The Hand of Justice

‘Bang!’ came Dickon’s strident voice from the garden. ‘Pow!’

‘Is anyone with him?’ asked Tulyet, watching as his wife and most of their household crowded into the pantry to inspect the mess. ‘It is getting dark, and I do not want him to let the chickens out.’

‘I will go,’ said Bartholomew, relieved to be away from the smoke, because his throat was still raw from inhaling so much of it earlier that day. He entered the cool garden and took a deep breath of spring-scented air before beginning to look for Dickon. It was not difficult to locate him. He was screaming happily as he whirled his wooden sword around his head.

‘Yah!’ he screeched, stabbing some bushes. Suddenly, there was a rustle and someone broke free and raced across the garden towards a wall at the rear. Dickon was after him in a trice, whooping his delight at the prospect of live quarry. His victim reached the wall and began to scale it, driven to a new level of acrobatic achievement by the sword. Dickon jabbed hard at the leg that dangled so tantalisingly in front of him, and there was a shriek of agony. The boy’s face creased into a satisfied grin, and the intruder disappeared over the top. There was a thud, a grunt of pain and then uneven footsteps as the would-be arsonist limped away.

‘Pow,’ said Dickon, pleased with himself. ‘He dead.’

* * *

‘Are you sure you did not see who it was?’ asked Tulyet, as they sat in his office — barred again against juvenile invasion — and poured more wine to wash the smoke from their throats. ‘It would be good to know the identity of the man who just tried to incinerate me and my family.’

‘He was just a shadow and he ran too fast for me to see,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was unfortunate for him that he did not run faster still, because then Dickon would not have tried to sever his leg.’

‘It serves him right,’ said Tulyet unsympathetically. ‘Damn the fellow! Now I shall have to organise guards to protect my house, and I do not have men to spare. I need them all in the town. It felt very uneasy earlier tonight, as though we are on the brink of another riot.’

‘But who would want to kill you?’ asked Stanmore. ‘And damage the King’s Commission, since two arson attacks in a day are more than coincidence.’

‘Well, it was not Bernarde,’ said Tulyet. He had closed the window shutters, but the racket made by Dickon as he screeched his way around the herb beds was still very audible. ‘It was definitely his body we found in the ruins of Lavenham’s house. There were things other than his keys that allowed us to identify him — the buckles on his shoes, his mouth of crowded teeth, and a ring.’

‘So, if we assume that whoever killed Deschalers and Bottisham also set Lavenham’s fire, then Bernarde is in the clear,’ said Stanmore.

‘Actually, he is not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘How do you know he did not set the blaze, then get caught in it accidentally?’

‘That is unlikely,’ said Michael. ‘Only a fool would allow himself to be ensnared in the inferno he had created, and our killer is not a fool. However, I think Bernarde was innocent of all these crimes — although I cannot say the same for Lavenham and Isobel. They have disappeared, and if that is not a sign of guilt, then I do not know what is. We have a witness who saw Bess in their shop moments before she was poisoned, and they will know we want to interview them about it.’

‘We need look no further than Thorpe and Edward Mortimer for all this chaos,’ said Tulyet firmly. ‘They are the obvious culprits. Perhaps one of them attacked my house, too. Could the intruder have been either of them, Matt?’

‘I could not tell,’ repeated Bartholomew. ‘Dickon had him on the run too soon. It could have been anyone — Rougham, for example. His College is deeply involved with the Mortimers, and we cannot discount the possibility that he poisoned Warde with Water of Snails. Also, he is so keen to claim the Hand of Justice for Gonville that I think he would stop at nothing to get it.’

‘No,’ said Stanmore. ‘Young Thorpe and Edward will be behind this. You mark my words.’

‘Or Cheney and Morice,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They are desperate for the King’s Mill to win its case, and they bought Water of Snails from Lavenham. We have that in black and white — or we would have done, had the fire not destroyed Lavenham’s record books.’

‘So, we all believe in different suspects,’ said Tulyet. ‘Matt thinks Rougham, Cheney or Morice are to blame; Michael has Lavenham in his sights; and Oswald and I think our culprits are Thorpe and Mortimer. Some of us must be wrong — either that or we must concoct a solution that has all of them acting together. And I cannot see how that could be.’

‘There are simply too many victims,’ said Stanmore. ‘Deschalers, Bottisham, Warde, Bosel, Bess and now Bernarde. A grocer, two scholars, a beggar, a madwoman and a miller. How are we supposed to identify the connections between these people?’

‘Perhaps there are none,’ said Tulyet. ‘At least, not between all of them.’