William raised his shoulders. ‘It depends on the individual. They give what they can – or what their consciences dictate they should. Some folk pay nothing at all, because they are too poor, while others pay in gold. It is between them and God.’
‘And you,’ said Bartholomew, indicating a box on the windowsill that was full to overflowing.
‘I am merely the collector,’ said William loftily. ‘And do not look so disapproving, Matthew. Some of this will be used to pay you, when you are next required as Corpse Examiner. The University is doing rather nicely from the revenues raised by the Hand.’
‘How nicely?’ asked Michael suspiciously.
William looked smug. ‘Well, just yesterday I had three pennies from Rougham, a groat from Lavenham the apothecary, and a skin of wine from Warde of Valence Marie. And you enjoyed some of that wine yourself last night, Brother, so do not tell me I should not have accepted it.’
‘But you should not,’ exclaimed Michael. ‘God’s teeth, man! Do you not see how dangerous this might become? You cannot accept bribes and bring them to Michaelhouse. This must stop!’
‘But I have secured six pounds over the last few weeks!’ cried William, horrified that his foray into commerce might be about to meet an abrupt end. ‘And every penny has gone into the University Chest – I keep a record, if you want to see it. And what shall I say to the folk who come? That the University has decided no one is allowed access? Do you not see that would be equally dangerous?’
‘He has a point,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘Now this has started, it may be difficult to stop.’
‘Damn it, William,’ muttered Michael. ‘You have unleashed a monster.’
‘It was a monster you should have destroyed a long time ago,’ said Bartholomew, thinking the monk should bear some responsibility for the situation. It had been his decision to keep the Hand, and he had promoted William to Keeper of the University Chest, knowing the Hand was in it. It did not take a genius to predict what William was sure to do with it.
‘You would not believe the things I have heard folk tell the Hand,’ said William, hoping to convince Michael that the relic had its uses. ‘Deschalers came, before he died. He was one of the first merchants to visit.’
‘What did he say?’ asked Bartholomew, grateful that William had added the caveat ‘before he died’. He did not like to imagine the Hand petitioned by the dead, as well as the living.
‘He prayed for forgiveness,’ said William. ‘I am bound by the seal of confession, so cannot give you too many details. But he prayed for Bottisham, and he asked for a cure for his own ailment. He told the Hand it was his last hope, and said he hoped his plan would work.’
‘I am glad you did not reveal too many details,’ muttered Bartholomew; William had been rather free with what had, after all, been a genuine confession and should have been kept confidential.
‘Did he pray for Bottisham in the kind of way that indicated his victim would soon die?’ asked Michael keenly, constrained by no such moral dilemmas. ‘And exactly what was this plan?’
‘He prayed for lots of people, but for Bottisham in particular. I do not recall him saying he planned murder obviously, or I would have stopped him. But he did not say he was not.’ William pursed his lips, as though Deschalers not mentioning a crime was as damning as an admission.
‘And the plan?’ asked Michael.
The friar shrugged. ‘I am sorry, Brother. I did not hear that bit. He spoke too softly.’
‘Let us see this Hand, William,’ said Michael wearily. ‘And then we will leave you in peace.’
‘It is in its reliquary,’ said William, indicating a hand some box that stood on the table in the centre of the room. It was a beautiful thing, covered in precious stones and delicately carved.
‘That box contains a piece of the True Cross,’ cried Michael, shocked. ‘Have you shoved Peterkin Starre’s severed limb on top of what is a genuine relic?’
‘The box was empty when I did an inventory of the University Chest’s contents,’ said William, unperturbed by Michael’s horror. ‘Since it has not been opened in years, I am inclined to believe that the True Cross was never there in the first place – or it was stolen so long ago that the thief is long since burning in Hell. It seemed a shame to have a glorious reliquary with no relic, so I put the Hand in it instead. I could show you the Hand, but I usually keep it locked away. It does not do to allow the peasantry to become too familiar with sacred objects. It might send them insane.’
‘I am not a peasant,’ said Michael indignantly. ‘Nor will I start baying at the moon because I set eyes on a few dead fingers.’
William cast him the kind of glance that indicated he was not so sure, but bent over the box and, with great reverence, removed a satin parcel that held the yellow-white bones. They were exactly as Bartholomew remembered, with sinews cleverly left to hold the hand together – except for one place where they had broken and were mended with a cunningly concealed pin. The bones were huge, and belonged, without question, to the simpleton whose gigantic corpse had provided a convenient source of material for men who had thought Cambridge needed a relic of its own. The little blue-green ring it wore was still there, too – a cheap thing, but pretty enough.
‘There!’ breathed Michael. ‘The bones that caused us so much trouble when wicked men used them for their own vile and selfish purposes. They look just as they did two years ago, when they brought about so much unhappiness and tragedy.’
‘They are causing us problems now, too,’ said Bartholomew, somewhat accusingly. ‘The University should not be taking money from folk to visit them. It is not right.’
‘If you stop now, you will learn the true meaning of trouble,’ warned William. ‘People like the Hand. They believe it has the power to answer their prayers, and will not take kindly to you saying they can no longer use it. They would storm the church and snatch it away.’
‘You are probably right,’ said Michael. ‘We shall have to devise another way to put an end to this madness. But I have seen enough. It is almost time for our evening meal.’
‘If you are hungry, then do not go to Michaelhouse,’ advised Redmeadow. ‘We are so short of funds that Agatha is serving stale bread and pea pottage tonight. We are going to visit Deynman’s brother at Maud’s Hostel, where there will be roasted goose.’
‘And I am dining at the Franciscan Friary,’ said William. ‘A man who has been working hard all day deserves more than mouldy bread and green paste. I intend to partake of fish soup and turnips.’
‘I want meat,’ said Michael, who did not feel he had eaten unless half a sheep was involved. He glanced down at the table. ‘But nothing with bones in it.’
‘I shall say a prayer for Chancellor Tynkell, and then I shall be finished here,’ said Deynman, kneeling down. He looked up at William. ‘He is a herbivore, you know.’
William’s eyebrows went up, and he looked thoughtful. ‘Perhaps that explains his peculiar aroma. A man who eats grass must surely smell differently from the rest of us.’
It was Deynman’s turn to look bemused, but he put his hands together, closed his eyes and the conversation was mercifully at an end. William began to lock the Hand away while the two students prayed, and Bartholomew and Michael took the opportunity to leave.
‘Lord!’ said Michael, beginning to laugh as they walked into the evening sunlight. ‘Deynman is a kindly boy, but he has the sense of a gnat! Tynkell is a herbivore indeed! Is that why he was asking after his health earlier? He believes the Chancellor has the digestive system of a cow?’
‘He thinks Tynkell is a hermaphrodite, but could not remember the correct word. I will spare you the contorted logic he went through to reach this momentous conclusion.’