A Plague on Both Your Houses (40 page)

with a curious mixture of shame and resignation. ‘Well, then,’ she said in a small voice. ‘You do owe Matt an

explanation.’

Cautiously, alert to every movement his sister made,

Abigny perched on the edge of the table. Philippa stayed where she was, at a distance from either of them. Abigny took a deep breath, and began to speak.

‘In order that you understand what I did, and why, I

must start at the beginning. When Philippa was still a baby, she was married. The marriage was legal, although it was of course never consummated. Her husband died shortly

after, and Philippa inherited a considerable amount of property in Lincoln. Before our father died, he arranged for Philippa to stay at St Radegund’s until she chose either to marry, or to take the veil. The Abbess, of course, was keen that Philippa should take the veil, because then all her property would go to the convent.’

He shuffled on the table, while Philippa watched

him, her face pale.

‘The fact that you were paying her obvious attention

was not likely to encourage her to a life of chastity, so the Abbess, God rot her soul, decided she would remove you: if you could be persuaded to give up your courting, she imagined that Philippa, in paroxysms of grief, would become a nun, and all her worldly wealth would go to the convent. Her plan was that her dreadful nephews, the

Olivers, were to start a riot and the blacksmith was paid to deliver a warning - “stay away”. It seems the warning was too obtuse for you, because you continued to visit Philippa. The blacksmith swore he had given you the

message when pressed by the Olivers. Then the plague

came, and the Abbess was able to imprison Philippa in

the convent under her policy of isolation.

‘Anyway, to take things in order, I managed to work

out what the Abbess had done by listening at doors and chatting to the nuns, who told me that the Abbess was

bringing great pressure on Philippa to take her vows.’

Philippa nodded her agreement. ‘She told me it was

my duty to take the veil because so many clerics were

dying of the plague. She said there were not enough

left to say masses for the dead, and that I could not, in all conscience, refuse to commit myself to a monastic

life when there were the souls of so many at stake.’

Abigny watched her for a moment before continuing.

“I became afraid that the Abbess might use the

Death to her own advantage, and that she might kill

Philippa for the property and blame it on the plague.

I decided I had to take Philippa away from her. So I

sent you a message with that cocky medical student,

and his cousin, Sister Emelda, agreed to pass a note to Philippa. You were supposed to meet each other in the

shed, fall into each other’s arms, marry, and live happily ever after. But poor Sister Clement chose that shed in which to die, and you, of course,’ he said, bowing to

Bartholomew, ‘began to suspect all sorts of foul play, and took Philippa to your sister’s home.’

He stopped for a minute, and chewed on one of

his nails. ‘Philippa could not be safe there. The Abbess would work out where she was and take her back. And

this time, I was certain she would kill Philippa. You had upset my plans horribly. Instead of taking her to the

safety of matrimony, you took her to the very unsafety of Trumpington - and on top of that, she got the plague.

I was furious with you,’ he said to Bartholomew with a flash of defiance.

Bartholomew interrupted him, piecing together

Abigny’s story with what he had learned himself. ‘So you hung around Trumpington until she began to recover,

seen by the Gilbertine friar and the barmaid from the

Laughing Pig,’ he said, his voice hard. ‘Then you stayed with Philippa for a few days, pretending Philippa was

distressed because of her scars, so that poor Edith would not know there were two of you.’

The barmaid had told him Abigny seemed terrified

of something. Could it have been the Abbess? Or was

Abigny afraid of a more sinister foe - the Oxford scholars, or even the Cambridge men?

‘More or less,’ said Abigny, unperturbed by Bartholomew’s hostility. He glanced at Philippa who stood

motionless near the door. He continued. “I took her to Hugh Stapleton’s house in Fen Ditton, where she would

be safe, and I took Philippa’s place in Edith’s house, waiting with my crossbow to see whether the Oliver

brothers would come. It was a tense wait, I can tell you.

I was almost relieved when you came and uncovered my

disguise in that dramatic way, and I could get away from such a nerve-racking situation. We have both been at Fen Ditton ever since.’

