Mystery in the Minster: The Seventeenth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘We will reach Petergate if we run down that alley,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And then we—’

  ‘I am not running anywhere,’ interrupted Michael firmly. ‘Not only is it undignified, but they will almost certainly catch me. Besides, you said they did not see your face, and you are wearing different clothes today. Just be nonchalant – they have no reason to suspect you.’

  ‘Easy for you to say,’ muttered Bartholomew, acutely uncomfortable as the distance narrowed between them and their rivals. ‘You are not the one they will beat to a pulp.’

  ‘We had an intruder last night,’ said Cave without preamble. He stared at Bartholomew with a smouldering dislike. ‘The culprit is playing with fire.’

  ‘We have no idea what you are talking about,’ said Michael shortly. ‘What intruder?’

  ‘One who invaded the Bedern to spy,’ replied Cave coldly. ‘But be warned: if it happens again, the culprit will be sorry. We shall protect our property by whatever means we deem necessary.’

  ‘Is that what happened with Cotyngham?’ asked Michael, going on the offensive himself. ‘You defended your property? Or what you thought should be your property?’

  The blood drained from Cave’s face, although whether from guilt, shock or temper was impossible to say. ‘We had nothing to do with that. How dare you say such things!’

  ‘Incidentally, we have evidence to identify the villain who ransacked Cotyngham’s house,’ said Michael smoothly. ‘Burglary is an unsavoury crime with which to be associated.’

  ‘Now just a moment,’ said Ellis, outraged. ‘Yesterday, you intimated that we murdered Radeford, and today, you call us burglars. It is not to be tolerated!’

  ‘I said we have evidence to identify a felon,’ corrected Michael pedantically. ‘I did not accuse anyone. Or is it a troubled conscience that causes you to leap to your own defence with such vigour? But never mind this – tell me what you think of Sir William Longton instead.’

  ‘What?’ asked Ellis, disconcerted by the sudden change of subject. ‘Sir William Longton? What does he have to do with anything?’

  ‘Am I to assume that you dislike him?’ asked Michael, although the vicars had said nothing to indicate such a conclusion was warranted.

  Ellis’s wet lips tightened. ‘I have never given it much thought, although he has a tendency to be sanctimonious in his dealings with us. It is not an attractive trait.’

  ‘But not one worth shooting a man for,’ added Cave in a whisper that was vaguely unnerving. His eyes were almost invisible under his simian brow. ‘It would be a waste of an arrow.’

  ‘I see.’ Michael’s tone of voice made it clear that Cave and Ellis were firmly on his list as suspects for the knight’s attempted murder. Meanwhile, Jafford and the other vicars were listening in open-mouthed horror, and Bartholomew suspected they were keen to bring the discussion to an end before any more incautious remarks were made, but did not dare, lest the sub-chanter or his henchman vented their spleen on them.

  ‘You claim to have the codicil that gives you Huntington,’ said Ellis, after taking a deep breath to calm himself. He smiled, slyly and without humour. ‘So show it to us. Do not be shy. The moment you do, and we are satisfied as to its authenticity, Huntington will be yours.’

  ‘But if we are unconvinced, we shall challenge you,’ added Cave. ‘Dalfeld says we will win, and it will be a nice addition to the hundred and fifty-seven houses we already own.’

  Michael gaped at him. ‘A hundred and fifty-seven? Yet you are prepared to fight us over one measly church? What kind of men are you?’

  ‘Ones who work hard to safeguard our foundation’s future,’ replied Cave. The words were innocuous enough, but Bartholomew was acutely aware of the menace with which they had been spoken, especially when the henchman favoured him with a look that showed he knew exactly whom he had chased towards Petergate the previous evening. ‘Just like you.’

  ‘Is that what you were doing in the minster library?’ asked Michael. ‘Looking for—’

  ‘We have better things to do than bandy words with you,’ interrupted Ellis abruptly. ‘Come, brethren. Let us buy these shoes, before the cobbler assumes we are not coming.’

  Head held high, he sailed away, pattens clacking. Jafford shot the scholars an agonised glance as he passed, but Cave made no move to follow. He stayed where he was, staring at Bartholomew. The physician forced himself to gaze back, but the silence was unsettling, and he was on the verge of looking away when Cave turned abruptly and started after his companions.

