If you think of anything, however small, that might throw light onto this wretched affair, will you let me know?'
Bartholomew nodded. "I will, but I have thought it over many times, and have not deduced the tiniest shred of evidence that could be of value. I think I would be as much a loss as a spy as would Giles!'
Aelfrith reached out to touch Bartholomew on the shoulder, a rare gesture of affection for the sombre friar, and walked out of the orchard.
Bartholomew sat for a while, pondering what Aelfrith had told him. He still found it difficult to believe that Oxford and Cambridge scholars would play such dangerous games, and he would not accept that Augustus's body had been stolen by the Devil. The sun was hot, and he thought back to what he had said to Aelfrith. Bodies did not just disappear, so Augustus's corpse must have been either hidden or buried. If it were hidden, the heat would soon give it away; if it were buried, perhaps it would never be found.
The bell began to ring for the afternoon service at St Michael's, and Bartholomew decided to go to pray for the souls of his dead friends.
Bartholomew made his way slowly back from the church down St Michael's Lane. A barge from the Low Countries had arrived at the wharf earlier that day, and all the small lanes and alleys leading from the river to the merchants' houses on Milne Street were full of activity.
At the river the bustle was even more frenzied. A Flemish captain stood on the bank roaring instructions in dreadful French to his motley collection of sailors who yelled back in a variety of languages. At least two were from the Mediterranean, judging from their black curly hair and beringed ears, and another wore an exotic turban swathed around his head. Further up-stream, fishermen were noisily unloading baskets of eels and the slow-moving water was littered with tails and heads that had been discarded. Overhead, the gulls swooped and screeched and fought, adding to the general racket.
Behind the wharves were the rivermen's houses, a dishevelled row of rickety wooden shacks that leaked when it rained, and often collapsed when it was windy.
Bartholomew saw an enormous rat slink out of one house and disappear into the weeds at the edge of the river where some small children were splashing about.
'Matt!' Bartholomew turned with a smile at the sound of his brother-in-law's voice. Sir Oswald Stanmore strode up to him. 'We were worried about you. What has been happening at Michaelhouse?'
Bartholomew raised his hands in a shrug. "I do not know. The clerics are mumbling about evil walking the College, but Wilson thinks it was only Augustus.'
Stanmore rolled his eyes. 'Wilson is afool. You should have heard him pontificating to us last night, telling us everything we would ever need to know about the wool trade, and about French cloth. The man would not know French cloth from homespun. But we have heard terrible rumours about Michaelhouse! How much did you all drink last night?'
Ever practical, Stanmore had put everything down to drunkenness, not such an unreasonable assumption considering the amount of wine that had flowed.
'Nathaniel the Fleming seems to have had his share too,' said Bartholomew, turning as one of the swimming children emitted an especially piercing shriek.
Stanmore laughed. "I told him last night he would need your services this morning. Did he call you?'
Bartholomew nodded, and told him what had happened. Stanmore threw up his hands in despair.
'Lord save us, Matt! I provide you with one of the wealthiest men in the town as a patient, and you cannot even subdue your unorthodox thoughts long enough to treat him. I know,' he said quickly, putting up a hand to quell the coming objection, 'what you believe, and I understand, even applaud, your motives. But for the love of God, could you not even try to placate Nathaniel? You need to be far more careful now Wilson is Master, Matt.
Even a child can see that he loathes you. You no longer have the favoured protection of Sir John, and securing a patient such as Nathaniel might have served to keep his dislike at bay for a while.'
Bartholomew knew Stanmore was right. He gave a rueful smile.
'Edith told me to call on you today to make certain you were well,' Stanmore continued. 'What have you done to your leg? What debauchery did your feast degenerate into once the sobering effects of your town guests had gone?' He was smiling, but his eyes were serious.
'Tell Edith I am fine. But I do not understand what is happening at Michaelhouse. The Bishop is due to arrive today and will take matters in hand.'
Stanmore chewed his lower lip. "I do not like it, Matt, and neither will Edith. Come to stay with us for a few days until all this dies down. Edith is missing Richard; if you came, it would take her mind off him for a while.'
Richard, their only son, had left a few days before to study at Oxford, and the house would be strangely empty without him. Bartholomew was fond of his sister and her husband, and it would be pleasant to spend a few days away from the tensions of the College. But he had work to do: there were students who had returned before the Michaelmas term so that they could be given extra tuition, and he had his patients to see. And anyway, if he left now, Wilson would probably see it as fleeing the scene of the crime, and accuse him of the murders.
Regretfully he shook his head.
"I would love to, I really would. But I cannot. I should stay.' He grabbed Stanmore's arm. 'Please do not tell Edith all you hear. She will only worry.'
Stanmore smiled under standingly. 'Come to see us as soon as you can, and talk to her yourself.' He looked round as loud shouts came from a group of apprentices, followed by a splash as someone fell in the river. "I must go before they start fighting again. Take care, Matt. I will tell Edith you will visit soon.'
As Bartholomew made his way back up the lane, he saw a small cavalcade of horses trot into Michaelhouse's yard, and knew that the Bishop had arrived. Servants hurried to stable the horses, while others brought chilled ale and offered to shake dust out of riding cloaks. Wilson hurried from his new room to meet the Bishop, soberly dressed in a simple, but expensive, black gown.
The two men stood talking for a while, while students, commoners, and Fellows watched out of the unglazed windows. Eventually, Wilson led the way into the main building, through the hall and into the smaller, more private conclave beyond. Alexander was sent to fetch wine and pastries, and the College waited.
First, the servants were sent for. Then it was the turn of the students, and then the commoners. It was nearing the time for the evening meal when the Fellows were summoned. The Bishop sat in the Master's chair, which had been brought from the hall, while his clerks and assistants were ranged along the benches on either side of him. Wilson sat directly opposite, and, judging from his pallor and sweaty jowls, had not had an easy time of it.
The Bishop stood as the Fellows entered and beckoned them forward to sit on the bench with Wilson. Bartholomew had met the Bishop before, a man who enjoyed his physical comforts, but who was able to combine a deep sense of justice with his equally deep sense of compassion. He was known to be impatient with fools, severe with those who told him lies, and had no time at all for those unwilling to help themselves.
Although Bartholomew thought he probably would not enjoy an evening in the Bishop's company, he respected his judgement and integrity.
The Fellows sat on either side of Wilson, Bartholomew at the end so he could stretch his stiff knee. He felt as if he were on trial. The Bishop started to speak.
'Master Wilson and Fellows of Michaelhouse,' he began formally. 'It is my right, as Bishop of this parish, to investigate the strange happenings of last night. I must tell you now that I am far from satisfied with the explanation I have been given.' He paused, and studied the large ring on his finger that contained his official seal. 'These are difficult times for the Church and for the University. There is news that a terrible pestilence is sweeping the land, and may be here before Christmas, and relations between the Church and the people are far from ideal. Neither the University nor the College can afford to have scandals. Much damage was done to both following the unfortunate death of Master Babington.