The Hand of Justice (27 page)

‘It is a pity,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Physicians are not so numerous in Cambridge that we can afford to spurn each other’s company,
and yet I find Rougham a deeply repellent man. He seemed much worse today than usual, though. We have always managed a show
of civility in the past.’

‘He invited you to dine last Wednesday,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘Yet, just a week later, he can barely stand to be in
the same room as you.’

‘Perhaps he was offended that I amputated Isnard’s leg instead of eating with him.’

‘Physicians are often called away from pleasant social occasions by their patients. I am sure he understands that. No, Matt,
his antagonism goes a lot deeper than a missed meal. He was accusing you openly of holding fast to heretical ideals. I told
you to be careful of him with your casual approach to what he considers anathema, and I was right. You have clearly done something
to tip him over the edge and shatter the illusion of tolerance between you.’

‘Perhaps he is angry with Redmeadow over the catmint episode, and holds me responsible. But here comes a physician who is
fair-minded and pleasant company: Paxtone from King’s Hall.’

‘Matthew!’ exclaimed Paxtone, his round features breaking into a smile. ‘I was hoping to see you. Rougham is selling all Gonville’s
medical books that are not by Greeks, and I have purchased the writings of Lanfrank of Milan on surgery. I would value your
opinion. Will you visit me later?’

‘I would like to come now,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘But I am going to Deschalers’s house, to see if we can discover why
he and Bottisham were found dead together.’

Paxtone shuddered. ‘Poor souls! What have you learned
so far? It grieves me to say so, but Deschalers did not harm Bottisham – he was too ill. And since Bernarde the miller says
they were the only two people there, then it stands to reason that Bottisham must have killed Deschalers. But Bottisham did
not seem like the kind of man to kill …’ He trailed off uncomfortably.

‘He was not,’ said Bartholomew, more sharply than he intended. ‘Besides, Rougham was Deschalers’s physician, and he disagrees
with you. He says Deschalers
was
strong enough.’

Paxtone pursed his lips, to indicate with silence what he thought of Rougham’s diagnosis. ‘Then perhaps one of them was fed
some potion that made him different in character. I have read that the Italians know how to make such compounds. You should
ask whether Thorpe and Mortimer went anywhere near Italy during their exile.’

Bartholomew stared at him, wondering whether the answer could be that simple. It would certainly fit the physical evidence
– that only Deschalers and Bottisham were present when they died and that one had killed the other. But would Thorpe and Mortimer
have orchestrated such a thing? He concluded that they might, because it would set University against town and lead to chaos
and disorder. What better way to avenge themselves on a place they felt had wronged them?

‘Or perhaps Thorpe and Mortimer had nothing to do with it,’ Paxtone went on. ‘Perhaps someone
wants
them blamed, so they can be re-exiled.’

‘It is possible, I suppose,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘The whole town would be delighted to see the back of them. But Bottisham’s
life is a huge price to pay.’

Paxtone patted his arm. ‘I do not envy you your investigation, Brother. I shall go to the Hand of Valence Marie and ask it
to help you.’

‘
You
believe in its power, too?’ asked Michael with a
groan. He began to walk away. ‘I feel I am one in a slowly dwindling minority who does not feel compelled to revere the damned
thing.’

With an apologetic smile for the monk’s brusqueness, Bartholomew left Paxtone and followed Michael along Milne Street to Deschalers’s
luxurious home. Michael knocked at the door. It was opened by the old servant, who showed them into the tastefully decorated
chamber on the ground floor that they had visited before. Michael’s attempts to question him were met with puzzled looks or
odd statements about exotic foods, and it was not long before the monk abandoned the interrogation. The man either did not
know anything, or was not prepared to be helpful; Bartholomew suspected the former, because nothing much seemed to catch his
attention unless it involved eating. As soon as he had gone to fetch someone else to see to them, Michael – another man obsessed
with his diet – homed in on the dishes of dried fruits that had been left for visitors, determined to scoff as many as possible
as a small act of revenge against a household that yielded so little in the way of clues.

‘Oh,’ came a voice as the door opened and a woman swept in. ‘It is you two.’

