He shuffled on the table, while Philippa watched him, her face pale.
'The fact that you were paying her obvious attention was not likely to encourage her to a life of chastity, so the Abbess, God rot her soul, decided she would remove you: if you could be persuaded to give up your courting, she imagined that Philippa, in paroxysms of grief, would become a nun, and all her worldly wealth would go to the convent. Her plan was that her dreadful nephews, the Olivers, were to start a riot and the blacksmith was paid to deliver a warning — "stay away". It seems the warning was too obtuse for you, because you continued to visit Philippa. The blacksmith swore he had given you the message when pressed by the Olivers. Then the plague came, and the Abbess was able to imprison Philippa in the convent under her policy of isolation.
'Anyway, to take things in order, I managed to work out what the Abbess had done by listening at doors and chatting to the nuns, who told me that the Abbess was bringing great pressure on Philippa to take her vows.'
Philippa nodded her agreement. 'She told me it was my duty to take the veil because so many clerics were dying of the plague. She said there were not enough left to say masses for the dead, and that I could not, in all conscience, refuse to commit myself to a monastic life when there were the souls of so many at stake.'
Abigny watched her for a moment before continuing.
"I became afraid that the Abbess might use the Death to her own advantage, and that she might kill Philippa for the property and blame it on the plague.
I decided I had to take Philippa away from her. So I sent you a message with that cocky medical student, and his cousin, Sister Emelda, agreed to pass a note to Philippa. You were supposed to meet each other in the shed, fall into each other's arms, marry, and live happily ever after. But poor Sister Clement chose that shed in which to die, and you, of course,' he said, bowing to Bartholomew, 'began to suspect all sorts of foul play, and took Philippa to your sister's home.'
He stopped for a minute, and chewed on one of his nails. 'Philippa could not be safe there. The Abbess would work out where she was and take her back. And this time, I was certain she would kill Philippa. You had upset my plans horribly. Instead of taking her to the safety of matrimony, you took her to the very unsafety of Trumpington — and on top of that, she got the plague.
I was furious with you,' he said to Bartholomew with a flash of defiance.
Bartholomew interrupted him, piecing together Abigny's story with what he had learned himself. 'So you hung around Trumpington until she began to recover, seen by the Gilbertine friar and the barmaid from the Laughing Pig,' he said, his voice hard. 'Then you stayed with Philippa for a few days, pretending Philippa was distressed because of her scars, so that poor Edith would not know there were two of you.'
The barmaid had told him Abigny seemed terrified of something. Could it have been the Abbess? Or was Abigny afraid of a more sinister foe — the Oxford scholars, or even the Cambridge men? 'More or less,' said Abigny, unperturbed by Bartholomew's hostility. He glanced at Philippa who stood motionless near the door. He continued. "I took her to Hugh Stapleton's house in Fen Ditton, where she would be safe, and I took Philippa's place in Edith's house, waiting with my crossbow to see whether the Oliver brothers would come. It was a tense wait, I can tell you.
I was almost relieved when you came and uncovered my disguise in that dramatic way, and I could get away from such a nerve-racking situation. We have both been at Fen Ditton ever since.'
'You used my sister!' said Bartholomew, his voice dangerously quiet. He stood abruptly and swung round to face Abigny, who blanched, but did not flinch. 'How did you know the Abbess or the Olivers would not harm her while you skulked in her house?' "I reasoned it out. I made sure that news of my escape was common gossip. The Abbess would hardly go there if she knew Philippa was gone.'
'But you were there for almost a week!' exploded Bartholomew. 'They might have come then.'
'And who took Philippa there in the first place?' yelled Abigny, his temper snapping. 'If anything, this was all your fault!'
Cynric, anticipating violence, uncoiled himself from the fire and moved between them, but Philippa was there before him.
