The Hand of Justice (57 page)

‘The fire started in Lavenham’s shop,’ said Tulyet. ‘We do not know how yet, but an apothecary is always boiling some potion
or other, so it is not surprising something was forgotten and caught alight. Accidents happen, even in the most careful of
households.’

‘An accident?’ asked Michael cautiously. ‘But the King’s Commissioners were inside at the time.’

‘So?’ asked Tulyet. He caught the glance exchanged between monk and physician. ‘You think the fire was started deliberately,
to interfere with the Commissioners’ business?’

‘Or worse,’ said Michael. ‘Do not forget that Warde has already been murdered.’

‘God help us,’ muttered Tulyet. ‘So, who do you suspect of committing such a heinous act? Whoever it was deserves to hang,
because the entire town might have been lost.’

‘I saw the Mortimer clan – including Edward and Thorpe – lurking around just before the alarm was raised,’ said Michael. ‘Not
to mention two merchants who have a financial interest in the case – Morice and Cheney.’

‘And Paxtone and Wynewyk,’ said Bartholomew to himself. ‘I hope to God their suspicious behaviour has not extended to arson.’

‘So, you have no idea who might have started this mischief?’ said Tulyet. ‘Your suspects for the fire are essentially the
same as your suspects for the murders of Warde, Deschalers and Bottisham?’

Michael nodded. ‘Our culprit is a clever man – or a lucky one – and left little in the way of clues.’

‘Poor Lavenham,’ said Tulyet, gazing at the mess of spars and hot, crumbling plaster that still smoked gently. ‘But I thought
we were going to lose Gonville Hall, too, when the wind shifted. It was selfish of Morice to ask the Hand of Justice to do
that, just to save his own property.’

He glared at the Mayor, who had sent a servant to fetch his wineskin and was enjoying a little liquid refreshment while he
gawked at the destruction around him.

‘I do not think Morice had anything to do with the wind changing direction,’ said Michael, puzzled that Tulyet should think
it should. ‘It happens all the time, quite naturally.’

‘But not usually at so opportune a moment,’ argued Tulyet. ‘I shall reserve judgement on the matter, personally. Many folk
heard him praying, and his favour with the Hand is the talk of the town. How else do you think he stands unmolested, when
so many folk are furious with him for not helping to quench the fire? They are afraid that if they attack him, the Hand will
strike them down.’

‘Where are Lavenham and the other Commissioners?’ asked Bartholomew, changing the subject before the Michael and the Sheriff
could begin a debate over the matter. He could see the monk was itching to tell Tulyet exactly what he thought of folk who
believed the relic was responsible for events that had a perfectly rational explanation. ‘They escaped the inferno, I hope?’

‘I have not seen them,’ replied Tulyet. ‘But then
I
have not had time to stand around and look for people.
I
have been busy.’ He cast another venomous glower at Morice.

‘We all have,’ said Michael soothingly. ‘And tonight you must come to Michaelhouse, so we can exchange information about this
case. I have a few things to tell you.’

‘I have very little to tell you,’ said Tulyet gloomily.

‘Arrive early,’ Michael went on. ‘We are having blood pudding and pig-brain pottage, followed by fried gooseberries – saved
from last year, so they are a little sour and we have no sugar. Ensure you are punctual, because you will not want to miss
it.’

‘Come to me instead,’ said Tulyet, trying to hide his revulsion. ‘My wife plans roasted lamb with rosemary and carrots
for today. And I can ask her to make Lombard slices,’ he added, a little desperately, when Michael hesitated.

‘Very well,’ said Michael, sounding as though he was doing him a favour by accepting. Relieved by his narrow escape from a
Michaelhouse repast, the Sheriff strode away to supervise the dumping of yet more water on the smouldering remains of Lavenham’s
house. Fires had a nasty habit of rekindling, and Tulyet had no intention of allowing a second blaze to start.

Bartholomew started to laugh. ‘Agatha is cooking fish soup with cabbage this evening.’

‘I know,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘But I do not like cabbage, and Tulyet’s wife keeps a good table. Her Lombard slices are
among the best in Cambridge. She says her secret is that she fries them in butter, rather than lard, and that she soaks her
almonds overnight in wine.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, not very interested in recipes that had no known medical application. ‘But I am worried about the
Commissioners – especially Master Thorpe. I would not like to think of him roasted in the fire with Lavenham and Bernarde.’

