A Plague on Both Your Houses (8 page)

unexplained details. Suddenly, he had no doubts about

the validity of Augustus’s statements, and that, because of them, someone had wanted him out of the way. But who?

And why? And even more urgent, where was Augustus’s

body? Why would anyone want to remove the body of

an old man?

‘Matthew?’ Bartholomew opened his eyes. Father

Aelfrith’s austere face was regarding him sombrely, his normally neat grey hair sticking up in all directions

around his tonsure. ‘Look in the commoners’ room to

see if Augustus was moved there, then look down the

stairs …’

Bartholomew sighed. ‘Whoever attacked you also

attacked me. I was knocked down the stairs, and I know Augustus is not there. I looked in the commoners’ room and know that he is not there either. We will check

again together, but whoever attacked us also seems to

have taken Augustus.’

‘That does not necessarily follow, my son,’ said

Aelfrith. ‘You have no proof for such a statement.’

Bartholomew pulled a face. Aelfrith, one of the

University’s foremost teachers of logic, was right, but both attacks and the removal of Augustus had occurred

in or near Augustus’s room, and if the same person was not responsible, then at least both events must have been connected to the same cause.

‘We should fetch Master Wilson,’ he said. ‘He should

come to decide what should be done.’

‘Yes. We will,’ said Aelfrith. ‘But first I want to find Augustus. He cannot be far. We will look together, and undoubtedly find that he has been moved for some

perfectly logical reason.’

Aelfrith rose, looking under the bed a second

time as he did so. In the interests of being thorough, Bartholomew also glanced under the bed, but there

was nothing there, not even the black fragments

of wood he had examined the night before. He

looked closer. The dust that had collected under

the bed had gone. It looked as though someone

had carefully swept underneath it. He looked at the

floor under the small table, and found that that too

had been swept.

‘You will not find him under there, Matthew,’ said

Aelfrith, a trifle testily, and began to walk to the

commoners’ room. Bartholomew followed, looking at

the gouge in the wall where he had deflected the knife blade away from himself.

Both men stood in the doorway looking at the nine

sleeping commoners. All along the far side of the long room were tiny carrels, or small workspaces, positioned to make use of the lightfrom the windows. The carrels had high wooden sides so that, when seated, a scholar would not be able to see his neighbour; for most scholars in medieval Cambridge, privacy for studying was regarded

as a far more valuable thing than privacy to sleep. All the carrels were empty, some with papers lying in them, one or two with a precious book from Michaelhouse’s small

library.

Bartholomew walked slowly round the room, checking

each of the commoners. Five of them, including

Paul, were old men, living out their lives on College

hospitality as a reward for a lifetime of service. The man who had attacked Bartholomew had been strong, and

of a height similar to his own. Bartholomew was above

average height, and sturdily built. He was also fitter and stronger than the average scholar since a good part of his day involved walking to see patients, and he enjoyed taking exercise. The attacker could not have been any

of the old men, which left four.

Of these, Roger Alyngton was Bartholomew’s size,

but had one arm that was withered and useless, and

Bartholomew’s attacker had two strong arms. So the

number was down to three. Father Jerome was taller

than Bartholomew by three inches or more, but was

painfully thin and was constantly racked by a dry rattling cough. Bartholomew suspected a wasting disease,

although Jerome refused all medicines, and would be far too weak to take on someone of Bartholomew’s size. That left two. These were the Frenchman, Henri d’Evene and

the brusque Yorkshireman, Jocelyn of Ripon. D’Evene

was slight, and, although it was conceivable that he

could have attacked Bartholomew, it was doubtful that

he would have the strength to overcome him. Jocelyn

was a recent visitor to Michaelhouse, and had come at

the invitation of Swynford. He was a large man with a

ruddy face and a shiny bald head. Bartholomew had not

seen him sober since he had arrived, and he had been

admonished several times by Sir John for his belligerent attitude when College members gathered in the conclave for company in the evenings. He certainly would have

the strength to overpower Bartholomew.

