The Hand of Justice Read Online Free PDF Page A

ill than ever, and it was some time before
     he was able to stand, ashen-faced and trembling. He wiped a sleeve across his mouth, and eyed his audience defiantly.
    ‘I am not drunk,’ he persisted sullenly. ‘I had an ale or two in the Lilypot, but I am not drunk.’
    ‘Perhaps not now he has donated half a brewery to the gutter,’ muttered Michael to Bartholomew. ‘But I will swear in any court
     of law that he was unfit to drive a cart, and so will you.’
    But all Bartholomew’s attention was focused on Isnard, whose outrage had dissipated when his body had finally registered that
     it had suffered a grievous insult, leaving him cold, clammy and breathless. Bartholomew had seen men die from the shock of
     serious injuries, and he did not want Isnard to expire in the grime of the High Street. He glanced up briefly, silently willing
     Quenhyth to hurry with the stretcher.
    The next person to arrive, however, was Sheriff Tulyet, a small, neat man with tawny hair and an elfin face that seemed inappropriate
     on the person who embodied the strong arm of secular law in the town. Many folk were deceived by Tulyet’s youthful looks,
     but few remained so for long. He was an energetic and just Sheriff, and the fact that he was popular with everyone except
     criminals and malcontents said a good deal about the tenor of his reign.
    ‘Who saw what happened?’ he asked, taking in the scene at a glance: Lenne’s body covered by the cloak of a kindly onlooker,
     Isnard writhing in his pool of gore, and Mortimer grim-faced and defiant. ‘Who witnessed this accident?’
    ‘It was no accident,’ said Isnard between gritted teeth. ‘He tried to kill us.’
    ‘I saw,’ piped up Bosel, enjoying himself. ‘Thomas Mortimer is a murderer.’
    ‘They ran under my wheels,’ declared Mortimer. He glared around, challenging anyone to say otherwise. Bartholomew saw some
     folk look away, reluctant to engage in open conflict with a member of the influential Mortimer clan. The family could destroy
     smaller businesses simply by whispering a few carefully phrased sentences in the relevant places, and few townsmen were prepared
     to make an enemy of the likes of Thomas.
    ‘Michael?’ asked Tulyet hopefully. ‘Matt? Did you see?’
    He was disappointed when they shook their heads. Two men, braver or more foolish than the rest, stepped forward and began
     to clamour that the miller was drunk. One had seen the cart –
sans
driver – pelt down the High Street immediately afterward, but only Bosel claimed to have seen the accident itself. Bartholomew
     was inclined to accept Isnard’s account – that he and Lenne had been talking at the side of the road when the cart had ploughed
     into them – but saw that Tulyet would be hard pressed to prove either side of the story. Tulyet questioned Mortimer carefully,
     butthe man was determined not to bear the blame for the incident, and was sullen and uncommunicative. All he did was reiterate
     that the fault lay with Lenne and Isnard.
    Eventually, Quenhyth arrived with the stretcher and three students to help carry it, and Bartholomew prepared to accompany
     the bargeman home. Isnard was beginning to shiver, so he removed his own cloak to cover him. He was pleased when Quenhyth
     and his cronies did the same without being asked.
    ‘How much?’ the student asked in a whisper. He began to gnaw at his nails, an unpleasant habit he had acquired as his studies
     at Michaelhouse became more onerous. Bartholomew gazed at him blankly, and Quenhyth stifled a sigh of exasperation. ‘How much
     can you charge Isnard for our services? He will need a surgeon, so you can hire Robin of Grantchester and add that to the
     fee, too. Plus a little extra for your use of us as stretcher-bearers.’
    Bartholomew gaped at him, scarcely believing his ears. ‘This man sings in our College choir. And we do not haggle over fees
     with seriously injured people in the street anyway. It is not