The Hand of Justice (33 page)

Bartholomew was startled. ‘Why are you against them?’

‘The Mortimers full cloth at that mill, and it interferes with my business,’ replied Stanmore grimly.

‘But the next nearest fulling mill is in Ely,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘Surely Thomas Mortimer provides you a valuable
service?’

‘Not at the prices
he
charges,’ said Stanmore stiffly. ‘His brazen extortion is exactly the kind of sinful behaviour that will bring the pestilence
back again.’

‘I have never understood fulling,’ said Michael, interrupting Bartholomew, who was about to argue that the price of cloth
had nothing to do with whether the plague returned. ‘What is it, exactly?’

‘Only light cloths, like worsteds, are good without fulling,’ said Stanmore, sounding pompous as he lectured on something
he knew a lot about. ‘But most materials
these days are heavy broadcloths, and need to be felted. We do this by soaking them in an alkaline solution and pounding them.
In the old days, this was done by men and women trampling the cloth with their feet, but we have moved on from primitive technology
and use fulling mills now. These batter the cloth with wooden hammers that are driven by water. It is all very sophisticated.
That is what happens at Mortimer’s Mill.’

Michael rummaged in another of Matilde’s baskets. ‘Is that it? Cloth is soaked, then thumped with hammers?’

‘Not at all,’ said Stanmore crisply. ‘That is only the beginning. After the pounding, the cloth is dried, then stretched on
a device we call a “tenter”. The nap is raised by rubbing with teasels, and then evened with shears. It is difficult and exacting
work, and one wrong move can destroy hours of labour. Then it is dyed. That is where I come in.’

‘That is a skilled process, too, I imagine,’ said Matilde politely.

The clothier puffed himself up. ‘It certainly is! I need to decide exactly how much of each dye will achieve the colour my
customer wants, and I need to assess how long to leave a material soaking – too long may rot the cloth, too short will see
it wash out. But it will not be long before Mortimer turns his hand to dyeing, too, and then where will I be? I have prayed
to the Hand that he will lose his case, and that the King will order him to dismantle his mill before he does me harm.’

‘But the Commission comprises two men who have a vested interest in finding against him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Mortimer may
decide to ignore its decision.’

‘No one would dare go against the King,’ said Stanmore. ‘His word is law.’

‘Until he changes his mind,’ said Bartholomew bitterly. ‘Look what happened with Thorpe and Edward and their royal pardons.’

Stanmore glanced around uneasily. ‘You should watch what you say, Matt. It is not wise to criticise our monarch so openly.
You do not know who might be listening. I admire Dame Pelagia, as you know, but she
is
the King’s agent, and she may report you, if you are not careful.’

‘She would not,’ said Michael confidently, thrusting cake into his mouth. Matilde became aware that he was seriously depleting
her supplies, and gestured for the children to move away. Michael sighed his annoyance, but still managed to secure some bread
before they left.

‘You would not know she was listening,’ persisted Stanmore. ‘She is like a shadow: here one moment and vanished the next.
Still, I feel better knowing she has come here to help us.’

‘She went to see Tynkell and Dick Tulyet today,’ said Michael. ‘Dick promised to lend her soldiers whenever she needed them.
She says she plans to need them very soon.’

‘God help us,’ muttered Bartholomew. It was a bizarre situation indeed when men of power like the Chancellor and the Sheriff
relied on an old lady to solve their problems.

‘Constantine admits he made a mistake in buying a pardon for his son,’ said Matilde. ‘He all but killed the fatted calf when
Edward returned, but Edward declines to have anything to do with him.’

‘It is a pity Deschalers is dead,’ said Stanmore. ‘
He
could control Edward, because the lad is his kin by marriage to Julianna – and obeyed him to be sure of inheriting his wealth.
There are rumours that Edward had him killed, and that he hired Bottisham to do it.’

Bartholomew was horrified, thinking that while Edward might well have had a hand in Deschalers’s death, Bottisham was unlikely
to have been his willing tool. ‘Surely you do not believe that?’

Stanmore shook his head. ‘No, I do not. Edward and
Thorpe are far too clever to start killing as soon as they arrive back in the town. But …’ He hesitated, and regarded
Bartholomew uneasily.

‘But what?’ asked Bartholomew, with the sense that he was about to hear something he would not like.

