The Hand of Justice (5 page)

‘Isnard wants you again,’ said Quenhyth, when Bartholomew reached him. ‘I was about to go to him myself, but now you are here,
I shall have my breakfast instead.’

‘You can come with me,’ said Bartholomew, deciding that if he was to forgo a meal, then Quenhyth could do so, too. He was
not overly dismayed by the prospect of sacrificing breakfast. Michaelhouse fare had seen something of a downward turn in quality
over the past ten days or so, and he knew he was not going to miss much. ‘And Redmeadow, too. We are going to discuss fevers
this week, and this will give you some practical experience. Roger Bacon asserts the superiority of experience over authority
and speculation, after all.’

He shot a combative glance in Michael’s direction and
the monk sighed, but declined to argue. If his friend wanted to play with the fires of heresy, and would not listen to advice
about how not to burn himself, then Michael could do no more to help him. While Quenhyth sped across the yard to fetch his
fellow student, Bartholomew leaned against the gate and surveyed the College that was his home.

The centrepiece was Michaelhouse’s fine hall-house. It boasted a lavish entrance with the founder’s coat of arms emblazoned
above it, which opened to a wide spiral staircase that led to the hall and conclave above. Below were the kitchens and various
storerooms and pantries. At right angles to the hall were a pair of accommodation wings, both two storeys tall and with sloping,
red-tiled roofs. A wall opposite the hall made an enclosed rectangle of the buildings, and its sturdy oaken gate meant that
the College was well able to protect itself, should it ever come under attack. There was a second courtyard beyond the first,
but this comprised mostly stables, storerooms and lean-to sheds, where the servants lived and worked. Past that was a long
strip of land that extended to the river.

Michael also decided to accompany Bartholomew, content to miss a Michaelhouse breakfast on the understanding that they ate
a better one in a tavern later. He was just asking for more details about Isnard’s health when there was a sudden commotion
in the kitchens. First came a screech of rage from Agatha the laundress – Agatha was the College’s only female servant, and
she ran Michaelhouse’s domestic affairs with ruthless efficiency – and then a cockerel crowed. Within moments, the bird came
hurtling out of Agatha’s domain in a flurry of feathers and flapping wings, followed by the laundress herself, who was brandishing
a long carving knife. Agatha was an intimidating sight at any time, but being armed and angry made her especially terrifying.

‘I will chop off your head next time, you filthy beast!’ she bellowed, waving the weapon menacingly but declining
to enjoin an undignified chase that the bird would win. It fluttered to a safe distance, fluffed up its feathers, then crowed
as loudly as it could. Agatha started towards it, furious at being issued with what was clearly a challenge.

‘Leave him alone!’

Walter the porter, who owned the cockerel, was out of the gatehouse and steaming across the yard, intent on rescuing his pet
from the enraged laundress. He was a morose man, who seldom smiled and who cared for nothing and no one – except the annoying
bird that had made an enemy of almost everyone who lived in the College. It crowed all night, keeping scholars from their
sleep; it slipped into their rooms when they were out and left unwelcome deposits on their belongings; and it terrorised the
cat, which people liked because it was friendly and purred a lot. The cockerel was not friendly, and did nothing as remotely
endearing as purring.

‘Keep that thing away from the hens I am preparing for dinner,’ Agatha yelled at Walter. ‘It is a vile, perverted fiend, and
if I catch it I shall serve it to you stuffed with eel heads and rhubarb leaves.’

Michael turned to Bartholomew in alarm. ‘Should we allow her control of our kitchens if she has the ability to devise dishes
like that?’

‘You would not dare to stuff Bird!’ howled Walter in fury. ‘I will kill you first!’

‘You could try,’ snarled Agatha, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. She still waved the knife and was clearly ready
to inflict serious damage with it, preferably on something avian.

Bartholomew stepped forward quickly. ‘Agatha, please. No harm has been done, and Walter will try to keep his bird out of your
way in future.’

‘He had better do more than try, if he does not want me to wring its neck,’ she hissed, before turning on her
heel and stalking back inside. The cockerel watched her with its pale, beady eyes and released a triumphant cackle. Fortunately
for all concerned, the sound of smashing pottery came from the scullery at that point, and Agatha was more interested in what
had been broken than in prolonging the duel with her feathered opponent.