Bartholomew stood looking down at him. Even

in sleep, Jocelyn scowled. Could he be the assailant?

Bartholomew bent close to him and caught the fumes

of the previous evening’s wine. His attacker had not had alcoholic fumes on his breath. Of course, this could be a ruse, and he could easily have downed a glass of wine as a cover for his actions. D’Evene lay on the pallet next to him curled up like a child.

Bartholomew straightened, and tiptoed out of the

dormitory, wincing at his sore knee. He joined Aelfrith who was still standing in the doorway, looking grey-faced and prodding cautiously at the gash on his head.

‘How long was it before you were attacked?’

Bartholomew asked of the friar.

Aelfrith thought carefully. “I am not sure. The feast

became very noisy after I left. I expect the other Fellows left shortly after us for it would not be seemly to continue to carouse when one of our number lay dead. The

students, though, would have enjoyed their freedom

and the wine. None of the commoners had returned,

however,’ he said suddenly. ‘It is not every day that the commoners are treated to such food and wine, and,

like the students, they intended to wring every drop of enjoyment out of it that they could.’

‘So you, Paul, and Augustus were the only ones in

this part of the building?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And all the others were in the hall?’

“I do not know that they were in the hall,’ replied

the logician, ‘but they were not here. The feast became noisy, as I said, and I found that it was distracting me from my prayers. I rose, perhaps shortly after midnight, to close the door to the room, and continued with my prayers. I may have nodded off for a while,’ he admitted, ‘but I

would have woken if the commoners had returned.’

‘Did you hear any sounds, other than the noise from

the hall?’

‘None,’ said Aelfrith firmly. ‘And what about you?

How did you come to be in the commoners’ room

so early?’

“I rose at my usual time,’ replied Bartholomew, ‘and

I saw a flicker of light coming from Augustus’s room. I came because I thought you might like to be relieved

for a while.’

Aelfrith acknowledged this with a bow of his head.

‘Pray continue,’ he said.

“I came as quietly as I could so as not to wake anyone, opened the door, and saw what I assumed to be you

kneeling on the floor prising up the floorboards. What I thought was Augustus lay on the floor. As I entered, whoever it was that I thought was you leapt to his feet and came at me before I had the chance to react.

He had a knife, and we grappled together. Then he

pushed me down the stairs, and I heard footsteps. He

did not come down the stairs because I fell against the door and he could not have opened it without moving

me. I went back up the stairs, but could find no trace of him, either in Augustus’s room or the dormitory.

Then you came round and I realised that Augustus was

missing.’

Aelfrith frowned. ‘These commoners sleep very

soundly,’ he said. “I am knocked on the head, and

probably fell with quite a clatter. You have a fight

on the landing virtually outside their room, and

none of them wake. Now, we stand here speaking to

each other, and not a soul stirs. Curious, would you

not say?’

He strode into the centre of the commoners’ dormitory, and clapped his hands loudly. Jocelyn’s snores

stopped for a second, but then resumed. Aelfrith picked up a pewter plate from a table, tipping off some wizened apples, and banged it as hard as he could against the wall, making an unholy row. Jocelyn groaned, and turned onto his side. D’Evene and Jerome began to stir, but did not wake.

The cold feeling of unease that had earlier been

in Bartholomew’s stomach returned. He knelt down by

Alyngton and felt his neck. His life beat was rapid and erratic. He pulled back his eyelids, noting how the pupils responded slowly to the light. He moved to one of the

old men, and went through the same process.

He looked up at Aelfrith. ‘They have been drugged,’

he said. ‘Of course! How else could an intruder hope to ransack a room and steal a body?’

Aelfrith stared back. ‘My God, man,’ he whispered.

‘What evil is afoot in this College? What is going on to warrant such violence?’

Augustus’s words of the previous day came back

to Bartholomew: ‘“Evil is afoot, and will corrupt us all, especially those who are unaware.”’