Michael almost choked on his apple ring, although he should have anticipated that the grocer’s untimely death would result
in the appearance of the woman generally acknowledged to be his heir. Julianna Deschalers, his niece, had become his sole
surviving kin after the plague had claimed all the others. She was tall, with a mass of fair hair that was coiled into plaits
at the sides of her face. Her clothes were expensive and decorated with silver thread, and she held herself with the confident
poise of someone used to having her orders obeyed. Bartholomew had met her before, and considered her headstrong and boorish.

‘Madam,’ said Michael, recovering from his surprise and
bowing. Bartholomew did likewise, although he did not think she warranted such courtesy.

‘I am well, thank you,’ Julianna replied, in answer to the question she obviously felt they should have asked. ‘And so is
my child.’

‘Child?’ echoed Bartholomew, startled. ‘Who is the father?’

‘That is not a question you should ask a respectably married woman,’ she replied indignantly. ‘But you know the answer anyway.
My daughter’s father is Ralph de Langelee. He is Master of your College and he
was
my husband – until we agreed that our marriage should be annulled. You know I was pregnant when I married him, because you
were both at our wedding. But I have remarried now – thankfully. It was not many weeks before Langelee decided he would rather
frolic with men in a College than enjoy normal sexual relations with his wife.’

‘I hardly think—’ began Bartholomew, although the Master’s manly reputation needed no protection from him. There did not exist
a more vigorous and practised lover, according to the many prostitutes who seemed intimately acquainted with his performances.

‘Never mind that,’ she interrupted impatiently. ‘I am now married to Edward Mortimer.’

‘Edward Mortimer?’ asked Bartholomew, shocked. ‘The exile?’

She glared at him, angry at his reaction of horror when she obviously felt congratulations were in order. ‘How many other
Edward Mortimers do you know?’

‘None, thank God,’ said Bartholomew, before he could stop himself.

She glared again. ‘I was looking for a husband, and my uncle mentioned that Edward had recently acquired a King’s Pardon.
Edward is heir to a great fortune, and so am I. So it was a good match. My name is Julianna
Mortimer
, now.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Michael, sitting down heavily in a delicate chair. Something cracked, and she scowled at him. ‘But you were
betrothed to Edward once before, were you not? Before he was banished?’

She bent to inspect the chair, and did not seem very interested in answering him. ‘Yes, I was. But I thought him a weakling
then, and not worthy of me. However, he is a
real
man now. He learned at Albi, in the south of France, during his exile. I like him a lot better now he is no longer a silly
boy.’

‘I am sure you do,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that a self-confessed killer would be very attractive to a woman like Julianna,
who seemed to like rough, unmannerly men.

She grabbed one of the chair’s legs and gave it a vigorous tug. She was a strong woman, and Michael was obliged to grab a
windowsill to stop himself from being jerked off it. There was another snap, and she straightened with a satisfied expression.
‘There; that should do it. Edward plans to demand compensation from the town for the agonies it caused him with this nasty
banishment. Did he tell you that?’

There was an ominous groan from the chair, and Michael leapt to his feet. ‘But he cannot win such a case. He has been
pardoned
, which is not the same as being deemed innocent. He cannot claim compensation in those circumstances.’

‘Well, you are wrong,’ said Julianna firmly. ‘He will be paid
lots
of money, and we will both have a wonderful time spending it.’ She clapped her hands in delight at the prospect.

‘Sweet Christ!’ grumbled Michael under his breath. ‘What have we done to deserve her?’

‘What are you mumbling about?’ demanded Julianna immediately. ‘I had forgotten how you academics mumble. It is an unattractive
habit. Why can you not speak at a normal volume?’

‘Tell me about your uncle’s death,’ said Michael, wanting to ask his questions and leave.

‘I will inherit
everything
,’ sang Julianna happily, twirling on her heels like a child. ‘Edward was
so
pleased when I told him. He must have forgotten I was Uncle’s sole heir.’

‘I imagine that is unlikely,’ muttered Michael acidly. He saw Julianna scowl because she could not hear him, and raised his
voice again. ‘I was not referring to the disposal of your uncle’s worldly goods. I want to know why he went to the mill with
Nicholas Bottisham.’

