A Plague On Both Your Houses mb-1

by Susanna GREGORY

  He went back down the stairs to his own room and closed the door. His hands still shook from the fright he had had when Michael had snatched the note away.

  He should not be surprised by what he had learned, bearing in mind Michael's very odd behaviour on the night of Augustus's death. At the unpleasant interview with the Bishop, Michael had had no alibi for the night of the murders. Perhaps it was he who had struck down poor Paul and drugged the commoners after all.

  So what should he do now? Should he tell Wilson?

  Or the Chancellor? But what could he tell them? He had not a single solid scrap of evidence to lay against Michael except the note, and that was doubtless a pile of ashes by now.

  He froze as the door of his room swung slowly open and Brother Michael stood there holding a fluttering candle. The light threw strange shapes on the walls and made Michael look even larger than he was, as his voluminous robes swung about him. He stood in the doorway without saying a word for several moments. Bartholomew began to feel the first tendrils of fear uncoiling in his stomach.

  Wordlessly, Michael closed the door, and advanced on Bartholomew, who stood, fists clenched, prepared for an attack. Michael gave an odd smile, and touched one of Bartholomew's hands with a soft, clammy finger.

  Bartholomew flinched and felt as though Michael must be able to hear his heart pounding in the silence of the room.

  "I warned you to beware, Matthew,' he said in a low whisper that Bartholomew found unnerving.

  Bartholomew swallowed. Was Michael's warning the one the blacksmith had been paid to give? Or was Michael merely referring to his words outside their staircase the night of Augustus's murder, and in the courtyard the following day? 'By prying you have put yourself in danger,' Michael continued in the same chilling tone.

  'So what are you going to do?' Bartholomew was surprised at how calm his own voice sounded.

  'What do you expect me to do?'

  Bartholomew did not know how to answer this. He tried to get a grip on his fear. It was only Michael!

  The fat monk may have been bulkier and stronger, but Bartholomew was quicker and fitter, and since neither of them had a weapon, Bartholomew was sure he would be able to jump out the window before Michael could catch him. He decided an offensive stance might serve him to better advantage.

  'What have you been meddling in?' he demanded.

  'What have you done with Philippa?'

  'Philippa?' Michael's sardonic face showed genuine astonishment. He regained his composure quickly.

  'Now there, my friend, I have sinned only in my mind. The question is, what have you been meddling in?'

  They stood facing each other, Bartholomew tensed and ready to react should Michael make the slightest antagonistic move.

  Suddenly the door flew open and Gray burst in, his face bright with excitement in the candlelight.

  'Doctor Bartholomew! Thank God you are here!

  Brother Michael, too. You must come quickly. Something is going on in Master Wilson's room.'

  He darted across the room, and grabbed Bartholomew by his sleeve to pull him out the door.

  Bartholomew and Michael had time to exchange glances, in which each reflected the other's confusion.

  They quickly followed Gray across the courtyard, and Brother Michael began to pant with the exertion.

  'We will say no more of this,' he said in an undertone to Bartholomew. 'You will tell no one of what you read on the note, and I will tell no one that you read it.'

  He stopped and clutched Bartholomew's shirt. 'Do you agree, on your honour?'

  Bartholomew felt as though his brain was going to explode, so fast were the questions pouring through it.

  'Do you know anything about Philippa?' he asked. He watched Michael's flabby face wrinkle with annoyance at what he obviously perceived as an irrelevancy.

  "I know nothing of her, nor of her wastrel brother,' he said. 'Do you swear?' "I will swear, if you promise to me you know nothing of Philippa's disappearance, and if you hear anything, no matter how trivial it might seem, you will tell me.'

  Gray bounded back to them. 'Come on! Hurry!' he cried.

  'Oh, all right, I promise,' Michael said irritably.

  Bartholomew turned to go, but Michael held him fast.

  'We are friends,' he said, 'and I have tried to keep you out of all this. You must forget what you saw, or your life and mine will be worth nothing.'

  Bartholomew pushed the monk's sweaty hand away from his shirt. 'What dangerous games are you playing, Michael? If you live in such fear, why are you involved?'

