A Plague on Both Your Houses (14 page)

Bartholomew.

‘Master Wilson does. He thinks you are a spy

because you have a degree from Oxford, because your

practice takes you out of College a lot, and because he was suspicious of your relationship with Sir John. He

warned Sir John about you many times. He does not

like you, and now he is Master, he will undoubtedly try to see that your days as a Fellow here are numbered.’

That Wilson thought the worst of him, and might

attempt to rid Michaelhouse of him, did not come as

any great shock to Bartholomew. ‘Who else knows?’

he asked.

‘Michael seems to know some of it, although he did

not learn it from me. William and Alcote know. It was

William who told me to warn you. Alcote is in Wilson’s pocket, and believes you are a spy. They both think you were looking for the seal when you took so long with

Augustus.’

‘And what do you think, Father?’

‘That you are innocent in all this, and that you should remain so. I also reason that you grieve too deeply for Sir John to have been involved in any way with his death, and that you have continued to be a good friend after most others have abandoned him.’

Bartholomew squinted up into the apple trees. He

wished Sir John were with him now, to help him reason

out all this subterfuge and plotting. ‘What of the others?

Swynford and Giles Abigny?’

‘Swynford is aware of the Oxford plot, but declines

to become involved. His family have lands near Oxford, and he says it is in his interests to remain neutral. Sirjohn’s contact has already reported that Swynford declined

Oxford when they tried to recruit him. Abigny would

not find the time between his love affairs for matters of such seriousness, and in any case, I could not trust his judgement nor his discretion. He has no connections

with Oxford anyway, and would make them a poor spy.

He does not move in the right circles to be of interest to them, unless they are concerned with tavern gossip.’

Bartholomew smiled. The flighty Abigny was from

a different world than the austere Franciscan friars, and they would never see eye to eye. But Aelfrith was right.

Abigny was appallingly indiscreet, and would never

manage to remain sober long enough to do spying of

any value. Aelfrith stood to leave.

If you think of anything, however small, that might

throw light onto this wretched affair, will you let me know?’

Bartholomew nodded. “I will, but I have thought it

over many times, and have not deduced the tiniest shred of evidence that could be of value. I think I would be as much a loss as a spy as would Giles!’

Aelfrith reached out to touch Bartholomew on the

shoulder, a rare gesture of affection for the sombre friar, and walked out of the orchard.

Bartholomew sat for a while, pondering what

Aelfrith had told him. He still found it difficult to

believe that Oxford and Cambridge scholars would

play such dangerous games, and he would not accept

that Augustus’s body had been stolen by the Devil. The sun was hot, and he thought back to what he had said

to Aelfrith. Bodies did not just disappear, so Augustus’s corpse must have been either hidden or buried. If it

were hidden, the heat would soon give it away; if it were buried, perhaps it would never be found.

The bell began to ring for the afternoon service at

St Michael’s, and Bartholomew decided to go to pray

for the souls of his dead friends.

Bartholomew made his way slowly back from the church

down St Michael’s Lane. A barge from the Low Countries had arrived at the wharf earlier that day, and all the small lanes and alleys leading from the river to the merchants’

houses on Milne Street were full of activity.

At the river the bustle was even more frenzied. A

Flemish captain stood on the bank roaring instructions in dreadful French to his motley collection of sailors who yelled back in a variety of languages. At least

two were from the Mediterranean, judging from their

black curly hair and beringed ears, and another wore

an exotic turban swathed around his head. Further

up-stream, fishermen were noisily unloading baskets

of eels and the slow-moving water was littered with

tails and heads that had been discarded. Overhead, the gulls swooped and screeched and fought, adding to the

general racket.

Behind the wharves were the rivermen’s houses, a

dishevelled row of rickety wooden shacks that leaked

when it rained, and often collapsed when it was windy.

Bartholomew saw an enormous rat slink out of one house and disappear into the weeds at the edge of the river

where some small children were splashing about.

‘Matt!’ Bartholomew turned with a smile at the

sound of his brother-in-law’s voice. Sir Oswald Stanmore strode up to him. ‘We were worried about you. What has been happening at Michaelhouse?’

Bartholomew raised his hands in a shrug. “I do not

know. The clerics are mumbling about evil walking the

College, but Wilson thinks it was only Augustus.’

Stanmore rolled his eyes. ‘Wilson is afool. You should have heard him pontificating to us last night, telling us everything we would ever need to know about the wool

trade, and about French cloth. The man would not know

French cloth from homespun. But we have heard terrible rumours about Michaelhouse! How much did you all

drink last night?’

Ever practical, Stanmore had put everything down

to drunkenness, not such an unreasonable assumption

considering the amount of wine that had flowed.

‘Nathaniel the Fleming seems to have had his share

too,’ said Bartholomew, turning as one of the swimming children emitted an especially piercing shriek.

Stanmore laughed. “I told him last night he would

need your services this morning. Did he call you?’

Bartholomew nodded, and told him what had

happened. Stanmore threw up his hands in despair.

‘Lord save us, Matt! I provide you with one of the

wealthiest men in the town as a patient, and you cannot even subdue your unorthodox thoughts long enough to

treat him. I know,’ he said quickly, putting up a hand to quell the coming objection, ‘what you believe, and I understand, even applaud, your motives. But for the love of God, could you not even try to placate Nathaniel? You need to be far more careful now Wilson is Master, Matt.

Even a child can see that he loathes you. You no longer have the favoured protection of Sir John, and securing a patient such as Nathaniel might have served to keep

his dislike at bay for a while.’

Bartholomew knew Stanmore was right. He gave a

rueful smile.

