The Hand of Justice

‘I do not think she wants a cure,’ said Bartholomew, wondering what had induced the old woman to undertake a painful and exhausting journey in the last hours of her life. He was certain it was not to ask for her own recovery, since she had cared little about that after her husband’s death. Perhaps it was to ask forgiveness for ancient sins — long forgotten by humans, but ones she feared would be remembered when her soul was weighed.

Lenne’s eyes filled with tears. Quenhyth offered to fetch a priest, then slipped quietly out of the house when Lenne was unable to reply. Soon he returned with Father William, whom he had spotted leaving St Mary the Great after a hard day of supervising access to the Hand of Justice. William knelt next to Mistress Lenne, and began the final absolution. He spoke in a confident, booming voice that attracted a small group of neighbours, who removed hats and crossed themselves, and stood in a silent, deferential semicircle outside to wait for the end.

It was not long before William completed his business — his absolutions were almost as rapid as his masses, although people liked them because what they lacked in length they more than compensated for in volume. He promised to pray for her that night, then headed for the door, graciously declining Lenne’s offer of a penny for his services. Before he left, he took Bartholomew’s arm and pulled him to one side.

‘Sheriff Tulyet took that poison business seriously,’ he whispered in the physician’s ear.

‘What poison business?’ asked Bartholomew, his attention still fixed on his patient. ‘Bosel?’

William sighed in gusty exasperation. ‘Where Rougham accused you of killing Warde with angelica, but then was caught delivering noxious potions himself. Rougham was taken to the Castle this afternoon, to answer questions about his Water of Snails.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘Tulyet cannot do that. Rougham is a scholar, and is bound by the canon law of the Church. The University will riot for certain if it thinks the town is interrogating its clerks.’

‘It was Rougham’s own fault. He refused to acknowledge Brother Michael’s authority. He said Michael is your friend, and is therefore biased. Michael called his bluff, and turned the matter over to Tulyet. But Tulyet could not prove Rougham murdered Warde.’

‘I am not surprised. There is no evidence to suggest Warde was poisoned.’ But even as he spoke, he knew the doubt showed in his face.

‘Are you sure about that?’ demanded William, noticing it. ‘Did you assess the exact nature of the substance in Rougham’s so-called Water of Snails?’

‘No, but-’

‘The whole incident is highly suspicious,’ William went on. ‘You have a man with a minor ailment, who becomes disheartened when his own physician is unable to make him well. So, he hires a second physician. Meanwhile, the first physician sends him a potion, which the patient takes and promptly expires. The first physician denies sending the potion, and accuses the second physician of the crime he committed.’

‘I am not sure it happened quite like that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was-’

‘Most folk believe Rougham murdered Warde,’ said Quenhyth confidently. ‘He is the kind of fellow to kill, then watch an innocent colleague hanged for his crime.’

‘I agree,’ said William. He nodded towards Mistress Lenne. ‘But you have work to do, Matthew. We can discuss this later, over a cup of mulled ale in the conclave.’

Bartholomew returned to the sickbed and put his head to his patient’s chest to listen to her heartbeat. It was slow and weak, and he knew it would stop altogether in a matter of moments.

‘Say your farewells,’ he said softly to Lenne. ‘She may still be able to hear you.’

‘Now?’ asked Lenne fearfully.

Bartholomew nodded, and moved away to give him some privacy. Quenhyth rubbed a sleeve across his eyes and sniffed as Lenne began to tell his mother that he loved her.

‘I do not know how you do this,’ Redmeadow whispered to Bartholomew in a strangled voice. ‘How can you hear these things day after day, and still want to be a physician?’

‘Being at a deathbed is part of the service you must provide for a patient. You need to ensure she is not in pain, and that she is comfortable. And then you must tell her kinsmen when she is finally dead, so they can prepare her for the grave. It is not unknown for them to start the process while she is still alive, unless a physician is on hand.’

‘This is not right,’ whispered Quenhyth unsteadily, as Lenne began to tell his mother in a broken voice how much he would miss her, and that his world would be a sad place without her smile. ‘She should not be dying. This is Thomas Mortimer’s fault, because of what he did to her husband.’

‘Not now, Quenhyth,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘And not here, either. I think she has gone. Go to her, and put this piece of polished pewter near her mouth. If she is breathing, it will mist over. Then listen to her chest, and see whether you can hear her heart beating.’

‘Me?’ asked Quenhyth in horror.