come to claim him that much quicker!'
8
Wilson died shortly after he was absolved of his sins. Bartholomew helped Cynric stitch the body into one of the singed wall-hangings that Michael and Gray had used to put out the flames.
Bartholomew did not want the body to stay in the College, nor did he want it lying in the church where it might infect others. The only solution was to dig a temporary grave so that it could be retrieved when the tomb was ready.
Gray went to purchase a coffin at an extortionate price — they had become a rare commodity- and at dawn that day, Cynric and Gray dug a deep grave at the back of the church. Agatha, Cynric and Gray watched from a distance as Bartholomew and Michael lowered the coffin, while William muttered a requiem mass at top speed.
When it was over, they went into the church for the morning service and then back to College for breakfast.
The hall was cold and gloomy, and Bartholomew suggested that they all eat in the kitchen, where it was warm and Cynric would not have so far to carry the food. The other scholars had tended to prepare their own breakfasts in their rooms since the onset of the plague, to avoid unnecessary contact.
William gulped down some bread and watered wine, and went to take the news of Wilson's death to the Chancellor. Agatha watched him go.
'Would it be an unchristian thing to be thankful that that pompous old windbag was dead?' she asked Michael.
'Yes,' replied Michael, his hands full of chicken and his face covered in grease.
'Well, then,' she said, 'you have advance warning of what I will say in my confession. The College will be better without him. What will happen now?'
Michael swallowed a huge mouthful of food, and almost choked. Bartholomew pounded him on the back.
'The Fellows choose two names from their number, and the Chancellor picks one of them,' Michael said between coughs. As soon as he stopped coughing, he crammed as much food into his mouth as would fit, and went through the same process again.
'So, which two Fellows will you choose?' asked Agatha, beginning to clear away the table.
Michael swallowed hard, tears coursing down his cheeks. 'Dry, this chicken,' he remarked, making Bartholomew laugh. 'One nomination will have to be Swynford, I suppose. I would like you to be the other, Matt.' 'I am not doing it,' Bartholomew gasped in amazement.
'I do not have time.'
'Well, who else then?' asked Michael.
'You, Swynford, William, Alcote. Any of you would do well.' Bartholomew wondered which of them would promote the cause of the University, and which might be Oxford's spies. He rose and washed his hands in a bowl of water near the fire. Behind him, he could hear the cracking of bones as Michael savaged the remains of his chicken. Gray dabbled his hands quickly in the cold water, and wiped them on his robe. He did not see why Bartholomew was always washing his hands; they only became dirty again, especially in the shabby hovels that Bartholomew frequented.
Bartholomew's first duty of the day was to examine Alyngton and five students in the commoners' room. He lanced the swellings that looked as though they would drain, and left Michael's Benedictine room-mates with instructions on how to keep the sick scholars comfortable.
That done, he visited three patients in the river men's houses down by the wharf.
Gray followed him from house to house carrying the heavy bag that contained Bartholomew's instruments and medicines. Bartholomew could feel the student's disapproval as he entered the single-roomed shacks that were home to families of a dozen. The only patient of which Gray did not disapprove was the wife of a merchant. She was one of the few cases with which Bartholomew had had success, and was lying in a bed draped with costly cloths, tired, but still living.
The grateful merchant pressed some gold coins into Bartholomew's hand. Bartholomew wondered whether they would be sufficient to bribe people to drive the carts that collected the dead.
Once the urgent calls were over, Bartholomew turned to Gray.
'I need to discover what happened to Philippa,' he said. 'I am going to try to see if anyone knows Giles Abigny's whereabouts.'
Gray's face broke into a smile. 'You mean you plan to visit a few of his favourite spots?' he asked cheerfully.
'Oh, good. Beats traipsing around those dismal hovels.
Where shall we begin?'
Bartholomew was thankful that Gray had so readily agreed to help. 'The King's Head,' he said, saying the first place that came into his head.
Gray frowned. 'Not a good place to start,' he said.
'We would be better going there later when it is busier.
We should visit Bene't's first — that is where he spent most of his time outside Michaelhouse. Hugh Stapleton's brother, Cedric, is ill and now Master Roper is dead, they have no physician. We could see him first and then wheedle an invitation to eat there.'
Bartholomew saw he had a lot to learn in the sleazy ways of detection. He walked with Gray up the High Street to Bene't Street. Gray strolled nonchalantly into Bene't Hostel and a notion went through Bartholomew's mind that the scholars there might consider him to have poached Gray from them. The student had attached himself to Bartholomew with gay abandon, and Bartholomew had not asked whether he had sought permission from the Principal — whoever that was now that Hugh Stapleton had died.
The hostel was little more than a large house, with one room enlarged to make a hall. Bartholomew assumed that the hall would be used for communal meals as well as teaching. The hostel was far warmer than the chilly stone rooms of Michaelhouse, and the smell of boiled cabbage pervaded the whole house. Drying clothes hung everywhere, and the entire place had an aura of controlled, but friendly, chaos. No wonder Abigny had felt more at home here than in the strict orderliness of Michaelhouse.
Gray made for the small hall on the first floor of the building. He stopped to speak to a small, silver-haired man, and then turned to Bartholomew. 'This is Master Burwell, the Sub-Principal,' he said. 'He is very grateful for your offer to attend Cedric Stapleton.'
Bartholomew followed Burwell up some narrow wooden steps into the eaves of the house. 'How long has Master Stapleton been ill?' he asked.
'Since yesterday morning. I am sure there is little you can do, Doctor, but we appreciate you offering to help.' Burwell glanced round to smile at Bartholomew, and opened the door into a pleasant, slant-sided room with two dormer windows. The windows were glazed, and a fire was lit, so the room was remarkably warm. Bartholomew stepped in and went to the man who lay on the bed. A Dominican lay-brother was kneeling by him, alternating muttered prayers with wiping his patient's face with a napkin. Bartholomew knelt next to him to peer at the all-too- familiar symptoms.
He took a knife and quickly made criss-cross incisions on the buboes in Stapleton's armpits and groin. Immediately, a foul smell filled the room, and the lay-brother jerked backwards with a cry of disgust. Bartholomew asked for hot water, and set about cleaning the swellings. It seemed that Bartholomew's simple operation had afforded Stapleton some relief, for his breathing became easier and his arms and legs relaxed into a more normal position.
Bartholomew sat for a while with Stapleton, then went in search of Gray. He found him holding court in the small hall, in the middle of some tale about how he had sold a pardoner some coloured water to cure him of his stomach gripes, and how the pardoner had returned a week later to tell him that the wonderful medicine had worked.
Bartholomew sat on the end of a bench next to Burwell. Burwell raised his eyebrows questioningly.
