‘With the Dominicans,’ replied Mardisley unhappily. ‘I hope this flood does not last long, because we need to hone our skills if we are going to make a good impression in our public debate. But you are scholars. Perhaps you might spare a few moments to—’
‘Not today,’ interrupted Michael shortly. ‘We need to speak to Dalfeld. Is he here?’
‘Yes, although he is useless. When Warden Stayndrop asked him to move some sandbags, he declined on the basis that it would spoil his new tunic. He should be wearing a habit, and—’
‘Did you know Christopher Malore?’ asked Michael abruptly.
Mardisley blinked at the change of subject. ‘Yes. Why?’
‘What was he like?’
Mardisley regarded him warily. ‘He seemed decent. Why? And why do you want Dalfeld? It is not about Zouche’s chantry fund, is it?’
Michael regarded him closely. ‘What do you know about that?’
Mardisley shrugged. ‘Nothing, other than that there was something of a scandal when the money ran out. Dalfeld was accused of theft, but nothing was ever proven.’
A yell called him back to his duties at that point. Bartholomew watched him go, wondering why he had been so eager to know their business, and why he should have mentioned the accusations against Dalfeld. Members of religious Orders tended to stick together, and it was considered anathema to betray each other, even if one did deplore the other’s secular lifestyle.
‘Lord!’ muttered Michael. ‘Are we to include Mardisley on our list of suspects now, on the grounds that he is oddly keen for Dalfeld to be discredited?’
‘I have no idea.’ Bartholomew pointed. ‘But there is Dalfeld.’
The lawyer could not have looked less like his brethren had he tried. They were, to a man, hot, sweaty and grimy from their exertions, but he was perfectly attired and clean. He had been given the task of weighing beans into bowls, ready to be used to feed the hungry, but, so as not to soil his clothes, he wielded the scoop with ridiculous inefficiency. He grinned and set it down when he saw Michael and Bartholomew, transparently delighted to have an excuse to shirk. Bartholomew fought down the urge to grab him by the throat, sure this silky, arrogant man was involved in the murder of his colleague, and hating to see the smug satisfaction on his face.
‘Why did you visit the library this week?’ demanded Michael without preamble.
Dalfeld smirked. ‘Why do you think? Radeford is said to have discovered the codicil, but you have spent hours there since he died. Ergo, either he lied about finding it or he did not give it to you. Either way, you are still searching. So of course I went to see if I could get it first.’
‘And did you?’
Dalfeld laughed. ‘I think I shall keep that information to myself.’
‘In other words, you have not,’ surmised Bartholomew, gratified when a moue of irritation flashed across Dalfeld’s face. ‘I do not suppose you took Radeford some refreshments when he was working there, did you? It would have been a kindness, and—’
‘I did not,’ interrupted Dalfeld brusquely. ‘I have better things to do with my time than wait on a man who aimed to snatch Huntington from its rightful claimants. Have you considered my offer on that point, by the way? I am sure we can come to a mutually acceptable agreement.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew sharply. ‘We do not need your help.’
‘Christopher,’ said Michael, as the lawyer shrugged, feigning indifference, although disappointment flickered in his eyes. ‘What do you know about him?’
Dalfeld frowned. ‘Christopher Malore? Why? Surely you cannot think he did something to the codicil? Although he was an executor … However, I was always surprised that Zouche picked him, because he was hopelessly dreamy, as were Stiendby and Welton. On the other hand, Anketil, Neville, Roger, Playce and Ferriby were too busy with their own affairs, and Marmaduke …’
‘Yes?’ prompted Michael, when the lawyer trailed off.
‘Marmaduke was a good choice,’ said Dalfeld, although it clearly pained him to say something pleasant. ‘He loved Zouche enough to sell fraudulent relics on his behalf, and the others should have given him more responsibility. However, because he looks seedy, they discounted him.’
‘Are you saying you would trust him?’
‘Not with my own property,’ replied Dalfeld. ‘But I would with Zouche’s. Marmaduke would never have done anything to injure him. Of course, I am still convinced that there was more to his defrocking than was made public, although my efforts to find out have so far failed. I do not suppose you have uncovered anything interesting, have you?’