‘Edith told me to call on you today to make certain

you were well,’ Stanmore continued. ‘What have you

done to your leg? What debauchery did your feast degenerate into once the sobering effects of your town guests had gone?’ He was smiling, but his eyes

were serious.

‘Tell Edith I am fine. But I do not understand what is happening at Michaelhouse. The Bishop is due to arrive today and will take matters in hand.’

Stanmore chewed his lower lip. “I do not like it,

Matt, and neither will Edith. Come to stay with us for a few days until all this dies down. Edith is missing

Richard; if you came, it would take her mind off him

for a while.’

Richard, their only son, had left a few days before

to study at Oxford, and the house would be strangely

empty without him. Bartholomew was fond of his sister

and her husband, and it would be pleasant to spend a

few days away from the tensions of the College. But he had work to do: there were students who had returned

before the Michaelmas term so that they could be given extra tuition, and he had his patients to see. And anyway, if he left now, Wilson would probably see it as fleeing the scene of the crime, and accuse him of the murders.

Regretfully he shook his head.

“I would love to, I really would. But I cannot. I

should stay.’ He grabbed Stanmore’s arm. ‘Please do

not tell Edith all you hear. She will only worry.’

Stanmore smiled under standingly. ‘Come to see us

as soon as you can, and talk to her yourself.’ He looked round as loud shouts came from a group of apprentices, followed by a splash as someone fell in the river. “I must go before they start fighting again. Take care, Matt. I will tell Edith you will visit soon.’

As Bartholomew made his way back up the lane, he saw a small cavalcade of horses trot into Michaelhouse’s yard, and knew that the Bishop had arrived. Servants hurried to stable the horses, while others brought chilled ale and offered to shake dust out of riding cloaks. Wilson hurried from his new room to meet the Bishop, soberly dressed

in a simple, but expensive, black gown.

The two men stood talking for a while, while students, commoners, and Fellows watched out of the unglazed

windows. Eventually, Wilson led the way into the main

building, through the hall and into the smaller, more

private conclave beyond. Alexander was sent to fetch

wine and pastries, and the College waited.

First, the servants were sent for. Then it was the

turn of the students, and then the commoners. It was

nearing the time for the evening meal when the Fellows were summoned. The Bishop sat in the Master’s chair,

which had been brought from the hall, while his clerks and assistants were ranged along the benches on either side of him. Wilson sat directly opposite, and, judging from his pallor and sweaty jowls, had not had an easy

time of it.

The Bishop stood as the Fellows entered and

beckoned them forward to sit on the bench with

Wilson. Bartholomew had met the Bishop before, a

man who enjoyed his physical comforts, but who was

able to combine a deep sense of justice with his equally deep sense of compassion. He was known to be impatient with fools, severe with those who told him lies, and had no time at all for those unwilling to help themselves.

Although Bartholomew thought he probably would not

enjoy an evening in the Bishop’s company, he respected his judgement and integrity.

The Fellows sat on either side of Wilson, Bartholomew

at the end so he could stretch his stiff

knee. He felt as if he were on trial. The Bishop started to speak.

‘Master Wilson and Fellows of Michaelhouse,’ he

began formally. ‘It is my right, as Bishop of this parish, to investigate the strange happenings of last night. I must tell you now that I am far from satisfied with the explanation I have been given.’ He paused, and studied the large ring on his finger that contained his official seal. ‘These are difficult times for the Church and for the University. There is news that a terrible pestilence is sweeping the land, and may be here before Christmas, and relations between the Church and the people are far from ideal. Neither the University nor the College can afford to have scandals. Much damage was done to both

following the unfortunate death of Master Babington.

You cannot allow another unsavoury incident to occur

if you wish your College to survive.

‘Now, two College members have been murdered,

perhaps by another, although I do not care to guess

who the perpetrator of the crime might be. The College has been searched, and has revealed nothing. All the

commoners, students, and servants have alibis-assuming that Brother Paul was slain during or after the feast. The commoners were all together, and each can vouch for

every one of the others. Since the regular term’s lectures have not yet begun, there are only fifteen students in residence, and all, like the commoners, can give alibis for each other. The servants had a hard night of work, and one missing pair of hands would have been immediately

noticed. After the feast, they all retired exhausted to bed, and the good Mistress Agatha, who was kept awake by

a grieving woman, swears that none left the servants’

quarters until woken by the Steward this morning.

‘That leaves the Fellows. Please understand that I

am accusing no one, but you will each tell me where you were last night, and with whom. Master Wilson, perhaps you would set the example and begin.’

“Me?’ said Wilson, taken aback. ‘But I am the

Master, I …’

‘Your movements, please, Master Wilson,’ said the

Bishop coldly.

Wilson blustered for a few moments, while the

Bishop waited like a coiled snake for him to begin.

‘After Doctor Bartholomew told us that Augustus was

dead, I felt it inappropriate to continue at the feast.

Father William, Master Alcote, and Master Swynford

left with me. Bartholomew and Brother Michael had

already retired, and Master Abigny stayed, although I

did not condone this.’ A glint of pleasure crossed his features at having expressed his disapproval of Abigny to the Bishop.

‘On the contrary, Master Wilson,’ the Bishop intervened smoothly, “I hope you did condone it. After all, you

were going to leave students in your hall with seemingly unlimited quantities of wine, and a riot narrowly averted earlier in the day. I would consider it an act of prudence to leave a Fellow to oversee affairs. Why did you not end the feast?’

Bartholomew hid a smile. He knew that many

students disliked Wilson and he had been trying to

win them round with his generosity with the wine. He

would not have wished to negate any positive points he might have gained by ending the feast when the students were still enjoying themselves.

Wilson opened and shut his mouth a few times,

before Swynford intervened. ‘We discussed that, my