A Plague On Both Your Houses

by Susanna GREGORY

  He has paid a good deal of money and spent a lot of his time following false leads and asking questions on your behalf. We all have. Father and I spent all of the night before last in that seedy King's Head because someone had told us that a traveller would be there who may have seen Abigny on the London Road.'

  A memory flashed into Bartholomew's mind. He had thought he had seen Stanmore coming out of the King's Head after he had met his well-wisher by the plague pit.

  So, his eyes had not deceived him after all.

  "I am sorry,' Stanmore said. 'We found the traveller, but he could tell us nothing about Abigny.'

  Bartholomew suddenly felt ashamed and bewildered.

  He had become so confused by all the lies and deceit, and so accustomed to suspecting his colleagues of intrigues, that he had applied the same rules to his family. Perhaps he had also misjudged Philippa and Abigny. Stanmore's neat office was in total disarray, with scrolls scattered everywhere and a crossbow quarrel in the ceiling. Bartholomew sank down onto a stool, uncertain whether his weariness came from the fact that his family's apparent involvement appeared to be harmless after all, or from the battering his senses had taken in the past few hours.

  In an unsteady voice, Stanmore said, "I dread to think what Edith will say if she ever learns that her beloved brother was shot at in her husband's office.'

  'Your steward seems somewhat trigger-happy,' said Bartholomew, also shakily, when he recalled how Stanmore's quick reaction had saved his life. 'Remind me never to haggle over cloth prices in your office.'

  'It is a dangerous game we play, Matt,' Stanmore said. 'You were attacked by the river; Giles Abigny pursues some strange business of his own under my very roof; and Richard and I were ambushed by footpads the other night. Hugh saved our lives, as he saved yours down by the river, and doubtless the responsibility is beginning to tell on him. He had never, in thirty years of service, been called upon to use his crossbow, and then, in a matter of days, he is required to use it three times.'

  Bartholomew looked from Richard to Stanmore, bewildered. 'Ambushed?'

  Richard nodded vigorously. 'When we left the King's Head. Four men ambushed us just outside the gates here.

  Hugh shot one of them and captured another.'

  'They were farmers from out Shelford way,' said Stanmore. 'They heard how easy it was to steal in Cambridge with so many dead of the plague, and thought to try it for themselves. Of course, it is easy to steal from the dead and dying, but these four fellows felt that was unethical, and decided to steal from the living instead.'

  'The Sheriff should shoot anyone seen out after the curfew,' said Stephen. 'His laxity is the cause of all this villainy.'

  'And what if he had seen you out last night as you returned from Bene't's?' retorted Bartholomew. "I am often called out to patients at night, and would not relish being shot at before I had a chance to explain myself.'

  'We would not have been able to explain our business last night, Stephen,' Stanmore agreed. 'We swore an oath of secrecy, and we could hardly tell the watch where we had been and what we had been discussing.'

  Stephen acquiesced with a sideways tilt of his head, and there was silence. As if it were a magnet, the gaze of all four lit upon the crossbow bolt.

  'What will mother say?' Richard said, echoing his father's words.

  'Why would she find out?' asked Bartholomew with a weak smile.

  'Well, thank the Lord we have resolved all that!' said Richard heartily, his natural cheerfulness bubbling to the surface again. "I hated having secrets from you, Uncle Matt. We all wanted to tell you, but we were afraid it might put you in danger, being at Michaelhouse and all. We have tried hard to keep you away from it as much as we could, but I suppose it is your home.'

  Bartholomew smiled at him. Richard was at an age where he could make astonishingly adult observations, but could still make things childishly simple.

  Bartholomew could see that Richard considered that no lasting damage had been done by the scene in his father's study, and was quite happy to continue his life exactly the same way as before.

  "I will tell the cook to make us some breakfast,' he said, marching out of the room.

  'You really let him spy in Oxford?' asked Bartholomew, after he had gone.

  Stanmore looked askance at him. 'Of course not, Matt.