'Please,' she said. 'Hear Giles out'
Abigny mastered his temper with an effort, and resumed his explanation. Bartholomew listened, his face white with fury. "I assumed that the Abbess would not harm you. With Philippa gone, what possible importance could you be to her? Well, I misread her. She held you responsible for Philippa's flight, while Wilson, her lover, claimed that you meant him harm. Within days, Wilson lay dead, burned to death in his own room with you conveniently first at the scene. Sister Emelda told me that she had overheard the Abbess and Henry Oliver discussing how they sent hired thugs to kill you. The Abbess was furious that your brother-in-law made a timely intervention. Not only that, but the money she paid to the thug that was killed was stolen! She sent Elias Oliver to retrieve it from the body: he found the body but the purse had gone.'
Bartholomew gritted his teeth, trying to master the fury, mingled with relief, that welled up inside him. If the blacksmith had been given a clearer message to deliver, perhaps some of this might not have happened. Philippa came to stand next to him. 'Hugh Stapleton's son came a few hours ago to tell us that the Abbess was dead,' she said.
'Apparently Henry Oliver became ill in the convent, and passed the sickness to her. We went immediately to hear the truth from Sister Emelda. And the next thing we did was to come see you.'
Bartholomew let out a huge sigh and stared up at the ceiling, feeling the energy drain out of him. He flopped back into the chair, trying to make sense of what he had heard. He looked at Philippa, her face ashen, and at Abigny, eyeing him expectantly. Could he believe their story? It was certainly true that Henry Oliver had the plague, and may well have passed it to his beloved aunt. Henry had said that Wilson believed Bartholomew meant to kill him. And the essence of the story fitted in with the facts as he knew them. But was there something more? Could he trust Abigny's explanation? How could he be certain that they were not somehow tied up with the University business and the murder of his friends?
It seemed pertinent to Bartholomew that Abigny fled to the house owned by Hugh Stapleton — the dead Principal of Bene't's Hostel — where he had so recently heard his death discussed by his own family.
Outside, the first streaks of dawn were lightening the sky. Philippa rose to leave.
'It seems there have been misunderstandings,' she said coolly, her gaze moving from Bartholomew to Abigny, 'and I am sorry that people have been hurt.
But I am not sorry to be alive, and I doubt that I would be had not Giles acted as he did.' She turned to Abigny. "I will never forgive you for lying to me, although I appreciate you felt it was in my best interests.'
She swept from the kitchen before Bartholomew could respond. Abigny darted after her, and Bartholomew heard the philosopher's voice echoing across the yard as he tried to reason with her. Bartholomew was overwhelmed with a barrage of emotions — anger, grief, hurt, relief. The whole business had gone far enough.
He had spent weeks agonising over Philippa's safety, and had undergone all kinds of mental torment because he did not want to run the risk of endangering his family when he had been desperate to confide in someone.
Now, within a few hours, his trust in his family and in Philippa had been shattered. Gradually, as he considered what he had learned, his confusion hardened into cold anger. He stood up abruptly and reached for his cloak.
Cynric looked at him in alarm.
"I am going to see Oswald,' he said. 'Perhaps then I might learn the truth.'
'No!' exclaimed Cynric, starting forward. 'Do not act foolishly because a woman has upset you. You know Sir Oswald is involved in all this. What can be gained by a confrontation?'
Bartholomew's face lit in a savage smile that made Cynric step back. 'A confrontation is the only way I will gain any peace. This wretched business has taken my friends, my famil
y, and now it seems it will destroy all I had with Philippa.'
He turned on his heel and stalked out, leaving Cynric uncertain as to what to do.
The gates to Stanmore's business premises were just being opened by a yawning apprentice. He told Bartholomew no one else was awake, and suggested he wait in the kitchen. Bartholomew ignored him and made for the solar. This large room leading off the hall on the first floor served as Stanmore's office, and contained all his records of sale and purchase, as well as the petty cash. As Bartholomew expected, the door was locked, but he knew the spare key was kept in a hidden pocket in one of the tapestries that lined the wall of the hall.
He found it, unlocked the door and entered.
Stanmore was meticulous in his business dealings, and records of all the transactions he had undertaken were stored neatly in numbered scrolls on the shelves.
Bartholomew began to sort through them, knocking some onto the floor and piling others onto the table.
He was not sure exactly what he was looking for, but he knew Stanmore well enough to know that if he had done business with the University men, there would be a record of it.
