The Hand of Justice

‘He was interested in our work and, since he was going to be a physician, I showed him our workshop. It was only later that we missed a quantity of henbane and some concentrated poppy juice. At first I thought I was mistaken, and put the matter from my mind, but then I heard about Warde and I guessed what had happened.’

‘Then why did you not tell me?’ demanded Michael angrily.

‘We was feared,’ said Lavenham hoarsely, while Isobel started to cry. ‘We feared still. Quenhyth steal henbane. He use it in Water of Snails which he also steal. He care nothing that Isobel blamed.’

‘Why did he poison Bess?’ asked Michael, sounding disgusted. ‘Did she see him doing something to Deschalers, and was murdered for her silence?’

‘She was killed too long after Deschalers’s murder for that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We have already said her death may hold the key to the mystery. I still think it does.’

‘Quenhyth knew her,’ said Isobel tearfully. ‘From home.’

‘Quenhyth comes from Chepe,’ said Bartholomew, ‘and Bess came from London, of which Chepe is a part. Were they lovers once? Matilde said she thought Quenhyth had been crossed in love.’

‘Then why did he kill her?’ asked Michael. ‘That is no way to deal with old flames.’

‘He always acted oddly around her,’ said Bartholomew, frowning. ‘And I would say, with the benefit of hindsight, that there was a vague recognition in her behaviour towards him. But it does not tell us why he might have killed her.’

‘We shall have to ask him ourselves,’ said Michael grimly.

They walked to Michaelhouse, with Michael urging Bartholomew to hurry so they could question Quenhyth before anyone else died, but the physician dragged his heels, loath to learn for a fact that he had harboured a killer. When they arrived at the College, Redmeadow was strolling in the yard with the Franciscan students, Ulfrid and Zebedee. Michael asked whether they had seen Quenhyth, but the three exchanged looks of disgust and said they would not willingly spend free time in his company, when all he did was accuse folk of stealing.

Redmeadow was not wearing his tabard, and his tunic was exposed. Bartholomew saw yet again the ingrained white substance on it, and recalled Matilde telling him that Redmeadow had appeared white and ghostly the morning after the murders in the mills. The student had told her the mess was the result of a practical joke. Then Bartholomew remembered how much flour dust had been caught in his own clothes when he had searched the mill for clues, and felt a sudden lurching sickness. Whoever killed Deschalers and Bottisham would also have been covered in dust. He pointed to the stains.

‘How did that happen?’ he asked flatly, wondering if all his reasoning had been wrong, and Quenhyth was innocent after all.

Ulfrid answered before Redmeadow could speak. ‘Do not start him off, Doctor. We heard nothing but gripes about the ruin of his favourite tunic all last week. He was furious that Quenhyth borrowed it without asking, and then returned it in such a state.’

‘Two Sundays ago,’ added Redmeadow angrily. ‘Agatha has been able to do nothing with it, and Quenhyth will not even admit that he was to blame! I cannot imagine what he did to it. Lady Matilde saw me in it the next day, so I fabricated a story blaming a practical joke — she caught me by surprise with her blunt question, so I said the first thing that came to my mind. I could see she did not believe me, and I felt a proper fool.’

Bartholomew supposed that Quenhyth had anticipated dust as he embarked on his killing spree, and had prepared himself by wearing his friend’s clothes. ‘Why did you not tell me?’ he asked.

Redmeadow was surprised. ‘Because you are far too busy to bother with something stupid like this.’

‘How do you know it was Quenhyth who dirtied the tunic?’ asked Bartholomew unhappily.

‘Because only he and you have access to our room.’ Redmeadow regarded his teacher uneasily. ‘Do not tell me it was you! You were at the King’s Mill that night — where there is flour dust.’

‘It would be too small for me,’ said Bartholomew, pushing past him to reach his room.

He opened the door with Michael behind him, dreading the confrontation that was about to occur. But when he stepped inside, Quenhyth was on the floor. The student’s face was sheened with sweat and his breathing was laboured. It did not take a physician to see there was something badly wrong.

‘Help me!’ Quenhyth wheezed. ‘I have been poisoned!’

Bartholomew rushed to Quenhyth’s side and began to measure the speed of his pulse, while his mind raced in confusion. Had he been wrong? Was the killer Redmeadow after all, with his incriminating tunic and fiery temper?

‘How did this happen?’ asked Michael, bemused.

‘I do not know,’ said Quenhyth weakly. ‘But my mouth and fingers burn, and I cannot move.’