Bartholomew stared at her. 'What do you mean?' he asked.
'Perhaps as soon as Philippa was out of danger from the plague, he climbed up to her window to be with her.
Perhaps there were two people in the room for some of the time, not just one. I thought she had rather a voracious appetite; she always ate everything we left on the trays outside the door, and we began leaving her larger and larger amounts. I thought it was just a reaction to the fever, or even boredom, making her eat so much.
'And you know what that means?' Edith continued, after a pause. 'It means that he probably nursed her himself for a time, before she left and he took her place.
It means that she was not spirited away while she was still weak, but when she was stronger. So she probably went voluntarily.'
Bartholomew was not sure whether this was good or bad. 'But why was she spirited anywhere? Why did she not stay here? Why did Abigny feel obliged to keep up such a pretence? And why did Philippa and Giles not feel that they could trust us enough to tell us what was going on?'
Edith patted his hand. 'These are strange times, Matt,' she said. 'Oswald told me that one of his apprentices hanged himself two days ago, because he had accidentally touched a plague victim. He was so afraid he might catch it, he decided he would rather die by his own hand. Do not question too much. I am sure you will find Philippa eventually. And Giles.'
But even if he did, Bartholomew thought, things would never be the same. If Edith was right, and Philippa had gone from the house willingly, it meant that she had not trusted him enough to tell him her motives. The same was true of Giles.
Edith stood up. 'I must do some work,' she said. 'Did you know that we have the children from the village who have been orphaned in our stable loft? It is warm and dry there, and we can make sure they are fed properly. The bigger ones are helping to tend the vegetable plots, and I take care of the little ones here. Labour is becoming scarce, Matt. We will all starve if we do not continue to look after the fields.'
Bartholomew was not surprised at his sister's practicalities, nor of her carefully concealed charity. She would not offend the children's dignity by giving them meals and a place to stay for nothing, but provided them with small duties that would make them feel they were earning their keep.
Stanmore took a small cart into Cambridge so that Bartholomew and Gray would not have to walk. Richard went too, sitting in the back interrogating Gray about life as a student in Cambridge, and making comparisons with his own experiences in Oxford.
Bartholomew alighted at St Botolph's Church to see Colet, while the others went on to Milne Street.
The monks knelt in a line before the altar, although Bartholomew noted that there were fewer than there had been previously. Colet, however, was not there.
Bartholomew went to Rudde's Hostel in search of him, but was told by the porter that he had gone out early that morning, and had not been seen since. Bartholomew's spirits rose a little. Did this mean that Colet had recovered and was visiting patients again?
The porter, seeing the hopeful look on Bartholomew's face, shook his head.
'No. he saddled as ever. He had his hood pulled right over his face, and said he was going out to pick blackberries. At this time of year! He has been saying that every day recently. He will be back later to sit and dribble in the church.'
Bartholomew thanked him, and walked back to Michaelhouse. On the way, he met Master Burwell who asked if there was any news of Abigny. Bartholomew shook his head, and asked whether Giles had seemed afraid.of anything on the last few occasions that Burwell had seen him. Burwell scratched his head.
'Yes. Now that you mention it. The hostel is a noisy place, and he was constantly jumping and looking round.
I just assumed it was fear of the plague. Several of the students are in a similar state, and I have heard Master Colet is far from well in his mind.'
'Was there anything specific?'
Burwell thought again. 'Not that I can put a finger on. He was simply nervous.'
After Bartholomew had enquired after Cedric Stapleton, they parted, and Bartholomew returned to his room. He looked around carefully to see if Abigny had been there, but the minute fragments of rushes that he had secretly placed on Abigny's belongings were still in place. Gray burst in, full of enthusiasm, but he was less so when Bartholomew dispatched him to buy various herbs and potions from the town herb-seller, known locally as 'Jonas the Poisoner' following an incident involving several poorly-labelled bottles some years before.
Bartholomew went to examine his patients in the commoners' dormitory, to find that three students had died in the night. Roger Alyngton was no better, but no worse. That morning, the frail Father Jerome had complained of a fever, and was lying restlessly next to him. Bartholomew wondered whether Jerome would have the strength or the will to fight the sickness.
When the patients were all resting, Bartholomew slipped out and went into the room that had been Augustus's and that was now used to store clean blankets and linen. He carefully closed the door. The shutters were already fastened, but the wood had swollen and warped over many years, and were ill-fitting enough to allow sufficient light for Bartholomew to see what he was doing.
He crouched on the window-sill and peered up at the ceiling. He had never really noticed the ceilings in the south wing before. They were really quite beautiful, with elaborate designs carved into the fine dark oak.
Looking carefully, Bartholomew could see no evidence whatsoever of a trap-door. He wondered if Wilson had been lying to him. He jumped down and lit one of the supply of candles he had appropriated from the hall for use in the sickroom. Climbing back onto the window-sill, he held the candle up and looked again. He could still see nothing.
He put the palm of his hand against the ceiling and pushed gently, and he was startled to feel it move. He pushed again, and an entire section of the ceiling came loose. He had to drop the candle to catch the heavy wood and prevent it from crashing down onto his head.
Carefully, he lowered the loose panel onto the floor, relit his candle, and cautiously poked his head into the space beyond.
At first. he could make nothing out, but then gradually he saw that the trap-door, as Wilson had called it, did little more than conceal a way into the attic. He did not know what he had expected — a cramped secret passage, perhaps, with dusty doorways leading away from it. Still holding the candle he hauled himself up, bemused to think that Wilson had been fit enough to do the same.
There was not sufficient room for him to stand upright, so he walked hunched over. The candle was not bright enough to illuminate the whole of the attic, and it faded into deep shadows at the edges. There was an unpleasant smell too, as if generations of small animals had found their way in, but had become trapped and died. Bartholomew shook himself. He was being fanciful.
The attic was basically bare, the wooden floor covered in thick dust, scuffed here and there by some recent disturbances. He walked carefully along the length of the south wing, his way lit by small holes in the floor, although whether these were for providing light or for spying on the people in the rooms below, he could not say. Over the commoners' room, he could clearly hear the Benedictine whispering comforting words to Alyngton, while over what had been Swynford's room — where d'Evene had died — he could even read the words on a book that lay open on the table. At the very end of the attic, he found the second trap-door. It was marked by a large metal ring, and when Bartholomew pulled it up, he saw that it gave access to the last staircase. Wilson could easily have climbed into the attic, walked along to the second door, and slipped away down the stairs and back to his own room.
So could the murderer of Paul, Montfitchet, and Augustus.
He lowered the door and retraced his steps, carefully examining the floor for any more entrances and exits.
He found none, but at the far end, where the south wing abutted onto the hall, he found a tiny doorway. He squeezed through it, and down a cramped passageway that was so full of dust and still air that Bartholomew began to feel as though he could not breathe. The passageway turned a corner, and Bartholomew faced a blank wall. He scratched at the stones and mortar with his fingernail. It was old, and had evidently been sealed up many years before. He stooped to look for any signs that it had been tampered with in recent days, but there was nothing. The passageway must have run in the thickness of the west wall of the hall, and perhaps emerged in the gallery at the
