The hostel was little more than a large house, with one room enlarged to make a hall. Bartholomew assumed that the hall would be used for communal meals as well as teaching. The hostel was far warmer than the chilly stone rooms of Michaelhouse, and the smell of boiled cabbage pervaded the whole house. Drying clothes hung everywhere, and the entire place had an aura of controlled, but friendly, chaos. No wonder Abigny had felt more at home here than in the strict orderliness of Michaelhouse.
Gray made for the small hall on the first floor of the building. He stopped to speak to a small, silver-haired man, and then turned to Bartholomew. 'This is Master Burwell, the Sub-Principal,' he said. 'He is very grateful for your offer to attend Cedric Stapleton.'
Bartholomew followed Burwell up some narrow wooden steps into the eaves of the house. 'How long has Master Stapleton been ill?' he asked.
'Since yesterday morning. I am sure there is little you can do, Doctor, but we appreciate you offering to help.' Burwell glanced round to smile at Bartholomew, and opened the door into a pleasant, slant-sided room with two dormer windows. The windows were glazed, and a fire was lit, so the room was remarkably warm. Bartholomew stepped in and went to the man who lay on the bed. A Dominican lay-brother was kneeling by him, alternating muttered prayers with wiping his patient's face with a napkin. Bartholomew knelt next to him to peer at the all-too-familiar symptoms.
He took a knife and quickly made criss-cross incisions on the buboes in Stapleton's armpits and groin. Immediately, a foul smell filled the room, and the lay-brother jerked backwards with a cry of disgust. Bartholomew asked for hot water, and set about cleaning the swellings. It seemed that Bartholomew's simple operation had afforded Stapleton some relief, for his breathing became easier and his arms and legs relaxed into a more normal position.
Bartholomew sat for a while with Stapleton, then went in search of Gray. He found him holding court in the small hall, in the middle of some tale about how he had sold a pardoner some coloured water to cure him of his stomach gripes, and how the pardoner had returned a week later to tell him that the wonderful medicine had worked.
Bartholomew sat on the end of a bench next to Burwell. Burwell raised his eyebrows questioningly.
'It is too soon to tell,' Bartholomew said in response.
'You will know where you stand with Master Stapleton by nightfall.'
Burwell looked away. 'We have lost five masters and twelve students,' he said. 'How has Michaelhouse fared?'
'Sixteen students, three commoners, and two Fellows.
The Master died last night.'
'Wilson?' asked Burwell incredulously. "I thought he was keeping to his room so he would not be infected.'
'So he did,' said Bartholomew. 'But the pestilence claimed him all the same.' He was wondering how to breach the subject of Abigny without sounding too obvious, when Burwell did it for him.
'We heard about Giles Abigny,' he said. 'We heard from Stephen Stanmore that he had been hiding in your sister's attic, and then ran off with Stanmore's horse.'
'Do you have any ideas where Giles might be?'
Bartholomew asked.
Burwell shook his head. "I never understood what was going on in Giles's head. A strange combination of incredible shallowness mixed with a remarkable depth of learning. I do not know where he might be.'
'When was the last time you saw him?' asked Bartholomew.
Burwell thought carefully. 'He was very shocked at Hugh's death. After that he went wild, trying to squeeze every ounce of pleasure from what he thought might be a short life. He continued in that vein for perhaps a week. Then he seemed to quieten down, and we saw less of him. Then, about two weeks ago, after going to the King's Head, he regaled us with a dreadful tale about cheating at dice and stealing the wages of half the Castle garrison. He had an enormous purseful of money, so perhaps there was some truth in it. He went off quite late, and I have not seen him since.'
Bartholomew tried to hide his disappointment. A sighting two weeks ago did not really help. He stood to leave, and beckoned Gray.
'Please send someone for me at Michaelhouse if I can be of any more help to Cedric,' he said to Burwell.
'And thank you for your assistance with Giles.'
Burwell smiled again, and escorted them to the door. He watched as they made their way down Bene't Street and the smile faded from his face.
He beckoned to a student, and whispered in his ear. Within a few moments, the student was scurrying out of the hostel towards Milne Street, his cloak held tightly against the chill of the winter afternoon.
Bartholomew and Gray spent two fruitless hours enquiring after Abigny in the town's taverns. They came up with nothing more than Burwell had told them, except that Abigny's idiosyncrasies seemed to be notorious among the townspeople.
Bartholomew was ready to give up, and retire to bed, when Gray, with a display of energy that made Bartholomew wonder whether he had been at the medicine store, suggested they walk to Trumpington to visit the Laughing Pig.
'It is best we visit at night,' he said. 'More people will be there, and they will have had longer for the ale to loosen their tongues.'
So the two set off for Trumpington. Although it was only two miles, Bartholomew felt he was walking to the ends of the Earth. A bitter wind blew directly into their faces and cut through their clothes. It was a clear night, and they could hear the crack and splinter of the water freezing in the ruts and puddles on the track as the temperature dropped.
Bartholomew breathed a sigh of relief when the Laughing Pig came into sight. Within a few minutes they were seated in the tavern's large whitewashed room with frothing tankards of ale in front of them. The tavern was busy, and a fire crackled in a hearth in the middle of the room, filling it with pungent smoke as well as warmth.
The floor was simple beaten earth, which was easier to keep clean than rushes.
Bartholomew was well known in Trumpington, and several people nodded at him in a friendly fashion. He struck up a conversation with a large, florid-faced man who fished for eels in the spring and minded Stanmore's cows for the rest of the year. The man immediately began to gossip about the disappearance of Philippa.
Bartholomew was dismayed, but not surprised, that her flight had become the subject of village chatter doubtless by way of Stanmore's party of horsemen who had tried to catch up with the fleeing Abigny.
Overhearing the discussion, several others joined in, including the tavern maid with whom Abigny had claimed he was in love back in the summer. She perched on the edge of the table, casting nervous glances backwards to make sure the landlord did not catch her skiving.
'How long do you think Giles Abigny was pretending to be his sister?' Bartholomew asked casually, in a rare moment of silence.
There was a hubbub of conflicting answers. Everyone, it seemed, had ideas and theories. But listening to them, Bartholomew knew that was all they were. He stopped paying attention and sipped at the sour ale.
'Giles was odd a long time before he did this,' whispered the tavern maid, who, as Abigny had said, was indeed pretty. She glanced towards the next table where the landlord was serving and pretended to clean up near Bartholomew. 'The last time I saw him was at the church two Fridays ago. He was hiding behind one of the pillars. I thought he was playing around, but when I grabbed him from behind, he was terrified! He ran out, and I have not seen him since.'