A Plague On Both Your Houses

3

Bartholomew heard Wilson's voice carrying across the courtyard. Wilson was due to move into Sir John's spacious room that day, and the College servants had been working furiously to prepare it to his fussy requirements. So the previous night, he had been in his old room, which he shared with Roger Alcote. Bartholomew looked out of the window and saw that Alcote was hurrying over the courtyard behind Wilson, and that Aelfrith had awakened Father William, too. Michael, a light sleeper, was peering out of his window to see what was going on, and Gilbert had evidently been dispatched to fetch Robert Swynford and Giles Abigny.

Wilson swept importantly past Bartholomew, paused briefly to look into Augustus's ransacked room and stopped as he saw Brother Paul's body. Bartholomew had left him as he had been found, the knife protruding from his stomach, and Wilson paled at the sight.

'Cover him up, damn you,' he snarled at Bartholomew. 'Leave the poor soul with some dignity!'

Bartholomew drew the bedcover over Paul's body, while Wilson looked around at the commoners in disdain.

'They are all drunk!' he proclaimed. 'We will not have such debauchery while I am Master!'

Bartholomew barely restrained himself from telling Wilson that if they were drunk, it was due to the copious amounts of wine he himself had supplied the night before, and that such 'debauchery' would most certainly not have been tolerated under Sir John's Mastership.

'Now,' Wilson said, sweeping some discarded clothes from a bench and sitting down, 'tell me what happened.'

Bartholomew looked at Aelfrith. As Senior Fellow, it was his prerogative to speak first. Aelfrith shook his head sorrowfully. "I cannot begin to say what evil has walked in these rooms,' he began. Alcote and Swynford, in anticipation of a lengthy explanation, followed Wilson's lead and sat on the bench. Father William stood next to Aelfrith, silently offering his support, while Brother Michael, his black robes askew, leaned against the door.

Abigny, less the worse for wear than Bartholomew would have expected, slipped into the dormitory noiselessly and stood next to him. All the Fellows were present.

Wilson folded his arms over his ample paunch and waited imperiously. 'Well?' he demanded.

'It is complex,' Aelfrith began. Bartholomew edged his way nearer to Montfitchet, partly so he could keep an eye on the old man, and partly so he would be able to see all the faces of the gathered Fellows. It was possible that one or more of them had committed some terrible acts, and he wanted to watch them all closely. He felt rather ashamed: these were his colleagues, and some of them, like Michael and Abigny, his friends whom he had known for years. None of them had any history of violence that he knew. He thought of Sir John, and his mangled body, and he looked across at the covered body of Paul, and steeled himself. They would be no friends of his if they had killed Sir John and Brother Paul! 'This is what I perceive to have happened,' Aelfrith continued. He looked over at Bartholomew. 'You must interrupt if you think I have left something out. Augustus died during the feast, and Matthew came to check the body at Master Wilson's request. He declared Augustus dead, and Brother Michael came to pray for his soul. Michael returned to the hall first, and Matthew came later.'

Wilson snorted, his eyes boring into Bartholomew.

The physician had not realised that the Fellows had been so intrigued as to why he had taken so much longer than Michael. Well, he was certainly not going to reveal that he suspected Augustus had been murdered. Aelfrith continued.

'He made his report to the Master, and asked if I would keep vigil for Augustus. I went to Augustus's room, and kept vigil there until I was attacked from behind and knocked senseless. I have the wound to prove it. When I came round, Matthew was helping me to rise. Augustus's body was gone, and his room had been ransacked. I have no idea as to the reasons for either.

Matthew and I made a quick search of this part of the building for Augustus and for the attacker. It was then that Matthew discovered that the commoners, who had been remarkably oblivious to all these goings-on, had been drugged. While examining them, he found that Brother Paul, God rest his soul, had been murdered.

And that is all I know.' His story completed, he stood with head bowed and hands folded in front of him.

There was a silence among the Fellows, and then a clamour of questions. Wilson tried to restore order, first by waving a pudgy hand in the air, and next by shouting.

Bartholomew saw one or two of the drugged commoners stir, and bent down to examine Montfitchet.

'Well, Doctor Bartholomew,' said Wilson unpleasantly, 'what have you to say for yourself? You spend a considerable amount of time alone with Augustus before returning to the hall; you are standing over Father Aelfrith when he regains his senses after being knocked on the head by an unseen assailant; you discover the commoners have been drugged; and you uncover poor Brother Paul's body. What have you to say?'

