The Hand of Justice (39 page)

‘Bishop Bateman of Norwich habitually wiped his teeth on the tablecloth,’ whispered Michael to Bingham. ‘And look what happened
to him.’

‘You think Bateman’s tablecloth was soaked in poison?’ asked Bingham in horror, crossing himself vigorously. ‘I shall never
clean my teeth on communal materials again!’

‘That is
my
patient,’ came a loud voice from the far end of the hall. Bartholomew’s heart sank when he saw Rougham striding towards them.
The Gonville physician had changed his wet clothes, although he still wore Bartholomew’s cloak. ‘Stand back, if you please.’

Bartholomew could not argue. Warde
was
Rougham’s client, and he did not want another fracas with the man. Many physicians guarded their wealthier patients jealously,
and Rougham was one of them. He stood and backed away, but Warde snatched at his hand.

‘No,’ he croaked. ‘Not Rougham. You.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Rougham, drawing up a chair and leaning over him. He was obviously not going to kneel, as Bartholomew had
done. He smiled at the bewildered scholars who stood with Michael. ‘Thank you for summoning me, Bingham. You may well have
saved your colleague’s life by ignoring his fevered demands for another
medicus
.’

Bingham looked sheepish when Thorpe raised questioning
eyebrows. ‘I sent word to both physicians, lest one should tarry or be unavailable,’ he confessed. ‘I am sorry, but I wanted
to do all I could to help Warde.’

‘What is the matter?’ asked Rougham in a loud voice, as though his patient’s choking had also rendered him deaf and stupid.
‘Did you take the Water of Snails I prescribed? If you followed my recommendations I cannot imagine why you are in this state.’

‘Angelica,’ whispered Warde, clearly finding it difficult to talk. ‘Please, I have a …’

‘I did not hear you,’ bawled Rougham. ‘What about angelica?’

‘Do not speak, Warde,’ said Bartholomew. It was hard to stand by and see the man struggle to converse when it was obviously
making his condition worse. ‘Lie still and take deep breaths.’

‘Angelica,’ pronounced Rougham, eyeing Bartholomew coldly. ‘That is something
I
would never prescribe, so it is doubtless one of your remedies. It is
your
fault Warde is in this state. If he had followed my advice, then he would not be lying here, on his deathbed.’

Warde’s gagging grew more frenzied, and Bartholomew saw he had gripped the crucifix so tightly that it had cut his hand.

‘Tell me,’ demanded Rougham, taking Warde’s arm and giving it a shake. ‘Did you take angelica instead of the Water of Snails?
Did you go against the express orders of your own physician in favour of a man whose methods are so dangerously irregular?’

Warde drew breath with difficulty, and Bartholomew felt anger rise inside him. ‘Do not speak, Warde,’ he said tightly, longing
to push Rougham away from the ailing man. ‘Just concentrate on breathing. We can talk later, when you are recovered.’

Rougham sneered. ‘You are trying to silence him, so he
will go to his grave without incriminating you. You have killed him with your angelica, and you are trying to cover your tracks.’

The Valence Marie scholars listened with open-mouthed astonishment. Warde’s breathing grew more laboured, as a result, Bartholomew
thought, of Rougham agitating him by mentioning deathbeds and graves. He moved away, thinking that if he was out of Rougham’s
presence, the Gonville physician might not rant so. He would take him to task about his appalling bedside manners later, when
there was no one to hear him tell the man he was a pompous fool.

‘And now you are running away,’ jeered Rougham. ‘You are unable to watch a man die, knowing you are responsible.’

‘Ignore him, Matt,’ warned Michael, sensing his friend’s growing anger. ‘Angelica never did anyone any harm. My grandmother
chews it all the time.’

‘Warde was better after he took the angelica,’ said Thorpe, joining the debate in a wary voice. ‘His coughing eased, and he
had a better night of sleep than he has enjoyed in a long time – we all did. We thought he was on the mend. Until now.’

‘It is a delayed reaction,’ pronounced Rougham authoritatively. ‘With angelica you think you are well, but find you are suddenly
worse.’ He turned back to Warde again. ‘I ordered you to pray to the Hand of Justice for a cure, too. Did you do it? I thought
I saw you with the other petitioners.’

‘Water of Snails!’ rasped Warde, and everyone craned forward to hear him. ‘I took it. Before the meal. Look on the table.’
He coughed again, and Bartholomew itched to go to him, to ease him into a position where he could breathe easier. ‘Not Bingham’s
fault.’

