The Hand of Justice (20 page)

‘That was Cheney,’ whispered Bartholomew. ‘I saw him.’

‘At me?’ asked Michael, wondering whether the Millers’ Society did not trust him to investigate the murder of one of their
own and had intended to prevent him from doing so.

‘At Mortimer, I suspect – for being one of the clan stealing the King’s Mill water.’

‘Why do you insist on remaining here?’ asked Michael, addressing the two felons, who seemed to care little that they were
on the receiving end of hostile looks from the passing populace. ‘You must know that folk are not pleased to see you, and
I cannot imagine what it must be like to live in a place where everyone is longing for you to leave.’

‘It is just like France,’ said Mortimer expressionlessly. ‘We were not welcome there, either, because we are English. It is
not so different here.’

‘We have scores to settle,’ said Thorpe, fixing his glittering eyes on Bartholomew. ‘We were accused of and punished for heinous
crimes.’

‘That is because you were guilty,’ said Michael.

‘Maybe so, but that is irrelevant,’ said Thorpe. ‘The King’s Pardon says we are forgiven now. And I want compensation.’

‘Money?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering how many corpses he would have to examine before he had earned enough to send them on
their way. ‘Is that what you want?’

‘In part,’ said Thorpe. ‘But we deserve to be compensated in other ways, too, for the unjust suffering we endured.’

‘It was not unjust,’ Bartholomew pointed out reasonably. ‘You confessed.’

‘I
said
that is irrelevant!’ snarled Thorpe, taking a step towards the physician that could only be described as menacing. Quenhyth
shrank back in alarm, but Redmeadow
held his ground. His hand dropped to the knife he carried in his belt. Bartholomew saw the lad’s jaw tighten with anger, and
hoped he would not lose his temper.

‘It is not irrelevant,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘You cannot start demanding vengeance from people just because you committed
felonies and were caught.’

‘Now we have the King’s Pardon, we can do what we like,’ countered Mortimer. ‘This town is going to pay handsomely for our
two years’ banishment. And so is that vile old woman. It was
her
testimony that sealed our fate. The justices listened to her as though she was one of God’s angels.’

‘What vile old woman?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled. He had not attended the young men’s trials himself, because there were
so many other witnesses with first-hand knowledge of their crimes that he had not been needed.

‘The nun,’ elaborated Thorpe. ‘The one with the long nose and the brown face, whom everyone thought was so wonderful. She
was nothing but a wizened hag, and she had no right to tell people we did all those things – even if we did them.’

Bartholomew glanced at Michael, whose mouth was set in a hard, thin line. ‘I sincerely hope you are not referring to my grandmother,’
said the monk coldly. ‘Dame Pelagia is a noble lady, so I advise you to keep a civil tongue in your head when you mention
her.’

‘Dame Pelagia,’ said Mortimer, pronouncing the name with satisfaction, pleased to see that he had discovered a weak spot in
Michael’s armour. ‘That was the harridan’s name. Everyone said she was one of the King’s agents, although I do not think it
was true. The King is not so desperate for spies that he is obliged to scour nunneries, looking for withered old crones to
serve him.’

Michael lunged suddenly and had Mortimer by the throat before the man knew what was happening. The
monk’s bulk was deceptive, and he could move like lightning when required. ‘If I hear you mention her name with disrespect
again, I will have you arrested – King’s Pardon or no.’ He shoved Mortimer away with considerable vigour, then wiped his hands
on the sides of his habit, as though they were stained with something nasty.

Mortimer shrugged, quickly recovering his composure and his balance. ‘Is she here?’

‘No,’ said Michael shortly.

‘There are a number of folk we shall visit now we are free,’ said Thorpe silkily. ‘She is one of them. I will see Bartholomew’s
sister and her husband, too. They were far too quick to throw me to the wolves.’

‘They stood by you longer than you deserved,’ said Bartholomew, grateful they were away.

‘And my father,’ added Thorpe. ‘He wants nothing to do with me – he will not even accept me into his own College. I was obliged
to apply to Gonville instead.’

‘We will have words with you two at some point, too,’ said Mortimer with icy menace, gazing first at Michael and then Bartholomew.
‘In some quiet, secret place, where we will not be overheard.’

