The Hand of Justice

‘Why did you let him in?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I do not want him in my lecture. I have students who are keen to learn, and I cannot have them distracted because they think he is going to set fire to the College or draw a crossbow from under his cloak.’

‘The letter from Paxtone was genuine. He said Thorpe has expressed an interest in Galen’s dietary regimes, and he knows you teach the subject on Mondays. He asked us to give him a chance, and allow him to sit quietly at the back of your class.’

‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘But Thorpe will be disappointed if he thinks I am going to talk about how to kill people with grapes. My lecture is about how they can be used to improve health, not destroy it.’

‘I will be watching him, too. Still, I doubt he will want to attend more than one of your diatribes on diet.’ He rubbed his stomach ruefully, to indicate he was still hungry after being encouraged not to eat his fourth piece of bread at breakfast that morning.

Bartholomew entered the hall, where benches were arranged ready for teaching. He had about thirty students. Some were his own, but there were also those who had been sent by Paxtone and other masters. He too farmed out his students on occasion — there was no one as good as Paxtone for teaching basic Aristotelian physiology, while Lynton of Peterhouse gave solid instruction on the calculation of horoscopes.

It was not long before he forgot the smouldering presence at the rear of his class, enjoying the liveliness of his own students and their willingness to learn. Quenhyth grew frantic as he struggled to write down every word his teacher spoke, while Redmeadow showed he had learned his texts well, asking questions and making astute observations.

Deynman’s wine caused some amusement but, despite the levity, Bartholomew knew the scholars would remember the points he made about the different brews and their benefits or otherwise to the kidneys and bladder. It did not seem long before the bell rang to announce the end of lessons, and the students trooped out of the hall, clattering down the steps and talking in loud voices. When Bartholomew recalled that a killer had been in his class, he was obliged to run back up the stairs to ensure Thorpe had left, but the hall was empty and so was the conclave. Since there was nowhere else for Thorpe to be, the physician assumed he had slunk quietly away.

He felt the need for a few moments of peace before he returned to his room, so he headed for the orchard, pulling the scroll by Trotula from his bag as he went. He had been busy since Matilde had given it to him, and had not had the opportunity to inspect it properly. However, he had done no more than open the garden gate when he heard voices.

‘ … with Water of Snails,’ one was saying. ‘Or so he says.’

‘Rougham often prescribes it, actually,’ replied the second. ‘Especially when there are extenuating circumstances. In this case, there definitely were, and …’

Bartholomew did not want to hear any more, and turned to leave. But as he did so, the latch clanked and the voices were immediately stilled. Then came the sound of running feet.

Thinking there was no need for flight if the meeting was innocent, Bartholomew set off in pursuit. He saw someone struggling with the gate that led to St Michael’s Lane. It was hauled open, and there was another clatter of footsteps. Then silence. By the time he reached the door and shot into the lane, the pair were just turning into the High Street. He walked back to the garden, and replaced the bar. He had recognised Paxtone’s lumbering gait immediately, and could only assume his fleeter-footed companion was Wynewyk. Troubled that they should feel the need to run from him, he tucked the Trotula under his arm and returned to his room, no longer in the mood for solitary reading.

‘I assume Thorpe’s presence was uneventful?’ asked Michael, joining him there. ‘I heard no quarrels or violent disputes — at least, none out of the ordinary. Your Monday lectures are always a little lively. I wish my theologians were as animated over their learning.’

‘Theology is not a very interesting subject, Brother,’ said Bartholomew carelessly, his mind still on Paxtone and Wynewyk. ‘So you cannot expect tense excitement. But medicine-’

‘A curious thing happened this morning,’ interrupted Michael. ‘I had a letter from Dick Tulyet, telling me he could not accept my invitation to the midday meal at Michaelhouse today.’

‘Wise man. I saw Agatha picking nettles again this morning.’

‘But I did not invite him,’ said Michael, bemused. ‘I would not — not the way our kitchens are at the moment. It is rather embarrassing. I suppose he must have received an invitation from someone else, and assumed it was me. Damn! Here come your wretched students. Do I have time to hide?’