A Plague on Both Your Houses (6 page)

died afraid: three generations of students had benefited from his patient teaching, and he had been kind to

Bartholomew, too, when the younger man had first

been appointed at Michaelhouse. When Sir John had

arranged Bartholomew’s fellowship, not all members

of the College had been supportive. Yet Augustus, like Sir John, had seen in Bartholomew an opportunity to

improve the strained relationship between the College

and the town; Bartholomew had been given Sir John’s

blessing to work among the poor and not merely to

pander to the minor complaints of the wealthy.

The gravelly sound of Michael clearing his throat

jerked Bartholomew back to the present. Sir John was

dead, and so, now, was Augustus. Michael had finished

his prayers, and was stepping forward to anoint Augustus’s eyes, mouth and hands with a small bottle of chrism that Alexander had fetched. He did so quickly, concentrating on his words so that he would not have to see Augustus’s expression of horror. Bartholomew had seen many such

expressions before: his Arab master had once taken him to the scene of a battle in France, where they had scoured the field looking for the wounded among the dead and

dying, and so Augustus’s face did not hold the same

horror for him as it did for Michael.

While waiting for Michael, Bartholomew looked

around the room. Since the commotion two nights

before, Wilson had decreed that Augustus should not

be allowed the fire he usually had during the night.

Wilson said, with good reason, that it was not safe, and that he could not risk the lives of others by allowing a madman to be left alone with naked flames.

Bartholomew suspected that Wilson was also considering the cost, because he had questioned Sir John on

several occasions about the necessity of the commoners having a fire in July and August. Michaelhouse was built of stone, and Bartholomew knew that Augustus was not

the only old man to complain of being cold, even in the height of summer. That a small fire burned merrily in

the hearth suggested that one kind-hearted servant had chosen to ignore Wilson’s orders and let Augustus have his comfort.

‘Matt, come away. We have done all we can here.’

Bartholomew glanced up at Michael. His face was

shiny with sweat, and had an almost greenish hue. The

chrism in the small bottle he held shook as his hands

trembled, and he was looking everywhere except at

Bartholomew and Augustus.

‘What is the matter with you?’ asked Bartholomew,

perplexed. Michael had often accompanied Bartholomew

to pray for patients beyond his medicine

and had seen death many times. He had not been

especially close to Augustus, and so his behaviour could not be explained by grief.

Michael took a handful of Bartholomew’s gown

and pulled hard. Just come away. Leave him be, and

come with me back to the hall.’ Bartholomew resisted

the tug, and the small bottle fell from Michael’s hand and bounced onto the floor.

‘Pull yourself together, man,’ Bartholomew said,

exasperated, and leaned down to retrieve the bottle,

which had rolled under the bed. He picked it up to

hand back to Michael, and was startled to see the hem

of the monk’s robes disappearing through the door.

Michael had, quite literally, fled.

Bartholomew looked to Alexander, who appeared

as bewildered as Bartholomew felt. ‘Go back to the feast,’

he said, seeing the steward’s unease. ‘You will be needed there. I will see to Augustus.’

Alexander left, shutting the door behind him, and

Bartholomew heard his feet clattering down the stairs

and the outside door slam shut. He chewed on his lower lip, bemused. What had been the matter with Michael?

They had known each other since Bartholomew had

been made a Fellow, and Bartholomew had never seen

him in such a state before. Usually the obese monk was well in control of his emotions, and he rarely allowed himself to be so discomfited that he was unable to come up with a sardonic remark or cutting response.

As Bartholomew put the bottle of chrism down on

the window-sill, he noticed that the lid had come off and that his hand was greasy with the highly scented oil. He wiped it on a napkin that lay on a desk under the window, and dropped to his hands and knees with the lamp to

look for the bottle-top. It had rolled to the far side of the bed, and Bartholomew had to lie flat to reach it. As he stood up, he noticed that his clothes were covered

with small flecks of black. Puzzled, he peered closely at some of the bits that clung to his sleeve. They looked like flakes of burned parchment. He brushed them off;

they must have come from the fire in the hearth. He was about to leave when the edge of the bedclothes caught

his eye. On the light green blanket was a pale scorch

mark about the size of his hand. Curious, he inspected the rest of the covering, and found a similar spot at the corner.

Augustus’s screams of two nights before came tearing

into his mind. Augustus had claimed that devils had

come to burn him alive! Bartholomew shook his head.

He was being ridiculous. Agatha had probably burned

the blanket while it was being laundered, although he

would not wish to be the one to ask her. Nevertheless, he took the lamp, and, lying flat on his back, he inspected the wooden slats underneath the bed. He swallowed hard.

The boards were singed, and one was even charred.

Augustus had not been imagining things. There had been a fire under his bed.

Still lying on his back, he thought about the events

of two days before. It had been deep in the night, perhaps one or two o’ clock, when Augustus had started to yell.

Bartholomew had thrown on his gown and run to the

commoners’ dormitory, which was diagonally opposite

his own room across the courtyard. By the time he

had arrived, Alcote, Alexander, and Father William

were already there with Wilson’s book-bearer, Gilbert, and the commoners from the next room. Alcote and

William said that they had been working together in

William’s rooms on material for a public debate they

were to hold the next day, and since William’s room

was directly below that of Augustus, had been the

first to arrive. Gilbert, always ferreting information and gossip for Wilson, had materialised from nowhere, and

Alexander never seemed to sleep.

Bartholomew screwed up his eyes. But one other

person had also arrived before him. Brother Michael

had been there. He had been dishevelled, as was

Bartholomew, having been woken from his sleep, but

Michael’s room was above Bartholomew’s, so he must

have moved with uncharacteristic haste to have arrived first. Unless he had been there already. The thought

came unbidden into Bartholomew’s mind. Michael was

dishevelled. Had he been involved in a tussle with

Augustus and set a fire under the bed? Was Brother

Michael the devil of Augustus’s mind? But Augustus’s

door had been locked from the inside, and Michael had

helped Bartholomew to break it down.

