‘Dean Talerand?’ asked Langelee. ‘He knew how Radeford had spent his day – he remarked on it to Helen. And we know he is ruthless, because he has kept his office in the face of some very fierce opposition.’
‘Why would Talerand mean Radeford harm?’ asked Bartholomew, but then answered his own question. ‘Because he will be on the side of the vicars-choral in our dispute. They are minster employees, so of course he hopes they will win against us.’
‘Possibly,’ nodded Langelee. ‘However, we cannot exclude the vicars themselves from our list of suspects, either. They will also have known Radeford’s whereabouts, because their religious duties demand that they spend time in the minster.’
‘Wait,’ said Michael, holding up his hand. ‘We are running ahead of ourselves here. When did either of you last see Radeford use his spoon?’
‘At breakfast,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But I ate from the same vat of pottage, and I suffered no ill effects. Besides, I imagine the toxin was faster acting – and if he had suffered from a numb mouth for several hours, he would have mentioned it the moment he saw me.’
‘But you just said he was more interested in gloating over his discoveries,’ argued Langelee.
‘There is a difference between having a symptom for a short time and suffering from it all day. I suspect the poison was given to him shortly before he left the library.’
Langelee sighed. ‘Maybe we should cut our losses and go home. Whoever murdered Radeford is ruthless, and I do not want to lose any more Fellows. What would our colleagues say if I return to Cambridge alone? They will depose me as Master!’
‘Your concern for our well-being is touching,’ said Michael dryly. ‘However, we are not going anywhere. Radeford was our friend, and I am not walking away from his murder. Moreover, I am unwilling to let the vicars have Huntington without a fight.’
‘True,’ acknowledged Langelee. ‘And I am unwilling to turn my back on the possibility of unmasking men who betray my country to the French, too.’
Bartholomew nodded his agreement. Reluctant to leave Radeford unattended, he and Michael returned to St Olave’s, and told Cynric to rest. Then Bartholomew sat at the base of one of the columns, while Michael knelt by Radeford’s coffin. In four hours, Langelee would relieve them.
The physician woke with a start when he felt a hand shaking his shoulder. It was Langelee, come to take his turn at keeping watch. Guiltily, Bartholomew hoped the Master would do a better job than he had done himself. He fell asleep the moment he lay down in the hospitium, and not even the clang of bells announcing prime the following morning made him stir. Michael was reduced to splashing him with the water that had been left for their ablutions.
‘The river is higher than it was yesterday,’ the monk said, gazing out of the window while Bartholomew crawled slowly off the mattress. ‘Do you think it will flood? It is getting very close.’
Bartholomew went to stand next to him. The scene was a dismal one: sullen grey clouds, wind-battered trees, and houses with darkly sodden thatches. The river was an angry brown torrent, and the vegetation that had been washed from its moorings upstream now comprised small trees, as well as shrubs. He watched one yew being carried along at a cracking rate, turning and writhing as if trying to struggle free.
‘Langelee told me it is often this high,’ he said. ‘And he thinks it will subside without problems. But it is raining again, and there is only so much the waterways can absorb.’
‘How is your hand?’ asked Michael, seeing him rub it. ‘Still numb?’
Bartholomew flexed his fingers. ‘Returning to normal.’
‘You should have tested the spoon on a rat,’ admonished Michael. ‘It was reckless to have tried it on yourself. All I can say is thank God you did not stick it in your mouth.’
Bartholomew recoiled. ‘That would have been revoltingly macabre!’
‘You are revoltingly macabre. Do not deny it, Matt. You know it is true.’
Bartholomew massaged his fingers. ‘I can imagine exactly what would happen if this substance were ingested. It would impair the function of vital organs, and—’
‘Please! No hideous details,’ begged Michael. ‘Hah! Here is Oustwyk with breakfast. We shall dine, then visit the minster to see what the vicars-choral know about poisons. We should have enough time before Radeford’s burial.’
Michael did the victuals justice, but the pottage reminded Bartholomew of their dead colleague and deprived him of his appetite. While he picked listlessly at some bread, Oustwyk bombarded them with questions, both about their investigations and the incident of the previous evening.
