A Plague on Both Your Houses (41 page)

the wooden ceiling. Stanmore lost his usual, confident bearing, and slumped into a chair, where Richard and

Stephen came to stand behind him. Bartholomew suddenly noticed the similarity between the three of them.

Oswald and Stephen had always been alike, and Richard

was beginning to look like a younger version, without

the silver beard.

Bartholomew eyed Stanmore sitting in his chair

with his head bowed, and moved cautiously to the other side of the room, where he could see all three of them at once.

It was Richard who broke the silence.

‘You are wrong,’ he said, his voice unsteady. ‘My

father would never let them harm you. He always made

sure they understood that.’

Stanmore seemed to pull himself together. He

gestured that Bartholomew should sit next to him.

Bartholomew declined, and stood waiting, tense and

wary. Stanmore took a deep breath and began to speak,

his voice sometimes so low that Bartholomew had to

strain to hear it.

‘It started about a year ago,’ he said. ‘You know I

maintain my own network of informants about the town?

Well, word came to me that there were moves by Oxford

scholars to try to undermine the University here, but I assumed that it was merely overpaid scholars with too

much time on their hands playing games. Perhaps it

started like that, but last year the business seemed to escalate. There were all sorts of rumours of spies, secret messages, and the like. Then people began to die: there were the two lads who had eaten bad oysters, and the

Master of King’s Hall, to name but three. Anyway, it

became clear that there was a plot afoot to strike at the University through some of its most powerful members

- the Fellows and Masters of the Colleges.’

He paused and studied his fingernails. Bartholomew

waited impatiently.

‘Last spring, Burwell came to me and told me that

the hostels had set up a secret committee to look into the matter. Deaths were occurring in the Colleges,

and there was speculation by the hostels that the

Colleges were riddled with spies from Oxford. The

hostel group believed that Oxford, by striking at the

Colleges, might force prospective benefactors like the Bishop of Norwich and Edmund Gonville to withhold

money from Cambridge, because the Colleges appeared

to be rank with corruption. The hostel group did not

include anyone from the Colleges because they could

not be sure who was honest and who was a spy. Are you

following me?’

Bartholomew nodded restlessly.

‘The hostel group also decided to include some

trustworthy citizens from the town. The hostels are

poor, unlike the Colleges that have their endowments

and support from the King, and it takes money to set

up a system of spies. They included me and five others because we conduct a lot of business with the University, and it is in our interests to ensure that the University does not flounder. So, we provided them with money, and they ensured that we had custom. A harmless relationship.’

‘It was not harmless for Augustus, Sir John, or

Aelfrith,’ said Bartholomew coldly.

Stanmore looked up sharply. ‘Father Aelfrith? He

died of the plague.’

‘He was poisoned,’ said Bartholomew bluntly.

Stanmore stared at Bartholomew in disbelief. “I did

not know,’ he said eventually. ‘But I have not finished, Matt. For a while, it seemed as if the hostels’ system of spies was having some success, for the deaths ceased.

Then, without warning, they started again. Two Fellows from the Hall of Valence Marie died, Sir John committed suicide, and then there were all those rumours about

the commoners being killed for his seal. We have been

meeting regularly and secretly to try to find out what is happening. In the last few months, most of the trouble has been at Michaelhouse. There is something going

on there that none of us understand. Perhaps the

entire conspiracy against the University is coming from Michaelhouse.’

He glanced up at Stephen, who nodded agreement

Bartholomew kept his expression neutral, although his

mind was teeming. Aelfrith had told him that there

were deaths at King’s Hall, Clare, and Peterhouse,

and then a long gap before those at Valence Marie

and Michaelhouse. Bartholomew wondered, since

Stanmore’s information coincided with Aelfrith’s, if

Stanmore’s motives were pure after all.

