A Plague on Both Your Houses (29 page)

Michael away had exhausted him. His voice was little

more than a whisper when he finally spoke. ‘Because

the University is under threat from scholars at Oxford,’

he said. ‘Babington’s seal would have enabled us to

continue to receive reports on their activities from his contact there. Since the seal has gone missing, we have heard nothing, and we are missing out on vital information.

I had to find it and could let nothing stop me!’

‘Even murder?’ asked Bartholomew softly.

“I assure you I did not murder anyone,’ said Wilson

tiredly. ‘Although I did try to kill you when you found me in Augustus’s room. I do not like you, Master Physician.

I do not like the way you mix learning and dealing with those filthy thieves in the town you call your patients. I do not like the way your life and loyalties are divided between the College and the town. And I did not like

the way Babington encouraged you to have it so.’

Bartholomew felt like telling Wilson that he did not

like him either, but there was nothing to be gained from such comments at this point.

‘Do you know anything about Aelfrith’s death?’ he

asked instead. Wilson was fading fast, and he had many questions he wanted answered.

‘No, why should I? The foolish man went out among

plague victims. What did he expect?’

‘He was murdered too. He was killed with medicines

from my poisons chest. His last words were “poison” and “Wilson”. What do you make of that?’

Wilson fixed bloodshot eyes on Bartholomew.

‘Nonsense,’ he said after a moment. ‘You misheard

him. Aelfrith was told about the seal, but he was an

innocent, who should never have been allowed to know

the secret. He was too … willing to believe good of people. Do not make up mysteries, Bartholomew. You

have enough to do with those that already exist.’

‘What were you doing when you set yourself alight?’

asked Bartholomew. He remained uncertain whether

Wilson really knew nothing of Aelfrith’s murder and

so was dismissing it out of hand, or whether he knew

far too much but was refusing to say so. Bartholomew

had to lean close to Wilson to hear his words, trying not to show repugnance at his fetid breath.

“I was burning the College records,’ he said. ‘My

successor will probably be Swynford, and I will not make things easy for the likes of him by leaving nicely laid-out ledgers and figures. Oh, no! He can work it all out for himself! I was going to burn all the records, then send for you, but I was overcome with dizziness, and must

have knocked the table over with the lamp on it.’

So, Wilson’s motive for burning the ledgers had

been spite, and Michael was wrong in assuming that it

was anything more sinister or meaningful. Bartholomew

looked down at Wilson with pity. How could a man,

knowing he was going to die, perform such petty acts

of meanness with his last strength? He thought of others he had seen die during the last weeks, and how many had died begging him to take care of a relative, or asking him to pass some little trinket to a friend who had not had the chance to say goodbye. Bartholomew felt sick

of the University and its politics, and particularly sick of Wilson and his pathetic vengeance.

He moved away. He had one more question to ask,

one that meant more to him than the others. He had to

put it casually, because he sensed if Wilson knew it was important to him, he might not answer.

‘Does any of this have anything to do with Giles or

Philippa Abigny?’ he asked, looking at where the door

hung at an odd angle on its damaged hinges.

Wilson gave a nasty wheezing chuckle. ‘Your lady

love? It is possible. I have been thinking for some time now that Abigny might be one of the Oxford spies. He

spends too much time away from the College, and I

never know where he is. Perhaps it was he who found

the seal. I heard that your lady has gone. She should

have stayed in her convent. Probably ran off with some man who will make her richer and happier than you,

Physician.’

Bartholomew fought down the urge to wrap his

hands round the man’s neck and squeeze as hard as

he could. So, Abigny could be one of Oxford’s spies.

Was that why he had been hiding in disguise at Edith’s house? But that did not explain where Philippa was.

Bartholomew could see no option other than to become

embroiled in this seething pit of intrigue and spies in order to find out about Abigny’s possible role.

‘Do you know for certain that Philippa ran away with

a man?’ asked Bartholomew as calmly as he could.

Wilson gave another breathy cackle. “I am almost

tempted to say yes because I would like to see the

expression on your face,’ he said. ‘But the answer is

no. I have no idea where your woman is, and I have

no information whatsoever about her disappearance. I

wish I had, because I want you to do two things for me, and I would like to make you feel obliged to do them

by giving you information in return.’

Bartholomew grimaced. He wondered why Wilson

had chosen him to do his bidding. ‘What are they?’

Wilson’s lips parted in his ghastly grin. ‘First, I want you to find the seal.’

Bartholomew spread his hands helplessly. ‘But how

can I find it if you could not? And why me and not one of the others?’

‘Swynford is gone, and I would not trust him anyway.

Aelfrith is dead. Father William is too indiscreet, and would go about his task with so much fervour that

he would surely fail. Brother Michael knows more

than he is telling me, and I do not trust that he is

on the right side. The same goes for Abigny, who

has fled the nest anyway. Alcote is too stupid. That

leaves only you, my clever Physician! You have the

intelligence to solve the riddle, and Aelfrith assured me that you were uninvolved with all this before

he died.’

Wilson lifted his head from the pillow and reached

for Bartholomew’s arm. ‘You must find it, and pass it to the Chancellor. He will see you amply rewarded.’ He

released Bartholomew’s arm, and sank back.

So Wilson thought that any of the surviving Fellows

might be involved, although he thought it less likely

of William or Alcote. Abigny and Michael were plainly

embroiled. But the entire Oxford business seemed so

far-fetched, especially now when towns and villages

were being decimated with the plague. Why would

Oxford scholars bother to waste their time and energy

on subterfuge and plotting when they all might be dead in a matter of weeks anyway?

‘It seems so futile,’ he blurted out. ‘Now of all times there are issues far more important to which scholars

should devote their attention.’

