'Pull yourself together, man,' Bartholomew said, exasperated, and leaned down to retrieve the bottle, which had rolled under the bed. He picked it up to hand back to Michael, and was startled to see the hem of the monk's robes disappearing through the door.
Michael had, quite literally, fled.
Bartholomew looked to Alexander, who appeared as bewildered as Bartholomew felt. 'Go back to the feast,' he said, seeing the steward's unease. 'You will be needed there. I will see to Augustus.'
Alexander left, shutting the door behind him, and Bartholomew heard his feet clattering down the stairs and the outside door slam shut. He chewed on his lower lip, bemused. What had been the matter with Michael?
They had known each other since Bartholomew had been made a Fellow, and Bartholomew had never seen him in such a state before. Usually the obese monk was well in control of his emotions, and he rarely allowed himself to be so discomfited that he was unable to come up with a sardonic remark or cutting response.
As Bartholomew put the bottle of chrism down on the window-sill, he noticed that the lid had come off and that his hand was greasy with the highly scented oil. He wiped it on a napkin that lay on a desk under the window, and dropped to his hands and knees with the lamp to look for the bottle-top. It had rolled to the far side of the bed, and Bartholomew had to lie flat to reach it. As he stood up, he noticed that his clothes were covered with small flecks of black. Puzzled, he peered closely at some of the bits that clung to his sleeve. They looked like flakes of burned parchment. He brushed them off; they must have come from the fire in the hearth. He was about to leave when the edge of the bedclothes caught his eye. On the light green blanket was a pale scorch mark about the size of his hand. Curious, he inspected the rest of the covering, and found a similar spot at the corner.
Augustus's screams of two nights before came tearing into his mind. Augustus had claimed that devils had come to burn him alive! Bartholomew shook his head.
He was being ridiculous. Agatha had probably burned the blanket while it was being laundered, although he would not wish to be the one to ask her. Nevertheless, he took the lamp, and, lying flat on his back, he inspected the wooden slats underneath the bed. He swallowed hard.
The boards were singed, and one was even charred.
Augustus had not been imagining things. There had been a fire under his bed.
Still lying on his back, he thought about the events of two days before. It had been deep in the night, perhaps one or two o' clock, when Augustus had started to yell.
Bartholomew had thrown on his gown and run to the commoners' dormitory, which was diagonally opposite his own room across the courtyard. By the time he had arrived, Alcote, Alexander, and Father William were already there with Wilson's book-bearer, Gilbert, and the commoners from the next room. Alcote and William said that they had been working together in William's rooms on material for a public debate they were to hold the next day, and since William's room was directly below that of Augustus, had been the first to arrive. Gilbert, always ferreting information and gossip for Wilson, had materialised from nowhere, and Alexander never seemed to sleep.
Bartholomew screwed up his eyes. But one other person had also arrived before him. Brother Michael had been there. He had been dishevelled, as was Bartholomew, having been woken from his sleep, but Michael's room was above Bartholomew's, so he must have moved with uncharacteristic haste to have arrived first. Unless he had been there already. The thought came unbidden into Bartholomew's mind. Michael was dishevelled. Had he been involved in a tussle with Augustus and set a fire under the bed? Was Brother Michael the devil of Augustus's mind? But Augustus's door had been locked from the inside, and Michael had helped Bartholomew to break it down.
It made no sense. Why would Michael wish Augustus harm? Michael was a monk: a rarity in the University, where friars and priests abounded, but Benedictine monks were uncommon. Bartholomew reached for the damaged wood and scratched it with his fingernail. It was quite deeply burnt, not merely singed, so whoever had started the fire had meant business. Bartholomew thought again. The room had been horribly smoky, enough to make his eyes smart, but the windows were open, and the draught was sucking the smoke back down the chimney where it was billowing into the room. He remembered asking Alexander to douse the fire to allow some fresh air to circulate. Any evidence of smoke from under the bed would have been masked by the fire in the hearth.
He felt angry at himself. He had not believed for an instant that there could have been any degree of truth in Augustus's story. But what if his other ramblings held grains of truth? What of his statements today? What had he said? Something to the effect that evil was afoot and would corrupt them all, especially those who were unaware, and that Sir John had begun to guess and look what had happened to him.
Bartholomew felt his blood run cold. Sir John' s sudden demise had taken everyone by surprise; he had certainly not seemed suicidal the night of his death as Bartholomew could attest. What if he had not committed suicide? What if there was truth in senile Augustus's mumblings, and Sir John had begun to guess something?
But what? Michaelhouse had its petty rivalries and bids for power, as, no doubt, every other College and hostel in the University did. But Bartholomew found it hard to imagine that there could be anything so important as to warrant the taking of lives. And anyway, Michael and Bartholomew had seen Augustus alive before the feast, and none of the Fellows, commoners, or students had left the hall before Bartholomew had been summoned by Alexander.
He slid out from under the bed for a second time and dusted himself off. He looked down at Augustus's sprawled corpse, at the horrified look on the face. Sitting on the bed, he began a rigorous inspection of the body.
He sniffed at the mouth to check for any signs of poison; he ran his fingers through Augustus's wispy hair to see if he had been struck on the head; he lifted the bed-gown to look for any small puncture marks or bruises; and, finally, he examined the hands. There was nothing, not even a fibre trapped under the fingernails. There was not a mark on the body, and not the merest hint of blood. Aware that the chrism may have masked the smell of poison, Bartholomew prised the dead man's mouth open again, and, holding the lamp close, looked carefully for any redness or swelling on the tongue or gums. Nothing.
He began to feel foolish. It had been a long day, and he was tired. Henry Oliver's attempt to leave him to the mercies of the town mob must have upset him more than he had thought, and it had not been pleasant to see the loathsome Wilson sit so smugly in Sir John's chair. I am as bad as old Augustus with his imaginings, Bartholomew thought irritably. The old commoner had most likely set the bed alight himself, not realising what he had done.
Bartholomew straightened Augustus's limbs, pulled the bed-gown down over the ancient knees, and covered him decently with the blanket. He kicked and poked at the fire until he was sure it was out, fastened the window-shutters, and, taking the lamp, left the room.
He would ask Father Aelfrith to keep vigil over the body.
It was getting late, and the feast should almost have run its course by now.
As he made his way down the stairs, he thought he saw a shadow flit across the doorway, and his heart almost missed a beat. But when he reached the courtyard, there was nothing to be seen.
The feast seemed to have degenerated somewhat since he had left, and the floor and tables were strewn with thrown food and spilt wine. Abigny was standing on one of the students' tables reciting ribald poetry to a chorus of catcalls and cheers, while the two Franciscans looked on disapprovingly. Brother Michael had returned to his place, and gave Bartholomew a wan smile. Alcote and Swynford were deep in their cups, and Wilson, too, was flushed, although with wine or the heat of the room Bartholomew could not tell.