‘You used my sister!’ said Bartholomew, his voice

dangerously quiet. He stood abruptly and swung round

to face Abigny, who blanched, but did not flinch. ‘How did you know the Abbess or the Olivers would not harm

her while you skulked in her house?’

“I reasoned it out. I made sure that news of my

escape was common gossip. The Abbess would hardly

go there if she knew Philippa was gone.’

‘But you were there for almost a week!’ exploded

Bartholomew. ‘They might have come then.’

‘And who took Philippa there in the first place?’

yelled Abigny, his temper snapping. ‘If anything, this was all your fault!’

Cynric, anticipating violence, uncoiled himself from

the fire and moved between them, but Philippa was there before him.

‘Please,’ she said. ‘Hear Giles out’

Abigny mastered his temper with an effort, and

resumed his explanation. Bartholomew listened, his face white with fury. “I assumed that the Abbess would not

harm you. With Philippa gone, what possible importance could you be to her? Well, I misread her. She held you responsible for Philippa’s flight, while Wilson, her lover, claimed that you meant him harm. Within days, Wilson

lay dead, burned to death in his own room with you

conveniently first at the scene. Sister Emelda told me that she had overheard the Abbess and Henry Oliver

discussing how they sent hired thugs to kill you. The

Abbess was furious that your brother-in-law made a timely intervention. Not only that, but the money she paid to the thug that was killed was stolen! She sent Elias Oliver to retrieve it from the body: he found the body but the purse had gone.’

Bartholomew gritted his teeth, trying to master the

fury, mingled with relief, that welled up inside him. If the blacksmith had been given a clearer message to deliver, perhaps some of this might not have happened. Philippa came to stand next to him. ‘Hugh Stapleton’s son came a few hours ago to tell us that the Abbess was dead,’ she said.

‘Apparently Henry Oliver became ill in the convent, and passed the sickness to her. We went immediately to hear the truth from Sister Emelda. And the next thing we did was to come see you.’

Bartholomew let out a huge sigh and stared up at

the ceiling, feeling the energy drain out of him. He

flopped back into the chair, trying to make sense of

what he had heard. He looked at Philippa, her face

ashen, and at Abigny, eyeing him expectantly. Could he believe their story? It was certainly true that Henry Oliver had the plague, and may well have passed it to his beloved aunt. Henry had said that Wilson believed Bartholomew

meant to kill him. And the essence of the story fitted in with the facts as he knew them. But was there something more? Could he trust Abigny’s explanation? How could

he be certain that they were not somehow tied up with

the University business and the murder of his friends?

It seemed pertinent to Bartholomew that Abigny fled to the house owned by Hugh Stapleton - the dead Principal of Bene’t’s Hostel - where he had so recently heard his death discussed by his own family.

Outside, the first streaks of dawn were lightening

the sky. Philippa rose to leave.

‘It seems there have been misunderstandings,’ she

said coolly, her gaze moving from Bartholomew to

Abigny, ‘and I am sorry that people have been hurt.

But I am not sorry to be alive, and I doubt that

I would be had not Giles acted as he did.’ She

turned to Abigny. “I will never forgive you for lying

to me, although I appreciate you felt it was in my

best interests.’

She swept from the kitchen before Bartholomew could

respond. Abigny darted after her, and Bartholomew

heard the philosopher’s voice echoing across the yard

as he tried to reason with her. Bartholomew was overwhelmed with a barrage of emotions - anger, grief,

hurt, relief. The whole business had gone far enough.

He had spent weeks agonising over Philippa’s safety, and had undergone all kinds of mental torment because he

did not want to run the risk of endangering his family when he had been desperate to confide in someone.

Now, within a few hours, his trust in his family and in Philippa had been shattered. Gradually, as he considered what he had learned, his confusion hardened into cold

anger. He stood up abruptly and reached for his cloak.

Cynric looked at him in alarm.