Bartholomew looked at him in disbelief. The Master clearly thought that he had something to do with the sinister events of the night, an accusation not lost on the other Fellows who looked uneasy.

He took a deep breath, and recounted his story as he had done to Aelfrith, omitting nothing but his suspicions and speculations. When he mentioned his struggle at the top of the stairs, Alcote went to check the knife mark in the plaster.

Wilson watched Bartholomew closely as he gave his account of events. His unblinking eyes made Bartholomew uncomfortable, and he wondered whether this was a tactic employed by lawyers on their victims in court. The others listened with a mixture of horror and fascination, but Bartholomew could gauge nothing from their expressions other than shock.

When he had finished, Wilson stared at him for several long moments. 'Have you told us everything?' he asked. 'Is there anything you are keeping back?'

Bartholomew hoped his discomfiture did not show.

"I have told you everything I know. And everything I have told you is the truth,' he said. Bartholomew considered himself an appalling liar, but his statements to Wilson had been meticulously truthful. He had told the new Master only what he knew to have happened, and had omitted merely to speak of his growing suspicions. And how could he do otherwise? He had no real evidence, only a collection of strange coincidences and suppositions. But, he promised himself, he would have something more than unfounded suspicions soon.

'This is ludicrous!' exclaimed Abigny. 'Disappearing corpses, ransacked rooms of madmen, fights in the darkness! For heaven's sake, this is a College, not the London stews! Bodies do not just disappear. There must be some purely rational explanation.'

'Such as?' asked William.

'Such as,' said Abigny, exasperated, 'a secret exit!

Some door unknown to us that allowed the murderer to escape, or to hide.' He began to look around him as though such a door would suddenly become apparent.

'Do not be ridiculous!' said Wilson aggressively. 'A secret door! Where? This is not a castle. The walls are less than a foot thick. Where could there possibly be such a door?' "I do not know!' Abigny snapped back, his voice beginning to rise. 'It was only a suggestion. Maybe Augustus is not dead and is off wandering somewhere.

Maybe some burglar came into the College, attacked Matt and Father Aelfrith and escaped out of a window.'

'You try jumping out of any of the windows here,' said Michael. 'You would need to be very agile, and,' he said looking ruefully down at his rotund form, 'very slender.

All the windows have stone mullions which would make them very difficult to squeeze through, and the drop is enough to break a leg. Perhaps Augustus or a burglar might have wriggled his way out, but he would not have landed undamaged.'

Wilson seized on Abigny's statement like a drowning man on a rope. 'Of course! Augustus was not dead and it was he who attacked Father Aelfrith and Doctor Bartholomew in the dark. That would explain everything.'

He looked around triumphantly, considering the mystery to be solved. With an air of finality, he rose to leave.

'Augustus was dead!' said Bartholomew firmly. 'And he most certainly would not have had the strength to push me down the stairs. The man I fought with was a man of my size. And it also does not explain Paul's murder and the drugging of the commoners.'

'Yes, it does,' Wilson said. 'Augustus was mad, we all know that. He feigned his death to you, and then hit Father Aelfrith on the head when he came to keep vigil.

He then, in his madness, went into the commoners' room and killed Paul — let us remember that he was insane,' he continued, looking around at each Fellow in turn.

'Perhaps he left the drugged wine for the others to drink when they returned, perhaps they are not drugged at all, but insensible after a night of debauchery.' At this he cast a scathing glance around at the comatose figures of the commoners still motionless on their pallets. 'But regardless, he returned to his room and began his foolish searching for the Lord knows what. When the Doctor surprised him, he attacked, made strong by insanity.

Then, knowing his game was up, he jumped out of the window and escaped.'

'Escaped where?' asked Bartholomew. 'The gates are still locked.'

'Then he is hiding in the College,' said Wilson. Twill order a thorough search to be made.' He looked behind him to where he knew Gilbert would be hovering, and raised his eyebrows. Gilbert disappeared immediately, and the Fellows could hear him summoning the College servants from their other duties. 'Do not worry,' he said to the Fellows, 'Augustus will be found and brought to justice. Paul's death will not go unavenged!' He turned to Bartholomew. "I suppose he is dead, Physician?' he added with a sneer.

Bartholomew shrugged. 'Check for yourself,' he invited. 'And then check poor Montfitchet too.'

