A Plague on Both Your Houses (9 page)

Paul cough when he had looked in on Augustus before

he went to the feast, so he must have died later than

that. Had Paul seen something and called out? Or had he just been dispatched as a caution to ensure the strange events of the previous evening were kept secret?

Bartholomew put his head in his hands. Two murders

in his College. And what of Sir John? Bartholomew

was beginning to have serious doubts that Sir John had committed suicide, and was inclined to believe that he had been murdered for something he knew or was

about to find out. It seemed that Augustus was killed

because he also knew, or someone thought he knew,

something. And poor, gentle Brother Paul was murdered

because he was too ill to attend Wilson’s wretched feast!

Bartholomew went to check on Montfitchet. Perhaps

it would be four murders before the day was out, for

the tiny man showed no signs of improving, and was

beginning to turn blue around the mouth.

BARTHOLOMEW HEARD WILSON’S VOICE CARRYING across the courtyard. Wilson was due to move into Sir John’s spacious room that day, and the

College servants had been working furiously to prepare it to his fussy requirements. So the previous night, he had been in his old room, which he shared with Roger

Alcote. Bartholomew looked out of the window and

saw that Alcote was hurrying over the courtyard behind Wilson, and that Aelfrith had awakened Father William, too. Michael, a light sleeper, was peering out of his

window to see what was going on, and Gilbert had

evidently been dispatched to fetch Robert Swynford

and Giles Abigny.

Wilson swept importantly past Bartholomew, paused

briefly to look into Augustus’s ransacked room and

stopped as he saw Brother Paul’s body. Bartholomew

had left him as he had been found, the knife

protruding from his stomach, and Wilson paled at

the sight.

‘Cover him up, damn you,’ he snarled at

Bartholomew. ‘Leave the poor soul with some dignity!’

Bartholomew drew the bedcover over Paul’s body,

while Wilson looked around at the commoners in disdain.

‘They are all drunk!’ he proclaimed. ‘We will not have such debauchery while I am Master!’

Bartholomew barely restrained himself from telling

Wilson that if they were drunk, it was due to the copious amounts of wine he himself had supplied the night

before, and that such ‘debauchery’ would most certainly not have been tolerated under Sir John’s Mastership.

‘Now,’ Wilson said, sweeping some discarded

clothes from a bench and sitting down, ‘tell me what

happened.’

Bartholomew looked at Aelfrith. As Senior Fellow, it

was his prerogative to speak first. Aelfrith shook his head sorrowfully. “I cannot begin to say what evil has walked in these rooms,’ he began. Alcote and Swynford, in

anticipation of a lengthy explanation, followed Wilson’s lead and sat on the bench. Father William stood next

to Aelfrith, silently offering his support, while Brother Michael, his black robes askew, leaned against the door.

Abigny, less the worse for wear than Bartholomew would have expected, slipped into the dormitory noiselessly and stood next to him. All the Fellows were present.

Wilson folded his arms over his ample paunch and

waited imperiously. ‘Well?’ he demanded.

‘It is complex,’ Aelfrith began. Bartholomew edged

his way nearer to Montfitchet, partly so he could keep an eye on the old man, and partly so he would be able to see all the faces of the gathered Fellows. It was possible that one or more of them had committed some terrible acts,

and he wanted to watch them all closely. He felt rather ashamed: these were his colleagues, and some of them,

like Michael and Abigny, his friends whom he had known for years. None of them had any history of violence that he knew. He thought of Sir John, and his mangled body, and he looked across at the covered body of Paul, and

steeled himself. They would be no friends of his if they had killed Sir John and Brother Paul!

‘This is what I perceive to have happened,’ Aelfrith

continued. He looked over at Bartholomew. ‘You must

interrupt if you think I have left something out. Augustus died during the feast, and Matthew came to check

the body at Master Wilson’s request. He declared

Augustus dead, and Brother Michael came to pray

for his soul. Michael returned to the hall first, and

Matthew came later.’