  Unfortunately, the aura of forbidding hauteur he had striven to create was considerably diminished when he tripped over an uneven cobble. He was obliged to jig an ungainly dance to regain his balance, during which the broken lace came loose and his shoe fell off, forcing him to put his stockinged foot in the filth of the street. He regarded the resulting mess in dismay.

  ‘We know where you damaged your footwear,’ said Michael softly. ‘And why.’

  He spun around and stalked away, so did not see the venomous glower that followed him. Bartholomew did, though, and his stomach twisted in alarm, certain the monk’s remark had done nothing to make their stay in York any safer.

  When Bartholomew and Michael reached Petergate, they saw two familiar figures, heads together as each struggled to hear what the other was saying over the noisy bustle of the street. They were Mardisley and Jorden, deep in an intellectual discussion as usual. Bartholomew enjoyed a good debate himself, but not to the exclusion of all else, and he was beginning to see them as fanatics.

  ‘How is Cotyngham?’ he asked as they passed, half expecting them not to hear him.

  Mardisley stopped, and it took a moment for him to pull his mind from theology to the present. ‘The same, according to our infirmarian: drooling and witless.’

  ‘Just like you, then,’ quipped Jorden. ‘Or you would accept my contentions about the Virgin.’

  ‘Isabella is coming this way, loaded down with books,’ said Michael, amused. ‘Perhaps she has some that will help you with your debate.’

  ‘She might,’ acknowledged Jorden. ‘But the price of borrowing them will be to listen to her opinions, and I do not want to hear them.’

  ‘Because she is a woman?’ asked Bartholomew, a little coolly.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Jorden, unfazed by his disapproval. ‘The female brain cannot cope with theology, and I do not want my own polluted by her reasoning.’

  Bartholomew was ready to argue, but both friars had hurried away before he could speak. He turned to see Isabella almost on them, breathless and hot as she struggled to carry her bundle of tomes in such a way that they would not be damaged by the rain. Helen was with her, toting a heavy basket covered by a cloth. Alice walked between them, dressed in a brazenly secular cloak, and making no effort to help either.

  ‘We are going to the Franciscan Priory,’ Helen explained, in reply to Michael’s polite enquiry.

  ‘To take my best texts to Cotyngham,’ added Isabella. ‘He used to enjoy discussing them with me, and we thought they might help him regain his wits.’

  It was a kindly thought, especially as books were expensive, and she could not be sure the sick man would not dribble on them.

  ‘And I have baked him some pastries,’ added Helen, lifting the cloth to reveal a mouth-watering array of treats. Michael bent to inspect them more closely. ‘But I doubt the infirmarian will let us in, which is a pity, because I am sure Cotyngham would benefit from Isabella’s reading.’

  ‘I can think of other activities that might work faster,’ murmured Alice. She seemed about to elaborate, but Michael interrupted.

  ‘Cakes are bad for invalids,’ he declared with considerable conviction. ‘Give them to me.’

  Helen laughed at his transparency. ‘I shall deliver them to the friary, if it is all the same to you, Brother. But I made others. Shall I send a parcel to the abbey later?’

  ‘No,’ replied Michael, eyes glistening. ‘I shall collect them now. M
att will take Cotyngham’s share to the friary, thus saving you a walk. This is no weather for a lady to be out.’

  He shoved the basket into Bartholomew’s hand and marched her away, leaving her too startled to object. Alice winked meaningfully at Bartholomew before following, and with an uncomfortable start the physician saw he was expected to convince Isabella of the joys of masculine company on their journey to see Cotyngham. Feeling manipulated on all sides, he took the books from Isabella, and together, they began to walk.

  ‘How is your play progressing?’ he asked, suspecting it might not be easy to escape if they embarked on a theological discussion, so choosing something less contentious instead.

  She turned a radiant smile on him, and for the first time he saw why Radeford had been so smitten. It transformed her: her eyes sparkled, and she revealed small white teeth that were perfectly even. She was a beauty, and Archbishop Zouche had been right to charge Alice with ensuring that she knew what she was doing before taking vows that would bind her for life.

