‘Rubbish!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, unable to help himself. ‘Peterkin Starre was no prophet – anyone who remembers him will tell you that.’
‘Folk are reassessing their memories,’ said Thorpe, nodding at the pilgrims who knelt outside the tower. There was also a queue by the south door, and Bartholomew could see Father William bustling about importantly. He supposed the friar had chosen to disregard Michael’s orders, and was still showing the Hand to people who asked. Or perhaps he was just not up to the task of solving the problem, so was simply continuing what he did well – making money for the University.
‘Then they are wrong,’ declared Michael, as dogmatic in his refusal to believe as others were in their desperation to accept. ‘Who came up with this ridiculous title – the Hand of Justice – anyway?’
‘We did,’ said Mortimer coldly. ‘It is amazing how quickly these things catch on once you mention them in one or two pertinent places. The Hand did right by us. We prayed to it after we were exiled – that justice would be done – and it did not let us down.’
‘Then let us tell people that,’ encouraged Michael innocently. ‘They will see it as another miracle.’
‘Later,’ said Mortimer, seeing the implications of Michael’s suggestion immediately. He was not stupid, and guessed few would thank the Hand for arranging that sort of ‘justice’.
Thorpe looked around him in disdain. ‘I do not like this town. I have no desire to endure hostile glares and snide comments in voices that are only just audible. But needs must.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.
‘My original plan was to ask the King if Valence Marie could have the Hand of Justice back,’ said Thorpe. ‘They were its first owners – because my father was the man who fished it out of the King’s Ditch – and I feel it should reside with Valence Marie, not in the University Church. But my father says he does not want it. He is a fool, and I am disappointed in him.’
‘Not nearly as disappointed as he is in you,’ said Michael, intending to wound.
It worked, and Thorpe’s eyes flashed with rage, although it was quickly suppressed. ‘However, my colleagues at Gonville Hall are interested in having it instead. Rougham visits it regularly, and Ufford is devoted to it. Even Thompson, Pulham and Despenser have been to see it – although they claim they are not believers. Gonville can capitalise on the financial rewards it will bring, if Valence Marie is stupid enough to decline. Look at how many pilgrims are here already, and then imagine what it will be like when the Hand’s fame has spread.’
‘I see,’ said Michael wearily. ‘You intend to set College against College, and town against University by taking the Hand from one institution and passing it to another. That is why you came back. Really, boys! I expected something a little more imaginative from you when you staged your revenge.’
Thorpe shrugged, to indicate he did not care what the monk thought. ‘All we want is for the Hand of Justice to be where it will do some good. The revenues raised from pilgrims will pay for Gonville’s new chapel – and what better way to pay for a church than with money raised from a holy relic? Bishop Bateman would approve.’
Bartholomew watched them stride away, scattering folk before them as if they were feared invaders from a hostile land. He saw Sergeant Orwelle step to one side to avoid them, and was appalled to think that even the forces of law and order seemed to be intimidated.
‘At least we now know what they plan to do,’ said Michael. ‘I should have guessed they had this sort of thing in mind. But I expected them to come up with something more original.’
Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘William may be a fool, but he is honest, and it would be very difficult for anyone to make off the Hand as long as it is in his care. However, it will be a lot easier to steal it from Gonville. They have no experience of looking after valuable and popular relics.’
‘Especially if Thorpe is a member there,’ mused Michael. ‘With his own key. And, if the thing disappears, there will be a riot for certain – with the town furious at the University’s incompetence.’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘They are right about one thing, though. It will not be long before an attractive name like the “Hand of Justice” catches on – and then the damned thing will become more popular than ever.’
Later, Bartholomew visited Mistress Lenne, who lay wretchedly miserable as she awaited the arrival of her son from Thetford. Michael declined to enter the house with him, and slouched outside, his green eyes bleak and angry. When he emerged and saw the dangerous expression on the monk’s face, Bartholomew tried to think of something that would take his friend’s mind off the elderly woman’s suffering.
‘You said you were going to look at Deschalers’s will. To see if he planned to change it.’
Michael nodded. ‘I want to know if he threatened to disinherit Julianna. I doubt she has the intelligence to stage the cunning murder of an uncle, but her new husband certainly does.’
Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘Planned to change his will. Father William said he heard something about a “plan” when Deschalers made his confession to the Hand. Do you think that is what Deschalers was talking about?’
Michael shrugged; even the prospect of solving a little part of the mystery did not take his mind off Mistress Lenne. ‘It is possible, I suppose, although I would not class making a will as a “plan”. However, Deschalers might have done, and we should bear it in mind. We should go and ask Julianna about it now.’
Bartholomew was unenthusiastic about the prospect of another encounter with Julianna, but since he had made the suggestion, he felt obliged to accompany the monk to Deschalers’s house. They knocked on the door, and were shown into the ground-floor parlour by the elderly servant, who muttered something about fried cat before going to tell Julianna she had guests. While they waited for her to come, Michael sullenly devoured those dried fruits he had missed on the previous occasion.
The house was filled with voices, although none were lowered as a mark of respect to the recently dead. They did not seem to be especially friendly, either, and it sounded as though an argument was in progress. Bartholomew could hear Thomas, Constantine and Edward Mortimer among the clamour; Edward’s tones were low and measured, in stark contrast to the bickering, savage tenor of his uncle and father.
‘What are they saying?’ whispered Michael, straining his ears.
‘Something about who has the right to live where,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘This is a nice house, and I think Edward wants to stay here with Julianna, but Constantine has other ideas. It would be convenient for him: he lives next door, and could combine the two premises into an impressive mansion.’
‘And something about death duties,’ said Michael, cocking his head. ‘Wills.’
‘The King usually claims part of any large inheritance.’ Bartholomew’s hearing was sharper than Michael’s. ‘I think they are debating how much they should give him.’
‘I cannot make out their words,’ said Michael in frustration. He pressed his ear against the wall, but had not been in position for long when he became aware that someone was watching from the door.
‘Brother Michael?’ asked Julianna coolly. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Worms,’ said Michael unabashed, although Bartholomew cringed with embarrassment on his behalf. ‘I can hear them, chewing. You do not want those in your timbers, madam. I have seen houses collapse from the labours of their teeth.’
‘Worms do not have teeth,’ said Bartholomew, before he could stop himself.
‘No,’ agreed Edward, entering the chamber behind his wife, ‘and neither do beetles, which is the nature of the creature that destroys wood.’ The expression on his face was unreadable. ‘We meet again, gentlemen. You seem to be everywhere today.’