‘Meaning what?’ asked Bartholomew sceptically.
‘Meaning that I shall have every one of my beadles on duty tonight, and that any scholar seen on the streets after dusk can expect to be detained in my cells until morning. I shall recommend that Dick takes similar steps with the townsfolk.’
‘Do you think it is something to do with the Hand of Justice?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I do not mean literally, since we both know it is no more holy than that rosewater you hurled all over yourself. I mean do you think people might be waiting for it to do something?’
‘Such as what? Sprout wings and wend its way to Heaven in front of our sinful eyes? Burst free from the tower in a spray of stone and mortar, and slap anyone who has committed a crime? It will have its work cut out for it, if it intends to do that. It will be busy from now until dawn.’
‘Jest if you will, Brother, but what we think is irrelevant. It is what its followers believe that is important now.’
The small crowd that was usually present outside the University Church had swelled to a gathering of impressive size, just as Michael had predicted. Most folk were kneeling or standing quietly with bowed heads, and the mood was more reverent than threatening. Michael tended to disapprove of any large assembly when the sun was about to go down, but there was little he could do about this one – people had a right to pray where they liked, and no one was actually doing anything wrong. Even the pickpockets had ceased trading for the day, and were sitting harmlessly in the churchyard.
The two scholars eased through them, careful not to jostle anyone who might take offence, and entered the church’s shady interior. This, too, was full, and a number of people knelt on the flagstones or leaned against the sturdy pillars of the nave. A mass was in progress, led by Chancellor Tynkell, and the High Altar was bathed in a golden light from dozens of candles. The aroma of cheap incense that wafted along the aisles competed valiantly with the stink of Michael’s rosewater. William, who had been near the back of the nave, spotted the monk and hurried to join him, religious devotions forgotten.
‘Have you heard?’ he asked without preamble. ‘Thomas Mortimer is dead.’
‘Dead?’ asked Bartholomew, shocked as he listened to the Franciscan friar’s bald pronouncement. ‘But I saw him not long ago, loitering in Milne Street while the Commissioners met.’
‘Well, he is in the Lady Chapel now. Come and see for yourself.’
He headed towards the sumptuously decorated chapel before either of his colleagues could ask further questions. A couple of Mortimer cousins loitered at the entrance, but they stood aside and allowed the three scholars to enter. Bartholomew was surprised to find the oratory full. Virtually all the Mortimer clan and their womenfolk were present; only those with small children had been left at home. At the front, Constantine was kneeling before a hastily erected bier on which lay a body. The pendulous ale-drinker’s gut rising under the covering sheet could be no one’s but Thomas’s.
Lurking by the window was Edward, his face expressionless, while Julianna perched on a stool, looking bored and restless. Thorpe lounged against a nearby pillar, and his face creased into a sneer when he saw Bartholomew and Michael. Both he and Edward wore clothes that were dishevelled and soot-stained, although Bartholomew suspected they had done little to help quench any flames.
‘This was Mistress Lenne’s doing,’ said Constantine, when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned to face the scholars, and Bartholomew was shocked by the change in the man. He seemed small and cowed, and his bristling confidence had been replaced by a crushing grief.
‘She is dead,’ said Bartholomew, thinking the man must be out of his wits. ‘Whatever happened to Thomas was not her fault.’
‘It was!’ cried Constantine, so loudly that his voice echoed all around the church. Tynkell faltered at the High Altar mass, and the baker struggled to regain control of himself and explain. ‘She cursed Thomas with the Hand of Justice. She asked her son to carry her to it the day she died.’
‘She did,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘The journey hastened her end by several hours. I wondered why she had insisted on going to the Hand, when it was clear she did not want to live. I assumed she was making an act of contrition for some ancient sin that plagued her conscience.’
‘She met Thomas there,’ continued Constantine in a whisper. ‘She looked him in the eye, pointed her finger at him, and declared he would die horribly for what he had done to her husband.’
‘We assumed the Hand of Justice had seen his side of the story when he was not struck down immediately,’ added Edward, who did not sound at all sorry that his uncle was dead. Bartholomew wondered if he stood to benefit in some way – perhaps he had urged his drunken kinsman to sign a document that would see him inherit the mill to the exclusion of more deserving heirs. ‘I see we were wrong.’
‘Mistress Lenne brought about my brother’s death,’ wept Constantine. ‘Poor innocent Thomas!’
‘He was hardly that!’ remarked Julianna from her stool. ‘Your brother did kill Mistress Lenne’s husband, Constantine. We all know that was no accident. I saw it with my own eyes.’
Bartholomew stared at her. ‘You did? But why did you not tell the Sheriff?’
Julianna raised her eyebrows in cynical amusement. ‘You think I should have told Tulyet that I saw my uncle-by-marriage so deep in his cups that his eyes were closed – I am sure he was asleep – when he drove his cart into that old man? Have you not heard of family loyalty, Bartholomew?’ Her voice took on a mocking quality, and she glared at Constantine, as if she had heard these words rather too often since her wedding.
‘Shut up, woman!’ snapped Edward.
‘Why?’ flashed Julianna. ‘Thomas is dead now – cursed by an old woman whose piteous voice was heard by the Hand of Justice. What difference does it make whether I speak out? Will you kill me, as you murdered Bosel?’
‘You must protect the Mortimer name – your name – now,’ said Constantine in a low, shocked voice. ‘You are our kin. And we did not kill Bosel. I have no idea who did that.’
‘Marriages can be annulled,’ said Julianna sulkily. ‘I know men who can arrange it, and I do not want Edward any more. He is disappointing as a lover now he has secured the Deschalers fortune. He prefers the company of his man-friend to that of his wife.’ She made an obscene gesture in Thorpe’s direction, lest anyone be in any doubt as to what she meant.
‘No, I am just weary of you,’ said Edward unpleasantly. ‘Other women in the town can attest to my manliness, so do not think to tarnish me with that brush.’
‘I do not care about your family obligations,’ said Michael sternly to Julianna. ‘You should have told the truth about what you saw.’
‘I know,’ said Julianna bitterly. ‘I should have denounced the old sot and seen him hanged.’
‘So what stopped you?’ demanded William.
‘This lot,’ said Julianna, waving a hand at her assembled in-laws. ‘They kept droning on and on about kinship and loyalty, and they nagged me so much that I did as they asked, just to shut them up. But justice prevailed in the end. The Hand and Mistress Lenne saw to that.’
‘You are still under an obligation to put your new family first, Julianna,’ said Constantine hoarsely. ‘Thomas’s death does not change the fact that you are married to my son.’
‘Perhaps,’ replied Julianna enigmatically, causing Constantine to look sharply at her, although Edward did not deign to respond. He smiled, rather unpleasantly, as though he knew something she did not. Bartholomew guessed what it was: Julianna was clearly under the impression that she could have her marriage dissolved, just as she had done with Master Langelee, but she would be in for a shock. Marriages were not often annulled, especially not if the husband objected. Julianna’s inheritance represented a fortune, and Edward was not going to let any part of it slip through his fingers. Poor Julianna was stuck with him, no matter what she thought.