The Hand of Justice

Lavenham’s home had been reduced to a black skeleton, punctuated by jagged, charred pieces of fallen timber. The houses next door had fared little better; one still had its roof, but neither would be safe for human habitation again. The air around them was rank with the stench of burning, and Bartholomew detected something rotten and unsettling underneath, where potions that should not have been heated or mixed had combined to deadly effect.

‘Have you discovered what happened?’ asked Michael when he saw Tulyet, who looked as weary as Bartholomew felt. The Sheriff’s clothes were stained and sodden, indicating that he had been in the thick of the action. Morice and Cheney, who still hovered near the seat of the fire, were relatively pristine, suggesting their role had been confined to spectating. This had not gone unnoticed, and they were being given a wide berth and plenty of dark looks by townsfolk and scholars alike. Neither seemed to care.

‘The fire started in Lavenham’s shop,’ said Tulyet. ‘We do not know how yet, but an apothecary is always boiling some potion or other, so it is not surprising something was forgotten and caught alight. Accidents happen, even in the most careful of households.’

‘An accident?’ asked Michael cautiously. ‘But the King’s Commissioners were inside at the time.’

‘So?’ asked Tulyet. He caught the glance exchanged between monk and physician. ‘You think the fire was started deliberately, to interfere with the Commissioners’ business?’

‘Or worse,’ said Michael. ‘Do not forget that Warde has already been murdered.’

‘God help us,’ muttered Tulyet. ‘So, who do you suspect of committing such a heinous act? Whoever it was deserves to hang, because the entire town might have been lost.’

‘I saw the Mortimer clan — including Edward and Thorpe — lurking around just before the alarm was raised,’ said Michael. ‘Not to mention two merchants who have a financial interest in the case — Morice and Cheney.’

‘And Paxtone and Wynewyk,’ said Bartholomew to himself. ‘I hope to God their suspicious behaviour has not extended to arson.’

‘So, you have no idea who might have started this mischief?’ said Tulyet. ‘Your suspects for the fire are essentially the same as your suspects for the murders of Warde, Deschalers and Bottisham?’

Michael nodded. ‘Our culprit is a clever man — or a lucky one — and left little in the way of clues.’

‘Poor Lavenham,’ said Tulyet, gazing at the mess of spars and hot, crumbling plaster that still smoked gently. ‘But I thought we were going to lose Gonville Hall, too, when the wind shifted. It was selfish of Morice to ask the Hand of Justice to do that, just to save his own property.’

He glared at the Mayor, who had sent a servant to fetch his wineskin and was enjoying a little liquid refreshment while he gawked at the destruction around him.

‘I do not think Morice had anything to do with the wind changing direction,’ said Michael, puzzled that Tulyet should think it should. ‘It happens all the time, quite naturally.’

‘But not usually at so opportune a moment,’ argued Tulyet. ‘I shall reserve judgement on the matter, personally. Many folk heard him praying, and his favour with the Hand is the talk of the town. How else do you think he stands unmolested, when so many folk are furious with him for not helping to quench the fire? They are afraid that if they attack him, the Hand will strike them down.’

‘Where are Lavenham and the other Commissioners?’ asked Bartholomew, changing the subject before the Michael and the Sheriff could begin a debate over the matter. He could see the monk was itching to tell Tulyet exactly what he thought of folk who believed the relic was responsible for events that had a perfectly rational explanation. ‘They escaped the inferno, I hope?’

‘I have not seen them,’ replied Tulyet. ‘But then I have not had time to stand around and look for people. I have been busy.’ He cast another venomous glower at Morice.

‘We all have,’ said Michael soothingly. ‘And tonight you must come to Michaelhouse, so we can exchange information about this case. I have a few things to tell you.’

‘I have very little to tell you,’ said Tulyet gloomily.

‘Arrive early,’ Michael went on. ‘We are having blood pudding and pig-brain pottage, followed by fried gooseberries — saved from last year, so they are a little sour and we have no sugar. Ensure you are punctual, because you will not want to miss it.’

‘Come to me instead,’ said Tulyet, trying to hide his revulsion. ‘My wife plans roasted lamb with rosemary and carrots for today. And I can ask her to make Lombard slices,’ he added, a little desperately, when Michael hesitated.

‘Very well,’ said Michael, sounding as though he was doing him a favour by accepting. Relieved by his narrow escape from a Michaelhouse repast, the Sheriff strode away to supervise the dumping of yet more water on the smouldering remains of Lavenham’s house. Fires had a nasty habit of rekindling, and Tulyet had no intention of allowing a second blaze to start.