They watched the apothecary’s apprentices pick their way through the steaming, hissing rubble, hopping lightly so they did
not burn their feet. One stood on an unstable timber, and it started to tilt. Bartholomew tensed, anticipating that he would
bring the whole fragile structure down on top of him, but the fellow leapt away with impressive agility, and no harm was done.

‘Where is Lavenham?’ Bartholomew called to him, after a scan of the onlookers who fringed the ruins told him the apothecary
was still not among them. ‘And Isobel?’

‘We have not seen them since that meeting started,’ replied the apprentice. He grimaced. ‘You would think they would be here,
would you not? Trying to salvage what they can, and not leaving the dirty work to us.’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘You would.’

‘What will happen to us now?’ grumbled another lad, lifting a plank to look underneath. ‘How are we supposed to work with
the premises gone? Does Lavenham have enough funds invested to buy another house, so we can start again? Or do we have to
seek alternative employment?’

‘Let us hope not,’ said Bartholomew soberly.

Bartholomew wanted to go home to Michaelhouse, to wash the smoke and grime from his clothes and hair, but a nagging concern
for Master Thorpe, Bernarde and Lavenham kept him on Milne Street and he became one of a small crowd that simply could not
bring themselves to leave. He kept anticipating that sooner or later an apprentice would pick up a piece of ‘wood’ that was
harder, denser and oilier than the others, and they would then know exactly what had happened to the Commissioners. Michael
lost interest and wandered away. He had not been gone long before he returned.

‘Look who I found in St Mary the Great,’ he said, smiling as he indicated a soot-stained Master Thorpe. ‘Giving thanks for
his deliverance.’

‘To God,’ said Thorpe firmly. ‘Not to the so-called Hand of Justice.’

‘I am glad to see you,’ said Bartholomew warmly, taking Thorpe’s hand. ‘I was worried you might have been trapped inside when
the fire took hold.’

Thorpe smiled his pleasure that he should care. ‘I escaped by climbing through a window on an upper floor and jumping to safety.
I shouted to Bernarde and Lavenham to follow, but the smoke was swirling around so thickly that I could not see whether they
did. It is a grim business when a son hates his father so. Perhaps I was wrong to disown him when he returned with his King’s
Pardon.’

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘You think your son set the fire?’

‘I saw him with Edward Mortimer, watching Bernarde and me as we entered Lavenham’s shop. Who else would want to harm us? Lavenham
has no enemies, and neither does Bernarde.’

‘They do,’ said Bartholomew vehemently. ‘The Mortimer clan, for a start.’

‘And who leads the Mortimer clan these days?’ asked Thorpe archly. ‘It is not Thomas or Constantine. It is Edward. And Edward
is my son’s friend.’

‘So, they thought they would strike two birds with one stone,’ mused Michael. ‘A hated father, and two Commissioners who were
sure to argue against Mortimer’s Mill. How did the meeting go, or should I not ask?’

‘We had not reached a decision,’ said Thorpe wearily. ‘I wanted to set a date for a formal hearing, but Lavenham and Bernarde
said the evidence was so clear cut that further enquiries were unnecessary. They wanted a verdict against Mortimer issued
there and then.’

‘This is what happens when you appoint Commissioners who have a vested interest in the outcome,’ said Michael. ‘Any discussion
is limited to repeated statements of “fact”.’

‘Since we were unable to agree, I said we should ask the King to appoint new Commissioners. Bernarde and Lavenham opposed
that, of course.’

‘And then the fire started?’ asked Bartholomew.

Thorpe nodded. ‘The apprentices and Isobel had been sent away for the afternoon so that they would not disturb us. The blaze
was
not
a result of their carelessness, as Tulyet thinks. There were no workmen around, and there were no potions bubbling in the
workshop. Our meeting took place in the solar upstairs, and I am sure the fire started directly below us.’

They all looked around when there was a shriek from
one of the apprentices. Expecting that he had picked up timber that was too hot to hold, or had twisted an ankle in the shifting
rubble, Bartholomew dashed towards him, hopping from foot to foot as the heat penetrated the soles of his boots. But pain
had not caused the young man to scream. He pointed an unsteady finger into the wreckage, and the physician bent to inspect
what he had found.

