The Hand of Justice (54 page)

‘Very well; we accept that,’ said Cheney, after a moment of thought. ‘But he had no reason to harm
Deschalers
. And I imagine not Bess, either. He was not alone in taking her
for a tumble. Even Deschalers escorted her to his home once, and he was ill. And there were others.’

‘Who?’ demanded Michael.

‘She offered herself to me,’ said Morice, indicating to Bartholomew that the poor woman must have been desperate. ‘But I declined,
because my wife does not approve of whores in the house.

‘She came to me, too,’ said Cheney. ‘She offered to do whatever I liked in return for information about her man. But I had
nothing to tell her, so I decided against taking her up on her suggestion.’

‘Very noble,’ muttered Michael. ‘But what about Deschalers? Did he have information for her?’

‘None he shared with us,’ said Stanmore. ‘But you cannot seriously think Mad Bess is involved in this, Brother? Perhaps she
just found this phial and drank its contents because she was too addled to know that consuming things you find in the street
is unwise.’

Bartholomew was about to point out that henbane was expensive and Bess was unlikely to have discovered some by chance, when
Paxtone hurried up to them. His face was bright with excitement as he took Bartholomew and Michael by the arms and dragged
them away from the merchants. Bartholomew smiled warily, uncertain how to react to a man who had so recently darted down an
alley to avoid meeting him. Paxtone did not seem to notice his distrust.

‘I analysed that phial you found, Matt. You are right: it did contain poison! As far as I can tell the compound is indeed
Water of Snails – it contains blood and shell, not to mention part of a leaf that is definitely scabious. But I found something
else too: henbane, just as you predicted. I believe it was boiled down to form a very concentrated poison, which explains
why Bess sweated, was dizzy and complained of not being able to breathe – all symptoms
of swallowing henbane, as you said. I sent one of my students to look it up in Gonville’s library. They have volumes on that
sort of thing.’

‘You did not go yourself?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether he would admit to being seen with Wynewyk just a few moments
before.

Paxtone looked puzzled. ‘No, why?’

‘You have been in King’s Hall since we last met?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘The whole time?’

This time Paxtone’s expression was more difficult to read. ‘I was afraid one of my students would tamper if I left the experiment
unsupervised. You know what these young men are like. God knows, Deynman, Redmeadow and Quenhyth are meddlesome enough.’

Bartholomew agreed, trying not to show that he found Paxtone’s prevarication deeply disturbing. Could he trust Paxtone’s analysis
of the poison, when it was possible he had administered or created it himself. But, if that were the case, then why was he
so willing to share his ‘findings’? Surely, the safest thing would be to deny it contained poison at all? Bartholomew exchanged
a glance with Michael, and saw the monk was as confounded as he was.

‘Thank you,’ said Michael, aware that the King’s Hall physician was waiting for his discoveries to be acknowledged. ‘This
will help us greatly. However, we still do not know the answer to one basic question: did Bess knowingly obtain and swallow
this potion; was she given it, because she had uncovered something she should not have done in her quest to locate her man;
or did she simply find it, then take it because she was addled?’

‘We will have to question Lavenham again,’ said Bartholomew. He glanced at the apothecary’s shop and saw Isobel loitering
outside, passing the time by waggling her hips at anyone who looked in her direction. ‘Bess’s phial probably came from his
shop, and the one that killed Warde
certainly did. We should ask him how many more of the things are loose in the town.’

‘You have already interrogated Lavenham,’ said Cheney. Bartholomew jumped in alarm; he had not noticed the silent approach
of the merchants behind him, keen to hear what was being said.

‘And he did not like it, either,’ added Morice, his blue eyes darting here and there so that Bartholomew began to ask himself
if there was anyone in the town who could hold a conversation without behaving as though he had just committed the most heinous
of crimes. ‘He was upset, and claimed you hinted that he had poisoned Warde, Deschalers and Bottisham. It is all nonsense,
of course. Deschalers is no good to any of us dead. We needed him alive.’

‘You cannot interrupt the Commissioners’ meeting,’ said Cheney, catching Michael’s arm as the monk started determinedly towards
Lavenham’s shop. ‘We want them to decide whether there is enough evidence to warrant a formal hearing – and if you disturb
them now, they may never make up their minds. Lavenham and Bernarde are fighting for us, but Master Thorpe is annoyingly neutral.’