'What?' Wilson was momentarily thrown from his pomposity. The Fellows clustered around Montfitchet's pallet. His face had a bluish tinge to it and a small trickle of blood came from the corner of his mouth. Bartholomew gently closed the half-open eyes. Wilson elbowed him roughly out of the way to look for himself.

'Dead!' he proclaimed. 'Augustus has two murders to pay for!'

Outside, Bartholomew heard the servants clattering up the stairs and banging doors as they made their search of the College.

'Now,' began Wilson, taking matters in hand, 'Father Aelfrith, have your wound attended to — by our esteemed Master of Medicine if you trust him not to pronounce you dead. Of course, I will understand perfectly should you wish to consult another physician.'

Bartholomew raised his eyes heavenward. Now Wilson had his theory, he would hang onto it like a dog with a bone, and would take every opportunity to undermine Bartholomew's skills as a physician to give it more credence.

'Doctor Bartholomew will attend to me,' said Aelfrith quietly. "I see no need to call upon the services of another physician.'

'That is your own choice, Father,' responded Wilson disparagingly, his tone making it clear that he would have no hesitation in taking his patronage elsewhere.

Bartholomew studiously avoided Wilson's gaze, not trusting himself to speak civilly. He saw clearly that many of the objections that Wilson had raised to his appointmentfour years before would now be voiced; indeed, would be used against him at every opportunity, and perhaps Wilson would succeed in bringing about his dismissal from the College. Wilson gazed at Bartholomew in a hostile manner for several moments before continuing.

'Father William, would you arrange to have the bodies moved to the church? Then you and Brother Michael must do what is necessary for their souls. Master Alcote, I would like you to take the news to the Bishop, for we will need his services when our murderer is caught.'

Since, like most scholars at the University, Augustus had taken minor orders, any crimes of which he might be accused would be dealt with by Church, rather than secular, law. 'Master Swynford, Master Abigny, perhaps you would oversee the search. Make sure that every nook and cranny is investigated. Augustus must be found!'

The Fellows scurried off to do his bidding.

Bartholomew and Aelfrith made their way down the stairs together, heading for Bartholomew's room. As they reached the courtyard, Bartholomew went to look at the ground under Augustus's window. If anyone had managed to squeeze out of the first-floor window and jump, there would be some evidence, but there was nothing to be seen. There were a few tendrils of bindweed creeping up the wall: had someone leaped from the window, the plants would have been damaged or displaced. Bartholomew saw nothing that indicated anyone had made an escape from Augustus's window.

He stood up slowly, wincing at his stiffening knee.

Wilson gave him a cold glance as he left, guessing what he was doing and disapproving of it. Bartholomew knew that Wilson would regard his action as a direct challenge to his authority, but was disturbed by Wilson's eagerness to accept the first excuse that came along and to dismiss any facts that confounded it.

Aelfrith waited, his hands folded in the voluminous sleeves of his monastic robes. 'Our new Master seems to dislike you, my son,' he said.

Bartholomew shrugged, and began to limp towards his room. Aelfrith caught up with him, and offered his arm for support. The tall friar was surprisingly strong, and Bartholomew was grateful for his help.

They arrived at the tiny chamber Bartholomew used to store his medicines. It had been used originally to store wood, but Sir John had ordered it cleaned for Bartholomew's use because he thought it was not healthy for him to sleep with the smell of his medicines.

The blacksmith still slept on the pallet bed, snoring noisily. Bartholomew had forgotten about him. He would have to send Cynric to ask his family to come to collect him. Aelfrith wrinkled his nose in disgust at the smell of stale wine fumes, and went to Bartholomew's own room next door. Abigny had thrown the shutters open before he had left, and the room was bright and sunny. Neither Bartholomew nor Abigny had many possessions — a few clothes, some writing equipment, and Bartholomew had a book he had been given by his Arab master when he had completed his training; all were stored out of sight in the large chest that stood at one end of the room.

Aelfrith looked around approvingly. The room was clean, with fresh rushes and herbs scattered on the floor, and a servant had already put the bedding out of the window to air. Bartholomew had been taught that dirt and disease went hand in hand — his insistence on cleanliness was another reason he was regarded as an oddity.

He sank down onto a stool. He had not realised what a wrench he had given his knee, and he knew it would slow him down for a few days. He made to stand again, remembering that he should be tending Aelfrith's head. Aelfrith pushed him back down firmly.

'Tell me what you need, Matthew, and I will get it. I am sure you can doctor me as well sitting as standing.'

As Aelfrith fetched water, linen, and some salves, Bartholomew thought about Augustus, Paul, and Montfitchet.