‘I understand you were accused of stealing the chantry fund yourself,’ said Bartholomew baldly, feeling time was too short for a more circuitous approach.
Dalfeld’s eyes widened fractionally, but he quickly regained his composure. ‘I was, but all charges were dropped, because I was innocent. I never did learn who started that nasty story, but I shall take a leaf from the Carmelites’ book and sue him, if I ever do.’
It was not long before the lawyer was ordered back to his beans by an irate Mardisley. Bartholomew watched him go with a sense of frustration, mingled with disgust at himself.
‘I could not bring myself to do it,’ he said to Michael. ‘Use Huntington to bribe him for information, I mean. The notion of him profiting from what Radeford died trying to win is obscene, especially if we never prove he had a hand in the murder, and he remains free to enjoy …’
‘There are other suspects,’ said Michael consolingly. ‘Dalfeld is a loathsome specimen, but that does not make him guilty.’
Bartholomew nodded, although his instincts told him otherwise. ‘As we are here, I should visit Cotyngham. He may be distressed by the noise and panic, and the infirmarian will not have time to reassure him.’
‘Perhaps a fright will shock him back into his wits,’ said Michael hopefully. ‘And he will tell us what happened when the vicars visited and Cave scrambled about in his chimney.’
The infirmary was being readied as emergency accommodation, with some friars folding blankets and others sewing mattresses from coarse cloth and straw. No one looked up or spoke as Bartholomew and Michael hurried past. They arrived at Cotyngham’s chamber to find it empty.
‘He must have been moved,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I hope it does not impede his recovery.’
‘I am afraid we may never know,’ said Warden Stayndrop, making them jump by speaking behind them. He was pale and agitated, a man burdened with too many concerns. ‘He went missing during the night, and we are not sure where he has gone.’
‘Then we must find him,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed. ‘He is too vulnerable to wander around unsupervised. He may come to harm.’
Stayndrop wrung his hands. ‘You do not need to tell me that! I feel responsible for his disappearance, because I should have guessed that he would be frightened by the fuss.’
‘Have you searched the friary?’ asked Bartholomew urgently.
‘Of course we have! He is not here.’
‘Then he will have gone to Huntington. His home.’
‘Impossible,’ stated Stayndrop. ‘I sent Mardisley and Jorden to look for him, but they got less than a mile before they were driven back by floods. He cannot have reached it.’
‘The body in the river!’ exclaimed Michael. ‘Could that have been him?’
‘Wrong river,’ replied Bartholomew tersely. ‘Perhaps we should look for him.’
‘If Mardisley and Jorden could not track him down, then neither will you,’ predicted Stayndrop. ‘We must put our trust in God, for there is nothing any of us can do to help him.’
‘Our business lies in the minster, anyway,’ said Michael. ‘Because if the library floods, and all the documents are lost, we will never win Huntington.’
‘The minster will not flood,’ said Stayndrop. ‘Like Holy Trinity, it stands on high ground. And speaking of Holy Trinity, I refuse to believe that Chozaico will not stand with us in this crisis. I shall vis
it him later, and urge him to change his mind.’
‘We just met Anketil,’ said Michael. ‘He had been injured by a stone that had been hurled over the wall, because people believe this catastrophe is part of a diabolical plot by the French. You cannot blame Chozaico for wanting to protect his monks.’
‘Only stupid folk believe that nonsense about Holy Trinity,’ said Stayndrop scornfully. ‘And Chozaico should not let the likes of them affect his decisions.’
Moving as quickly as they could through the thronging streets, Bartholomew and Michael hurried north again. A familiar voice hailed them, and Bartholomew was startled to see Sir William, pale and slightly stooped, but still a dignified and commanding figure. Mayor Longton’s liveried men were at his heels, but seemed prouder and less slovenly with him in charge.
‘It is too soon,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Your wound is not yet healed, and it—’
‘I cannot lie in bed when my city needs me,’ interrupted William, and Bartholomew could not help but notice that people seemed relieved to see the advocatus ecclesiae on his feet again. They smiled as they passed, and panic-stricken voices calmed when he looked in their direction.