‘Are you threatening us?’ demanded Michael, speaking loudly enough to gather an audience. ‘Are you saying you mean to lure
us into a remote place and dispatch us? If so, then no one will need to look far for the culprits. Look at how many people
heard you.’ He gestured to at least a dozen folk – scholars and townsmen – who were listening with rapt interest.

Mortimer saw he had been outmanoeuvred, and declined to take the conversation further. He nodded a farewell to the monk, and
the cold light in his eyes made Bartholomew’s blood run cold. Thorpe was less willing to admit defeat, and opened his mouth
to say something else, but Mortimer took his arm and pulled him away. Unlike
his younger friend, he was intelligent enough to see that nothing more could be gained from prolonging the encounter – but
that a good deal might be lost.

‘Their absence has made them bitter as well as dangerous,’ said Bartholomew, watching them walk away. ‘I wish they were not
here.’

‘You are not alone,’ said Michael gravely. ‘There have been all manner of complaints about them, but unfortunately nothing
serious enough to warrant prosecution. Dick was right: if we expel them without irrefutable and incontestable evidence, it
will appear as though we are criticising the King’s Pardon. His Majesty will not like that, and it should be avoided at all
costs.’

‘What sort of complaints?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘About their manners, for a start,’ said Quenhyth, back at Bartholomew’s side now the two louts had gone. ‘Edward especially
is rude and overbearing. You are right to include him in your investigation into the deaths of Deschalers and Bottisham.’

‘Why do you think he is part of that?’ asked Michael.

Quenhyth looked superior. ‘It is
obvious
that he and his friend are the culprits, and common sense dictates that you must arrest them immediately.’

‘But they have learned to fight, so challenge them with care,’ added Redmeadow, who had been in Cambridge when the pair had
first come to public attention. ‘They were apprentices, so they already knew how to brawl, but in France they were taught
how to use swords and knives.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Michael, fixing him with a steely glance. ‘Have you been listening to gossip in taverns, and thus
breaking University rules?’

‘
I
have not,’ said Quenhyth sanctimoniously. ‘I would never do such a thing.’ He looked smugly at his discomfited colleague.

Redmeadow blushed, but shook his head. ‘A tavern is
not where I witnessed their newly acquired fighting skills. It was near St Mary the Great. They picked a quarrel with Ufford
from Gonville Hall – or perhaps he picked one with them. Regardless, Ufford was lucky they did not kill him.’

‘Ufford is a son of the Earl of Suffolk,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘He has been well trained in the knightly arts and should
know how to take care of himself.’

‘Quite,’ said Redmeadow, nodding vigorously. ‘That is why I was surprised when they defeated him. I would have nothing to
do with them, if I were you, Doctor. Leave them to the Senior Proctor.’

‘Thank you very much,’ said Michael flatly.

There was a glorious sunset that evening. Bartholomew and Michael walked through the kitchens to where the College grounds
stretched in a thin strip down to the river. The part nearest the door was planted with herbs and vegetables; some of the
beds were dug ready to receive annual seeds and bulbs, while others were the kind that grew all year. The herb garden, Agatha’s
pride and joy, was laid out in neat squares, each section containing a different kind of aromatic or edible plant. She was
less interested in the vegetables, and their management was left to the cook and his two assistants. One was there now, hoeing
a space for the powerful little leeks she used to disguise the taste of meat that was past its best.

Behind the vegetable plots a gated wall separated the cultivated part of the garden from the orchard. The orchard was one
of Bartholomew’s favourite places, mainly because only he and Michael ever seemed to use it. The fruit – largely apples and
pears, but some cherries and plums – was harvested each year, but for the most part the trees were left unattended. The cook
occasionally directed one of his helpers to cut the grass, which was gathered, dried and used as hay, but such activities
were infrequent, and
the fragrant little wood was invariably deserted and peaceful.

Near one of the walls, an old apple tree had fallen, and its sturdy trunk formed a pleasant bench for any scholar wanting
a little tranquillity, away from the hubbub in the conclave and hall. It was sheltered from the prevailing wind, but placed
to catch the best of the sun, and Bartholomew loved the way the branches swayed above him and created dappled patterns on
the grass with the sunlight.

