‘Thomas Mortimer,’ said Michael out of the blue. ‘I am not sorry to see him dead, and I cannot think of a more appropriate way for him to perish, given what he did to Lenne and Isnard. But I am not happy about it.’
Neither was Bartholomew. ‘The horses were terrified by the smoke. We both heard them screaming, and it was obvious that when they had kicked their way out of the stable they were going to bolt. But I have seen men trampled to death before, and Thomas did not have the right marks on his body. He looked crushed, but not by hoofs.’
Michael was thoughtful. ‘I certainly do not believe Mistress Lenne caused his death by an appeal to the Hand of Justice. There may well be a hand of justice working here, but it is not a divine one.’
‘Lenne’s son?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He seems the obvious suspect to batter Thomas to death and blame it on fleeing nags.’
‘Unfortunately not – unfortunately for us, that is, because it would have made for a neat ending to this unsavoury incident. But Lenne’s son had already left Cambridge when the fire started. Sergeant Orwelle rode with him as far as Drayton, way up in the Fens, so I know it is true.’
Bartholomew took a deep breath, and thought about Mistress Lenne’s lonely death and Isnard’s pain and anguish. ‘Perhaps you should not look too closely into the details of Thomas’s death, Brother. You may not like what you find.’
Michael shot him an unreadable glance. ‘You did not kill him, did you?’
‘I did not!’ said Bartholomew, offended that the monk should ask. He regarded his friend askance. ‘Why? Did you?’
Michael did not deign to reply. ‘I wonder if my grandmother … Her sense of justice is strong …’
He let the thought trail away, and Bartholomew did not feel like passing comment on it. Dame Pelagia had a sense of justice all right, but it was not always one that corresponded with his own. They were about to leave the High Street and turn down St Michael’s Lane, more than ready for sleep after the trials of the day, when Michael stopped dead in his tracks and peered down the shady road. The sturdy huddle of St Michael’s was to their left, while Gonville lay to their right. Further along was the bigger, blacker mass of St Mary the Great, silhouetted faintly against the sky.
‘Why is there a light in the tower?’ asked Michael, straining his eyes in the gloom. ‘No one should be there now. The church should be locked, and William will be tucked up in his bed.’
‘We should ignore that, too,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘It may be someone in the process of stealing the Hand, and I would not be sorry to see that thing go!’
‘There are other valuable items in the University Chest besides the Hand,’ said Michael urgently. ‘There are property deeds, charters and all manner of documents, not to mention all those payments William has collected from displaying that vile relic. We cannot ignore it.’
‘Come on, then,’ said Bartholomew reluctantly, heading for the University Church. He drew a knife from his medicine bag, and pushed his cloak back over his shoulder, so his arm would not become entangled in the cloth if there was a fight. He glanced up at the tower as they made for the door, and saw a shadow cross the window in the chamber where the Hand was stored. Someone was definitely there. Michael produced a key, and Bartholomew winced as sharp metallic clinks echoed around the silent churchyard. He wondered whether they would be audible to the thieves inside.
‘This is interesting,’ whispered Michael, indicating that the gate had been locked. ‘This is the only door not barred from the inside – it is always secured with a key.’
‘Who has keys?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘William, who will be asleep by now. Chancellor Tynkell, who I happen to know is dining with my grandmother and Mayor Morice this evening. And me. Therefore, only one conclusion can be drawn: whoever is in the tower must have hidden in the church before it was secured for the night.’
‘In that case, I have two questions,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The first is why are the premises not checked before they are locked, to prevent this sort of thing? And the second is why do we not summon the beadles to help us confront whoever is here?’
‘They are checked,’ snapped Michael. ‘So, I imagine we are dealing with someone who is extremely good at hiding himself.’ He stepped into the dark interior.
‘The beadles, Brother,’ said Bartholomew firmly, stretching out a hand to stop him. ‘I do not want to tackle these intruders alone.’
‘I will be with you,’ said Michael, as if that were enough. ‘And I do not want to wait for reinforcements if there are felons after the University Chest. It is far too valuable.’
Bartholomew was unhappy, but the monk dismissed his concerns as he made his way to the tower. In the dead silence of the church Bartholomew could hear the monk’s soft breathing, and the way his leather boots creaked as he walked. With infinite care, Michael opened the tower door and began to ascend the spiral staircase. They passed the document-storage room, and continued to the second floor, where the Chest was kept.
Bartholomew heard voices as they climbed, and his misgivings increased when he realised there was not one intruder in the tower, but two or three. He wondered how he and Michael would be able to contain them, using only a surgical knife and a pewter candlestick Michael had grabbed from the nave. When they reached the door, Michael threw it open with such force that the crash made Bartholomew’s teeth rattle. The monk leapt into the chamber with a challenging shriek, candlestick held ready to brain anyone who tried to pass him.
‘William!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, entering a little less dramatically.
‘Lavenham!’ said Michael, eyeing the terrified apothecary with cold, angry eyes. ‘And Isobel! What are you doing here?’
CHAPTER 12
‘This is not as it looks,’ said William nervously, moving forward with what Bartholomew felt was a good deal of agitated menace.
‘No?’ asked Michael mildly, indicating with a nod that Bartholomew was to remain by the door and prevent a bid for escape – by any of the room’s occupants.
‘It looks as though I am supervising the theft of the Hand of Justice,’ said William unhappily. The Lavenhams sat side by side on the window bench, and said nothing. ‘But I am not. I cannot.’
‘And why is that, pray?’ asked Michael coolly.
‘Because it is not here,’ said William with a strangled cry. He picked up the handsome reliquary and lobbed it across the room. ‘See?’
Michael almost dropped the box, and the candlestick he had been holding clattered to the ground. ‘God’s blood, man, have a care! You do not toss these things around as though they were juggling balls! I know I have been sceptical of the Hand of Justice, but I do not want to risk the wrath of an irked saint by treating the thing with brazen disrespect.’
‘Open it,’ suggested William.
‘Do not,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘Men have been struck down for tampering with holy relics. Remember William’s sermon about the man who touched the Ark of the Covenant?’
‘But you do not believe this particular relic is holy,’ William pointed out with impeccable logic. ‘Neither of you do. So open the box, Brother.’
Reluctantly, Michael complied, while Bartholomew held his breath, half anticipating that the room would fill with a blinding light that would incinerate them all. Michael pulled out the satin parcel and unwrapped it, looking like a man who expected to discover something terrible inside.
‘It is a glove’ said Michael in surprise, shaking the object out on to the table. ‘A glove stuffed with old wool, or some such thing.’
Bartholomew inspected it carefully, noting the rough stitches and the way its creator had used odds and ends to assemble something that might fool a busy friar at a pinch – it was the same shape and size as the original Hand, and would pass for the real thing as long as it was inside the satin. The glove used was old and cheap, and might have been discarded by just about anyone, now that winter was over.