Wilson snorted, his eyes boring into Bartholomew.

The physician had not realised that the Fellows had been so intrigued as to why he had taken so much longer than Michael. Well, he was certainly not going to reveal that he suspected Augustus had been murdered. Aelfrith

continued.

‘He made his report to the Master, and asked if

I would keep vigil for Augustus. I went to Augustus’s

room, and kept vigil there until I was attacked from

behind and knocked senseless. I have the wound to

prove it. When I came round, Matthew was helping me

to rise. Augustus’s body was gone, and his room had been ransacked. I have no idea as to the reasons for either.

Matthew and I made a quick search of this part of the

building for Augustus and for the attacker. It was then that Matthew discovered that the commoners, who had

been remarkably oblivious to all these goings-on, had

been drugged. While examining them, he found that

Brother Paul, God rest his soul, had been murdered.

And that is all I know.’ His story completed, he stood with head bowed and hands folded in front of him.

There was a silence among the Fellows, and then a

clamour of questions. Wilson tried to restore order, first by waving a pudgy hand in the air, and next by shouting.

Bartholomew saw one or two of the drugged commoners

stir, and bent down to examine Montfitchet.

‘Well, Doctor Bartholomew,’ said Wilson unpleasantly,

‘what have you to say for yourself? You spend

a considerable amount of time alone with Augustus

before returning to the hall; you are standing over

Father Aelfrith when he regains his senses after being knocked on the head by an unseen assailant; you discover the commoners have been drugged; and you uncover

poor Brother Paul’s body. What have you to say?’

Bartholomew looked at him in disbelief. The Master

clearly thought that he had something to do with the

sinister events of the night, an accusation not lost on the other Fellows who looked uneasy.

He took a deep breath, and recounted his story

as he had done to Aelfrith, omitting nothing but his

suspicions and speculations. When he mentioned his

struggle at the top of the stairs, Alcote went to check the knife mark in the plaster.

Wilson watched Bartholomew closely as he gave

his account of events. His unblinking eyes made

Bartholomew uncomfortable, and he wondered whether

this was a tactic employed by lawyers on their victims in court. The others listened with a mixture of horror and fascination, but Bartholomew could gauge nothing from

their expressions other than shock.

When he had finished, Wilson stared at him for

several long moments. ‘Have you told us everything?’

he asked. ‘Is there anything you are keeping back?’

Bartholomew hoped his discomfiture did not show.

“I have told you everything I know. And everything I have told you is the truth,’ he said. Bartholomew considered himself an appalling liar, but his statements to Wilson had been meticulously truthful. He had told the

new Master only what he knew to have happened,

and had omitted merely to speak of his growing

suspicions. And how could he do otherwise? He

had no real evidence, only a collection of strange

coincidences and suppositions. But, he promised himself, he would have something more than unfounded

suspicions soon.

‘This is ludicrous!’ exclaimed Abigny. ‘Disappearing

corpses, ransacked rooms of madmen, fights in the

darkness! For heaven’s sake, this is a College, not the London stews! Bodies do not just disappear. There must be some purely rational explanation.’

‘Such as?’ asked William.

‘Such as,’ said Abigny, exasperated, ‘a secret exit!

Some door unknown to us that allowed the murderer

to escape, or to hide.’ He began to look around

him as though such a door would suddenly become

apparent.

‘Do not be ridiculous!’ said Wilson aggressively. ‘A

secret door! Where? This is not a castle. The walls are less than a foot thick. Where could there possibly be

such a door?’

“I do not know!’ Abigny snapped back, his voice

beginning to rise. ‘It was only a suggestion. Maybe

Augustus is not dead and is off wandering somewhere.

Maybe some burglar came into the College, attacked Matt and Father Aelfrith and escaped out of a window.’

‘You try jumping out of any of the windows here,’ said Michael. ‘You would need to be very agile, and,’ he said looking ruefully down at his rotund form, ‘very slender.