He had been fond of Paul, and only now did the shock of his cruel death register. He took a shuddering breath, and blinked away tears.

Aelfrith drew a stool up next to him, and laid a hand on his shoulder comfortingly. Bartholomew smiled weakly, and began to tend to the wound in the friar's scalp. It was a nasty gash, and Bartholomew was not surprised that Aelfrith had been rendered unconscious. He could easily have been insensible for several hours. Aelfrith, like Bartholomew, was showing signs of delayed shock, with shaking hands and sudden tiredness.

Bartholomew inspected the ragged edges of the wound, and prodded gently to ensure no splinters were left that might fester. Satisfied that it was clean, he bathed it carefully, and tied a neat bandage around the tonsured head. Aelfrith rose to leave. He leaned out of the window, looked both ways, and closed the shutters and the door.

"I am too befuddled to think now,' he said in a low voice, 'but I am appalled at the wickedness that has been perpetrated in this house of learning. Our Master is mistaken in his explanation, and I, like you, know that Augustus was dead last night. I believe there is sinister work afoot, and I suspect that you think the same. Now, I will say no more, but you and I will meet later today to talk when we are both more ourselves. Trust no one, Matthew. Keep your counsel to yourself.'

His calm grey eyes looked steadily at Bartholomew.

Bartholomew's blood ran cold and he suddenly felt inutterably tired. He was a physician, dedicated to healing, and here he was being sucked into some vile intrigue where the taking of life appeared to be of little consequence. Aelfrith seemed to detect Bartholomew's feelings, for he gave one of his rare smiles, his eyes kindly.

'Rest now, Matthew. We will deal with this together, you and I.'

He was gone before Bartholomew could respond.

Bartholomew put cold wraps around his knee and hobbled over to his bed to lie down. It was gloomy in the room with the shutters closed, but he could not be bothered to get up to open them again. He thought of the drugged commoners. He should really go to see to them. And he should check the blacksmith's leg. And Agatha would be wondering what to do with the woman he left with her last night. And he had promised his sister he would visit today. With his thoughts tumbling around inside his head, Bartholomew fell into a restless doze.

Bartholomew awoke, the sun full on his face, to the sound of the bell ringing to announce that the meal was about to be served in the hall. Like most of the Colleges and hostels, the main meal at Michaelhouse was between ten and eleven o'clock in the morning, with a second, smaller meal around four, and bread and ale for those that wanted it later in the evening.

He was disoriented for a moment, since he seldom slept during the day. Then the events of the morning came flooding back to him, and some of the brightness went out of the sunshine. Abigny had returned and opened the shutters, and was sitting at the table writing.

He turned when he heard Bartholomew moving, his face lined with concern.

'At last!' he said, "I have never known you to sleep a day away before. Are you ill?'

Bartholomew shook his head. His knee felt better already from the rest. He sat quietly for a moment, listening to the scratching of Abigny's quill as he finished what he was writing, and Brother Michael's footsteps as he moved about in the room above. Brother Michael shared a room with Michaelhouse's two Benedictine students, but Michael's footsteps were distinct from the others' because of his weight. After a few moments, he came thundering down the stairs, bent on being the first to the meal. Bartholomew heard him puffing as he hurried across the courtyard.

Upstairs, the other brothers moved about much more quietly, their sandalled feet making little sound.

Suddenly, something clicked in Bartholomew's memory.

As he had lain at the bottom of the stairs, after being pushed, he had heard footsteps, presumably those of his attacker. He could not tell where they came from, but they had been very distinct. The south wing, where the commoners roomed, was better built than the north wing where Bartholomew lived-he had climbed the stairs that morning without making a sound, which was why he had taken his attacker by surprise. While Bartholomew could usually hear sounds from the upstairs rooms in the north wing, he had noticed that the south wing was very much quieter, and the ground-floor residents were seldom disturbed by the people above them.

So how was it that he had heard footsteps? Had he imagined it? Bartholomew had the feeling that if he could work out why hearing the footsteps bothered him, he would be much nearer to solving the mystery.

For now, the answer eluded him, and he told himself that mysterious footsteps in the night were the least of his concerns compared to the murders of his colleagues.

He hauled himself up, splashed some water on his face, tried to restore some order to his unruly black hair, and made his way out. Abigny watched him.

'Well, you are in a mess,' he observed. 'No gallivanting off today, Physician. And I was going to ask you to come to St Radegund's with me to see my sister!'

