The Hand of Justice (37 page)

‘Uncle said it needed a thorough clean,’ she said,
wrinkling her nose. Bartholomew knew what she meant: an unpleasant odour hung around the box, as though it had been used to
store something nasty. ‘He planned to do it himself, but died before he got around to it. Still, I am sure the scribe will
not mind spending a few moments with a rag.’

‘You seem very well acquainted with the contents of your uncle’s will,’ said Michael. ‘I thought lawyers took their time over
such matters, particularly when large sums of money are involved. After all, the King will want his share.’

Edward looked smug. ‘Full inheritance of Deschalers’s goods is part of my pardon. The King’s clerks said it would serve as
part-compensation for the suffering I endured in exile. They plan to reclaim death taxes from the town instead. So, Brother,
you
will be paying the King, not me.’

He began to laugh, and Bartholomew gaped at him, scarcely believing his ears. Not only was a killer walking free and unrepentant,
but he was even making the town pay for the privilege.

‘But it is not right, Edward,’ said Constantine unhappily. ‘My fellow burgesses will never agree to give the King what he
should have had from Deschalers. It will cause all manner of strife. If you want to live here unmolested, you should do the
honourable thing and pay it yourself. After all, you have plenty. Deschalers left Julianna a large fortune.’

‘It will not be large once you have stolen my house,’ snapped Edward.

‘But that is my privilege,’ objected Constantine. ‘I am still out of pocket from buying your pardon.’

‘That is not my problem,’ snarled Edward. ‘If you had been a proper father, I would not have been obliged to go to France
in the first place. I owe you nothing.’

‘One can never have enough money,’ said Julianna comfortably, oblivious to the simmering emotions that
boiled around the Mortimers. She sauntered across to the dish of dried fruits and, finding it empty, began to look under the
table, as if she imagined they might have fallen there. ‘But we have been through this before, Constantine: the King absolved
Edward from paying death taxes on Uncle’s estate, and wants the town to pay instead. There is no more to be said on the matter.’

‘But it is not wise to antagonise the other merchants,’ pressed Constantine. He appealed to his brother. ‘Tell him, Thomas!
Do
you
want to pay the King on Edward’s behalf?’

Thomas shrugged, and almost overbalanced. He took a gulp of wine to steady himself. ‘I will have won the mill dispute by then,
so will have funds to spare. Edward should keep the money and the other merchants be damned. After all, look what Bernarde,
Lavenham and Cheney are doing to me. I hate the lot of them. They
should
pay.’

‘But it will cause bitterness and resentment,’ cried Constantine, becoming desperate. ‘We cannot run a decent business if
everyone is against us.’

‘I disagree,’ said Thomas, tottering to the table where a jug and matching goblets stood on a tray. He poured himself a generous
dose. ‘All the merchants are against
me
, and I am doing rather well.’

‘Edward!’ pleaded Constantine. ‘This is not right, son.’

‘Do not call me son,’ hissed Edward. ‘And do not expect me to believe that your motives were altruistic when you bought my
pardon. It was not
my
name you wanted cleared, but that of Mortimer.’

‘But I did—’

His words went unheard as Edward stamped out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The glass in the windows rattled,
and the fire flared and guttered in the sudden draught. Michael watched, his eyes alight with interest, while Bartholomew
merely felt uncomfortable at having
witnessed a family spat that should have been held in private.

‘Edward is very irritable these days,’ said Julianna, who did not seem at all embarrassed. ‘I cannot imagine why, when he
has recently acquired me
and
a fortune. He has everything a man could possibly desire.’

‘I agree,’ said Thomas, patting her shoulder in a fatherly way. Bartholomew saw which side the miller favoured: Deschalers’s
fortune had made Edward and Julianna far richer than Constantine, and he intended to stick with them. He clenched his fists
and experienced an uncharacteristic urge for violence. While Isnard lay at the mercy of benevolent donations, Mortimer’s eyes
were fixed on Julianna’s massive fortune. He thought about the cruel plot to convince the bargeman that his leg had miraculously
re-attached itself, and was hard pressed to control himself. Michael noticed, and rested a calming hand on his shoulder.

‘You should have supported me, Thomas,’ said Constantine resentfully. ‘You know I am right. Edward will ruin us if he makes
the town fund his taxes.’

