The Hand of Justice

Michael went to the window to pour a goblet of wine for the lad. He rolled his eyes, to indicate he thought Quenhyth was exaggerating the seriousness of his condition, but Bartholomew pushed the cup away. ‘Do not give him wine.’

Michael regarded him askance. ‘You mean he really is poisoned?’

‘Very definitely. By Deschalers, I suspect.’

‘Deschalers is dead,’ said Michael, bewildered.

‘But the chest he gave his scribe is still here — the scribe he admired for his punctuality, but whom Julianna told us he did not like. And I think I know why. Deschalers was not being generous with his benefaction: he had a score to settle — something to do with Bess.’

‘Bess,’ mused Michael, watching Bartholomew soak a rag in water and wipe the student’s face. ‘We know Deschalers gave her money, despite the fact that he had no use for prostitutes. He was not paying her for her services, but for some other reason. What was it, Quenhyth?’

‘Never mind her,’ groaned the student. ‘She was nothing but a faithless whore who deserved to die. Help me. I am still alive. Close the window, the light hurts my eyes.’

‘Rougham made a henbane-based substance for Deschalers’s rats,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He added pig grease and cat urine, and claimed it would slaughter any rodent that so much as sniffed it. There is plenty of oil on the chest you inherited from Deschalers, and we have all noticed how it stinks. He wanted his henbane to kill more than rats.’

He leaned close to the lock and sniffed it cautiously. It reeked of urine and rancid fat, overlain with the now-familiar odour of henbane. He remembered the odd clause Deschalers had put in his will — that Quenhyth was to keep the box for a year and a day before selling it. Now it was obvious why he had stipulated such a thing: he had wanted to ensure the poison had plenty of time to act.

‘But Quenhyth does not open the chest with his teeth,’ reasoned Michael. ‘And you said henbane needs to be ingested to do its work. How did the poison go from the lock to his innards?’

Bartholomew gestured to Quenhyth’s hands. ‘He bites his nails. The poison went from the chest to his hand, then into his mouth when he chewed his fingers. You can see the stains on them now. And he has started to store his personal food supplies in the box — to keep them safe from you.’

Quenhyth was beginning to shake, although his skin was burning. ‘I have been feeling unwell since Julianna first insisted I took the box from her, but I became far worse after I tried to clean the excess oil from the lock. How will you save me? Will you give me charcoal, to counteract the acidity? Or will a purge expel the sickness from within? Give me a clyster! That heals most ills.’

His pulse was dangerously fast, and he was rapidly losing control of his muscles. Bartholomew knew no clyster, purge or medicine could help now that the poison had worked so deeply into his body. He lifted him from the floor and placed him on the bed, making him comfortable with cushions and blankets.

‘Drink this,’ he said, mixing wine with laudanum and chalk for want of anything else to do. ‘It will ease the burning in your mouth.’

‘But it will not cure me?’ asked Quenhyth in an appalled, breathless voice. His face was shiny with sweat, and deadly pale. ‘I will die?’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, who was never good at lying. ‘The wine will only ease your passing.’

‘You have committed grave crimes,’ said Michael, pulling chrism and holy water from his scrip, ready to give last rites. ‘You murdered Deschalers, Bottisham, Bosel, Warde, Bess and Bernarde.’

‘I did not mean to kill Bernarde,’ said Quenhyth tearfully. ‘When I set the fire I wanted Lavenham to die and his shop to be destroyed, so no one would associate me with the missing Water of Snails and henbane. Tulyet saw me as I ran away, but I know he did not recognise me.’

‘And Warde?’

‘Because I wanted Rougham to suffer. Everyone knew Warde was ill with his cough, and that Rougham was his physician. It was too good an opportunity to overlook and Rougham deserved it. He should not have embarrassed me and Redmeadow in public. Nor should he have slandered you.’

‘What about Bosel?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Blackmail,’ whispered Quenhyth. ‘He heard Bess’s tale and threatened to tell, unless I paid him lots of money. But I do not have lots of money. I offered him a skin of wine as down-payment.’

‘And it contained quicklime or some such thing?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘It was horrible,’ breathed Quenhyth, tears coursing down his face. ‘And noisy. I decided not to use such a substance again. But you keep your poisons locked away, so I had to go to Isobel instead.’

‘You hurt Bess in some way, and it made Deschalers angry. He asked Rougham to prepare something for his “rats”, but he had a change of heart as he became more ill, and decided to reprieve you. Julianna said he intended to clean the chest, presumably to remove the poison. But you murdered him before he could do so, and brought about your own death in the process.’