‘Why do you want to know?’ demanded Michael, finally growing tired of it.
Oustwyk shrugged. ‘Because I am interested, and so is Abbot Multone. It is odd that you arrive here, and within days, one of your party lies dead and another has been attacked twice.’
‘You think the arrow was intended for Matt, then?’ asked Michael. ‘Not Sir William?’
Oustwyk nodded. ‘No one would want Sir William harmed – he is one of the nicest men in the city. Like Hugh de Myton, he is venerable and discreet.’
‘Myton,’ mused Michael. He paraphrased what Radeford said he had read in the letters he had found. ‘He has obits recited for him in the minster, but Zouche does not have a chantry chapel, and some of Zouche’s executors found this improper. You claim to know all about York and its inhabitants, so what do you think?’
Oustwyk’s mouth turned down at the corners as he pondered the question. ‘I suppose it is unfair, now you mention it. But neither Myton nor Zouche are destined to spend long in Purgatory, despite their fears to the contrary. I doubt they need many prayers. Especially ones from our vicars-choral.’
‘Speaking of vicars-choral, are they capable of committing murder to gain Huntington?’
It was so bald a question that Bartholomew expected Oustwyk to refuse an answer, but the steward rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he considered his reply.
‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘They spend their mornings saying masses for the dead, and you do not do that day in and day out without being careful about the sins you commit. I believe they would stop short of murder.’
‘Then who did shoot at Matt and attack him with a sword?’
Oustwyk shrugged. ‘Dalfeld is keen to win Huntington for his clients, the vicars. Then there are the French spies, who will not want you dabbling in their business—’
‘What makes you think we know anything about that?’ asked Michael sharply.
Oustwyk shrugged again, and Bartholomew supposed that either the steward had listened to a discussion not intended for his ears, or he was aware of the list Radeford had found because he was on it. Instead of answering, Oustwyk continued with his suggestions.
‘And then there is Fournays. Perhaps he resents a medical rival.’
‘Fournays had not met me before Sir William was injured,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Your logic is flawed.’
‘But he may have heard about you,’ Oustwyk shot back, then resumed his list. ‘We cannot overlook Longton as a suspect, either. Or Gisbyrn, although he at least donates alms to the poor. Longton does not. And while I am as averse as the next man to being invaded by Frenchmen, I resent my abbey being taxed for it. Personally, I suspect he uses the revenue to pay for his claret.’
As usual, the minster was noisy. Every chapel and altar was busy as canons, vicars, choirs and chaplains chanted obits for York’s wealthy dead. Trade was brisk in the aisles, too, with stallholders servicing the pilgrims who came to petition William of York. Bartholomew looked once, and then twice, when he saw Dean Talerand leading a donkey towards the shrine.
‘It is probably infertile,’ explained Michael, seeing his astonishment. ‘Or its milk has dried up.’
‘And that justifies its presence in a minster how exactly?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Look around you. How much do you think it costs to maintain a place like this, let alone raise the funds to r
ebuild parts of it? The minster will accept money from any source available, and that includes from people desperate for productive livestock.’
‘Then perhaps we are wrong to assume it was the vicars who harmed Radeford – if they do inherit Huntington, the chances are that some of the money will find its way here. The church is not worth much, but, as you have just pointed out, every penny counts.’
‘Perhaps. But there is Jafford. Good heavens! Look at the women who hover around him! Some are remarkably …’ He waved a hand, not sure how to describe them.
‘Sybaritic,’ supplied Bartholomew. ‘Oustwyk told us that Jafford has care of the Altar of Mary Magdalene, which is popular with prostitutes.’
‘Then Oustwyk was not exaggerating,’ said Michael, watching the women clamour for Jafford’s attention when he finished one prayer and prepared to say another. Many were comely, and he seemed more than happy to accede to their requests.
At that moment, there was a commotion as the donkey made a bid for escape. It knocked several people off their feet when they tried to catch it, and its indignant brays competed with excited yells as a chase ensued. Talerand’s hands went to his mouth in consternation, especially when some of the vicars-choral joined the pursuit, clearly welcoming a break from their routine. Delighted by the spectacle, the prostitutes hared after them, leaving Jafford free to join the scholars.
