Susanna GREGORY - The Hand of Justice

Michael was puzzled as he looked from one felon to the other. ‘You two did not know each other before the King’s Bench ordered you to abjure the realm – on the same day, but in separate trials – so why are you together now? Is it because no one else will entertain your company?’

Thorpe’s eyes glittered at the insult, and Bartholomew suspected Michael had touched a raw nerve. Mortimer simply smiled.

‘I belong to a large and powerful family, Brother; they are always pleased when another Mortimer swells their ranks. My father, uncles and cousins are thrilled to have me back.’

The jealous glance Thorpe shot his way confirmed to Bartholomew that the younger man’s kin had indeed been less than pleased about his return. The physician understood why. Thorpe’s father was Master of a large and wealthy College, and would not want a murderous son hovering in the background, spoiling his chances of promotion. For Mortimer it was different: his family was rich, influential and not afraid to consort with those on the fringes of legality. Edward was doubtless telling the truth about his reception: the Mortimers would be only too happy to swell their ranks with a seasoned criminal.

‘I have no wish to linger here,’ said Thorpe, affecting indifference to the discussion. He forced a grin at Mortimer. ‘I will buy you an ale at the Lilypot.’

With a mock salute, he kicked hard at his horse’s sides. It reared, then cantered up St Michael’s Lane and turned towards the Great Bridge, scattering pedestrians as it went. Bartholomew heaved a sigh of relief when Mortimer followed, and realised his heart was pounding, not because he was afraid, but because the pair brought back memories of an adventure he would sooner forget. He watched them leave with a sense of foreboding. Neither seemed reformed by exile; on the contrary, they appeared to be nastier than ever.

‘The infamous Thorpe and Mortimer,’ said Wynewyk, rubbing his hands together as though the encounter had chilled him. He pushed his hood away from his face. ‘The town has been full of talk about their misdeeds ever since they arrived back. I looked up their trial in the Castle’s records, and, as an expert on civil law, I can tell you there is no doubt at all that their conviction was sound. The evidence against them was irrefutable.’

Michael nodded. ‘I cannot imagine how they managed to persuade the King’s clerks to review their sentences, or why a Pardon was granted.’

‘I suppose money changed hands,’ said Wynewyk. ‘That is what usually happens in cases like this. But it is odd that they should arrive in Cambridge just before Bosel the beggar – chief witness against Mortimer’s uncle – should be murdered. I doubt it is coincidence.’

‘Dick Tulyet said they were both at a meeting of the town’s burgesses when Bosel died,’ said Michael, although his eyes were troubled. ‘And I do not see why they would pick on Bosel anyway.’

‘Because he was poor and friendless, and no one will invest too much time or energy in hunting his killers,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘It is entirely possible that Bosel was an experiment – to see what would happen when they committed their first new murder. All their alibi from Tulyet does is tell us they were not present when Bosel actually ingested the poison.’

Michael sighed. ‘Dick thinks they may have persuaded that madwoman to give it to him, but I disagree. She seems too witless to entrust with such a task.’

‘I have heard so many rumours about that pair that it is difficult to separate fact from fiction,’ said Wynewyk, beginning to walk again. ‘What really happened? Are they the Devil’s spawn, as Agatha the laundress claims? Or are they poor misguided children, as Master Kenyngham would have me believe?’

‘Neither,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘They are just men who killed without remorse or hesitation, solely to realise their own plans for revenge and riches.’

‘They were caught – thanks to some clever investigating by me – and confessed to their crimes,’ elaborated Michael rather smugly. ‘Did you know that Thorpe’s father is Master of the Hall of Valence Marie? It is hard to believe: a high-ranking scholar spawning a murderer.’

‘Master Thorpe is the man who first found the sacred Hand of Valence Marie,’ mused Wynewyk, changing the subject. ‘I heard the Hand came from a local saint, and is imbued with great power.’

‘The Hand was hacked from the corpse of a simpleton,’ corrected Bartholomew firmly. ‘It is not imbued with any kind of power, sacred or otherwise.’

‘That is not what most folk believe,’ argued Wynewyk. ‘It is stored in the University Chest in the tower of St Mary the Great, and people petition it all the time. Many of them have had their prayers answered. To my mind – and theirs – that makes it a genuine relic.’

Bartholomew was exasperated when he turned to Michael. ‘I told you to destroy the thing three years ago, Brother. You had the chance: you could easily have tossed it into the marshes. But you insisted on keeping it, and now it is too late. It has become an object of veneration – again.’

‘Again?’ asked Wynewyk. ‘It has been worshipped before?’

‘Briefly,’ said Bartholomew. ‘When it was first dredged from the ditch outside Valence Marie. But we proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that it was hacked from Peterkin Starre – because his corpse happened to be available at the time – and it is not and never has been sacred.’

‘The fascination with it will not last,’ insisted Michael, although he sounded uneasy. ‘These things come and go, and what is popular today is forgotten tomorrow. And anyway, it is not my business to decide what should and should not be destroyed. I pass that responsibility to the Chancellor.’

Bartholomew laughed in disbelief. ‘I am not a complete innocent, Brother! Everyone knows Chancellor Tynkell does exactly what you say, and there is only one man who determines what happens in the University these days: you. If you wanted these bones destroyed, they would have vanished by now.’

Michael grinned, unabashed by the reprimand and amused that his friend had so accurately described his relationship with the Chancellor. Tynkell was indeed becoming a figurehead, with Michael holding the real power. Tynkell had expressed a desire to resign and allow Michael to take the reins, since he was already making most of the important decisions, but the monk demurred. He liked things the way they were – it was useful to have someone to blame when anything went wrong.

‘Tynkell does listen to my advice,’ he confessed modestly. ‘But destroying the Hand would have been an extreme reaction – and one that could never be reversed. I thought it might come in useful one day, and that it would be safely anonymous in the University Chest.’

‘Not safely anonymous enough, apparently,’ grumbled Bartholomew, unappeased. ‘Wynewyk is right: there are always pilgrims around the tower these days. It will not be long before we have a wave of religious zeal to quell, and there is no reasoning with folk once they have decided upon issues of faith. The Hand has always been dangerous. Look what happened to Thorpe’s father over the thing.’

‘What?’ asked Wynewyk, intrigued. ‘Anything to do with his son?’

‘No, nothing like that,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But, as you just said, Master Thorpe was the one who found the Hand in the ditch outside his College. The King and the Bishop of Ely were so angry with him for starting what might have become a powerful cult that they forced him to leave Valence Marie and take a post at a grammar school in York.’

‘York,’ said Wynewyk with distaste. ‘I have heard it smells of lard. But Master Thorpe is not in York. He is here, in Cambridge.’