'The only place Sir John went between dinner and when he left College for the last time was to see Augustus,'
Wilson continued. 'So, the seal had to be in Augustus's room. When you told me he had died, I decided to look for the seal before someone else did.'
'But you did not find it,' said Bartholomew. He thought of Augustus's senile ramblings the afternoon before the feast, exhorting John Babington to 'hide it well'. If Sir John had not hidden the wretched seal as well as he apparently had, Augustus, Paul, and Montfitchet might still be alive.
"I did not,' said Wilson. "I had just felt about in the small hole in the floorboards when you came blundering in. But,' he continued, fastening a cold, but sweaty, hand round Bartholomew's wrist, "I did not hit Aelfrith, I did not drug the wine, and I did not kill Paul.' He looked at Bartholomew. "I also do not know what happened to Augustus, although I do not believe he was responsible for the happenings that night. The poor old fool was far too senile to have effected such a well-considered plan.'
'Well-considered?' said Bartholomew in disgust.
'You call the murder of Paul and Montfitchet well considered?'
Wilson ignored him and lay silent for a while.
'So how did you escape?' asked Bartholomew after a while. 'You did not pass me on the stairs.'
'You are observant, Master Physician,' said Wilson facetiously. 'Had you looked up instead of down, you may have noticed where I was, although I doubt it, for it is very cunningly concealed. The south wing of Michaelhouse was designed with two trap-doors in the ceilings of the upper floor. It is a secret passed on from Master to Master should the need ever arise for him to listen to the plottings of his fellows.'
'Sir John died before you became Master. How did you find out about this?'
'The day the Chancellor told me I was to be Master, he gave me various documents locked in a small chest.
I had to return the box to him immediately after I had read the documents, lest I die without passing certain information to my successor. Reference to these secret doors was included with a stricture that only Masters should be informed of their presence. I immediately went to Augustus's room to look for one of them.
He watched me, but did not understand what I was doing.'
'Who else knows about these trap-doors?'
'When you know that, you will know the murderer.'
Bartholomew's mind began to mull through this information. Wilson's callous dismissal of Augustus had probably brought about his death. Augustus had very possibly babbled to someone else, in one of his senile ramblings, about the trap-door he had watched Wilson uncover, and had thus endangered himself.
So, who might he have told? Evidently not Aelfrith or he would have guessed where his attacker might have hidden himself, and would not have searched with Bartholomew. Was it Michael? Or another Fellow?
Wilson watched him trying to reason the muddle out, his expression smug, as if Bartholomew were one of his students trying to resolve some legal point for which there was no solution. He continued. 'All I had to do once I had pushed you down the stairs was to stand on the window-sill, and pull myself through the opening. I could hear you looking for me and knew you would never be able to spot the trap-door, especially in the poor light. Whoever killed Paul and took Augustus evidently also knew about the trap-doors.'
Bartholomew sat back and thought. It made sense.
As Aelfrith had prayed over Augustus, the murderer had slipped through the trap-door- or perhaps even dropped something on the friar — and knocked him senseless.
The wine was drugged, and Paul murdered so that the commoners would know nothing about what was going on. A search of the room was made, but, not finding the seal, and perhaps hearing Wilson coming, the murderer took Augustus's body through the trap-door to hide it.
'But why steal a body?' asked Bartholomew, still thwarted in his attempt to make sense of the new information.
Wilson sighed. 'You are intractable, Physician. It would not take long to search a corpse, and so the answer is obvious. Augustus was alive, and was taken so that he would reveal where the seal was hidden to the murderer!'
Bartholomew shook his head. 'Augustus was dead, Master Wilson. He was probably murdered too.'
'Rubbish,' said Wilson dismissively. 'He was alive.
Why would anyone wish to steal a corpse? Think, man! Your supposition that Augustus was dead is not a reasonable one.'
He lay back on his pillow, his face red with effort.
Bartholomew sponged it again while he let all Wilson's claims sink in. Wilson was right. It would make sense for the murderer to take a living person with him to be questioned later, but not a dead one. But Bartholomew knew Augustus had been dead! He had touched his eyes, and made a careful examination of the body. Nevertheless, apart from that, Wilson's story made matters a little clearer, and also explained why the Master had been prepared to put about the Bishop's lies. The Bishop had probably known exactly what Wilson had been doing in Augustus's room, and approved of it.
The door swung open on its broken hinges, and Michael entered, bringing the things he would need to give Wilson last rites and to hear his confession.
'Get out!' hissed Wilson, lifting his head from the pillow. 'Get out until I am ready!'
Michael looked annoyed, but left the room without arguing. Wilson waited until he heard his footsteps going down the wooden stairs.
'Why did you want this seal?' Bartholomew asked.
Wilson' s eyes remained closed. The effort of sending 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 mo
tive 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!'
8
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 B
artholomew 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.
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