Stanmore had said already that he would put out a general message that good wages would be paid to anyone willing to rid the streets of rubbish. Since there were a number of people without employment because their masters had died, he anticipated that there would not be too much of a problem in attracting applicants.
Even if it did not prevent the spread of the plague, it would reduce the spread of other, equally fatal, diseases.
Bartholomew's task was to arrange a better system of collecting the dead. Since he had been ill, the number of deaths seemed to have levelled off somewhat, although this did not mean that the plague had lessened its grip on the town. He walked to the Castle to see the Sheriff, who, pale-faced and grieving for his wife, was pliable to Bartholomew's demands. Bartholomew wondered if his mind had gone the same way as Colet's. He left the Sheriff morosely polishing his helmet and repeated his instructions to an able-looking sergeant-at-arms. The sergeant gave a hearty sigh.
'We cannot collect the dead,' he said. 'We have lost a third of the men already, and we do not have enough to patrol the town for these bloody robbers, let alone for collecting bodies. We cannot help you. Did you know that everyone in the little settlement near All Saints-next-the-Castle is dead? Not a soul has survived.
The men are terrified of the place and believe that it is full of ghosts. Even if I did have the men to help, they would probably rather hang than collect the dead.'
Bartholomew left feeling depressed. He went to the settlement the sergeant had told him about and wandered through the pathetic little shacks that had been people's homes. The sergeant was right: there was not a living soul in the community. He left quickly, gagging on the smell of putrefaction.
There were more bodies in Bridge Street, although the area around St John's Hospital was relatively clean thanks to the Austin Canons. Bartholomew talked to the Canons and they agreed, albeit reluctantly, to pick up bodies they saw on the way to the plague pits when they took their own dead there. He walked on to St Edmund's Priory and obtained a similar agreement there, along with the promise of a lay-brother to supervise the filling of the plague pits.
Bartholomew's plans to keep the town free from plague-ridden bodies were beginning to come together.
He still needed volunteers to drive the carts each day and collect up the piles of dead. He knew the risk of infection was great, but it was a job that had to be done.
He stood looking at the plague pit that he and Colet had organised almost two weeks before. It was so full that there was scarcely room to add the quicklime over the last layer of corpses, let alone cover it with earth afterwards.
He shivered. It was a desolate spot, even though it lay only a short distance from the town gates. The wind seemed colder near the pit, and whistled softly through the scrubby trees and bushes that partially shielded it from the road. He went to a nearby tavern and offered to buy ale for any who would help him dig a new pit. At first, there was no response. Then a man stood, and said he would buy ale for any who could dig faster or deeper than he could. This met with catcalls and hoots, but the man strode out of the tavern rolling up his sleeves, and others followed.
In a short time, a new pit was dug, larger than the previous one and about twice as deep. Men competed with each other to show off their strength while, more sedately, women and even small children helped, ferrying stones from the pit to the ever-growing pile of earth to one side. Bartholomew took his turn in digging and heaving great stones out of the way. During a brief respite, Bartholomew went to speak to the man who had instigated the competitive spirit.
'Thank you, Master Blacksmith,' he said. "I thought I might have to dig it alone.'
The blacksmith grinned, revealing the yellow-black teeth that Bartholomew remembered from the night of the riot. 'It will cost you in ale,' he said.
When the new pit had been dug, Bartholomew's helpers began to drift away. He handed over all the money he had to buy the promised ale and was pleasantly surprised to receive half of it back again with mutters that it was too much. He shovelled lime into the pit, and watched as it bubbled and seethed in the water at the bottom. The blacksmith helped him bury the first bodies, a pathetic line of ten crudely-wrapped shapes.
Bartholomew covered them with more lime, and leaned on the spade wiping the sweat from his eyes.
The blacksmith came to stand beside him. "I am sorry,' he said, and pushed something into Bartholomew's hand. Bartholomew, bewildered, looked at the greasy black purse in his hand, and then back at the blacksmith. Abruptly the blacksmith turned away and began to walk back to the tavern. Bartholomew caught up with him, and swung him round.
'What is this?'
The blacksmith refused to meet Bartholomew's eyes.
"I did not want to do it. I told them it was wrong,' he mumbled, trying to head for the tavern. Bartholomew held him fast.
'What was wrong? What are you talking about? I do not want your money.'
The blacksmith looked up at the low clouds scudding overhead in the growing dusk. 'It is the money I got for the riot,' he said. "I kept it all this time. I only spent enough to get some of my lads drunk enough to be brave on the night, and some to bury Mistress Atkin's son. It is Judas money and I do not want it.'
Bartholomew shook his head in bewilderment.
'What are you talking about?' he said. 'Did someone pay you to start the riot?'
The blacksmith looked Bartholomew full in the face, his eyes round. 'Yes, they paid me to get some of the lads excited. You know how it was that day — that pompous bastard throwing his wealth around while us poor folk stood and watched and waited for scraps like dogs.' He spat on the ground. 'They seemed to know how it would be, and they paid me to make sure there was a fight. Once the fight was started, I was to find you and warn you off.'
He paused, and searched Bartholomew's face, earnestly looking for some reaction to his confession.
Bartholomew thought back to the riot, of his last-minute dash into the College with the enraged mob behind him, and of Abigny telling him that Henry Oliver had ordered Francis Eltham to lock him out. Surely the whole thing had not been staged to get at him? Bartholomew shook his head in disbelief. What could he have done that people wanted him dead? He racked his brain for patients who might have died in his care, wondering whether his unorthodox treatment might have seemed to have killed when leeches might have saved, but he could think of none. Unbidden, Sir John's benign face came into his mind. But what had Sir John done, or Augustus and Aelfrith, to warrant their murders? He recalled Henry Oliver's looks of hatred at him since the riot every time they inadvertently met.
The blacksmith, watching Bartholomew's brows drawn down in thought, continued. 'It seemed like an easy way to earn some decent money at first, and trade had been poor, with the threat of the Death coming. I did a good job, getting people roused up against Michaelhouse. But it went wrong. It all got out of control before I could do anything, and the two lads died. Then you helped Rachel Atkin, and you set my leg.
I have felt wrong ever since, which is why I have not spent the money. My broken leg was God's judgement on me for my actions. The men who gave me the money came to see me while my leg was mending, and I told them that I had warned you as they asked, just to get them out of my house.'
'Get who out?' asked Bartholomew, the whole mess slowly revolving in his mind, a confused jumble.
The blacksmith shook his head. "I wish I knew, because I would tell you. These are evil men, and you.
I would wish you to be on your guard against them.'