physician — far more so than you because he is less controversial.' 'I do not know. Perhaps because of the pestilence?
First, a good many of his wealthy patients were likely to die, thus reducing his income. Second, the plague is not a good disease for physicians: the risk of infection is great, and the chances of success are low. We discussed it ad nauseam before it came, and he knew as well as I that physicians were likely to become social outcasts shunned by people who were uninfected, and treated with scorn by those that were because we would be unable to cure them. His leeching for toothaches and hangovers would not stand him in good stead with the Death. He was probably taking precautions against an uncertain future, like Stephen.'
Bartholomew gazed into the darkness and thought about Colet. He had stopped treating his patients when Bartholomew became ill and Roper had died. But about the same time, the wealthy merchant Per Goldam had died, and he had been Colet's richest patient. Colet must have decided that helping Bartholomew in the slums and with the plague pits was not for him. What better way to escape from constant demands from people for help than to feign madness? In the church, he would be relatively safe from plague-bearing people, and would be in a place where his associates could easily drop in to see him. His ramblings around the churches and his trips for blackberries were merely excuses to go about his business.
Bartholomew was overcome with disgust. He had liked Colet. What an appalling judge of character he must be to misjudge Philippa, Stanmore, and Michael, and not to suspect Colet. There was nothing more to be said, and each became engrossed in his own thoughts.
Although time dragged in the dark room, it did not seem long before they heard the sound of the trap-door being opened again. Bartholomew heard Michael draw in his breath sharply, thinking, like himself, that their executioners might be coming. There was a crash as Michael, backing away, knocked a chest over.
Bartholomew stationed himself near the door. The bolts were drawn back with agonising slowness, and Bartholomew felt sweat breaking out at the base of his neck.
The door swung open slowly, and light slanted into the room, dazzling him.
'Stand back,' said Colet. 'Master Jocelyn carries his crossbow and will not hesitate to use it if you attempt anything foolish.'
Slowly Bartholomew backed away, his eyes narrowed against what seemed like blinding light. He saw Jocelyn standing beyond the door, his crossbow aimed at Bartholomew's chest. The Rudde's porter was there too, holding a drawn sword. Colet was obviously taking no chances with his two prisoners.
'What do you want?' said Bartholomew with more bravado than he felt.
'You are an ingrate, Matt,' said Colet, and Bartholomew wondered why he had never detected the unpleasant smoothness in his friend's voice before.
'I have come to bring you food and wine. I thought you must be hungry by now, and your fat friend is always ravenous.'
He nodded his head, and the porter slid a tray into the room with his foot. On it there was bread, wizened apples, and something covered with a cloth. Red wine sloshed over the rim of the jug as the tray moved.
'So,' said Colet. 'You two must have had quite a conversation down here.'
When Bartholomew and Michael did not answer, Colet continued, his voice gloating, goading. 'So now you understand everything? What we have been doing, and why?'
Again, Bartholomew and Michael did not reply, and Colet's composure slipped a little. 'What? No questions?
Surely we have not been so careless as to leave nothing that you have been unable to work out?'
Michael affected a nonchalant pose on the crate he had knocked over. 'Doctor Bartholomew lost his taste for questions when the answers proved so unpleasant,' he said. 'But I confess there are two things that puzzle me still. First, how did you kill Aelfrith? We know why and that you used poison. But we remain uncertain as to how you made him believe it was Wilson.'
'I do not wish to know,' said Bartholomew in disgust.
'That you murdered a good man, and that you used so low a weapon as poison to do it is more than enough for me.'
'Oh, surely not?' said Colet, laughing. 'What happened to your spirit of learning and discovery? I never thought that you, of all people, would refuse to learn after all our debates and experiments together.'
'We were different men then,' said Bartholomew, with undisguised loathing.
'Perhaps,' mused Colet. 'But Brother Michael asked me a question, and I feel duty-bound to answer it. Aelfrith was coming too close to the truth. I heard from the monks in St Botolph's that Aelfrith heard Wilson's confession every Friday. So, I sent Aelfrith a small bottle of mead with a signed message from Wilson saying he appreciated Aelfrith's understanding, and he should drink the mead to help him relax after his hard work in the town. The message, of course, was written by me, and the mead was poisoned. I retrieved the rest of the bottle the night he died, lest you should find it.'
He smiled absently. 'I was almost caught. The poison was slower-acting than I had imagined, and Aelfrith was still alive and staggering around when I came for the bottle. You, Brother, tried to take him back to his room, and I only just managed to lock the door before you came. You took Aelfrith elsewhere to die, but it was a narrow escape for me.'
Bartholomew remembered Michael telling him that Aelfrith's door had been locked, and recalled assuming Aelfrith's room-mates had shut it because they did not want a plague victim in the chamber with them. But Colet had been hiding there, with the murder weapon in his hands.
'So you kill by stealth,' said Bartholomew bitterly.
'As I am sure you did with Sir John, for you would never have overpowered him in a fair fight.'
'True enough,' said Colet, 'and I most certainly was not prepared to try. I had help that night. Masters Yaxley and Burwell accompanied me.'
'Why did you go to so much trouble for the seal?' asked Michael. 'It would have been no use to you at all after the death of Sir John.'
'You are right, the seal is nothing,' said Colet. 'Once it was known by the King's spies that Sir John was dead, there would have been no value in his seal, and it could never have been used for the same purpose again. But it suited our plans to make believe that there were men desperate to retrieve the seal. If people thought the seal was important enough to kill for, they would also think that the information Sir John received from his spy our messages — was of great significance.'
'Was it you or Swynford that tried to burn poor, sick Augustus in the middle of the night?' asked Michael.
'Neither, actually. We did not want to set Augustus's room on fire or burn him in his bed. That would have drawn attention to the room we were trying to search. Our notion was to make the fire smoke to asphyxiate him.' 'I see,' said Bartholomew sarcastically. 'And how could you possibly have made such a mess of this simple operation?'
Colet eyed Bartholomew malevolently for a moment.
'Jocelyn thought the fire was taking too long, and lit another under the bed to speed the process along.
Instead of smoke, there were flames and the old man woke.' He looked in disgust at Jocelyn, who curled his lip in disdain at Colet. 'Fortunately he was too confused to identify Jocelyn, who managed to put out the fire and escape by the trap-door before you two came and broke down the door. When I returned to make amends for his bungling the night of the feast, I was careful to remove all evidence that there was ever a fire.'
Bartholomew recalled the cinders that had clung to his gown when he lay on the floor to retrieve the lid of the bottle Michael dropped. When he had looked for them the morning after, they had gone.
'You disgust me, Colet,' said Bartholomew softly.
'You are a physician, sworn to heal. Even if you did not use a weapon, it is still murder to frighten an old man to death.'
'You almost caught me, actually,' said Colet, and Bartholomew could see that the entire affair was little more than an intellectual game for him. 'I let myself out of the other trap-door and hid in Swynford's room, since I was uncertain whether you would know about the one in Augustus's room, and you might have come looking for me in the attic. But you did not and so I climbed back into the attic ready to continue my search.'
Bartholomew had a sudden, sharp memory of the shadow flitting across the door as he walked down the
