The Hand of Justice (38 page)

‘He did not,’ said Matilde shortly, not liking the crude reference to women she regarded as her friends. ‘He liked an occasional
female companion – but only after Katherine had ended their affair. He was also fond of Bernarde the miller’s wife – before
she died of the Death, obviously.’

‘Bernarde’s wife?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise. He exchanged a glance with Michael. Here was another reason why the miller
might have killed Deschalers. No man liked being a cuckold, and Bernarde’s wife had been a pretty lady.

‘It was a long time ago,’ said Matilde. ‘I do not know whether Bernarde was aware of it or not.’

‘Would Deschalers have hired Bess?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking about the day she had followed the merchant’s horse, clearly
bound for his home.

Matilde laughed. ‘Of course not! He would never have gone with an unclean thing like her. He prided himself on his standards.’

‘Then why was she with him on the High Street last Saturday?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I have no idea,’ said Matilde. ‘Perhaps she was following him in the hope of information about her man.’

‘Could Deschalers have known what happened to him?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I doubt it,’ replied Matilde. ‘Unless he hired the fellow to guard his goods or some such thing. Unfortunately, with Deschalers
dead, there is no one to ask. His apprentices are unlikely to co-operate, given their bitterness over being left nothing in
his will and then dismissed by Edward, and Julianna will not know.’

‘I do not suppose you have heard anything about Deschalers or Bottisham through the Frail Sisters?’ asked Michael hopefully.
A network of gossip was accumulated by the town’s prostitutes and fed to Matilde, who was very good at making sense of disparate
details and putting them into context.

‘Not really,’ said Matilde. ‘I have asked them to listen for anything that may be important, but no one has said anything
yet. Certainly no client has boasted of being the killer, or of knowing who the killer is. There is a lot of speculation,
of course, but no evidence.’

‘And what does this speculation say?’ asked Michael, somewhat desperately.

‘That Thorpe and Edward are responsible, so that the University will rise up and attack the town.’

‘And what about Bosel the beggar?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He has been all but forgotten.’

‘Bess is alleged to have made an end of him,’ said Matilde. ‘It is said that Thomas Mortimer hired her, to prevent Bosel from
speaking against him over the accident that killed Lenne. But you can see for yourself that she is incapable of carrying out
even the most simple of tasks – and murder would be wholly beyond her.’ She turned to Bartholomew. ‘How is Mistress Lenne?’

‘She is waiting for her son to arrive, but I think she will let herself die when he comes.’

‘Should we take her to the Hand of Justice?’ asked Matilde wickedly. ‘It may answer an entreaty from her, since she has been
the victim of a particularly dreadful miscarriage of justice.’

‘Have you seen my man?’ came Bess’s pitiful voice from the river bank as she addressed someone who was passing.

Bartholomew turned just in time to see young Thorpe raise his hand to slap her so that she tumbled backwards on to the grass.
Matilde gave a strangled cry and rushed to her side, while Bartholomew stepped forward and shoved Thorpe in the chest as hard
as he could. He saw the young man’s face run through a gamut of emotions before he lost his balance: satisfaction, followed
by alarm, ending with shocked indignation. Then he hit the water with a tremendous splash.

Stanmore’s apprentices released a great cheer when Thorpe disappeared under the sewage-dappled surface of the River Cam. The
nearby bargemen started to laugh, and a number of children screeched their delight in high voices. Others
flocked to join them, and soon a small but vocal crowd was watching the events that were unfolding on the river bank. It comprised
scholars and townsmen, all united in a common purpose: when Thorpe emerged spluttering and spitting, they jeered at him with
a single voice.

‘I am not sure that was wise, Matt,’ said Michael, watching with folded arms. ‘No man likes to be made a fool of, and you
have turned Thorpe into a spectacle for all to mock.’

‘Help me!’ cried Thorpe as he floundered. Bartholomew was not unduly alarmed. The river was deep at that point, but Thorpe
was easily reachable. ‘I cannot swim!’

‘Let him drown!’ called one of the apprentices. His sentiment was applauded by his fellows.

‘Is she all right?’ asked Bartholomew, kneeling next to Bess. There was a trickle of blood from a split lip, but she seemed
more shocked than harmed. ‘I do not like men who hit women.’

‘Neither do I,’ said Matilde furiously. ‘And if you had not punched him, then I would have done so.’

