The Hand of Justice (49 page)

‘Enough, Brother!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, laughing. ‘No more “ands”! There are only two of us here, not you and the King’s
army.’

‘You want some of it, too?’ asked Michael in alarm. ‘I was ordering for myself, and thought to let you choose what you wanted
separately.’

‘You can always ask for more later, if you find you are still hungry,’ said the landlord, although Bartholomew doubted that
would be the case. The Brazen George was noted for its ample portions, which was one of the reasons Michael liked it. ‘You
need to keep your strength up if you want to solve these nasty murders – Bottisham, Deschalers, Bosel and now poor Master
Warde – to say nothing of making sure Thomas Mortimer has his comeuppance for Lenne and Isnard.’

‘It is a daunting task,’ agreed Michael, fixing Bartholomew with a glare to indicate that the victuals ordered were wholly
inadequate to fuel such monumental labours.

‘And you have to combat Rougham,’ added the landlord. ‘He was vocal in his denunciation of Doctor Bartholomew
again this morning , and accused him of killing Warde with angelica. My wife uses angelica for cooking, and
she
has never poisoned anyone. I told Rougham to take his wicked tongue elsewhere. But I have just been told that
he
was the one who poisoned Warde all along!’

‘Told by whom?’ asked Bartholomew warily.

The landlord scratched his head. ‘I cannot recall where I first heard it, but the news is circulating the town like a fire
in a hayloft.’

He went to fetch Michael’s monstrous meal, leaving Bartholomew uneasy that lies and rumours seemed to spread with such ease.
Although he was not particularly worried about what folk thought of Rougham, he was concerned about what they might think
of him. He had very few wealthy patients left, and could not afford to lose the last of them because of Rougham’s slanderous
lies. And what of his less wealthy patients, who might be so alarmed by Rougham’s claims that they did not summon him when
they should? How many people would die before the spat ran its course?

‘I did not think my grandmother would listen to Rougham’s yarns without striking back,’ said Michael comfortably, guessing
the source of the tales about the Gonville physician. ‘She likes you.’

‘Which part of the case shall we discuss first?’ Bartholomew asked, suspecting that the old lady’s ploy had not made the situation
any better. All she had done was add fuel to an already raging fire. He eyed with some trepidation the food that was beginning
to pile up on the table. ‘God’s teeth, Brother! How much meat do you think we can eat? We are not wolves, you know.’

‘Meat is better for you than vegetables,’ declared Michael authoritatively. ‘I owe my sleek and healthy appearance to the
amount of meat in my diet. If I confined myself to women’s foods, like cabbages, I would not be the same person at all.’

‘Women’s foods?’ asked Bartholomew, who had never heard vegetables so described before.

‘They are green, and so increase the phlegm in the spleen. They are something all women should eat because they make them
more phlegmatic – less excitable. Men, on the other hand, should eat red foods – meat – which increase the blood and make
them choleric. It is obvious.’

‘Is it, indeed?’ asked Bartholomew, startled that the normally sharp-witted monk should invent such outlandish notions. But
then, Michael was not a rational man where food was concerned.

The monk ripped the leg off a chicken. ‘Those peas are all yours, by the way. Peas are a waste of stomach space.’

‘We should discuss these murders,’ said Bartholomew, watching Michael feed with weary resignation. The monk’s restricted diet
had lasted a mere two days. ‘Where shall we start?’

‘At the beginning: with Deschalers and Bottisham.’ Michael took a knife from his scrip and began to hack chunks of pork from
a bone. ‘They did not die naturally, but we do not know whether we have two murders, or a suicide and a murder. If the latter
is true, we do not know which of the pair killed the other or why. We know they disliked each other, and we know Deschalers
played cruel tricks on Bottisham. Each had a motive to kill.’

‘Deschalers
may
have used the last of his strength to stab Bottisham, but I am not convinced. I still think he was too ill.’

‘In which case we have Bottisham killing Deschalers, then himself. If he slew Deschalers by accident – although it is hard
to imagine how he “accidentally” slipped a nail into his rival’s palate – then I suppose he may have decided that suicide
was the only way to escape from his predicament without shaming his College. Still I find it hard to imagine anyone killing
himself by driving a nail into his
mouth. It cannot have been easy.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘Neither man had been dead long before the bodies were discovered, and Bottisham was
not the kind of man to make such a momentous decision without careful consideration. Besides, I still cannot believe that
Bottisham would kill anyone, even an ancient enemy like Deschalers. I liked him, Brother. He was a good man.’