‘What?’ asked Aelfrith, and Bartholomew realised

he had spoken aloud. He was about to explain, when

something stopped him. He was confused. The events

of the past few hours seemed totally inexplicable to him, and the brightness of the day seemed suddenly dulled,

as suspicion and distrust settled upon his thoughts.

‘Just quoting,’ he mumbled dismissively, rising to

check on the others.

‘Here!’ exclaimed Aelfrith. Bartholomew spun

round. ‘This must be it!’ He held a large pewter jug

in his hands, similar to the ones used to serve the wine at meals in the hall. Bartholomew took it gingerly. At the bottom were the dregs of the wine, and a few cloves.

Evidently, Master Wilson’s good wine had been replaced with inferior stuff that needed spicing when the feast had reached a certain point. But there was something else too.

Swirling in the dregs and drying on the side of the jug were traces of a grey-white powder. Bartholomew smelled it

carefully and detected a strong hint of laudanum. The

commoners must have been drunk indeed not to have

noticed it, and, at this strength, mixed with the effects of a night’s drinking, would ensure that the commoners slept at least until midday.

He handed the jug back to Aelfrith. ‘A sleeping

draught,’ he said, ‘and a strong one too. I only hope

it was not too strong for the old folks.’ He continued his rounds, lying the torpid commoners on their sides

so they would not choke, and testing for the strength of their pulses. He was concerned for one, a tiny man with a curved spine who was known simply as ‘Montfitchet’ after the castle in which he had been born. Montfitchet’s pulse was far too rapid, and he felt clammy to the touch.

“I wonder whether it was consumed here, or in the

hall,’ said Aelfrith thoughtfully. ‘We will find out when they awake. When will that be, do you think?’

‘You can try to wake Jocelyn now,’ said Bartholomew.

“I suspect he may be more resistant to strong drink

than the others, and he almost woke when you banged

the plate.’

Bartholomew reached Brother Paul. Paul had not

attended the feast, and if he too had been drugged,

the chances were that the wine had been sent to the

commoners’ dormitory to be consumed by them there.

Bartholomew felt Paul’s neck for a life beat, his mind on the mysteries that were unravelling all around him.

He snapped into alertness, quickly dragged the thick

covering from the pallet, and stared in horror. Aelfrith came to peer over his shoulder.

‘Oh, sweet Jesus,’ he breathed. He crossed himself

and took a step backwards. ‘My God, Matthew, what

is happening here? The Devil walked in Michaelhouse

last night!’

Bartholomew stared down at the blood-soaked sheet

on which Paul lay. The knife that had caused his death still protruded from his stomach, and one of his hands was

clasped loosely round the hilt. Bartholomew pulled at it, a long, wicked Welsh dagger similar to those that he had seen carried by Cynric and the soldiers at the Castle.

‘Another suicide?’ whispered Aelfrith, seeing Paul’s

hand on the hilt.

“I do not think so, Father. The knife was stabbed

into Paul with such force that I think it is embedded in his spine. I cannot pull it out. Paul would never have had the strength for such a blow. And I do not think

his death was instant. I think he died several minutes after the wound. Look, both hands are bloodstained,

and blood is smeared over the sheet. I think he was

trying to pull the knife out, and I think the murderer waited for him to die before arranging the bedclothes

in such a way that no one would notice he was dead

until the morning. And by then,’ he said, turning to

face Aelfrith, ‘whatever business was going on last night would be completed:’

‘Or would have been,’ said Aelfrith, ‘had you not

been an early riser and an abstemious drinker!’ He

shuddered, looking down at the pathetic body of Brother Paul. ‘Poor man! I will say a mass for him and for Augustus this morning. But now, we must inform the Master. You

stay here while I fetch him.’

While Aelfrith was gone, Bartholomew inspected

Paul. He was cold, and the blood had congealed. Aelfrith had said that he had heard a sound and had gone to

check Paul. Had he already been dead then? Was it the

murderer Aelfrith had heard? Bartholomew had heard