All the windows have stone mullions which would make

them very difficult to squeeze through, and the drop is enough to break a leg. Perhaps Augustus or a burglar

might have wriggled his way out, but he would not have landed undamaged.’

Wilson seized on Abigny’s statement like a drowning

man on a rope. ‘Of course! Augustus was not dead and

it was he who attacked Father Aelfrith and Doctor

Bartholomew in the dark. That would explain everything.’

He looked around triumphantly, considering

the mystery to be solved. With an air of finality, he

rose to leave.

‘Augustus was dead!’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘And

he most certainly would not have had the strength to push me down the stairs. The man I fought with was a man of my size. And it also does not explain Paul’s murder and the drugging of the commoners.’

‘Yes, it does,’ Wilson said. ‘Augustus was mad, we

all know that. He feigned his death to you, and then hit Father Aelfrith on the head when he came to keep vigil.

He then, in his madness, went into the commoners’ room and killed Paul - let us remember that he was insane,’

he continued, looking around at each Fellow in turn.

‘Perhaps he left the drugged wine for the others to drink when they returned, perhaps they are not drugged at all, but insensible after a night of debauchery.’ At this he cast a scathing glance around at the comatose figures

of the commoners still motionless on their pallets. ‘But regardless, he returned to his room and began his foolish searching for the Lord knows what. When the Doctor

surprised him, he attacked, made strong by insanity.

Then, knowing his game was up, he jumped out of the

window and escaped.’

‘Escaped where?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘The gates

are still locked.’

‘Then he is hiding in the College,’ said Wilson. Twill order a thorough search to be made.’ He looked behind

him to where he knew Gilbert would be hovering, and

raised his eyebrows. Gilbert disappeared immediately,

and the Fellows could hear him summoning the College

servants from their other duties. ‘Do not worry,’ he said to the Fellows, ‘Augustus will be found and brought to justice. Paul’s death will not go unavenged!’ He turned to Bartholomew. “I suppose he is dead, Physician?’ he

added with a sneer.

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Check for yourself,’ he

invited. ‘And then check poor Montfitchet too.’

‘What?’ Wilson was momentarily thrown from his pomposity. The Fellows clustered around Montfitchet’s pallet. His face had a bluish tinge to it and a small trickle of blood came from the corner of his mouth. Bartholomew

gently closed the half-open eyes. Wilson elbowed him

roughly out of the way to look for himself.

‘Dead!’ he proclaimed. ‘Augustus has two murders

to pay for!’

Outside, Bartholomew heard the servants clattering

up the stairs and banging doors as they made their search of the College.

‘Now,’ began Wilson, taking matters in hand, ‘Father

Aelfrith, have your wound attended to - by our esteemed Master of Medicine if you trust him not to pronounce

you dead. Of course, I will understand perfectly should you wish to consult another physician.’

Bartholomew raised his eyes heavenward. Now

Wilson had his theory, he would hang onto it like a

dog with a bone, and would take every opportunity to

undermine Bartholomew’s skills as a physician to give

it more credence.

‘Doctor Bartholomew will attend to me,’ said

Aelfrith quietly. “I see no need to call upon the

services of another physician.’

‘That is your own choice, Father,’ responded Wilson

disparagingly, his tone making it clear that he would

have no hesitation in taking his patronage elsewhere.

Bartholomew studiously avoided Wilson’s gaze, not trusting himself to speak civilly. He saw clearly that many of the objections that Wilson had raised to his appointmentfour years before would now be voiced; indeed, would be used against him at every opportunity, and perhaps Wilson

would succeed in bringing about his dismissal from

the College. Wilson gazed at Bartholomew in a hostile

manner for several moments before continuing.

‘Father William, would you arrange to have the

bodies moved to the church? Then you and Brother

Michael must do what is necessary for their souls. Master Alcote, I would like you to take the news to the Bishop, for we will need his services when our murderer is caught.’

Since, like most scholars at the University, Augustus had taken minor orders, any crimes of which he might be