A Plague On Both Your Houses mb-1

by Susanna GREGORY

  The deaths at Michaelhouse would serve to show them that the business was far from over.

  But what of Augustus? Who had killed him? It was obvious why: Wilson had told him that Sir John had visited Augustus before attending the fatal meeting that Bartholomew now knew was with Colet, and half the world suspected that the seal had been hidden in his room. The first attempt on Augustus's life had failed, and the killer had returned three nights later. Bartholomew supposed that Augustus's room could hardly be searched with Augustus in it, and he had been murdered to secure his silence. Poor Augustus had given the killer reason to believe he had swallowed the seal. The killer must have hidden in the attic when Alexander came to bring Paul and Augustus some wine. He must have been watching Bartholomew from his hiding place, wondering what he had been doing when he examined Augustus's body and looked under the bed. When Aelfrith had come to keep vigil, it had been an easy thing to knock him on the head and drag Augustus into the attic. Wilson had come then to begin his own search for the seal, and he too had fled to the attic when disturbed, first knocking Bartholomew down the stairs. How crowded the attic had been at that point: the killer, Wilson, and Augustus's body.

  But who had actually killed Augustus? And how?

  There had been no signs of poisoning or violence, but the expression of abject terror on his dead face confirmed that his death had not been natural. All the Fellows and commoners had alibis for the time Augustus had died, so it must have been an outsider. Could it have been Colet again? Bartholomew thought about it, and decided there was no other plausible possibility. Whoever had sliced Augustus apart to investigate his innards had possessed some degree of surgical skill. The incision was crude and brutal, but it would take a physician's knowledge to search the inside of a corpse, and perhaps a physician's nerve and stomach.

  So Colet must have determined, with the help of Swynford and perhaps jocelyn, to search Augustus's room for the elusive seal while Michaelhouse scholars were at Wilson's feast. Poor Brother Paul was too ill to attend, something that Colet had probably not anticipated. So, Paul was dispatched as a precaution against him crying out. Bartholomew screwed up his eyes in thought. When he had gone to check Augustus, he had heard Paul cough, but now he could not be sure that it had not been Colet, standing next to Paul's bed, and imitating the hack of an old man to prevent Bartholomew from checking on hirn too. But even if Bartholomew had looked at Paul, what then? He would have seen exactly what he had seen the following morning — Paul with his blanket tightly tucked around him hiding his face, the spilled blood, and the knife in his stomach.

  Drugged wine was left in the commoners' room, lest they returned from the feast too early. And Jocelyn had told Bartholomew that it had been his idea to drink Wilson's health with the wine he had found on the table. He must have known it was drugged, and also that the others were too drunk to question how the wine had come to be there so conveniently. How Jocelyn must have gloated at the ease with which that part of the plan had gone. Montfitchet did not want to drink because he felt ill, but, luckily for Jocelyn, Father Jerome persuaded him, unwittingly bringing about his death. D'Evene, who had a bad reaction to wine, had also been persuaded to drink.

  Bartholomew stood and began jumping up and down on the spot, trying to force some warmth into his legs. As he considered the information he had, it was easy to see what Colet had done. He must have hidden in Swynford's room. Swynford was the only Fellow to have a room to himself, so no one would have seen Colet once he had slipped into the College in the commotion before the feast. He could then have used the second trap-door in the hallway outside Swynford's room to gain access to the attic, and gone from there to Augustus's room.

  But how did Colet know about the doors to the attic? Wilson had said they were a secret passed from Master to Master. Wilson himself did not know about them until he read about them in the box from the Chancellor.

  Try as he might, Bartholomew could come up with no reason why Swynford or Colet should know, and he felt his carefully constructed argument begin to crumble.

  He could not imagine that Sir John would have broken trust by telling Swynford, and Swynford had not been at Michaelhouse long enough to have known the previous Master. Exhausted by his thinking and the events of the day, Bartholomew finally slipped into a restless doze huddled in a corner.

