The Hand of Justice (6 page)

Tulyet frowned. ‘Did he do this to himself? Is he a suicide?’

‘I do not see why,’ said Bartholomew. ‘First, he had no funds to buy poison. And secondly, I imagine he was going to demand
money from the Mortimers – by offering to retract his story about the incident with Lenne and Isnard. His future was looking
rosy.’

‘It was,’ agreed Tulyet thoughtfully. ‘The obvious conclusion is that Thomas Mortimer did this: mixed poison with wine and
gave it to Bosel to drink. However, if Bosel was murdered between seven and midnight, then Mortimer is innocent. He was at
a meeting of the town burgesses during those hours, discussing repairs to the Great Bridge. I know, because I was there.’

‘One of his family, then,’ said Michael. ‘God knows, there are enough of them. And do not forget that they now include his
nephew, Edward, whom we know is a killer.’

‘Edward was at this meeting, too,’ said Tulyet. He grimaced. ‘And so was young Rob Thorpe.’

‘Thorpe and Edward,’ mused Quenhyth, who was listening uninvited to their discussion. ‘The two felons who were
found guilty by the King’s Bench but who then secured themselves pardons.’

‘Quite,’ said Tulyet bitterly. ‘Two ruthless criminals given the liberty to roam free in
my
town. I have enough to worry about, without watching them day and night.’

‘You should not have recommended them for a King’s Pardon, then,’ said Michael tartly. ‘I made some enquiries about that,
and learned it was a letter from the Sheriff of Cambridgeshire that tipped the balance in their favour. Without that letter,
they would still be in France.’

Tulyet shot him a withering look. ‘That may well be true, but
I
was not Sheriff when their case came under review. Stephen Morice was.
He
was the one who claimed the town had no objection to their release, not me.’

‘Do you think Thorpe and Edward killed Bosel?’ asked Michael of Bartholomew, ignoring the Sheriff’s ire that he should be
blamed for something his predecessor had done.

Tulyet raised his eyebrows and spoke before the physician could reply. ‘I have just told you they were both in a meeting last
night. How can they be responsible?’

‘Because you do not need to be present when your victim dies of poison,’ Michael pointed out. ‘They could have given Bosel
the doctored wine hours before they went to this meeting.’

Tulyet considered, then nodded towards the madwoman. ‘In my experience the person who finds a murdered corpse is often its
killer, and
she
seems to have no rational reason for being with Bosel. Do I know her? She looks familiar.’

‘Where would she find the money to buy wine and poison?’ asked Michael. ‘And why kill Bosel when she is a stranger in Cambridge,
with no reason to harm any of its inhabitants?’

‘How do you know she had no reason to harm Bosel?’ asked Bartholomew reasonably. ‘We know nothing about her, not even her
name. And she is out of her wits, so is
not rational. She may have killed him because she thought he was someone else.’

‘Shall I arrest her, then?’ asked Tulyet. ‘I will, if you think she is guilty.’

‘I do not know,’ said Bartholomew, unwilling to condemn anyone to the Castle prison. It was a foul place, full of rats and
dripping slime. ‘She might be telling the truth – that she found the body and did not like to leave it alone until a priest
came.’

‘Perhaps she
stole
the wine,’ suggested Tulyet, reluctant to dismiss a potential culprit too readily. ‘Or Bosel did – and got more than he bargained
for. Unfortunately, I am too busy to look into this myself. Repairs to the Great Bridge begin today, and I must be there to
supervise.’

‘Why?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘That is the burgesses’ responsibility, not yours.’

Tulyet’s face was angry. ‘Because the burgesses, in an attempt to cut costs, want to use the cheapest labour available: the
prisoners in my Castle. That is why we had that meeting last night. I objected very strongly, but I was outvoted on all sides,
so debtors, thieves and violent robbers will be set free to work on the bridge this very afternoon. I need to make sure they
do not try to escape – or that my soldiers will know how to stop them, if they do.’

‘
When
they do,’ muttered Bartholomew.

‘It is about time the bridge was mended,’ said Michael. ‘It almost collapsed when I last used it.’

‘It has been subjected to some
very
heavy loads recently,’ agreed Tulyet. ‘But, besides watching forty able-bodied villains, I am also obliged to keep a close
watch on Thorpe and Edward. I am sure they came here intending mischief. I shall have to delegate Bosel’s murder investigation
to Sergeant Orwelle.’

