The Hand of Justice

Bartholomew agreed, trying not to show that he found Paxtone’s prevarication deeply disturbing. Could he trust Paxtone’s analysis of the poison, when it was possible he had administered or created it himself. But, if that were the case, then why was he so willing to share his ‘findings’? Surely, the safest thing would be to deny it contained poison at all? Bartholomew exchanged a glance with Michael, and saw the monk was as confounded as he was.

‘Thank you,’ said Michael, aware that the King’s Hall physician was waiting for his discoveries to be acknowledged. ‘This will help us greatly. However, we still do not know the answer to one basic question: did Bess knowingly obtain and swallow this potion; was she given it, because she had uncovered something she should not have done in her quest to locate her man; or did she simply find it, then take it because she was addled?’

‘We will have to question Lavenham again,’ said Bartholomew. He glanced at the apothecary’s shop and saw Isobel loitering outside, passing the time by waggling her hips at anyone who looked in her direction. ‘Bess’s phial probably came from his shop, and the one that killed Warde certainly did. We should ask him how many more of the things are loose in the town.’

‘You have already interrogated Lavenham,’ said Cheney. Bartholomew jumped in alarm; he had not noticed the silent approach of the merchants behind him, keen to hear what was being said.

‘And he did not like it, either,’ added Morice, his blue eyes darting here and there so that Bartholomew began to ask himself if there was anyone in the town who could hold a conversation without behaving as though he had just committed the most heinous of crimes. ‘He was upset, and claimed you hinted that he had poisoned Warde, Deschalers and Bottisham. It is all nonsense, of course. Deschalers is no good to any of us dead. We needed him alive.’

‘You cannot interrupt the Commissioners’ meeting,’ said Cheney, catching Michael’s arm as the monk started determinedly towards Lavenham’s shop. ‘We want them to decide whether there is enough evidence to warrant a formal hearing — and if you disturb them now, they may never make up their minds. Lavenham and Bernarde are fighting for us, but Master Thorpe is annoyingly neutral.’

‘Look at the Mortimers,’ said Paxtone, pointing to where Thomas, Constantine and various nephews milled about. Thorpe was with them. ‘They are as keen to know the verdict as you are.’

‘Of course,’ said Stanmore, watching as Thomas reeled against one of his clan, who struggled to hold him upright. The miller tugged a wineskin from his belt, and Bartholomew saw he was fortifying himself in anticipation of grim news to come. ‘There is a lot of money at stake.’

‘Look!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, gazing at the shop. ‘Is that smoke?’

‘It is smoke,’ said Stanmore, hurrying towards it. ‘And there are flames. Lavenham’s shop is afire! Fetch water! Sound the alarm!’

In a town where many buildings were made of wood and had thatched roofs, and lots of houses were crammed into a relatively small area, fire was something all citizens feared. To some, it was even more frightening than the plague, and there was nothing like the stench of burning to throw the Fen-edge community into a panic. Humans were not the only ones terrified. Bartholomew could hear horses whinnying in alarm, kicking their iron-shod hoofs against stable doors with a rhythmic drumming sound. He hoped someone would let them out in time.

Stanmore’s frantic cries had not brought people running with buckets of water to douse the flames. Instead they had caused havoc, with folk running here and there, desperate to return to their own properties and protect them before the fire could spread. Stanmore himself was among them. His house was not far from Lavenham’s shop and, although he was wealthy enough to have purchased a building without immediate neighbours, there was always the danger that his wooden storage sheds would be ignited by the orange sparks that were dancing ever higher in the sky.

Bartholomew knew he should organise a chain of people with pails and other utensils, from the well in the Market Square to Lavenham’s house. He also knew there would be burns, or injuries caused when folk fell in their haste to escape. But Matilde was at home that day, and his first thoughts were for the safety of his friend. So like all the others, he ran to see to his own interests, rather than trying to control the flames while there was still a chance.