‘Help!’ gasped Thorpe, his voice barely audible over the sound of splashing. ‘Please!’

‘Pull him out, Matt,’ ordered Michael. ‘Tempting though it is to leave him there, my monastic vocation does not allow me to
stand by while men die. Give him your hand.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He will drag me in with him.’

‘Is this your idea of practising medicine?’ came an angry voice at Bartholomew’s shoulder. It was Rougham, and he wore a pained
expression on his face. ‘You stand gossiping while a man drowns?’

‘I thought you were in Ely,’ said Michael. ‘With the other Gonville Fellows.’

Rougham looked smug. ‘Someone needs to stay here and look after College business. I have been entrusted with
Gonville’s safe keeping until Acting Master Pulham and the others return.’

‘In that case,’ said Michael, ‘you can tell me why they all lied about the Mortimers’ donation—’

Rougham brushed him aside. ‘I will not answer questions put by the likes of you while a member of my own College perishes
before my very eyes.
I
will save him!’

‘He can swim,’ said Bartholomew.

‘He is dying,’ countered Rougham firmly. He turned to the crowd. ‘Bartholomew may be content to stand by and watch a man perish,
but I, William Rougham of Gonville Hall, am not. Remember that when you next summon a physician.’

‘Wait, Rougham,’ began Bartholomew. ‘He has—’

‘We can discuss your refusal to save lives later,’ said Rougham harshly.

He turned around, and made a great show of preparing himself. With much grunting and wincing, to demonstrate that what he
did was not easy, he knelt on the river bank and offered an arm to the figure in the water. Thorpe flopped towards it, took
the proffered hand and gave an almighty heave. Rougham went into the water head first, to emerge coughing and spluttering
some distance away. There was another howl of delighted amusement from the onlookers.

‘We
shall
remember you, William Rougham of Gonville Hall,’ called Agatha the laundress, drawing more mocking laughter from the crowd.
‘But I prefer my physicians dry, thank you!’

Thorpe hauled himself from the river with one easy, sinuous movement. He stalked over to Bartholomew, and, for an instant,
the physician thought he might draw a knife or strike him with his balled fists. But Thorpe was not stupid, and was aware
of Michael standing nearby, not to mention Agatha. Since harming Bartholomew and escaping
unscathed was impossible – Michael had grabbed a stout stick, while Agatha was casually inspecting one of her cooking knives
– Thorpe settled for a warning.

‘I will not forget this, physician,’ he hissed venomously. ‘Your time will come.’

‘Help me,’ came an unsteady voice from the river.

‘If you harm another woman,’ said Bartholomew, in a quiet, calm voice that held far more menace than Thorpe’s hiss, ‘I will
make sure you never feel safe again. That is not a threat, because threats are not always carried out.’

He shouldered Thorpe out of the way with more force than was necessary, and knelt on the bank to offer his arm to the floundering
Rougham, hoping the Gonville physician did not also intend to drag his rescuer into the water. But Rougham was far too shaken
to do anything of the kind. He grasped Bartholomew’s hand with a grip that was painful, and allowed himself to be helped out,
to lie on the grass gasping like a landed fish.

‘He
could
swim,’ he panted furiously. ‘He said he could not. He deceived me!’

‘My brother-in-law teaches all his apprentices to swim,’ said Bartholomew, removing his cloak and offering it to his shivering
colleague. ‘It is an essential part of their training, because they unload barges at the quays, and they occasionally fall
in. I tried to warn—’

Rougham snatched the shabby garment. ‘
You
deceived me, too,’ he declared. ‘You happily allowed me to fall foul of that trick. Thorpe is not the only one who will have
his revenge.’

Michael sniggered at the sight of the portly physician waddling away up the towpath with water slopping from his boots. ‘I
did not think Rougham could despise you any more than he already does, Matt, but I see I was wrong. You have achieved the
impossible!’

‘It was his own fault for not listening to me.’ Bartholomew
gave a sudden grin. ‘But it was worth it! Who would have thought we would see Rougham
and
Thorpe take an unintentional swim? But it is cold here with no cloak. I am going home.’

They had barely reached the bottom of St Michael’s Lane when they met Walter. The porter was wearing one of his rare smiles,
and Bartholomew supposed he had been among those who had witnessed the lessons meted out at the riverside.

