A Plague on Both Your Houses (42 page)

it will give him great pleasure to think you have been drinking his wine. His collection of fine wines is quite the envy of the town, you know.’

Bartholomew did not, and sat for a while, talking

to the Stanmores before they were obliged to attend to their business. Bartholomew fell asleep in the parlour, and only awoke when a clatter of horses’ hooves echoed in the yard. He sat up and stretched, scrubbing at his face with his hands, and thinking about what he should do that day. He glanced out of the window, and stared

morosely at the raindrops that pattered in the mud. He wondered why he felt so gloomy when Philippa was safe, and his family had exonerated themselves from the evil doings of the University.

But the University was still at the heart of the matter.

Despite all that he had learned over the last few hours, there were questions that remained unanswered. Such

as who had killed Sir John. He knew why, but he was no further forward in discovering who. Did the same person murder Sir John, poison Aelfrith, and take Augustus’s

body? Bartholomew rubbed his chin. Whoever killed

Sir John for the seal must also have killed Augustus

and desecrated his body - also for the seal. But why

had Aelfrith spoken Wilson’s name on his deathbed?

Bartholomew knew that Wilson had not killed Augustus,

and if not Augustus, then probably not Sir John.

Could it have been Alcote? He was the spy in their

midst, according to the hostels’ information. Was he

also the murderer? Wilson had said that Alcote had

been so drunk that he had not known when Wilson

had left their room to search Augustus’s room for the

seal. But supposing Alcote had not been drunk, and

had been pretending? Then he too could have been up

and sneaking around the College. But Wilson had said

that Augustus had already gone from the room when

he got there, and Wilson and Alcote had been together

until then.

Of course, Bartholomew thought, all this was

assuming everyone was telling the truth. Alcote and

Wilson may have been in this together, each lying to

protect the other. Bartholomew wondered if Alcote

knew of Wilson’s nocturnal visits to the Abbess, and

whether he approved. He wondered whether he should

warn Alcote that his information had been intercepted.

Bartholomew had no doubt that the Stanmores believed

that Alcote would merely be discredited to remove him

from his position of power, but Bartholomew thought

of Sir John, Augustus, Paul, Montfitchet, and Aelfrith, and was not so sure.

He thought of Alcote - small, fussy, and petty. Could

he have had the strength to drive the knife so deeply

into Paul’s body? Could he have overpowered Sir John?

Bartholomew thought of Wilson hauling himself through

the trap-door, and of Michael’ s strong arm in hauling him to his feet once. Perhaps he spent too much time with the weak and dying, and no longer appreciated the strength of the healthy, strength that could be magnified by fear or desperation.

The more he thought about it, the less he understood. Despite all that he had learned from eavesdropping, Philippa and Abigny, and his confrontation with the Stanmores, he was as much in the dark

as ever. Far from easing his mind, his conversation had made him even more concerned for the safety of his

family. Abigny had thought nothing of endangering

Edith when he was trying to help Philippa. Bartholomew thought about what Stanmore had told him of the Oxford plot, and wondered whether the survival of the University was enough of a reason for men like Yaxley, Stayne, and Burwell to become involved. Stanmore claimed he knew

nothing of murder, and Bartholomew believed him. But

Yaxley, Burwell, and Stayne might. So was the University’s survival sufficient reason for which to commit murder?

Wilson intimated on his deathbed that there were those who cared passionately about it, and might give their

lives for it. Would they also take lives?

And so he came back to the same question yet

again: who was the murderer in Michaelhouse? All the

Fellows had alibis for Augustus’s death, so was the killer an outsider after all? And where was Michael? Had he fled Cambridge to escape the plague like so many others, or was he, too, lying dead somewhere? Bartholomew stood

watching the rain for a while longer, but his thoughts began to repeat themselves. He wondered what he

should do next. He was too battered emotionally for

a confrontation with Philippa, Abigny, or one of the

hostel men, but he still had patients to see. Reluctantly, he left the warmth of Stephen’s house, and prepared to trudge back to Michaelhouse.