‘Orwelle is a good man,’ said Bartholomew, although he thought it a pity that Bosel was to be deprived of the
superior talents of the Sheriff. ‘He will do his best to solve this crime.’

‘And he has a limited number of suspects,’ added Michael. ‘Thomas Mortimer and his clan are the only ones with a known motive.’

‘Well, there is her,’ said Tulyet, pointing at the woman. ‘However, I have a feeling you are right: Bosel’s death probably
does have something to do with the Mortimers. Bosel’s evidence was not worth much, but without it I have nothing.’

Bartholomew and Michael left the Sheriff, and resumed their walk to Isnard’s house with Quenhyth and Redmeadow trailing behind
them; Deynman had been charged with taking the woman to St John’s Hospital. They passed through the Trumpington Gate, then
cut down the narrow lane opposite the Hall of Valence Marie, which was rutted with water-filled potholes deep enough to drown
a sheep. Isnard’s home was on the river bank, overlooking the Mill Pool.

The bargeman’s residence was not in a good location. It was near both the Cam and the King’s Ditch, both of which were stinking
open sewers that contained all manner of filth. Being by the Mill Pool did not help either, since the current slowed there,
causing the foulness to linger rather than being carried away. The pool was fringed with reeds and, in the spring and summer,
Bartholomew imagined the bargeman would be plagued with swarms of insects. The house was near the town’s two largest watermills,
too, and, although Bartholomew supposed their neighbours would grow used to the rhythmic clank and rumble of their mighty
wheels, he did not think he would ever do so. As he picked his way along the muddy path to Isnard’s home, he studied them.

The King’s Mill was a hall-house located a few paces upstream from the Mill Pool. It spanned an arm of water
that had been artificially narrowed to make it run faster and stronger. Its vertical wheel was of the undershot style, designed
so that water struck its lower blades to set it in motion. The power generated was transferred to the mill itself by means
of an ‘axle tree’ – a shaft connected to a series of cogs and wheels. It was not just the swishing, clunking sound of the
wheel as it turned that was so noisy, but the rattle of the machinery, too.

Standing a short distance from the King’s Mill was Mortimer’s Mill, owned and run by the man who had injured Isnard. It was
smaller than its competitor but just as noisy, and a good deal more filthy. The King’s Mill ground grain for flour, but Mortimer’s
Mill had recently been converted for fulling cloth, a process that entailed the use of a lot of very smelly substances, all
of which ended up in the river. The bargeman would be able to see Mortimer’s enterprise from his sickbed, and Bartholomew
wondered what he thought as he lay maimed and fevered, while the author of his troubles continued with the work that was making
him a very wealthy man.

As Bartholomew listened to the repetitive rattle coming from the King’s Mill, he became aware that it was slowing down. There
was not as much water in each of the wheel’s scoops, and the busy sound of its workings faltered, as though it had run out
of energy. By contrast, Mortimer’s Mill was operating at a cracking pace, and, if anything, was going even faster. He saw
people hurry from the King’s Mill and start to inspect their wheel, as if they could not understand why it had lost power.
He watched their puzzled musings for a moment, then turned to enter his patient’s home.

The house was poor and mean. Its thatched roof was in need of repair, and plaster was peeling from its walls, exposing the
wattle and daub underneath. A chamber on the ground floor held a table, a bench, a hearth and a
shelf for pots; an attic, reached by a ladder, was where Isnard usually slept. Since the bargeman’s injury meant he could
not climb the steps, Bartholomew had carried his bedding downstairs the previous day.

The physician was fully expecting him to develop a fever that might kill him, and was surprised, but pleased, to discover
that the burly bargeman had not succumbed. He was even more surprised to find him sitting up and talking to a visitor – a
man named Nicholas Bottisham, who was Gonville Hall’s Master of Civil and Canon Law. Bottisham was regarded as one of the
finest scholars in the University, possessing a mind that retained facts and references and made him a superb disputant. He
had recently taken major orders with the Carmelites, and his new habit was still pristine. His complexion was florid and uneven,
as a result of a disfiguring pox contracted in childhood, and his hair was cut high above his ears in a way indicating that
Barber Lenne had been at it. He stood when Bartholomew, Michael and the two students entered.