‘I heard there was an unpleasant incident in St Olave’s last night,’ he said, regarding Bartholomew sympathetically. ‘Were you hurt?’
Bartholomew shook his head, and decided to be open. ‘But before he died, Radeford found the codicil to Zouche’s will. We think someone intended to search his body for it.’
‘You have the codicil?’ asked Jafford, startled. ‘You did not say so yesterday!’
‘Because your colleagues did not seem amenable to an exchange of information,’ replied Michael icily before Bartholomew could explain that Radeford finding it and them having it were not the same thing. ‘But yes, it is in our possession. Moreover, there are almost certainly copies.’
Jafford nodded. ‘Yes, if there is one, there will be others. A single codicil could be feloniously altered to Cotyngham’s disadvantage – forcing him out before he was dead or ready to resign – so Zouche would certainly have ensured that there were duplicates.’
‘We would not have done that,’ objected Michael. His eyes narrowed. ‘Would you?’
‘No, of course not,’ replied Jafford impatiently. ‘But you are missing my point, which is that a multitude of copies means that Zouche did want Michaelhouse to have Huntington – he would not have needed them for us, because he knew he could trust us to act honourably. But he did not know you, so he took steps to safeguard his friend.’
‘We can prove our case with documents now,’ said Michael, not sure he liked this particular argument in Michaelhouse’s favour. ‘So will you withdraw your claim?’
‘No,’ came an angry voice from behind them. All three turned to see Cave, who had hurried over when he had seen Jafford consorting with the enemy; Ellis was coming, too, pattens clacking importantly on the flagstones. ‘Not until we are sure your codicil is genuine. Where is it?’
‘In a safe place,’ replied Michael curtly. ‘Somewhere no thief will think to look.’
‘I hope you are not suggesting we would steal it,’ said Cave. ‘Or that we had something to do with the incident in St Olave’s. We were in the Bedern when that happened, at a meeting.’
‘A meeting to discuss what?’ asked Michael.
Ellis gaped at him. ‘You are brazen, demanding to know our private business! But we discussed Huntington, if you must know. We reviewed all we knew about it, to assess who had heard Zouche say he wanted to leave it to you, and whether they are credible witnesses.’
‘We decided unanimously that they are not,’ said Cave, a conclusion that came as no surprise to the scholars. ‘Zouche died almost six years ago, and the human memory is fallible. These recollections are irrelevant, and we intend to pursue our case against you.’
‘They have a copy of the codicil,’ Jafford reminded him.
‘So they say,’ retorted Ellis. ‘But have you never heard of counterfeiting?’
Shocked, Jafford tried to apologise for his colleague’s manners, but Michael cut across him, parrying the attack with one of his own.
‘Radeford was poisoned,’ he said dangerously. ‘So we held a meeting last night, too – one in which we discussed who might benefit from the murder of our lawyer.’
All three vicars stared at him. ‘Well, it was not us,’ declared Ellis, the first to recover his composure. ‘And if you say otherwise, we shall sue you for defamation.’
Jafford started to speak, a look of abject horror on his angelic features, but Ellis hauled him away. Before he followed, Cave shot the scholars a look full of simian menace.
Unhappily, Bartholomew watched them go. ‘I wish you had not told them about Radeford. It will encourage the killer to cover his tracks, and now we might never learn who killed him.’
Michael sighed. ‘I know – I realised that the moment the words were out. But there is something about those vicars that is intensely aggravating, and I could not help myself.’
Bartholomew thought about Ellis’s response to the codicil. ‘Radeford said he wanted to examine the deed in good light before making it public. He was clearly afraid it might be suspect, so Ellis is probably right to be wary of it.’
‘And we shall be wary of it, too – if we ever find the wretched thing.’
* * *
They met Thoresby and Talerand as they left the minster. The Archbishop and Dean were just finishing a discussion with three farmers, one of whom held the reins of the recaptured donkey.
‘Of course William of York likes asses,’ Thoresby was assuring them silkily. ‘And you may have half your money back if …’ He paused, eyebrows raised.
