'The Bishop!' said Bartholomew. So that was to whom Michael was writing. He reached forward to grab Michael's arm. "I did not search your room. The note just fell on the floor when I opened the door to look for you.'
'Well,' said Michael, 'there were occasions when I was convinced you were the killer, while other times I was uncertain. I took a terrible risk for you when I agreed not to tell anyone you had read my note. I suppose I could not bring myself to think that you would harm Augustus and Paul, and I also believe you are a good physician and would not make mistakes about the quantity of whatever foul potion was used to drug the commoners. But even more, I know how close a friend Sir John was to you, and could not suppose that you would ever have done anything to harm him.'
'When I read the note I thought you might be the murderer,' said Bartholomew.
"Me?' said Michael aghast. 'On what grounds? I have never done anything the least bit suspicious!'
'You were one of the first to arrive when the initial attempt was made on Augustus's life. Aelfrith, who was poisoned, died in your room. And you acted most strangely over Augustus's corpse. You refused even to look at it'
'Ah, yes,' said Michael, struggling to light another piece of wood. 'Augustus.' He shook his head sadly.
Bartholomew waited for him to continue.
'He was murdered, you know, for Sir John's seal.
You know about the seal?' Bartholomew nodded, and Michael continued. 'Before he died, Augustus claimed that devils were in his room. Remember? Well, before all that happened, he had told me that someone would try to kill him. He kept me up a long time that night with his rantings. I thought I had calmed him down, and went off to the kitchen for something to eat. Within a few minutes, he started screaming again. I ran to his room where you and I broke the door down together. It was full of smoke, and he was insane with fear. I realised that I was not the only person to have worked out that Augustus's room was the only place Sir John could have hidden the seal before he died. You arrived just after me.'
Bartholomew remembered well. He had wondered at the time how Michael had managed to reach Augustus's room before him. That he had been raiding the kitchen made perfect sense.
'You offered to stay with Augustus for the rest of the night, and so I knew he would be safe if anyone really had been trying to kill him in order to search for the seal. I kept a close eye on him for the next couple of days, and went to check on him before Wilson's installation dinner.
I was absolutely horrified when I heard he had been killed during the feast, especially after one attempt on the poor man had already been made. Anyway, I had never seen a murdered man before, and I am afraid it unnerved me more than I would have thought. I was afraid to look into his face, because I have heard that a picture of the murderer is always burned into the victim's eyes. I have also heard that a victim's body bleeds in the presence of his murderer, and I felt that Augustus might bleed for me because I was unable to save him when I knew his life was in danger.'
He stopped, and looked at Bartholomew with a weak smile. 'All silly nonsense, of course, and I would not usually stoop to such superstition. But the whole of that day was unreal — Wilson's endless ceremonies, all that wine, town people in the College, the riot, the Oliver brothers trying to lock you out, and then Augustus dead. It was all too much. I was deeply shocked, because I had seen him alive such a short time before. Does this explain my behaviour to you?'
Bartholomew shrugged. "I suppose so, but you do not usually panic so easily.'
'Well, there was one other thing too,' he said. 'The Bishop spoke to me that day, and said that he wanted me to act as his agent in Michaelhouse. He told me about the deaths of Fellows in other Colleges, and said that Aelfrith was already acting as his spy. He said he wanted me to act totally independendy of Aelfrith, so that if one line of communication were to fail, the other would remain intact. He gave me until the following day to decide whether I would take on the task. When Augustus died, I realised exactly what he was asking me to embroil myself in, and, frankly, it terrified me. But the next day, I spoke to the Bishop, and told him I would do it — for the College and for the University.'
He paused again. "I have been acting on behalf of the Bishop ever since. I tried to warn you to keep out of it, Matt. I thoughtyou did not realise what you might get into, and Augustus's murder showed me that it was no longer a silly game played by bored scholars with active minds and too much free time, but something far more deadly.'
Michael's lighted stick crackled and popped, and Bartholomew realised again how wrong he had been.
