Oliver sneered and spat onto the floor. 'He went to see her, he said.
'Wilson visited your aunt?'
'Of course!' Oliver said, his voice dripping contempt.
'Most days, between Compline and Matins.'
'In the middle of the night?' said Bartholomew, amazed. 'Wilson visited your aunt in the middle of the night?'
'They were lovers,' said Oliver, 'although what she ever saw in that fat pig I will never know.'
'He was going to take major orders,' said Bartholomew, bemused, 'vowing to abstain from physical relationships with women.'
Oliver gave a short bark of laughter. 'My aunt had already taken such a vow,' he said, 'but what did that matter?'
Bartholomew stared at the student. Oliver glowered back at him spitefully, and once again, Bartholomew wondered what he had done to earn himself such an intense dislike. Oliver, however, was growing exhausted, and Bartholomew did not want to tire him further with more questions. He went to sit with Jerome, who was still fighting his illness with a spirit of defiance that Bartholomew never guessed he had. Jerome's skeletal hand gripped his.
"I did it,' he muttered. "I killed Montfitchet. I made him drink the wine when he said he had already had enough. Jocelyn and I made him drink the Master's health, and he died. His death is on my head.'
'Did you know the wine was drugged?' asked Bartholomew.
The old man shook his head slowly, his eyes filling with tears. 'No, I did not. But that does not absolve me,' he whispered.
Bartholomew rose to leave. 'Father William will come to you,' he said. 'He will absolve you.' He felt a sudden urge just to leave Michaelhouse and Cambridge and go to York or Lincoln where he could practise medicine in peace, and escape from the vile intrigues and affairs of the University. Even Father Jerome, who had probably never harmed anyone in his life, had been drawn into its murky depths, and would die believing he had committed a crime in which he had played no knowing part.
As he left the commoners' room and made his way back to the kitchen, he thought about Oliver's words.
Oliver had said that Wilson had left the College almost every night to visit his mistress, the Abbess. That certainly explained how he might have caught the plague when, in everyone's eyes, he had isolated himself from the outside world. Bartholomew and Cynric had slipped unnoticed in and out of College the night before, so there was no reason why Wilson could not have done the same.
But it still made no sense. Bartholomew had already established that Wilson could not have been the murderer, because Augustus's body had been dumped in the stables after Wilson had been buried. Did Wilson believe Bartholomew was the murderer? Did he talk to him on his deathbed so that Bartholomew would fall into some kind of trap and be exposed? But that made no sense either, because if Wilson believed Bartholomew to be capable of committing so grave a sin as murder, why did he ask him to ensure that his tomb was built?
Why not Michael, or William?
He went to huddle near the kitchen fire, elbowing Cynric to one side so that they could share the warmth.
They could not risk going too early in case they were seen, so Bartholomew dozed until Cynric announced it was time to leave. The Welshman made Bartholomew change his white shirt and dispensed with cloaks and scholar's robes because they were difficult in which to climb. Both wore two pairs of woollen leggings and two dark tunics to protect them against the cold. When he was satisfied that they were well prepared for a long chilly wait on a narrow window-sill, Cynric led the way out of the College.
Bartholomew was amazed at the way the nimble Welshman could blend into the shadows, and felt clumsy and graceless by comparison. When they reached Bene't Hostel, it was in total darkness, but Cynric insisted on waiting and watching for a long time before he decided it was safe. He slipped down a narrow passageway like a cat, Bartholomew following as quietly as he could. The passageway had originally led to the yard at the back of the hostel, but had been blocked off by a wall when the yard had become more of a refuse pit.
The wall had not been built of the best materials, and Bartholomew found it easy to gain hand- and footholds in the crumbling mortar, and climb to the top. Cynric pressed him back into the shadows, where they waited yet again to ensure it was safe to continue. At last Cynric motioned that they could drop over the wall into the yard below. Bartholomew was used to foul smells, but the stench that rose from the deep layer of slime on the floor of the yard made his eyes water. Cynric quickly led the way to a row of straggly shrubs that grew against the wall of the hostel.
Bartholomew cursed under his breath as he skidded on something slippery and almost fell. Cynric grabbed at his arm, and they waited in tense silence until they were certain that no one had heard. They reached the bushes where they could hide from anyone looking out of the windows, and Bartholomew smothered an exclamation of disgust as his outstretched hand touched a rotten slab of meat that had been thrown there.
Cynric pushed his way through the bushes until he reached the ivy that climbed the wall of the house. It was ancient and sturdy, and Bartholomew nodded that he could climb up it without difficulty. They had agreed that Bartholomew would climb to the window-sill, while Cynric would keep watch down the passageway from the top of the wall for any indication that the well-wisher had led them into a trap. If that were the case, they would effect an escape by climbing up the ivy, and over the roofs.
Gingerly, Bartholomew set his foot on the vine, and began to climb. The slop drain was apparently directly above, for the ivy was treacherously slick, and all manner of kitchen waste was caught on its branches.
Bartholomew tried not to think about it, and continued upwards. Glancing down, he could not see Cynric. He must already have slid into his vantage point in the shadows at the top of the wall.
The sound of soft singing came through the slop drain. Bartholomew prayed that it was not a scullery boy who would throw the kitchen waste down on his head. Cautiously, he climbed a little further, noting that the singer's words were slurred and his notes false.
One of the scholars, objecting to an early night, must have slipped down to the pantry to avail himself of the wine and ale stored there. From his voice, it would take a thunderbolt to disturb him, not someone climbing stealthily outside.
He climbed higher, until he saw the lancet windows of the hall just above him. For an awful moment, he thought the woman had misinformed him, for there was no deep window-sill on which he could wait and listen, but then he realised that he was too far to one side, and needed to move to his right. This proved more difficult than he had anticipated, and he had to climb down past the kitchen drain before he could find a stem of the ivy large enough to bear his weight.
At last he saw the window-sill above him, and he was able to grasp its edge with both hands and haul himself up. The shutters were firmly closed, but he could just see the merest flicker of light underneath them, suggesting that someone was there. He almost fell when a branch he had been holding snapped sharply in his hand. He held his breath and waited for the shutters to be flung open and his hiding place discovered, but there was no sound from within, and gradually he relaxed.
He eased himself to one side of the sill, his back propped up against the carved stone window-frame. He learned that, by huddling down a little, he could see a fraction of the main table in the large hall through a split in the wood of the shutter. But, although one of the Sub-Principal's precious candles burned, there seemed to be no one there to appreciate it. The meeting was evidently not due to start for a while. Bartholomew tried to make himself more comfortable. A chill wind was beginning to blow, and, although the sky was clear and it seemed unlikely to rain, he knew that, despite Cynric's precautions, he was going to be very cold before he could go home.