Susanna Gregory - A Plague On Both Your Houses

The cold feeling of unease that had earlier been in Bartholomew's stomach returned. He knelt down by Alyngton and felt his neck. His life beat was rapid and erratic. He pulled back his eyelids, noting how the pupils responded slowly to the light. He moved to one of the old men, and went through the same process.

He looked up at Aelfrith. 'They have been drugged,' he said. 'Of course! How else could an intruder hope to ransack a room and steal a body?'

Aelfrith stared back. 'My God, man,' he whispered.

'What evil is afoot in this College? What is going on to warrant such violence?'

Augustus's words of the previous day came back to Bartholomew: '"Evil is afoot, and will corrupt us all, especially those who are unaware."'

'What?' asked Aelfrith, and Bartholomew realised he had spoken aloud. He was about to explain, when something stopped him. He was confused. The events of the past few hours seemed totally inexplicable to him, and the brightness of the day seemed suddenly dulled, as suspicion and distrust settled upon his thoughts.

'Just quoting,' he mumbled dismissively, rising to check on the others.

'Here!' exclaimed Aelfrith. Bartholomew spun round. 'This must be it!' He held a large pewter jug in his hands, similar to the ones used to serve the wine at meals in the hall. Bartholomew took it gingerly. At the bottom were the dregs of the wine, and a few cloves.

Evidently, Master Wilson's good wine had been replaced with inferior stuff that needed spicing when the feast had reached a certain point. But there was something else too.

Swirling in the dregs and drying on the side of the jug were traces of a grey-white powder. Bartholomew smelled it carefully and detected a strong hint of laudanum. The commoners must have been drunk indeed not to have noticed it, and, at this strength, mixed with the effects of a night's drinking, would ensure that the commoners slept at least until midday.

He handed the jug back to Aelfrith. 'A sleeping draught,' he said, 'and a strong one too. I only hope it was not too strong for the old folks.' He continued his rounds, lying the torpid commoners on their sides so they would not choke, and testing for the strength of their pulses. He was concerned for one, a tiny man with a curved spine who was known simply as 'Montfitchet' after the castle in which he had been born. Montfitchet's pulse was far too rapid, and he felt clammy to the touch.

"I wonder whether it was consumed here, or in the hall,' said Aelfrith thoughtfully. 'We will find out when they awake. When will that be, do you think?'

'You can try to wake Jocelyn now,' said Bartholomew.

"I suspect he may be more resistant to strong drink than the others, and he almost woke when you banged the plate.'

Bartholomew reached Brother Paul. Paul had not attended the feast, and if he too had been drugged, the chances were that the wine had been sent to the commoners' dormitory to be consumed by them there.

Bartholomew felt Paul's neck for a life beat, his mind on the mysteries that were unravelling all around him.

He snapped into alertness, quickly dragged the thick covering from the pallet, and stared in horror. Aelfrith came to peer over his shoulder.

'Oh, sweet Jesus,' he breathed. He crossed himself and took a step backwards. 'My God, Matthew, what is happening here? The Devil walked in Michaelhouse last night!'

Bartholomew stared down at the blood-soaked sheet on which Paul lay. The knife that had caused his death still protruded from his stomach, and one of his hands was clasped loosely round the hilt. Bartholomew pulled at it, a long, wicked Welsh dagger similar to those that he had seen carried by Cynric and the soldiers at the Castle.

'Another suicide?' whispered Aelfrith, seeing Paul's hand on the hilt.

"I do not think so, Father. The knife was stabbed into Paul with such force that I think it is embedded in his spine. I cannot pull it out. Paul would never have had the strength for such a blow. And I do not think his death was instant. I think he died several minutes after the wound. Look, both hands are bloodstained, and blood is smeared over the sheet. I think he was trying to pull the knife out, and I think the murderer waited for him to die before arranging the bedclothes in such a way that no one would notice he was dead until the morning. And by then,' he said, turning to face Aelfrith, 'whatever business was going on last night would be completed:'

'Or would have been,' said Aelfrith, 'had you not been an early riser and an abstemious drinker!' He shuddered, looking down at the pathetic body of Brother Paul. 'Poor man! I will say a mass for him and for Augustus this morning. But now, we must inform the Master. You stay here while I fetch him.'

While Aelfrith was gone, Bartholomew inspected Paul. He was cold, and the blood had congealed. Aelfrith had said that he had heard a sound and had gone to check Paul. Had he already been dead then? Was it the murderer Aelfrith had heard? Bartholomew had heard Paul cough when he had looked in on Augustus before he went to the feast, so he must have died later than that. Had Paul seen something and called out? Or had he just been dispatched as a caution to ensure the strange events of the previous evening were kept secret?

Bartholomew put his head in his hands. Two murders in his College. And what of Sir John? Bartholomew was beginning to have serious doubts that Sir John had committed suicide, and was inclined to believe that he had been murdered for something he knew or was about to find out. It seemed that Augustus was killed because he also knew, or someone thought he knew, something. And poor, gentle Brother Paul was murdered because he was too ill to attend Wilson's wretched feast!

Bartholomew went to check on Montfitchet. Perhaps it would be four murders before the day was out, for the tiny man showed no signs of improving, and was beginning to turn blue around the mouth.

Bartholomew heard Wilson's voice carrying across the courtyard. Wilson was due to move into Sir John's spacious room that day, and the College servants had been working furiously to prepare it to his fussy requirements. So the previous night, he had been in his old room, which he shared with Roger Alcote. Bartholomew looked out of the window and saw that Alcote was hurrying over the courtyard behind Wilson, and that Aelfrith had awakened Father William, too. Michael, a light sleeper, was peering out of his window to see what was going on, and Gilbert had evidently been dispatched to fetch Robert Swynford and Giles Abigny.

Wilson swept importantly past Bartholomew, paused briefly to look into Augustus's ransacked room and stopped as he saw Brother Paul's body. Bartholomew had left him as he had been found, the knife protruding from his stomach, and Wilson paled at the sight.

'Cover him up, damn you,' he snarled at Bartholomew. 'Leave the poor soul with some dignity!'

Bartholomew drew the bedcover over Paul's body, while Wilson looked around at the commoners in disdain.

'They are all drunk!' he proclaimed. 'We will not have such debauchery while I am Master!'

Bartholomew barely restrained himself from telling Wilson that if they were drunk, it was due to the copious amounts of wine he himself had supplied the night before, and that such 'debauchery' would most certainly not have been tolerated under Sir John's Mastership.

'Now,' Wilson said, sweeping some discarded clothes from a bench and sitting down, 'tell me what happened.'

Bartholomew looked at Aelfrith. As Senior Fellow, it was his prerogative to speak first. Aelfrith shook his head sorrowfully. "I cannot begin to say what evil has walked in these rooms,' he began. Alcote and Swynford, in anticipation of a lengthy explanation, followed Wilson's lead and sat on the bench. Father William stood next to Aelfrith, silently offering his support, while Brother Michael, his black robes askew, leaned against the door.