“I am going to see Oswald,’ he said. ‘Perhaps then I

might learn the truth.’

‘No!’ exclaimed Cynric, starting forward. ‘Do not act

foolishly because a woman has upset you. You know Sir

Oswald is involved in all this. What can be gained by a confrontation?’

Bartholomew’s face lit in a savage smile that made

Cynric step back. ‘A confrontation is the only way I will gain any peace. This wretched business has taken my

friends, my family, and now it seems it will destroy all I had with Philippa.’

He turned on his heel and stalked out, leaving Cynric

uncertain as to what to do.

The gates to Stanmore’s business premises were just

being opened by a yawning apprentice. He told

Bartholomew no one else was awake, and suggested he

wait in the kitchen. Bartholomew ignored him and made

for the solar. This large room leading off the hall on the first floor served as Stanmore’s office, and contained all his records of sale and purchase, as well as the petty cash. As Bartholomew expected, the door was locked,

but he knew the spare key was kept in a hidden pocket

in one of the tapestries that lined the wall of the hall.

He found it, unlocked the door and entered.

Stanmore was meticulous in his business dealings,

and records of all the transactions he had undertaken

were stored neatly in numbered scrolls on the shelves.

Bartholomew began to sort through them, knocking

some onto the floor and piling others onto the table.

He was not sure exactly what he was looking for, but

he knew Stanmore well enough to know that if he had

done business with the University men, there would be

a record of it.

‘Matt! What are you doing?’ Stephen Stanmore stood

in the doorway, still wearing his night clothes. Perhaps the apprentice had woken him up and told him Bartholomew

was waiting. Bartholomew ignored him, and continued

his search. He saw that, two years before, Bene’t Hostel had bought a consignment of blankets from Stanmore,

who had been paid handsomely. Stephen watched him

for a few moments, and then disappeared. When he

came back, Oswald Stanmore was with him, followed by

a sleepy-eyed Richard, whose drowsiness disappeared in an instant when he saw his uncle ransacking his father’s office. They must have declined to make the journey

back to Trumpington in the dark and stayed the night

with Stephen.

‘Matt?’ said Stanmore, watching Bartholomew in

bewilderment. ‘What do you want? Perhaps I can find

it for you?’

Bartholomew waved the document at him. “I am

looking for transactions you have had with the men of

Bene’t Hostel,’ he said tightly. “I am looking for evidence that shows that you were involved in the murders of my friends and colleagues.’

Bartholomew saw Stephen turn white, while

Richard’s mouth dropped open. Stanmore took a

step towards him. ‘Matt! What are you talking about?’

Bartholomew’s eyes blazed. ‘Enough lies! Where

are they, Oswald? Where are the documents that show

how much it cost to buy you?’

Stanmore froze in his tracks, and looked unsteadily

at Bartholomew as realisation began to dawn on his face.

“I do not know what you mean,’ he said, but his voice

lacked conviction.

Bartholomew advanced towards him menacingly.

“I thought your rescue was timely two nights ago. You

knew, because your Bene’t Hostel associates planned it with the Abbess of St Radegund’s! Why did you bother,

Oswald? Or does your conscience balk at the murder of

relatives?’

The door was flung open, and Hugh stood there,

brandishing his crossbow. He saw Bartholomew moving

threateningly towards Stanmore, saw his face dark with anger, and fired without a moment’s hesitation. Simultaneously, Richard screamed and Stanmore lunged

forward and knocked into Hugh so that the bolt thudded harmlessly into the ceiling. Hugh started to reload while Bartholomew gazed open-mouthed in shock. He had

known Hugh since he was a child, and yet Hugh had

not given a second thought to shooting him. Had the

plague and the University business changed their lives so much?

‘This is not necessary, Hugh,’ said Stanmore in an

attempt to sound in control. ‘Please leave us.’

Hugh looked as if to demur, but Stephen took

him roughly by the shoulder and pushed him from

the room, closing the door behind him. Richard stared

at the quarrel that was embedded, still quivering, in