The Hand of Justice

‘A messenger?’ asked Dame Pelagia curiously. ‘What makes you draw that conclusion?’

‘Because he carried a letter from a London merchant to a Cambridge friar. The Sheriff said it was professionally written, and that this man’s boots were worn in a way that suggested he spent a lot of time travelling. Unfortunately, the friar to whom the missive was addressed — Godric of Ovyng Hostel’s predecessor — is dead, so we cannot ask him about it.’

Michael stared crossly at him. ‘And where is this message now?’

Kenyngham raised apologetic hands. ‘I lost it.’

Michael was unimpressed. ‘You should have given it to me. First, it might have helped us identify this messenger, and second, it may have contained information important to one of my investigations.’

‘It did not,’ replied Kenyngham. ‘I cannot recall exactly what it said, but it was only something about a visit by a man to his kin — a visit that probably did not happen, given that all the roads were blocked by snow back then. I meant to pass it to you but I forgot, and then I lost it. But it contained nothing important, I am sure of that.’

Bartholomew sat forward and stared into the wine in his cup. ‘There is someone in Cambridge who has been desperately hunting a man who went missing in the winter snows.’

‘Bess?’ asked Langelee. He looked thoughtful. ‘I suppose this corpse might have been her beau.’

Bartholomew tried not to be angry with Kenyngham. ‘You say the message he carried was from a London merchant? Bess told Quenhyth she was from London.’

Kenyngham smiled beatifically. ‘Then she will know his name. What was it?’

‘She has not told anyone,’ snapped Michael, still peeved at the elderly friar’s incompetence.

‘Poor Bess,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘What shall we do? The only way to know for certain is to show her his body, but he has been in the ground too long now.’

‘Tulyet kept the hat he wore,’ said Kenyngham. ‘I shall ask him to take her that — first thing tomorrow morning. It would be unkind to leave it any longer.’

The news that the man Bess had longed to find might be dead cast an even darker shadow of gloom over Stanmore and his guests, and they were all grateful when Langelee declared that his scholars had an early start and suggested they all return to Michaelhouse.

Bartholomew slept poorly until the early hours, when he was summoned to tend a patient near the Castle. He did not finish the consultation until dawn, when he walked slowly along the High Street towards Michaelhouse. He met Paxtone, who guessed from his weary and dishevelled appearance that he had been up for a good part of the night, and invited him to breakfast in King’s Hall. For the second time in less than twelve hours, Bartholomew ate a large and sumptuous meal.

Paxtone was full of ideas and questions about the text by Lanfrank of Milan he had been reading, which Bartholomew would normally have relished. But he was tired and worried about what Paxtone might have done, and could not summon the energy to debate with him. Paxtone sensed his lack of enthusiasm but put it down to fatigue. He insisted on prescribing a tonic, and nagged until Bartholomew agreed to accompany him to Lavenham the apothecary to collect it. Bartholomew had no intention of swallowing anything from Paxtone or Lavenham, and determined to throw the cure in the river as soon as neither was looking.

They walked through the handsome grounds of King’s Hall, and up King’s Childer Lane to Milne Street. The black-robed prophets of doom were out, railing at anyone who might have petitioned the Hand of Justice and warning them that it would take more than relics to save them from eternal damnation. Suttone was among them, informing Deschalers’s ex-apprentices that laziness and sloth were deadly sins and that they needed to find gainful employment before the Devil seized their idle souls. Cheney and Mayor Morice agreed, pointing out that there were no dried peas to be had now the apprentices had stopped working. The apprentices retorted bitterly that it was not their fault, and that Edward Mortimer was responsible for the problem.

The two physicians edged around the small crowd that had gathered to listen to the altercation, and had not gone much farther when they saw a second knot of people standing around someone who lay on the ground. Bartholomew saw Sheriff Tulyet among the onlookers, as well as Matilde. Quenhyth and Redmeadow stood shoulder to shoulder, while Bernarde and the Lavenhams watched from a distance, where they would not be obliged to rub elbows with peasants.

When Matilde saw Bartholomew she rushed forward to grab his arm. ‘Come quickly, Matt! Bess has swooned, and none of us can bring her round. Your students tried to help, but they are too inexperienced to know what to do.’