‘Bird knows how to look after himself,’ said Walter to Bartholomew with considerable pride. ‘She will never catch him, no
matter what she says.’

‘She might,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘I have seen her move like lightning in the past, and Bird is becoming overconfident. You
should lock him away if you do not want him cooked.’

Walter strode to the tatty creature and scooped it under his arm. If anyone else had tried to do the same, there would have
been a frenzy of flailing claws and snapping beaks, and Bartholomew marvelled that Walter had made a connection with such
a surly beast. He supposed that each of them must have recognised a kindred spirit.

‘There now, Bird,’ Walter crooned, kissing the top of its feathered head with great tenderness. ‘You are safe now. I will
not let anyone stuff you – and especially not with eels and rhubarb.’

‘I do not blame Agatha for wanting to dispense with Bird,’ said Michael, as the porter entered his gatehouse and slammed the
door behind him. ‘It ate a page from the
Insolubilia
I am writing the other day – the part where I expand on dialectic being the only science to prove the existence of God. All
that brilliance, and it ended up in the gullet of that foul creature.’

Bartholomew was not amused when Quenhyth arrived not only with Redmeadow, but with Rob Deynman, too. Deynman was a student
tolerated at Michaelhouse because his father paid extra fees, but he was becoming an embarrassment, because he was the oldest
undergraduate in the University
and would never pass his disputations. Bartholomew had also learned from bitter experience that the lad could not be allowed
near patients, either. That morning, however, he did not have the energy to send him on a different mission, so Deynman formed
part of the small procession that hurried along Milne Street on its way to Isnard’s house.

‘There is that strange woman again,’ said Deynman, pointing towards the churchyard of St John Zachary. ‘She arrived here two
or three weeks ago, and does not know who she is. People say she is looking for a lover who died in the French wars.’

Bartholomew followed the direction of his finger and saw a dirty, huddled figure sitting atop one of the tombs, rocking herself
back and forth. She was so encased in layers of rags that it was impossible to tell what she looked like, but he could see
long, brown hair that had probably once been a luxurious mane, although it was now matted with filth, and a white, pinched
face that had a half-starved look about it. She was singing, and her haunting melody cut through the noise of the street,
its notes sad and sweet above the clatter of hoofs and the slap of footsteps in mud.

‘Then she will not find him here,’ said Quenhyth unsympathetically. ‘She should visit Paris or Calais instead. We should hurry,
Doctor. Isnard’s summons sounded urgent.’

‘She looks familiar,’ said Bartholomew, pausing to look at her and ignoring Quenhyth’s impatience at the delay. The student
was hoping they would tend Isnard and still be back at Michaelhouse in time for breakfast; being impecunious, he tended to
be less fussy about what he ate, especially when it was free. ‘But I cannot place her face.’

‘You cannot know her,’ said Deynman. ‘She is a stranger here.’

‘She should go to the Canons at St John’s Hospital,’ suggested Redmeadow, ready to foist the problem on to someone else. The
kindly Canons often found a bed and
a meal for those who were out of their wits, and all budding physicians knew they provided a quick and easy solution for some
of their more inconvenient cases.

‘I took her there last week,’ said Quenhyth, grabbing Bartholomew’s sleeve in an attempt to drag him away. ‘She was in the
Market Square talking to some onions, and it occurred to me that there might be something amiss with her wits.’

‘Such an incisive diagnosis,’ muttered Redmeadow. ‘She talks to onions, and it crosses his mind that she might be addled.’

Quenhyth did not dignify the comment with a reply, and continued to address Bartholomew. ‘I escorted her to the Canons, but
she ran away from them the next day. They told me she will leave Cambridge when she realises that whatever she is looking
for is not here, and will head off to haunt some other town. They say they have seen many such cases since the plague.’

Bartholomew pulled away from Quenhyth, not liking the way his student had taken to manhandling him on occasions. He rummaged
in his scrip and found some farthings. ‘Give her these,’ he said to Deynman. ‘Or better still, go with her to Constantine
Mortimer’s shop, and ensure she buys bread – not ribbons or some such thing.’

‘But by that time you will have finished Isnard’s treatment,’ cried Deynman in dismay. ‘And I will not have seen what you
did.’