  Bartholomew lost track of the time he was kept in his underground tomb. Once the door opened briefly and some bread, salted beef, and watered ale were shoved inside, but it occurred so quickly that by the time Bartholomew realised what had happened, the door had been closed and he was alone again. He sniffed at the food suspiciously, wondering if Colet meant to poison him, but he was hungry and thirsty enough to throw caution to the wind.

  He thought about what his death might mean. Colet had said in Bene't Hostel that it would fit nicely into their plan, and would reinforce the notion that something was sadly amiss at Michaelhouse. What of Stanmore then? He would never accept Bartholomew's murder, no matter how cunningly disguised. He would try to seek out Bartholomew's killer, would confront members of the hostel committee, and generally make problems until he, too, was dispatched. And then Richard would guess something untoward had happened, and perhaps start an inexperienced, clumsy investigation of his own.

  Where would it all end? Would Stanmore's colleagues be suspicious of three accidental deaths in one family?

  Would they, too, start to look into matters?

  Bartholomew recalled with a pang why he had been captured in the first place — trying to warn Stanmore that Stephen and Burwell planned to kill him. He cursed himself again for his ineptitude. He had seen Stephen wearing that cloak before. But the more he thought about it, the more he came to believe that Stanmore would be safe until his own body was found. Stanmore had no reason to be suspicious of Bartholomew's disappearance — since the plague had come he had kept such irregular hours that no one knew for certain where he was — and the hostel group was unlikely to cut off a source of funding in Stanmore before it became absolutely necessary.

  He was dozing in the corner when the room was suddenly filled with light that hurt his eyes. There was noise too — shouting and arguing. Through painfully narrowed eyes, Bartholomew saw Swynford outlined in the doorway, flanked by a burly porter from Rudde' s Hostel who was armed with a loaded crossbow. Irrelevantly, Bartholomew remembered Colet telling him that the porter was a veteran of the King's wars in France before exchanging a soldier's career for a more sedentary life keeping law and order in one of the University's rowdier establishments.

  Swynford held up the torch and the light fell on Bartholomew. Bartholomew squinted, wondering if they had come to murder him. He struggled to his feet, dazed and clumsy, but prepared to sell his life dearly. Swynford glanced at Bartholomew disinterestedly, and gestured to someone outside. Bartholomew had a fleeting glimpse of Brother Michael, firmly in the grasp of Jocelyn and Colet, before he was hurled into the room.

  'Company for you, Physician,' said Swynford. 'Now you have someone with whom you can discuss what you think you know of us.' He turned to leave. Bartholomew, savouring the sound of voices after so long alone, was strangely reluctant to let them go. He thought quickly, wondering how he might detain them.

  'Gregory!' he called, trying to disentangle himself from Michael who had stumbled into him. 'Did you kill Augustus and Paul?'

  'Yes and no,' replied Colet smoothly, ignoring Swynford's look of disapproval. "I killed Paul. He kept calling out for someone to bring him water. He was a nuisance, and had to be silenced. But I did not kill Augustus, he killed himself.'

  'What do you mean?' said Bartholomew. 'There were no marks of violence on him.'

  'So that was what you were doing with his body,' said Colet. "I wondered what you were up to. I had planned to kill the old fool, and had my knife ready to slip between his ribs as he slept. But he was awake when I entered his room, and I saw him swallow something. I was wearing a black cloak and hood, and I really think he believed
I was Death coming for him. He just keeled over and died of fright.'

  Bartholomew remembered Wilson's dismissive words when Bartholomew told him he had been trying to discover the cause of Augustus's death. 'He probably frightened himself to death with his imagination,' Wilson had said, and he had been exactly right. But, even if no weapon were used, it was still murder to frighten an old man so much that his heart stopped. Colet seemed about to continue, and Bartholomew could tell from the tone of his voice that he was only too happy to talk about the deeds he had done and boast of his own cleverness in evading detection, but Swynford took him roughly by the arm and pulled him away. The door was slammed shut and firmly bolted and barred again from the outside. Once more the room was plunged into pitch blackness. Bartholomew heard Michael groping around in the darkness, and moved across to him. The fat monk was damp with sweat and trembling violently.

