The Hand of Justice (44 page)

‘He preferred Rougham’s horoscopes to my suggestions for his diet,’ said Bartholomew.

‘I can understand that,’ said Michael with feeling. ‘Perhaps I should do likewise.’

‘Only if you do not mind having medicines prescribed after an exchange of messages carried by children,’ said Redmeadow superiorly.
He nodded knowledgeably at Michael’s surprise. ‘Young Alfred de Blaston told me about Rougham’s so-called consultation with
Warde while we waited in Lavenham’s shop together the other day. I was collecting supplies for Doctor Bartholomew, and he
was waiting for a blackcurrant syrup for Warde.’

‘You should be careful,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘Rougham will complain to the Chancellor if he learns you are collecting tales
about him. And you do not want Tynkell to dismiss you.’

‘Tynkell would not do that!’ cried Redmeadow. He appealed to Michael. ‘Would he?’

Michael nodded. ‘Faced with a choice between keeping Rougham or you? Of course Tynkell will choose Rougham. We do not have
so many masters of medicine that we can afford them to leave in sulky tantrums over students who are easily replaceable.’
He patted Redmeadow’s arm. ‘But do not fret over Rougham. He is not worth the aggravation. Ignore him, and forget his insults.
There will be ways to repay him in the future. I may even help you myself.’

‘You will?’ asked Quenhyth eagerly.

‘Oh, yes. I shall not stand by and allow that arrogant
villain to insult my closest friend. It will irk Rougham deeply to learn that Warde left the Euclid to Matt, and not to his
own physician – and we shall certainly make something of
that
small fact.’

‘I have no idea why Warde did that,’ said Bartholomew, disliking Michael teaching his students how to be subversive. It might
prove a dangerous weapon in their inexperienced hands.

‘I do,’ said Redmeadow brightly. ‘Warde explained it in his will, and I heard Master Thorpe telling his son about it in the
High Street later.’

‘You seem to be party to a large number of private conversations,’ said Bartholomew, recalling how he had eavesdropped on
the Mortimers, too. ‘You are worse than Agatha for gossip.’

‘She says I am her equal,’ said Redmeadow with pride, although Bartholomew had not meant it to be a compliment.

‘You heard Master Thorpe and his son talking?’ asked Michael, not caring how Redmeadow had garnered his information, only
that he shared it. ‘I was under the impression that they barely acknowledge each other.’

‘They were quarrelling,’ said Redmeadow. ‘Master Thorpe was telling Rob what was in Warde’s will because he said he had done
something similar.’

‘I do not understand,’ said Michael.

‘Warde said in his will that Doctor Bartholomew is the only physician who will make proper use of the Euclid,’ explained Redmeadow.
‘He said Rougham, Lynton and Paxtone do not take arithmetic seriously, and he wanted his books to go where they would do some
good.’

‘He is right,’ said Michael, recalling several lengthy discussions between Bartholomew and Warde on just this subject. ‘Matt
alone of the Cambridge physicians is interested in mathematics. But why did Master Thorpe tell his
son this, when they can barely afford to be civil to each other?’

‘It was part of the fight,’ said Redmeadow, a little condescendingly. ‘Rob asked Master Thorpe what
he
might expect to inherit when Master Thorpe himself died – he was being nasty, talking enthusiastically about his father’s
death.’

‘Really,’ said Michael drolly. ‘He was being unkind? You do surprise me.’

Redmeadow flushed. ‘I am sorry. I am so used to pointing out the obvious to Deynman that now I tend to do it for everyone.
But, to continue with what I heard, Master Thorpe told Rob that all his property was willed to worthy causes – just as Warde’s
had been. The stuff about Warde’s bequest to Doctor Bartholomew – about their mutual love of arithmetic – came out when Master
Thorpe informed Rob that he was disinherited.’

Michael sighed. ‘That was rash. Rob is a lad who might kill over that sort of thing.’

‘But he is also the kind to kill for an inheritance,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Now he knows he does not have one, there is no point
in making an end of his father. Master Thorpe probably knew exactly what he was doing.’

