The Hand of Justice

Donning a pair of heavy gloves, and ignoring William’s indignation that the physician should question his assurances, Bartholomew opened the parcel, making clumsy work of untying the twine that bound it. Inside was a small book. He gazed at it in astonishment.

‘It is by Ibn Ibrahim!’ he exclaimed. ‘My Arab teacher. I knew he had written a tome containing his various theories, but I did not think I would ever see a copy. But why did Lavenham have it? And why did he give it to me?’

‘You have good friends to thank for that,’ said William. ‘Paxtone saw it in their shop, and he knew this Ibrahim was your teacher. He and Wynewyk have been negotiating to purchase it for you for the past month or so. They never succeeded — Lavenham did not want to part with it because it came from his father. But yesterday he decided he needed the money, so I arranged the sale.’ He turned and gestured to someone who was standing a short distance away, smiling shyly. It was Wynewyk.

Bartholomew was seized with abject guilt. ‘Is that why they have been acting so strangely of late?’

‘They did not want you to know what they were doing,’ explained William. ‘They suspected Lavenham would not sell it, and did not want you to be disappointed when they failed. They met in the orchard, because Wynewyk said no one ever uses it except him. I should have mentioned your penchant for that old apple trunk, I suppose. He said they were discussing Rougham’s accusations against you once, and were appalled to imagine the conclusions you must have drawn.’

Bartholomew was surprised to feel the prick of tears behind his eyes, and supposed he must be more tired than he had thought.

‘Thank you,’ he said as Wynewyk came to stand next to him.

‘You almost caught me with it once,’ said Wynewyk, smiling at the memory. ‘Lavenham lent it to me for a day, and I brought it here to show Paxtone. I fell asleep waiting for him, and the next thing I knew was Michael trying to grab it from my lap.’

‘I remember,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I saw something hidden under Gratian’s Decretia.’

‘Rougham was a wretched nuisance,’ Wynewyk went on. ‘He somehow guessed what we were trying to do, and went to extraordinary lengths to thwart us. He claimed he did not want your mind sullied further with heathen texts, and did all he could to persuade the Lavenhams not to sell it to us.’

‘He foiled you at every turn,’ mused Bartholomew, recalling what he had overheard. He was ashamed now of what he had thought.

Wynewyk did not seem to notice his chagrin. ‘Then we were afraid it had gone up in smoke, along with Lavenham’s house. Paxtone had a good look for it in the rubble — you doubtless wondered why he was covered in soot — but it was nowhere to be found. But then we discovered it in the most unlikely of places.’ He gestured for William to continue.

‘I was called to give Thomas Mortimer last rites,’ said William. ‘Property he had looted from the Lavenhams was spilling from his clothes, so Wynewyk and I gathered it up to return it to them. The book was one of the items.’

‘It was Quenhyth who tried to steal the Dumbleton from the hall, you know,’ said Wynewyk, when Bartholomew seemed unable to speak. ‘Not Thorpe, as we assumed. After I repaired the chain, I caught him at it again. The chest made him greedy, because it was somewhere private to store stolen goods. But I must tell Paxtone that all our plotting paid off. He will be delighted.’

‘Wait for me by the gate,’ Bartholomew called after him. ‘I would like to go with you.’

Bartholomew handed the book to William while he raked out the fire, keen now to finish with Quenhyth’s business, and spend some time with two men who had been to such lengths on his behalf.

‘My God!’ breathed William suddenly. ‘I hope that is not what I think it is.’

Bartholomew looked to where the friar pointed. His mouth went dry when he saw that some of the charred embers were hand shaped. He poked them with the stick, revealing large blackened finger bones and the remains of a blue-green ring. He exchanged an uneasy glance with the friar.

‘So, Quenhyth stole the Hand of Justice,’ he said. ‘We thought he might have done, and I should have guessed where he had put it. Still, at least we know the thing was not holy, or it would not have been eaten by flames.’

‘Oh, dear,’ said William nervously. ‘This is all rather embarrassing.’

‘Only if people find out about it,’ said Bartholomew, raking vigorously, so the bones broke up and became indistinguishable among the charred remains of the chest. He scooped up the ashes and wrapped them in the material that had held the book. William followed him out of the garden and watched while he flung the parcel into the river. It sank slowly from sight.

‘Find out about what?’ asked William.