The Hand of Justice (29 page)

However, Wynewyk was not leaving; he was answering a knock at the small gate that opened on to St Michael’s Lane. Bartholomew
watched him remove the stout bar that secured it, then take a key from his scrip to deal with the lock. He had been on the
verge of calling to him, but, without knowing why, he hesitated. Instead of striding forward, he slipped behind a flourishing
gooseberry bush and peered through its bright new leaves. Wynewyk opened the door and ushered someone inside, looking surreptitiously
up and down the lane before closing it again. For some reason, he did not want anyone to know that Paxtone of King’s Hall
was visiting him.

‘Well?’ he asked eagerly. ‘Do you have it?’

‘Not yet,’ replied Paxtone. ‘It is proving more difficult than I imagined, because they keep changing their minds. We may
have to abandon it altogether.’

‘No!’ groaned Wynewyk. ‘Not after all our planning!’

‘Matt saw us today, you know,’ said Paxtone worriedly. ‘He looked right at us – and he will be even more suspicious if he
catches us together again. We
must
be more careful.’

‘And whose fault was that?’ objected Wynewyk. ‘We could have brazened it out if you had not panicked and fled like a guilty
criminal.’

Paxtone sighed. ‘I wish we had never started this. I am not good at subterfuge and secrecy.’ An expression of alarm suddenly
crossed his homely features. ‘I hope he does not mention any of this to Brother Michael! I do not want
him
after me!’

Wynewyk glared at him. ‘Michael is too busy to bother with us. Besides, I did not put myself through all this inconvenience
to give up now. We
will
persist.’

‘Very well,’ said Paxtone unhappily. ‘But it will not be easy. Rougham foils me at every turn, and is making a damned nuisance
of himself. I may be forced to take some radical steps.’

‘Well, be careful,’ said Wynewyk. ‘If the merest whisper of this gets out, all our labours will have been for nothing. I do
not want Rougham to spoil our fun.’

‘Do not worry about him,’ said Paxtone meaningfully. ‘But I cannot stay here – I am expected at Valence Marie. Be sure to
close this gate properly after I leave. We do not want a small thing like an improperly secured door to give away our secret.’

Wynewyk ushered the physician into the lane, then closed the gate and barred it, before walking back to the apple tree. He
collected the tome he had been reading,
and tucked it under his arm. As he walked away, Bartholomew saw a severed chain dangling behind him, indicating it was a library
book – and one that had been forcibly removed from its moorings, too. When he had gone, Bartholomew stared at the apple tree
unhappily, wondering what wrongdoings the ancient bark had just witnessed.

Bartholomew was bothered by what he had seen in the orchard, but Michael was dismissive when he was told what had happened,
and pointed out that there might be any number of innocent explanations. Bartholomew tried not to think about it, although
a disagreeable nag at the back of his mind kept reminding him that there was unexplained business of a potentially sinister
nature involving two people he liked. It was not a pleasant sensation.

‘It is time you and I visited the fabled Hand of Valence Marie, Matt,’ said Michael. There was still an hour before the evening
meal. ‘I saw a large number of people lining up to be admitted to its presence earlier today, and I want to see it for myself.’

‘Perhaps we can steal it while William’s back is turned, and throw it in the river,’ suggested Bartholomew petulantly. ‘That
would put an end to this nonsense.’

‘It might put an end to us, too,’ said Michael, beginning to walk up St Michael’s Lane. ‘I do not want to be summarily hanged
by a mob for depriving the town of its sacred relic. You must try to control your thieving impulses for now – although I may
make use of them later, when we will not be the obvious culprits.’

‘Your grandmother would be better than me,’ said Bartholomew, suspecting that the old lady would think nothing of outwitting
the likes of Father William and making off with the University’s treasure with no one any the wiser.

‘True, but I do not want to ask her,’ said Michael. ‘She
will think me a fool, unable to steal relics in his own town. I do not want her telling the King that her grandson is lacking
in the requisite skills.’

‘Requisite for what?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to imagine which career opportunities in the King’s service might list thievery
as an essential qualification.

‘This and that,’ replied Michael vaguely. ‘But you see my point, Matt. No man wants his grandmother to see him as an inadequate
burglar.’