Michael was intrigued by the fact that Paxtone and Wynewyk had fled the orchard when they thought they were about to be caught
there together, but still declined to tackle either scholar until he had something more specific to ask them. But the more
Bartholomew thought about their furtive, secret discussion concerning the Water of Snails and Rougham, the more worried he
became. What if Rougham
was
innocent of giving the medicine to Warde, as he claimed, and Paxtone had been the one to send it, knowing it might aggravate
Warde’s cough to danger point? Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair. But Rougham’s writing had been on the accompanying
note. And why would Paxtone do such a thing to Warde, anyway?

Then he recalled another conversation he had overheard in the orchard – some five or six days ago now. Paxtone had been talking
to Wynewyk about Rougham, and his words were still etched clearly in Bartholomew’s mind: ‘Rougham foils me at every turn,
and is making a damned nuisance of himself. I may be forced to take some radical steps.’ Had Paxtone taken ‘radical steps’
against Rougham, by dispensing remedies to unsuspecting patients in his name? And what business of Paxtone’s had Rougham been
foiling ‘at every turn’?

From the outset, Bartholomew had remained firm in his belief that Warde’s death had been due to natural causes – regardless
of what his students and Matilde, and even Rougham, had claimed – but now doubts began to clamour at him. It was odd for an
otherwise healthy man to die of
a cough, and it was also odd that Warde’s sudden and dramatic decline had occurred after swallowing Water of Snails. But Bartholomew’s
years as a physician had taught him that odd and inexplicable things happened to the human body all the time, so was he reading
too much into the matter? However, Paxtone’s words to Wynewyk in the orchard continued to nag at him.

‘Paxtone knows about poisons, because he is a physician,’ he said aloud. ‘He could easily have slipped something toxic to
Bosel and Warde – and even to Deschalers – by telling them it would improve their health. And while Rougham and I destroy
each other with accusations, he will encourage all our bewildered and wary patients to employ him instead.’

‘You think Paxtone is killing people in order to expand his practice?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘He does not seem the kind
of man to stoop to those depths, Matt. I thought you liked him.’

‘I do!’ Bartholomew accepted that acquiring more patients was an unusual motive for murder – and that Paxtone was hardly likely
to use someone like Wynewyk to help him to do it – but there was no other solution that he could see. ‘How else can we explain
his behaviour?’

Michael made no bones about the fact that he thought his friend was over-reacting. ‘There is no point in confronting him –
or Wynewyk,’ he said practically. ‘You heard them discussing Rougham and the Water of Snails together, but so what? Half the
town is speculating about that this morning.’

‘So we do nothing?’

‘We watch and wait. They will reveal themselves eventually, and then we will have our answers. They do not know you are suspicious
of them, so we have some advantage.’

‘They
do
know, Brother – or Paxtone does. He said as
much when I overheard them last week.’

But Michael still refused to act, and even claimed that a member of his own College and a respected
medicus
would never engage in anything overtly untoward, and that although their behaviour was suspicious and odd, there was probably
nothing illegal going on. Bartholomew gaped at him, knowing from experience that decent-seeming men often indulged themselves
in all manner of heinous deeds, but he saw the monk would not be convinced otherwise, and there was no point in pressing the
matter further. Unhappily, he tried to put it from his mind.

A while later, when the light of late afternoon began to fade into the gentler hues of early evening, he heard raised voices
coming from the College’s main gate. He abandoned his reading and went to look through the window to see what was happening.
His students were in the room with him, but Redmeadow and Quenhyth were studying, and neither so much as glanced up at the
commotion. Deynman, however, readily abandoned his Dioscorides and came to stand next to him.

Walter was hurrying across the yard towards them, his cockerel tucked under his arm. It did not look pleased when the porter
broke into a trot and it found itself vigorously jarred, and Bartholomew did not think he had ever seen a more outraged expression
on the face of a bird. Walter burst into the hallway and hammered on Bartholomew’s door.

‘Lenne’s son has just been,’ he said, clutching his pet firmly. ‘He wants you to visit his mother’s house. He says there is
something seriously amiss, and asks if you will go at once. No, Bird!’

The chicken had wriggled out of his grasp and shot into Bartholomew’s chamber. It fluttered straight under the bed, where
it knew it would be difficult to oust. Bartholomew snatched up his medicine bag and headed for the door,
content to let his students deal with the feathered intruder. Deynman had already grabbed a sword to encourage it out, and
Walter was screeching his horror that a sharp implement might hurt it.