‘But we still do not know who shot you,’ said Michael. ‘They may try again.’
William smiled. ‘No one will strike at me in the middle of an emergency. Besides, I may not have been the intended victim – Huntington may not seem like much, but there are many who feel it should be kept in the hands of local priests.’
He strode away, and Bartholomew scanned the street warily, although it was so packed that he imagined any bowman would find assassination nigh on impossible. Before they could start walking again, they were intercepted by Oustwyk.
‘Have you heard that Harold of the Carmelites is murdered?’ he asked, eyes gleaming at the prospect of spreading gossip. ‘He was one of Prior Penterel’s henchmen – not the one with the scarred face, but the quieter, bulky one.’
‘Murdered?’ echoed Michael, startled. ‘How do you know?’
‘He was shot. Of course, it means trouble for the city – the White Friars will sue someone in revenge. The other news is that Cotyngham has regained his wits. I saw him with my own eyes.’
‘Where is he?’ asked Bartholomew urgently.
‘Gone,’ replied Oustwyk. ‘At midnight last night, I watched someone who looked like him scale the wall of the Franciscan Priory before haring off towards Walmgate. When I learned today that Cotyngham had run away, I realised it was indeed him I saw.’
‘How did he seem?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘Bewildered? Disorientated?’
‘Neither,’ replied Oustwyk. ‘He knew exactly where he wanted to go – and he wanted to do it quickly, because I tried to follow, but he was too fast for me. I lost him.’
‘What were you doing out at such an hour?’ asked Michael suspiciously.
Oustwyk winked and tapped the side of his nose. ‘Business, Brother.’
‘What kind of business?’
‘Something for Prior Chozaico, if you must know. He wanted a letter delivered to the Carmelite Friary, and he gave me a shilling for agreeing not to tell anyone about it.’
‘Chozaico writes to the Carmelites?’ asked Michael, while Bartholomew thought the Prior should demand his money back, given that Oustwyk had not hesitated long before revealing all. ‘I thought everyone avoided contact with them, lest it result in being sued.’
‘That is what I said, but Chozaico told me to deliver the missive and mind my own affairs. He is not normally rude – he must have been upset by the rumours that blame him for the rains.’
‘The Cotyngham we saw would not have been capable of climbing and running,’ said Bartholomew, once the steward had gone.
Michael stared at him. ‘What are you saying? That Oustwyk is lying?’
‘I am saying that patients who have been witless for a month do not recover to scramble over walls and race around dark streets confidently enough to escape pursuit. Something is very wrong with what Oustwyk described.’
Michael squawked suddenly, and Bartholomew saw that in the few moments since they had stopped, water had flowed around their feet. One of the rivers was over its banks, and the city was beginning to flood.
Water blocked several of the roads they tried to hurry along, forcing them to make detours into uncharted territory, and when they finally emerged on a street they recognised, it was one near the Carmelite Priory. A number of White Friars were standing on the Foss Bridge, watching the surging brown water that gushed beneath it. Several were sobbing.
‘No, we will not flood,’ Penterel said in reply to Michael’s expression of concern. ‘We have levees, and our buildings are on elevated ground. It is not the prospect of a deluge that grieves us.’
‘Harold?’ asked Bartholomew sympathetically. ‘Oustwyk told us he was dead.’
‘Shot with an arrow,’ nodded Penterel tearfully. ‘I have known him for years, and he was a good man. Will you join us in a prayer for his soul, Brother?’
Michael could hardly refuse, so stepped inside the friary, although he was reluctant to spare the time. Bartholomew followed, and saw it was a pretty place, with timber-framed buildings ranged around a duck pond. Its chapel had a robust tower that looked more like a military building than a religious one, with a crenellated roof and arrow slits at different levels. Inside, it was silent, calm and smelled of dried flowers and expensive candle wax.