‘The University buys cloth from me rather than from

other merchants,’ Stanmore continued. ‘In turn, I give them money to help them maintain their network of

informants. But I have most certainly not been involved in murder, and I have never done anything that would

harm you. That was one of the conditions on which I

joined the hostels’ group - that if there was anything that would affect you, I would be told first so that I could keep you out of it.’

‘And what about the plan to dispose of Alcote?’

asked Bartholomew.

Stanmore looked at him in shock. ‘How do you know

about that?’ He put his head back in his hands again. ‘Oh, God, no! We have a spy in our midst, too! Do not tell me our group is known of in Michaelhouse. If that is so,’

he said, looking up at Bartholomew, ‘then all our lives could be in danger.’ He turned to Richard. ‘Why did I

involve you in this?’ he cried, suddenly desolate.

Richard met his eyes with a level stare. ‘You did

not, Father. I was approached independently of you.’

He looked at Bartholomew. ‘At Oxford, I can listen and learn, and I, too, can send back information that may

help to put an end to this silly plot.’

Bartholomew ignored him. ‘You did not answer

my question,’ he said to Stanmore. ‘What about the

plan … how was it put? … to take Alcote out of the equation?’

‘It was you!’ said Stephen suddenly. ‘That noise we

heard outside the window. It was you listening!’

Bartholomew continued to hold Stanmore’s eyes.

‘Well?’ he said.

‘Not what you think,’ he said wearily. ‘Our group

does not condone murder. There are other ways. A word

to the Chancellor to say that women have been seen

coming out of his room early in the morning. Or even

boys. A rumour that he has been drinking too much, or

that his College has become riotous. It is not necessary to kill to remove a man from office. And if Alcote is a spy for Oxford, as our intelligence suggests, then he should not be in a position to run your College anyway, would you not agree?’

‘But who are you to judge?’ Bartholomew said

quietly. He glanced round at the three men, and was

suddenly sick of it all. He wanted to make for the door.

Richard barred his way. Bartholomew did not want to

manhandle him and stopped in his tracks.

‘We have done nothing wrong,’ Richard said with

dignity, ‘except to try to sort out this mess, to stop more people from dying. I would do the same again. And I

also want you to know that Father has been using the

hostels’ spies to try to find out about Philippa for you.

He has paid a good deal of money and spent a lot of his time following false leads and asking questions on your behalf. We all have. Father and I spent all of the night before last in that seedy King’s Head because someone

had told us that a traveller would be there who may have seen Abigny on the London Road.’

A memory flashed into Bartholomew’s mind. He had

thought he had seen Stanmore coming out of the King’s

Head after he had met his well-wisher by the plague pit.

So, his eyes had not deceived him after all.

“I am sorry,’ Stanmore said. ‘We found the traveller,

but he could tell us nothing about Abigny.’

Bartholomew suddenly felt ashamed and bewildered.

He had become so confused by all the lies and

deceit, and so accustomed to suspecting his colleagues of intrigues, that he had applied the same rules to his family. Perhaps he had also misjudged Philippa and

Abigny. Stanmore’s neat office was in total disarray, with scrolls scattered everywhere and a crossbow quarrel in the ceiling. Bartholomew sank down onto a stool, uncertain whether his weariness came from the fact that his family’s apparent involvement appeared to be harmless after all, or from the battering his senses had taken in the past few hours.

In an unsteady voice, Stanmore said, “I dread to

think what Edith will say if she ever learns that her

beloved brother was shot at in her husband’s office.’

‘Your steward seems somewhat trigger-happy,’ said

Bartholomew, also shakily, when he recalled how

Stanmore’s quick reaction had saved his life. ‘Remind

me never to haggle over cloth prices in your office.’

‘It is a dangerous game we play, Matt,’ Stanmore

said. ‘You were attacked by the river; Giles Abigny pursues some strange business of his own under my very roof;

and Richard and I were ambushed by footpads the

other night. Hugh saved our lives, as he saved yours down by the river, and doubtless the responsibility is beginning to tell on him. He had never, in thirty years of service, been called upon to use his crossbow, and then, in a

matter of days, he is required to use it three times.’

