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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘There is Alice,’ said Michael, pointing. ‘Lord! She looks different!’

  Bartholomew stared in surprise: the Prioress was wearing the garb of her Order, and there was not a scrap of jewellery in sight. Her hair was swept decorously under her wimple, and her habit was plain and unadorned. The only sign of her former self was that she had chosen to pray at the Altar of Mary Magdalene, the one favoured by prostitutes.

  ‘It is time to make amends,’ she explained, heaving herself up from her knees as the scholars passed. ‘York is on the verge of a catastrophe, and we must do all we can to avert it. I realised today, after Isabella postponed The Conversion of the Harlot, that she was right and I was wrong.’

  ‘Wrong about what?’ asked Michael, looking to where the novice was kneeling, her face a mask of intense concentration as she put every fibre of her being into her petitions.

  ‘York,’ replied Alice. ‘Its high-ranking clerics are too wealthy, its merchants are shamelessly avaricious, and our Mayor is rarely sober. I have a bad feeling that God is telling us something with all this rain, so I have decided to mend my wicked ways before we are all drowned.’

  Bartholomew regarded her closely, looking for some hint that she was enjoying a joke at Isabella’s expense, but could read nothing in the florid, dissipated features. Thus he was not sure how to respond, and was glad he was spared from having to do so by Helen, who arrived shaking rain from her hat. Frost was a brooding, hulking figure at her side. She touched Bartholomew’s hand in a friendly gesture of greeting. His skin tingled, and Frost’s jealous, resentful glare said he knew exactly what effect his fiancée’s greeting had had.

  ‘Here,’ Helen said, passing a heavy purse to Alice. ‘It is all the money I have, plus some from John Gisbyrn. It should be enough to buy bread for those poor souls who come to you for shelter.’

  ‘I donated ten shillings,’ interjected Frost. He sounded hurt that she might have forgotten.

  Helen smiled briefly at him. ‘Yes, and it was generous.’ She turned back to the Prioress. ‘You must hurry. The Ouse Bridge may close soon, and our money will not help anyone if you are trapped on the wrong side of the river.’

  Alice nodded briskly, but took a moment to murmur another prayer before the altar first. Jafford was there, but although a dozen women were clamouring at him to say petitions on their behalf, he found time to rest a hand on her head in blessing. When she had gone, Helen went to kneel next to Isabella. Frost started to follow, but then thought better of it, and contented himself with leaning against a pillar and gazing at her instead.

  ‘The Conversion of the Harlot,’ mused Michael, as he and Bartholomew moved away. ‘It seems we have a living example in our Prioress.’

  ‘Only because she is frightened. She will revert to her old ways once the waters recede and she finds herself unharmed. And that includes making pagan charms for the likes of Cynric.’

  Michael was thoughtful. ‘Or perhaps her remorse has another motive – namely that she is a French spy, and she knows they are about to strike. So she is manoeuvring herself into a position where she can deny any involvement by claiming she was busy with a religious epiphany.’

  They reached the library to find Langelee there. He was standing on a stool to reach one of the higher shelves, rifling along it with barely concealed exasperation.

  ‘At last,’ he snapped. ‘I was beginning to think you had deserted me. Where have you been? Have you learned anything to help our investigations? Because when the rivers flood, our cause will be hopeless – no one will have time to answer our questions.’

  ‘We have learned that Harold was murdered by a fellow Carmelite,’ began Bartholomew. He went to the carrel Talerand had identified earlier and picked up a handful of documents, dismayed at how many were piled there.

  ‘Not our concern,’ snapped Langelee. ‘I hope you have more to report than that.’

  ‘Christopher discovered that the chantry fund had evaporated before Talerand did, but denied being in the treasury, weeping over the empty box,’ said Michael, knowing Zouche’s chapel would snag Langelee’s interest. ‘Or perhaps it is Talerand who is lying …’

  ‘And?’ demanded Langelee eagerly. ‘What is the significance of that?’

  Rather than admit that he did not know, Michael moved to other subjects. ‘Cotyngham has escaped, and Matt is suspicious of the circumstances. Meanwhile, Sir William has rallied and is directing the relief effort.’ He saw these snippets had failed to appease, so went on the offensive. ‘Well, what have you learned?’

