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.