‘I hope so,’ muttered Deynman, poking furiously. ‘It does not deserve to be in a College like Michaelhouse, with its dirty
manners and unwelcome visitations. It should be at Valence Marie, where no one cares whether it wipes its teeth on the tablecloth.’

‘Hens do not have teeth,’ said Redmeadow, jumping forward to prevent the agitated Walter from hurling himself on to Deynman’s
back.

‘Do not let it near my books,’ warned Bartholomew as he left. He started to run across the yard, not surprised when he heard
footsteps behind him and saw Quenhyth following. Redmeadow was not far behind, more than happy to let Deynman manage Bird
and its angry owner alone.

‘You might need us,’ said Redmeadow breathlessly, trying to keep up with the rapid pace Bartholomew was setting. ‘And I have
been reading about diseases of the lungs all afternoon.’

They dashed up St Michael’s Lane, then along the High Street and left into Shoemaker Row, where the cobblers were beginning
to close their shops for the night. Awnings were lowered, windows shuttered, wares carried inside, and the familiar tap of
hammers on leather was stilled.

The door was opened immediately and they were ushered inside. As usual, the room was hazy with smoke, and the remains of a
simple meal – weak broth and a crust of bread – sat on a stone by the hearth. Mistress Lenne lay on her bed, the covers folded
carefully around her. The room had been swept and dusted, and her few belongings arranged neatly on the shelves. Her son had
not been idle, and had ensured she would not die in a house that was dirty or untidy.

‘She is not breathing as she should,’ said Lenne, gesturing to the pale, sunken-eyed figure. There was panic in his eyes.
‘I do not know what to do.’

‘You can summon a priest,’ said Bartholomew, crouching next to the old woman and taking one of her bony wrists to feel a weak,
thready pulse that beat erratically. ‘You have made her comfortable and she is not in pain. There is no more either of us
can do now.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Lenne, aghast. ‘So soon?’

‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, standing. ‘It will not be long now.’

‘This is my fault,’ whispered Lenne, stricken. ‘I should not have done what she asked.’

‘What?’ asked Bartholomew, hoping he was not about to be burdened with the confession that Lenne had given her some potion
prescribed by Rougham – or by Paxtone, for that matter.

‘She asked me to carry her to St Mary the Great,’ said Lenne tearfully. ‘She wanted to visit the Hand of Justice. I told her
I did not want to take her, but she begged me so pitifully.’

‘You did the right thing,’ said Bartholomew kindly. ‘Perhaps the journey did hasten her end, but I doubt she would have lived
beyond tomorrow anyway. You did what she asked, and I am sure she appreciates that.’

‘I thought the Hand might save her,’ whispered Lenne. ‘I thought it might be moved by her suffering, and reach out to cure
her. But I was wrong.’

‘I do not think she wants a cure,’ said Bartholomew, wondering what had induced the old woman to undertake a painful and exhausting
journey in the last hours of her life. He was certain it was not to ask for her own recovery, since she had cared little about
that after her husband’s death. Perhaps it was to ask forgiveness for ancient sins – long forgotten by humans, but ones she
feared would be
remembered when her soul was weighed.

Lenne’s eyes filled with tears. Quenhyth offered to fetch a priest, then slipped quietly out of the house when Lenne was unable
to reply. Soon he returned with Father William, whom he had spotted leaving St Mary the Great after a hard day of supervising
access to the Hand of Justice. William knelt next to Mistress Lenne, and began the final absolution. He spoke in a confident,
booming voice that attracted a small group of neighbours, who removed hats and crossed themselves, and stood in a silent,
deferential semicircle outside to wait for the end.

It was not long before William completed his business – his absolutions were almost as rapid as his masses, although people
liked them because what they lacked in length they more than compensated for in volume. He promised to pray for her that night,
then headed for the door, graciously declining Lenne’s offer of a penny for his services. Before he left, he took Bartholomew’s
arm and pulled him to one side.

‘Sheriff Tulyet took that poison business seriously,’ he whispered in the physician’s ear.

‘What poison business?’ asked Bartholomew, his attention still fixed on his patient. ‘Bosel?’