  ‘Very well, and I think the Abbot will be pleased. There is a great deal of theology in it, and he told me to choose something that would educate and enlighten those who watched.’

  ‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, thinking it was Multone’s own fault that she had selected Hrotsvit’s tedious ramblings: he should have been more precise with his instructions.

  With endearing enthusiasm, she described the contributions Radeford had made, and when they arrived at the friary, Bartholomew was surprised the time had passed so quickly.

  ‘I have talked non-stop,’ she said apologetically, as Bartholomew knocked on the gate. ‘But I wanted you to know that Master Radeford did much to improve The Conversion of the Harlot, and I am sorry he will not be here to see it. We plan our first performance on Tuesday – two days’ time.’

  ‘I am sure he would have been delighted to know he had helped,’ said Bartholomew, and she gave him a smile of such sweet sadness that he felt a lump rise in his throat. Fortunately, the door was answered just then, because he would not have been equal to carrying the discussion any further.

  ‘You may come in, sir,’ said the lay-brother, when Bartholomew had explained their business. ‘But Sister Isabella cannot. I am sorry, but those are my orders.’

  ‘But Cotyngham and I were friends before his illness!’ objected Isabella, disappointed. ‘And my reading may help him to recover. Doctor Bartholomew thinks so, and he is a medicus.’

  ‘Perhaps another time,’ said the lay-brother, not unkindly. ‘I shall ask Warden Stayndrop.’

  Isabella tried to argue, but the fellow was immovable, so Bartholomew carried the books and the basket to the infirmary alone.

  Cotyngham was sitting in a chair this time, although his lolling head and vacant eyes were the same. Bartholomew unwrapped the gifts, and explained what they were. There was no response, so he knelt by the priest’s side and peered into his face. The patient was slightly breathless, and his pulse was racing. Supposing his own presence was the cause, and unwilling to distress him further, Bartholomew touched him gently on the shoulder and left.

  That evening, the scholars were subdued as they sat in the hospitium, huddled around a fire that was insufficient to drive the chill from their bones. Bartholomew cupped his hands around a goblet of mulled wine, feeling warmth seep from it into his icy fingers.

  ‘It is still raining,’ he remarked to no one in particular.

  Langelee nodded. ‘And people are worried. There will be a high tide on Tuesday, and if water from the sea meets water from flooded rivers, there will be trouble. It has happened before.’

  ‘It is because York is corrupt, and God does not like it,’ said Cynric matter-of-factly. ‘Its merchants are venal, its Mayor is a drunkard and its priests have forgotten that they are supposed to be poor, chaste and obedient. That novice – Isabella – told me.’

  ‘Then Isabella is wrong,’ said Langelee indignantly. ‘There is nothing amiss with York.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘Its main streets have excellent drains; its houses are smarter and cleaner than the ones in Cambridge, with better facility for sanitation; and its hospitals are among the best I have ever seen. Even better than the magnificent foundation at Tonnerre in Burgundy.’

  ‘We should review where we are with our various investigations,’ said Michael, his tired voice indicating that he made the suggestion reluctantly. ‘Starting with the shooting of Sir William.’

  ‘I found the man who made the arrow,’ said Cynric with casual insouciance. ‘He uses chicken feathers as fletching, to reduce costs. They are less accurate than goose, but cheaper.’

  ‘Who would want to buy arrows that fly poorly?’ asked Michael, bemused.

  ‘Mayor Longton,’ replied Cynric promptly. ‘He orders them by the cartload for the townsmen to practise with, ready to defend York against the French.’

  ‘And he expects to repel them with inferior missiles?’ Michael remained nonplussed.

  ‘He expects the enemy to come in such numbers that any arrow shot forward will find a target,’ explained Cynric. ‘So accuracy is less important to him than volume.’

  ‘In other words, the missile can tell us nothing helpful?’ asked Michael, disappointed. ‘These hen-arrows are produced in such quantity that anyone might have got hold of one?’

  ‘Yes and no. The one that injured Sir William came from an unusual batch. You see, the fletcher’s apprentice had an ague, so another lad was hired to produce the heads. And he made them slightly differently. Unfortunately, the really distinctive part is the barb, but that was damaged during the surgery.’

