The Hand of Justice

Bartholomew slumped against a wall, exhausted by the physical effort of scaling ladders and struggling with blankets made heavy with water. He flexed his shoulders, knowing they were going to be stiff the next morning, and took a deep breath of smoke-tainted air. Gonville might be safe, but there were other buildings still battling with flames.

‘They did not even have the courtesy to offer us a drink to slake our thirst,’ said Michael, aggrieved. His face was black with soot, and his normally immaculate gown was filthy with burned thatching. His hair was lank and oily, and sweat had given him a streaked appearance, like tigers and other mythical beasts Bartholomew had read about in the writings from the East. He suspected he did not look much different himself.

‘You must forgive our manners,’ said Pulham, emerging on cue with two goblets of claret. ‘In all the confusion, we did not thank you.’

‘Rougham never will,’ said Bartholomew, drinking some, then pointedly passing the cup to Beadle Meadowman, who had worked as hard as anyone.

Pulham pulled a disagreeable face as he watched his best silver goblets pass between the rough hands of the University’s beadles. ‘Rougham means no harm. It is just his way.’

‘He does mean harm,’ said Michael, trying not to laugh as his beadles amused themselves by aping manners they thought might be employed by scholars at the high table — cocked fingers and grotesquely puckered lips — as they sipped from vessels that would cost them a year’s pay. ‘He has accused Matt of killing Warde, when it was the medicine he prescribed that did the harm.’

‘I am sorry he has been abusive. But you know what medical men are like. They are obliged to be arrogant and overbearing, because that is the only way to make their patients take the unpleasant potions they prescribe. They are all the same.’

‘Are we?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking that Pulham was probably right, generally speaking. A patient was far more likely to swallow something horrible if his physician bullied him into doing it.

‘I did not come to argue,’ said Pulham wearily. ‘I came to thank you. I shall write to Colton, and he can decide whether we accept the Hand of Justice. It is too momentous an issue for me. Meanwhile, we are lucky the Mortimers have hired our legal skills, or we would be destitute. I do not suppose you know the Commissioners’ verdict — about whether there will be a formal hearing?’

‘The meeting was still in progress when the fire broke out,’ said Michael. ‘We do not know if everyone escaped, and the Commissioners’ decision — if they reached one — seems unimportant now.’

‘It will certainly be unimportant to Lavenham,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He has lost his house, his property and his livelihood.’

‘Only if he is lucky,’ said Michael. ‘Let us hope he has not lost his life, too. But we should see what is happening elsewhere, and leave these scholars to quarrel about where to put their furniture.’

Pulham was dazed and unhappy as he escorted Bartholomew and Michael to the gate. His hands were unsteady, and the physician wondered whether he was up to the task of running a College in his Master’s absence. Rougham was dismissive of him, and might well stage some sort of coup.

‘Thank you, again,’ he said, opening the door to let them out. ‘If I can reciprocate in any way, then you must let me know. I am in your debt, and, if you make a request of me that is within my power to grant, I shall try my best to oblige you.’

‘Then abandon the business with the Hand,’ said Michael immediately, turning to face him. ‘You must see it is more trouble than it is worth.’

‘I know,’ said Pulham wearily. ‘But Rougham’s voice is a powerful one, and he will also write to Colton and put his views. You may have asked for something beyond my capabilities to give.’

‘Then tell me something about Bottisham that may help me solve his murder,’ suggested Michael. ‘I know there are things I have not been told because you want to preserve Gonville’s integrity.’

‘There are not-’ began Pulham, glancing uneasily behind him.

Michael overrode him. ‘There are. One small detail you neglected to pass on concerns the Mortimers — that they promised a handsome donation for your chapel if you took their case against the King’s Mill. Master Thorpe mentioned it to me. Since Bottisham was to be one of the lawyers for this event, the offer of a large amount of money is surely pertinent information for a Senior Proctor investigating his murder? But I asked you about it twice, and you denied it.’

Pulham sighed in resignation. ‘The donation was supposed to have been kept quiet until the dispute had been resolved, so we would not be accused of improper practices. Besides, there is always the possibility that we will lose, in which case the Mortimers will give us nothing.’

‘Nothing stays secret for long in a place like Cambridge,’ said Michael. ‘But the time for games is over, Pulham. I want to know anything that might have a bearing on Bottisham’s murder.’