Bartholomew glowered at him. Abigny's sister had been committed to the care of the nuns at St Radegund's following the death of her father a year before. It had not taken Abigny long to observe that his pretty, fair-haired sister and his scholarly chamber-mate seemed to find a lot to talk about. Philippa would give her brother no peace when he visited without Bartholomew in tow, though, for the life of him, Abigny could not imagine what his sister, who had spent the greater part of her life in convents, could ever have in common with the world-wise Bartholomew.

'Well, perhaps I should invite her to Michaelhouse,' he said playfully. 'You brought a woman here yesterday.

I must tell Philippa about that; I am sure she would find it most amusing.'

Bartholomew shot him another withering glance.

"I am going,' Abigny said cheerfully, and waved folded piece of parchment at Bartholomew. 'One advantage that a philosopher has over a physician is that he can write decent love poetry. So first, I am away to deliver this little work of genius to the woman of my dreams!'

' On which poor soul do you intend to prey this time?' asked Bartholomew drily. Abigny's innocent, boyish looks had cost many a girl her reputation, and Abigny seemed to move from relationship to relationship with staggering ease. He was playing with fire, for if Wilson had any inkling of what Abigny was doing, the philosopher would be forced to resign his fellowship and would have grave problems finding a teaching position elsewhere.

'That lovely creature from the Laughing Pig over in Trumpington,' replied Abigny, tapping Bartholomew on the shoulder gleefully. 'Now, do not look like that!

I met her at the house of your very own sister, so she must be a woman of stainless reputation.'

'At Edith's?' queried Bartholomew. Edith's large household in the village of Trumpington, two miles away, was run with the style and elegance that befitted her husband's wealth and status. Bartholomew could not imagine how Abigny had met a tavern-maid there.

'Three weeks ago, at the farewell meal she had for young Richard going to Oxford,' said Abigny, seeing Bartholomew's confusion. "I met her in the kitchens where she was delivering eggs. She has invited me to sample the fine ale that she has been brewing.'

'Giles, have a care! If you are caught frequenting drinking houses, Wilson will drop on you like a stone.

He wishes himself rid of you only slightly less than he wishes himself rid of me.'

'Oh, come, Master Physician,' laughed Abigny, 'not so gloomy on such a wonderful day. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and I am in love!'

Bartholomew looked dubiously at Abigny's piece of parchment. 'Can this barmaid read?' he asked.

Abigny laughed again. 'Of course not! So she will never know that the words here are actually a list of books I made for my students last term, now embellished with a few decorated capitals for appearance's sake. Parchment is expensive!'

Bartholomew noted that Abigny was wearing his best robe and hose, implying that his intentions towards the barmaid were serious, if not honourable. Abigny set off, jauntily waving his hat in the air before disappearing through the door. He put his head back a moment later.

'By the way,' he said, 'your smelly patient has gone. I sent Cynric to tell his family to come and remove him. I could not bear to have him lying about here all day! He said to tell you he would keep his side of the bargain whatever that might mean.'

He had disappeared a second time before Bartholomew had a chance to reply. Bartholomew saw that Alcote had emerged from his room on the next staircase, and, since his window shutters were open, had probably heard their entire conversation.

Of all the Fellows, Alcote was the one who most strongly disapproved of women having anything to do with the College. Bartholomew wondered if he had once been married and the experience had driven him to extremes.

Alcote was a small, fussy man who reminded him of a hen.

He was impatient with his less-able scholars, and most of his students lived in fear of his scathing criticisms.

Bartholomew made his way slowly round the courtyard, Alcote walking silently next to him.

'Has Augustus's body been found?' Bartholomew asked.

Alcote looked sharply at him. 'Augustus has not been found yet,' he said. 'We are still searching and will bring him to justice, never fear. He could not possibly have left the College grounds, because the porters at the main gates were awake all night owing to the racket the students were making in the hall, and they are positive no one went past them. And your woman kept Mistress Agatha awake all night weeping, and she says no one went out of the back gate.'

'How are the commoners?'

Alcote smiled gloatingly. 'Waking with dreadful heads and sick stomachs, and it serves them right,' he said. 'Next time they will beware of the sin of gluttony.'

Bartholomew stopped and grasped Alcote's wrist.

'Are they really sick? Why did no one wake me? I may be able to give them something to relieve the symptoms.'

Alcote freed his wrist. 'There is nothing you can do. They will live.'