Wilson sneered again. ‘What is more important

than the survival of the College and University? Even

you must see that is paramount! You must have some

love of learning, or you would not be here, exchanging comfort and wealth for the cramped, rigid life of a

scholar. Your arrogance has not allowed you to see

that there are others who love learning, and would do

anything to see it protected. I sacrificed a glowing future as a cloth merchant to become a scholar, because I believe the University has a vital role to play in the future of our country. You are not the only one to sacrifice yourself for a love of knowledge and learning.’

Bartholomew watched the guttering candle. ‘But

the University at Oxford is stronger, bigger, and older than Cambridge. Why should they bother?’

Wilson made an impatient sound, and slowly shook

his head. ‘You will not be convinced, I see. Aelfrith said as much. But you will see in the end. Anyway, it matters not why you choose to seek the seal, only that you do

so. Believe it will lead you to your woman if you wish.

Believe it will avenge Babington’s death. But find it.’

He closed his eyes, his face an ashen-grey.

‘And the second thing?’ Bartholomew asked. ‘You

said there were two things you wanted done.’

“I want you to see that I am not thrown into one of

your filthy plague pits. I want to be buried in the church near the high altar, and I want an effigy carved in black marble. I am choosing you to do this because I know

you are dealing with burials these days, and because you have already had the plague and might now survive the

longest. Any of the others might catch it, and I cannot rely on them to carry out my wishes. You will find money for the tomb in my purse in the College chest.’

Bartholomew stared at him in disbelief, and almost

laughed. Wilson was incorrigible! Even with so little time left, his mind was on pomp and ceremony. Bartholomew

wanted to tell him that it would give him great pleasure to see his fat corpse dumped into the plague pit, but he was not Wilson, and so he merely said he would do what he could.

Wilson seemed to be fading fast, now he had

completed his business. Sweat coursed down his face

and over his jowls, and Bartholomew noticed that one

of the swellings on his neck must have burst when he

was moving his head. Thankfully, he did not seem to be in any pain. Perhaps the shock of the burns had taken

the feeling from his body, or perhaps Wilson was able

to put it to the back of his mind while he tied up the loose ends in his life.

‘Tell Michael to come,’ he whispered. “I have done

with you now.’

Bartholomew was peremptorily dismissed with the

characteristic flap of the flabby hand that had been the cause of so much resentment among the College

servants. He went to the door and called for Michael.

Michael huffed up the stairs and spread out his

accoutrements, obviously still indignant about his

dismissal from the room earlier.

Bartholomew left so that Wilson could make his

confession in private, and went to examine the other

plague cases in the commoners’ room. He was summoned

back by Michael after only a few minutes.

‘The Master had little to confess,’ said Michael in

amused disbelief. ‘He says he has lived a godly life, and has done no harm to anyone who did not deserve it.

God’s teeth, Matt.’ Michael shook his head in wonder.

‘It is as well he has asked you not to put him in the plague pit. In a tomb of his own, the Devil will be able to come to claim him that much quicker!’

WILSON DIED SHORTLY AFTER HE WAS ABSOLVED of his sins. Bartholomew helped Cynric stitch the body into one of the singed wall-hangings

that Michael and Gray had used to put out the flames.

Bartholomew did not want the body to stay in the

College, nor did he want it lying in the church where

it might infect others. The only solution was to dig a temporary grave so that it could be retrieved when the tomb was ready.

Gray went to purchase a coffin at an extortionate

price - they had become a rare commodity-and at dawn

that day, Cynric and Gray dug a deep grave at the back of the church. Agatha, Cynric and Gray watched from a

distance as Bartholomew and Michael lowered the coffin, while William muttered a requiem mass at top speed.

When it was over, they went into the church for the

morning service and then back to College for breakfast.

The hall was cold and gloomy, and Bartholomew

suggested that they all eat in the kitchen, where it

was warm and Cynric would not have so far to carry

the food. The other scholars had tended to prepare

their own breakfasts in their rooms since the onset of the plague, to avoid unnecessary contact.

William gulped down some bread and watered

wine, and went to take the news of Wilson’s death to

the Chancellor. Agatha watched him go.

‘Would it be an unchristian thing to be thankful

that that pompous old windbag was dead?’ she asked

Michael.

‘Yes,’ replied Michael, his hands full of chicken and

his face covered in grease.

‘Well, then,’ she said, ‘you have advance warning

of what I will say in my confession. The College will be better without him. What will happen now?’

Michael swallowed a huge mouthful of food, and

almost choked. Bartholomew pounded him on the back.

‘The Fellows choose two names from their number, and

the Chancellor picks one of them,’ Michael said between coughs. As soon as he stopped coughing, he crammed

as much food into his mouth as would fit, and went

through the same process again.

‘So, which two Fellows will you choose?’ asked

Agatha, beginning to clear away the table.

Michael swallowed hard, tears coursing down his

cheeks. ‘Dry, this chicken,’ he remarked, making

Bartholomew laugh. ‘One nomination will have to

be Swynford, I suppose. I would like you to be the

other, Matt.’

“I am not doing it,’ Bartholomew gasped in amazement.

“I do not have time.’

‘Well, who else then?’ asked Michael.

‘You, Swynford, William, Alcote. Any of you would

do well.’ Bartholomew wondered which of them would

promote the cause of the University, and which might

be Oxford’s spies. He rose and washed his hands in a

bowl of water near the fire. Behind him, he could hear the cracking of bones as Michael savaged the remains of his chicken. Gray dabbled his hands quickly in the cold water, and wiped them on his robe. He did not see why

Bartholomew was always washing his hands; they only

became dirty again, especially in the shabby hovels that Bartholomew frequented.