‘But Bottisham is a different matter,’ said Stanmore. He held up a hand to quell the physician’s objections. ‘I know you liked
him, Matt, but he and Deschalers had a history.’

‘We know,’ said Michael, throwing the bread to a hopeful dog. The discussion of the mill deaths had deprived him of his appetite.
‘About the field and the funds for the chapel.’

Stanmore nodded. ‘Deschalers’s abrupt withdrawal made other benefactors rethink, too, and Gonville was left in a terrible
mess. He once told me that he had managed the whole thing out of spite, to humiliate Bottisham. It would not surprise me to
learn Bottisham was so angry that he lured Deschalers to the King’s Mill and slew him. Then he killed himself when he realised
he would hang.’

‘People do not hang for murder these days,’ said Matilde acidly. ‘They spend a couple of years in France, then return to claim
compensation for false conviction.’

‘But Bottisham did not kill Deschalers, anyway,’ said Bartholomew, finding the discussion distasteful. ‘He would be more likely
to use the law for vengeance.’

‘Deschalers was very rich,’ said Matilde thoughtfully. ‘I should inspect his will, if I were you, to ascertain whether he
intended to change or amend it. It would not be the first time a man expressed a desire to leave his wealth to someone different,
and those about to be disinherited took matters into their own hands. You should not strike anyone from your list of suspects
yet, and …’

She trailed off as she became aware of a commotion near St Mary the Great, where a large number of people had gathered, as
usual. As they moved towards the massing
crowd, one word could be heard spoken over and over again. Bartholomew’s heart sank when he realised it was ‘miracle’.

‘Master Thorpe warned me about this,’ he said to Matilde. ‘He said there would be “miracles” if we continue to keep the Hand
in a sealed room, and restrict access to it.’

‘He is right,’ replied Matilde. ‘Folk are far more interested in things that are forbidden. Bring the Hand out and display
it, and it will be forgotten in a few months.’ She caught the arm of Una, who was hurrying away with her face set in a broad
grin. ‘What is it? What is going on?’

‘A miracle,’ declared Una. ‘We knew it would only be a matter of time before one occurred, and we were right. This will be
the first of many.’

‘What kind of miracle?’ asked Bartholomew warily.

‘Isnard the bargeman,’ said Una joyfully. ‘His severed leg has just regrown!’

‘You are a heartless man,’ said Michael approvingly, as he and Bartholomew walked home from Isnard the bargeman’s house later
that day. ‘You dismayed half the town’s population, embarrassed Isnard, and exposed Thomas Mortimer as a fraud, all within
a few moments.’

‘Mortimer is a selfish liar,’ declared Bartholomew uncompromisingly. ‘He informed everyone that Isnard’s leg had grown back
because
he
had petitioned the Hand of Valence Marie on Isnard’s behalf. However, he knew it would not be long before someone noticed
Isnard was still
sans
leg. When that happened, he planned to tell people that Isnard was so sinful, the cure had been withdrawn.’

‘It was a daring plan. Had it worked, it would have seen him free of all the venomous mutterings over the cart incident.’

‘He would have benefited enormously – at Isnard’s expense. However, when Isnard eventually wakes up from his drunken slumbers,
he will find himself in great pain. His wound has reopened, because he allowed Mortimer to affix the wooden leg and take him
out on it too soon. He might even die, if it does not heal.’

‘Isnard will do anything for a drink,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘Even sit in the company of the man who injured him. He allowed
himself to be plied with ale, carried to St Mary the Great with his new leg, and paraded as though he was fully recovered.’

‘And the astonishing thing is that people were prepared to believe it, even though Isnard could not stand and there
was blood seeping from the injury.’ Bartholomew was disgusted. ‘That was partly Rougham’s fault, for supporting Mortimer when
he said Isnard’s leg had reappeared. Was
he
drunk, do you think, to make such a stupid assertion?’

‘He was sober,’ replied Michael sombrely. ‘And you have made yourself a greater enemy of him than ever, by pointing out his
folly to the crowd. You should have seen his face when you removed the bandages to reveal a bloody stump and a wooden calf.
If he had been a man for surgery, one of his knives would be embedded in you this very moment.’