‘Nellie,’ supplied the farmers in a chorus.
‘… if Nellie does not produce a foal next year,’ the Archbishop finished. He sketched a blessing. ‘And now go with God. And go with Nellie, too, if you please. She should not be in here.’
As he watched, it occurred to Bartholomew that Talerand might know who had visited the library when Radeford was in it – and thus also know the identity of the poisoner.
‘No one,’ came the disappointing reply, once Dean and Archbishop had recovered from their shock at learning that murder had been done. ‘Radeford was my only guest that day. Dalfeld and the vicars came in the evening, but that was long after your friend had gone. Radeford was alone all day, so if he was poisoned, then it happened elsewhere.’
‘Yet I am sure you did not lock him in,’ Michael pointed out. ‘So what was to stop anyone from sneaking to join him inside when your attention was elsewhere?’
Talerand pondered. ‘Well, nothing, I suppose. But it would have been rude to enter without my permission. Everyone understands that they are meant to ask me first.’
But murderers were not noted for their fine manners, thought Bartholomew. So who had given Radeford poisoned food on the pretext of being kind? Not the vicars, because Radeford would have been suspicious and refused. Or would he? The lawyer had been so keen for an amiable solution that he might well have accepted what he saw as an olive branch.
‘How are your investigations coming along, Brother?’ Talerand was asking pleasantly.
‘Very well,’ lied Michael. ‘And Radeford’s murder has made us all the more determined to succeed. But as we are here, would you mind telling us about Zouche’s executors?’
Talerand’s chubby features creased into a frown. ‘Why?’
‘Because seven of the nine are dead,’ replied Michael. ‘And I would like to know more about them. They may well transpire to be irrelevant to our investigations, but we would be remiss not to explore the possibility.’
‘Well, Roger drowned, as you know,’ began Thoresby obligingly. ‘Stiendby, Neville and Playce died of spotted live
r, while Christopher Malore, Welton and Ferriby died of debilities.’
‘Christopher was Anketil’s brother,’ elaborated Talerand. His eyes were wary, and had lost their habitual merry twinkle. ‘He was also a Benedictine, but at the abbey, not at Holy Trinity.’
‘The diagnoses were made by Surgeon Fournays,’ Thoresby went on, ignoring the Dean’s aside. ‘So I am sure they are accurate, because he is an excellent medicus.’
‘We know that Neville and Christopher died five years ago,’ began Michael. ‘While Ferriby and Roger died this week. But what about the others – Welton, Playce and Stiendby?’
Thoresby frowned as he struggled to remember. ‘Welton died two years after Neville and Christopher. Playce died the year after him. And Stiendby …’
‘Last Easter,’ supplied Talerand promptly. ‘I remember, because it is an auspicious time to die, and will reduce his stay in Purgatory. But you are wrong to think the deaths of these executors have a bearing on Huntington, Brother. They do not, and if you probe them, you will be wasting your time. Oh, Lord! That donkey is back again.’
‘I must go, too,’ said Thoresby, as the Dean hurried away. ‘That wretched beast interrupted the obit I was saying for Myton, so I need to resume it before—’
‘Myton again,’ blurted Bartholomew, unable to help himself. ‘He crops up at every turn.’
‘That is no surprise,’ said Thoresby. ‘He was venerable and—’
‘— and discreet,’ interrupted Michael. ‘Yes, we know. It is what everyone says about him.’
‘Because it is true. He was Zouche’s friend, and did much to keep the peace between Gisbyrn and Longton. I do not know how, because it is beyond me. We were all sorry when Myton died.’
‘Of spotted liver or a debility?’ asked Bartholomew, frustration with their lack of progress rendering him uncharacteristically acerbic.
‘Neither,’ retorted Thoresby sharply. ‘He had a softening of the brain.’
‘I do not suppose you have any other information to impart, do you?’ asked Michael hopefully, before Bartholomew could remark that he had never heard of such an affliction. ‘You said yesterday that you would ask a few questions on our behalf.’
Mystery in the Minster: The Seventeenth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 19