‘It is your own fault,’ said Thomas nastily. ‘I told you not to spend good money on a pardon, but you ignored me. Well, you
have what you wanted, and now you must live with the consequences.’

‘I wish to God I had let matter lie,’ said Constantine bitterly. ‘I have made a terrible mistake.’

‘You certainly have,’ agreed Michael.

Bartholomew and Michael left Deschalers’s house with some relief, despite the fact that they still did not know whether the
grocer had intended to change his will from the one that made Julianna virtually the sole beneficiary. In the yard, the apprentices
were leaving. Packs of personal belongings lay in a pile, and a pony was being harnessed to a cart.
Men stood in a huddle, talking among themselves, and Bartholomew became aware that he and Michael were on the receiving end
of some very hostile looks. It occurred to him that if there were rumours that a scholar had killed Deschalers, then the apprentices
might well hold the University responsible for the loss of their livelihoods.

‘That was revealing,’ said Michael, as they walked briskly away from the festering resentment. ‘Relations are not all they
were in the Mortimer clan, and it seems more obvious than ever that Edward has some unpleasant plan in mind – other than giving
the Hand to Gonville. If he is prepared to burn his bridges with the other merchants – Constantine was right about them not
wanting to pay those taxes – then I would predict he does not intend to stay here long.’

Bartholomew agreed. ‘And since he has benefited so handsomely from Deschalers’s death, perhaps we should look no further than
him for our killer. One possibility is this: Deschalers lured Bottisham to the mill with talk of a reconciliation. Edward
followed Deschalers and killed him, then was obliged to kill Bottisham, too.’

‘And engaged the engines and hurled the bodies into them to confuse us,’ mused Michael. ‘I suppose that makes sense – especially
now we have learned that we should discount Bernarde’s tale about no one being in the building but Bottisham and Deschalers.
But this means that Bernarde lied to protect Edward. Why would he do that? The Mortimers are Bernarde’s enemy.’

‘Fear?’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘People are afraid of Edward.’

Michael considered. ‘Bernarde did not seem afraid to me. Frightened people betray themselves by being brittle, hostile or
overly willing to please. Bernarde was none of these. If he was lying, then it was not from fear.’

‘But he was angry about bodies damaging his pinions. And you said you believed Bernarde’s son when he told
you his father dashed out the moment he heard the wheel’s change in tempo. Are you sure we should dismiss Bernarde’s testimony
as untruthful?’

‘No,’ admitted Michael. ‘But I am not sure about anything. I do not think I have ever been so confounded when trying to solve
a case.’

They walked slowly, taking the long way back along the river bank, since it was still too early for the evening meal, and
neither wanted to sit in the conclave while William boasted about the revenues he was amassing from the ‘Hand of Justice’.
Bartholomew heard several folk discussing the relic as they went, and was unsettled to hear its new name already in common
usage. Edward was right: the epithet was one that people would readily adopt.

Early evening was a pleasant time in Cambridge, particularly when a blossom-scented breeze blew away the stench from the river
and the manure-carpeted streets. The sun shone, giving an illusion of warmth, and seemed to cheer people as they wended their
way home. Someone sang a popular song in a loud, toneless voice, and a small group of children, who had spent an exhausting
day selling spring flowers, sprawled at the water’s edge to chatter and laugh.

A barge had arrived from the Low Countries, bringing fine cloth for Stanmore, and his apprentices hurried to transfer the
valuable cargo to his warehouses before daylight faded and the wharves became dangerous. Bartholomew was delighted to see
that he and Michael were not the only ones taking an evening stroll. Matilde was also out, holding the hand of a reluctant
Bess. As they closed the gap between them, he admired Matilde’s slender body and the natural grace with which she moved. He
hoped Yolande’s husband would finish his house soon; he longed for the family to move out, so he could have her alone again.
It had already been far too long.

‘Your shadows are not with you tonight?’ Matilde asked,
looking around as they met. ‘Quenhyth, Redmeadow and Deynman?’

‘Redmeadow and Deynman are at St Mary the Great,’ replied Michael. ‘Asking the Hand to tell them ways to discover whether
Tynkell is afflicted with a certain rare physiology.’