  'That is none of your business,' he hissed. 'Now swear!'

  Bartholomew raised his hand in a mocking salute. "I swear, o meddling monk,' he said sarcastically. Michael looked angry.

  'You see? You think this is trivial! Well, you will learn all too soon what you are dealing with if you do not take care. Like the others!'

  He turned and hurried to where Gray was fretting at the foot of Wilson's staircase, leaving Bartholomew wondering what the obese monk was involved in to have him scared almost out of his wits.

  'Come on, come on#! called Gray, almost hopping from foot to foot in his impatience.

  Bartholomew followed Michael and Gray up the stairs, and the three of them stood in the little hallway outside Wilson's room. Bartholomew moved away from Michael, not totally convinced that this was not some plot cooked up by Michael and Gray to harm him.

  'What is it?' whispered Michael.

  Gray motioned for him to be quiet. Bartholomew had not been up this staircase since Sir John had died, and he felt odd standing there like a thief in the dark. Gray put his ear to the door and indicated that the others should do likewise. At first, Bartholomew could hear nothing, and then he could make out low moaning noises, like those of an animal in pain. Then he heard some muttering, and the sound of something tearing. He moved away so that Michael could hear, almost ready to walk away and leave them there. He did not feel comfortable listening at the Master's door like this; what Wilson got up to in his own room, however nasty, was his own business, and Bartholomew wanted none of it.

  All three leapt into the air as a tremendous crash came from inside the room. Michael leaned against the wall, his hand on his chest, gasping for breath.

  Gray stared at the door with wide eyes. Suddenly, Bartholomew became aware of something else. He crouched down near the bottom of the door and inspected it carefully. There was no mistake. Something was on fire in Wilson's room!

  Yelling to the others, he pounded on the door, just as terrified screams started to come from within. Brother Michael shoved his bulk against the door, and the leather hinges gave with a great groan. It swung inwards, and Bartholomew rushed inside. He seized a pitcher of water from atop a chest, and dashed it over the figure writhing on the floor. He was aware of Michael and Gray tearing the coverings from the walls to beat out the flames that licked across the floor. Bartholomew used a rich woollen rug to smother the flames that continued to dance over Wilson.

  It was all over in a few seconds. The fire, it seemed, had only just started and so had not gained a firm hold.

  Gray went round carefully pouring Wilson's stockpile of wine and ale over the parts that still smouldered. They had averted what could have been a terrible disaster.

  Bartholomew carefully unrolled Wilson from the rug. One or two tendrils of smoke rose from his clothes, but the fire was out. Michael helped Bartholomew lift their Master onto the bed, where Bartholomew began to examine him. Michael wandered around the room picking up pieces of charred paper, watching them crumble in his hands, and muttering something about the College accounts.

  The commotion had brought others running to see what had happened. Alcote was first; Jocelyn of Ripon, Father Jerome, Roger Alyngton, and the surviving commoners, were close on his heels. They stopped dead when they saw the Master lying on the bed in his burned gown and Bartholomew kneeling next to him.

  'What have you done?' Alcote demanded.

/>   Gray intervened, and Bartholomew admired his poise and confidence. "I was just returning from Bene't's, and I saw flickering coming from the Master's room. I was worried there was a fire, so I went up the stairs and listened outside the door. I could not smell any smoke, but I could hear someone crying. He was crying with so much pain that it almost hurt to hear. I went to fetch Doctor Bartholomew, because I thought maybe the Master had lost his mind like poor Gregory Colet, and the Doctor might be able to help. Brother Michael was with him, so he came too.'

  Michael took over. "I heard no crying,' he said, 'but moaning. Then there was a crash, which must have been the Master knocking that table over, and the table had the lamp on it. We were just in time to put out the flames. It seems the Master was busy burning documents.' He held up a handful of charred remains for Alcote to see.

  Alcote stepped dubiously inside the room. The floor was awash with spilled ale and wine, and cinders of Wilson's parchments lay everywhere. 'Why was he burning his documents?' he demanded. 'Why did he knock the table over? It is heavy. He could not knock it over with ease.'

