The Hand of Justice by Susanna Gregory Read Free Book Online Page A

‘It would not have been an easy death.’
    ‘She might have killed him,’ suggested Quenhyth, nodding to where Deynman was sitting on a tomb with his arm around the shoulders
     of the madwoman. It was not quite clear who was comforting whom, and Deynman seemed to be deriving as much relief from the
     warm, close presence of another living person as was the woman herself. ‘She was discovered next to his corpse, after all.’
    ‘She does not have the wits,’ said Michael, although Bartholomew remained sceptical. His alarm when he had thought she might
     have harmed Deynman was still bright in his mind.
    ‘She says she was keeping his body company,’ said Redmeadow, eyeing her uneasily, as if he did not know what to believe. ‘She
     claims she found him at dawn this morning, and did not want him to be alone. She was waiting for a priest to come and relieve
     her of her vigil. She told me Deschalers the grocer gave Bosel his new clothes, though. Perhaps that is significant.’
    Bartholomew did not see why it should be. ‘Bosel was a beggar, and people were always giving him things. It is how he made
     his living.’
    ‘I do not see Deschalers poisoning him to get them back, either,’ said Michael, surveying what had once probably been some
     decent garments, but that had become soiled and ragged in Bosel’s possession. He glanced up and saw the Sheriff striding towards
     him. ‘But this is
his
problem, not mine. The victim here is a townsman.’
    Tulyet listened in silence to Bartholomew’s opinion that Bosel had died from ingesting something highly caustic. The physician
     pointed out an empty wineskin and a pool of vomit near the body, which he thought indicative that Bosel had died fairly soon
     after swallowing the substance. He did not possess the skill claimed by some of his medical colleagues to determine an exact
     time of death, but a lump of bread in Bosel’s scrip was unmistakably the kind handed out by the Canons of St John’s Hospital
     at seven o’clock each evening. Therefore Bosel had died later than seven. The body was icy cold, suggesting it had been dead
     several hours. Tulyet bullied and cajoled Bartholomew until he had the physician’s best guess: Bosel had probably died late
     the previous evening, most likely before midnight.
    Tulyet frowned. ‘Did he do this to himself? Is he a suicide?’
    ‘I do not see why,’ said Bartholomew. ‘First, he had no funds to buy poison. And secondly, I imagine he was going to demand
     money from the Mortimers – by offering to retract his story about the incident with Lenne and Isnard. His future was looking
     rosy.’
    ‘It was,’ agreed Tulyet thoughtfully. ‘The obvious conclusion is that Thomas Mortimer did this: mixed poison with wine and
     gave it to Bosel to drink. However, if Bosel was murdered between seven and midnight, then Mortimer is innocent. He was at
     a meeting of the town burgesses during those hours, discussing repairs to the Great Bridge. I know, because I was there.’
    ‘One of his family, then,’ said Michael. ‘God knows, there are enough of them. And do not forget that they now include his
     nephew, Edward, whom we know is a killer.’
    ‘Edward was at this meeting, too,’ said Tulyet. He grimaced. ‘And so was young Rob Thorpe.’
    ‘Thorpe and Edward,’ mused Quenhyth, who was listening uninvited to their discussion. ‘The two felons who werefound guilty by the King’s Bench but who then secured themselves pardons.’
    ‘Quite,’ said Tulyet bitterly. ‘Two ruthless criminals given the liberty to roam free in
my
town. I have enough to worry about, without watching them day and night.’
    ‘You should not have recommended them for a King’s Pardon, then,’ said Michael tartly. ‘I made some enquiries about that,
     and learned it was a letter from the Sheriff of Cambridgeshire that tipped the balance in their favour. Without that letter,
     they would still be in France.’
    Tulyet shot him a withering