Bartholomew could believe that the Devil had a servant in the College easily enough — someone who was committing murder and stealing bodies — but the idea that the Devil was responsible he found too hard to accept. He sensed he would not agree with Aelfrith on this point, and that if he questioned it further they might end up in the orchard for hours discussing it as a point of theology.
'The Devil's servant,' replied Aelfrith in response to Bartholomew's questions. He turned to Bartholomew. 'I have told you all this because I wish you to be on your guard — for your own life and for the security of your University.'
'Do the other fellows know all this?' asked Bartholomew.
'Master Wilson does. He thinks you are a spy because you have a degree from Oxford, because your practice takes you out of College a lot, and because he was suspicious of your relationship with Sir John. He warned Sir John about you many times. He does not like you, and now he is Master, he will undoubtedly try to see that your days as a Fellow here are numbered.'
That Wilson thought the worst of him, and might attempt to rid Michaelhouse of him, did not come as any great shock to Bartholomew. 'Who else knows?' he asked.
'Michael seems to know some of it, although he did not learn it from me. William and Alcote know. It was William who told me to warn you. Alcote is in Wilson's pocket, and believes you are a spy. They both think you were looking for the seal when you took so long with Augustus.'
'And what do you think, Father?'
'That you are innocent in all this, and that you should remain so. I also reason that you grieve too deeply for Sir John to have been involved in any way with his death, and that you have continued to be a good friend after most others have abandoned him.'
Bartholomew squinted up into the apple trees. He wished Sir John were with him now, to help him reason out all this subterfuge and plotting. 'What of the others?
Swynford and Giles Abigny?'
'Swynford is aware of the Oxford plot, but declines to become involved. His family have lands near Oxford, and he says it is in his interests to remain neutral. Sirjohn's contact has already reported that Swynford declined Oxford when they tried to recruit him. Abigny would not find the time between his love affairs for matters of such seriousness, and in any case, I could not trust his judgement nor his discretion. He has no connections with Oxford anyway, and would make them a poor spy.
He does not move in the right circles to be of interest to them, unless they are concerned with tavern gossip.'
Bartholomew smiled. The flighty Abigny was from a different world than the austere Franciscan friars, and they would never see eye to eye. But Aelfrith was right.
Abigny was appallingly indiscreet, and would never manage to remain sober long enough to do spying of any value. Aelfrith stood to leave.
If you think of anything, however small, that might throw light onto this wretched affair, will you let me know?'
Bartholomew nodded. 'I will, but I have thought it over many times, and have not deduced the tiniest shred of evidence that could be of value. I think I would be as much a loss as a spy as would Giles!'
Aelfrith reached out to touch Bartholomew on the shoulder, a rare gesture of affection for the sombre friar, and walked out of the orchard.
Bartholomew sat for a while, pondering what Aelfrith had told him. He still found it difficult to believe that Oxford and Cambridge scholars would play such dangerous games, and he would not accept that Augustus's body had been stolen by the Devil. The sun was hot, and he thought back to what he had said to Aelfrith. Bodies did not just disappear, so Augustus's corpse must have been either hidden or buried. If it were hidden, the heat would soon give it away; if it were buried, perhaps it would never be found.
The bell began to ring for the afternoon service at St Michael's, and Bartholomew decided to go to pray for the souls of his dead friends.
Bartholomew made his way slowly back from the church down St Michael's Lane. A barge from the Low Countries had arrived at the wharf earlier that day, and all the small lanes and alleys leading from the river to the merchants' houses on Milne Street were full of activity.
At the river the bustle was even more frenzied. A Flemish captain stood on the bank roaring instructions in dreadful French to his motley collection of sailors who yelled back in a variety of languages. At least two were from the Mediterranean, judging from their black curly hair and beringed ears, and another wore an exotic turban swathed around his head. Further up-stream, fishermen were noisily unloading baskets of eels and the slow-moving water was littered with tails and heads that had been discarded. Overhead, the gulls swooped and screeched and fought, adding to the general racket.
Behind the wharves were the rivermen's houses, a dishevelled row of rickety wooden shacks that leaked when it rained, and often collapsed when it was windy.
Bartholomew saw an enormous rat slink out of one house and disappear into the weeds at the edge of the river where some small children were splashing about.
'Matt!' Bartholomew turned with a smile at the sound of his brother-in-law's voice. Sir Oswald Stanmore strode up to him. 'We were worried about you. What has been happening at Michaelhouse?'
Bartholomew raised his hands in a shrug. 'I do not know. The clerics are mumbling about evil walking the College, but Wilson thinks it was only Augustus.'
Stanmore rolled his eyes. 'Wilson is afool. You should have heard him pontificating to us last night, telling us everything we would ever need to know about the wool trade, and about French cloth. The man would not know French cloth from homespun. But we have heard terrible rumours about Michaelhouse! How much did you all drink last night?'
Ever practical, Stanmore had put everything down to drunkenness, not such an unreasonable assumption considering the amount of wine that had flowed.
'Nathaniel the Fleming seems to have had his share too,' said Bartholomew, turning as one of the swimming children emitted an especially piercing shriek.
Stanmore laughed. 'I told him last night he would need your services this morning. Did he call you?'
Bartholomew nodded, and told him what had happened. Stanmore threw up his hands in despair.
'Lord save us, Matt! I provide you with one of the wealthiest men in the town as a patient, and you cannot even subdue your unorthodox thoughts long enough to treat him. I know,' he said quickly, putting up a hand to quell the coming objection, 'what you believe, and I understand, even applaud, your motives. But for the love of God, could you not even try to placate Nathaniel? You need to be far more careful now Wilson is Master, Matt.
Even a child can see that he loathes you. You no longer have the favoured protection of Sir John, and securing a patient such as Nathaniel might have served to keep his dislike at bay for a while.'
Bartholomew knew Stanmore was right. He gave a rueful smile.
'Edith told me to call on you today to make certain you were well,' Stanmore continued. 'What have you done to your leg? What debauchery did your feast degenerate into once the sobering effects of your town guests had gone?' He was smiling, but his eyes were serious.
'Tell Edith I am fine. But I do not understand what is happening at Michaelhouse. The Bishop is due to arrive today and will take matters in hand.'
Stanmore chewed his lower lip. 'I do not like it, Matt, and neither will Edith. Come to stay with us for a few days until all this dies down. Edith is missing Richard; if you came, it would take her mind off him for a while.'
Richard, their only son, had left a few days before to study at Oxford, and the house would be strangely empty without him. Bartholomew was fond of his sister and her husband, and it would be pleasant to spend a few days away from the tensions of the College. But he had work to do: there were students who had returned before the Michaelmas term so that they could be given extra tuition, and he had his patients to see. And anyway, if he left now, Wilson would probably see it as fleeing the scene of the crime, and accuse him of the murders.
Regretfully he shook his head.
'I would love to, I really would. But I cannot. I should stay.' He grabbed Stanmore's arm. 'Please do not tell Edith all you hear. She will only worry.'
Stanmore smiled under standingly. 'Come to see us as soon as you can, and talk to her yourself.' He looked