  Langelee groaned. ‘Damn you, Bartholomew! Could you not have been more careful?’

  ‘Mayor Longton orders wealthy individuals or foundations to buy arrows for the city’s defence,’ Cynric went on before the physician could answer. ‘A sort of tax. The fletcher named four who paid for this particular consignment: Ellis, Dalfeld, Fournays and Gisbyrn. He could have narrowed it down further still if the barb had been intact.’

  ‘Gisbyrn?’ pounced Michael, before Langelee could berate Bartholomew again. ‘So Longton might have been right when he accused him?’

  ‘He might,’ nodded Cynric.

  ‘Gisbyrn will not have loosed the missile himself,’ mused Langelee. ‘He will have asked Frost to do it. The man is a professional warrior, after all.’

  ‘This is not evidence,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘It is speculation.’

  ‘It is,’ agreed Cynric. ‘And all are likely to blame the others. So without the additional evidence of the barb, we have no real answers about Sir William. I am sorry.’

  ‘There is no need to apologise – we do not know what might transpire to be useful,’ said Michael encouragingly. He moved on. ‘Our second investigation is Huntington. Master?’

  ‘Nothing,’ replied Langelee in disgust. ‘If Radeford did hide the documents in some secret drawer in the library, then I cannot find it.’

  ‘Matt and I discovered that Zouche’s executors are dying in suspicious circumstances,’ said Michael. ‘And that Surgeon Fournays is at the heart of it.’

  ‘We did nothing of the kind!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, startled by the conclusion.

  ‘He confidently gave verdicts on seven men, using dubious diagnoses,’ stated Michael firmly. ‘Something sinister is happening, and he is almost certainly involved. I know you like him, Matt, but I would rather you kept your distance. He may have poisoned Radeford, too, because—’

  ‘A herb garden is not evidence of murder,’ objected Bartholomew, knowing exactly where the discussion was going. ‘I have one at Michaelhouse. Does that make me a suspect, too?’

  ‘You are not called to account for seven suspicious deaths,’ retorted Michael. ‘Eight, if you include Myton, because we only have Fournays’s word that he …’ He trailed off, remembering just in time not only that Myton had been Langelee’s friend, but that they had been charged not to tell anyone that he had committed
suicide.

  ‘And finally, there is the enquiry into the chantry chapel,’ said Cynric. He smiled when he saw the scholars’ surprise. ‘You had forgotten it, but I have not. And I have uncovered a clue.’

  ‘You have?’ asked Langelee eagerly. ‘What?’

  ‘I got talking to Oustwyk, who introduced me to some people. Anyway, to cut a long story short, it was Dean Talerand who discovered that Archbishop Zouche’s fund was dry. The money was kept in a special rosewood chest, see, in the minster treasury.’

  ‘I remember that box,’ said Langelee. ‘It was a gift from the Queen. Zouche was fond of it.’

  Cynric nodded. ‘The executors knew the gold was dribbling away, but none of them monitored it properly. Then the Dean went to pay a mason one day, and it was all gone.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Langelee impatiently. ‘And with no money, the craftsmen laid down their tools, and nothing has been done since. We already know all this.’

  ‘But,’ said Cynric, raising a triumphant finger, ‘the night before this discovery, the Dean saw someone near the box, acting oddly. He believes the money had probably run out weeks before, and assumes this person was weeping over an empty chest. But what if Talerand was wrong, and the box still had some money in it? What if the man he saw was a thief was making his final raid?’

  ‘It is possible, I suppose,’ said Michael. ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Christopher Malore,’ replied Cynric triumphantly. ‘One of the executors.’

  ‘One of the dead executors,’ said Langelee glumly. ‘Who cannot answer questions.’

  ‘He cannot,’ said Cynric. ‘But he has a brother. And Anketil Malore is very much alive.’

  CHAPTER 9

  Bartholomew slept soundly that night, but Michael’s repose was fitful, as questions and theories rattled around in his mind, and he awoke to a curious drumming sound just before dawn.

  ‘Rain,’ explained Cynric, who was laying the fire. He did not bother to keep his voice low, knowing it would take a lot more than a discussion at normal volume to disturb the physician.