Susanna GREGORY - The Hand of Justice

‘It was a case of a falling out among thieves,’ said Michael. ‘Perhaps they quarrelled over the gold they stole from Lavenham. Or perhaps their murderous inclinations simply boiled to the surface and they were obliged to relieve them on each other.’

Bartholomew supposed he was right. There was certainly no evidence to suggest anything else had happened. ‘Then where is Lavenham’s gold?’ he asked. ‘It should be here.’

But the box of coins was nowhere to be found, and there was something rather too neat about the pair in their pit and their conveniently simultaneous deaths. Bartholomew glanced at Michael, and saw he was not the only one troubled by the tidy conclusion to the case.

‘Do you think …?’ began the physician uncertainly.

‘I do not think anything,’ replied Michael softly. ‘And neither should you.’

Two days later, Bartholomew was deeply engrossed in the book Wynewyk and Paxtone had gone to such pains to secure for him, when Michael wandered nonchalantly into his chamber. The physician was in the enviable position of having a room to himself again, because Redmeadow did not want to sleep in a place where his classmate had died, and had gone to share with the Franciscans instead. Bartholomew smiled at the monk and leaned back on his stool, stretching muscles that had grown stiff from too much sitting in one position. The smile faded when Michael waved something at him.

‘What do you think?’ asked the monk. ‘William and I were up most of the night with this.’

‘It looks like what it is,’ said Bartholomew, taking it disapprovingly. ‘An assemblage of chicken bones and parts of those pig feet Agatha served for dinner last night.’

‘I see you are not lacking in anatomical expertise,’ said Michael, laughing. ‘What else would you have me use? Is my Corpse Examiner prepared to procure me a real hand one dark night? No, I did not think so. And anyway, these are not just any old chicken feet. They belonged to Walter’s cockerel.’

Bartholomew was unimpressed and a little disgusted. ‘But why resurrect the Hand when you know what harm it can do? Why not let it go?’

‘We cannot afford a missing relic loose in the town. Who knows where it may appear next? No, Matt. The Hand of Justice must be seen to leave Cambridge for ever, if we are to be completely free of the thing. Chancellor Tynkell and Mayor Morice are taking it to the King this afternoon.’

‘You are going to send him that?’ asked Bartholomew in horror. ‘But he will see in an instant it is not real. Even the most deformed of his subjects is unlikely to have fingers shaped like trotters. And then he will accuse Tynkell and Morice of cheating him – and Tynkell has more than enough to worry about. Deynman is telling everyone he is pregnant.’

‘Deynman is doing no such thing,’ said Michael. His eyes gleamed with amusement. ‘Well, not any more. My grandmother had words with him about spreading those sorts of tales, and he is now more than happy to keep quiet about his diagnosis. She appealed to his sense of loyalty to the University – along with promising a little help with his disputations when the time comes.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, thinking Dame Pelagia would have a massacre on her conscience – if she had one – if Deynman was ever allowed to qualify. His eyes narrowed as something occurred to him. ‘But all this bribery implies that Tynkell does have a secret about his body, and that Dame Pelagia knows what it is.’

‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘Isobel de Lavenham knew, too, which was why Tynkell was prepared to help her after the fire. Isobel is now dead, so only my grandmother knows the truth.’

‘And you,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘Come on, Brother. What is it?’

‘My lips are sealed,’ said Michael smugly. ‘You will just have to fathom it out for yourself, as I have done. Suffice to say you will be very surprised. But let us return to the relic. There is something very appealing about sending the King something called the “Hand of Justice”, after what his dubious pardons did to our town. Of course, no one seems to know what Quenhyth did with the real Hand. You do not, do you?’

‘I have no idea where it is now,’ said Bartholomew, not inclined to confide in Michael when the monk would not share Tynkell’s secret with him.

‘I thought you might say something like that,’ said Michael with another grin, which led Bartholomew to wonder whether Dame Pelagia had found out anyway, and had told her grandson. She seemed to know everything else. ‘But it does not matter. I have told Tynkell to let Morice do the talking until the King is satisfied the relic is genuine. Only then should he step forward and accept credit on the University’s behalf.’

‘And what happens if the King is able to tell his chickens from his saints?’

Michael’s grin widened. ‘Then our corrupt and dishonest Mayor will have some explaining to do.’