‘Well,’ he muttered, moving a piece of charred wood. ‘Someone did not escape the inferno.’

‘Who?’ asked Michael, leaning forward, but backing away hurriedly when he saw the misshapen figure huddled up with clenched
fists and hairless head. ‘Is it Lavenham?’

‘It must be,’ said Thorpe grimly. ‘He must have lingered, to see whether he could save his shop. Now the crime is more serious
than arson, Brother. It is murder. Even my slippery son will find himself unable to wriggle free from
that
charge again, and I shall see he does not – even if I have to ride to Westminster and petition the King myself.’

‘I think we can prove the fire was started deliberately,’ said Bartholomew, clambering over more scaly-black timbers to reach
what had been Lavenham’s yard. ‘There was a huge pile of kindling here. I heard Isobel complaining about it when I visited
their shop last week. Some of it has gone, and I am willing to wager it was used to light the fire.’

‘Would Thorpe and Edward have known about convenient sources of combustible material in Lavenham’s yard?’ asked Michael doubtfully.
‘Or are we jumping to unfounded conclusions?’

‘Perhaps Isobel and Lavenham argued about it in front of other customers, too,’ said Bartholomew, making his way back to the
corpse again. ‘It was not a secret.’

‘Is there any way to prove that is Lavenham, Matt?’ asked Michael, still hanging back. ‘I know there is not much to go on
– no clothes, no hair, no face, and not much in the
way of anything else – but you have a way with these things, and we cannot ask Isobel to do it.’

‘It is not Lavenham,’ said Bartholomew, pulling the charred corpse to one side with great care, not liking the way bits flaked
off and landed on his feet. He pointed at something near the body’s waist. ‘There is a lot of metal here – melted, but metal
nonetheless. And who do you know who carries a good deal of metal on his belt?’

‘Keys?’ asked Michael. ‘Your melted metal is a bunch of keys? That means our corpse belongs to Bernarde, who was always jangling
the things.’

‘Then where is Lavenham?’ asked Master Thorpe. ‘I do not know,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But not here, I think. We must search elsewhere
for him.’

Bartholomew headed for the newly constructed lavatorium as soon as he reached Michaelhouse. Hurling his smoke-spoiled clothes
into one corner, he scrubbed his bare skin with icy water. Michael joined him, but washed only those parts that were not covered
by clothes. He declined to wet his hair, too, maintaining that it might bring on an ague. Instead he rubbed chalk powder into
it, which he claimed would counteract the darkening effects of soot. He donned a fresh habit and handed the dirty one to Agatha,
who said it needed no more than a good brushing and a day or two of airing in the latrines. Michael was pleased it did not
need laundering, because there was always a danger the wool would shrink, and he claimed tight habits made him look fat.

Bartholomew felt better when he had changed into a tunic and leggings that did not stink of smoke. He scrubbed at his damp
hair with a rag, while Michael doused himself liberally with rosewater in an attempt to mask the stench of burning that his
careless ablutions had done little to remedy. The lavatorium began to smell like a brothel, and
Bartholomew left, complaining that Michael’s perfumes were worse than the odour of cinders and ash.

‘Now what?’ asked Michael, making his way to his room to collect his spare cloak. ‘Shall we search for Lavenham ourselves,
or shall we leave it to Dick Tulyet? It is suspicious that he should disappear quite so soon after a devastating fire destroyed
his home and killed Bernarde. Should we be concerned for Isobel, do you think? Or will she be the mastermind behind this nasty
business?’

‘She might,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘She seems more intelligent than her husband, and might well conceive of a plan to
ensure the Commission found in favour of the mill she had invested in. But their house, their livelihood and Bernarde’s life
seems a high price to pay for it.’

‘I have always been suspicious of Lavenham,’ said Michael. ‘He acts as though he understands very little of what goes on,
but I am sure he knows more than we think. He had good reason to kill Bottisham – he was about to represent his rivals in
the mill dispute. Meanwhile, Warde was a Commissioner prepared to listen to the Mortimers’ side of the quarrel. Lavenham might
well be our killer.’

‘And Deschalers? Why would Lavenham kill him?’

‘Deschalers’s death was incidental. Lavenham followed Bottisham one night, intending to murder him. Bottisham went to the
King’s Mill. When Deschalers, arriving to meet Bottisham, caught Lavenham red-handed, he was obliged to kill him, too.’