‘Look at the Mortimers,’ said Paxtone, pointing to where Thomas, Constantine and various nephews milled about. Thorpe was
with them. ‘They are as keen to know the verdict as you are.’

‘Of course,’ said Stanmore, watching as Thomas reeled against one of his clan, who struggled to hold him upright. The miller
tugged a wineskin from his belt, and Bartholomew saw he was fortifying himself in anticipation of grim news to come. ‘There
is a lot of money at stake.’

‘Look!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, gazing at the shop. ‘Is that smoke?’

‘It
is
smoke,’ said Stanmore, hurrying towards it. ‘And
there are flames. Lavenham’s shop is afire! Fetch water! Sound the alarm!’

In a town where many buildings were made of wood and had thatched roofs, and lots of houses were crammed into a relatively
small area, fire was something all citizens feared. To some, it was even more frightening than the plague, and there was nothing
like the stench of burning to throw the Fen-edge community into a panic. Humans were not the only ones terrified. Bartholomew
could hear horses whinnying in alarm, kicking their iron-shod hoofs against stable doors with a rhythmic drumming sound. He
hoped someone would let them out in time.

Stanmore’s frantic cries had not brought people running with buckets of water to douse the flames. Instead they had caused
havoc, with folk running here and there, desperate to return to their own properties and protect them before the fire could
spread. Stanmore himself was among them. His house was not far from Lavenham’s shop and, although he was wealthy enough to
have purchased a building without immediate neighbours, there was always the danger that his wooden storage sheds would be
ignited by the orange sparks that were dancing ever higher in the sky.

Bartholomew knew he should organise a chain of people with pails and other utensils, from the well in the Market Square to
Lavenham’s house. He also knew there would be burns, or injuries caused when folk fell in their haste to escape. But Matilde
was at home that day, and his first thoughts were for the safety of his friend. So like all the others, he ran to see to his
own interests, rather than trying to control the flames while there was still a chance.

Matilde was sitting quietly with Dame Pelagia when Bartholomew burst in on her. She listened to his garbled explanation, then
climbed the steps to her bedroom to throw open the window shutters and see what was
happening. Bartholomew followed, and saw that across the tiled and thatched rooftops smoke rose in a thick black pall, lit
here and there by orange embers that zigzagged into the grey sky like wild spirits. He and Matilde watched as the reed roof
of Trinity Hall began to smoulder. Scholars scrambled across it, flapping with blankets and rugs.

‘Young Alfred told me he saw Bess leaving Lavenham’s shop moments before she died,’ Matilde said quietly. ‘I was just telling
Dame Pelagia about it. I blame Lavenham for Bess’s death. He sold her a dangerous potion knowing she was unstable in her mind.
I think it was wrong of him.’

‘You do not know he sold her anything,’ said Bartholomew reasonably. ‘He may have refused her, and she found the phial somewhere
else. Apothecaries are careful with dangerous potions for exactly this reason: it is easy to blame them for accidents. For
all his faults, Lavenham is not a fool.’

‘But he is not careful, either. He will sell anyone anything, as long as they can pay. Alfred said Bess had something in her
hand – probably the phial. But you should go, Matt. The wind is from the north, and the fire will not affect me. See what
you can do to help others, while I round up Yolande’s children. She will be beside herself if she comes home and finds they
are not all here.’ She stood on tiptoe and kissed him. ‘Be careful, and come back when this is over.’

Bartholomew hurried down the stairs and raced through the parlour, noting it was already empty. Dame Pelagia had gone, but
he was sure she did not intend to use her wiry strength for hauling buckets of water from the town’s wells – she was more
likely to use the chaos as a diversion to carry out some mission of her own. He ran to Michaelhouse, where Langelee had students
gathering every available utensil that could hold water. They had already saturated the stable roof; sodden thatch made for
poor kindling. The Master had the situation well under control,
so the physician went to Stanmore’s house on Milne Street, which was a good deal closer to Lavenham’s shop, to see whether
his brother-in-law needed an extra pair of hands.

