A Plague On Both Your Houses mb-1

by Susanna GREGORY

  'Did you hear any sounds, other than the noise from the hall?'

  'None,' said Aelfrith firmly. 'And what about you?

  How did you come to be in the commoners' room so early?' "I rose at my usual time,' replied Bartholomew, 'and I saw a flicker of light coming from Augustus's room. I came because I thought you might like to be relieved for a while.'

  Aelfrith acknowledged this with a bow of his head.

  'Pray continue,' he said.

  "I came as quietly as I could so as not to wake anyone, opened the door, and saw what I assumed to be you kneeling on the floor prising up the floorboards. What I thought was Augustus lay on the floor. As I entered, whoever it was that I thought was you leapt to his feet and came at me before I had the chance to react.

  He had a knife, and we grappled together. Then he pushed me down the stairs, and I heard footsteps. He did not come down the stairs because I fell against the door and he could not have opened it without moving me. I went back up the stairs, but could find no trace of him, either in Augustus's room or the dormitory.

  Then you came round and I realised that Augustus was missing.'

  Aelfrith frowned. 'These commoners sleep very soundly,' he said. "I am knocked on the head, and probably fell with quite a clatter. You have a fight on the landing virtually outside their room, and none of them wake. Now, we stand here speaking to each other, and not a soul stirs. Curious, would you not say?'

  He strode into the centre of the commoners' dormitory, and clapped his hands loudly. Jocelyn's snores stopped for a second, but then resumed. Aelfrith picked up a pewter plate from a table, tipping off some wizened apples, and banged it as hard as he could against the wall, making an unholy row. Jocelyn groaned, and turned onto his side. D'Evene and Jerome began to stir, but did not wake.

  The cold feeling of unease that had earlier been in Bartholomew's stomach returned. He knelt down by Alyngton and felt his neck. His life beat was rapid and erratic. He pulled back his eyelids, noting how the pupils responded slowly to the light. He moved to one of the old men, and went through the same process.

  He looked up at Aelfrith. 'They have been drugged,' he said. 'Of course! How else could an intruder hope to ransack a room and steal a body?'

  Aelfrith stared back. 'My God, man,' he whispered.

  'What evil is afoot in this College? What is going on to warrant such violence?'

  Augustus's words of the previous day came back to Bartholomew: '"Evil is afoot, and will corrupt us all, especially those who are unaware."'

  'What?' asked Aelfrith, and Bartholomew realised he had spoken aloud. He was about to explain, when something stopped him. He was confused. The events of the past few hours seemed totally inexplicable to him, and the brightness of the day seemed suddenly dulled, as suspicion and distrust settled upon his thoughts.

  'Just quoting,' he mumbled dismissively, rising to check on the others.

  'Here!' exclaimed Aelfrith. Bartholomew spun round. 'This must be it!' He held a large pewter jug in his hands, similar to the ones used to serve the wine at meals in the hall. Bartholomew took it gingerly. At the bottom were the dregs of the wine, and a few cloves.

  Evidently, Master Wilson's good wine had been replaced with inferior stuff that needed spicing when the feast had reached a certain point. But there was something else too.

  Swirling in the dregs and drying on the side of the jug were traces of a grey-white powder. Bartholomew smelled it carefully and detected a strong hint of laudanum. The commoners must have been drunk indeed not to have noticed it, and, at this strength, mixed with the effects of a night's drinking, would ensure that the commoners slept at least until midday.

  He handed the jug back to Aelfrith. 'A sleeping draught,' he said, 'and a strong one too. I only hope it was not too strong for the old folks.' He continued his rounds, lying the torpid commoners on their sides so they would not choke, and testing for the strength of their pulses. He was concerned for one, a tiny man with a curved spine who was known simply as 'Montfitchet' after the castle in which he had been born. Montfitchet's pulse was far too rapid, and he felt clammy to the touch.

  "I wonder whether it was consumed here, or in the hall,' said Aelfrith thoughtfully. 'We will find out when they awake. When will that be, do you think?'

  'You can try to wake Jocelyn now,' said Bartholomew.

  "I suspect he may be more resistant to strong drink than the others, and he almost woke when you banged the plate.'

  Bartholomew reached Brother Paul. Paul had not attended the feast, and if he too had been drugged, the chances were that the wine had been sent to the commoners' dormitory to be consumed by them there.

  Bartholomew felt Paul's neck for a life beat, his mind on the mysteries that were unravelling all around him.

  He snapped into alertness, quickly dragged the thick covering from the pallet, and stared in horror. Aelfrith came to peer over his shoulder.

  'Oh, sweet Jesus,' he breathed. He crossed himself and took a step backwards. 'My God, Matthew, what is happening here? The Devil walked in Michaelhouse last night!'

  Bartholomew stared down at the blood-soaked sheet on which Paul lay. The knife that had caused his death still protruded from his stomach, and one of his hands was clasped loosely round the hilt. Bartholomew pulled at it, a long, wicked Welsh dagger similar to those that he had seen carried by Cynric and the soldiers at the Castle.

  'Another suicide?' whispered Aelfrith, seeing Paul's hand on the hilt.

  "I do not think so, Father. The knife was stabbed into Paul with such force that I think it is embedded in his spine. I cannot pull it out. Paul would never have had the strength for such a blow. And I do not think his death was instant. I think he died several minutes after the wound. Look, both hands are bloodstained, and blood is smeared over the sheet. I think he was trying to pull the knife out, and I think the murderer waited for him to die before arranging the bedclothes in such a way that no one would notice he was dead until the morning. And by then,' he said, turning to face Aelfrith, 'whatever business was going on last night would be completed:'

  'Or would have been,' said Aelfrith, 'had you not been an early riser and an abstemious drinker!' He shuddered, looking down at the pathetic body of Brother Paul. 'Poor man! I will say a mass for him and for Augustus this morning. But now, we must inform the Master. You stay here while I fetch him.'

  While Aelfrith was gone, Bartholomew inspected Paul. He was cold, and the blood had congealed. Aelfrith had said that he had heard a sound and had gone to check Paul. Had he already been dead then? Was it the murderer Aelfrith had heard? Bartholomew had heard 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.

  3

  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.