'Matt! What are you doing?' Stephen Stanmore stood in the doorway, still wearing his night clothes. Perhaps the apprentice had woken him up and told him Bartholomew was waiting. Bartholomew ignored him, and continued his search. He saw that, two years before, Bene't Hostel had bought a consignment of blankets from Stanmore, who had been paid handsomely. Stephen watched him for a few moments, and then disappeared. When he came back, Oswald Stanmore was with him, followed by a sleepy-eyed Richard, whose drowsiness disappeared in an instant when he saw his uncle ransacking his father's office. They must have declined to make the journey back to Trumpington in the dark and stayed the night with Stephen.
'Matt?' said Stanmore, watching Bartholomew in bewilderment. 'What do you want? Perhaps I can find it for you?'
Bartholomew waved the document at him. "I am looking for transactions you have had with the men of Bene't Hostel,' he said tightly. "I am looking for evidence that shows that you were involved in the murders of my friends and colleagues.'
Bartholomew saw Stephen turn white, while Richard's mouth dropped open. Stanmore took a step towards him. 'Matt! What are you talking about?'
Bartholomew's eyes blazed. 'Enough lies! Where are they, Oswald? Where are the documents that show how much it cost to buy you?'
Stanmore froze in his tracks, and looked unsteadily at Bartholomew as realisation began to dawn on his face.
"I do not know what you mean,' he said, but his voice lacked conviction.
Bartholomew advanced towards him menacingly.
"I thought your rescue was timely two nights ago. You knew, because your Bene't Hostel associates planned it with the Abbess of St Radegund's! Why did you bother, Oswald? Or does your conscience balk at the murder of relatives?'
The door was flung open, and Hugh stood there, brandishing his crossbow. He saw Bartholomew moving threateningly towards Stanmore, saw his face dark with anger, and fired without a moment's hesitation. Simultaneously, Richard screamed and Stanmore lunged forward and knocked into Hugh so that the bolt thudded harmlessly into the ceiling. Hugh started to reload while Bartholomew gazed open-mouthed in shock. He had known Hugh since he was a child, and yet Hugh had not given a second thought to shooting him. Had the plague and the University business changed their lives so much? 'This is not necessary, Hugh,' said Stanmore in an attempt to sound in control. 'Please leave us.'
Hugh looked as if to demur, but Stephen took him roughly by the shoulder and pushed him from the room, closing the door behind him. Richard stared at the quarrel that was embedded, still quivering, in the wooden ceiling. Stanmore lost his usual, confident bearing, and slumped into a chair, where Richard and Stephen came to stand behind him. Bartholomew suddenly noticed the similarity between the three of them.
Oswald and Stephen had always been alike, and Richard was beginning to look like a younger version, without the silver beard.
Bartholomew eyed Stanmore sitting in his chair with his head bowed, and moved cautiously to the other side of the room, where he could see all three of them at once.
It was Richard who broke the silence.
'You are wrong,' he said, his voice unsteady. 'My father would never let them harm you. He always made sure they understood that.'
Stanmore seemed to pull himself together. He gestured that Bartholomew should sit next to him.
Bartholomew declined, and stood waiting, tense and wary. Stanmore took a deep breath and began to speak, his voice sometimes so low that Bartholomew had to strain to hear it.
'It started about a year ago,' he said. 'You know I maintain my own network of informants about the town?
Well, word came to me that there were moves by Oxford scholars to try to undermine the University here, but I assumed that it was merely overpaid scholars with too much time on their hands playing games. Perhaps it started like that, but last year the business seemed to escalate. There were all sorts of rumours of spies, secret messages, and the like. Then people began to die: there were the two lads who had eaten bad oysters, and the Master of King's Hall, to name but three. Anyway, it became clear that there was a plot afoot to strike at the University through some of its most powerful members — the Fellows and Masters of the Colleges.'
He paused and studied his fingernails. Bartholomew waited impatiently.
