A Plague on Both Your Houses (11 page)

Agatha awake all night weeping, and she says no one

went out of the back gate.’

‘How are the commoners?’

Alcote smiled gloatingly. ‘Waking with dreadful

heads and sick stomachs, and it serves them right,’

he said. ‘Next time they will beware of the sin of

gluttony.’

Bartholomew stopped and grasped Alcote’s wrist.

‘Are they really sick? Why did no one wake me? I may be able to give them something to relieve the symptoms.’

Alcote freed his wrist. ‘There is nothing you can

do. They will live.’

Aelfrith joined them. ‘How is your head?’ Bartholomew

asked.

‘My years of learning must have given me a tough

skull,’ said Aelfrith with a smile, ‘for I feel no ill effects at all.’

They reached the main building and climbed the

wide spiral stairs to the hall. The borrowed tapestries that had adorned the walls the night before had been

removed, but evidence of the festivities was still apparent in the scraps of food that littered the rushes on the floor, and in the smell of spilled wine.

‘Master Abigny?’ asked Wilson, his voice loud in the

otherwise silent hall.

‘Visiting his sister,’ replied Brother Michael. It had become a standard excuse. Sir John had not been too

particular about whether his Fellows chose to eat in

College or not, but, judging from the way Wilson’s

mouth set in a firm line of displeasure, from now on

Fellows would be required to attend meals in hall.

Alcote whispered something to Wilson that made

the master’s eyes glitter with anger. Bartholomew had

no doubt that Alcote was telling him about what he had overheard. Spiteful little man, he thought, and turned to see Michael raising his eyes heavenwards, much to

the amusement of the students at the end of the table.

‘Silence!’ Wilson banged a pewter goblet on the

table, making everyone jump, and the giggles of the

students stopped instantly. Wilson glared around. ‘Two of our members lie foully murdered,’ he said. ‘It is not a time for frivolous laughter.’ Some of the students hung their heads. Gentle Paul would be missed. Throughout

the summer he had sat in the sun in the courtyard and

had been only too happy to while away the hours by

debating with the students to help them develop their

skills in disputation, and by patiently explaining points of grammar, rhetoric, and logic to those who had stayed on to try to catch up.

Wilson intoned the long Latin grace, and then

nodded to the Bible scholar to begin the recital

that would last throughout the meal. Sir John had

encouraged academic debate, and had chaired some

very lively discussions, all aimed to hone and refine the College’s reputation of academic excellence. Wilson was more traditional in approach, and considered it fitting for scholars to listen to tracts from the Bible while they ate, so that they could improve their spiritual standing.

Bartholomew studied his colleagues. Brother

Michael, on his right, hunched over his trencher,

greedily cramming pieces of meat into his mouth.

Bartholomew offered him the dish of vegetables seeped

in butter, and received, as always, a look of disbelief.

Michael firmly believed that vegetables would damage

his digestion and lived almost entirely on large quantities of meat, fish, and bread.

Bartholomew thought back to

Michael’s odd behaviour of the night before. Was it

illness as he had claimed, or did he know something

about Augustus’s death? Bartholomew had never seen

the fat monk in such a state, but whatever had upset

him was obviously not affecting his appetite now.

Aelfrith sat between Bartholomew and Father

William. When speaking was permitted at meals, the

Franciscans would usually discuss theology in Latin.

Bartholomew compared the two men. Aelfrith was tall

and thin, with a sallow face and grey eyes that were

often distant. Bartholomew did not find him a warm

man, but he was compassionate, discreetly generous to

many of Bartholomew’s poorer patients, and devoted to

his teaching. Father William was of a similar height, but much heavier. Like Aelfrith, he was in his late forties, but his hair was thick and brown. His eyes often burned with the passion of the fanatic, and Bartholomew could believe the rumours that he had been appointed to

search out heresy by his Order, and had been sent to

Cambridge because he was over-zealous.

Wilson was the oldest Fellow, probably just past

fifty, and was a singularly unattractive individual. His dry brown hair released a constant dusting of dandruff that adorned all his gowns, and his complexion was

florid with a smattering of spots that reached right

down to his array of chins. Swynford leaned towards

him and whispered. Swynford was distantly related to

the powerful Dukes of Norfolk, and held considerable

sway in University circles. In a place where a College depended on the seniority and authority of its Fellows and Master, Michaelhouse owed much of its influence

to Swynford. Wilson would need to keep him happy.

Swynford was a handsome man around the same age

as the Franciscans, but his bearing was more military

than monastic, his manner confident and assured. His

hair was grey, thick, and neat, and his beard always well groomed. He was the only Fellow, other than the Master, to have the luxury of a room and a servant of his own, and he paid the College handsomely for the privilege. Beside his impressive figure, Alcote looked like a small bird.

Bartholomew speared a slice of turnip on his knife

and chewed it thoughtfully. Alcote had said that the

porters and Agatha were prepared to swear that no one

had left the College, other than the guests, once the

gates had been locked after the Oliver brothers had

attempted to provoke the riot. This meant that, unless someone had entered the College early and stayed until after the gates were unlocked the following morning, the murderer was a College member. There were few places

to hide in Michaelhouse: all the rooms were occupied by students, Fellows, commoners, or servants, and all, except Swynford, shared a room with at least one other person.

It would be difficult to hide in a small room where two or more people slept. There had been students in the

hall and the conclave all night, which meant that no one could have hidden there, and the servants would have

noticed anything untoward in the kitchens and other

service rooms.

The more Bartholomew thought about it, the more

his instincts told him that the murderer was a College man, who knew the habits and routines of its members.

Bartholomew glanced along the table at his colleagues.

