‘We did not ask,’ said Isobel indignantly. ‘It is not our business to question our customers. He bought a lot of it about a month ago, but he did not tell me why.’
‘Isobel has given me a gold noble for my help tonight,’ said William, becoming bored with murder. ‘For the University Chest, of course. Perhaps I can use it to purchase another Hand …’
‘No!’ said Michael quickly. ‘We have had enough of those, thank you very much.’
‘I suppose someone stole it when I was out of the chamber,’ said William, frowning as he tried to identify a culprit. ‘I occasionally leave trusted individuals alone, so they can make their petitions in private. I do not want to be party to too many guilty secrets and hidden desires.’
‘You told us you always keep the reliquary locked,’ said Bartholomew, suspecting that trust and bribes went hand in hand with William. ‘So, how did it come to be stolen?’
‘I have been busy,’ said William in a whine. ‘I may have forgotten to secure it once or twice. So many people came to appeal to the Hand …’
‘Who?’ demanded Michael.
‘Bernarde for one,’ replied William. His jaw dropped. ‘You do not think he took it, and that is why he was burned to a cinder in the inferno? The Hand of Justice repaid him for his audacity?’
‘There is no proof of that,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Who else?’
‘I left Edward and young Thorpe unattended, because Wynewyk was with them, and I assumed he would prevent any mischief. But he now tells me they robbed him.’
‘That is why we have been dining on nettles and stale bread for the past three weeks. Who else?’
William began reeling off names. ‘Mayor Morice would be my first suspect, but he took nothing with him because I would have seen it bulging under his tight-fitting tunic. Stanmore came, but he is an honest man. Quenhyth prayed briefly. Paxtone visited, but Pulham was with him, and I do not think they are close enough to trust each other with theft. Thomas and Constantine Mortimer popped in, bringing their servants. Cheney was in company with Langelee and Redmeadow. Clippesby and Kenyngham. Rougham came several times …’
‘Rougham,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is determined to have the Hand for Gonville. He took it!’
‘My money is on Thorpe and Mortimer,’ said Michael. ‘But since the thing is a fraud anyway, I do not think we need waste any more time on it.’ He gazed at the Lavenhams. ‘I appreciate why you are keen to leave, but you must remain here a little longer, in case we have more questions.’
‘Very well,’ said Isobel reluctantly. ‘We will stay tomorrow – if we are permitted to hide in this chamber. But we go at dawn on Friday, whether you have questions or not.’
‘Rougham,’ said Bartholomew, as they walked home from mass the following morning, ‘I knew he was involved. We should confront him with what we know, before he has the same idea as Lavenham and slips away with his ill-gotten gains.’
Michael did not think Rougham’s visits to the Hand necessarily implied that he had stolen it, but agreed that another trip to Gonville was in order. Rougham had not been honest about the fact that he had purchased four phials of Water of Snails from Lavenham, and the monk felt he needed to explain why he had lied and what he had done with them.
There were only two Gonville Fellows left, following the death of Bottisham and the flight of Ufford, Despenser and Thompson. Rougham and Pulham were in the conclave finishing breakfast together and, judging by the pleasure with which Pulham greeted the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner, he considered the interruption a timely one. Rougham sat morosely silent, and his face turned sour with disapproval when the Acting Master waved the guests in.
‘Have some claret,’ said Pulham, ignoring Rougham’s angry sigh. ‘Bishop Bateman brought it the last time he visited. We shall miss him in more ways than you can imagine.’
‘What do you two want here?’ demanded Rougham. ‘I have already said you are not welcome.’
‘You have questions to answer,’ said Bartholomew sharply, not liking his tone.
‘I do not answer questions put by you,’ retorted Rougham, his voice dripping with contempt.
Bartholomew’s patience finally broke. ‘What is the matter with you? Why are you acting in this way? What have I done to offend you?’
Rougham looked as though he would not deign to reply, but Pulham joined the affray. ‘He is right, Rougham. Your manners are worse than those of a ploughboy when he appears. It is unlike you to be discourteous.’
‘What would you have me do?’ Rougham shouted, appealing to his colleague. ‘The man is healing patients under false pretences, and using his successes to belittle me.’
Bartholomew was astounded by the charge. ‘What do you think I have done?’
‘The secretum secretorum,’ hissed Rougham angrily. ‘The thing Bacon described, which turns lead to gold, and an old person to youth again. You have one.’ He glared at Bartholomew.
Bartholomew stared back, wondering whether the man had lost his wits. ‘But it does not exist.’
‘You have made one,’ said Rougham accusingly. ‘That is why you read so many foreign books, and why you were so determined to buy our Bacon. I would never have sold it, had I known it was going to you. You outwitted me shamelessly by asking the Chancellor to purchase it on your behalf.’
‘I did not–’ objected Bartholomew.
But Rougham was in his stride now. ‘You scoured Arab texts for the secret, and you learned it. That is why you have no need to petition the Hand of Justice for cures, like the rest of us.’
‘And how did you reach this conclusion?’ asked Bartholomew, more convinced than ever that the man’s mind had become impaired. He recalled the argument they had had about Bacon earlier, when Rougham had professed himself to be a believer in the secretum secretorum.
‘Redmeadow told me. He said you can heal all ailments, and that you will teach him how to do the same. He confessed to it when I berated him over that confusion between catmint and calamint.’
‘You drove him to anger when you embarrassed him, and he spoke out of spite,’ said Bartholomew. He could see that Pulham and Michael also thought Rougham was addled. ‘Redmeadow has a fiery temper and is always blurting things he does not mean in the heat of the moment.’
‘Then why do your patients live when you conduct surgery? And how do you heal old women and peasants, who are in poor health to start with?’
‘By using all the means at my disposal – the techniques my Arab master taught me, as well as those learned from books. There is no magic.’
‘Then what about Bishop Bateman?’ demanded Rougham, still on the offensive. ‘The Chancellor said you poisoned him.’
‘What?’ gasped Michael, astonished. ‘But Matt was not in Avignon when Bateman died.’
Bartholomew thought back to the discussion in St Mary the Great on the day of the Disputatio de quodlibet, when Tynkell had asked odd questions about poisons and Rougham had been present. He recalled the shocked expression on Rougham’s face and cursed the Chancellor for his insensitivity.
‘You do not need to be with your victim when he dies of poison,’ said Rougham sulkily.
‘Tynkell does not think Matt killed Bishop Bateman,’ said Michael firmly. ‘I have never heard a more ludicrous suggestion. The Chancellor has griping stomach pains – you tend them yourself on occasion – and it crossed his mind that poison might be the cause. But it was not.’
‘No one would bother to poison Tynkell,’ said Pulham to Rougham with calm reason. ‘It would be a waste of time, because he has so little real authority. And, although there are rumours that Bateman died from foul means, there is no proof of that, either. These tales are inevitable when important men die in foreign places. You are wrong to accuse Bartholomew.’