him to his feet once. Perhaps he spent too much time with the weak and dying, and no longer appreciated the strength of the healthy, strength that could be magnified by fear or desperation.
The more he thought about it, the less he understood. Despite all that he had learned from eavesdropping, Philippa and Abigny, and his confrontation with the Stanmores, he was as much in the dark as ever. Far from easing his mind, his conversation had made him even more concerned for the safety of his family. Abigny had thought nothing of endangering Edith when he was trying to help Philippa. Bartholomew thought about what Stanmore had told him of the Oxford plot, and wondered whether the survival of the University was enough of a reason for men like Yaxley, Stayne, and Burwell to become involved. Stanmore claimed he knew nothing of murder, and Bartholomew believed him. But Yaxley, Burwell, and Stayne might. So was the University's survival sufficient reason for which to commit murder?
Wilson intimated on his deathbed that there were those who cared passionately about it, and might give their lives for it. Would they also take lives?
And so he came back to the same question yet again: who was the murderer in Michaelhouse? All the Fellows had alibis for Augustus's death, so was the killer an outsider after all? And where was Michael? Had he fled Cambridge to escape the plague like so many others, or was he, too, lying dead somewhere? Bartholomew stood watching the rain for a while longer, but his thoughts began to repeat themselves. He wondered what he should do next. He was too battered emotionally for a confrontation with Philippa, Abigny, or one of the hostel men, but he still had patients to see. Reluctantly, he left the warmth of Stephen's house, and prepared to trudge back to Michaelhouse.
11
Bartholomew had barely returned to Michaelhouse when a messenger arrived with a note from Edith saying that she had hurt her arm. She said it was very painful, and asked that he come to tend it as soon as possible. A shout from the commoners' window made him look up.
'Father Jerome is dying,' the Benedictine called, 'and he is asking for you.'
Bartholomew was torn with indecision. Should he go to the dying man or his sister? As if in answer to his prayers, Gray came sauntering through the gates.
Bartholomew strode over to him in relief. Gray could go to Edith; a sore arm did not sound too serious.
Gray listened attentively to Bartholomew's instructions, secretly gratified that Bartholomew was allowing him to attend his sister: he was not to try to set the arm if it was broken; he was to make sure that if there was a wound, it was clean before he bound it; he was only to use water that had been taken fresh from the spring; he was to check carefully for other injuries and fever; and he was to give her one measure only — and here Gray was subjected to a stern look from his teacher — of a sleeping draught if she complained of too much pain.
Proudly carrying Bartholomew's bag of medicines, Gray set off at ajaunty pace towards the High Street, while Bartholomew hurried back to the commoners' room.
Father Jerome was indeed dying. He had already been anointed, and his breath was little more than a reedy whisper. Bartholomew was surprised that, after his long and spirited struggle, his end should come so fast. Almost as fast as that of Henry Oliver, who had died several hours before.
William came and Jerome confessed to enticing Montfitchet to drink the wine that had been left in the commoners' room the night of Augustus's murder, even though Monfitchet had said he had drunk enough already. Without Jerome's encouragement to drink, Montfitchet might still be alive. Bartholomew thought it was more likely that Montfitchet would have been dispatched in the same way as Brother Paul, but held his silence. Finally, Jerome laid back, his face serene, and waited for death. He asked if Bartholomew would stay with him until he died. Bartholomew agreed, hoping that Edith was not seriously hurt, and that Gray would not attempt anything beyond his capabilities.
In less than two hours, it was over, and Bartholomew helped the monks to stitch Jerome into a blanket.
Bartholomew was torn between grief and impotent anger that he had not been able to do anything other than sit at the sick man's bedside. He laid Jerome gently in the stable next to Henry Oliver, and stalked out of the College towards the church. Everything seemed grey to Bartholomew. The sky was a solid iron-colour, even though it was not raining, and the houses and streets seemed drab and shabby. The town stank, and the mud that formed the street was impregnated with bits of rotting food and human waste. He made his way through it to St Michael's, where he paced around the church for a while, trying to bring his emotions under control.
After a while, he grew calmer and began to think about Philippa. She was safe — something for which he had been hoping desperately ever since Abigny had fled from Edith's house. He wondered again whether he had perhaps been over-hasty the previous night, and whether he should have shown more understanding for Abigny's point of view. But he had been exhausted by his eavesdropping excursion in the cold, and still shocked to learn that the Stanmores had been involved. He wondered where Philippa had gone, and felt a sudden urge to talk with her, and to resolve the questions about her disappearance that still jangled in his mind. The best way to find her would be through her brother, who would be most likely to seek a temporary bed at Bene't's until he deemed it safe to return to his own room.
Bartholomew set off down the High Street, his mind filled with unanswered questions. As he approached Bene't's, he shuddered, thinking about the hours he had spent perched on the window-sill above the filthy yard. He had scarcely finished knocking on the door when it was answered by a student with greasy red hair.
The student said that Abigny was out and he did not know when he was likely to return, but offered to let Bartholomew wait. Bartholomew assented reluctantly, not wanting to be inside Bene't's, but his desire to see Philippa was strong. He expected to be shown into the hall, but a glimpse through the half-closed door indicated that the students were engaged in an illicit game of dice, and would not want him peering over their shoulders. He was shown into a small, chilly room on an upper floor, and abandoned with cheerful assurances that Abigny would not be long.
He was beginning to consider leaving Abigny a note asking him to go to Michaelhouse, when he heard the door open and close again. He hurried from the chamber and peered down the stairwell.
But it was not Abigny climbing the stairs, it was Stephen, preceded by Burwell. Bartholomew was on the verge of announcing himself when he heard his name mentioned. He froze, leaning across the handrail, his whole body suddenly inexplicably tense.
'… he is too near the truth now,' Stephen was saying, 'and he does not believe in the Oxford plot. I could see in his face he was doubtful.'
'Damn,' said Burwell, pausing to look back at Stephen. 'Now what do we do?'
'Kill him,' came a third voice, oddly familiar to Bartholomew. 'It will not be difficult. Send him another note purporting to be from Edith and have him ambushed on the Trumpington road.'
Heart thumping, Bartholomew ducked back into his chilly chamber as Burwell reached the top of the stairs. There would be no need for an ambush: they could kill him now, in Bene't Hostel. Bartholomew felt his stomach churn and his hands were clammy with sweat as he stood in the semi-darkness. To his infinite relief, the three men entered the room next to his, closing the door firmly behind them. Leaning his sweat-drenched forehead on the cold wall for a moment to calm himself, Bartholomew eased out of his chamber, and slipped along the hallway to listen outside the other door. It was old and sturdily built, and he had to strain to hear what was being said.
'Another death at Michaelhouse might look suspicious,'
Stephen was saying.
'On the contrary,' came the voice of the third man, smooth and convincing. 'It might improve our cause immeasurably. We have sown the seeds of an idea into the minds of these gullible people — that Michaelhouse is a rotten apple. What better way to have that idea confirmed than yet another untimely death there? What families will send their sons to Michaelhouse where the Fellows die with such appalling regularity? And then our Oxford plot will seem all the more real, and all the more terrifying.'
Bartholomew fought to control the weak feeling in his knees and tried to bring his jumbled thoughts into order. Had he been right all along in his uncertainty about the Oxford plot? He had never accepted the concept fully, as Aelfrith, Wilson, and even Sir John had done. Could there be a plot within a plot? The group of hostel men who had gone to Stanmore had fed him lies about a plan by Oxford scholars to bring down Cambridge. Or had they?
