A Plague on Both Your Houses (31 page)

‘Of course,’ she continued, ‘since none of us actually saw Philippa once her fever had gone, there is no reason to assume that she was alone in the room.’

Bartholomew stared at her. ‘What do you mean?’

he asked.

‘Perhaps as soon as Philippa was out of danger from

the plague, he climbed up to her window to be with her.

Perhaps there were two people in the room for some of

the time, not just one. I thought she had rather a voracious appetite; she always ate everything we left on the trays outside the door, and we began leaving her larger and

larger amounts. I thought it was just a reaction to the fever, or even boredom, making her eat so much.

‘And you know what that means?’ Edith continued,

after a pause. ‘It means that he probably nursed her

himself for a time, before she left and he took her place.

It means that she was not spirited away while she was still weak, but when she was stronger. So she probably went

voluntarily.’

Bartholomew was not sure whether this was good

or bad. ‘But why was she spirited anywhere? Why did

she not stay here? Why did Abigny feel obliged to keep up such a pretence? And why did Philippa and Giles

not feel that they could trust us enough to tell us what was going on?’

Edith patted his hand. ‘These are strange times,

Matt,’ she said. ‘Oswald told me that one of his

apprentices hanged himself two days ago, because he

had accidentally touched a plague victim. He was so

afraid he might catch it, he decided he would rather

die by his own hand. Do not question too much. I am

sure you will find Philippa eventually. And Giles.’

But even if he did, Bartholomew thought, things

would never be the same. If Edith was right, and Philippa had gone from the house willingly, it meant that she had not trusted him enough to tell him her motives. The

same was true of Giles.

Edith stood up. “I must do some work,’ she said. ‘Did

you know that we have the children from the village who have been orphaned in our stable loft? It is warm and dry there, and we can make sure they are fed properly. The bigger ones are helping to tend the vegetable plots, and I take care of the little ones here. Labour is becoming scarce, Matt. We will all starve if we do not continue to look after the fields.’

Bartholomew was not surprised at his sister’s practicalities, nor of her carefully concealed charity. She

would not offend the children’s dignity by giving them meals and a place to stay for nothing, but provided them with small duties that would make them feel they were

earning their keep.

Stanmore took a small cart into Cambridge so that

Bartholomew and Gray would not have to walk. Richard

went too, sitting in the back interrogating Gray about life as a student in Cambridge, and making comparisons with his own experiences in Oxford.

Bartholomew alighted at St Botolph’s Church to

see Colet, while the others went on to Milne Street.

The monks knelt in a line before the altar, although

Bartholomew noted that there were fewer than there

had been previously. Colet, however, was not there.

Bartholomew went to Rudde’s Hostel in search of him,

but was told by the porter that he had gone out early that morning, and had not been seen since. Bartholomew’s

spirits rose a little. Did this mean that Colet had recovered and was visiting patients again?

The porter, seeing the hopeful look on Bartholomew’s

face, shook his head.

‘No. he saddled as ever. He had his hood pulled

right over his face, and said he was going out to pick blackberries. At this time of year! He has been saying that every day recently. He will be back later to sit and dribble in the church.’

Bartholomew thanked him, and walked back to

Michaelhouse. On the way, he met Master Burwell who

asked if there was any news of Abigny. Bartholomew

shook his head, and asked whether Giles had seemed

afraid.of anything on the last few occasions that Burwell had seen him. Burwell scratched his head.

‘Yes. Now that you mention it. The hostel is a noisy

place, and he was constantly jumping and looking round.

I just assumed it was fear of the plague. Several of the students are in a similar state, and I have heard Master Colet is far from well in his mind.’

‘Was there anything specific?’

Burwell thought again. ‘Not that I can put a finger

on. He was simply nervous.’

After Bartholomew had enquired after Cedric

Stapleton, they parted, and Bartholomew returned to

his room. He looked around carefully to see if Abigny

had been there, but the minute fragments of rushes that he had secretly placed on Abigny’s belongings were still in place. Gray burst in, full of enthusiasm, but he was less so when Bartholomew dispatched him to buy various herbs

and potions from the town herb-seller, known locally

as ‘Jonas the Poisoner’ following an incident involving several poorly-labelled bottles some years before.

Bartholomew went to examine his patients in the

commoners’ dormitory, to find that three students had

died in the night. Roger Alyngton was no better, but

no worse. That morning, the frail Father Jerome had

complained of a fever, and was lying restlessly next to him. Bartholomew wondered whether Jerome would

have the strength or the will to fight the sickness.

When the patients were all resting, Bartholomew

slipped out and went into the room that had been

Augustus’s and that was now used to store clean blankets and linen. He carefully closed the door. The shutters

were already fastened, but the wood had swollen and

warped over many years, and were ill-fitting enough to allow sufficient light for Bartholomew to see what he

was doing.

He crouched on the window-sill and peered up at

the ceiling. He had never really noticed the ceilings in the south wing before. They were really quite beautiful, with elaborate designs carved into the fine dark oak.

Looking carefully, Bartholomew could see no evidence

whatsoever of a trap-door. He wondered if Wilson had

been lying to him. He jumped down and lit one of the

supply of candles he had appropriated from the hall for use in the sickroom. Climbing back onto the window-sill, he held the candle up and looked again. He could still see nothing.

He put the palm of his hand against the ceiling and

pushed gently, and he was startled to feel it move. He pushed again, and an entire section of the ceiling came loose. He had to drop the candle to catch the heavy

wood and prevent it from crashing down onto his head.