Aelfrith joined them. 'How is your head?' Bartholomew asked.

'My years of learning must have given me a tough skull,' said Aelfrith with a smile, 'for I feel no ill effects at all.'

They reached the main building and climbed the wide spiral stairs to the hall. The borrowed tapestries that had adorned the walls the night before had been removed, but evidence of the festivities was still apparent in the scraps of food that littered the rushes on the floor, and in the smell of spilled wine.

'Master Abigny?' asked Wilson, his voice loud in the otherwise silent hall.

'Visiting his sister,' replied Brother Michael. It had become a standard excuse. Sir John had not been too particular about whether his Fellows chose to eat in College or not, but, judging from the way Wilson's mouth set in a firm line of displeasure, from now on Fellows would be required to attend meals in hall.

Alcote whispered something to Wilson that made the master's eyes glitter with anger. Bartholomew had no doubt that Alcote was telling him about what he had overheard. Spiteful little man, he thought, and turned to see Michael raising his eyes heavenwards, much to the amusement of the students at the end of the table.

'Silence!' Wilson banged a pewter goblet on the table, making everyone jump, and the giggles of the students stopped instantly. Wilson glared around. 'Two of our members lie foully murdered,' he said. 'It is not a time for frivolous laughter.' Some of the students hung their heads. Gentle Paul would be missed. Throughout the summer he had sat in the sun in the courtyard and had been only too happy to while away the hours by debating with the students to help them develop their skills in disputation, and by patiently explaining points of grammar, rhetoric, and logic to those who had stayed on to try to catch up.

Wilson intoned the long Latin grace, and then nodded to the Bible scholar to begin the recital that would last throughout the meal. Sir John had encouraged academic debate, and had chaired some very lively discussions, all aimed to hone and refine the College's reputation of academic excellence. Wilson was more traditional in approach, and considered it fitting for scholars to listen to tracts from the Bible while they ate, so that they could improve their spiritual standing.

Bartholomew studied his colleagues. Brother Michael, on his right, hunched over his trencher, greedily cramming pieces of meat into his mouth.

Bartholomew offered him the dish of vegetables seeped in butter, and received, as always, a look of disbelief.

Michael firmly believed that vegetables would damage his digestion and lived almost entirely on large quantities of meat, fish, and bread.

Bartholomew thought back to Michael's odd behaviour of the night before. Was it illness as he had claimed, or did he know something about Augustus's death? Bartholomew had never seen the fat monk in such a state, but whatever had upset him was obviously not affecting his appetite now.

Aelfrith sat between Bartholomew and Father William. When speaking was permitted at meals, the Franciscans would usually discuss theology in Latin.

Bartholomew compared the two men. Aelfrith was tall and thin, with a sallow face and grey eyes that were often distant. Bartholomew did not find him a warm man, but he was compassionate, discreetly generous to many of Bartholomew's poorer patients, and devoted to his teaching. Father William was of a similar height, but much heavier. Like Aelfrith, he was in his late forties, but his hair was thick and brown. His eyes often burned with the passion of the fanatic, and Bartholomew could believe the rumours that he had been appointed to search out heresy by his Order, and had been sent to Cambridge because he was over-zealous.

Wilson was the oldest Fellow, probably just past fifty, and was a singularly unattractive individual. His dry brown hair released a constant dusting of dandruff that adorned all his gowns, and his complexion was florid with a smattering of spots that reached right down to his array of chins. Swynford leaned towards him and whispered. Swynford was distantly related to the powerful Dukes of Norfolk, and held considerable sway in University circles. In a place where a College depended on the seniority and authority of its Fellows and Master, Michaelhouse owed much of its influence to Swynford. Wilson would need to keep him happy.

Swynford was a handsome man around the same age as the Franciscans, but his bearing was more military than monastic, his manner confident and assured. His hair was grey, thick, and neat, and his beard always well groomed. He was the only Fellow, other than the Master, to have the luxury of a room and a servant of his own, and he paid the College handsomely for the privilege. Beside his impressive figure, Alcote looked like a small bird.

Bartholomew speared a slice of turnip on his knife and chewed it thoughtfully. Alcote had said that the porters and Agatha were prepared to swear that no one had left the College, other than the guests, once the gates had been locked after the Oliver brothers had attempted to provoke the riot. This meant that, unless someone had entered the College early and stayed until after the gates were unlocked the following morning, the murderer was a College member. There were few places to hide in Michaelhouse: all the rooms were occupied by students, Fellows, commoners, or servants, and all, except Swynford, shared a room with at least one other person.

