The Hand of Justice (32 page)

Master Thorpe glanced up from his examination of a milky-red solution in a small pottery phial. He held it out for the physician
to inspect. ‘What do you think of this?’

‘Watyr of Snayels,’ said Bartholomew, reading the tiny letters on the label. ‘Nasty.’

‘Nasty, no!’ exclaimed Lavenham, affronted. His English took a downward turn as he began to defend himself. ‘He is purest
quality, and he took my apprentice three day to made.’

‘What is it for?’ asked Bartholomew, aware that it was none of his affair. Water of Snails was an old-fashioned remedy that
was seldom used, and he saw that Lavenham’s concoction had not been properly filtered through sand,
as Galen recommended, because it was murky. He thought swallowing such a tincture would probably do little good, and might
even cause some harm.

‘It is for Warde,’ replied Master Thorpe. ‘He cannot rid himself of his cough, and none of us have slept in days because of
it.’ He regarded the phial doubtfully. ‘I do not know how I shall persuade him to drink this, though. I would not want snail
juice washing around inside
me
.’

‘Rougham recommended it,’ said Isobel.

‘What do you think?’ asked Master Thorpe, still regarding the bottle with rank suspicion. ‘Should I buy it? Or shall we persist
with the syrups instead? Warde does not mind taking those.’

‘Water of Snails has proven effective, if there is nothing else,’ said Bartholomew ambiguously.

‘But you would not swallow it yourself,’ surmised Master Thorpe, reading Bartholomew’s mind. He thrust the phial back into
Lavenham’s unwilling hands. ‘Thank you, apothecary, but I think I will decline. What shall I have instead, Bartholomew?’

Bartholomew was uncomfortable; it was not good manners to recommend cures for other physicians’ patients. ‘You must ask Rougham.
It is not for me to interfere.’

‘Rubbish!’ exclaimed Master Thorpe. ‘He is always recommending alternative therapies to your patients, so I do not see why
you should not do the same for his. He told Father William – he is yours – to drink fig juice to purge his bowels the other
day, when he complained of a sore head.’

‘Then try powdered angelica root,’ suggested Bartholomew, wondering whether William was foolish enough to believe that purged
bowels would cure a headache. ‘Mix it with wine.’

‘That sounds like something he would accept,’ said
Master Thorpe with satisfaction, as Isobel went to the back room to fetch some. ‘Thank you. I—’

What he was about to say was drowned by a low rumble, followed by a good deal of laughter from the apprentices. Isobel appeared
with her hands on her hips and an angry expression.

‘That pile of firewood you insist on gathering has collapsed,’ she snapped to her husband. ‘How much longer will it be before
you stack it inside the shed? It will be no good for burning if it rains.’

‘My apprentices too busy for woods,’ replied Lavenham. ‘It must await my intentions.’ He watched her flounce out again.

‘Had you heard news? I have been wrote by King himself. He give me a tusk.’

Bartholomew regarded him uncomprehendingly. ‘Ivory?’ he asked eventually, not sure what else to say, and feeling obliged to
make some comment, since the apothecary was obviously expecting one. ‘From the sea elephants of the north?’

It was Lavenham’s turn to look blank. ‘I refer to a great tusk set for me by King. He want me to examine matter of Mortimer’s
Mill.’ He stood taller, clearly proud of himself.

‘It is true,’ said Master Thorpe. ‘We heard this morning that the King has appointed four commissioners to examine the complaints
about Mortimer diverting water from the King’s Mill.’

‘And I am first,’ said Lavenham grandly. ‘He want good and loyal Englishmen to do his work. He choose me, because he hear
I am fine servant to His Royal Majesty.’

‘Warde is another, and Miller Bernarde is the third,’ added Master Thorpe.

‘But Bernarde is the one who made the complaint,’ said Bartholomew, startled. He looked at Lavenham. ‘And
you
are in the Millers’ Society. It is an odd choice for an unbiased decision.’

‘That is why it good
I
King’s commissioner,’ declared Lavenham. ‘I will see justice done right, by destroy Mortimer.’

‘See what I mean?’ said Bartholomew to Master Thorpe.

He nodded. ‘But Warde is a fair-minded man, and so, I hope, am I.’

