A Plague on Both Your Houses (44 page)

in low voices, someone’s snoring through open window

shutters, or footsteps on cobbled paths leading to the kitchens or the latrines. Bartholomew was aware that he could not even hear the bells that called parishioners to church or scholars to lectures and meals. In a sudden

panic, he crashed towards the door and hammered on

it until his fists were bruised and his voice was hoarse from yelling.

he forced himself to pace out the room in an effort

to calm himself, counting the number of steps, and then exploring every unevenness in the earthen walls. In one of the crates he found some bales of cloth and wrapped them round him against the chill of the room. When he

felt as though he had mastered his panic, he perched on a chest, tucked his feet up underneath him, and began

to review what he had learned. At least he would not go to his death confused and demanding answers.

He knew the men involved: Colet, Burwell, Yaxley,

Stayne, Jocelyn, the man from Garret Hostel, Stephen,

and Swynford. Swynford was clearly in charge: even Colet had obeyed his instructions. Jocelyn obviously had no

intention of founding a grammar school in Ripon, but

had been imported by his kinsman into Michaelhouse

to help him in his plotting. Stephen’s role was probably to encourage Stanmore and the other merchants to

maintain their support of the bogus hostels group, while the money they invested was pocketed by Swynford. With a start he remembered Burwell telling him that he had

heard of Philippa’s flight from Stephen, although there was no reason why they should have known each other

well enough to exchange gossip. And Colet? Colet, by

his own admission, had been the one to murder Sir

John and Aelfrith. Did he also kill Paul and Augustus, and drug the commoners? And how far was the Abbess

of St Radegund’s involved? While Abigny’s story had a

ring of truth to it, the blacksmith had been paid to warn Bartholomew in a purse from Bene’t Hostel.

Bartholomew wrapped his arms around his body

more tightly for warmth, and pressed on with his

reasoning. It would probably have been easy to kill

Sir John. Cynric had seen him leaving the College after he had eaten dinner with Aelfrith and Bartholomew,

probably called to a meeting connected with the alleged Oxford plot. Bartholomew and Stanmore had received

false messages from Swynford and his clan, and Colet

had probably sent a similar one to Sir John. Sir John had suspected something was amiss, however, because he had taken the precaution of leaving the seal behind. He had gone to the meeting by the mill, a place where few went after dark, where he was murdered by Colet. Swynford

had indicated that the fatal wound had been hidden by

the injuries sustained when Sir John was crushed by the water-wheel. Colet had been unable to find the seal, and so had exchanged Sir John’s clothes for another set probably the ones he had worn himself as a disguise

when he went to meet Sir John with the intention of

killing him.

But if the Oxford plot was a sham, why did Colet

want the seal? Bartholomew rubbed his arms hard, trying to force some warmth into them. He supposed it was

to add credence to the Oxford plot, to show that the

business was worth killing over. He wondered what the

Oxford scholars thought about the business. He had no

doubt that the rumours had reached them, and that

they must be as mystified by the whole affair as were

the Cambridge men. Perhaps they had even initiated

their own investigation, word of which would filter back to Cambridge, where it would be used by Swynford to

underline further still that something untoward was

happening.

So when did it all start? Bartholomew thought back

to what Aelfrith had told him about the uncannily high number of deaths of Fellows in the Colleges last year: Aelfrith’s friend who had drowned in the Peterhouse

fish-ponds, supposedly in his cups; the Master of King’s Hall who was said to have fallen down the stairs; two

deaths from food poisoning; and four cases of summer

ague. So Aelfrith’s assumptions had been correct, and

the Fellows had been murdered by Swynford and his

associates so they could start a rumour discrediting the Colleges and blaming Oxford for the deaths. Aelfrith’s friend had been drowned, the Master of King’s Hall

hanged, and the others probably poisoned. He thought

of the two young men he had attended as they lay dying from bad oysters. He closed his eyes in the darkness as he recalled who had been with him. Colet. Colet had

been dining at Clare that night, and it had been Colet who had called Bartholomew so it would seem that he

had made every effort to save their lives. Clever Colet, using Bartholomew as a shield so no blame for the deaths should ever fall on him. And of course, who better to

have access to subtle poisons, and to know how to use

them, than a physician?

These deaths, it seemed, had been sufficient to force

the merchants into action. When the so-called hostels

group was formed, Stanmore had said that the deaths

had stopped. The merchants must have felt that their

financial contributions were doing some good. But why

kill Sir John and the others if the merchants had fallen for the ploy and were paying their money? Bartholomew

rolled the possibilities through his mind. The merchants must have grown complacent, secure in the knowledge

that they had done their bit for the town. Perhaps news of the plague took their minds away from the University.

The deaths at Michaelhouse would serve to show them

that the business was far from over.

But what of Augustus? Who had killed him? It was

obvious why: Wilson had told him that Sir John had

visited Augustus before attending the fatal meeting that Bartholomew now knew was with Colet, and half the

world suspected that the seal had been hidden in his

room. The first attempt on Augustus’s life had failed, and the killer had returned three nights later. Bartholomew supposed that Augustus’s room could hardly be searched with Augustus in it, and he had been murdered to secure his silence. Poor Augustus had given the killer reason to believe he had swallowed the seal. The killer must have hidden in the attic when Alexander came to bring Paul

and Augustus some wine. He must have been watching

Bartholomew from his hiding place, wondering what he

had been doing when he examined Augustus’s body and

looked under the bed. When Aelfrith had come to keep

vigil, it had been an easy thing to knock him on the head and drag Augustus into the attic. Wilson had come then to begin his own search for the seal, and he too had fled to the attic when disturbed, first knocking Bartholomew down the stairs. How crowded the attic had been at that point: the killer, Wilson, and Augustus’s body.

