Words would be meaningless now: what could be said? Bartholomew pushed his way past Michael into the hallway. In the room opposite, he could hear the muffled voices of the three students that lived there.
One of them must have become ill and called for help.
Bartholomew poked his head round the door and saw the student writhing on his pallet bed, his room-mates staring at him fearfully in the light of a flickering tallow candle. Bartholomew felt the sick boy's head, and told the others to carry him to the commoners' dormitory.
He went back down the stairs to his own room and closed the door. His hands still shook from the fright he had had when Michael had snatched the note away.
He should not be surprised by what he had learned, bearing in mind Michael's very odd behaviour on the night of Augustus's death. At the unpleasant interview with the Bishop, Michael had had no alibi for the night of the murders. Perhaps it was he who had struck down poor Paul and drugged the commoners after all.
So what should he do now? Should he tell Wilson?
Or the Chancellor? But what could he tell them? He had not a single solid scrap of evidence to lay against Michael except the note, and that was doubtless a pile of ashes by now.
He froze as the door of his room swung slowly open and Brother Michael stood there holding a fluttering candle. The light threw strange shapes on the walls and made Michael look even larger than he was, as his voluminous robes swung about him. He stood in the doorway without saying a word for several moments. Bartholomew began to feel the first tendrils of fear uncoiling in his stomach.
Wordlessly, Michael closed the door, and advanced on Bartholomew, who stood, fists clenched, prepared for an attack. Michael gave an odd smile, and touched one of Bartholomew's hands with a soft, clammy finger.
Bartholomew flinched and felt as though Michael must be able to hear his heart pounding in the silence of the room.
"I warned you to beware, Matthew,' he said in a low whisper that Bartholomew found unnerving.
Bartholomew swallowed. Was Michael's warning the one the blacksmith had been paid to give? Or was Michael merely referring to his words outside their staircase the night of Augustus's murder, and in the courtyard the following day? 'By prying you have put yourself in danger,' Michael continued in the same chilling tone.
'So what are you going to do?' Bartholomew was surprised at how calm his own voice sounded.
'What do you expect me to do?'
Bartholomew did not know how to answer this. He tried to get a grip on his fear. It was only Michael!
The fat monk may have been bulkier and stronger, but Bartholomew was quicker and fitter, and since neither of them had a weapon, Bartholomew was sure he would be able to jump out the window before Michael could catch him. He decided an offensive stance might serve him to better advantage.
'What have you been meddling in?' he demanded.
'What have you done with Philippa?'
'Philippa?' Michael's sardonic face showed genuine astonishment. He regained his composure quickly.
'Now there, my friend, I have sinned only in my mind. The question is, what have you been meddling in?'
They stood facing each other, Bartholomew tensed and ready to react should Michael make the slightest antagonistic move.
Suddenly the door flew open and Gray burst in, his face bright with excitement in the candlelight.
'Doctor Bartholomew! Thank God you are here!
Brother Michael, too. You must come quickly. Something is going on in Master Wilson's room.'
He darted across the room, and grabbed Bartholomew by his sleeve to pull him out the door.
Bartholomew and Michael had time to exchange glances, in which each reflected the other's confusion.
They quickly followed Gray across the courtyard, and Brother Michael began to pant with the exertion.
'We will say no more of this,' he said in an undertone to Bartholomew. 'You will tell no one of what you read on the note, and I will tell no one that you read it.'
He stopped and clutched Bartholomew's shirt. 'Do you agree, on your honour?'
Bartholomew felt as though his brain was going to explode, so fast were the questions pouring through it.
'Do you know anything about Philippa?' he asked. He watched Michael's flabby face wrinkle with annoyance at what he obviously perceived as an irrelevancy.
"I know nothing of her, nor of her wastrel brother,' he said. 'Do you swear?' "I will swear, if you promise to me you know nothing of Philippa's disappearance, and if you hear anything, no matter how trivial it might seem, you will tell me.'
Gray bounded back to them. 'Come on! Hurry!' he cried.
'Oh, all right, I promise,' Michael said irritably.
Bartholomew turned to go, but Michael held him fast.
'We are friends,' he said, 'and I have tried to keep you out of all this. You must forget what you saw, or your life and mine will be worth nothing.'
Bartholomew pushed the monk's sweaty hand away from his shirt. 'What dangerous games are you playing, Michael? If you live in such fear, why are you involved?'
'That is none of your business,' he hissed. 'Now swear!'
Bartholomew raised his hand in a mocking salute. "I swear, o meddling monk,' he said sarcastically. Michael looked angry.
'You see? You think this is trivial! Well, you will learn all too soon what you are dealing with if you do not take care. Like the others!'
He turned and hurried to where Gray was fretting at the foot of Wilson's staircase, leaving Bartholomew wondering what the obese monk was involved in to have him scared almost out of his wits.
'Come on, come on#! called Gray, almost hopping from foot to foot in his impatience.
Bartholomew followed Michael and Gray up the stairs, and the three of them stood in the little hallway outside Wilson's room. Bartholomew moved away from Michael, not totally convinced that this was not some plot cooked up by Michael and Gray to harm him.
'What is it?' whispered Michael.
Gray motioned for him to be quiet. Bartholomew had not been up this staircase since Sir John had died, and he felt odd standing there like a thief in the dark. Gray put his ear to the door and indicated that the others should do likewise. At first, Bartholomew could hear nothing, and then he could make out low moaning noises, like those of an animal in pain. Then he heard some muttering, and the sound of something tearing. He moved away so that Michael could hear, almost ready to walk away and leave them there. He did not feel comfortable listening at the Master's door like this; what Wilson got up to in his own room, however nasty, was his own business, and Bartholomew wanted none of it.
All three leapt into the air as a tremendous crash came from inside the room. Michael leaned against the wall, his hand on his chest, gasping for breath.
Gray stared at the door with wide eyes. Suddenly, Bartholomew became aware of something else. He crouched down near the bottom of the door and inspected it carefully. There was no mistake. Something was on fire in Wilson's room!
Yelling to the others, he pounded on the door, just as terrified screams started to come from within. Brother Michael shoved his bulk against the door, and the leather hinges gave with a great groan. It swung inwards, and Bartholomew rushed inside. He seized a pitcher of water from atop a chest, and dashed it over the figure writhing on the floor. He was aware of Michael and Gray tearing the coverings from the walls to beat out the flames that licked across the floor. Bartholomew used a rich woollen rug to smother the flames that continued to dance over Wilson.
It was all over in a few seconds. The fire, it seemed, had only just started and so had not gained a firm hold.