  What do you think I am? He is a bright boy, and he is good at listening, but the information he sends us is nothing. It pleases him to think he is helping, and I would not hurt his feelings by telling him otherwise.' "I believe I owe you an apology,' said Bartholomew, 'And we owe you one. We should have told you. We wanted to, but we honestly believed you would be safer not knowing. I had decided I would tell you everything if you ever asked, but you never mentioned anything to me. I also did not want to distress you by telling you I thought Sir John had been murdered. Especially since there was nothing you could have done, and I was afraid you would start on some investigation of your own that might lead you into danger.'

  He laughed softly. 'We involve a child like Richard, and we keep you in the dark. How stupid we must seem to you!' "I am sorry,' said Bartholomew. He rubbed his hand over his eyes. 'All this intrigue, with the plague on top of it, must be addling my mind, like Colet. I misjudged you.'

  The Stanmores dismissed his words with impatient shakes of their heads. Stephen suddenly gave him a hard poke in the chest. 'You lose my best horse, and now you tear our offices apart. Just stay away from my hounds and my falcons,' he said, feigning severity. Bartholomew smiled and followed Stephen down the stairs, where Richard was shouting that breakfast was ready. Hugh slouched in the inglenook in the fireplace, and looked uneasily at Bartholomew. Stanmore whispered in his ear, and he gave Bartholomew a grin before leaving the room.

  'What did you say to him?' Bartholomew asked.

  'Oh, I just told him you had spent the night sampling Master Wilson's best wine,' said Stanmore.

  'You told him I was drunk?' asked Bartholomew incredulously.

  Stanmore nodded casually. 'He loathed Wilson, and it will give him great pleasure to think you have been drinking his wine. His collection of fine wines is quite the envy of the town, you know.'

  Bartholomew did not, and sat for a while, talking to the Stanmores before they were obliged to attend to their business. Bartholomew fell asleep in the parlour, and only awoke when a clatter of horses' hooves echoed in the yard. He sat up and stretched, scrubbing at his face with his hands, and thinking about what he should do that day. He glanced out of the window, and stared morosely at the raindrops that pattered in the mud. He wondered why he felt so gloomy when Philippa was safe, and his family had exonerated themselves from the evil doings of the University.

  But the University was still at the heart of the matter.

  Despite all that he had learned over the last few hours, there were questions that remained unanswered. Such as who had killed Sir John. He knew why, but he was no further forward in discovering who. Did the same person murder Sir John, poison Aelfrith, and take Augustus's body? Bartholomew rubbed his chin. Whoever killed Sir John for the seal must also have killed Augustus and desecrated his body — also for the seal. But why had Aelfrith spoken Wilson's name on his deathbed?

  Bartholomew knew that Wilson had not killed Augustus, and if not Augustus, then probably not Sir John.

  Could it have been Alcote? He was the spy in their midst, according to the hostels' information. Was he also the murderer? Wilson had said that Alcote had been so drunk that he had not known when Wilson had left their room to search Augustus's room for the seal. But supposing Alcote had not been drunk, and had been pretending? Then he too could have been up and sneaking around the College. But Wilson had said that Augustus had already gone from the room when he got there, and Wilson and Alcote had been together until then.

  Of course, Bartholomew thought, all this was assuming everyone was telling the truth. Alcote and Wilson may have been in this together, each lying to protect the other. Bartho
lomew wondered if Alcote knew of Wilson's nocturnal visits to the Abbess, and whether he approved. He wondered whether he should warn Alcote that his information had been intercepted.

  Bartholomew had no doubt that the Stanmores believed that Alcote would merely be discredited to remove him from his position of power, but Bartholomew thought of Sir John, Augustus, Paul, Montfitchet, and Aelfrith, and was not so sure.

  He thought of Alcote — small, fussy, and petty. Could he have had the strength to drive the knife so deeply into Paul's body? Could he have overpowered Sir John?

  Bartholomew thought of Wilson hauling himself through the trap-door, and of Michael' s strong arm in hauling him to his feet once. Perhaps he spent too much time with the weak and dying, and no longer appreciated the strength of the healthy, strength that could be magnified by fear or desperation.

