'So you kill by stealth,' said Bartholomew bitterly.
'As I am sure you did with Sir John, for you would never have overpowered him in a fair fight.'
'True enough,' said Colet, 'and I most certainly was not prepared to try. I had help that night. Masters Yaxley and Burwell accompanied me.'
'Why did you go to so much trouble for the seal?' asked Michael. 'It would have been no use to you at all after the death of Sir John.'
'You are right, the seal is nothing,' said Colet. 'Once it was known by the King's spies that Sir John was dead, there would have been no value in his seal, and it could never have been used for the same purpose again. But it suited our plans to make believe that there were men desperate to retrieve the seal. If people thought the seal was important enough to kill for, they would also think that the information Sir John received from his spy our messages — was of great significance.'
'Was it you or Swynford that tried to burn poor, sick Augustus in the middle of the night?' asked Michael.
'Neither, actually. We did not want to set Augustus's room on fire or burn him in his bed. That would have drawn attention to the room we were trying to search. Our notion was to make the fire smoke to asphyxiate him.' "I see,' said Bartholomew sarcastically. 'And how could you possibly have made such a mess of this simple operation?'
Colet eyed Bartholomew malevolently for a moment.
'Jocelyn thought the fire was taking too long, and lit another under the bed to speed the process along.
Instead of smoke, there were flames and the old man woke.' He looked in disgust at Jocelyn, who curled his lip in disdain at Colet. 'Fortunately he was too confused to identify Jocelyn, who managed to put out the fire and escape by the trap-door before you two came and broke down the door. When I returned to make amends for his bungling the night of the feast, I was careful to remove all evidence that there was ever a fire.'
Bartholomew recalled the cinders that had clung to his gown when he lay on the floor to retrieve the lid of the bottle Michael dropped. When he had looked for them the morning after, they had gone.
'You disgust me, Colet,' said Bartholomew softly.
'You are a physician, sworn to heal. Even if you did not use a weapon, it is still murder to frighten an old man to death.'
'You almost caught me, actually,' said Colet, and Bartholomew could see that the entire affair was little more than an intellectual game for him. "I let myself out of the other trap-door and hid in Swynford's room, since I was uncertain whether you would know about the one in Augustus's room, and you might have come looking for me in the attic. But you did not and so I climbed back into the attic ready to continue my search.'
Bartholomew had a sudden, sharp memory of the shadow flitting across the door as he walked down the stairs after he had examined Augustus's body. If only he had looked harder, this whole thing may have ended there and then.
Colet smiled. 'It was no simple matter lifting a body through the trap-door. But even so, I had an easier time of it than when that fat slug Wilson tried to heave his bulk into the attic. You must have rattled him when you found him prising up Augustus's floorboards, Matt, because had he been himself, he would certainly have spotted the blood on the floor and one of Augustus's legs sticking out of the passageway. But he did not, and we both escaped.'
'Not only did you break your oath to heal, but you desecrated the dead too,' Bartholomew said accusingly.
'That was most disagreeable,' Colet agreed, 'but it had to be done. I was never as adept at surgery as you, Matt, and I am afraid I made rather a poor job of it. I told you I saw Augustus swallow something. What else could it have been but the seal? After I had completed my inspection of his innards, I wrapped him up and hid him in the blocked-off passageway.' "I take it you found nothing,' said Bartholomew.
'On the contrary,' said Colet. "I found this.' He held up an object for Bartholomew to see. There, glittering in the light from the candle was Colet's golden lion.
Bartholomew felt sick. Colet must be an ill man indeed to have ripped out a man's entrails and to have kept a pathetic ornament he had discovered there.
'And this brings me to the second point I do not understand,' said Michael. 'How did you know about the trap-doors? They were meant to be a secret passed from Master to Master.'
'Poor, sick Augustus told Swynford about them.
Augustus was Master of Michaelhouse once, if you remember,' said Colet. 'They made things easier, but we would have managed without them. We would have just planned differently.' He took the golden lion from his pocket and began to twist it through his fingers. He started suddenly as voices could be heard down the hallway. Swynford. Bartholomew recalled his disapproval of Colet speaking to him before, and was not surprised when Colet left abruptly.
In the darkness, Bartholomew heard Michael move towards the food that Colet had brought. "I wonder what poison they have used,' he mused, smiling grimly as he heard Michael drop the plate.
'Damn you, Matt,' Michael grumbled. 'Do we starve here or die of poison?'
'The choice is probably yours, Brother,' replied Bartholomew.
Once again, time began to drag. Bartholomew and Michael talked more about what Colet had told them, but he had revealed little they did not already know, merely answering how Aelfrith had come to believe Wilson had killed him, and how Swynford had known about the trap-door in Augustus's room. Bartholomew presumed that Stanmore's underground rooms were used for secret meetings only at night, when Oswald Stanmore went home to Trumpington, and Stephen had the premises to himself.
When he heard the scratching noise outside the door, he first assumed it was his imagination, or Michael fidgeting in the darkness. But the sound persisted, and Bartholomew thought he could see the merest glimmer of light under the door. So, this is it, he thought. Swynford had conceived another diabolical plan, and he and Michael would be murdered just like the others who had threatened his objectives. He shook Michael awake, cautioning him to silence with a hand over his mouth.
The door swung open very slowly, and two figures slipped in, one shielding the light from the stub of a candle with his hand. The other closed the door behind them and they stood peering into the gloom.
'Michael! Matt!' came an urgent whisper.
Bartholomew was bracing himself to jump at one of the figures to see if he could overpower him when the candle flared and he found himself looking at Abigny, his youthful face tense and anxious.
'Thank God! You are unharmed!' he whispered, breaking into a smile, and clapping Bartholomew on the back.
'Giles!' exclaimed Bartholomew in amazement.
'How…?'
'Questions later,' said the philosopher. 'Come.'
The other figure at the door gestured urgently, and Abigny led the way out of the chamber and along the passageway. They quickly climbed the wooden stairs and Abignyclosedthetrap-doorcarefully,coveringitwithstraw.
The other person snuffed out the candle, leaving them in darkness and together they set off for the door at the far end of the stables.
They froze at the sound of someone in the yard.
Hastily, Abigny bundled them into a stall with an ancient piebald nag, hoping that it would not give them away.
Bartholomew saw Stephen come into the stable with a lamp, while outside, they could hear some of the men who worked for him chattering and laughing.
Stephen set the lamp down, and went to a splendid black gelding, which he patted and caressed lovingly.
Oswald had bought Stephen the horse to compensate for the one Abigny had stolen.
Bartholomew's legs were like jelly and, judging from Michael's shaking next to him, the fat monk felt the same.