  'He probably fell against it,' said Bartholomew, looking up from his patient. 'He has the plague.'

  Alcote gasped and shot back outside the room, fumbling for a piece of his robe with which to cover his mouth and nose. 'The plague? But that is not possible!

  He has been in his room since it started and no one has touched him!'

  Bartholomew shrugged. 'He has it nevertheless.

  Come and look.'

  Alcote shrank back further still, and disappeared into the group of students that had assembled outside.

  Bartholomew rose from Wilson's bed.

  'It is all over,' he said to the onlookers. 'There was a fire, but it is out now. Go back to your beds.' He nodded to Gray, indicating that he should disperse them. Alyngton and Jerome stared in horror at one of Wilson's burned feet that stuck out of the end of the bed. Jocelyn bent down to pick up one of the pieces of burned paper.

  "I have heard the plague turns people's minds. Poor man. He has burned the College accounts!' He took the arms of his fellow commoners, and led them away gently.

  Bartholomew wondered if Jocelyn had been a soldier, for he was remarkably unmoved by the ghoulish foot that poked out, red and blistered.

  Michael closed the door and came to peer over Bartholomew's shoulder. 'How is he?' he asked.

  Bartholomew bent to listen to Wilson's heart again.

  It still beat strongly, but his injuries were terrible. The fire had caught the edge of his gown, and had spread quickly up to his waist before Bartholomew had been able to put out the flames. Wilson's legs were a mass of blackened flesh and bleeding blisters, and even now his toes felt hot to Bartholomew's hand. As if that were not enough, Wilson had great festering buboes under his arms, on his neck, and in his groin. One had burst, and a trickle of pus and blood dripped onto his burned legs.

  'Will he live?' asked Michael, deliberately not looking at Wilson's legs.

  Bartholomew moved away, so that if some part of Wilson's brain were conscious, he would not be able to hear. 'No,' he said. 'He will die before the night is over.'

  Michael looked over at Wilson's still figure. 'Why did he burn the College accounts?' he asked.

  'Evidence of payments to people he wished kept secret?' mused Bartholomew, without really considering the implications.

  'Such payments would not be written down,'

  Michael said scathingly. 'They would come out of a separate account, the records of which any sensible master would keep only in his head. These accounts,' he continued, waving a fistful of charred parchment in the air, scattering tiny cinders, 'are nothing. They are only records of the College's finances. There is nothing here to warrant burning!'

  Bartholomew shrugged, and turned his attention to his patient. He guessed Michael had expected to find some documents relating to this miserable University business. Wilson lay quietly, and Bartholomew moistened his lips with the few drops of water remaining at the bottom of the pitcher. He placed a clean piece of linen over Wilson's burned legs, but saw no point in putting him through painful treatment when he was going to die in a few hours. If he regained consciousness, Bartholomew could give him medicine that would dull his senses.

  Since Gray was still busy dispersing the curious scholars, Bartholomew went to his storeroom to fetch the medicine himself. Recently, he had rarely needed to use such powerful potions — he did not use it for victims of the plague because it tended to make them vomit.

  He kept all such medicines in a small, locked chest at the back of the room and usually carried the key on his belt. He took it now, and leaned down impatiently when it would not fit. He turned the small chest to the light and looked in horror.

  The lock on the chest was broken. Someone had prised it off completely. With a feeling of sick dread, Bartholomew opened the box and looked inside. He kept a very careful written record of these medicines, with dates, times, and amounts used. Most of the potions were still there, with one glaring exception.

  Bartholomew looked in shock at the near-empty bottle where the concentrated opiate had been. Was this what had been used to kill Aelfrith? There was certainly enough missing to kill.

  Bartholomew leaned over the chest, feeling sick. Was all this never going to end? Had Wilson sneaked down to Bartholomew's room in the depths of some night to steal poison with which to kill Aelfrith? If Wilson were the murderer, he did not have long to wait before he was judged for it. Feeling appalled at the pointlessness of it all, he put a few grains of the remaining white powder in a spare bottle, marked it down in his record book, and returned to Wilson.