It made no sense. Why would Michael wish Augustus

harm? Michael was a monk: a rarity in the University,

where friars and priests abounded, but Benedictine

monks were uncommon. Bartholomew reached for the

damaged wood and scratched it with his fingernail. It

was quite deeply burnt, not merely singed, so whoever

had started the fire had meant business. Bartholomew

thought again. The room had been horribly smoky,

enough to make his eyes smart, but the windows were

open, and the draught was sucking the smoke back down

the chimney where it was billowing into the room. He

remembered asking Alexander to douse the fire to allow some fresh air to circulate. Any evidence of smoke from under the bed would have been masked by the fire in

the hearth.

He felt angry at himself. He had not believed for an

instant that there could have been any degree of truth in Augustus’s story. But what if his other ramblings held grains of truth? What of his statements today? What

had he said? Something to the effect that evil was afoot and would corrupt them all, especially those who were

unaware, and that Sir John had begun to guess and look what had happened to him.

Bartholomew felt his blood run cold. Sir John’ s sudden demise had taken everyone by surprise; he had certainly not seemed suicidal the night of his death as Bartholomew could attest. What if he had not committed

suicide? What if there was truth in senile Augustus’s

mumblings, and Sir John had begun to guess something?

But what? Michaelhouse had its petty rivalries and bids for power, as, no doubt, every other College and hostel in the University did. But Bartholomew found it hard

to imagine that there could be anything so important as to warrant the taking of lives. And anyway, Michael and Bartholomew had seen Augustus alive before the feast,

and none of the Fellows, commoners, or students had

left the hall before Bartholomew had been summoned

by Alexander.

He slid out from under the bed for a second time

and dusted himself off. He looked down at Augustus’s

sprawled corpse, at the horrified look on the face. Sitting on the bed, he began a rigorous inspection of the body.

He sniffed at the mouth to check for any signs of poison; he ran his fingers through Augustus’s wispy hair to see if he had been struck on the head; he lifted the bed-gown to look for any small puncture marks or bruises; and,

finally, he examined the hands. There was nothing, not even a fibre trapped under the fingernails. There was

not a mark on the body, and not the merest hint of

blood. Aware that the chrism may have masked the

smell of poison, Bartholomew prised the dead man’s

mouth open again, and, holding the lamp close, looked

carefully for any redness or swelling on the tongue or gums. Nothing.

He began to feel foolish. It had been a long day, and

he was tired. Henry Oliver’s attempt to leave him to the mercies of the town mob must have upset him more

than he had thought, and it had not been pleasant to

see the loathsome Wilson sit so smugly in Sir John’s

chair. I am as bad as old Augustus with his imaginings, Bartholomew thought irritably. The old commoner had

most likely set the bed alight himself, not realising what he had done.

Bartholomew straightened Augustus’s limbs, pulled

the bed-gown down over the ancient knees, and covered

him decently with the blanket. He kicked and poked

at the fire until he was sure it was out, fastened the window-shutters, and, taking the lamp, left the room.

He would ask Father Aelfrith to keep vigil over the body.

It was getting late, and the feast should almost have run its course by now.

As he made his way down the stairs, he thought he saw

a shadow flit across the doorway, and his heart almost missed a beat. But when he reached the courtyard, there was nothing to be seen.

The feast seemed to have degenerated somewhat since

he had left, and the floor and tables were strewn with thrown food and spilt wine. Abigny was standing on one of the students’ tables reciting ribald poetry to a chorus of catcalls and cheers, while the two Franciscans looked on disapprovingly. Brother Michael had returned to his place, and gave Bartholomew a wan smile. Alcote and

Swynford were deep in their cups, and Wilson, too, was flushed, although with wine or the heat of the room

Bartholomew could not tell.

‘You have been a damned long time!’ Wilson

snapped at Bartholomew as he approached. ‘What of

old Augustus? How is he?’

‘Dead,’ Bartholomew said bluntly, watching for any

reaction on the smug face. There was nothing, not even a flicker of emotion.

‘Well, it is for the best. The man had lived his threescore years and ten. What kept you?’

Bartholomew suddenly found himself being examined

closely by Wilson’s heavily-lidded eyes. He stared back, hoping that the dislike he felt for the man did not

show in his face. “I had to make my examinations,’ he

responded.

The lazy hooded eyes were deceptive, and Wilson

pounced like a cat. ‘What examinations?’ he said sharply.

‘What are you saying? Michael returned ages ago. What

were you doing?’

‘Nothing that need concern you, Master Wilson,’

replied Bartholomew coldly. He resented being questioned so. For all Wilson knew, he might have been

visiting a patient, and that was none of his business.

‘Everything in the College concerns me, Doctor

Bartholomew. You may have had a loose rein under

Babington, but you are under my authority now. I ask

again: what examinations?’

Bartholomew felt like emptying a nearby pitcher of

wine over Wilson’s head and walking out, but he had

no wish to lose his fellowship over the likes of Wilson.

He swallowed down several retorts of which the facetious Brother Michael would have been proud, and answered

calmly, ‘Augustus had not died in his sleep as I thought he might. His eyes were open and he looked terrified.

It is my duty to make sure that the causes of death were natural.’

‘“Causes of death were natural”,’ Wilson mimicked

with a sneer. ‘And? What did you find?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Of course you found nothing,’ spat Wilson. ‘Augustus

probably frightened himself to death with one of his

flights of imagination. What did you expect?’ He

turned to Swynford and gave one of his superior