‘I do not know anything about that,’ said Julianna carelessly. ‘It is very sad, of course.’ She arranged her features into
something that approximated grief, which Bartholomew could see was far from genuine. ‘Of course, he had been ill for some
time.’

‘With a canker of the bowels,’ said Bartholomew.

‘With a wasting sickness,’ corrected Julianna primly. ‘We do not mention bowels in this gentle household. It is not polite.’

‘How long was he ill?’ asked Michael. ‘Weeks? Months? A year?’

‘A few months,’ she replied. ‘That was why I came to live in Chesterton – that pretty little village just to the north of
here – after Christmas. I wanted to claim my inheritance as soon as he died, you see. You cannot be too careful these days,
what with thieves and killers at large.’

‘Did you ever see your uncle with Bottisham?’ asked Bartholomew, declining to mention that one such thief and killer was her
new husband. ‘Did Bottisham visit him or send him messages? Do you know anything about the funds promised for Gonville’s chapel,
which were later withdrawn?’

‘Uncle never donated anything to
Gonville
,’ declared Julianna, pronouncing the name with considerable disdain. ‘He occasionally gave money to Bene’t College, which
he
helped to build. But he was not interested in helping other halls and hostels.’

‘So Bottisham never visited your uncle here?’ clarified Michael.

‘I did not say that,’ replied Julianna. ‘I said Uncle did not donate money to Gonville. Bottisham did come here occasionally,
because Uncle was the town’s best grocer. Many scholars do business with him, and Bottisham was no different.’

‘Did he come alone?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or were there other Gonville men with him?’

‘I do not know,’ replied Julianna with a bored sigh. ‘I have not been living here with him, have I? I have a house in Chesterton,
where I reside with my husband and my daughter. And Rob Thorpe on occasion, although I do not like him.’ Her face took on
a sulky expression. ‘When he is present, Edward ignores me, and all they do is sit together and scheme.’

‘What do they talk about?’ asked Michael, exchanging a glance with Bartholomew. Perhaps she would tell them what the pair
intended to do in Cambridge.

‘Plotting,’ replied Julianna guilelessly. ‘Planning. You know the kind of thing.’

‘Enlighten me,’ invited Michael.

‘They have been deciding what they will do,’ said Julianna slowly, as though speaking to her infant daughter. ‘They agreed
that Edward will work for his uncle – Thomas the miller – and Rob
was
going to study with his father. But his father will not have him, so he went to Gonville instead.’

‘But why?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘Do they envisage staging some sort of revenge?’

‘I expect so,’ said Julianna, with a shrug to indicate she did not care. ‘They do not tell me the details, and I am not interested
in their dull discussions anyway. But I thought you came here to talk about my uncle. You should
try catching whoever broke into his house the night he died. That might help you with your investigation into his sad death.’
She was unable to suppress a grin, knowing what that ‘sad death’ meant for her future.

‘He was burgled?’ asked Bartholomew, although he knew the answer to that: he had seen the fellow himself. ‘What was taken?’

‘Nothing, as far as I know, but documents were tampered with. They did not steal the will though, thank the Lord!’

‘Who would be interested in his documents?’ asked Michael.

‘I have no idea, but you should find out. I do not like the rumours circulating that say poor Uncle murdered this scholar.
I am sure it was the other way around.’

Bartholomew remained haunted by Mistress Lenne’s haggard, distraught face, so went with Redmeadow and Quenhyth to see her
the following morning after prime. Redmeadow pulled his writing tablet from his bag and provided the physician with a detailed
résumé of what had been said when he had visited her the previous evening. There was nothing of import, and Bartholomew had
the impression that the old lady had become impatient with the student’s ponderous enquiries, and had wanted him to leave.
It was not a bad sign: irritation was better than bleak hopelessness.

He and the students left the Lenne house, and turned towards the High Street. When they drew near St Mary the Great – with
Redmeadow regaling Quenhyth with a rather fanciful theory about how Bishop Bateman came to be poisoned in Avignon – Bartholomew
spotted two familiar faces among the throng that had gathered to pay homage to the Hand. Paxtone and Wynewyk stood close together,
holding what seemed to be an intense discussion.