‘And he accuses my students of being dull-witted!’ said Bartholomew angrily. ‘He did not even bother to inspect Isnard before
making his proclamations about complete cures.’

‘How is Mistress Lenne?’ asked Michael, interrupting what was about to become a diatribe against the man his friend seemed
to detest more at every encounter. He hoped it would not continue to escalate, because Cambridge was too small a town for
bitter disputes between men whose paths crossed with some frequency. It was the sort of situation that might end in a brawl
between Gonville and Michaelhouse, as students demonstrated solidarity with their masters.

‘She is dying,’ replied Bartholomew shortly. ‘The shock of losing her husband has made her listless and dull, and it will
not be long before she joins him in his grave. I only hope her son will arrive from Thetford in time to say his farewells.’

‘That is curious,’ said Michael. Bartholomew followed his gaze and saw Wynewyk ducking into the small, dirty alley that ran
down the side of St Botolph’s Church. As the Michaelhouse lawyer disappeared from sight he glanced in his colleagues’ direction,
and grimaced when he realised he had been spotted. Bartholomew exchanged a puzzled
look with Michael, then went to wait at the lane’s entrance until he came out. Wynewyk was a relative newcomer to the town,
and did not know many of Cambridge’s seedier footpaths. But Bartholomew and Michael knew them well – and the one Wynewyk had
chosen to dive down was a dead end.

‘What is he doing?’ asked Michael, bemused. ‘His shoes will be filthy when he emerges.’

‘He did not want us to see him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Just as he does not want us to know he holds secret meetings with Paxtone.’

It was some time before Wynewyk’s large nose eased through the lane’s entrance, followed by his head and the rest of his body,
like a rodent leaving its nest after a long winter. He almost leapt out of his skin when Michael spoke to him.

‘You should not go down there alone. It is notorious as a daytime sleeping hole for those who prowl the streets at night for
sinister purposes.’

‘In that case, the Senior Proctor should ensure they are ousted,’ said Wynewyk stiffly, trying to shake the muck from his
shoes. ‘But I saw no sleeping villains. The only person there now is that madwoman, who is playing with her gold coins and
singing some dirge to herself.’

‘Is she?’ asked Bartholomew, peering into the gloom and wondering whether he should go to see her. But the lane was odorously
sticky, rank with rubbish dumped there by those who could not be bothered to walk to the river, and it had been used as a
latrine for months. He glanced down at what was a fairly new pair of boots and decided to leave Bess in peace.

‘God alone knows where she got them from,’ gabbled Wynewyk, transparently relieved to be discussing something other than his
own reasons for frequenting such a place. ‘Perhaps she has been plying her trade among the rich
merchants. I heard she serviced Deschalers the day before he died.’

‘I do not see a fastidious man like Deschalers employing a creature like Bess,’ said Michael, echoing what others had said.
‘He preferred women of his own class, like Katherine Mortimer.’

‘I doubt he had his money’s worth on Saturday,’ said Bartholomew, rather crudely. ‘He was too ill, and Bess looked seriously
uninterested. It would not have made for an energetic coupling.’

‘I find such images nasty,’ said Wynewyk primly. ‘But I must be on my way. I have a lot to do.’

‘Such as what?’ asked Michael nosily.

Wynewyk gave a strained smile. ‘The College is experiencing financial difficulties at the moment and there are people to see
and arrangements to be made, if we are to eat next week.’

‘In that case, continue,’ said Michael, standing aside to let him pass. ‘However, last night, I was fed chicken giblets and
a pile of stale barley. Such victuals are unacceptable, and I sincerely hope you plan to do better in the future.’

‘The food has only been poor over the last three weeks or so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Before that, we all noticed a great improvement
when you started to help Langelee with the accounts.’

Wynewyk smiled at him. ‘Thank you, Matt. But we have had unforeseen expenses recently: we had to replace the guttering on
the hall, then Bird got into the conclave and scratched the wax off all the writing tablets. And we have had to purchase new
arrows.’ His mouth hardened into a thin line.

‘What for?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘Who do you plan to shoot?’

‘Thorpe and Mortimer,’ replied Wynewyk. ‘Or rather, Langelee does. An old lady came to inspect our weaponry
this morning, and recommended we replace our old arrows, because they have become dangerously brittle. She seemed to know
more about such things than most mercenaries.’