'Do you think all the hostels are involved in this?'
Bartholomew asked after a pause.
Michael sucked in his breath. "I doubt they could have operated so efficiently and secretly for such a long time if all the hostels were implicated. The Bishop's records indicate that certain people are definitely involved: John Rede, Principal of Tunstede Hostel, but he is dead of the plague; Jocelyn and Swynford from Michaelhouse; Burwell and Yaxley from Bene't's; Stayne from Mary's; the Principals of Martin's and All Saints'
Hostels, although the plague took them, too; Colet from Rudde's; and Caxton and Greene from Garret Hostel, but Greene is dead.'
Bartholomew leaned against the damp wall and folded his arms. 'And do you know which of the merchants were involved?'
'None,' saidMichael. 'Only hostel men were allowed in on the real plot. But the merchants were an essential component in Swynford's plan. It would not have worked without them. He would not wish to spend his own money, nor that of his colleagues, on fighting the Colleges. The merchants contributed generously, thinking that they were saving the University from being crushed by Oxford, when the reality was that their money was used to undermine the Colleges.'
Lies, counter-lies, and more lies, thought Bartholomew.
Good men had lost their lives because of this wretched business.
'What about the need to protect both Universities so that there will be two places in which to train new priests and clerics when we recover from the effects of the plague?' he asked.
"I am sure they endorse it fully. The more priests and clerics that can be encouraged to come to the University the better. They will live in the hostels Swynford owns, and their rents will swell his coffers. The Bishop believes that half our clergy will perish from the Death, and that the country will desperately need to train more if we are to retain our social order. Without priests among the people, there will soon be insurrection and bloodshed. Swynford's hostels will be offering England a vital service.'
At least Stanmore's money had not totally been squandered, thought Bartholomew, if it could help to achieve some degree of social stability once the plague had burned itself out.
'Why do you think Colet became involved?' asked Michael. "I always understood he had a glorious future as a physician — far more so than you because he is less controversial.' "I do not know. Perhaps because of the pestilence?
First, a good many of his wealthy patients were likely to die, thus reducing his income. Second, the plague is not a good disease for physicians: the risk of infection is great, and the chances of success are low. We discussed it ad nauseam before it came, and he knew as well as I that physicians were likely to become social outcasts shunned by people who were uninfected, and treated with scorn by those that were because we would be unable to cure them. His leeching for toothaches and hangovers would not stand him in good stead with the Death. He was probably taking precautions against an uncertain future, like Stephen.'
Bartholomew gazed into the darkness and thought about Colet. He had stopped treating his patients when Bartholomew became ill and Roper had died. But about the same time, the wealthy merchant Per Goldam had died, and he had been Colet's richest patient. Colet must have decided that helping Bartholomew in the slums and with the plague pits was not for him. What better way to escape from constant demands from people for help than to feign madness? In the church, he would be relatively safe from plague-bearing people, and would be in a place where his associates could easily drop in to see him. His ramblings around the churches and his trips for blackberries were merely excuses to go about his business.
Bartholomew was overcome with disgust. He had liked Colet. What an appalling judge of character he must be to misjudge Philippa, Stanmore, and Michael, and not to suspect Colet. There was nothing more to be said, and each became engrossed in his own thoughts.
Although time dragged in the dark room, it did not seem long before they heard the sound of the trap-door being opened again. Bartholomew heard Michael draw in his breath sharply, thinking, like himself, that their executioners might be coming. There was a crash as Michael, backing away, knocked a chest over.
Bartholomew stationed himself near the door. The bolts were drawn back with agonising slowness, and Bartholomew felt sweat breaking out at the base of his neck.
The door swung open slowly, and light slanted into the room, dazzling him.
'Stand back,' said Colet. 'Master Jocelyn carries his crossbow and will not hesitate to use it if you attempt anything foolish.'
Slowly Bartholomew backed away, his eyes narrowed against what seemed like blinding light. He saw Jocelyn standing beyond the door, his crossbow aimed at Bartholomew's chest. The Rudde's porter was there too, holding a drawn sword. Colet was obviously taking no chances with his two prisoners.
'What do you want?' said Bartholomew with more bravado than he felt.
'You are an ingrate, Matt,' said Colet, and Bartholomew wondered why he had never detected the unpleasant smoothness in his friend's voice before.
"I have come to bring you food and wine. I thought you must be hungry by now, and your fat friend is always ravenous.'
He nodded his head, and the porter slid a tray into the room with his foot. On it there was bread, wizened apples, and something covered with a cloth. Red wine sloshed over the rim of the jug as the tray moved.
'So,' said Colet. 'You two must have had quite a conversation down here.'
When Bartholomew and Michael did not answer, Colet continued, his voice gloating, goading. 'So now you understand everything? What we have been doing, and why?'
Again, Bartholomew and Michael did not reply, and Colet's composure slipped a little. 'What? No questions?
Surely we have not been so careless as to leave nothing that you have been unable to work out?'
Michael affected a nonchalant pose on the crate he had knocked over. 'Doctor Bartholomew lost his taste for questions when the answers proved so unpleasant,' he said. 'But I confess there are two things that puzzle me still. First, how did you kill Aelfrith? We know why and that you used poison. But we remain uncertain as to how you made him believe it was Wilson.'
'I do not wish to know,' said Bartholomew in disgust.
'That you murdered a good man, and that you used so low a weapon as poison to do it is more than enough for me.'
'Oh, surely not?' said Colet, laughing. 'What happened to your spirit of learning and discovery? I never thought that you, of all people, would refuse to learn after all our debates and experiments together.'
'We were different men then,' said Bartholomew, with undisguised loathing.
'Perhaps,' mused Colet. 'But Brother Michael asked me a question, and I feel duty-bound to answer it. Aelfrith was coming too close to the truth. I heard from the monks in St Botolph's that Aelfrith heard Wilson's confession every Friday. So, I sent Aelfrith a small bottle of mead with a signed message from Wilson saying he appreciated Aelfrith's understanding, and he should drink the mead to help him relax after his hard work in the town. The message, of course, was written by me, and the mead was poisoned. I retrieved the rest of the bottle the night he died, lest you should find it.'
He smiled absently. "I was almost caught. The poison was slower-acting than I had imagined, and Aelfrith was still alive and staggering around when I came for the bottle. You, Brother, tried to take him back to his room, and I only just managed to lock the door before you came. You took Aelfrith elsewhere to die, but it was a narrow escape for me.'
Bartholomew remembered Michael telling him that Aelfrith's door had been locked, and recalled assuming Aelfrith's room-mates had shut it because they did not want a plague victim in the chamber with them. But Colet had been hiding there, with the murder weapon in his hands.