All eyes went to Warde’s place at the high table, and
Bartholomew recognised the little phial containing the Water of Snails that Lavenham had prepared two days before. He wondered
how Warde had come to have it, since Master Thorpe had said he would never persuade his colleague to drink such a potion,
and had declined to purchase it for him.

‘Oh,’ said Rougham, knocked off his stride. He recovered quickly. ‘But the harm was already done with the angelica, and my
Water of Snails was taken too late to help.’

‘It came from you,’ wheezed Warde accusingly. ‘You sent it. With a note. I took it. Because I was feeling better. But I wanted
a quicker cure. The sermon.’

‘He is due to give the public address at St Mary the Great tomorrow,’ explained Thorpe. ‘He has been worried that he will
be unable to do it, because of the cough. I suppose he took the Water of Snails as a precaution. I can think of no other reason
that would induce him to swallow the stuff.’

Warde’s vigorous nodding showed his Master’s assumptions were right. Bartholomew noticed there was a bluish tinge around his
nose and mouth that had not been there before, and grew even more concerned. He saw students standing in a silent semicircle
nearby, exchanging distraught glances. A kind, patient scholar like Warde would be sorely missed if anything were to happen
to him.

‘But I did not send you Water of Snails with any note,’ said Rougham, puzzled. ‘I gave a recipe for the concoction to Master
Thorpe, who took it to Lavenham to be made up.’

‘You sent it,’ asserted Warde in a feeble voice. ‘Today.’ This time his coughing was so vigorous that he began to make gasping,
retching sounds that were painful to hear.

‘What are you saying?’ demanded Rougham. ‘Why would I send you such a thing, when I had already issued your Master with instructions
and a list of ingredients?’

‘Enough!’ snapped Bartholomew, finally angered sufficiently to step forward and assert himself. Warde’s breathing was becoming
increasingly laboured, and he saw that unless Warde stopped trying to talk he would indeed die. ‘Close your eyes and take
deep, even breaths. Do not speak.’

Rougham drew breath to argue, but Bartholomew shot him a look so full of barely controlled rage that he closed his mouth with
a snap audible at the other end of the hall.

‘I saw the package and the letter,’ said Bingham to Rougham. ‘You sent Warde the phial, along with a message carrying instructions
for him to swallow every drop.’

‘But I did not send him anything!’ insisted Rougham, becoming alarmed. ‘I did not even know he had ignored my advice and taken
angelica.’ He almost spat the last word as he treated Bartholomew to a glare of his own.

Bingham crouched down and rummaged in Warde’s scrip, producing a note scrawled on parchment: it was unquestionably Rougham’s
spidery hand. He handed it to Thorpe.

‘“Drink all herein of
Aqua Limacum Magistr.
for purge of phlegm and consumptions of the lungs”,’ read Thorpe. He looked at Bartholomew. ‘
Aqua Limacum Magistr.
?’

‘
Limacum Magistralis
is the Latin description for Water of Snails,’ explained Bartholomew absently, more concerned by the patient’s rapidly deteriorating
condition. ‘We can discuss this later. I want you all to leave, so Warde can lie quietly, and—’

‘One of my students must have attached that message to the Water of Snails, and sent it to Warde by mistake,’ interrupted
Rougham. ‘That is the only possible explanation. I prescribe
Aqua Limacum Magistralis
to lots of people. But enough of that. Warde must rouse himself and walk, so that exercise will clear his lungs of the phlegm
that chokes them.’

‘Leave him alone,’ said Bartholomew quietly, as the
Gonville physician stepped towards Warde. He hauled the cloth from the table and bundled it under Warde’s head, to make a
pillow.

‘Water of Snails,’ whispered Warde weakly. ‘Killed me.’

‘You will not die,’ said Bartholomew, although he was now not so sure. He struggled to hide his concern as he spoke gently
to his patient, again hoping that a calm voice might work its own magic. ‘Lie still, close your eyes and take a breath. And
now release it slowly. And …’

He faltered, and the watching scholars strained forward to see why he had stopped speaking.

‘What is it, Matt?’ asked Michael quietly. ‘What is wrong?’

Bartholomew sat back on his heels and looked accusingly at Rougham. ‘He is dead.’

Rougham looked as shocked as Bartholomew felt. ‘It was
you
who tended him as he breathed his last, not me. You are the one who killed him. You probably did it for the fourpence you
will earn as Corpse Examiner. I always said it was not a good idea to appoint a man who needs the money.’

