The Hand of Justice

‘You make everything so complex,’ said Paxtone accusingly. ‘You have been too long in the company of Brother Michael, and you see plots and connivance wherever you look. Bess was a poor wench, who either intended to die or who mistook poison for something pleasant. She could not have blackmailed Deschalers, because she did not have the wits. And remember he was dying, Matt. Dying men are apt to be charitable. He gave Bosel new clothes, too.’

‘So he did,’ said Bartholomew, recalling that Bess had said as much to Redmeadow. ‘That means two recipients of his uncharacteristic generosity are now dead.’

Paxtone sighed in exasperation. ‘And a good many others are doubtless still living. It is dangerous to be poor in Cambridge, you know that. Beggars are often killed by those who think it is good sport to attack the defenceless. Bess’s death has nothing to do with your other cases.’

Bartholomew was not so sure. He considered the people he had recognised in the crowd that had gathered to watch her die, and who were connected to the other deaths. There was Rougham, hovering in the background — Bartholomew’s prime suspect in the poisoning of Warde. There was Bernarde, whose stories about discovering the bodies of Bottisham and Deschalers made no sense, and who had frolicked with Bess hours before her death. There were the Lavenhams, who dispensed Water of Snails from their shop, and who admitted to varying their recipes. Two other members of the Millers’ Society were close by: Cheney and Morice, who bought Water of Snails from Lavenham, and might know what an added dash of henbane would do. Bartholomew suspected Thorpe and Edward Mortimer would not be too far away, either. And, of course, there was Paxtone himself.

‘She had just learned about the death of her lover,’ said Paxtone, seeing his colleague was not convinced. ‘She was distraught — just look at the way she clings to his hat, even in death.’

‘But she had forgotten what Tulyet had told her by the time she met Matilde. She did not take her own life. In fact, I am willing to wager a jug of ale in the Brazen George that when we discover the truth behind her death, we will also know more about these other murders.’

‘I do not drink in taverns,’ said Paxtone primly, standing up and moving away as Suttone arrived. ‘But you can bring it to me in my quarters. It is a long time since I won a wager of ale — and I will win, because what you are suggesting is nonsense. The demise of a beggar-woman will not be connected to the death of rich merchants and respected scholars.’

‘We shall see,’ replied Bartholomew stubbornly.

When Tulyet eventually arrived with the stretcher-bearers, Bartholomew told him what he had reasoned about Bess’s sudden death. The Sheriff rubbed his nose between thumb and forefinger, and asked how many more murders would be committed before they had worked out what was happening.

‘We do not know they are all connected,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Paxtone thinks not.’

‘Of course they are connected! How could they not be? You found those little phials with Deschalers and Bottisham, then Warde, and now Bess. Paxtone is trying to mislead you.’

‘But if Bottisham and Deschalers died in the same way — with a nail in the palate — as we first surmised, then the flask at the King’s Mill is irrelevant. We think Deschalers took it there, to ease his pain — or perhaps to subdue Bottisham — but we have no evidence to support such a theory.’

‘This town is falling to pieces,’ muttered Tulyet. ‘And there seems to be nothing I can do to save it. Thorpe and Mortimer are having their revenge indeed. There is nothing like a few unexplained murders of townsmen and scholars to produce panic and discord.’

Bartholomew walked back to Michaelhouse, mulling over the new facts he had uncovered. When he arrived, Quenhyth and Redmeadow were sitting quietly, both engrossed in their studies. Bartholomew walked into the room, then tripped over a chest that had been placed at the foot of his bed. It had not been there before.

‘What is this?’ he asked irritably, rubbing his skinned shin. It was not a nice box — it smelled and its large lock bespoke functionality rather than aesthetics. He decided it would not remain there for long. But, even as he glared at it, he realised he had seen it before.

‘That is Quenhyth’s inheritance,’ explained Redmeadow disapprovingly. ‘Deschalers left it to him, and Edward and Julianna wanted it out of their house today, because they think it is nasty.’