‘I know,’ said Michael, his mouth full of meat. ‘But we cannot afford to let sympathy cloud our judgement. However, do not
forget the phial you found at the King’s Mill. It is possible there was something in that which lent Deschalers the strength
to commit murder – or something that turned gentle Bottisham into a killer.’

‘Perhaps,’ acknowledged Bartholomew.

‘Bernarde,’ mused Michael. ‘What about him as the culprit?’

‘I can see him dispatching Bottisham, who was due to argue against him in the mill dispute. But not Deschalers, who was on
his side.’

‘But Deschalers was not on his side,’ said Michael, spearing a slab of beef. ‘He refused to burn Mortimer’s Mill when the
rest of Millers’ Society thought it was a good idea. And do not forget that he had recently become Edward Mortimer’s kin by
marriage.’

‘I am more inclined to look elsewhere for our culprits – towards two men who we
know
have a liking for violent death.’

‘Thorpe and Edward,’ said Michael. ‘They arrive in the town, and within days two men are dead in odd circumstances. It
is
suspicious. But neither is stupid. Why would they indulge in a killing spree as soon as they return to the place that has
charged them with such crimes before?’

‘Because Edward has gained a good deal from Deschalers’s death? He is now a wealthy man.’

‘But he will not reap the benefits of what has been a thriving business,’ said Michael, chewing thoughtfully. ‘He dismissed
the trained apprentices, and it is only a matter of time before the enterprise Deschalers crafted so lovingly withers away.’

‘Do you think Edward is damaging it intentionally, to spite the town? Deschalers was a good grocer, and the loss of his services
will be a serious blow to his customers.’

‘Possibly. Where else will we purchase fruit, onions, cheese and dried beans? But perhaps he just does not care about what
might happen tomorrow. He is a young man, and they are often prone to live for the moment, with no thought for the future.’

‘But why kill Bottisham? Bottisham had never harmed either him or Thorpe.’

‘Perhaps Bottisham was in the wrong place at the wrong time,’ suggested Michael. ‘Or perhaps Thorpe and Edward did the killing
together. It would make sense. It could not have been easy to murder two men one after the other – one would have tried to
escape. If Edward and Thorpe acted together, they could have dispatched both victims simultaneously. However, this assumes
Bernarde and his boy are lying: that there
were
other people in the mill when they say it was empty.’

‘We must not forget Rougham, either,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There was henbane in the Water of Snails he is alleged to have sent
one man. Gonville wants to make a great deal of money from the Mortimers, so we can conclude that Rougham did not care for
their enemy Deschalers, despite the fact that he was a patient. He may well have poisoned Deschalers.’

‘You may be right about that, but he
liked
Bottisham – who was going to defend Mortimer’s Mill to the Commission, and who was a respected member of his own College.
I doubt very much whether Rougham killed
him
.’

But Bartholomew was not so sure. ‘This chapel is important to Rougham, and I believe he will do virtually anything to see
it built. Do you recall why Deschalers hated Bottisham? Because Bottisham refused to resort to bribery to win a case. It is
possible that Rougham prefers his lawyers corruptible, too, so he can be certain Gonville will win for the Mortimers – and
secure a handsome donation for the chapel into the bargain.’

Michael’s eyes were bright. ‘You argue this very strongly. It was not many hours ago that you were telling me the evidence
against Rougham was thin.’

‘That was before we knew for a fact that Warde was murdered,’ replied Bartholomew tersely. Paxtone flashed into his mind,
but he kept the thought to himself. ‘Also, we must not neglect Lavenham. He mixed Warde’s potion.’

Michael rubbed his chin. ‘And he might have added a fatal dose of henbane to it.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Either because he made a terrible and careless mistake. Or because Warde intended to represent the Mortimers’
arguments to the Commission.’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘The Water of Snails arrived with the note, and Bingham took both to Warde. But who knows what happened
to the phial while it was in Warde’s room? Any of his colleagues might have got to it. Last time I mentioned this, you told
me they have no motive, but it may be that we just have not discovered one yet.’

