‘There it is,’ whispered Michael, pointing to a dark shape that huddled against the back wall. ‘That is the hut Walter described.’
He started to move forward, but Bartholomew pulled him back, listening intently to ensure that they had not been led into a trap. There was nothing. Cautiously, he edged towards the hut, wincing as nettles stung his hand. A sturdy bar had been placed across the door; Bartholomew removed it quickly and pressed his ear to the wood. There was no sound, and he began to wonder whether the leprous de Walton was not secured inside it at all. He pulled at the door, but it would not budge.
‘It is locked,’ he whispered to Michael, pointing to the chain that had been looped through two iron rungs. The metal shone dimly, and Bartholomew supposed it had been placed there relatively recently.
‘Break the chain,’ whispered Michael back.
‘How?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I would need an axe, and we are trying to be quiet.’
Michael gave an impatient sigh. ‘Give me those birthing forceps you have in your bag.’
‘No,’ whispered Bartholomew angrily. ‘My forceps are delicate, and you will damage them.’
‘Delicate!’ spat Michael. ‘They are about the sturdiest weapon I have ever seen. I will be more likely to damage the door than to put so much as a scratch on them. Give them to me, Matt. There may be a sick man inside this hut, and it is your duty as a physician to help him.’
Feeling as though Michael had scored a cheap hit, Bartholomew handed him the heavy instrument, and watched him insert one of its arms through the rung and begin to twist. With a sharp snap, the rung popped loose, and Michael removed the chain that secured the door. Carefully, he pushed it open and peered into the darkness within.
The inside of the hut was pitch black, and Bartholomew could make out nothing other than one or two rotten apples that lay on the floor near his foot. To one side, he heard the scrape of tinder as Michael lit a candle. Careful to shield the light from draughts with his cupped hands, the monk stepped into the shed.
A man lay on the rough wooden planking of the floor, heaped with blankets and with an unnatural pallor to his face. At first, Bartholomew thought that de Walton was already dead, but the man’s eyelids flickered open. Bartholomew moved forward reassuringly, but the man struggled away from the blankets and regarded the dark shapes that stood over him with naked terror.
‘No!’ he shrieked loudly, making Bartholomew leap out of his skin and startling some roosting birds so that their agitated flapping added to the sudden disturbance. ‘No! I will not tell!’
‘Quiet!’ hissed Michael urgently. ‘I am the Senior Proctor, and I am here to rescue you.’
‘Rescue me?’ squeaked de Walton, in an unsteady, confused voice. He tried to stand, and Bartholomew could see the fading bruise on his face that Osmun had inflicted.
‘Can you walk?’ asked Bartholomew gently. ‘I do not think we should stay here any longer than we have to.’
‘No,’ agreed Michael sardonically. ‘Especially after that unholy screech. He has probably woken the entire town.’
‘But I do not want to leave,’ whispered de Walton in alarm. ‘I want to stay here, where I am safe.’
‘You are not safe here,’ Michael pointed out impatiently. ‘You are in a freezing shack, locked in by a man who means you harm.’
‘I will not go with you,’ sobbed de Walton, leaning back against the wall and hugging his blankets to him. ‘You cannot make me.’
‘Is his illness making him deranged?’ asked Michael curtly of Bartholomew. ‘Give him something to make him see sense, Matt. We do not have time to argue.’
Bartholomew slipped an arm under de Walton’s shoulders and tried to pull him to his feet, but de Walton gave another screech and began to pummel the physician with his puny fists.
‘I have leprosy!’ he wailed. ‘Touch me and you will catch it, too.’
Bartholomew, like Master Lynton before him, had observed the faint lumps and blemishes that characterised the disease’s early onset, but knew that leprosy was not as contagious as was popularly believed, especially the type that afflicted de Walton. ‘Let me take you to the hospital near Barnwell Priory,’ he said kindly. ‘You will be well looked after there.’
‘But I will not be safe,’ said de Walton, trying to push Bartholomew away. ‘I do not want to go.’
Exasperated, Bartholomew released him. ‘But why? Simeon and Osmun have imprisoned you here against your will. Why will you not let us help you to escape?’
De Walton gazed at him. ‘They did not imprison me; they put me here with my consent, so that I would be safe from the rest of them.’
‘The rest of who?’ asked Michael, confused and impatient. He went to the door and peered out into the darkness to check that no Osmun was bearing down on them. ‘Who are you afraid of?’
‘Go away,’ said de Walton desperately. ‘You reveal by your questions that you know nothing about what is happening in my College, and your meddling will only make things worse.’
‘If I do not understand what is going on, it is only because your colleagues have spun me such a web of lies that I am unable to see the truth,’ snapped Michael. ‘Tell me what is happening, and then I will decide whether to leave you alone or whether to remove you to the proctors’ prison.’
De Walton began to shake. ‘Prison? But you said you would take me to Barnwell.’
‘That,’ said Michael harshly, ‘depends on how cooperative you are.’
‘Then ask Simeon,’ said de Walton, casting an anguished glance towards the door. ‘He understands the details better than I do.’
‘Details?’ demanded Michael. ‘Is that how you describe the murders of Raysoun, Wymundham and poor Brother Patrick?’
‘Who is Brother Patrick?’ wailed de Walton in terror. ‘And Raysoun was not murdered: he fell from the scaffolding, because he was drunk and the planking was unsafe. He liked to spy on the workmen, to make sure none of them slacked. He was a mean and miserly person.’
‘Mean and miserly or not, Wymundham heard him whisper with his dying breath that he had been pushed,’ said Michael. ‘What have you to say about that?’
‘Then Wymundham was lying,’ protested de Walton. ‘He was often untruthful, and you should not have believed anything he told you. He was using Raysoun’s death to fan the flames of dissent among his colleagues.’
‘Perhaps. But Wymundham himself was most definitely murdered,’ said Michael. ‘Why would he be killed if his claims regarding Raysoun’s death were false?’
De Walton was so white with fear it seemed he was almost beyond caring. ‘There are at least two very good reasons why Wymundham might have been murdered. Firstly, to prevent him from spreading lies about our College – such as that Raysoun was dispatched by one of his colleagues when he was not. And secondly, because he often pried into our personal affairs and threatened to expose us unless we paid him to keep silent.’
‘You mean Wymundham was a blackmailer? Why has no one mentioned this to me before?’ demanded Michael angrily.
‘I imagine because no one wants you to find out what we paid Wymundham to conceal,’ replied de Walton heavily. ‘Perhaps someone decided Wymundham should not be allowed to continue his life of extortion.’