Which one, if any, had murdered Paul, Augustus and

possibly Sir John, and attacked him and Aelfrith? From size alone it could not have been Alcote or Abigny - they were too small. Brother Michael was fat, and since he

deplored exercise of any kind, Bartholomew thought it

unlikely that Michael could best him in a tussle, although it was possible. That left William, Wilson, and Swynford, all of whom were tall and probably strong enough. Then there were the commoners, Henri d’Evene and Jocelyn

of Ripon.

The only way he could reduce the list would be

by establishing who was where, when, and with whom.

Michael and Bartholomew had seen Augustus alive

before the beginning of the feast, which meant that

he had died at some point between the time when

Bartholomew left him and Alexander had found him.

All the Fellows and commoners had been at the feast

the entire time that Bartholomew had been there. There were privies between the hall and the conclave, so no one had needed to leave the hall for that reason.

Bartholomew rubbed his eyes. Had Augustus been

murdered? He had spent a long time looking for evidence that he had been, and had found nothing. But it was all too coincidental - Augustus dying the night Paul was

stabbed and the commoners drugged. And for what had

Bartholomew’s attacker been searching?

And what of Paul? When had he died? Assuming

that Aelfrith was telling the truth, Paul had probably been killed about the same time that the Franciscan had been knocked on the head. Bartholomew remembered

that Paul’s blood had congealed slightly, and the body was cold and beginning to grow stiff. If all the Fellows had retired to their beds around the same time as had

Bartholomew, any of them could have slipped over

to the south wing, murdered Paul, and drugged the

commoners’ wine.

But why? What could be so important as to warrant

murder? Why was Augustus’s room ransacked? And

where was his body? Why would anyone want to take

it? And how did all this tie in with Sir John’s death? The more Bartholomew thought about it, the more confused

and inexplicable the possibilities became.

The meal took longer than usual because some of the

servants were still employed in searching for Augustus.

The Bible scholar droned on and Bartholomew grew

restless. He should question the commoners about the

drugged wine, and visit Agatha and Mistress Atkin. He

had badgered a fellow physician, Gregory Colet, to lend him a scroll containing some of the writings of the great physician Dioscorides, and Bartholomew was anxious to

begin reading it. Despite being a centre for learning, copies of books and scholarly writings were scarce in

Cambridge, and each was jealously guarded. Colet would not wait too long before he wanted his scroll back. If the students were to pass their disputations, they had to

know Dioscorides’s lists of healing plants. But for

Bartholomew merely knowing was not enough: he

wanted his students to understand the properties of

the potions they used, the harmful and beneficial effects these might have, and how they might affect the patient when they were taken over a long period of time. Before he began teaching them this, he wanted to refresh his

memory.

At last the meal was over and the scholars rose

for the final grace. Then the Fellows clustered around Wilson, who had just been listening to Gilbert.

‘Still nothing,’ he informed his colleagues. ‘But I

have alerted the porters to watch both gates for Augustus, and we will continue our search for the rest of the day if necessary. The man must be found. The Bishop will be

here this evening, and I will turn this miserable business over to him, as is my duty. Doubtless he will want to see us all when he arrives.’

Bartholomew was glad to leave the hall and go out

into the fresh air. It was not yet noon, but the sun

was already scorching. He leaned against the wall for a minute, enjoying the warmth on his face, with his eyes closed. The air in the courtyard felt still and humid, and Bartholomew was acutely aware of the stench from the

ditches west of the College. He thought of one of his

patients, Tom Pike, who lived down by the wharves on

the river and had a lung disease. This weather would

make life unbearable for him. The smells and the insects were always worse by the river and the King’s Ditch than elsewhere in the town. He wondered if bad smells and

foul air were responsible for the spread of the plague that was ravaging Europe.

He saw the commoners, Jocelyn of Ripon and

d’Evene the Frenchman, coming out of the hall together and hailed them over.

‘Are you better now?’ he asked, looking closely at

the rings under their eyes and the way they winced at

the brightness of the sun.

‘My head aches something rotten,’ grumbled Jocelyn.

‘Master Swynford told me the wine may have been tampered with, and I can tell you, Doctor Bartholomew, that

it would come as no surprise to me if it were. I have not had a hangover like this since I was ten years old!’

Bartholomew could well believe it of this rough man

who drank so much. D’Evene coughed cautiously. ‘That

is the last time I drink French wine,’ he said, a weak attempt at a joke.

‘Do you recall which jug of wine it was that contained the drug?’ asked Bartholomew.

Jocelyn looked at him in disbelief. ‘Of course I do

not!’ he said. ‘Do you think I would have drunk it if I thought it had been poisoned?’

Bartholomew smiled, acknowledging the absurdity

of his question. D’Evene interrupted. “I remember,’ he said. “I have a natural aversion to wine - it brings on blinding headaches - so I avoid it whenever possible,

and drink ale instead. Last night, a good while after

you Fellows left, the commoners were all together

enjoying the atmosphere, the food, the drink, when

poor Montfitchet started to complain about feeling ill.

We ignored him until he really was sick, which made us all begin to question the states of our own stomachs. We decided to leave, and went across to our room together.

When we were there, before going to sleep, someone

said it would be right and proper to toast Master Wilson and his new role with his best wine. Montfitchet and I declined the wine, but everyone else said we were being churlish, and that we should drink Master Wilson’s health with his fine red wine. I had consumed a good deal of ale by then, and so I allowed myself to accept when I should have declined. So did Montfitchet. I have no idea how

the wine came from the hall to our dormitory, but it

was there.’

Jocelyn looked at him. ‘Yes, by God!’ he said. ‘The

wine in the jug. I poured it out. It was my idea to drink the Master’s health. I do not recall how it arrived in our room. It was just there, and I saw it was fairly distributed among the lot of us.’