‘My relic has been a glove for the past five days!’ wailed William, flopping on to the University Chest and rubbing his eyes. ‘At least, that was when I first became aware that the original Hand had gone – last Friday. God only knows when it really disappeared.’
‘But you have continued to accept money from folk who want to pray to it,’ said Bartholomew accusingly.
‘Well, why not?’ snapped William. ‘Their prayers are still being answered, even though the Hand is not here. Mistress Lenne appealed to it on Monday – three days after I noticed it was missing – and Thomas Mortimer died, just as she requested.’
‘Never mind the Hand,’ said Michael, looking at Lavenham and his wife. ‘What is going on here? You are right to be defensive, William. This situation does indeed look suspicious. This pair are needed to answer questions, and they appear just when you confess that your relic has been stolen.’
‘It might not have been stolen,’ procrastinated William. ‘It might have gone of its own volition.’
‘Leaving a stuffed glove behind it?’ asked Michael archly. He turned his attention back to the Lavenhams, who looked apprehensive. There was a small box on the bench next to them; its lid was open, and it was so full of gold that it was overflowing. ‘What do you have to say for yourselves?’
‘They went to the Chancellor after the fire, in fear of their lives,’ said William, speaking for them. ‘Tynkell asked for my help, so I brought them here. It is only for a night. They will be away at dawn tomorrow, back to Lavenham.’
‘So, no one was hiding in the church when it was locked up for the night,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘Both William and Tynkell have keys.’
‘We cannot go back to Lavenham, Father,’ said Isobel pedantically. ‘We have never been there. I am from Peterborough, and my husband is from Norway.’
‘Hah!’ exclaimed Michael. ‘I always thought there was something strange about you.’
Bartholomew did not think hailing from Peterborough or Norway implied strangeness, although it certainly suggested a degree of deception. But it was a minor one, and lying about one’s antecedents was not a particularly suspicious thing to have done. He said so.
‘You are right,’ said Isobel. She made an effort to pull herself together, and managed to give Michael a flash of her cleavage. The monk’s glare did not waver, and Bartholomew admired his self-restraint. Isobel’s expression turned sulky. ‘We have done nothing wrong, so do not glower so! When someone set our house alight, we decided this town was too dangerous for us, and made up our minds to leave. We do good business here, but it is not worth dying for.’
‘Someone deliberately fired your shop,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We assumed it was to harm the Commissioners. Were we wrong?’
Isobel exchanged a glance with her husband. ‘We do not know who was responsible. But when we saw what happened to Thomas Mortimer, we decided to leave before his kinsmen blamed us for his death – even though it was not our fault.’
‘He was trampled,’ said Michael. ‘Did you see someone drive a panicked horse in his direction?’
Isobel grimaced. ‘If only we had! Human violence is something I can understand, but this was something else altogether. Just after the alarm was raised, he entered our yard and started stuffing things into his bag.’ She shook her head, as though she could scarcely credit such behaviour. ‘It was brazen theft, but at least he had the grace to blush when he saw us. He turned to run away – loaded down with our possessions, I might add – when a beam fell from an upper floor and crushed him.’
‘But he was not found in your yard,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘He was found in the street.’
‘The Mortimers are always trying to make money from others’ misfortunes,’ said Isobel. ‘I am disgusted by the compensation the town is forced to pay Thorpe and Edward, and I did not want Thomas’s corpse found on our property: I did not want them blaming us for his death.’
Bartholomew could see her point. ‘You moved him?’
She nodded. ‘I do not know who started the rumour that our horses killed him, but it is not true. He died from falling timber – and because he was so drunk that he could not move quickly enough to save himself when the roof started to collapse.’
Bartholomew believed her, and supposed blaming the horses had been the Mortimers’ idea. It would be easier to claim compensation from the owner of a stampeding nag than from the owner of a burning house that Thomas had been busy looting.
Isobel continued. ‘But, on reflection, we decided not to stay here anyway. We salvaged our gold from what is left of our home, and we will leave Cambridge at first light tomorrow.’
‘Chancellor find us hide in cemetery,’ added Lavenham. ‘He help us good.’
‘Why should Tynkell help you?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.
‘I know things,’ replied Isobel vaguely.
‘It would not be about the Chancellor’s unusual medical condition, would it?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling that she sewed his undergarments.
‘Do not press me to betray his trust,’ said Isobel softly. ‘He has been kind to us.’
‘Bess,’ said Bartholomew, trying another line of enquiry. ‘Did you sell her poison?’
‘Of course not!’ said Isobel crossly. ‘She was witless and would have swallowed it. She came to our shop asking about her man, and I could see she was not well, so I gave her a comfit to suck. I heard she died shortly afterwards, but it had nothing to do with us.’
‘Is that what Alfred de Blaston saw in her hand?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘A comfit?’
Isobel nodded. ‘I expect so. I saw her toss it away as soon as she was outside.’
‘How do we know you are telling the truth?’ asked Michael. ‘How do we know you did not set the fire, kill Thomas and even steal William’s relic?’
‘I can answer that,’ said Bartholomew, sitting next to Isobel. ‘I should have pieced this together sooner. Master Thorpe said the fire broke out while the three Commissioners – including Lavenham – were arguing in the solar, which means Lavenham could not have lit it himself. And I saw Isobel in the street when the arsonist would have been at work. They are innocent of that charge.’
‘And Thomas Mortimer’s death?’ asked Michael.
‘I would say they are telling the truth about that, too: his injuries suggest crushing, not trampling. And they did not steal the relic, either. You can see their worldly goods in that box of gold, and the Hand is not in it.’
Isobel smiled at Bartholomew, underlining her appreciation with a flash of bosom. ‘Thank you, Doctor. You have absolved us of these vile accusations.’
‘Not all of them,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I still have questions about the potion that killed Warde and Bess. Did you add henbane to your Water of Snails? Accidentally?’
Lavenham bristled indignantly. ‘I not! I make Baker Dozen – thirteen phial. You see entry in my book, and know how many I sell. Two of Cheney, two of Bernarde and two of Morice in first batch. In second, four of Rougham and three spare. Bernarde, Cheney and Morice drank and still alive.’
‘Bernarde is not,’ said Bartholomew, although he did not think Water of Snails was responsible.
‘Rougham gave three of his phials to his Gonville colleagues, and they are not dead,’ said Isobel. ‘So, you cannot accuse us of adding henbane to the one he prescribed for Warde. Warde and Bess must have died from something else.’
‘Rougham,’ mused Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘We are back to him. I do not suppose he has purchased other toxic substances from you recently, has he?’
‘He is a physician, and is obliged to use plants like henbane occasionally,’ said Isobel. ‘You also purchased some – for Isnard’s lice. And Paxtone bought a little for his Warden’s gout.’
‘Rougham bought henbane?’ pounced Bartholomew, ignoring Paxtone for a more promising villain. ‘What for?’