It would be difficult to hide in a small room where two or more people slept. There had been students in the hall and the conclave all night, which meant that no one could have hidden there, and the servants would have noticed anything untoward in the kitchens and other service rooms.

The more Bartholomew thought about it, the more his instincts told him that the murderer was a College man, who knew the habits and routines of its members.

Bartholomew glanced along the table at his colleagues.

Which one, if any, had murdered Paul, Augustus and possibly Sir John, and attacked him and Aelfrith? From size alone it could not have been Alcote or Abigny — they were too small. Brother Michael was fat, and since he deplored exercise of any kind, Bartholomew thought it unlikely that Michael could best him in a tussle, although it was possible. That left William, Wilson, and Swynford, all of whom were tall and probably strong enough. Then there were the commoners, Henri d'Evene and Jocelyn of Ripon.

The only way he could reduce the list would be by establishing who was where, when, and with whom.

Michael and Bartholomew had seen Augustus alive before the beginning of the feast, which meant that he had died at some point between the time when Bartholomew left him and Alexander had found him.

All the Fellows and commoners had been at the feast the entire time that Bartholomew had been there. There were privies between the hall and the conclave, so no one had needed to leave the hall for that reason.

Bartholomew rubbed his eyes. Had Augustus been murdered? He had spent a long time looking for evidence that he had been, and had found nothing. But it was all too coincidental — Augustus dying the night Paul was stabbed and the commoners drugged. And for what had Bartholomew's attacker been searching?

And what of Paul? When had he died? Assuming that Aelfrith was telling the truth, Paul had probably been killed about the same time that the Franciscan had been knocked on the head. Bartholomew remembered that Paul's blood had congealed slightly, and the body was cold and beginning to grow stiff. If all the Fellows had retired to their beds around the same time as had Bartholomew, any of them could have slipped over to the south wing, murdered Paul, and drugged the commoners' wine.

But why? What could be so important as to warrant murder? Why was Augustus's room ransacked? And where was his body? Why would anyone want to take it? And how did all this tie in with Sir John's death? The more Bartholomew thought about it, the more confused and inexplicable the possibilities became.

The meal took longer than usual because some of the servants were still employed in searching for Augustus.

The Bible scholar droned on and Bartholomew grew restless. He should question the commoners about the drugged wine, and visit Agatha and Mistress Atkin. He had badgered a fellow physician, Gregory Colet, to lend him a scroll containing some of the writings of the great physician Dioscorides, and Bartholomew was anxious to begin reading it. Despite being a centre for learning, copies of books and scholarly writings were scarce in Cambridge, and each was jealously guarded. Colet would not wait too long before he wanted his scroll back. If the students were to pass their disputations, they had to know Dioscorides's lists of healing plants. But for Bartholomew merely knowing was not enough: he wanted his students to understand the properties of the potions they used, the harmful and beneficial effects these might have, and how they might affect the patient when they were taken over a long period of time. Before he began teaching them this, he wanted to refresh his memory.

At last the meal was over and the scholars rose for the final grace. Then the Fellows clustered around Wilson, who had just been listening to Gilbert.

'Still nothing,' he informed his colleagues. 'But I have alerted the porters to watch both gates for Augustus, and we will continue our search for the rest of the day if necessary. The man must be found. The Bishop will be here this evening, and I will turn this miserable business over to him, as is my duty. Doubtless he will want to see us all when he arrives.'

Bartholomew was glad to leave the hall and go out into the fresh air. It was not yet noon, but the sun was already scorching. He leaned against the wall for a minute, enjoying the warmth on his face, with his eyes closed. The air in the courtyard felt still and humid, and Bartholomew was acutely aware of the stench from the ditches west of the College. He thought of one of his patients, Tom Pike, who lived down by the wharves on the river and had a lung disease. This weather would make life unbearable for him. The smells and the insects were always worse by the river and the King's Ditch than elsewhere in the town. He wondered if bad smells and foul air were responsible for the spread of the plague that was ravaging Europe.

He saw the commoners, Jocelyn of Ripon and d'Evene the Frenchman, coming out of the hall together and hailed them over.

'Are you better now?' he asked, looking closely at the rings under their eyes and the way they winced at the brightness of the sun.

'My head aches something rotten,' grumbled Jocelyn.