‘You are needed at Valence Marie, Doctor,’ he said. ‘Urgent. Someone has been struck down and they want you to come. In fact,
Master Thorpe said he would pay you double if you run.’

‘You had better go to it, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘I shall return to Michaelhouse, and you can give me the grisly details later
– but not while I am eating.’

‘It is Warde,’ elaborated Walter. ‘He was eating his evening meal, when he began to cough. He is unable to stop and they think
he will die.’

‘You should come with me, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, aware of a gnawing unease growing in the pit of his stomach. ‘Warde
has a tickling throat, not a disease of the lungs. He should not cough so much that his colleagues are in fear of his life.’

‘What are you saying?’ demanded Michael, alarmed. ‘That someone has done something to him?’

‘I think we should bear it in mind,’ said Bartholomew, breaking into a run, not because of the promised double fee, but because
he liked Warde. ‘Do not forget that Warde is one of the King’s Commissioners.’

Because the Hall of Valence Marie enjoyed the patronage of the wealthy Countess of Pembroke, money was no object for the scholars
who lived there, and a good deal of it had been lavished on their home. The floor of the main hall had recently been relaid
with mature oak, so that rugs and rushes were not needed to hide it, like those in most other Cambridge buildings. Its planks
shone, carefully polished to show off the fine grain of the wood. The walls were adorned with tapestries sewn in bright colours,
and their quality was so outstanding that Bartholomew assumed they must have been made by the Countess’s talented ladies-in-waiting.

At the far end of the hall was a new minstrels’ gallery. It, too, was made from best-quality oak, and had been seasoned and
oiled to ensure it would last. The roof was a complex hammerbeam design, and had been painted in bright reds, golds and greens,
so that students bored with their lectures could tip their heads back and lose themselves in the intricate patterns that swirled
and twined above. Bartholomew was grateful that Michaelhouse had no such tempting distractions.

‘Quickly,’ called Master Thorpe from the dais at the far end of the hall. On the raised platform stood a table, which was
generally regarded as one of the finest pieces of furniture in Cambridge, even better than the one in St Mary’s Guildhall,
and was the envy of all the Colleges. Valence Marie Fellows had so much room, they were not obliged to sit sideways to make
sure everyone had a place, and they
had individual chairs rather than communal benches. Bartholomew ignored the brash luxury all around him, and strode to where
Thorpe bent over someone who lay on the floor behind the table. Michael followed.

The Master of Valence Marie was white with shock, and his normally immaculate cap of silver hair was in disarray. His eyes
were anguished as he watched Bartholomew approach. The other Fellows who clustered around him seemed equally appalled. Bartholomew
recognised a man named Thomas Bingham among them; Bingham had stepped into Thorpe’s shoes while he was in York, and had upset
his colleagues with his poor table manners.

‘We had just finished our evening meal, when Bingham began to wipe his teeth on the tablecloth again,’ explained Thorpe unsteadily.
He scowled at his Fellow. ‘None of us like that, and Warde took issue with him. They argued and Warde started to cough. We
took no notice at first, because he has been doing it for the last two weeks. You must have noticed him at the
Disputatio de quodlibet
?’

‘I did,’ said Michael. ‘But most people thought he was doing it to create an atmosphere of suspense – he started just as he
was about to announce the winner.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Bingham in a whisper. ‘I would not have quarrelled with him if I thought it would lead to this. Look what
has happened.’ He gestured to the prostrate figure on the floor.

Bartholomew knelt to examine the stricken man. Warde’s lips were pale, and he was having difficulty catching his breath. He
gripped his throat with one hand, while the other clutched a crucifix.

‘Help me,’ he croaked, terror in his eyes. ‘I cannot breathe. I am hot and my mind is spinning.’

‘Lie still,’ said Bartholomew. He spoke softly, knowing a calm voice often soothed a patient’s anxiety, and helped to relax
the constricting muscles that were part of the
problem. He ordered the circle of onlookers away, thinking it would be better for Warde to recover without an audience. He
heard Michael questioning them about what had happened, but they had little to add to Thorpe’s story. Warde had just consumed
a broth of leeks and cabbage – from the bowl that had been shared by all – when he had argued with Bingham. After a few moments,
he said he was short of breath. He then started to cough and fell to the floor, and Bartholomew had been summoned at Warde’s
own request.