The Hand of Justice by Susanna Gregory Read Free Book Online

meal for those who were out of their wits, and all budding physicians knew they provided a quick and easy solution for some
     of their more inconvenient cases.
    ‘I took her there last week,’ said Quenhyth, grabbing Bartholomew’s sleeve in an attempt to drag him away. ‘She was in the
     Market Square talking to some onions, and it occurred to me that there might be something amiss with her wits.’
    ‘Such an incisive diagnosis,’ muttered Redmeadow. ‘She talks to onions, and it crosses his mind that she might be addled.’
    Quenhyth did not dignify the comment with a reply, and continued to address Bartholomew. ‘I escorted her to the Canons, but
     she ran away from them the next day. They told me she will leave Cambridge when she realises that whatever she is looking
     for is not here, and will head off to haunt some other town. They say they have seen many such cases since the plague.’
    Bartholomew pulled away from Quenhyth, not liking the way his student had taken to manhandling him on occasions. He rummaged
     in his scrip and found some farthings. ‘Give her these,’ he said to Deynman. ‘Or better still, go with her to Constantine
     Mortimer’s shop, and ensure she buys bread – not ribbons or some such thing.’
    ‘But by that time you will have finished Isnard’s treatment,’ cried Deynman in dismay. ‘And I will not have seen what you
     did.’
    ‘Go and help her, Deynman,’ said Bartholomew softly, moved by the sight of the pitiful creature who rocked and sang to herself.
     ‘She needs you.’
    Reluctantly, Deynman did as he was told. Bartholomew saw him bend to speak to her, then politely offer his arm, as he might
     to any lady in his rich father’s house. Physician Deynman would never be, but he had better manners and a kinder heart than
     his classmates. Bartholomew was aboutto resume his journey to Isnard when Deynman issued a shriek of horror.
    Bartholomew’s blood ran cold. The woman had seemed more pathetic than violent, and he had thought she was not the kind to
     harm anyone who might try to help her. But he could have been wrong – and if he were, then he had forced Deynman to pay the
     price for his misjudgement. He stumbled across the ancient graves towards them, fearing the worst. But it was not Deynman
     who had come to grief; it was Bosel the beggar. The alms-hunter lay curled on his side in the long grass of the churchyard,
     his skin waxy with the touch of death.
    ‘Poisoned?’ asked Michael in surprise. He watched Bartholomew examine the beggar’s corpse as they waited for the Sheriff to
     arrive. ‘Are you sure? Who would poison Bosel? He is harmless.’
    ‘You would not think that if you were one of the people he had burgled,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Or if you were Thomas Mortimer,
     and had him claiming you deliberately ran over Lenne and Isnard.’
    ‘You think Mortimer killed Bosel?’ asked Michael. He rubbed his chin, nodding to himself. ‘Ridding yourself of an inconvenient
     witness
is
a powerful motive for murder.’
    ‘I thought he had more sense, though,’ said Bartholomew, prising open Bosel’s mouth to show Michael the discoloured tongue
     and bloodied gums. ‘He must have known he would be the obvious suspect.’
    ‘Desperate men are not always rational,’ replied Michael, looking away quickly before he lost the illicit early breakfast
     he had eaten in his room before mass that morning. Bosel’s mouth was not a pretty sight. ‘But Thomas is constantly drunk these
     days. I am surprised he could carry out a murder using as discreet a means as poison.’
    ‘His family, then,’ said Bartholomew. ‘His brotherConstantine and all those nephews and cousins. Still, I am surprised. Poisoning Bosel is an utterly stupid thing to do.’
    Michael agreed. ‘Poor Bosel. I shall miss his insolent demands for spare change on the High Street. What killed him?’
    ‘He ate or drank something caustic that burned his mouth and innards,’ said Bartholomew.