Harold was lying in front of the high altar, and several Carmelites were washing his body, readying it for burial with full ceremonial honours. All were red-eyed, although they smiled wanly at the scholars. Bartholomew blanched when he saw the hole in Harold’s stomach.
‘That was not caused by an arrow!’ he blurted. ‘It is a knife wound.’
There was silence in the chapel.
‘You mean someone stabbed him?’ asked Penterel eventually. His face was white with shock. ‘But who would do such a thing? You cannot be right, Doctor Bartholomew!’
‘Harold’s injury was caused by a weapon with a single-edged blade,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘An arrow wound looks completely different.’
With unsteady hands, Penterel crossed himself. ‘But Fournays told us the killer was an archer.’
‘Then he is mistaken.’ Bartholomew knew Michael was looking at him, reading significance into this latest example of the surgeon’s opinions, but he refused to acknowledge it.
‘Perhaps you had better inspect Harold properly, then,’ said Penterel, swallowing hard. ‘We must have all the facts before we launch legal proceedings against the culprit. There is a big difference between death from a bow and one from a knife: one suggests premeditation, the other may have been spur-of-the-moment.’
Michael nodded to the physician, who stepped forward to oblige. Fortunately, all he had to do was look, because the friars had already removed Harold’s clothes. He was about to say there was no more he could tell them, when he happened to glance at the dead man’s hands. The nails were ragged, and one finger was at an odd angle – Harold had fought his attacker, clawing at him and dislocating a joint in the process. The jagged fingernails had snagged fibres of material. Bartholomew bent to inspect them more closely while Penterel talked.
‘We had better not tell Wy about Doctor Bartholomew’s conclusions,’ the Prior was saying shakily to his friars. ‘He is already distraught, and I am loath to distress him further. They were close friends.’
‘When did you find Harold’s body?’ asked Michael.
‘This morning. It was on the riverbank, which makes me suspect the killer hoped it would be washed away before it was found. But how could anyone do this? I know we are unpopular, but no one has tried to kill us before!’
‘You might be better liked if you did not sue so many people,’ Michael pointed out.
‘How else are we to retrieve what is owed by debtors and thieves?’ asked Penterel tiredly. ‘Besides, someone needs to take a stand against dishonesty. What if we looked the other way,
and our complacency encouraged them to practise their wiles on someone less able to afford it? My conscience would never let me sleep easily in my bed again!’
‘And Fournays, who is leaving you his house?’ asked Michael sceptically. ‘Is he a debtor or a thief?’
‘He is someone who has bribed us to ignore the fact that his goats constantly escape into our grounds and do a lot of damage,’ explained Penterel. ‘And his ploy has worked, because all we do now is return them with a smile. Not to mention the obits we shall say for him when he is dead.’
He knelt to pray, and Michael and his friars joined him. When they had finished, Michael and Bartholomew left them to their grief and walked outside. There they saw the water had risen a little higher.
‘Well?’ asked Michael. ‘Were there clues to tell you who killed Harold?’
‘Yes,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘A Carmelite.’
Michael gaped at him in surprise. ‘How do you know?’
Bartholomew showed him what he had pulled from Harold’s fingernails. ‘Because these are threads from a Carmelite habit. He was knifed by someone he knew.’
‘Wy?’ asked Michael. ‘His friend?’
‘Not if he is prostrate with grief. However, he and Harold were Penterel’s particular favourites – they accompanied him everywhere. Perhaps the others decided it was time for a change.’
‘Lord!’ breathed Michael. ‘I hope we are not charged to investigate this matter, too, or we will never reach Cambridge before the beginning of term.’
CHAPTER 10
Bartholomew and Michael arrived at the minster to find it more hectic than ever. It stank, too, despite the incense that smouldered at strategic intervals. The reason was the ever-increasing number of refugees – most had waded through filthy water to reach the city, and some had brought animals. Stockades had been built outside, but the goats, pigs, chickens, and even occasional cow, represented all some folk had managed to salvage, so they were understandably reluctant to be parted from them. In the interests of compassion, Thoresby had capitulated, and the great church rang with bleats, lows, grunts and clucks.
Mystery in the Minster: The Seventeenth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 26