The Hand of Justice

‘Quenhyth is the clerk Deschalers remembered in his will?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise. He recalled Julianna saying that her uncle had appreciated the fact that his scribe was always punctual — and punctuality was one of Quenhyth’s strongest virtues. Bartholomew remembered something else, too, and realised he should have made the connection sooner: Quenhyth had recently been petitioning merchants for scribing work, telling them that he was anxious for funds. That had been because he had lost his regular employer when Deschalers had died.

‘Deschalers liked me,’ said Quenhyth, although Bartholomew recalled Julianna stating quite categorically that he had not; the grocer had just appreciated Quenhyth’s timeliness. ‘He promised to leave me a chest, but I did not think he would remember. I am flattered he did. It is not as fine as the furniture in my father’s home, but it will do until I can afford better. It has a strong lock.’ He glared at Redmeadow.

‘Redmeadow and I will not touch your possessions,’ said Bartholomew, suspecting it would be difficult to persuade Quenhyth to get rid of the thing. ‘And no one else comes in here.’

‘Brother Michael does,’ said Redmeadow meaningfully.

Bartholomew wondered what he imagined Quenhyth owned that would tempt a man of taste and culture, like Michael. Then it occurred to him that Quenhyth might want to protect his private food supplies when the monk came raiding — in which case, a lock would be very useful indeed.

Quenhyth smiled. ‘We all need additional victuals now Michaelhouse is failing to feed us properly. And I can secure other things in it, too — such as my pens and inks.’

‘We are not interested in those,’ said Redmeadow scornfully.

Quenhyth regarded him balefully. ‘You are! And it is very annoying to come home and find my writing supplies mysteriously depleted.’

‘You can sell the chest,’ suggested Redmeadow, ignoring the accusation with a blitheness that made Bartholomew wonder whether it was justified. ‘But I do not think you will get much for it.’

‘I cannot — not yet,’ said Quenhyth. ‘That was one of the conditions of my accepting it. Deschalers said I can only sell it when I have owned it for a year and a day.’

‘What a curious stipulation,’ said Bartholomew. He knew Quenhyth would follow the instruction to the letter, and suspected Deschalers knew it, too. Perhaps Deschalers was trying to inconvenience the lad by bequeathing him such an unwieldy object, and it was his idea of repaying him for being so annoyingly meticulous. It would be just like the laconic grocer to devise such a plan.

‘You did not tell me you were Deschalers’s scribe,’ said Bartholomew, somewhat accusingly. The student should have mentioned it sooner, since they had been investigating the grocer’s murder.

Quenhyth shrugged. ‘I was not. Not really. I saw him once a week — if that — for the occasional bit of writing. I offered to do more, but he preferred to keep most of his business in his head.’

‘Did you write his will?’ asked Bartholomew.

Quenhyth nodded, then gave a rueful grin. ‘It was one of the briefest I have ever seen: the chest for me and everything else to his niece.’

‘Did he make another at any point? Or talk about doing so?’

‘Not with me. There was an older will from years ago, in which he left a house on Bridge Street to his apprentices. But, he always said they were lazy, and I am not surprised he changed his mind.’

‘When did he make the new will?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘How recently?’

‘A month or so ago,’ replied Quenhyth. ‘Julianna will show it to you, if you ask her. You will see it is beautifully crafted. I have the best handwriting in Michaelhouse — Wynewyk says so.’

‘What did you make of the death of that whore?’ asked Redmeadow conversationally, bored with Quenhyth’s boasting; his own writing was far from tidy. ‘She was hale and hearty one moment, and dead the next. Quenhyth and I could do nothing to rouse her once she had fallen down.’

‘And we tried,’ said Quenhyth, keen as always to secure Bartholomew’s favourable opinion. ‘I know you felt sorry for her, so we did our best to revive her.’

‘She was not a whore,’ said Bartholomew to Redmeadow sharply.

‘Frail Sister, then,’ said Redmeadow impatiently, obviously considering that there was not much in a name, and a whore was a whore at the end of the day. ‘But what did you think? She was fit in body, even if her wits were mashed, and it was odd to see her die so abruptly.’

‘You two can attend her requiem mass,’ said Bartholomew, knowing they would find it a chore, but thinking it was about time they both learned to be more tolerant. He did not like Redmeadow’s salacious interest in Bess’s death and was not sure that he wanted to answer the lad’s questions. ‘She was a patient, and we owe her that respect.’

‘But I do not want to go,’ objected Quenhyth. ‘I have my studies to think of.’

‘Too bad,’ said Bartholomew. ‘This is part of your training.’

‘No,’ said Quenhyth firmly. ‘I do not like requiem masses. They upset me.’