  He told Gray to find another chest in which to lock the poisons and sat next to Wilson. Michael went to fetch the accoutrements he needed to give Wilson last rites.

  Bartholomew dipped a corner of a cloth into some water, and wiped Wilson's face with it. He noted that even on his deathbed, Wilson still managed to look pompous. Bartholomew tried to stop himself thinking such uncharitable thoughts, and wiped Wilson's face again; to his shock, Wilson opened his eyes.

  'Rest now, Master Wilson,' he said, trying not to think about whether the man had murdered Aelfrith.

  'Try to sleep.'

  'Soon, I will sleep all too much,' came the whispered reply. 'Do not try to fool me, Physician. I know I have only a short while left.'

  Bartholomew did not argue. He rubbed the soaking end of the cloth over Wilson's parched lips, and reached for the medicine that might give him some relief. Wilson's white hand flapped about pathetically.

  'No! I want none of your medicines!' he grated. "I have things I must say.'

  'Brother Michael will be here soon,' Bartholomew said, putting the stopper back on the bottle. 'You can make your confession to him.' "I do not want to talk to him,' said Wilson, his voice growing stronger as he spoke. "I have things I want to say to you alone.'

  Bartholomew felt the hair on the back of his neck rise, and he wondered whether Wilson was about to confess to murder. Wilson's hand flapped again, and enveloped one of Bartholomew's. The Physician felt revulsion, but did not pull his hand away.

  'It was me,' said Wilson. "I fought with you in the dark on the night of Augustus's death. It was me who pushed you down the stairs.'

  Bartholomew snatched his hand back. 'Then it was also you who murdered Brother Paul!' he said. 'Poor Brother Paul! Murdered while he lay defenceless on his pallet bed!'

  Wilson gave an awful grimace that Bartholomew took to be a smile. 'No! You have that wrong, Physician.

  You always were poor at logic. Listen to me and learn.'

  Bartholomew gritted his teeth so that he would not allow his distaste for the lawyer to show.

  Wilson continued wheezily. 'After I left the feast, I went back to the room I shared with Alcote. We talked for a while, and he went to sleep, as we told the Bishop the next day. But I did not sleep. Alcote was almost senseless with the amount of wine he had drunk. It was a simple
thing to slip out of the room once it began to ring with his drunken snores. He woke only when Alexander came to fetch us when you had raised the alarm, and by then I was back in my bed. There was my alibi!'

  He stopped speaking, and lay with his eyes closed, breathing heavily. After a few moments, Wilson opened his eyes again, and fixed Bartholomew with an unpleasant stare.

  "I allowed quite some time to pass before I went to Augustus's room that night,' he continued, his voice weaker than before. "I was going to send Aelfrith away and offer to pray for Augustus until dawn. I went up the stairs, but saw that Augustus's room had been ransacked, and that he was gone. Aelfrith was unconscious on the floor. The shutters were open, and in the light from outside, I could see that there was an irregularity in the wooden floor. It is doubtful I ever would have noticed it in ordinary light. I closed the shutters and had just prised up the board, when you came. We fought, and you lost.'

  He paused, coughing weakly. Bartholomew wiped away a thin trail of blood that dribbled from his mouth and thought back to that struggle. Wilson, like Michael, was flabby, and was well-endowed with chins, but that did not mean to say he was also weak. If Wilson had been desperate and panic-stricken, Bartholomew believed he could have been overpowered by him.

  "I assume your intention in going to Augustus's room was not to pray?' asked Bartholomew.

  Wilson sneered. 'Damn right it was not to pray!

  I wanted to find the seal. I am certain that whoever murdered Sir John did not get it from his body.'

  Bartholomew caught his breath. 'You say Sir John was murdered?'

  Wilson sneered again. 'Of course he was! He was killed for the seal he always carried, and without which no further messages would come from his contact in Oxford. It was imperative I found that seal. I saw it round his neck as he went for dinner the night of his death. The way in which his body was dressed indicated that it had not been round his neck when he died, or his murderers would not have bothered taking his clothes — they would merely have thrown his body into the mill stream. No murderer stays too long at the site of his crime,' he said with a superior smile.