  The more he thought about it, the less he understood. Despite all that he had learned from eavesdropping, Philippa and Abigny, and his confrontation with the Stanmores, he was as much in the dark as ever. Far from easing his mind, his conversation had made him even more concerned for the safety of his family. Abigny had thought nothing of endangering Edith when he was trying to help Philippa. Bartholomew thought about what Stanmore had told him of the Oxford plot, and wondered whether the survival of the University was enough of a reason for men like Yaxley, Stayne, and Burwell to become involved. Stanmore claimed he knew nothing of murder, and Bartholomew believed him. But Yaxley, Burwell, and Stayne might. So was the University's survival sufficient reason for which to commit murder?

  Wilson intimated on his deathbed that there were those who cared passionately about it, and might give their lives for it. Would they also take lives?

  And so he came back to the same question yet again: who was the murderer in Michaelhouse? All the Fellows had alibis for Augustus's death, so was the killer an outsider after all? And where was Michael? Had he fled Cambridge to escape the plague like so many others, or was he, too, lying dead somewhere? Bartholomew stood watching the rain for a while longer, but his thoughts began to repeat themselves. He wondered what he should do next. He was too battered emotionally for a confrontation with Philippa, Abigny, or one of the hostel men, but he still had patients to see. Reluctantly, he left the warmth of Stephen's house, and prepared to trudge back to Michaelhouse.

  11

  Bartholomew had barely returned to Michaelhouse when a messenger arrived with a note from Edith saying that she had hurt her arm. She said it was very painful, and asked that he come to tend it as soon as possible. A shout from the commoners' window made him look up.

  'Father Jerome is dying,' the Benedictine called, 'and he is asking for you.'

  Bartholomew was torn with indecision. Should he go to the dying man or his sister? As if in answer to his prayers, Gray came sauntering through the gates.

  Bartholomew strode over to him in relief. Gray could go to Edith; a sore arm did not sound too serious.

  Gray listened attentively to Bartholomew's instructions, secretly gratified that Bartholomew was allowing him to attend his sister: he was not to try to set the arm if it was broken; he was to make sure that if there was a wound, it was clean before he bound it; he was only to use water that had been taken fresh from the spring; he was to check carefully for other injuries and fever; and he was to give her one measure only — and here Gray was subjected to a stern look from his teacher — of a sleeping draught if she complained of too much pain.

  Proudly carrying Bartholomew's bag of medicines, Gray set off at ajaunty pace towards the High Street, while Bartholomew hurried back to the commoners' room.

  Father Jerome was indeed dying. He had already been anointed, and his breath was little more than a reedy whisper. Bartholomew was surprised that, after his long and spirited struggle, his end should come so fast. Almost as fast as that of Henry Oliver, who had died several hours before.

  William came and Jerome confessed to enticing Montfitchet to drink the wine that had been left in the commoners' room the night of Augustus's murder, even though Monfitchet had said he had drunk enough already. Without Jerome's encouragement to drink, Montfitchet might still be alive. Bartholomew thought it was more likely that Montfitchet would have been dispatched in the same way as Brother Paul, but held his silence. Finally, Jerome laid back, his face serene, and waited for death. He asked if Bartholomew would stay with him until he died. Bartholomew agreed, hoping that Edith was not seriously hurt, and that Gray would not attempt anything beyond his capabilities.

  In less than two hours, it was over, and Bartholomew helped the monks to stitch Jerome into a blanket.

  Bartholomew was torn between grief and impotent anger that he had not been able to do anything other than sit at the sick man's bedside. He laid Jerome gently in the stable next to Henry Oliver, and stalked out of the College towards the church. Everything seemed grey to Bartholomew. The sky was a solid iron-colour, even though it was not raining, and the houses and streets seemed drab and shabby. The town stank, and the mud that formed the street was impregnated with bits of rotting food and human waste. He made his way through it to St Michael's, where he paced around the church for a while, trying to bring his emotions under control.