‘You are the fourth commissioner?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking it was not a task he would have accepted for a kingdom. There
were far too many ways to offend people and cause strife and, no matter what decision was made, it would make someone unhappy
and resentful.

‘I would not have chosen to do it,’ confided Master Thorpe. ‘But I am indebted to the King for reinstating me as Master of
Valence Marie after my spell in York, and I am not in a position to refuse. But Warde is a fair man, as I said. Hopefully
we shall reach a compromise that satisfies all parties. We intend to discuss it together this afternoon.’

‘We soon have this mess resolve,’ boasted Lavenham. ‘We finish by dusk, and then we all go to King’s Head for celebration
ales.’

‘We shall not,’ said Master Thorpe firmly, accepting a pot of angelica root and handing some coins to Isobel. ‘It is only
a preliminary meeting, and we cannot hope to forge a solution so quickly. I anticipate we will be working on this for some
time to come – hearing witnesses and the arguments of lawyers for both sides.’

‘We see,’ said Lavenham smugly.

The physician nodded his thanks to Lavenham, ignored the wink thrown in his direction by Isobel, and followed Master Thorpe
outside. He was immediately aware of how the shuttered windows banished sounds, for it was noisy in the street. Carts clattered
as their wooden wheels
snapped across a section of the road that had recently been cobbled, and a cacophony of animal sounds emanated from the Market
Square. A cow lowed, probably being led to Slaughterhouse Lane, and a group of pigs squealed in voices that were eerily human.
People hollered back and forth, while a mangy yellow dog yapped at a group of boys who were pelting it with mud.

‘I am sorry my son is here,’ said Master Thorpe quietly, as they walked to the High Street with Quenhyth trailing behind them.
Like Constantine Mortimer, the Master of Valence Marie had changed since his son’s trial. He had lost his arrogance, and seemed
kinder and more humble. ‘I tried to persuade him to leave again, but he is no longer a boy, and he listens to nothing I say.’

‘I doubt he listens to anyone,’ said Bartholomew, sensing the man’s distress. ‘It is not your fault he turned bad.’

Thorpe swallowed hard. ‘I hear Brother Michael is investigating the odd case of Deschalers and Bottisham in the King’s Mill.
My son is a … I am afraid …’

Bartholomew understood what he was trying to say. ‘There is no evidence that your son had anything to do with it,’ he said,
but suspected he did not sound very convincing. ‘Bernarde the miller would have seen him running away, had he been responsible.’

Thorpe was not so easily convinced. ‘He is a cunning lad, Bartholomew, and fooling a miller would be no great challenge for
him. He has killed before, and the murders of Deschalers and Bottisham have already set town and University against each other.
Perhaps that is why he came back: to start a riot that will damage us all. He has always been spiteful, and his exile has
made him worse.’

Bartholomew suspected that nothing he could say would allay Master Thorpe’s fears. They ran deep, and there might even be
something in them. Bartholomew had always thought it an odd coincidence that two dreadful murders
should have occurred just after Thorpe and Mortimer had reappeared. But could Bernarde’s testimony be overlooked? And would
the two young men really be so stupid as to kill as soon as they had been granted their royal pardons? He did not know the
answers, but he did know that such a solution would exonerate Bottisham from the accusations that were beginning to circulate
around the town. It was therefore an appealing one.

Master Thorpe said no more, and he, Bartholomew and Quenhyth walked in silence until they reached St Mary the Great. A small
knot of people knelt outside the tower, eyes raised devoutly towards the chamber where the University Chest and its dubious
contents were housed.

‘I wish you had never found that Hand,’ Bartholomew said fervently to Thorpe. ‘Even though we proved it was not a real relic,
there are still folk who insist on its authenticity.’

‘I explained that phenomenon to you years ago,’ said Master Thorpe, a little condescendingly. ‘It does not matter whether
it is authentic or not; what matters is what people believe. And people believe in the Hand. But you should not condemn folk
for visiting it. Where lies the harm in giving them hope for hopeless causes?’

‘Because it is not real,’ said Bartholomew, wondering how many times he would need to say it. ‘It is
not
the hand of a saint or a martyr. It is Peterkin Starre’s.’

Master Thorpe sighed. ‘You are still missing my point. Its authenticity
does not matter
! Do you really believe that the blood of Thomas à Becket can cure the blind? Or that St Etheldreda at Ely lies uncorrupted
in her shrine? Of course not! We are men of science, who naturally question such claims. But
others
believe. And it is
they
, not the doubters, who are important here.’