Carefully, he lowered the loose panel onto the floor,

relit his candle, and cautiously poked his head into the space beyond.

At first. he could make nothing out, but then

gradually he saw that the trap-door, as Wilson had

called it, did little more than conceal a way into the attic. He did not know what he had expected - a

cramped secret passage, perhaps, with dusty doorways

leading away from it. Still holding the candle he hauled himself up, bemused to think that Wilson had been fit

enough to do the same.

There was not sufficient room for him to stand

upright, so he walked hunched over. The candle was

not bright enough to illuminate the whole of the attic, and it faded into deep shadows at the edges. There was an unpleasant smell too, as if generations of small animals had found their way in, but had become trapped and

died. Bartholomew shook himself. He was being fanciful.

The attic was basically bare, the wooden floor covered in thick dust, scuffed here and there by some recent

disturbances. He walked carefully along the length of

the south wing, his way lit by small holes in the floor, although whether these were for providing light or for spying on the people in the rooms below, he could

not say. Over the commoners’ room, he could clearly

hear the Benedictine whispering comforting words to

Alyngton, while over what had been Swynford’s room

- where d’Evene had died - he could even read the

words on a book that lay open on the table. At the very end of the attic, he found the second trap-door. It was marked by a large metal ring, and when Bartholomew

pulled it up, he saw that it gave access to the last

staircase. Wilson could easily have climbed into the

attic, walked along to the second door, and slipped

away down the stairs and back to his own room.

So could the murderer of Paul, Montfitchet, and

Augustus.

He lowered the door and retraced his steps, carefully

examining the floor for any more entrances and exits.

He found none, but at the far end, where the south

wing abutted onto the hall, he found a tiny doorway. He squeezed through it, and down a cramped passageway

that was so full of dust and still air that Bartholomew began to feel as though he could not breathe. The passageway turned a corner, and Bartholomew faced a blank wall. He scratched at the stones and mortar with his fingernail. It was old, and had evidently been sealed up many years

before. He stooped to look for any signs that it had been tampered with in recent days, but there was nothing. The passageway must have run in the thickness of the west wall of the hall, and perhaps emerged in the gallery at the back. He vaguely recalled Sir John complaining that an old door had been made into the ugly window that was

there now, so perhaps the secret passageway had been

blocked up then. Regardless, it seemed that the sturdy wall blocking the passage was ancient, and would have

no bearing on the current mysteries.

He turned round, and began to squeeze his way

down the narrow passage again. As he reached the point where the passage turned the corner, he saw that one

of the stones had been prised loose about the level of his knees, and that something had been stuffed into the space. Gingerly, he bent towards it, and eased it out. It was a very dirty green blanket that smelled so rank that Bartholomew obeyed his instinct, and hurled it away

from him. As it lay on the floor, something caught his eye. It was a singe mark, about the size of his hand.

Heart thumping, he picked it up by the hem, and

took it back into the attic where he spread it out on the floor. It was the blanket that Bartholomew had inspected on the night of Augustus’s death. There were the singe marks that had made Bartholomew think that Augustus

had not been imagining things when he had claimed

someone had tried to burn him in his bed. And there

were other marks too - thick, black, encrusted stains

ran in a broad band from one end of the blanket to

the middle. Bartholomew knew old bloodstains when he

saw them, and their implication made him feel sick.

Augustus must have been taken from his room and

hidden up in the attic before Wilson conducted his clandestine search below. Perhaps the murderer had watched

Wilson through the spy-holes, or perhaps he had hidden Augustus’s body in the small passageway, so that Wilson would not have seen it when he effected his own escape.

If Wilson had already explored the attic as he claimed, he would have known the little passage was blocked, and would not have tried to use it to get away.

And then what? When Wilson had gone? Augustus

had been dead, and no counter-claims from anyone

would make Bartholomew disbelieve what he knew.

Had the murderer believed Augustus was still alive, and battered him when he lay wrapped in the blanket? Had

Wilson been lying, and it was he who had returned later and battered the poor body? And regardless of which

solution was the right one, where was Augustus now?

Bartholomew retraced his steps, carefully exploring

every last nook and cranny of the attic, half hoping and half afraid that he would find Augustus. There was

nothing: Augustus was not there. Bartholomew went

back to the passage. The dust had been disturbed, and

not just by his own recent steps. It was highly likely that Augustus had been hidden here until the hue and cry

of his death and disappearance had died down.

The candle was beginning to burn low, and

Bartholomew felt as though he had gained as much

information from the attic as he was going to. At the

last minute, he stuffed the blanket back into the hole in the wall again, as he had found it. He did not want the murderer, were he to return, to know about the clues

he had uncovered.

He lowered himself through the trap-door back

into Augustus’s room and replaced the wooden panel.

As it slid into place, Bartholomew again admired the

workmanship that had produced a secret opening that

was basically invisible, even when he knew where to look.

He brushed himself off carefully and even picked up the lumps of dust that dropped from his clothes. He did not want anyone to guess what he had been doing. He put

his ear to the door, and then let himself out silently.

He glanced in at his patients, and went down the

stairs. The sky had clouded over since the morning,

and it was beginning to rain. Bartholomew stood in the porch for a moment, looking across the courtyard. It

was here he had fallen when Wilson had pushed him

down the stairs. He closed his eyes, and remembered

the footsteps he had heard as he lay there. That must

have been Wilson effecting his escape across the attic floor. In his haste to get away, he had obviously forgotten to move with stealth, and Bartholomew had been able to hear him running.

Bartholomew thought about the night that Augustus