The Hand of Justice

By the time they arrived, Mortimer’s Mill was well and truly ablaze. Flames danced high in the air, lighting the onlookers with an amber glow. Some folk cheered, but most just stood and watched, uncomfortable with the sight of another building consumed by fire. Because there was so much wood and grease, it was being devoured like kindling, and Bartholomew knew it was as doomed as Lavenham’s shop had been. Flames licked over the great waterwheel, painting its shape in the sky.

On a balcony at one end Bartholomew saw two figures standing side by side. One was taller than the other, and they were unmoving, watching the crowd as intently as the crowd watched them. Flames licked all around them, lighting them as dark silhouettes against a dazzling orange curtain.

‘Mortimer and Thorpe!’ yelled Michael in horror. ‘They will die if we do not help them! Fetch water, quickly!’

‘It is too late, Brother,’ said Bartholomew in a soft voice, barely audible above the snap and pop of burning. ‘They are already dead. It is corpses you see there, not living men.’

‘I suppose that explains why they are not moving,’ said Michael unsteadily. ‘I thought it was unnatural. I hate fires, Matt. I hate the smell and the sound. They make me feel helpless.’

‘We are helpless,’ said Bartholomew, watching the still shapes as the mill blazed ever more fiercely. He wondered whether enough of them would be found the next day to give them a burial, and whether he would be able to prise them apart. He had seen enough of such infernos to know the two would be a fused, indistinguishable mass, barely recognisable as human. Sickened, he wandered to the river, where he stared at the flames’ reflections dancing in the water. He jumped in alarm and spun around when he became aware that someone was standing close behind him.

‘It is done,’ said Lenne in a soft voice. Bartholomew could see his white teeth gleaming in the darkness. ‘Thomas Mortimer will never kill an innocent man again, and my poor mother and father are avenged. He and his mill are no more than ashes, to be blown away by tomorrow’s breeze.’

‘You did this?’ asked Bartholomew, aghast. ‘You set the fire?’

‘Why not? The law failed me, so I decided to exact my own justice. But I left no evidence. No one will be able to prove that his death was anything other than an accident. Just like my father’s.’

‘But Thomas died yesterday,’ said Bartholomew, realising that Lenne did not know. ‘He was crushed by a beam in the inferno that destroyed Lavenham’s shop. I saw his body myself. You have killed his nephew and Thorpe instead.’

‘Truly?’ asked Lenne uncertainly. ‘I only returned tonight, and have not wasted time in gossip. I did not know my mother’s curse had already worked.’

‘Sergeant Orwelle said you had gone home.’

‘I had, but I could not rest easy knowing that the man responsible for the deaths of my parents walked free.’ He took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘Well, I suppose it does not matter. I have rid the town of two men who are violently hated. Folk will probably thank me for what I have done.’

‘That does not make it right,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Right!’ sneered Lenne, and Bartholomew saw for the first time that he held a knife. ‘What does this town know about right? It allows drunken sots to trample frail old men, while self-confessed killers enjoy King’s Pardons. There is no such thing as “right” here.’

‘Thorpe and Edward did not harm you,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘It is not for you to punish them. Tulyet was right: the law may not be just, but it is all there is between us and mayhem.’

‘Except that its very existence is sometimes the cause of that mayhem,’ said Lenne. ‘Goodbye, Doctor. I have seen enough, and I shall never visit Cambridge again. If you promise to look the other way and watch the sparks until I have gone, I will spare your life. And if you ever repeat this conversation to anyone else, I shall deny that I was here.’

Bartholomew turned around, seeing the dancing cinders that lit the sky in a celebration of orange and yellow, and when he looked behind him some moments later, he was alone.

EPILOGUE

The following morning, just as dawn was breaking and an early mist hung over the river like a pale grey veil, Bartholomew and Michael walked to the blackened spars and timbers that were all that remained of Mortimer’s Mill. Others were already there — soldiers to prevent anyone from straying too close to what was a dangerous structure, and townsfolk waiting for the soldiers to look the other way, so they could see whether there was anything worth salvaging. For a while Bartholomew thought the great waterwheel had survived, for it looked charred, but otherwise unharmed. Then a soldier leaned on it and there was a tearing groan as the whole thing collapsed. From the direction of Michaelhouse came a screeching echo, as Walter’s peacock answered it.