‘Heaven forbid,’ said Bartholomew. He saw a familiar figure walking slowly along the High Street, reaching out a dirty hand
to stop all who passed and asking everyone the same question. Most simply shook their heads and went about their business;
others were less happy about being waylaid by such a filthy creature. Bess grabbed Bartholomew’s arm with fingers that were
long, bony and surprisingly strong.

‘Have you seen my man?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Have you eaten today? Do you still have money to buy food and a bed for the night?’

She ignored him, and moved on to Michael. ‘Have you seen my man?’

‘What does he look like?’ asked Michael. ‘Tall, short, fat, thin?’

‘He is gone,’ she whispered. ‘And I am looking for him.’

‘Do you know the Mortimer family?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether Constantine had told the truth when he had said Bess
was no relation of the dead Katherine.

‘Do they know where he is?’ she asked.

Her voice was flat, and Bartholomew thought she was probably too addled to recognise her man, even if she did manage to locate
him. Without waiting for his reply, she headed for Deynman and Redmeadow, who were out for a stroll before the evening meal.
She put her question, and Bartholomew listened to Deynman explain that he
knew her from when she had discovered Bosel’s body. She waited until he had finished speaking, then went to talk to someone
else.

‘She does not remember Bosel,’ said Michael, as Deynman joined them, hurt that his kindness should have been so quickly forgotten.
‘Why did you ask whether she knows the Mortimers, Matt? Do you think one of
them
is the fellow she hunts so ardently?’

‘I asked only because of her resemblance to Katherine,’ said Bartholomew.

‘It is an uncanny likeness,’ agreed Michael. ‘A few days ago, I asked you to examine Bess and tell me whether she might be
feigning madness to disguise her real identity as a killer. Did you do it?’

‘I have had several conversations with her, Brother, but I can tell you no more now than when I first met her – except that
she has been here for a month or so, and that she came from London. Her insanity
seems
real to me, but I would not stake my life on it. I am not good with ailments of the mind, and find it hard to distinguish
genuine cases from false ones.’

They watched Bess accost Bernarde the miller, who shoved a coin into her hand without breaking stride. She stared at it blankly,
then dropped it in the mud of the street. Next, she seized Clippesby of Michaelhouse. The Dominican listened carefully, then
recommended she ask the town’s cats about her husband’s whereabouts, on the grounds that they were more knowledgeable about
such matters than people.

‘I cannot listen,’ said Redmeadow, starting to walk away with Deynman in tow. ‘Witnessing a conversation between mad Master
Clippesby and addled Bess is more than anyone should be asked to do. We are off to see the Hand of Valence Marie. Father William
has promised us a private viewing.’

‘Good,’ said Michael, catching up with them. ‘He can show it to us at the same time.’

‘But then it will not be private,’ objected Deynman.

‘You will not notice us,’ promised Michael, patting the student’s arm. ‘We will be quiet. But why are you so keen to see the
thing? Surely you know it is not genuine?’

‘Actually, I think it is,’ said Deynman seriously. ‘Father William says that more than two hundred people have been to see
it, and we all know that two hundred people cannot be wrong.’

Michael gave him a sidelong glance to indicate that
he
had no such faith in the populace’s ability to determine such matters. He led the way to St Mary the Great, where a line
of about twenty folk were waiting. The relic appealed to the wealthy as well as the poor, which made for a curious mixture
of supplicants. Cheney the spicer was next to grizzled Sergeant Orwelle, while Yolande de Blaston and the wealthy Isobel de
Lavenham stood side by side.

‘We were here first,’ called Cheney, as Michael pushed past them to enter the church. ‘You must wait your turn. It is only
fair.’

‘He is right,’ agreed Isobel, pouting her voluptuous red lips. ‘You must stand here, next to me.’

‘I am not a penitent,’ replied Michael haughtily. ‘I have business with the Chancellor.’

‘Very well, then,’ said Yolande coolly. ‘But I would not like to think you were pushing in.’

‘The Hand of Valence Marie is for everyone,’ said Orwelle. ‘We all have important reasons for being here. I have come to ask
for help with Bosel’s murder, since I am getting nowhere on my own – and it has been a week now. I need some divine assistance,
or the Sheriff will think me incompetent.’