‘You are a popular man, Isnard,’ said Bottisham, picking up his cloak from the table. ‘I shall leave you, before you have
so many guests that your walls burst and your house tumbles about your ears.’

‘Thank you for coming,’ said Isnard, reaching out to take the man’s hand. ‘It was kind.’

‘I will come again tomorrow,’ promised Bottisham. ‘And I shall visit old Mistress Lenne. I will see she is looked after until
her son arrives from Thetford, just as you ask.’

‘And what about Thomas Mortimer?’ asked Isnard, his voice angry. ‘Will you detain him in a dark alley and chop off his legs
with an axe? I asked you to do that, too.’

Bottisham smiled indulgently. ‘You can do that yourself, when you are better.’

Isnard grinned without humour. ‘It will give me something to look forward to. I will teach him that he cannot
drive when he is full of ale, and kill honest old men as they stand chatting in the streets. Thank God Bosel is prepared to
stand up and tell the truth.’

Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a glance. Isnard did not notice, but Bottisham was an observant man and immediately sensed
something amiss.

‘Has Bosel retracted his statement already?’ he asked in dismay. ‘I did not think Mortimer would act quite so soon. I assumed
he would wait to see what kind of case the Sheriff put together before spending money on bribes that might not be necessary.’

‘Bosel will not be bribed by Mortimer,’ predicted Isnard confidently. ‘He will tell the truth. I have already made sure of
that by offering three groats more than Mortimer’s highest price.’ He smiled in satisfaction at his foresight.

‘Bosel is dead,’ said Michael bluntly. ‘He will not be telling the “truth” for anyone.’

‘Mortimer murdered Bosel, so he cannot speak for me?’ asked Isnard, aghast.

‘The Sheriff says Mortimer was at a meeting all last night, so cannot be responsible,’ said Michael. ‘He will have to make
his case without Bosel.’ He did not add that Tulyet considered this impossible.

‘I will dispense a little justice of my own, then,’ said Isnard, wringing his bed-covers furiously. ‘I will not lie here with
Lenne
and
Bosel slain, and let Mortimer get away with it.’

‘Not yet,’ said Bartholomew, concerned that Isnard might persuade some crony to help him leave his sickbed too soon, resulting
in a third death.

Isnard shook his head, already spent and too unwell to sustain his temper for long. ‘I am full of words, and not the type
to stalk merchants and take axes to them.’ Bartholomew said nothing, knowing he was exactly that kind of man – or had been,
when in possession of all his
limbs. ‘But I mean what I say about justice. I
will
see Mortimer punished for what he did, even if it means visiting the King himself to put my case.’

‘I will tell you how to go about it,’ offered Bottisham generously. ‘The law is complex, and there are certain procedures
you must follow. But your physician is waiting to tend you, and I should not linger here and make a nuisance of myself. Rest,
Isnard. I will pray for you.’

He patted the bargeman’s shoulder, nodded a friendly farewell to Bartholomew and Michael, and squeezed past Quenhyth and Redmeadow
to reach the door.

‘I am delighted to see you looking so well,’ said Michael, plumping himself down on Isnard’s single bench with such force
that Bartholomew thought it might break. ‘When I heard you had summoned Matt this morning, I assumed you had taken a turn
for the worse.’

‘I need something for the itching, Doctor,’ said Isnard sheepishly. ‘I am sorry to drag you from your breakfast, but it could
not wait. It is driving me to distraction.’

‘Itching?’ asked Bartholomew, assuming that now Isnard was confined to his bed, he was unable to escape the fleas that flourished
in his filthy blankets. Cleansing the house of all the small creatures that bit and sucked blood would be an imposing task,
and Bartholomew was not sure it could be done.

‘My foot,’ whispered Isnard hoarsely. ‘It itches something fierce.’

‘Scratch it, then,’ suggested Redmeadow helpfully. He flexed one of his hands, revealing some lengthy nails. ‘I will do it
for you, if you like.’

‘No, the
other
one,’ said Isnard, still in a whisper, as though he considered it unlucky or dangerous to speak in a normal voice about a
limb that was no longer attached.

‘You mean the one that is gone?’ asked Michael warily. ‘How do you know it is itching? I doubt Matt told you what
he did with it. He usually declines to share such ghoulish information.’

‘It itches,’ persisted Isnard stubbornly. ‘And I do not mean from the river, or wherever he disposed of it. I mean it itches
at the bottom of my leg, where it used to live.’