Free The Hand of Justice by Susanna Gregory

it is difficult to separate fact from fiction,’ said Wynewyk, beginning
     to walk again. ‘What really happened? Are they the Devil’s spawn, as Agatha the laundress claims? Or are they poor misguided
     children, as Master Kenyngham would have me believe?’
    ‘Neither,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘They are just men who killed without remorse or hesitation, solely to realise their own plans
     for revenge and riches.’
    ‘They were caught – thanks to some clever investigating by me – and confessed to their crimes,’ elaborated Michael rather
     smugly. ‘Did you know that Thorpe’s father is Master of the Hall of Valence Marie? It is hard to believe: a high-ranking scholar
     spawning a murderer.’
    ‘Master Thorpe is the man who first found the sacred Hand of Valence Marie,’ mused Wynewyk, changing the subject. ‘I heard
     the Hand came from a local saint, and is imbued with great power.’
    ‘The Hand was hacked from the corpse of a simpleton,’ corrected Bartholomew firmly. ‘It is
not
imbued with any kind of power, sacred or otherwise.’
    ‘That is not what most folk believe,’ argued Wynewyk. ‘It is stored in the University Chest in the tower of St Mary the Great,
     and people petition it all the time. Many of them have had their prayers answered. To my mind – and theirs – that makes it
     a genuine relic.’
    Bartholomew was exasperated when he turned to Michael. ‘I told you to destroy the thing three years ago, Brother. You had
     the chance: you could easily have tossed it into the marshes. But you insisted on keeping it, andnow it is too late. It has become an object of veneration – again.’
    ‘Again?’ asked Wynewyk. ‘It has been worshipped before?’
    ‘Briefly,’ said Bartholomew. ‘When it was first dredged from the ditch outside Valence Marie. But we proved beyond the shadow
     of a doubt that it was hacked from Peterkin Starre – because his corpse happened to be available at the time – and it is not
     and never has been sacred.’
    ‘The fascination with it will not last,’ insisted Michael, although he sounded uneasy. ‘These things come and go, and what
     is popular today is forgotten tomorrow. And anyway, it is not my business to decide what should and should not be destroyed.
     I pass that responsibility to the Chancellor.’
    Bartholomew laughed in disbelief. ‘I am not a complete innocent, Brother! Everyone knows Chancellor Tynkell does exactly what
     you say, and there is only one man who determines what happens in the University these days: you. If you wanted these bones
     destroyed, they would have vanished by now.’
    Michael grinned, unabashed by the reprimand and amused that his friend had so accurately described his relationship with the
     Chancellor. Tynkell was indeed becoming a figurehead, with Michael holding the real power. Tynkell had expressed a desire
     to resign and allow Michael to take the reins, since he was already making most of the important decisions, but the monk demurred.
     He liked things the way they were – it was useful to have someone to blame when anything went wrong.
    ‘Tynkell does listen to my advice,’ he confessed modestly. ‘But destroying the Hand would have been an extreme reaction –
     and one that could never be reversed. I thought it might come in useful one day, and that it would be safely anonymous in
     the University Chest.’
    ‘Not safely anonymous enough, apparently,’ grumbledBartholomew, unappeased. ‘Wynewyk is right: there are always pilgrims around the tower these days. It will not be long before
     we have a wave of religious zeal to quell, and there is no reasoning with folk once they have decided upon issues of faith.
     The Hand has always been dangerous. Look what happened to Thorpe’s father over the thing.’
    ‘What?’ asked Wynewyk, intrigued. ‘Anything to do with his son?’
    ‘No, nothing like that,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But, as you just said, Master Thorpe was the one who found the