The Hand of Justice

‘Deschalers’s death was incidental. Lavenham followed Bottisham one night, intending to murder him. Bottisham went to the King’s Mill. When Deschalers, arriving to meet Bottisham, caught Lavenham red-handed, he was obliged to kill him, too.’

‘There is a flaw in your reasoning, Brother. Deschalers had the key to the mill, so he must have arrived at this meeting first, not Bottisham. Deschalers would not have stood by and watched Bottisham murdered without doing something.’

‘He was mortally ill,’ argued Michael. ‘Weak. He might have been too feeble to help Bottisham. But you are quibbling. The point is that this case has taken a new turn, and Lavenham is mysteriously missing. We should at least ask him why. Will you come with me to St Mary the Great?’

‘What for?’ asked Bartholomew, who longed to lie down and rest. He was desperately tired, physically and mentally, and wanted time to allow the weariness to drain from his muscles.

‘For two reasons,’ replied Michael. ‘First, Redmeadow is in your room and is waving at you in a way that suggests he wants some text or other explained. You will have no peace there. And second, I want to ensure the Hand of Justice has not attracted some large and hostile post-fire crowd that might cause mischief when darkness falls.’

Reluctantly, Bartholomew followed the monk up St Michael’s Lane and on to the High Street. The sweet aroma of roses wafted around them as they walked, almost, but not quite, masking the stench of sewage from a blocked drain and the sickly-sweet reek of a dead cat that had been tossed on top of a roof, possibly by the cart that had killed it. Bartholomew started to think about Thomas Mortimer and his reckless driving, and wondered whether Lenne had returned to Thetford now that his mother had been buried.

The town had an atmosphere of unease that was so apparent, it was almost physical. People looked around warily, and the yelling that had accompanied the fire, had dropped to whispers and low voices. The High Street was unusually quiet, with only the rattle of carts and the thump of horses’ hoofs on compressed manure breaking the silence.

‘I do not like this,’ muttered Michael, unnerved. ‘It feels as if something is about to happen.’

‘It is odd,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But there are no apprentices or students massing on street corners, so it does not seem that folk are spoiling for a fight.’

‘But there is an aura,’ declared Michael, gazing around him.

‘Meaning what?’ asked Bartholomew sceptically.

‘Meaning that I shall have every one of my beadles on duty tonight, and that any scholar seen on the streets after dusk can expect to be detained in my cells until morning. I shall recommend that Dick takes similar steps with the townsfolk.’

‘Do you think it is something to do with the Hand of Justice?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I do not mean literally, since we both know it is no more holy than that rosewater you hurled all over yourself. I mean do you think people might be waiting for it to do something?’

‘Such as what? Sprout wings and wend its way to Heaven in front of our sinful eyes? Burst free from the tower in a spray of stone and mortar, and slap anyone who has committed a crime? It will have its work cut out for it, if it intends to do that. It will be busy from now until dawn.’

‘Jest if you will, Brother, but what we think is irrelevant. It is what its followers believe that is important now.’

The small crowd that was usually present outside the University Church had swelled to a gathering of impressive size, just as Michael had predicted. Most folk were kneeling or standing quietly with bowed heads, and the mood was more reverent than threatening. Michael tended to disapprove of any large assembly when the sun was about to go down, but there was little he could do about this one — people had a right to pray where they liked, and no one was actually doing anything wrong. Even the pickpockets had ceased trading for the day, and were sitting harmlessly in the churchyard.

The two scholars eased through them, careful not to jostle anyone who might take offence, and entered the church’s shady interior. This, too, was full, and a number of people knelt on the flagstones or leaned against the sturdy pillars of the nave. A mass was in progress, led by Chancellor Tynkell, and the High Altar was bathed in a golden light from dozens of candles. The aroma of cheap incense that wafted along the aisles competed valiantly with the stink of Michael’s rosewater. William, who had been near the back of the nave, spotted the monk and hurried to join him, religious devotions forgotten.

‘Have you heard?’ he asked without preamble. ‘Thomas Mortimer is dead.’

‘Dead?’ asked Bartholomew, shocked as he listened to the Franciscan friar’s bald pronouncement. ‘But I saw him not long ago, loitering in Milne Street while the Commissioners met.’

‘Well, he is in the Lady Chapel now. Come and see for yourself.’