Bartholomew sighed. ‘So, our suspects for Deschalers’s murder are the Mortimers, Thorpe, Rougham and Bottisham. Our suspects
for Bottisham’s death are the Mortimers, Thorpe, Rougham, Deschalers and the Millers’ Society. And our suspects for Warde’s
death include Rougham, Lavenham and the scholars of Valence Marie.’

‘
And
the Millers’ Society. Do not forget who else bought Water of Snails, besides Rougham – Cheney, Morice and Bernarde.’

Bartholomew was disheartened. ‘So, we have a wealth of potential culprits, a few patchy motives, but not much else. We do
not know what Deschalers and Bottisham were doing in the mill together. Nor do we know whether we can believe Bernarde’s testimony
that they were alone when they died.’

‘But there is a common thread: Bernarde’s name crops up more often than it should. However, I have pushed him as far as I
can without actually accusing him of lying. We shall just have to wait.’

‘Wait for what?’

‘To see if our felon leaves us any better clues the next time he claims a victim.’

After leaving the Brazen George, Bartholomew and Michael saw a tabarded figure huddled in a nearby doorway with a large book
under his arm. They watched Wynewyk nod quickly to someone, as though concluding a discussion, then glance around quickly
before leaving. Wynewyk was not very good at conducting secret business without being seen, for he did not notice that Michael
was observing his antics intently. But compared to Paxtone, who left their hiding place openly, as though there was nothing
odd about two grown men crushed into a small place and muttering together, he was a veritable master of discretion.

While Paxtone headed for the Trumpington Gate, Wynewyk went north, but balked when he saw his Michaelhouse colleagues. He
crossed the High Street so their paths would not meet. Michael’s eyes narrowed as he, too, cut across the road, ignoring the
angry yell from a carter whose horse reared at the sudden movement. Wynewyk held his ground until the very last moment, when
he shot back across the street. He was not pleased when he found Bartholomew blocking his way.

‘Going somewhere?’ asked the physician. His eyes strayed to the book under Wynewyk’s arm. A chain was attached to it, one
end secured to the spine and the other hanging free. There were marks, where someone had taken a file and hewn through the
links, releasing the tome from its secure place in a hall or a library. The damage looked new, and he recalled Wynewyk touting
a book with a broken chain on a previous occasion.

‘Please,’ said Wynewyk, trying to nudge his way past. ‘I do not want to stop here.’

Bartholomew glanced across the road, and saw Michael pause to give Rob Thorpe a long, hard stare as they met. Thorpe glared
back, his expression loaded with malice, but Michael was used to dealing with rowdy and occasionally violent undergraduates,
and the ruffian found himself unable to intimidate the monk as he had many others in the town. Michael continued to glower
until Thorpe was forced to look away and move on.

‘I am late,’ said Wynewyk, trying to push Bartholomew out of his way. The physician declined to let him. He was growing tired
of Wynewyk’s suspicious behaviour, and wanted some answers.

‘You see a lot of Paxtone these days,’ he said.

‘Who?’ demanded Wynewyk testily. ‘I know no one of that name.’

Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly, thrown off guard by such flagrant lying. He saw Wynewyk’s shifty eyes and uncomfortable
manner, and was about to demand the truth when Michael arrived. The monk snatched up the severed book chain and gazed accusingly
at Wynewyk.

‘You could have borrowed a key to unlock this. You did not have to destroy the chain to get at it – they are expensive, you
know.’

‘I
do
know,’ snapped Wynewyk. ‘I am in charge of the College accounts, remember? It is my duty to purchase chains, and I assure
you that I am aware of exactly how much they cost. And I can also tell you we can ill afford to replace this one.’

Michael prevented Wynewyk from walking away. ‘What are you doing out with Michaelhouse’s much-prized copy of John Dumbleton’s
Summa logicae et philosophiae naturalis
?’

‘Someone has sawn halfway through its moorings,’ replied Wynewyk coldly. He waved the jagged end in
Michael’s face. ‘So, I completed the task, and I am taking it to the smith for repairs. What would you have me do? Leave it
for the would-be thief to steal when he finds time to complete his work? It is not the first time it has happened, either.
Now, if you will excuse me—’