  'How do you come to be here, Brother?'

  Bartholomew asked, leading him to a crate, the position of which he knew so well from his wanderings in the dark.

  'How do you?' retorted Michael angrily, pulling away from Bartholomew and stumbling against the chest. 'The word is that you have gone to Peterborough on a mercy call from your old mentor the Abbott.'

  Bartholomew immediately appreciated that it was a clever ploy on the part of Swynford to say that he had gone to Peterborough. It was very plausible that Bartholomew might answer a call of distress from the monks at the abbey where he had gone to school, and at any time other than while the plague raged in Cambridge, Bartholomew would have gone without hesitation. But Colet and Swynford did not know him as well as they thought.

  "I would not leave,' said Bartholomew, 'when there is only me and Robin of Grantchester to help the sick.

  And the Abbott would know I would not desert my patients, and would never ask me to go.'

  Michael gave a grunt. "I suppose that seems reasonable.

  But you still have not explained how you come to be here.'

  'Oswald!' said Bartholomew suddenly. 'How is he?'

  'He was hale and hearty when I saw him this morning.

  Why do you ask?'

  Bartholomew sagged in relief. His reasoning had been correct, and Stanmore was still safe. "I overheard Colet plotting to kill him,' he said. "I was coming to warn Oswald when I very stupidly ran into Stephen and Swynford, and I have been here since Wednesday.'

  'Which was when you were said to have left for Peterborough,' said Michael. Bartholomew heard a metallic sound as Michael struck a flint, and helped him smash one of the crates so that they could kindle a splinter of wood. The light was feeble, and it gave off eye-watering smoke, but Bartholomew was grateful to be able to see, if only dimly.

  Michael put the burning stick near Bartholomew's face and peered at him closely. 'Oh lord, Matt! You look terrible. You should never have involved yourself in all this. I warned you against it.'

  'The same could be said for you,' retorted Bartholomew, 'for we both seem to be in the same predicament, regardless of our respective motives.'

  'Never mind that,' said Michael. 'We need to get out. Come and help me look.'

  'There is no way out,' said Bartholomew. 'Believe me, I have checked.'

  He watched as Michael went through the same process that he had; how long before had it been?

  The monk hammered and heaved at the door, he banged at the ceiling with a stick, and he prodded at the walls. Finally, defeated, he came to sit next to Bartholomew again.

  "I have been in Ely with my lord the Bishop,' Michael said. 'We have been going over all the information he has been sent during the past few months about the Oxford plot.'

  Bartholomew shook his head. 'There is no plot,' he said.

  Michael looked at him curiously. 'We also came to that conclusion,' he said. 'Is there anything to eat here?

  I missed dinner.'

  Bartholomew indicated a few crusts of bread that he had been saving, and a dribble of water in the pitcher.

  Michael looked at them and shuddered. He continued with his story.

  "I arrived back last night,' he said, 'and it is now Friday evening. You probably have no idea of time in this wretched hole.'

  'Have you seen Philippa?' Bartholomew interrupted, thinking of the reason he had gone to Bene't's in the first place.

  'No,' said Michael, 'but I have seen Giles Abigny, and he told me his tale. He is not mixed up in all this, you know. I imagine that while you were ferreting around for information about Philippa you inadvertently picked up clues about this Oxford business. But I can tell you with absolute certainty that the Abignys are wholly unconnected with it all.'

  'Really? Do you not think it a coincidence that all this should happen at the same time, and that Bene't Hostel figures in the Oxford business and is also Giles's second home? And that the Principal of Bene't's- before he died — was Hugh Staple ton, in whose house Giles and Philippa hid?'