He stood up, and stretched carefully. He sat again, and made up his mind. He began to tell Michael everything he knew and had surmised.
12
Michael gave up lighting his fragments of wood, and most of Bartholomew's tale was delivered in darkness. That he had been alone and in darkness for so long occasionally made him wonder whether Michael was really there at all, and several times he reached out to touch him, or asked him a needless question just to hear his voice. Michael added scraps of his own evidence here and there, and by the time he had finished, Bartholomew felt at last that he understood most of what had happened. He heard Michael give a sigh as his narrative was completed.
'The Colleges will be powerful forces in the University, Matt. There are five of them now, and there are plans to found another two next year. That will mean there will be seven institutions with Fellows and their own property. The Fellows will be more secure in their futures than the teachers in the hostels, and the longer they remain at the Colleges, the more power they will accrue. The hostels own no property, and are therefore inherently unstable, and, in time, the Colleges will take their power. As it is, the most powerful men in the University now are Fellows of the Colleges, not men from the hostels. Swynford must have determined that the advance of the Colleges had to be stopped, because in time, they will become so powerful that they will become independent of the University, and they will crush the hostels.'
'But why?' said Bartholomew. 'Swynford is a Fellow with a powerful voice in the University, and he is now the Master of Michaelhouse.'
'The Bishop's records show that he owns many of the buildings that are used as hostels,' said Michael. The rents he charges have made him a rich man. He would not wish to lose this source of income.' "Is that it?' asked Bartholomew incredulously. 'Is it about money? Like Stephen?'
Bartholomew heard Michael laugh softly in the dark.
'Matt! Have you spent your life asleep? Do you not know that nearly all crime in this country is committed with the intention to increase personal wealth? Of course, there is good old-fashioned lust, too; that often plays a part. But the overriding human emotion is greed.'
They sat in silence for a while, before Bartholomew started talking again, more to hear Michael's voice than to resume their discussion. "I wonder why Swynford wants so much money. It is almost as if he is aiming for something specific'
'Perhaps he is,' said Michael. 'Another hostel perhaps?
A position?'
'A position?' queried Bartholomew. 'What sort of position would he need to buy?'
Michael shrugged. "I do not know. Mayor? A position at court? A See?'
'A See?' exclaimed Bartholomew. 'You cannot pay to become a bishop!'
'Oh, but you can, Matt. Not direct payment perhaps, but a sum of money forwarded to the King's coffers might ensure a position of some kind.' He suddenly slammed his fist into his open palm. 'Of course! That is it! The Bishop of Lincoln grows old, and Swynford asked our Bishop about who might be next in line to succeed him at Wilson's feast. I heard him! Swynford was saving to become a bishop! And what a bishop he would make: he is learned, of noble birth, and highly respectable.'
'Respectable indeed,' said Bartholomew. 'Murder, corruption, fraud. All highly respectable talents.'
Michael said nothing, but Bartholomew could hear him shifting around, trying to get comfortable on his crate.
'So, let us summ
arise what we have reasoned,' said Michael. 'About a year ago Swynford decided to crush the Colleges to strengthen the hostels. He, and a band of selected helpers, put about rumours to blame it all on Oxford, and even killed Fellows in King's Hall, Peterhouse, and Clare to make it appear serious. Merchants were persuaded to give money on the grounds that were the University to collapse, they would lose a good deal of trade. Sir John unwittingly aided them in this because they took advantage of a spy system that had nothing to do with the Universities, but one in which Sir John played a minor role for the King.
When Sir John became suspicious, he was murdered, and his death was made to look like suicide. Michaelhouse was discredited because his body was discovered… not wearing his own clothes.'
'Shortly afterwards, Colet and Swynford decided to add credence to the plot by undertaking to look for Sir John's seal. They killed Augustus and Paul, and Montfitchet died too. They failed to find the seal, even after tearing out Augustus's entrails. Wilson sneaked off into the night to search for it too, acting on behalf of the Chancellor, but he also failed. The damage was done to Michaelhouse, even though the seal remained hidden.
