Her voice was flat, and Bartholomew thought she was probably too addled to recognise her man, even if she did manage to locate him. Without waiting for his reply, she headed for Deynman and Redmeadow, who were out for a stroll before the evening meal. She put her question, and Bartholomew listened to Deynman explain that he knew her from when she had discovered Bosel’s body. She waited until he had finished speaking, then went to talk to someone else.
‘She does not remember Bosel,’ said Michael, as Deynman joined them, hurt that his kindness should have been so quickly forgotten. ‘Why did you ask whether she knows the Mortimers, Matt? Do you think one of them is the fellow she hunts so ardently?’
‘I asked only because of her resemblance to Katherine,’ said Bartholomew.
‘It is an uncanny likeness,’ agreed Michael. ‘A few days ago, I asked you to examine Bess and tell me whether she might be feigning madness to disguise her real identity as a killer. Did you do it?’
‘I have had several conversations with her, Brother, but I can tell you no more now than when I first met her – except that she has been here for a month or so, and that she came from London. Her insanity seems real to me, but I would not stake my life on it. I am not good with ailments of the mind, and find it hard to distinguish genuine cases from false ones.’
They watched Bess accost Bernarde the miller, who shoved a coin into her hand without breaking stride. She stared at it blankly, then dropped it in the mud of the street. Next, she seized Clippesby of Michaelhouse. The Dominican listened carefully, then recommended she ask the town’s cats about her husband’s whereabouts, on the grounds that they were more knowledgeable about such matters than people.
‘I cannot listen,’ said Redmeadow, starting to walk away with Deynman in tow. ‘Witnessing a conversation between mad Master Clippesby and addled Bess is more than anyone should be asked to do. We are off to see the Hand of Valence Marie. Father William has promised us a private viewing.’
‘Good,’ said Michael, catching up with them. ‘He can show it to us at the same time.’
‘But then it will not be private,’ objected Deynman.
‘You will not notice us,’ promised Michael, patting the student’s arm. ‘We will be quiet. But why are you so keen to see the thing? Surely you know it is not genuine?’
‘Actually, I think it is,’ said Deynman seriously. ‘Father William says that more than two hundred people have been to see it, and we all know that two hundred people cannot be wrong.’
Michael gave him a sidelong glance to indicate that he had no such faith in the populace’s ability to determine such matters. He led the way to St Mary the Great, where a line of about twenty folk were waiting. The relic appealed to the wealthy as well as the poor, which made for a curious mixture of supplicants. Cheney the spicer was next to grizzled Sergeant Orwelle, while Yolande de Blaston and the wealthy Isobel de Lavenham stood side by side.
‘We were here first,’ called Cheney, as Michael pushed past them to enter the church. ‘You must wait your turn. It is only fair.’
‘He is right,’ agreed Isobel, pouting her voluptuous red lips. ‘You must stand here, next to me.’
‘I am not a penitent,’ replied Michael haughtily. ‘I have business with the Chancellor.’
‘Very well, then,’ said Yolande coolly. ‘But I would not like to think you were pushing in.’
‘The Hand of Valence Marie is for everyone,’ said Orwelle. ‘We all have important reasons for being here. I have come to ask for help with Bosel’s murder, since I am getting nowhere on my own – and it has been a week now. I need some divine assistance, or the Sheriff will think me incompetent.’
Michael smiled sweetly and entered the airy interior of the church with Deynman, Redmeadow and Bartholomew behind, all uncomfortable with Michael’s lies. Without the slightest hesitation, Michael made straight for the spiral staircase that led to the tower, and climbed to the first floor, where Tynkell was busily filing documents on nail-spiked pieces of wood.
‘I am finding it difficult to work with folk clattering up and down the stairs all day long,’ he grumbled as Michael entered. Bartholomew and the students hovered on the stairs outside, loath to be in a room containing the odorous Chancellor, especially a small one in which the windows did not open. ‘I am beginning to wish you had never created the position of Keeper of the University Chest for William. The Hand lay forgotten and buried until he came along and resurrected the thing.’
‘I know,’ said Michael grimly. ‘You should have removed it from the Chest before he took charge. But the deed is done now, and we shall have to live with your blunder.’
‘How are you, sir?’ asked Deynman, looking directly at the Chancellor’s stomach before the man could object to Michael’s brazen blame-shifting. ‘The life inside you, I mean?’
Bartholomew’s heart sank when he realised Deynman was about to try to prove Tynkell was a pregnant hermaphrodite. While Redmeadow sniggered softly, the physician flailed around for ways to stop him before the situation became embarrassing. But nothing came to mind.
Tynkell regarded the student uneasily. ‘The life inside me?’
‘You know,’ said Deynman earnestly.
Tynkell cleared his throat, then shot a glance at Bartholomew to indicate he would like some help. ‘Well enough under the circumstances,’ he replied carefully, when the physician did nothing to oblige.
‘Good,’ said Deynman brightly, giving Bartholomew a hard nudge, to ensure his teacher had noticed that the Chancellor did not deny the charge. ‘Do feel free to call on Doctor Bartholomew, should you require a physic for your condition. Or on me, of course.’
‘Right,’ said Tynkell, becoming flustered and busying himself with his parchments.
‘I know these things can be awkward for men … for people like you,’ said Deynman, pressing his point relentlessly. ‘But I can be very discreet, and I am shocked by very little these days.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ replied Tynkell. He swallowed hard, uncomfortable with an interview loaded with double meanings he did not understand. ‘Have you come to see the Hand?’
‘I shall say a prayer for you,’ said Deynman generously. ‘People in your condition need them.’
Bartholomew bundled his student up the stairs with Redmeadow giggling uncontrollably behind him, but then wondered whether he should have let the conversation run its course. If Deynman was sent down for claiming the Chancellor was the wrong sex, then it would solve one problem. Hopefully, Deynman’s father would not allow him to practise medicine if he ended his academic career in disgrace, and hundreds of prospective patients would be spared. Bartholomew wished he had not been so hasty to defend Tynkell’s sensibilities.
William was just ushering Bernarde the miller out, when Bartholomew, the students and Michael arrived at the University Chest on the floor above the Chancellor. Bernarde enquired after the investigation into the mill deaths, but did not seem surprised when the monk informed him there was nothing new to report.
‘There are folk downstairs who have been waiting for hours,’ said William, when Bernarde had gone. ‘It would not be fair to allow my own colleagues to petition the Hand before them. Take your place in the queue.’
‘Bernarde has not been waiting for hours,’ Michael pointed out. ‘I saw him not many moments ago, hurrying along the High Street and shoving coins at Mad Bess when she tried to waylay him.’
‘He is different,’ replied William, unperturbed that he had been caught out in an inconsistency. ‘He made a substantial donation for the privilege – something I am sure you do not intend to do.’
‘How much do you usually charge?’ asked Bartholomew curiously, thinking that Yolande would be unlikely to afford the sort of payment Bernarde – or Isobel, Cheney or even Orwelle – might make.