The sheds on Stanmore’s premises contained large quantities of valuable cloth, and the merchant stood in the centre of his
yard with his hands on his hips, bawling orders to an army of scurrying apprentices. Every surface was to be drenched. The
ground was already flooded, and apprentices were still hauling water-filled containers from the clothier’s private well.

‘Put that sheet over there!’ he yelled. ‘We will go up like Lavenham otherwise. Hurry, lads!’

The activity grew even more frenzied, and Bartholomew could hear leather buckets scraping against the well’s stone sides as
they were hauled up and down. Feet slapped in puddles as apprentices tore here and there, and the swish and drip of cascading
water soon added to the cacophony. Bartholomew coughed. Smoke was swirling in thick, gagging clouds, and the town reeked of
the acrid stench of burning. He could taste it in his mouth, and it seared the back of his throat.

He left the organised chaos of Stanmore’s yard and went to the very disorganised chaos of the area around Lavenham’s shop.
The fire had taken hold completely and the roof was a sheet of blazing yellow that sent sparks far into the sky and released
a column of thick, poisonous smoke. Paler billows poured through the windows, and the houses on either side were beginning
to catch, despite desperate attempts by their owners to save them. Already they were a lost cause. Wynewyk and Paxtone were
among the folk who gaped open-mouthed at the destruction. Paxtone was soot-stained, as if he had been closer to the blaze
than was wise. They saw Bartholomew looking at them and immediately moved apart, as though trying to show that their proximity
to each other was coincidence.

But there were more pressing matters than Wynewyk and Paxtone. Across Milne Street was Trinity Hall, which Bartholomew could
see was too close for comfort to the blaze, and Clare College was not much safer. Students were everywhere, struggling to
lay heavy, sodden blankets across the roofs. On a darker note, apprentices of masters whose homes were not at risk began to
mass, and Bartholomew thought some of them might decide it was a good time for a fight. He heard one or two mutter that the
Hand of Justice did not belong in the University’s church.

‘I have just been to the Hand of Justice,’ said Morice, who was watching Lavenham’s house burn without making any effort to
prevent it. Cheney was with him. ‘I asked it to make the wind blow a little more to the east, so that sparks do not come too
close to my own property.’

‘Where is Lavenham?’ asked Bartholomew, looking at the apothecary’s house and sure no one inside it would still be alive.
The building was a flame-engulfed shell, and loud pops from within indicated that potions and bottles were exploding in the
intense heat.

‘I have not seen him,’ said Morice. ‘Nor Thorpe or Bernarde. Damn! It would be unfortunate to lose more Commissioners, after
what happened to Warde. The King will wonder what we have been doing with them.’ His foxy face assumed an expression of alarm.
‘He might even raise our taxes, to warn us to be more careful in the future! That will not make me popular as Mayor.’

‘You will not have to worry about your popularity soon,’ said Bartholomew sharply. ‘Because you may not have a town to rule.
You should organise people with buckets, so the fire does not spread.’

‘Mayors do not deal with buckets!’ said Morice haughtily. ‘And there is nothing I can do to prevent this disaster, so I may
as well stand here and have a good view of it. At
least I will be able to tell the deceased’s next-of-kin exactly what happened to their loved ones.’

Bartholomew gaped, astounded that Morice was not prepared even to try to save the town that had elected him. He was relieved
when he heard a clatter of hoofs and saw Sheriff Tulyet cantering towards them on his grey mare.

‘We will lose the whole town if we do not douse those flames,’ Tulyet shouted to Morice, flinging himself out of his saddle.
He was sweaty and breathless, as though he had ridden hard. ‘I was returning from Trumpington when I saw the sparks. They
knew the name of that man.’

‘What man?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused by the Sheriff’s disjointed babble.

‘Bess’s lover,’ said Tulyet impatiently. ‘The villagers remembered a London messenger passing through just as the snows started.
His name was Josse. Poor Josse. He has been all but forgotten, because of Bottisham, Deschalers, Bosel, Lenne, Isnard and
now Warde. God’s blood, Matt! This is a violent little town. Is Oxford as bad as this?’

‘Your list of deaths and injuries will be even longer if you do not bring this blaze under control.’

Tulyet took a deep breath and turned to Morice. ‘Right. What has been done so far?’