back. He vaguely recalled Sir John complaining that an old door had been made into the ugly window that was there now, so perhaps the secret passageway had been blocked up then. Regardless, it seemed that the sturdy wall blocking the passage was ancient, and would have no bearing on the current mysteries.
He turned round, and began to squeeze his way down the narrow passage again. As he reached the point where the passage turned the corner, he saw that one of the stones had been prised loose about the level of his knees, and that something had been stuffed into the space. Gingerly, he bent towards it, and eased it out. It was a very dirty green blanket that smelled so rank that Bartholomew obeyed his instinct, and hurled it away from him. As it lay on the floor, something caught his eye. It was a singe mark, about the size of his hand.
Heart thumping, he picked it up by the hem, and took it back into the attic where he spread it out on the floor. It was the blanket that Bartholomew had inspected on the night of Augustus's death. There were the singe marks that had made Bartholomew think that Augustus had not been imagining things when he had claimed someone had tried to burn him in his bed. And there were other marks too — thick, black, encrusted stains ran in a broad band from one end of the blanket to the middle. Bartholomew knew old blood-stains when he saw them, and their implication made him feel sick.
Augustus must have been taken from his room and hidden up in the attic before Wilson conducted his clandestine search below. Perhaps the murderer had watched Wilson through the spy-holes, or perhaps he had hidden Augustus's body in the small passageway, so that Wilson would not have seen it when he effected his own escape.
If Wilson had already explored the attic as he claimed, he would have known the little passage was blocked, and would not have tried to use it to get away.
And then what? When Wilson had gone? Augustus had been dead, and no counter-claims from anyone would make Bartholomew disbelieve what he knew.
Had the murderer believed Augustus was still alive, and battered him when he lay wrapped in the blanket? Had Wilson been lying, and it was he who had returned later and battered the poor body? And regardless of which solution was the right one, where was Augustus now?
Bartholomew retraced his steps, carefully exploring every last nook and cranny of the attic, half hoping and half afraid that he would find Augustus. There was nothing: Augustus was not there. Bartholomew went back to the passage. The dust had been disturbed, and not just by his own recent steps. It was highly likely that Augustus had been hidden here until the hue and cry of his death and disappearance had died down.
The candle was beginning to burn low, and Bartholomew felt as though he had gained as much information from the attic as he was going to. At the last minute, he stuffed the blanket back into the hole in the wall again, as he had found it. He did not want the murderer, were he to return, to know about the clues he had uncovered.
He lowered himself through the trap-door back into Augustus's room and replaced the wooden panel.
As it slid into place, Bartholomew again admired the workmanship that had produced a secret opening that was basically invisible, even when he knew where to look.
He brushed himself off carefully and even picked up the lumps of dust that dropped from his clothes. He did not want anyone to guess what he had been doing. He put his ear to the door, and then let himself out silently.
He glanced in at his patients, and went down the stairs. The sky had clouded over since the morning, and it was beginning to rain. Bartholomew stood in the porch for a moment, looking across the courtyard. It was here he had fallen when Wilson had pushed him down the stairs. He closed his eyes, and remembered the footsteps he had heard as he lay there. That must have been Wilson effecting his escape across the attic floor. In his haste to get away, he had obviously forgotten to move with stealth, and Bartholomew had been able to hear him running.
Bartholomew thought about the night that Augustus had claimed there were devils in his room wanting to burn him alive. It was clear now: someone had climbed through the trap-door into Augustus's room, locked the door, and tried to set the bed alight. Whoever it was had escaped the same way when Bartholomew and Michael had broken the door down. But that still did not mean that Michael was innocent. He could easily have let himself out of the attic through the other trap-door and run round to Augustus's staircase to be in time to help Bartholomew batter the door. It would even explain why Michael had been virtually fully dressed in the middle of the night.
Cynric was taking food from the kitchen to the hall for the main meal of the day. Bartholomew walked briskly across the yard, and went up the stairs to the hall. It was cold and gloomy. Cynric had lit some candles, but they only served to make the room seem colder and darker as they flickered and fluttered in the draughts from the windows.
Bartholomew took some leek soup from a cauldron and sat next to Jocelyn of Ripon, more for company than from any feeling of friendship. Jocelyn made room for him and began telling him how the landowners were having to pay high wages to labourers to make them work on the farms. Because so many labourers had died from the plague, those left were in great demand and were able to negotiate large payments.
Jocelyn rubbed his hands gleefully as he described the plight of the rich landowners. He then outlined his plans for gathering groups of people together and selling their labour en masse. This would mean that the labourers would have a good deal of sway over the landowners and could obtain better pay and working conditions. If one landowner treated them unfairly, they would go to another who would be willing to make them a better offer. Jocelyn saw himself in the position of negotiator for these groups of people. Bartholomew, uncharitably, wondered what percentage of the profits the avaricious Jocelyn would take for his efforts. He tried to change the subject.
'Do you have plans to travel back to Ripon?'
'Not while there is money to be made here,'
Jocelyn said.
Bartholomew tried again. 'What made you come to Cambridge last year?' he asked, taking a piece of salted beef that had less of a green sheen to it than the others.
Jocelyn looked irritated at being sidetracked, and poured himself another generous cup of College wine.
'I contacted Master Swynford. We are distantly related by marriage, and I came here because I plan to start a grammar school in Ripon, and I wanted to learn how it might best be done. I have a house that I can use, and because it will be the only grammar school for miles around, I know it will be successful.'
Bartholomew nodded. He knew all this, because Swynford had talked about it when he had asked the other Fellows whether his relative could come to stay in Michaelhouse in return for teaching grammar.
Jocelyn's plan had sounded noble, but, having met him, Bartholomew was convinced that the school would be founded strictly as an economic venture and would have little to do with promoting the ideals of education.
As the most senior member present, it was Bartholomew's responsibility to say the Latin grace that ended all meals in College. This done, he escaped to his room.
Gray had not been able to buy all the medicines that Bartholomew needed, and there was no choice but to walk to Barnwell Priory to see what he could borrow from their infirmarian. Bartholomew waited for Gray to eat, and then set off for the Priory in the rain.
'You need not come,' said Bartholomew, when Gray started grumbling. 'You can stay in College and help in the sick-room.' 'I do not mind going to the Priory, and I want to learn about the medicines. I just do not like all this walking. Miles last night, and miles today. Why do you not get a horse?'
Bartholomew sighed. 'Not again, Samuel! I do not have a horse because I do not need one. By the time the thing was saddled and ready to go, I could have walked where I was going.'
'Well, what about when you go to Trumpington?'
Gray demanded petulantly.
Bartholomew felt his exasperation turning to irritation.
'I usually borrow or hire one.'
'But you cannot hire them now, not with all the stable-men dead of the plague. And Stephen Stanmore will never lend you another after what happened to the last one.'
Bartholomew whipped round and grabbed Gray by the front of his gown. 'Look! You do not like walking.
You do not like my patients. You do not approve of what I charge them. Perhaps you should find yourself another master under which to study if you find my affairs so disagreeable!'
He released the student, and walked on. After a few paces, he heard Gray following him again. He glanced round, and Gray looked back at him sullenly, like a spoilt child. Gray sulked all the way to the Priory, until listening to Bartholomew and the infirmarian discussing the plague took his mind away from his moodiness.
