that the wealthy have their uses.’

‘I have no choice but to opt for the fourpence,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I waste my time if I recommend medicines that
cannot be purchased. I may as well not bother to visit the sick at all.’

‘But this Bacon cost ten marks,’ said Tynkell, aggrieved. ‘Now you say you do not want it?’

‘I did not say I do not want it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I said I needed the coins more.’

‘Take the book,’ said Tynkell, thrusting it so hard across the table that Bartholomew had to leap forward to catch it before
it fell. ‘You can consider it a long-term loan from the University to Michaelhouse – as payment for services already rendered.
And you shall have your fourpence per corpse, too. You had better submit an invoice monthly, because if you send me one every
time a body is discovered, I will be doing nothing other than processing your demands.’

Bartholomew regarded him suspiciously. The University was not noted for its largess, and he did not want to accept something
that would later come to cost a good deal more. ‘A loan? Why?’

‘To ensure we keep you,’ said Tynkell. ‘You are not the only one who wants this newly created post: Rougham is also interested
in fourpence per corpse. But Brother Michael would rather have you. In fact, he organised the whole thing specifically for
your benefit.’

‘He did?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. He saw Michael scowl at the Chancellor, but Tynkell was not to be silenced.

‘You should not hide your good deeds, Brother. It will do your reputation no harm for folk to know you occasionally act with
compassion. Your friend has lost his wealthy patients, so you decided to help him with his predicament. I thought twopence
per corpse was ample, but you insisted on more.’

‘It is a business arrangement,’ said Michael stiffly, disliking the notion that he should be seen as someone who acted out
of the goodness of his heart. He preferred to be seen as a cunning and ruthless manipulator. ‘Nothing more, nothing less.’

‘Thank you, Michael,’ said Bartholomew sincerely.

‘Sign here,’ snapped Michael. Bartholomew took the
pen and wrote his name, feeling as though he were making a pact with the Devil. Michael smiled in grim satisfaction. ‘Good.
Now you are legally bound to inspect any corpse I discover for the next year.’

‘The first thing we must do is visit Gonville and ask why Bottisham was in the King’s Mill last night,’ said Michael, as they
left the Chancellor’s office. Both took deep breaths, grateful to be away from the aromatic presence. ‘Then we will go to
Deschalers’s house and see whether his apprentices or servants have anything more meaningful to tell us than recipes for rat
custard and stoat soup.’

‘I agreed to examine corpses for you, Brother,’ said Bartholomew warningly. ‘But that does not mean I am at your beck and
call to help with all your murder investigations from now on.’

Michael slapped his friend on the shoulder. ‘That is better, Matt. I was beginning to think there was something seriously
amiss when you agreed so readily to become my Corpse Examiner. No terms, no conditions – it was most unlike you. But here
you are, complaining as usual, and I see all is well. However, you did offer to help me with Bottisham’s investigation.’

‘I will,’ promised Bartholomew, not sure what he could do on that front, much as he had liked the Gonville lawyer. It was
depressing to have no encouraging leads. ‘But first, I must visit Isnard, and then I promised to show my students how to mix
a potion for Una. She has a sore stomach again.’

‘It is all the claret she drinks,’ remarked Michael. ‘It is too little like wine and too much like vinegar. That is what ails
her.’

‘I imagine she would not be able to carry out her professional duties if she did not have some strong drink inside her – and
then she would starve for certain. Come with me. She likes you.’

‘They all do,’ said Michael, leaving Bartholomew wondering who was meant by ‘all’ and how the monk had interpreted ‘likes’.
‘But not if Quenhyth is going, too. He is the least likeable student in the University, and I do not know why you are so patient
with him.’

‘Because he may make a good physician one day. He works hard and, although he will never be a popular healer, he may become
an effective one, and that is all that really matters.’

‘If you say so. We are beset by unpleasant young men these days: Thorpe, Mortimer, Quenhyth. Damn! I should have held my tongue.
All three of them are suddenly coming our way.’

Bartholomew saw he was right. Thorpe and Edward Mortimer were striding along the High Street from the direction of the Great
Bridge, while Quenhyth and Redmeadow were making their way up St Michael’s Lane from the College. Bartholomew was tempted
to duck into the nearest church and avoid them all, but Michael was not so squeamish. He bared his small yellow teeth in a
grin of false welcome as the two felons drew level, watching them exchange nudges and glances, and clearly intent on aggravation.
The students reached them at the same time, and stood behind Bartholomew, expressing silent solidarity.

‘You two caused a lot of trouble in the King’s Head last night,’ said Michael without preamble. ‘You should be careful. You
are not popular, and taverns have a reputation for unsolved murders.’

‘No one would dare harm us,’ said Mortimer smugly. ‘We enjoy the protection of the King. If anything happened to us he would
descend on Cambridge, and every man, woman and child would learn they had crossed the wrong man.’

‘That may be true,’ said Michael. ‘But the patrons of taverns are not noted for their forward thinking while in
their cups. They strike first, and think about the consequences later. Having the King impose heavy fines will not help you
if you are dead, will it?’

‘We heard about Bottisham and Deschalers,’ said Thorpe, when his friend declined to answer. A malicious grin curled the corners
of his mouth and he winked at Mortimer, coaxing a smile from him. ‘What were they doing together in the mill in the middle
of the night?’

‘You tell me,’ said Michael, resisting the temptation to react with anger. He shot Bartholomew a glare: he could see the physician
was less sanguine about the matter, and looked ready to respond with curt remarks. ‘Have you heard rumours?’

‘Oh, plenty,’ said Thorpe. ‘But I would not repeat them to you. I hear you are easily shocked.’

‘Where were you last night?’ demanded Michael. ‘
Before
you arrived at the King’s Head?’

The two men exchanged expressions of feigned horror, and Mortimer placed one hand on his chest, to indicate that the implied
accusation had wounded him. ‘You think we killed them?’

‘Well, someone did,’ replied Michael.

Thorpe sneered. ‘You should watch where you aim your accusations, Brother. They are offensive, and I may sue you in a court
of law for an apology.’

Michael was about to reply when there was a sharp snap, followed by a rattle. Someone had thrown a stone. His eyes narrowed,
and he studied the mass of humanity that moved up and down the High Street. Who had thrown the missile? Was it the troublesome
Franciscans from Ovyng Hostel, a clutch of whom had just emerged from St Michael’s Church? Was it Robin of Grantchester, aiming
his pebble at Bartholomew for operating on Isnard’s leg? Or was it one of the many folk who glanced uneasily at Thorpe and
Mortimer as they passed, most too afraid to
make an open protest about their unwelcome presence?