The Hand of Justice

‘Their deaths are related to each other,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Deschalers and Bottisham died in Bernarde’s mill, and Bess, Bosel and Warde were poisoned. Paxtone did some tests this morning, and he is certain Bess died from ingesting henbane, just like Warde.’

‘Paxtone,’ mused Stanmore. ‘He and Wynewyk have been acting very oddly lately. They are constantly scurrying in and out of dingy alleys together. It is most unbecoming in senior scholars.’

‘There is nothing to suggest Paxtone had anything against these victims,’ Bartholomew pointed out, still reluctant to see the pleasant King’s Hall physician implicated in such horrible murders, despite the evidence that was mounting against him.

‘You defend him because you like him,’ said Stanmore. ‘But you know as well as I do that murderers can be the most charming of folk.’

‘I cannot vouch for Paxtone, but I do not believe Wynewyk is our killer,’ said Michael, holding out his cup to be refilled. ‘He has no motive.’

‘None that we know about,’ corrected Stanmore. ‘He told me not long ago that he has been to France. Perhaps he met Thorpe and Mortimer there.’

As he spoke, fragments of information began to melt together in Bartholomew’s mind, and he frowned as he concentrated. Then the answer was there, in a flash. ‘Albi! Wynewyk said he was in Albi, in southern France.’

‘That town has a reputation for violence,’ mused Tulyet. ‘I recall being told about a vicious inquisition that once took place there, with hangings and burnings aplenty.’

Bartholomew turned to him. ‘Quite. And where better to learn the secrets of soldiery and killing? However, I also know that Albi was where Edward Mortimer became a man, because Julianna told me. Thorpe also mentioned Albi as somewhere he visited during his banishment — he did so just this afternoon, when we were inspecting Thomas Mortimer’s body in St Mary the Great.’

‘You think Wynewyk met them in Albi?’ asked Michael. ‘It must have been well before we knew Wynewyk, since he took up his Fellowship months after they had been exiled. You think they might be in this nasty business together?’

‘I do not know,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Wynewyk says he is terrified of them, and claims they stole his purse while they were waiting to pray to the Hand. That might mean they are not allies, but enemies — and Wynewyk wants them accused of these crimes.’

‘Are you saying Wynewyk killed six people with the express purpose of having Thorpe and Mortimer blamed for it?’ asked Stanmore uncertainly.

‘I do not know about this, Matt,’ said Michael, also doubtful. ‘Why kill innocent men to strike at your enemies? Why not just kill your enemies? It would be simpler and probably a lot more satisfying.’

Tulyet cleared his throat and looked unhappy. ‘There is something I have not told you. I did not know whether it was important, and I was afraid of leading your investigation astray with speculation, so, I kept it to myself. But …’

‘What?’ asked Michael warily, not liking the tone of the Sheriff’s voice. He suspected he was about to hear something he would not like. He was not mistaken.

‘I rode hard from Trumpington when I saw smoke in the sky above Cambridge, but just as I reached the Gate I saw something odd. Everyone was rushing towards Lavenham’s house — to help or to watch. Except one person. He was running — very fast — in the opposite direction.’

‘Who?’ demanded Michael. ‘Who was fleeing the scene of his crime?’

‘You cannot assume he was doing that-’ began Bartholomew, ready to point out that the two events might be unrelated. Michael waved him to be quiet, so Tulyet could speak.

‘I do not know who it was,’ said Tulyet. ‘But he was wearing a scholar’s tabard.’

Bartholomew and Michael were silent as they walked home from Tulyet’s house. They had discussed the case until their heads span, but were no closer to any answers. Bartholomew fretted about Paxtone and Wynewyk’s odd behaviour, while Michael confessed that he felt his lack of progress was an insult to the memories of Bottisham and Warde. Stanmore mourned the loss of Deschalers, while Tulyet was distressed because Dickon was tearful over the destruction of his beloved toy. He offered an enormous sum to encourage Quenhyth to make a new one, and Bartholomew contemplated abandoning medicine to enter the toy-making business instead, since it was a good deal more than he had ever earned for treating a patient.

It was a dark evening, with any light from stars or moon shielded by a thick layer of cloud. Rain was in the air, which smelled of damp earth, the marshes to the north and the scent of spring. There was also Michael’s rosewater. Shadows flitted back and forth, lurking in doorways and slipping down black, sinister alleys when they recognised the portly frame of the University’s Senior Proctor. No felon wanted a set-to with a man of Michael’s reputation.