'Master Swynford told me the wine may have been tampered with, and I can tell you, Doctor Bartholomew, that it would come as no surprise to me if it were. I have not had a hangover like this since I was ten years old!'

Bartholomew could well believe it of this rough man who drank so much. D'Evene coughed cautiously. 'That is the last time I drink French wine,' he said, a weak attempt at a joke.

'Do you recall which jug of wine it was that contained the drug?' asked Bartholomew.

Jocelyn looked at him in disbelief. 'Of course I do not!' he said. 'Do you think I would have drunk it if I thought it had been poisoned?'

Bartholomew smiled, acknowledging the absurdity of his question. D'Evene interrupted. "I remember,' he said. "I have a natural aversion to wine — it brings on blinding headaches — so I avoid it whenever possible, and drink ale instead. Last night, a good while after you Fellows left, the commoners were all together enjoying the atmosphere, the food, the drink, when poor Montfitchet started to complain about feeling ill.

We ignored him until he really was sick, which made us all begin to question the states of our own stomachs. We decided to leave, and went across to our room together.

When we were there, before going to sleep, someone said it would be right and proper to toast Master Wilson and his new role with his best wine. Montfitchet and I declined the wine, but everyone else said we were being churlish, and that we should drink Master Wilson's health with his fine red wine. I had consumed a good deal of ale by then, and so I allowed myself to accept when I should have declined. So did Montfitchet. I have no idea how the wine came from the hall to our dormitory, but it was there.'

Jocelyn looked at him. 'Yes, by God!' he said. 'The wine in the jug. I poured it out. It was my idea to drink the Master's health. I do not recall how it arrived in our room. It was just there, and I saw it was fairly distributed among the lot of us.'

'When did you start to feel the effects?'

'It is difficult to say,' d'Evene replied, with a shrug.

'Perhaps half an hour? The older folks had already dropped off to sleep, but Jerome, Roger Alyngton, Jocelyn and I were still chatting. We were already merry, and I do not think any of us felt that the sudden soporific feeling was anything more than too much strong drink.

Although perhaps poor Montfitchet felt different.'

Bartholomew spoke to Alyngton, Father Jerome, and two of the old men. None of them could add to d'Evene's story, although all claimed to have gone back to the dormitory together.

Bartholomew sat again, resting his back against the pale apricot stone, his head tipped back and his eyes closed against the brightness of the sun. A shadow fell across him, and he squinted up.

'We must talk, Matthew, but not here. Meet me shortly, in the orchard.' Aelfrith, after a furtive glance round, glided off towards his room.

'Give me a hand up, Brother,' Bartholomew said to Michael, emerging last from the hall, his jaws still working on a scrap of food. Michael extended a hand and pulled. Bartholomew was momentarily taken aback by the strength of Michael's arm. He had always imagined the large monk to be flabby and weak, but Bartholomew was hauled to his feet with effortless ease.

"I am away to Barnwell Priory this afternoon,'

Michael said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. 'Want to come? We could stop off at St Radegund's on the way.' He gave a most unmonklike leer. Had Abigny told everyone of Bartholomew's interest in his sister?

"I cannot, Brother. I am going to talk to Aelfrith.'

Michael gave him an odd glance. 'What about?'

'This business about Augustus, I suppose,' said Bartholomew. 'Do you believe me, Michael? Do you think Augustus was dead last night?'

'Oh, yes,' said Michael fervently, 'Augustuswas dead.

I saw you do your usual checks, and I saw him myself.

Look, Matt,' he said suddenly, seizing Bartholomew's wrist with a clammy hand, 'you must be cautious.' He glanced about him, as furtive as Aelfrith had been. "I do not understand what is going on, but I am afraid.

Afraid for me and afraid for you.'

'Afraid of what?' asked Bartholomew in a hushed voice.

"I do not know,' said Michael, exasperated, tightening his grip on Bartholomew's arm. 'Perhaps it is the work of the Devil. Augustus thought so, and now his body has disappeared.'

'Come now, Brother,' said Bartholomew reasonably.

'You cannot believe that. You have always told me that the only Devil is man himself. And what do you mean about Augustus and the Devil?'

Michael shook his head. "I do not know. He spoke of it just before he died.'

'When exactly?'

Michael shook his head again and released Bartholomew's arm. "I do not remember. But you must be cautious. Go to meet Aelfrith, but remember what I say.'

He scurried off and disappeared into the dark doorway of his staircase. Bartholomew watched him thoughtfully. What was bothering Michael? What was going on in the College?