  After a while, he grew calmer and began to think about Philippa. She was safe — something for which he had been hoping desperately ever since Abigny had fled from Edith's house. He wondered again whether he had perhaps been over-hasty the previous night, and whether he should have shown more understanding for Abigny's point of view. But he had been exhausted by his eavesdropping excursion in the cold, and still shocked to learn that the Stanmores had been involved. He wondered where Philippa had gone, and felt a sudden urge to talk with her, and to resolve the questions about her disappearance that still jangled in his mind. The best way to find her would be through her brother, who would be most likely to seek a temporary bed at Bene't's until he deemed it safe to return to his own room.

  Bartholomew set off down the High Street, his mind filled with unanswered questions. As he approached Bene't's, he shuddered, thinking about the hours he had spent perched on the window-sill above the filthy yard. He had scarcely finished knocking on the door when it was answered by a student with greasy red hair.

  The student said that Abigny was out and he did not know when he was likely to return, but offered to let Bartholomew wait. Bartholomew assented reluctantly, not wanting to be inside Bene't's, but his desire to see Philippa was strong. He expected to be shown into the hall, but a glimpse through the half-closed door indicated that the students were engaged in an illicit game of dice, and would not want him peering over their shoulders. He was shown into a small, chilly room on an upper floor, and abandoned with cheerful assurances that Abigny would not be long.

  He was beginning to consider leaving Abigny a note asking him to go to Michaelhouse, when he heard the door open and close again. He hurried from the chamber and peered down the stairwell.

  But it was not Abigny climbing the stairs, it was Stephen, preceded by Burwell. Bartholomew was on the verge of announcing himself when he heard his name mentioned. He froze, leaning across the handrail, his whole body suddenly inexplicably tense.

  '… he is too near the truth now,' Stephen was saying, 'and he does not believe in the Oxford plot. I could see in his face he was doubtful.'

  'Damn,' said Burwell, pausing to look back at Stephen. 'Now what do we do?'

  'Kill him,' came a third voice, oddly familiar to Bartholomew. 'It will not be difficult. Send him another note purporting to be from Edith and have him ambushed on the Trumpington road.'

  Heart thumping, Bartholomew ducked back into his chilly chamber as Burwell reached the top of the stairs. There would be no need for an ambush: they could kill him now, in Bene't Hostel. Bartholomew felt his stomach churn and his hands were clammy with sweat as he stood in the semi-darkness. To his infinite relief, the three men entered the room next to his, closing the door firmly behind them. Leaning his sweat-drenched forehead on
the cold wall for a moment to calm himself, Bartholomew eased out of his chamber, and slipped along the hallway to listen outside the other door. It was old and sturdily built, and he had to strain to hear what was being said.

  'Another death at Michaelhouse might look suspicious,'

  Stephen was saying.

  'On the contrary,' came the voice of the third man, smooth and convincing. 'It might improve our cause immeasurably. We have sown the seeds of an idea into the minds of these gullible people — that Michaelhouse is a rotten apple. What better way to have that idea confirmed than yet another untimely death there? What families will send their sons to Michaelhouse where the Fellows die with such appalling regularity? And then our Oxford plot will seem all the more real, and all the more terrifying.'

  Bartholomew fought to control the weak feeling in his knees and tried to bring his jumbled thoughts into order. Had he been right all along in his uncertainty about the Oxford plot? He had never accepted the concept fully, as Aelfrith, Wilson, and even Sir John had done. Could there be a plot within a plot? The group of hostel men who had gone to Stanmore had fed him lies about a plan by Oxford scholars to bring down Cambridge. Or had they? What was Stephen doing there?

  And who was the third man whose voice was so familiar?

  It was not Stanmore or Richard. Was it a Fellow from Michaelhouse? He racked his brain, trying to identify the smooth intonation, but it eluded him.

  'What about Oswald?' Stephen was saying.

  'Now there is a real problem,' came the familiar voice. 'Neville Stayne was foolish to have mentioned Bartholomew in front of Oswald. Now if anything happens to him, it will immediately arouse his suspicions, and all we have worked for will have been for nothing.'

  'We cannot allow that, not after all we have done!'