'Last spring, Burwell came to me and told me that the hostels had set up a secret committee to look into the matter. Deaths were occurring in the Colleges, and there was speculation by the hostels that the Colleges were riddled with spies from Oxford. The hostel group believed that Oxford, by striking at the Colleges, might force prospective benefactors like the Bishop of Norwich and Edmund Gonville to withhold money from Cambridge, because the Colleges appeared to be rank with corruption. The hostel group did not include anyone from the Colleges because they could not be sure who was honest and who was a spy. Are you following me?'
Bartholomew nodded restlessly.
'The hostel group also decided to include some trustworthy citizens from the town. The hostels are poor, unlike the Colleges that have their endowments and support from the King, and it takes money to set up a system of spies. They included me and five others because we conduct a lot of business with the University, and it is in our interests to ensure that the University does not flounder. So, we provided them with money, and they ensured that we had custom. A harmless relationship.'
'It was not harmless for Augustus, Sir John, or Aelfrith,' said Bartholomew coldly.
Stanmore looked up sharply. 'Father Aelfrith? He died of the plague.'
'He was poisoned,' said Bartholomew bluntly.
Stanmore stared at Bartholomew in disbelief. "I did not know,' he said eventually. 'But I have not finished, Matt. For a while, it seemed as if the hostels' system of spies was having some success, for the deaths ceased.
Then, without warning, they started again. Two Fellows from the Hall of Valence Marie died, Sir John committed suicide, and then there were all those rumours about the commoners being killed for his seal. We have been meeting regularly and secretly to try to find out what is happening. In the last few months, most of the trouble has been at Michaelhouse. There is something going on there that none of us understand. Perhaps the entire conspiracy against the University is coming from Michaelhouse.'
He glanced up at Stephen, who nodded agreement Bartholomew kept his expression neutral, although his mind was teeming. Aelfrith had told him that there were deaths at King's Hall, Clare, and Peterhouse, and then a long gap before those at Valence Marie and Michaelhouse. Bartholomew wondered, since Stanmore's information coincided with Aelfrith's, if Stanmore's motives were pure after all.
'The University buys cloth from me rather than from other merchants,' Stanmore continued. 'In turn, I give them money to help them maintain their network of informants. But I have most certainly not been involved in murder, and I have
never done anything that would harm you. That was one of the conditions on which I joined the hostels' group — that if there was anything that would affect you, I would be told first so that I could keep you out of it.'
'And what about the plan to dispose of Alcote?' asked Bartholomew.
Stanmore looked at him in shock. 'How do you know about that?' He put his head back in his hands again. 'Oh, God, no! We have a spy in our midst, too! Do not tell me our group is known of in Michaelhouse. If that is so,' he said, looking up at Bartholomew, 'then all our lives could be in danger.' He turned to Richard. 'Why did I involve you in this?' he cried, suddenly desolate.
Richard met his eyes with a level stare. 'You did not, Father. I was approached independently of you.'
He looked at Bartholomew. 'At Oxford, I can listen and learn, and I, too, can send back information that may help to put an end to this silly plot.'
Bartholomew ignored him. 'You did not answer my question,' he said to Stanmore. 'What about the plan… how was it put?… to take Alcote out of the equation?'
'It was you!' said Stephen suddenly. 'That noise we heard outside the window. It was you listening!'
Bartholomew continued to hold Stanmore's eyes.
'Well?' he said.
'Not what you think,' he said wearily. 'Our group does not condone murder. There are other ways. A word to the Chancellor to say that women have been seen coming out of his room early in the morning. Or even boys. A rumour that he has been drinking too much, or that his College has become riotous. It is not necessary to kill to remove a man from office. And if Alcote is a spy for Oxford, as our intelligence suggests, then he should not be in a position to run your College anyway, would you not agree?'
'But who are you to judge?' Bartholomew said quietly. He glanced round at the three men, and was suddenly sick of it all. He wanted to make for the door.
Richard barred his way. Bartholomew did not want to manhandle him and stopped in his tracks.
'We have done nothing wrong,' Richard said with dignity, 'except to try to sort out this mess, to stop more people from dying. I would do the same again. And I also want you to know that Father has been using the hostels' spies to try to find out about Philippa for you.
A Plague On Both Your Houses Page 28