The Hand of Justice

Bartholomew nodded. ‘You will have to do it sooner or later, and this is as good a time as any. It is quiet, and you will find it easy to test for the signs of life.’

‘No,’ said Quenhyth, backing away. He swallowed hard. ‘Redmeadow can do it, and I will take the next case.’

‘All right,’ agreed Redmeadow shakily. His face was white and, when he raised one trembling hand to smooth down his ginger hair in preparation for what he was about to do, Bartholomew noticed that the sleeve of his tunic was still peppered with the pale substance he had noticed before, and that Matilde had remarked upon.

Bartholomew took Lenne’s arm and sat him at the table, offering him a cup of strong wine in a vain attempt to calm some of his distraught sobs. Meanwhile, Redmeadow held the pewter at Mistress Lenne’s mouth for so long that Bartholomew began to wonder whether he had forgotten what to do next, but eventually the student placed his tousled head against her chest and listened as hard as he could, eyes screwed tightly closed as he concentrated.

‘She has gone,’ he said, wincing when Lenne began to weep afresh. He tucked the blankets around the old lady’s shoulders, as though she was being put to bed, then stood with his hands dangling helplessly at his side. ‘We cannot do any more for her.’

Both Redmeadow and Quenhyth were unusually silent when they left the Lenne house a little later. Neighbours had come to help with the grim ritual of preparing the body for burial, and Bartholomew saw the distressed Lenne was in kind and competent hands. Redmeadow was generally full of chatter and questions after they had visited patients, sometimes to the point of aggravation, but he said nothing at all as they walked back to Michaelhouse. Quenhyth excused himself and virtually fled, tears pooling in his eyes. He made no attempt to disguise the fact that he intended to head straight for a tavern for a fortifying drink. Since he never broke the University’s rules, Bartholomew saw the experience had shaken him badly.

Unfortunately, just as Bartholomew and Redmeadow were passing the Brazen George — both turning a blind eye as Quenhyth aimed for a discreet back entrance — Thomas Mortimer emerged through the front door. The miller was not drunk, but he was not sober, either, and had reached a point between the two states that rendered him dangerous, moody and unpredictable. Redmeadow stopped dead in his tracks and regarded him with considerable venom. Bartholomew grabbed his arm and tried to drag him on, not wanting a confrontation that might end in violence.

‘No!’ shouted Redmeadow, pulling away from his teacher. When he pointed at Mortimer, his finger shook with rage, and Bartholomew was reminded that the lad possessed a fiery temper to go with his flaming red hair. ‘That man is a killer. He murdered Mistress Lenne.’

‘I do not know the woman,’ said Mortimer, beginning to walk away. It was the wrong thing to say.

‘That is because you are a monster!’ yelled Redmeadow, pushing Bartholomew away a second time. ‘You are a devil, who kills the innocent and leaves behind him a trail of misery and sorrow. You are like the Death — and just as welcome.’

Mortimer took a threatening step towards him, but the student held his ground. Bartholomew saw that Redmeadow’s face glistened wet with tears. Behind Mortimer, the inn door opened again and Edward stepped out with a couple of his cousins. He saw his uncle engaged in an altercation with a student, and his face broke into an amused grin.

‘Come home,’ said Bartholomew softly to Redmeadow. ‘We cannot win this fight. Take your complaint to Sheriff Tulyet in the morning, and let him see justice done.’

‘Justice!’ sneered Redmeadow contemptuously. ‘What do we know of justice in Cambridge?’

‘I know about it,’ said Thomas Mortimer, deliberately inflammatory. ‘I prayed to the Hand that I would be free of accusations from the likes of Mistress Lenne, and look what has happened. Her malicious tongue saw her sicken — and I am told she will die.’

‘She is dead,’ said Redmeadow hotly. ‘A short time ago, and you are responsible.’

‘She brought it on herself,’ said Mortimer. ‘It was not my fault her husband wandered under my wheels, and I was more than patient with her wicked allegations. But the saints in Heaven have taken pity on me. Mistress Lenne is dead, and will not sully my good name again.’

‘You have no good name,’ shouted Redmeadow furiously. ‘None of your miserable family do. Edward was the first to bring you disgrace, but evil will out, and the rest of you are following him down the road of infamy and wickedness. It is-’

‘You insolent dog!’ snarled Mortimer, advancing on Redmeadow with fury etched on his purple-veined face. Bartholomew stepped forward to reason with him, but was almost knocked from his feet as Edward launched an attack of his own. Before the physician could say or do anything to prevent it, he was embroiled in a brawl — he and Redmeadow pitched against four Mortimers.