Warde had been a popular man, not just in the University, but in the town, too, and people were dismayed by his death. In
Michaelhouse the following day, Suttone, the gloomy Carmelite, began to speculate about whether Warde’s fatal cough meant
that the plague had returned, pointing out that the pestilence had also carried folk away with horrifying speed. Bartholomew
argued that it was not, but neither could convince the other, so they eventually fell silent by mutual consent, having thoroughly
depressed anyone who had listened to them.

‘No one believes Rougham’s claim that you killed Warde, Matthew,’ said Father William kindly, as the Fellows took their places
at the high table for breakfast. It was a Sunday, and the sun was shining through the hall windows.

‘He is saying that publicly?’ asked Bartholomew, dismayed. ‘Already? But Warde only died last night.’

‘Rougham is an evil man,’ declared Suttone. ‘When the Death returns, he will be first to go.’

‘You identify a good many people who will “go” the instant the pestilence appears,’ observed Langelee, reaching for the ale
jug and pouring himself a generous measure. ‘Are we to assume that it will be of short duration, then? All the evildoers will
be struck dead in the first few moments?’

‘And the rest of you shortly thereafter,’ replied Suttone, fixing him with a cool gaze. ‘The wicked first, normal sinners
second.’

‘Who will be left?’ asked Michael, snatching the bowl of egg-mess flavoured with lumps of mutton fat, just as Clippesby was
reaching for it. ‘You and which other saint?’

‘Not Peterkin Starre, whose Hand lies in St Mary the Great, because he is dead already,’ said Clippesby, who had brushed his
hair with a teasel in honour of the Sabbath, and did not look quite as peculiar as usual. ‘Walter’s cockerel informs me that
he was no saint anyway. Bird believes the whole business with the Hand of Justice is shameful, and says someone should put
an end to such gross deception by telling the truth about it.’

‘Does he, indeed?’ asked William archly, not pleased that the enterprise he had created should be criticised from avian quarters.
‘And what would Bird know of holy matters? He does not even know the correct time to crow. He woke up the entire College last
night by braying at three o’clock in the morning. The scholars of Ovyng Hostel
and
Paxtone of King’s Hall complained about him again today.’

‘That thing is asking for its neck to be wrung,’ agreed Langelee. ‘Unfortunately, it is not easy to catch. I have tried, believe
me, and so has Agatha.’

‘Bird enjoys being chased,’ said Clippesby, taking the bowl that had contained the egg-mess from Michael. He looked from the
monk’s heaped trencher to the empty vessel with narrowed eyes. ‘I think you have taken my share there, as well as your own,
Brother.’

‘Have I?’ asked Michael breezily. He rammed his knife into the eggs, and transferred a minuscule amount to Clippesby. ‘There
you are. The dish was half-empty this morning. I suppose it is just another example of Michaelhouse cutting costs.’ He glared
at Wynewyk.

‘More,’ said Clippesby, surveying the two unequal portions with dissatisfaction.

Michael sighed in annoyance, but did as he was told. Displeased about losing half his breakfast, the monk went on the offensive,
determined to vent his temper on someone. ‘When Matt and I were walking back from Valence Marie last night, after dealing
with poor Warde, I saw someone lurking in the churchyard of St John Zachary. Now, what would an honest and law-abiding scholar
be doing in such a place at such a time?’

Silence greeted his words, until it was broken by Langelee. ‘None of us understands what you are talking about, Brother. Who
do you mean?’

‘Wynewyk,’ said Michael, turning to fix steady eyes on the hapless lawyer. ‘I saw him quite clearly, and he saw us – which
was why he darted for cover, I imagine. He did not expect any of his colleagues to be abroad at such an hour.’

Bartholomew regarded Wynewyk in surprise. He had not seen anyone hiding behind bushes on his way home. However, he had not
noticed very much, because his mind had been teeming with questions about Warde’s death, and he had been furious about Rougham’s
accusations.

‘It is not easy to stretch Michaelhouse’s paltry income to cover all our needs,’ replied Wynewyk stiffly. ‘And, in order
to make it go further, I am occasionally obliged to deal with men who make better offers than our regular suppliers. It sometimes
requires the odd nocturnal assignation.’

‘I do not like the sound of this,’ said Suttone sanctimoniously. ‘I do not want my College associated with shady deals that
see me eating victuals that “fell off the back of a cart”.’