  ‘That Helen prefers you to me,’ said Langelee, regarding the physician so coldly that Bartholomew could only suppose this was the real cause of his surly temper. ‘She virtually said as much when I offered her my company last night.’

  ‘No surprise there,’ declared Michael, automatically assuming the remark was directed at him. ‘I thought from the start that she was a woman of discerning taste.’

  ‘So I went to visit Alice instead,’ Langelee went on. ‘She always has a place for an old friend, and we watched a rehearsal for that play about the whore, although it was deadly dull. And now it is cancelled, and she seems to have suffered some sort of pious conversion. I hope I am not the cause, because I would not like it said that my company drives women to religion.’

  ‘Where did that box come from?’ asked Michael suddenly, pointing to a chest that was the length of his forearm, and about half as wide. It was a beautiful thing, with a lid that was inlaid with rosewoods of different colours. ‘I do not recall seeing it before.’

  ‘It belonged to Zouche,’ replied Langelee. ‘The Queen gave it to him, and he kept his chantry fund in it. Talerand must have brought it here – there would have been no point leaving it in the treasury once it was empty. I found it underneath that desk a few moments ago.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew, when Langelee pointed at the carrel where he was working. ‘It was not here earlier.’

  ‘It must have been,’ said Langelee impatiently. ‘You just overlooked it.’

  But Bartholomew knew he would have noticed something the size of Zouche’s box. He turned to Michael in mystification. ‘Did Talerand put it here after we left to tackle Dalfeld, because he wanted us to find it and we said we would be back? Or did someone else—’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Langelee. ‘There is nothing in it that is relevant to us – I looked. It only contains a lot of letters to Myton about his obits.’

  ‘Have you read them all?’ Bartholomew opened the box to find it full of documents. He selected a bundle at random, and began to sort through it.

  Langelee shrugged. ‘No, why would I? They are nothing to do with us.’

  He was right: they were deeds confirming gifts of land to the minster, which paid rents that would be used to pay for Myton’s masses. Most pre-dated the plague, when Zouche had still been alive, and many bore his signature. They were repetitious, but Bartholomew ploughed through them anyway, determined that if one contained a clue to their mysteries, then he would not overlook it by being impatient or careless.

  ‘What is this?’ he asked, pulling an odd scrap of parchment from between two packets. It did not comprise words, but a series of neatly recorded numbers.

  Irritably, Langelee took it from him, but then his jaw dropped and he peered at it eagerly. ‘It is our secret code!’ he exclaimed. ‘Zouche, Myton and I used this when we wanted to communicate with each other but did not want anyone else to know what we were saying.’

  ‘Not the codicil, then,’ said Michael, uninterested. ‘Zouche would not have composed that in a form only his henchmen could read.’

  ‘It is a “substitution code”,’ elaborated Langelee. ‘Where you exchange letters for numbers. It is very simple once you know how. Zouche’s clerk penned this – I recognise his writing.’

  Once Langelee had explained the principle, Bartholomew was able to translate the message in his head. ‘It is a list of names. The first is Jean de Cho
… Chozaico.’

  ‘Yes,’ acknowledged Langelee, piqued that the physician should have mastered it so quickly. ‘The next is John Vu … no, Wu …’

  ‘John Wy. Then come Richard de Chicole, Odo Friquet, Oliver Bages—’

  ‘Those are monks at Holy Trinity,’ said Langelee in confusion. He struggled through the rest of the entries. ‘Yes! Holy Trinity has about twelve Benedictines, and every one of them is here. There is no monk called Wy, though – the only person I know of that name is with the Carmelites.’

  ‘Currently grieving for his murdered friend,’ put in Michael. ‘But why would Myton keep a list of Benedictines among his personal correspondence?’

  On the back of the list was a letter, written in a different hand. It was in English, not code, and had been scrawled with such a lack of care that it was almost impossible to decipher.

  ‘Myton’s writing,’ said Langelee. ‘Zouche often complained about it, although Myton did not usually sink this low. It looks as though he was hurrying.’

