The Hand of Justice

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, not sure Deschalers had been entirely honest with Rougham. Had the grocer murdered Bottisham after all, then killed himself to hide the fact? ‘We should go,’ he said, heading abruptly for the door. He was aware of the others’ startled faces, but he did not stop. ‘Thank you for your time.’

‘Is that it?’ hissed Michael, trying to slow the physician’s rapid progress across Gonville’s yard. ‘Rougham has just confessed to buying and dispensing poisons. Who knows what more he might have said had we probed deeper?’

‘He would have said nothing,’ said Bartholomew, ‘because he is not our killer. I was wrong. I have been wrong about a number of things. We initially assumed Deschalers and Bottisham died in an identical manner, because of the nails. But that is not what happened. Bottisham probably died from being stabbed in the palate, but I think Deschalers was poisoned first.’

‘Wait,’ said Michael, grabbing his arm. He steered the physician into the cemetery surrounding St Michael’s Church, where he sat on a tomb with his arms folded, waiting for an explanation. ‘Well?’

‘Rougham does not know how to use henbane,’ said Bartholomew, pacing back and forth.

‘How do you know that?’ Michael was unconvinced.

‘Because he thinks the smell alone will kill rats. It will not — it needs to be ingested.’

‘But our only other suspect for the henbane killings is Paxtone,’ said Michael unhappily.

‘He is not guilty, either. Paxtone and I also discussed henbane, and he has no more idea about how to use it effectively than does Rougham. In fact, he had to send a student to a library to look up the symptoms of henbane poisoning after Bess died.’

‘Then what about the Water of Snails?’ asked Michael. ‘We know the phials Rougham gave Ufford, Despenser and Thompson contained no henbane — or they would be dead — but the ones swallowed by Bess and Warde did.’

‘Rougham had four phials and they are all accounted for — we can ask Ufford, Despenser and Thompson, but I am sure they will confirm his story. He was telling the truth.’

‘Then we must look at the three men who bought the other six between them: Morice, Cheney and Bernarde. You have always been suspicious of them.’

‘I have. But I do not think their Water of Snails was the culprit, either. When we visited Bernarde at his mill once, he confessed to being plagued with a sore head and told us two doses of Lavenham’s strong medicine had not eased his pain. I suspect he took what he bought himself. Meanwhile, Cheney and Morice said much the same. They claimed to have aching heads and backs induced by worry over Edward Mortimer’s foray into commerce, and they also said they took Lavenham’s medicine to cure themselves.’

‘Then we are out of suspects — unless the Water of Snails is irrelevant, and has led us astray.’

Bartholomew gazed up at the sky, and thought about all they had learned. Whoever killed Bess and Warde had probably used the remaining phials from Lavenham’s batch of thirteen. But because the apothecary’s shop was a pile of smouldering rubble, they would never be able to prove the last three phials were missing — stolen from the cupboard the man was careless about locking. He thought about people who might know about henbane and its effects. The killer was not only someone with a knowledge of herbs and cures, but someone who was ambitious and greedy. Then he wondered whether that ambition and greed had led him to steal the Hand, too.

He started to think about the stuffed glove, which the thief had wrapped in satin in the hope that William would not notice the real one was missing. The item had been stuffed with fur. Bartholomew recalled Dickon’s fur-covered rat, and smiled at the memory of the boy’s outrage when it had been destroyed. Then his amusement faded. The skills used to fashion a toy from an old cloak and sticks, and to make a glove look like a relic, were very similar.

‘We are not out of suspects,’ he said in a low, quiet voice. ‘We have just overlooked him.’

‘Who?’ asked Michael, who could think of no one.

‘Quenhyth. He is our killer.’

‘Quenhyth?’ asked Michael in astonishment, gazing at the physician in disbelief. ‘How did he come to be in your equations?’

‘It is falling into place,’ said Bartholomew as he paced back and forth. ‘I see it now. Quenhyth knows about poisons like henbane, because I have taught him about them.’

‘But you teach all your students the same things,’ objected Michael. ‘It could be any of them — Deynman, Redmeadow, and any of the thirty or so others. Poor Quenhyth. He is not a killer.’

‘I talked about henbane with Quenhyth, but no one else,’ said Bartholomew, remembering the discussion the two of them had had on their way to Isnard’s house the previous week while Redmeadow and Deynman lagged behind. ‘It was also Quenhyth who “helped” me test Warde’s Water of Snails — and he destroyed it all in the process. I see now that was no accident or carelessness. He poisoned Warde, and then he destroyed the evidence that might have led back to him.’