Michael smiled sweetly and entered the airy interior of
the church with Deynman, Redmeadow and Bartholomew behind, all uncomfortable with Michael’s lies. Without the slightest hesitation,
Michael made straight for the spiral staircase that led to the tower, and climbed to the first floor, where Tynkell was busily
filing documents on nail-spiked pieces of wood.

‘I am finding it difficult to work with folk clattering up and down the stairs all day long,’ he grumbled as Michael entered.
Bartholomew and the students hovered on the stairs outside, loath to be in a room containing the odorous Chancellor, especially
a small one in which the windows did not open. ‘I am beginning to wish you had never created the position of Keeper of the
University Chest for William. The Hand lay forgotten and buried until
he
came along and resurrected the thing.’

‘I know,’ said Michael grimly. ‘You should have removed it from the Chest before he took charge. But the deed is done now,
and we shall have to live with your blunder.’

‘How are you, sir?’ asked Deynman, looking directly at the Chancellor’s stomach before the man could object to Michael’s brazen
blame-shifting. ‘The life inside you, I mean?’

Bartholomew’s heart sank when he realised Deynman was about to try to prove Tynkell was a pregnant hermaphrodite. While Redmeadow
sniggered softly, the physician flailed around for ways to stop him before the situation became embarrassing. But nothing
came to mind.

Tynkell regarded the student uneasily. ‘The life inside me?’

‘You know,’ said Deynman earnestly.

Tynkell cleared his throat, then shot a glance at Bartholomew to indicate he would like some help. ‘Well enough under the
circumstances,’ he replied carefully, when the physician did nothing to oblige.

‘Good,’ said Deynman brightly, giving Bartholomew a
hard nudge, to ensure his teacher had noticed that the Chancellor did not deny the charge. ‘Do feel free to call on Doctor
Bartholomew, should you require a physic for your condition. Or on me, of course.’

‘Right,’ said Tynkell, becoming flustered and busying himself with his parchments.

‘I know these things can be awkward for men … for
people
like you,’ said Deynman, pressing his point relentlessly. ‘But I can be very discreet, and I am shocked by very little these
days.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ replied Tynkell. He swallowed hard, uncomfortable with an interview loaded with double meanings he
did not understand. ‘Have you come to see the Hand?’

‘I shall say a prayer for you,’ said Deynman generously. ‘
People
in your condition need them.’

Bartholomew bundled his student up the stairs with Redmeadow giggling uncontrollably behind him, but then wondered whether
he should have let the conversation run its course. If Deynman was sent down for claiming the Chancellor was the wrong sex,
then it would solve one problem. Hopefully, Deynman’s father would not allow him to practise medicine if he ended his academic
career in disgrace, and hundreds of prospective patients would be spared. Bartholomew wished he had not been so hasty to defend
Tynkell’s sensibilities.

William was just ushering Bernarde the miller out, when Bartholomew, the students and Michael arrived at the University Chest
on the floor above the Chancellor. Bernarde enquired after the investigation into the mill deaths, but did not seem surprised
when the monk informed him there was nothing new to report.

‘There are folk downstairs who have been waiting for hours,’ said William, when Bernarde had gone. ‘It would
not be fair to allow my own colleagues to petition the Hand before them. Take your place in the queue.’

‘Bernarde has not been waiting for hours,’ Michael pointed out. ‘I saw him not many moments ago, hurrying along the High Street
and shoving coins at Mad Bess when she tried to waylay him.’

‘He is different,’ replied William, unperturbed that he had been caught out in an inconsistency. ‘He made a substantial donation
for the privilege – something I am sure you do not intend to do.’

‘How much do you usually charge?’ asked Bartholomew curiously, thinking that Yolande would be unlikely to afford the sort
of payment Bernarde – or Isobel, Cheney or even Orwelle – might make.

William raised his shoulders. ‘It depends on the individual. They give what they can – or what their consciences dictate they
should. Some folk pay nothing at all, because they are too poor, while others pay in gold. It is between them and God.’

‘And you,’ said Bartholomew, indicating a box on the windowsill that was full to overflowing.

‘I am merely the collector,’ said William loftily. ‘And do not look so disapproving, Matthew. Some of this will be used to
pay
you
, when you are next required as Corpse Examiner. The University is doing rather nicely from the revenues raised by the Hand.’