BARTHOLOMEW HAD BARELY RETURNED TO Michaelhouse when a messenger arrived with a note from Edith saying that she had hurt her

arm. She said it was very painful, and asked that he come to tend it as soon as possible. A shout from the commoners’

window made him look up.

‘Father Jerome is dying,’ the Benedictine called,

‘and he is asking for you.’

Bartholomew was torn with indecision. Should he

go to the dying man or his sister? As if in answer to

his prayers, Gray came sauntering through the gates.

Bartholomew strode over to him in relief. Gray could

go to Edith; a sore arm did not sound too serious.

Gray listened attentively to Bartholomew’s instructions, secretly gratified that Bartholomew was allowing

him to attend his sister: he was not to try to set the arm if it was broken; he was to make sure that if there was a wound, it was clean before he bound it; he was only to use water that had been taken fresh from the spring; he was to check carefully for other injuries and fever; and he was to give her one measure only - and here Gray

was subjected to a stern look from his teacher - of a

sleeping draught if she complained of too much pain.

Proudly carrying Bartholomew’s bag of medicines,

Gray set off at ajaunty pace towards the High Street, while Bartholomew hurried back to the commoners’ room.

Father Jerome was indeed dying. He had already

been anointed, and his breath was little more than a

reedy whisper. Bartholomew was surprised that, after

his long and spirited struggle, his end should come so fast. Almost as fast as that of Henry Oliver, who had died several hours before.

William came and Jerome confessed to enticing

Montfitchet to drink the wine that had been left in

the commoners’ room the night of Augustus’s murder,

even though Monfitchet had said he had drunk enough

already. Without Jerome’s encouragement to drink,

Montfitchet might still be alive. Bartholomew thought

it was more likely that Montfitchet would have been

dispatched in the same way as Brother Paul, but held

his silence. Finally, Jerome laid back, his face serene, and waited for death. He asked if Bartholomew would

stay with him until he died. Bartholomew agreed, hoping that Edith was not seriously hurt, and that Gray would not attempt anything beyond his capabilities.

In less than two hours, it was over, and Bartholomew

helped the monks to stitch Jerome into a blanket.

Bartholomew was torn between grief and impotent

anger that he had not been able to do anything other

than sit at the sick man’s bedside. He laid Jerome gently in the stable next to Henry Oliver, and stalked out of the College towards the church. Everything seemed grey to Bartholomew. The sky was a solid iron-colour, even

though it was not raining, and the houses and streets

seemed drab and shabby. The town stank, and the mud

that formed the street was impregnated with bits of rotting food and human waste. He made his way through it to

St Michael’s, where he paced around the church for a

while, trying to bring his emotions under control.

After a while, he grew calmer and began to think

about Philippa. She was safe - something for which he

had been hoping desperately ever since Abigny had

fled from Edith’s house. He wondered again whether

he had perhaps been over-hasty the previous night, and whether he should have shown more understanding for

Abigny’s point of view. But he had been exhausted by his eavesdropping excursion in the cold, and still shocked to learn that the Stanmores had been involved. He

wondered where Philippa had gone, and felt a sudden

urge to talk with her, and to resolve the questions about her disappearance that still jangled in his mind. The best way to find her would be through her brother, who would be most likely to seek a temporary bed at Bene’t’s until he deemed it safe to return to his own room.

Bartholomew set off down the High Street, his mind

filled with unanswered questions. As he approached

Bene’t’s, he shuddered, thinking about the hours he

had spent perched on the window-sill above the filthy

yard. He had scarcely finished knocking on the door

when it was answered by a student with greasy red hair.