Bartholomew looked from Richard to Stanmore,

bewildered. ‘Ambushed?’

Richard nodded vigorously. ‘When we left the King’s

Head. Four men ambushed us just outside the gates here.

Hugh shot one of them and captured another.’

‘They were farmers from out Shelford way,’ said

Stanmore. ‘They heard how easy it was to steal in

Cambridge with so many dead of the plague, and

thought to try it for themselves. Of course, it is easy to steal from the dead and dying, but these four fellows felt that was unethical, and decided to steal from the living instead.’

‘The Sheriff should shoot anyone seen out after the

curfew,’ said Stephen. ‘His laxity is the cause of all this villainy.’

‘And what if he had seen you out last night as you

returned from Bene’t’s?’ retorted Bartholomew. “I am

often called out to patients at night, and would not

relish being shot at before I had a chance to explain

myself.’

‘We would not have been able to explain our business

last night, Stephen,’ Stanmore agreed. ‘We swore an oath of secrecy, and we could hardly tell the watch where we had been and what we had been discussing.’

Stephen acquiesced with a sideways tilt of his head,

and there was silence. As if it were a magnet, the gaze of all four lit upon the crossbow bolt.

‘What will mother say?’ Richard said, echoing his

father’s words.

‘Why would she find out?’ asked Bartholomew with

a weak smile.

‘Well, thank the Lord we have resolved all that!’

said Richard heartily, his natural cheerfulness bubbling to the surface again. “I hated having secrets from you, Uncle Matt. We all wanted to tell you, but we were afraid it might put you in danger, being at Michaelhouse and

all. We have tried hard to keep you away from it as much as we could, but I suppose it is your home.’

Bartholomew smiled at him. Richard was at an

age where he could make astonishingly adult observations, but could still make things childishly simple.

Bartholomew could see that Richard considered that

no lasting damage had been done by the scene in his

father’s study, and was quite happy to continue his life exactly the same way as before.

“I will tell the cook to make us some breakfast,’ he

said, marching out of the room.

‘You really let him spy in Oxford?’ asked

Bartholomew, after he had gone.

Stanmore looked askance at him. ‘Of course not, Matt.

What do you think I am? He is a bright boy, and he is good at listening, but the information he sends us is nothing. It pleases him to think he is helping, and I would not hurt his feelings by telling him otherwise.’

“I believe I owe you an apology,’ said Bartholomew,

‘And we owe you one. We should have told you. We

wanted to, but we honestly believed you would be safer not knowing. I had decided I would tell you everything if you ever asked, but you never mentioned anything to me. I also did not want to distress you by telling you I thought Sir John had been murdered. Especially since

there was nothing you could have done, and I was afraid you would start on some investigation of your own that might lead you into danger.’

He laughed softly. ‘We involve a child like Richard,

and we keep you in the dark. How stupid we must seem

to you!’

“I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew. He rubbed his

hand over his eyes. ‘All this intrigue, with the plague on top of it, must be addling my mind, like Colet. I

misjudged you.’

The Stanmores dismissed his words with impatient

shakes of their heads. Stephen suddenly gave him a hard poke in the chest. ‘You lose my best horse, and now you tear our offices apart. Just stay away from my hounds

and my falcons,’ he said, feigning severity. Bartholomew smiled and followed Stephen down the stairs, where

Richard was shouting that breakfast was ready. Hugh

slouched in the inglenook in the fireplace, and looked uneasily at Bartholomew. Stanmore whispered in his

ear, and he gave Bartholomew a grin before leaving

the room.

‘What did you say to him?’ Bartholomew asked.

‘Oh, I just told him you had spent the night sampling

Master Wilson’s best wine,’ said Stanmore.

‘You told him I was drunk?’ asked Bartholomew

incredulously.

Stanmore nodded casually. ‘He loathed Wilson, and