such comments at this point.
'Do you know anything about Aelfrith's death?' he asked instead. Wilson was fading fast, and he had many questions he wanted answered.
'No, why should I? The foolish man went out among plague victims. What did he expect?'
'He was murdered too. He was killed with medicines from my poisons chest. His last words were 'poison' and 'Wilson'. What do you make of that?'
Wilson fixed bloodshot eyes on Bartholomew.
'Nonsense,' he said after a moment. 'You misheard him. Aelfrith was told about the seal, but he was an innocent, who should never have been allowed to know the secret. He was too… willing to believe good of people. Do not make up mysteries, Bartholomew. You have enough to do with those that already exist.'
'What were you doing when you set yourself alight?' asked Bartholomew. He remained uncertain whether Wilson really knew nothing of Aelfrith's murder and so was dismissing it out of hand, or whether he knew far too much but was refusing to say so. Bartholomew had to lean close to Wilson to hear his words, trying not to show repugnance at his fetid breath.
'I was burning the College records,' he said. 'My successor will probably be Swynford, and I will not make things easy for the likes of him by leaving nicely laid-out ledgers and figures. Oh, no! He can work it all out for himself! I was going to burn all the records, then send for you, but I was overcome with dizziness, and must have knocked the table over with the lamp on it.'
So, Wilson's motive for burning the ledgers had been spite, and Michael was wrong in assuming that it was anything more sinister or meaningful. Bartholomew looked down at Wilson with pity. How could a man, knowing he was going to die, perform such petty acts of meanness with his last strength? He thought of others he had seen die during the last weeks, and how many had died begging him to take care of a relative, or asking him to pass some little trinket to a friend who had not had the chance to say goodbye. Bartholomew felt sick of the University and its politics, and particularly sick of Wilson and his pathetic vengeance.
He moved away. He had one more question to ask, one that meant more to him than the others. He had to put it casually, because he sensed if Wilson knew it was important to him, he might not answer.
'Does any of this have anything to do with Giles or Philippa Abigny?' he asked, looking at where the door hung at an odd angle on its damaged hinges.
Wilson gave a nasty wheezing chuckle. 'Your lady love? It is possible. I have been thinking for some time now that Abigny might be one of the Oxford spies. He spends too much time away from the College, and I never know where he is. Perhaps it was he who found the seal. I heard that your lady has gone. She should have stayed in her convent. Probably ran off with some man who will make her richer and happier than you, Physician.'
Bartholomew fought down the urge to wrap his hands round the man's neck and squeeze as hard as he could. So, Abigny could be one of Oxford's spies.
Was that why he had been hiding in disguise at Edith's house? But that did not explain where Philippa was.
Bartholomew could see no option other than to become embroiled in this seething pit of intrigue and spies in order to find out about Abigny's possible role.
'Do you know for certain that Philippa ran away with a man?' asked Bartholomew as calmly as he could.
Wilson gave another breathy cackle. 'I am almost tempted to say yes because I would like to see the expression on your face,' he said. 'But the answer is no. I have no idea where your woman is, and I have no information whatsoever about her disappearance. I wish I had, because I want you to do two things for me, and I would like to make you feel obliged to do them by giving you information in return.'
Bartholomew grimaced. He wondered why Wilson had chosen him to do his bidding. 'What are they?'
Wilson's lips parted in his ghastly grin. 'First, I want you to find the seal.'
Bartholomew spread his hands helplessly. 'But how can I find it if you could not? And why me and not one of the others?'
'Swynford is gone, and I would not trust him anyway.
Aelfrith is dead. Father William is too indiscreet, and would go about his task with so much fervour that he would surely fail. Brother Michael knows more than he is telling me, and I do not trust that he is on the right side. The same goes for Abigny, who has fled the nest anyway. Alcote is too stupid. That leaves only you, my clever Physician! You have the intelligence to solve the riddle, and Aelfrith assured me that you were uninvolved with all this before he died.'
Wilson lifted his head from the pillow and reached for Bartholomew's arm. 'You must find it, and pass it to the Chancellor. He will see you amply rewarded.' He released Bartholomew's arm, and sank back.
So Wilson thought that any of the surviving Fellows might be involved, although he thought it less likely of William or Alcote. Abigny and Michael were plainly embroiled. But the entire Oxford business seemed so far-fetched, especially now when towns and villages were being decimated with the plague. Why would Oxford scholars bother to waste their time and energy on subterfuge and plotting when they all might be dead in a matter of weeks anyway? 'It seems so futile,' he blurted out. 'Now of all times there are issues far more important to which scholars should devote their attention.'
Wilson sneered again. 'What is more important than the survival of the College and University? Even you must see that is paramount! You must have some love of learning, or you would not be here, exchanging comfort and wealth for the cramped, rigid life of a scholar. Your arrogance has not allowed you to see that there are others who love learning, and would do anything to see it protected. I sacrificed a glowing future as a cloth merchant to become a scholar, because I believe the University has a vital role to play in the future of our country. You are not the only one to sacrifice yourself for a love of knowledge and learning.'
Bartholomew watched the guttering candle. 'But the University at Oxford is stronger, bigger, and older than Cambridge. Why should they bother?'
Wilson made an impatient sound, and slowly shook his head. 'You will not be convinced, I see. Aelfrith said as much. But you will see in the end. Anyway, it matters not why you choose to seek the seal, only that you do so. Believe it will lead you to your woman if you wish.
Believe it will avenge Babington's death. But find it.'
He closed his eyes, his face an ashen-grey.
'And the second thing?' Bartholomew asked. 'You said there were two things you wanted done.' 'I want you to see that I am not thrown into one of your filthy plague pits. I want to be buried in the church near the high altar, and I want an effigy carved in black marble. I am choosing you to do this because I know you are dealing with burials these days, and because you have already had the plague and might now survive the longest. Any of the others might catch it, and I cannot rely on them to carry out my wishes. You will find money for the tomb in my purse in the College chest.'
Bartholomew stared at him in disbelief, and almost laughed. Wilson was incorrigible! Even with so little time left, his mind was on pomp and ceremony. Bartholomew wanted to tell him that it would give him great pleasure to see his fat corpse dumped into the plague pit, but he was not Wilson, and so he merely said he would do what he could.
Wilson seemed to be fading fast, now he had completed his business. Sweat coursed down his face and over his jowls, and Bartholomew noticed that one of the swellings on his neck must have burst when he was moving his head. Thankfully, he did not seem to be in any pain. Perhaps the shock of the burns had taken the feeling from his body, or perhaps Wilson was able to put it to the back of his mind while he tied up the loose ends in his life.
'Tell Michael to come,' he whispered. 'I have done with you now.'
Bartholomew was peremptorily dismissed with the characteristic flap of the flabby hand that had been the cause of so much resentment among the College servants. He went to the door and called for Michael.
Michael huffed up the stairs and spread out his accoutrements, obviously still indignant about his dismissal from the room earlier.
Bartholomew left so that Wilson could make his confession in private, and went to examine the other plague cases in the commoners' room. He was summoned back by Michael after only a few minutes.
'The Master had little to confess,' said Michael in amused disbelief. 'He says he has lived a godly life, and has done no harm to anyone who did not deserve it.
God's teeth, Matt.' Michael shook his head in wonder.
'It is as well he has asked you not to put him in the plague pit. In a tomb of his own, the Devil will be able to