The student said that Abigny was out and he did not

know when he was likely to return, but offered to let

Bartholomew wait. Bartholomew assented reluctantly,

not wanting to be inside Bene’t’s, but his desire to

see Philippa was strong. He expected to be shown

into the hall, but a glimpse through the half-closed

door indicated that the students were engaged in an

illicit game of dice, and would not want him peering

over their shoulders. He was shown into a small, chilly room on an upper floor, and abandoned with cheerful

assurances that Abigny would not be long.

He was beginning to consider leaving Abigny a note

asking him to go to Michaelhouse, when he heard the

door open and close again. He hurried from the chamber and peered down the stairwell.

But it was not Abigny climbing the stairs, it was

Stephen, preceded by Burwell. Bartholomew was on the

verge of announcing himself when he heard his name

mentioned. He froze, leaning across the handrail, his

whole body suddenly inexplicably tense.

‘… he is too near the truth now,’ Stephen was

saying, ‘and he does not believe in the Oxford plot. I could see in his face he was doubtful.’

‘Damn,’ said Burwell, pausing to look back at

Stephen. ‘Now what do we do?’

‘Kill him,’ came a third voice, oddly familiar

to Bartholomew. ‘It will not be difficult. Send him

another note purporting to be from Edith and have

him ambushed on the Trumpington road.’

Heart thumping, Bartholomew ducked back into

his chilly chamber as Burwell reached the top of the

stairs. There would be no need for an ambush: they

could kill him now, in Bene’t Hostel. Bartholomew felt his stomach churn and his hands were clammy with sweat as he stood in the semi-darkness. To his infinite relief, the three men entered the room next to his, closing the door firmly behind them. Leaning his sweat-drenched

forehead on the cold wall for a moment to calm himself, Bartholomew eased out of his chamber, and slipped along the hallway to listen outside the other door. It was old and sturdily built, and he had to strain to hear what was being said.

‘Another death at Michaelhouse might look suspicious,’

Stephen was saying.

‘On the contrary,’ came the voice of the third man,

smooth and convincing. ‘It might improve our cause

immeasurably. We have sown the seeds of an idea into

the minds of these gullible people - that Michaelhouse is a rotten apple. What better way to have that idea

confirmed than yet another untimely death there? What

families will send their sons to Michaelhouse where the Fellows die with such appalling regularity? And then our Oxford plot will seem all the more real, and all the more terrifying.’

Bartholomew fought to control the weak feeling in

his knees and tried to bring his jumbled thoughts into order. Had he been right all along in his uncertainty

about the Oxford plot? He had never accepted the

concept fully, as Aelfrith, Wilson, and even Sir John

had done. Could there be a plot within a plot? The

group of hostel men who had gone to Stanmore had fed

him lies about a plan by Oxford scholars to bring down Cambridge. Or had they? What was Stephen doing there?

And who was the third man whose voice was so familiar?

It was not Stanmore or Richard. Was it a Fellow from

Michaelhouse? He racked his brain, trying to identify

the smooth intonation, but it eluded him.

‘What about Oswald?’ Stephen was saying.

‘Now there is a real problem,’ came the familiar

voice. ‘Neville Stayne was foolish to have mentioned

Bartholomew in front of Oswald. Now if anything happens to him, it will immediately arouse his suspicions, and all we have worked for will have been for nothing.’

‘We cannot allow that, not after all we have done!’

Stephen said emphatically. ‘Five Michaelhouse men have died for this, and we have carefully nurtured so many

rumours. We have invested months in this!’

‘Easy,’ came the reassuring tones of Burwell. ‘We

will not allow your brother and his tenacious in-law to interfere in our business. Too much is at stake.’

Stephen appeared to have accepted Burwell’s

assurance, for he made no further comment. The third

man continued to speak, outlining a plot that would

have Bartholomew and Stanmore ambushed together.

Bartholomew clenched his fists, his instincts screaming at him to throw open the door and choke the life from

Stephen’s miserable, lying throat. But that would serve no purpose other than to allow Burwell and the third