  'No, I do not,' said Michael. "I can see why you are suspicious, but the Oxford business has been rolling on for more than a year now. Philippa and Giles only executed their little plot over the past few weeks. And I would be as suspicious of Giles as you are, if I were not sure that Hugh and Cedric Stapleton were also innocent in all this. Hugh suspected something was fermenting in his hostel and contacted the Bishop about it. He sent reports on various comings and goings, and Cedric continued them after Hugh's death. Hugh and Cedric were fickle, frivolous men, like Giles, and quite the wrong kind of people to be recruited by Swynford. They were not even recruited for the bogus hostel group that your brother-in-law was mixed up with.'

  'You know about that?' said Bartholomew, startled.

  'What else do you know?' "I was telling you,' said Michael with a superior expression, 'but you interrupted me with your question about Philippa. And while we are on that subject, she has taken your supposed journey to Peterborough very personally. Abigny tells me she fluctuates between anger and sorrow, and will think of nothing else. How can you doubt her, Matt?'

  Bartholomew shook his head. So he had been wrong, and Philippa and Abigny were innocent after all. If Philippa were acting as Michael described, then she could not know that he was being kept prisoner in Stephen's dungeon. But it would not matter soon anyway if Swynford's plans came to fruition. Bartholomew's greatest regret would be that he would never have the opportunity to tell Philippa he was sorry, and she might hate him for it.

  Michael kindled another piece of wood, coughing as it released a choking grey smoke. 'As I said before, I have been sifting through reports the Bishop has received during the last year in an attempt to understand this, and I believe I now know the truth.'

  'Then how did you come to be taken by Swynford?' asked Bartholomew.

  "I was rash,' said Michael. "I reported my findings to the Bishop, and he told me to return to Michaelhouse and do nothing. But there were gaps in my knowledge, and I could not resist trying to fill them in. I undertook to question Burwell, and then Stayne. They obviously grew suspicious, and I received a message from Stanmore asking me to visit him. I went, and found not Stanmore, but his younger brother. I brazened it out, asking guileless questions and pretending to be convinced of the reality of the Oxford plot, but it was all to no avail. Colet and Swynford appeared out of nowhere, and I was hauled down here.'

  'A note,' said Bartholomew, bitterly. 'How many times have Colet and Swynford used that device? They sent such a note to Sir John, enticing him to the meeting at which he was killed; they sent one to me saying I was needed by a patient, after which I was attacked; and they sent one to Oswald and me purporting to be from Edith, intending to get us out of the way so Swynford could have his meeting here.'

  'It seems we are in a fix, Matt,' said Michael, his flabby face serious. 'Will they kill us?'

  'They will try,' Bartholomew replied.

  Michael gave him a weak smile. 'It will do them no good. The Bishop knows everything I do, except your role in all this, and Abigny's innocence, of which I have only r
ecently learned.'

  'What of rescue?' asked Bartholomew hopefully.

  'Did you tell anyone where you were going?'

  Michael smiled ruefully. 'The note purporting to be from Oswald asked me to keep our meeting a secret.'

  'But what of the Bishop? Will he not grow suspicious of your disappearance?'

  'Undoubtedly. But unless one of the hostel cabal reveals where we are, he is unlikely to stumble on us by accident.'

  Bartholomew thought about the cunningly concealed entrance in the stable and concurred. Stanmore and Richard knew about the chambers, but they would never imagine that Stephen had used them to imprison him. They might not visit the underground storerooms for years to come.

  'What about you?' asked Michael. 'Will Cynric wonder about your sudden disappearance?' "I think I would have been rescued by now if he had,' said Bartholomew. 'And he probably thinks I have gone to Peterborough, as you did. Even if he is suspicious, he will blame Oswald, not Stephen.'

  They were silent for a while, each wrapped in his own thoughts. Michael's piece of wood crackled and the flame went out.

  "I thoughtyou were involved in all this,' said Michael distantly, kindling another piece of wood. 'You talked to Aelfrith in the orchard, but would not tell me what you had discussed. You spent ages with Augustus after he died, and I thoughtyou were looking for the seal. Wilson singled you out to talk to on his deathbed. You had no alibi for when Augustus and Paul were murdered. And howwas I to know that you had not hurled yourself down the stairs that night to confound us? You also searched my room, and I found you reading my note to the Bishop.'