‘Go and help her, Deynman,’ said Bartholomew softly, moved by the sight of the pitiful creature who rocked and sang to herself.
‘She needs you.’

Reluctantly, Deynman did as he was told. Bartholomew saw him bend to speak to her, then politely offer his arm, as he might
to any lady in his rich father’s house. Physician Deynman would never be, but he had better manners and a kinder heart than
his classmates. Bartholomew was about
to resume his journey to Isnard when Deynman issued a shriek of horror.

Bartholomew’s blood ran cold. The woman had seemed more pathetic than violent, and he had thought she was not the kind to
harm anyone who might try to help her. But he could have been wrong – and if he were, then he had forced Deynman to pay the
price for his misjudgement. He stumbled across the ancient graves towards them, fearing the worst. But it was not Deynman
who had come to grief; it was Bosel the beggar. The alms-hunter lay curled on his side in the long grass of the churchyard,
his skin waxy with the touch of death.

‘Poisoned?’ asked Michael in surprise. He watched Bartholomew examine the beggar’s corpse as they waited for the Sheriff to
arrive. ‘Are you sure? Who would poison Bosel? He is harmless.’

‘You would not think that if you were one of the people he had burgled,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Or if you were Thomas Mortimer,
and had him claiming you deliberately ran over Lenne and Isnard.’

‘You think Mortimer killed Bosel?’ asked Michael. He rubbed his chin, nodding to himself. ‘Ridding yourself of an inconvenient
witness
is
a powerful motive for murder.’

‘I thought he had more sense, though,’ said Bartholomew, prising open Bosel’s mouth to show Michael the discoloured tongue
and bloodied gums. ‘He must have known he would be the obvious suspect.’

‘Desperate men are not always rational,’ replied Michael, looking away quickly before he lost the illicit early breakfast
he had eaten in his room before mass that morning. Bosel’s mouth was not a pretty sight. ‘But Thomas is constantly drunk these
days. I am surprised he could carry out a murder using as discreet a means as poison.’

‘His family, then,’ said Bartholomew. ‘His brother
Constantine and all those nephews and cousins. Still, I am surprised. Poisoning Bosel is an utterly stupid thing to do.’

Michael agreed. ‘Poor Bosel. I shall miss his insolent demands for spare change on the High Street. What killed him?’

‘He ate or drank something caustic that burned his mouth and innards,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It would not have been an easy death.’

‘She might have killed him,’ suggested Quenhyth, nodding to where Deynman was sitting on a tomb with his arm around the shoulders
of the madwoman. It was not quite clear who was comforting whom, and Deynman seemed to be deriving as much relief from the
warm, close presence of another living person as was the woman herself. ‘She was discovered next to his corpse, after all.’

‘She does not have the wits,’ said Michael, although Bartholomew remained sceptical. His alarm when he had thought she might
have harmed Deynman was still bright in his mind.

‘She says she was keeping his body company,’ said Redmeadow, eyeing her uneasily, as if he did not know what to believe. ‘She
claims she found him at dawn this morning, and did not want him to be alone. She was waiting for a priest to come and relieve
her of her vigil. She told me Deschalers the grocer gave Bosel his new clothes, though. Perhaps that is significant.’

Bartholomew did not see why it should be. ‘Bosel was a beggar, and people were always giving him things. It is how he made
his living.’

‘I do not see Deschalers poisoning him to get them back, either,’ said Michael, surveying what had once probably been some
decent garments, but that had become soiled and ragged in Bosel’s possession. He glanced up and saw the Sheriff striding towards
him. ‘But this is
his
problem, not mine. The victim here is a townsman.’

Tulyet listened in silence to Bartholomew’s opinion that Bosel had died from ingesting something highly caustic. The physician
pointed out an empty wineskin and a pool of vomit near the body, which he thought indicative that Bosel had died fairly soon
after swallowing the substance. He did not possess the skill claimed by some of his medical colleagues to determine an exact
time of death, but a lump of bread in Bosel’s scrip was unmistakably the kind handed out by the Canons of St John’s Hospital
at seven o’clock each evening. Therefore Bosel had died later than seven. The body was icy cold, suggesting it had been dead
several hours. Tulyet bullied and cajoled Bartholomew until he had the physician’s best guess: Bosel had probably died late
the previous evening, most likely before midnight.