‘Redmeadow is a curious young man,’ said Matilde. ‘I saw him early last Monday morning covered in pale dust, so he looked
like a ghost. He was brushing at it furiously, but the stuff was difficult to get off. He told me it was the result of a practical
joke Deynman had played on him, but I am sure he was lying. I suspect he had been with a woman.’

Bartholomew recalled seeing a whitish powder ingrained on the student’s sleeve, too, and supposed Redmeadow had used his teacher’s
convenient absence on Sunday night – while he investigated the bodies at the mill – to secure himself a lover. Some of the
town’s Frail Sisters used chalky substances on their faces, and Bartholomew knew such stains could be very difficult to remove.

‘Quenhyth is studying,’ said Michael, making it sound like the most dreadful of vices. ‘He does nothing else, and is as tedious
a young fellow as I have ever encountered. He will make an extremely dull physician one day, who will kill his patients by
boring them to death.’

‘He needs something to take his mind away from himself,’ said Matilde. ‘Also, he has the look of a young man who has been
crossed in love.’

‘Quenhyth?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking of the student’s prim manners. ‘I do not think so!’

‘You mark my words,’ said Matilde. ‘I am not saying he was involved in a physical affair, only that he loved someone who perhaps
did not return his adoration. He is a passionate young man.’

Bartholomew supposed that was true. ‘But all his passion is aimed at his studies.’

‘For now,’ said Matilde. ‘But I would not like to be the woman – or the man – who attracts his devotion. He is very single-minded.’

‘She does not look as if she wants to go with you,’ said Michael, indicating Bess with a nod of his tonsured head. ‘Where
are you taking her?’

‘To Una again,’ said Matilde. ‘I do not know what else to do with her. Nothing she says makes any sense. I wonder how long
she has been looking for her man.’

‘My man,’ murmured Bess, looking as if she expected him to appear. ‘Have you seen him?’

‘What does he look like?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking that if he asked often enough he might have an answer.

Bess smiled for the first time since he had met her. ‘Beautiful and strong. Like a tree, with long limbs and smooth bark.’

‘I have seen no one answering that description,’ said Michael. ‘Have you tried the forest?’

‘My man does not visit woods,’ replied Bess, unusually communicative. ‘He prefers taverns.’

‘Do you remember his name?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And what makes you think he is here?’

‘He might be here,’ she agreed. ‘His name was to have been “husband”.’

‘She had a lot of money two days ago, but there is not a penny left now,’ said Matilde. She turned to the woman. ‘Bess? Where
is all that gold you had? Did someone take it?’

‘He promised,’ said Bess, her eyes filling with tears. ‘He said he would tell me.’

‘Someone promised to take you to your man if you gave him coins?’ asked Bartholomew.

Bess nodded. ‘But he did not know. I cannot find him. I have been looking since the snows fell.’

Matilde’s face was a mask of fury. ‘I
knew
some villain
would cheat her. Have people no shame? How could they take advantage of someone who is out of her wits?’

‘Many felons will see her as fair game,’ said Michael. ‘I will ask my beadles to look for men spending gold they cannot explain,
but I doubt we shall get it back for her.’

Bess went to stand at the edge of the river, gazing at the eddies created by the mills upstream.

Matilde watched her. ‘I think her man is dead, and his demise damaged her mind. She could spend the rest of her life looking
for someone who is already in his grave,’ she said.

‘She looks like Katherine Mortimer,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I see Katherine each time I meet Bess now.’

‘But a very shabby and ill-conditioned Katherine Mortimer,’ said Matilde. ‘I wondered whether they might be related, too,
and asked the Mortimers about it, but none admit to owning her as kin.’

‘We have just been to Deschalers’s house,’ said Michael, bored with the subject of the madwoman. ‘The Mortimers are squabbling
over his estate like dogs with a carcass. It is not an edifying sight.’

‘That does not surprise me,’ said Matilde. ‘Deschalers was wealthy, and there is a good deal to fight over. I heard they quarrel
frequently now Edward is back, whereas before they were rather taciturn. The Frail Sisters do not enjoy visiting members of
the Mortimer clan these days, although they enjoyed the rare occasions when Deschalers summoned them.’

‘I did not know Deschalers regularly enjoyed whores,’ said Michael baldly.