The Bishop, realising that there was more at stake than Michaelhouse's reputation, forced the Fellows to deny the truth. Perhaps Colet and his friends realised they had gone far enough, or perhaps they were more concerned with the approaching Death, for they made no further attempts to find the seal. They poisoned Aelfrith when his enquiries brought him too close to the truth.'
'Of course!' exclaimed Bartholomew, leaping to his feet and pacing in the darkness. 'William, without knowing what he said, told me why Aelfrith was killed a long time ago, but I did not see it. He told me that before his death Aelfrith had seemed depressed because he had heard the deathbed confession of the Principal of All Saints' Hostel. That Principal must have been involved too! News must have got out that he had made a confession, and Aelfrith was killed in case he had been told something sensitive.'
'Aelfrith believed in the seal of confession,' said Michael. 'Even if the dying Principal had told him everything, Aelfrith would never have revealed it to another.'
'Stephen is prepared to kill his own brother for this,' said Bartholomew, 'and the others seem equally fanatical. Killing a friar as a safeguard would be nothing to them.'
'Sadly, I suspect you are right,' said Michael. 'But, to continue. Wilson told you about the attic, perhaps so that you might try to see justice done for the poor victims whose deaths he and the Bishop had ensured went unavenged. It was no secret Wilson spoke to you at length on his deathbed, and it would not take a genius to suppose that Wilson might have told you of the attic, where Augustus's body still lay. I imagine either Colet or Jocelyn carried the body to the stables, hoping that it would be taken away unnoticed by the plague cart.'
He paused again and sniffed. 'Lord, it is as cold as the grave in here.'
'Apt description,' muttered Bartholomew, his mind still on the web of intrigue he and Michael were unravelling.
Michael continued. 'The pestilence must have brought about the deaths of some of those involved in this affair — like the Principal of All Saints'. I suppose now is a good time to strike more blows at the Colleges, while we are weakened and unsuspecting. They have made moves against Alcote, an attack on whom will not reflect badly on Swynford, and might even enhance his reputation he will be seen now as an honourable man returning from protecting his female kinsfolk in a vain, but noble attempt to save the College from corruption. You and I will also provide them with a godsent opportunity to kill us in a way that will bring Michaelhouse into further disrepute. What a fool I was to try to question them!'
'Do you think all the hostels are involved in this?'
Bartholomew asked after a pause.
Michael sucked in his breath. "I doubt they could have operated so efficiently and secretly for such a long time if all the hostels were implicated. The Bishop's records indicate that certain people are definitely involved: John Rede, Principal of Tunstede Hostel, but he is dead of the plague; Jocelyn and Swynford from Michaelhouse; Burwell and Yaxley from Bene't's; Stayne from Mary's; the Principals of Martin's and All Saints'
Hostels, although the plague took them, too; Colet from Rudde's; and Caxton and Greene from Garret Hostel, but Greene is dead.'
Bartholomew leaned against the damp wall and folded his arms. 'And do you know which of the merchants were involved?'
'None,' saidMichael. 'Only hostel men were allowed in on the real plot. But the merchants were an essential component in Swynford's plan. It would not have worked without them. He would not wish to spend his own money, nor that of his colleagues, on fighting the Colleges. The merchants contributed generously, thinking that they were saving the University from being crushed by Oxford, when the reality was that their money was used to undermine the Colleges.'
Lies, counter-lies, and more lies, thought Bartholomew.
Good men had lost their lives because of this wretched business.
'What about the need to protect both Universities so that there will be two places in which to train new priests and clerics when we recover from the effects of the plague?' he asked.
"I am sure they endorse it fully. The more priests and clerics that can be encouraged to come to the University the better. They will live in the hostels Swynford owns, and their rents will swell his coffers. The Bishop believes that half our clergy will perish from the Death, and that the country will desperately need to train more if we are to retain our social order. Without priests among the people, there will soon be insurrection and bloodshed. Swynford's hostels will be offering England a vital service.'