‘Are you saying the University should encourage people in this lie? Give them false hope?’

‘I am saying the University should not keep the Hand from folk who think they need its comfort. Michael should make it available
to everyone. There will be “cures” and “miracles”, and the University should accept the gratitude of successful petitioners.
And then there will be fewer prayers answered than requests made, and people will begin to lose faith. Gradually it will be
forgotten, and
then
you can throw it in the river.’

‘You mean we may be strengthening the cult by restricting access to the Hand?’

‘Precisely. By keeping it secret, you merely tell people it is important. Once it is freely accessible, and people can see
it, then it will lose its mysterious appeal. You should act on my advice, Doctor: it is the only way to deal with the Hand
of Valence Marie.’

Bartholomew was on his way to take the poultice to Isnard when three familiar figures approached him. He was appalled when
he saw that one was his brother-in-law, Oswald Stanmore. He had been under the impression that his family had intended to
remain in Huntingdon for some weeks, and was horrified that they were home early now that young Thorpe was at large. Matilde
was with Stanmore, on her way home from the Market Square, and two of Yolande de Blaston’s children staggered under the weight
of her purchases. The third familiar figure was Michael, who was rummaging in her baskets and brazenly helping himself to
whatever edibles he could find. The children were far too sensible to try to deter the monk, while Matilde was so deeply engrossed
in her discussion with Stanmore that she had not noticed what Michael was doing.

‘Why are you here?’ Bartholomew demanded of his brother-in-law when they drew level. ‘You should be in Huntingdon. Where is
my sister?’

‘There is an affectionate greeting,’ said Stanmore to
Matilde, his tone wry. ‘I have not seen Matt for nigh on six weeks, and this is how he hails me.’

‘Edith is still in Huntingdon,’ replied Matilde, understanding the reason for Bartholomew’s sharpness. ‘She will not return
for some weeks, so do not worry about her.’

‘Good,’ said Bartholomew fervently. ‘But you should not be here either, Oswald, not with Thorpe stalking around. You should
return to Huntingdon and stay there until he leaves.’

‘I certainly shall not,’ retorted Stanmore indignantly. ‘This is my home, and no ex-apprentice will drive me from it. Besides,
it is not
my
fault he committed murder and was caught. I do not see how he can hold me responsible for his downfall, just because he was
living in my house when it happened.’

Bartholomew saw there was no point in arguing, although he was certain that was not how Thorpe viewed the situation. He looked
at Matilde. ‘How is Bess? Is she still with you, or have you found her somewhere else to sleep?’

Matilde frowned worriedly. ‘She owns a huge hoard of coins. I cannot imagine where it came from. Not from a grateful customer
– it is far more than the usual going rate for Frail Sisters in Cambridge – even the very good ones.’

Michael chuckled, his cheeks flecked with pastry as he investigated another of her parcels. ‘Perhaps it came from Deschalers.
I saw him towing her home at one point.’

‘So did I,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was last Saturday, the day before he died.’ He saw Stanmore’s thoughtful expression. ‘But
I do not think she is Deschalers’s killer.’

Michael agreed. ‘Especially if Bernarde is telling the truth about no one else being inside the mill.’

‘I would be surprised if Bess is your culprit, too,’ said Matilde. ‘She is too addled, poor thing. I sewed a secret compartment
in her cloak for her coins, but I doubt she
will keep them long, because she does not understand their value. She is staying with Una tonight.’

‘What about Dame Pelagia?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Has she gone, too?’

‘She has. It is just me, Yolande, Robert and their ten children now,’ said Matilde with a smile. ‘My house feels almost empty!’

‘Have you heard about the King’s Commission?’ asked Stanmore, who found town politics far more interesting than sleeping arrangements
for madwomen.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Master Thorpe and Warde are good choices, but I do not think it was wise to have Bernarde and Lavenham
on the committee, too.’

‘Why not?’ asked Stanmore. ‘They will ensure the Millers’ Society is properly represented.’

‘But there is no one to put the Mortimers’ side of the argument,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

Stanmore waved a dismissive hand. ‘That is unnecessary. They have no side worth presenting.’