But who had actually killed Augustus? And how?

There had been no signs of poisoning or violence, but

the expression of abject terror on his dead face confirmed that his death had not been natural. All the Fellows and commoners had alibis for the time Augustus had died, so it must have been an outsider. Could it have been Colet again? Bartholomew thought about it, and decided there was no other plausible possibility. Whoever had sliced Augustus apart to investigate his innards had possessed some degree of surgical skill. The incision was crude

and brutal, but it would take a physician’s knowledge to search the inside of a corpse, and perhaps a physician’s nerve and stomach.

So Colet must have determined, with the help of

Swynford and perhaps jocelyn, to search Augustus’s room for the elusive seal while Michaelhouse scholars were at Wilson’s feast. Poor Brother Paul was too ill to attend, something that Colet had probably not anticipated. So, Paul was dispatched as a precaution against him crying out. Bartholomew screwed up his eyes in thought. When

he had gone to check Augustus, he had heard Paul cough, but now he could not be sure that it had not been Colet, standing next to Paul’s bed, and imitating the hack of an old man to prevent Bartholomew from checking on hirn

too. But even if Bartholomew had looked at Paul, what

then? He would have seen exactly what he had seen the

following morning - Paul with his blanket tightly tucked around him hiding his face, the spilled blood, and the knife in his stomach.

Drugged wine was left in the commoners’ room,

lest they returned from the feast too early. And Jocelyn had told Bartholomew that it had been his idea to drink Wilson’s health with the wine he had found on the table. He must have known it was drugged, and

also that the others were too drunk to question how

the wine had come to be there so conveniently. How

Jocelyn must have gloated at the ease with which that

part of the plan had gone. Montfitchet did not want to drink because he felt ill, but, luckily for Jocelyn, Father Jerome persuaded him, unwittingly bringing about his

death. D’Evene, who had a bad reaction to wine, had

also been persuaded to drink.

Bartholomew stood and began jumping up and

down on the spot, trying to force some warmth into his legs. As he considered the information he had, it was

easy to see what Colet had done. He must have hidden

in Swynford’s room. Swynford was the only Fellow to

have a room to himself, so no one would have seen

Colet once he had slipped into the College in the

commotion before the feast. He could then have used

the second trap-door in the hallway outside Swynford’s room to gain access to the attic, and gone from there

to Augustus’s room.

But how did Colet know about the doors to the

attic? Wilson had said they were a secret passed from

Master to Master. Wilson himself did not know about

them until he read about them in the box from the

Chancellor.

Try as he might, Bartholomew could come up with

no reason why Swynford or Colet should know, and he

felt his carefully constructed argument begin to crumble.

He could not imagine that Sir John would have broken

trust by telling Swynford, and Swynford had not been at Michaelhouse long enough to have known the previous

Master. Exhausted by his thinking and the events of the day, Bartholomew finally slipped into a restless doze

huddled in a corner.

Bartholomew lost track of the time he was kept in his

underground tomb. Once the door opened briefly and

some bread, salted beef, and watered ale were shoved

inside, but it occurred so quickly that by the time

Bartholomew realised what had happened, the door

had been closed and he was alone again. He sniffed

at the food suspiciously, wondering if Colet meant to

poison him, but he was hungry and thirsty enough to

throw caution to the wind.

He thought about what his death might mean. Colet

had said in Bene’t Hostel that it would fit nicely into their plan, and would reinforce the notion that something

was sadly amiss at Michaelhouse. What of Stanmore

then? He would never accept Bartholomew’s murder,

no matter how cunningly disguised. He would try to

seek out Bartholomew’s killer, would confront members

of the hostel committee, and generally make problems

until he, too, was dispatched. And then Richard would

guess something untoward had happened, and perhaps

start an inexperienced, clumsy investigation of his own.

Where would it all end? Would Stanmore’s colleagues

be suspicious of three accidental deaths in one family?

Would they, too, start to look into matters?

Bartholomew recalled with a pang why he had been

captured in the first place - trying to warn Stanmore that Stephen and Burwell planned to kill him. He cursed

himself again for his ineptitude. He had seen Stephen

wearing that cloak before. But the more he thought about it, the more he came to believe that Stanmore would be safe until his own body was found. Stanmore had no

reason to be suspicious of Bartholomew’s disappearance - since the plague had come he had kept such irregular hours that no one knew for certain where he was - and the hostel group was unlikely to cut off a source of funding in Stanmore before it became absolutely necessary.

He was dozing in the corner when the room was

suddenly filled with light that hurt his eyes. There was noise too - shouting and arguing. Through painfully

narrowed eyes, Bartholomew saw Swynford outlined in

the doorway, flanked by a burly porter from Rudde’ s Hostel who was armed with a loaded crossbow. Irrelevantly,

Bartholomew remembered Colet telling him that the

porter was a veteran of the King’s wars in France before exchanging a soldier’s career for a more sedentary life keeping law and order in one of the University’s rowdier establishments.

Swynford held up the torch and the light fell on

Bartholomew. Bartholomew squinted, wondering if they

had come to murder him. He struggled to his feet, dazed and clumsy, but prepared to sell his life dearly. Swynford glanced at Bartholomew disinterestedly, and gestured to someone outside. Bartholomew had a fleeting glimpse

of Brother Michael, firmly in the grasp of Jocelyn and Colet, before he was hurled into the room.

‘Company for you, Physician,’ said Swynford. ‘Now

you have someone with whom you can discuss what you

think you know of us.’ He turned to leave. Bartholomew, savouring the sound of voices after so long alone, was strangely reluctant to let them go. He thought quickly, wondering how he might detain them.

‘Gregory!’ he called, trying to disentangle himself