At least Stanmore's money had not totally been squandered, thought Bartholomew, if it could help to achieve some degree of social stability once the plague had burned itself out.
'Why do you think Colet became involved?' asked Michael. "I always understood he had a glorious future as a physician — far more so than you because he is less controversial.' "I do not know. Perhaps because of the pestilence?
First, a good many of his wealthy patients were likely to die, thus reducing his income. Second, the plague is not a good disease for physicians: the risk of infection is great, and the chances of success are low. We discussed it ad nauseam before it came, and he knew as well as I that physicians were likely to become social outcasts shunned by people who were uninfected, and treated with scorn by those that were because we would be unable to cure them. His leeching for toothaches and hangovers would not stand him in good stead with the Death. He was probably taking precautions against an uncertain future, like Stephen.'
Bartholomew gazed into the darkness and thought about Colet. He had stopped treating his patients when Bartholomew became ill and Roper had died. But about the same time, the wealthy merchant Per Goldam had died, and he had been Colet's richest patient. Colet must have decided that helping Bartholomew in the slums and with the plague pits was not for him. What better way to escape from constant demands from people for help than to feign madness? In the church, he would be relatively safe from plague-bearing people, and would be in a place where his associates could easily drop in to see him. His ramblings around the churches and his trips for blackberries were merely excuses to go about his business.
Bartholomew was overcome with disgust. He had liked Colet. What an appalling judge of character he must be to misjudge Philippa, Stanmore, and Michael, and not to suspect Colet. There was nothing more to be said, and each became engrossed in his own thoughts.
Although time dragged in the dark room, it did not seem long before they heard the sound of the trap-door being opened again. Bartholomew heard Michael draw in his breath sharply, thinking, like himself, that their executioners might be coming. There was a crash as Michael, backing away, knocked a chest over.
Bartholomew stationed himself near the door. The bolts were drawn back with agonising slowness, and Bartholomew felt sweat breaking out at the base of his neck.
The door swung op
en slowly, and light slanted into the room, dazzling him.
'Stand back,' said Colet. 'Master Jocelyn carries his crossbow and will not hesitate to use it if you attempt anything foolish.'
Slowly Bartholomew backed away, his eyes narrowed against what seemed like blinding light. He saw Jocelyn standing beyond the door, his crossbow aimed at Bartholomew's chest. The Rudde's porter was there too, holding a drawn sword. Colet was obviously taking no chances with his two prisoners.
'What do you want?' said Bartholomew with more bravado than he felt.
'You are an ingrate, Matt,' said Colet, and Bartholomew wondered why he had never detected the unpleasant smoothness in his friend's voice before.
"I have come to bring you food and wine. I thought you must be hungry by now, and your fat friend is always ravenous.'
He nodded his head, and the porter slid a tray into the room with his foot. On it there was bread, wizened apples, and something covered with a cloth. Red wine sloshed over the rim of the jug as the tray moved.
'So,' said Colet. 'You two must have had quite a conversation down here.'
When Bartholomew and Michael did not answer, Colet continued, his voice gloating, goading. 'So now you understand everything? What we have been doing, and why?'
Again, Bartholomew and Michael did not reply, and Colet's composure slipped a little. 'What? No questions?
Surely we have not been so careless as to leave nothing that you have been unable to work out?'
Michael affected a nonchalant pose on the crate he had knocked over. 'Doctor Bartholomew lost his taste for questions when the answers proved so unpleasant,' he said. 'But I confess there are two things that puzzle me still. First, how did you kill Aelfrith? We know why and that you used poison. But we remain uncertain as to how you made him believe it was Wilson.'
'I do not wish to know,' said Bartholomew in disgust.
'That you murdered a good man, and that you used so low a weapon as poison to do it is more than enough for me.'
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