It was pleasant to sit there that evening, despite the fact that the end of the day brought cooler temperatures and a wind
that was biting. The distant sun was a glowing orange orb that lit the clouds in layers of purple and scarlet. The sounds
so characteristic of dusk were beginning: the hoarse yell of a baker selling the last of his wares, the clatter and creak
of carts making their way home, the weary voices of labourers returning from surrounding fields, and bells chiming for vespers.
Bartholomew could hear the great bass of St Mary the Great, followed by the cracked treble of St Botolph’s.

Michael shivered. ‘I do not know why you wanted to sit out here, Matt. It is freezing.’

‘It is peaceful,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘Besides, William is ranting in the conclave about some lecture he heard today. He
claims the speaker’s points were wrong, because he was a Dominican – and being a Dominican rendered him incapable of rational
argument. I do not want to listen to that sort of rubbish. I would rather be out here.’

‘William in full flow does change matters,’ agreed Michael, pulling his cloak more tightly around his shoulders. ‘But we should
not stay here long. We both need a good night’s rest, if we are to be alert and perceptive when we interview the Gonville
Fellows tomorrow. I did not like the fact that they refused to speak to me today.’

‘They were praying, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, who
did not think it odd at all for Bottisham’s colleagues to spend the day of his burial on their knees. ‘And they declined to
break their vigil out of concern for his soul.’

‘Yes, yes,’ murmured Michael, knowing he was right. ‘We shall speak to them in the morning, and I shall have my answers. Perhaps
it was just as well. I was tired and sluggish today when we interviewed Deschalers’s apprentices, and I need to be sharp for
the men who defeated us in the
Disputatio
. The workmen told us nothing of relevance, and I do not want Gonville to do likewise, just because I am too weary to see
through clever lies.’

‘The apprentices were not lying, Brother – they really do know nothing of any relevance. But you are right about being tired
today. It was difficult to sleep last night. I kept thinking about Bottisham – and Deschalers, of course. But Bottisham was
harder … because I liked him, I suppose.’

Michael nodded. ‘I was restless, too. And attending Bottisham’s requiem this afternoon sapped the last of my energy. It was
a sad business. I saw you there, with Master Warde of Valence Marie.’

‘He kept coughing,’ said Bartholomew, who had used the distraction to take his mind off the fact that they were burying someone
of whom he had been fond. ‘Have you learned anything about what might have happened in the King’s Mill last night from other
sources?’

Michael banged his fist hard against the trunk, making Bartholomew jump. It was unlike the monk to be openly emotional. ‘No!
But it is not from want of trying. I interviewed the Millers’ Society – Morice, Cheney, Bernarde and the Lavenhams – but learned
nothing I did not already know.’

Bartholomew closed his eyes, and it crossed his mind that they might never discover the truth about the deaths. They were
silent for a while, each thinking about the bodies in the mill. Eventually, Michael spoke again.

‘Did I tell you Sergeant Orwelle has still not managed to find out who killed Bosel? He asked for my help this afternoon.
No witnesses have come forward, and he cannot decide whether it is because there are none, or because they are too afraid
to speak.’

‘Has he taken Dick Tulyet’s lead, and narrowed his list of suspects to Thorpe and the Mortimer clan? And that odd woman?’

‘That woman – Bess – barely recalls her own name, let alone whether she murdered someone. Perhaps you could talk to her, and
see whether you can make sense of what she says. You have a way with the insane. You should do, given the practice you have
in dealing with Clippesby.’

‘Tomorrow, after Gonville,’ offered Bartholomew, content just to lean against the wall and watch the sunset. ‘Will it count
as a consultation for the Corpse Examiner, and earn me fourpence?’

Michael glanced at him sharply before realising he was being teased. When the gate creaked, his expression hardened. ‘Here
comes Quenhyth, to pester you with questions again. Is no time sacred to the boy? Can he not even allow you a few moments
of peace at the end of the day? He is worse than a wife!’

‘He is all right,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is just keen to learn.’

‘I am sorry to disturb you, sir,’ said Quenhyth, approaching with his hat held in his hands. ‘But Sheriff Tulyet has asked
you to go to his house. His son has had an accident.’