  Bartholomew scanned through it, then read it a second time, to be sure. When he had finished, he looked up slowly.

  ‘It is a letter to Gisbyrn. Myton says the list is one that Zouche compiled shortly before he died, and he has taken the time to decipher it for Gisbyrn, because he says that the men named on it should be arrested without delay. He claims they are French spies.’

  There was a brief silence after Bartholomew made his announcement, then Langelee ripped the missive from Bartholomew’s hand with such vigour that he all but tore it in two.

  ‘French spies?’ he echoed in alarm. ‘At Holy Trinity all along,’ nodded Bartholomew. ‘Myton says that the intelligent, liberal people who argued that Chozaico would never do such a thing were wrong, and the mob was right – he has unequivocal proof. And he gives directions to specific shelves in the library, where he hid the evidence.’

  ‘No,’ stated Michael firmly. ‘Members of my Order do not dabble in espionage. It is a piece of malicious mischief, and we should ignore it.’

  But Langelee was not listening. ‘I do not understand! Myton hunted these spies for years, with me and later on his own. If his claim is true, then why did he not act on it?’

  Bartholomew tapped the letter. ‘He explains what happened here. It—’

  Langelee strained to read it himself. ‘Because the clerk who tore … no, who took Zouche’s dictator … dictation …’ It was painful, and Bartholomew grabbed it back from him.

  ‘The clerk was probably never informed of the list’s significance, due to the sensitive nature of its contents,’ he précised. ‘So he neglected to see it delivered to Mayor Longton in the upheaval following Zouche’s death. It languished until Zouche’s papers were transferred to the library by Thoresby, where Myton discovered it by accident eight months later.’

  ‘Eight months?’ mused Michael. ‘That cannot have been long before he died himself.’

  Langelee gazed at them, his face a mask of bafflement. ‘So why did Myton not arrest these traitors? Why write to Gisbyrn?’

  ‘According to the final sentence, because he was about to take his own life,’ said Bartholomew soberly. ‘Gisbyrn had broken him, and he could not live with the shame of his failure – along with the guilt of a “terrible sin”, which he does not specify. Gisbyrn is charged to see the spies arrested, because Myton did not have the will to do it himself.’

  Langelee peered at the date scrawled on the bottom. ‘That is certainly when he died. I remember, because it is the day my youngest daughter was born.’

  ‘You have children?’ blurted Michael.

  ‘The abrupt phrasing and unsteady script suggest Myton was extremely agitated when he wrote this,’ said Bartholomew, speaking before Langelee could answer. ‘It is consistent with a man on the verge of suicide, and Fournays did say he opened his veins.’

  ‘I thought he died of a softening of the brain,’ said Langelee, bewildered.

  ‘Fournays!’ spat Michael, while Bartholomew recalled with a guilty start that the surgeon’s knowledge of Myton’s suicide was a secret he should have kept. ‘We cannot trust him. For all we know, he murdered Myton.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ Bartholomew was tired of Michael’s prejudice. ‘His name is not on the list, and he has no reason to protect French spies.’

  ‘Never mind Fournays,’ snapped Langelee, suddenly all business. ‘Myton’s letter mentions evidence. Where did he say it might be found? On specific shelves in the library?’ He grabbed Bartholomew’s shoulder and gave it a vigorous shake to make his point. ‘Which ones? Quickly!’

  Bartholomew read them out. Langelee stormed away to tackle the first, Michael approached the second, and Bartholomew took the third, grateful it was not a large one, because he was sure they were wasting their time – the chances of finding anything in the library were remote. But it did not take many moments to discover that he was wrong, and that a letter had been placed exactly where Myton had specified. His stomach lurched in horror at what it revealed.

  ‘It is from a French master to his agents,’ he said. ‘He wants sailing times for specific ships, and an inventory of their cargoes. It is addressed quite openly to Holy Trinity.’

  Langelee took it with a hand that shook. ‘Nearly all these vessels were captured by French pirates. And here is what I have found: promise of an altar cloth sewn with gold doves in return for information about the town’s defences.’

  Bartholomew swallowed hard. ‘I saw such a cloth in the priory church, when Chozaico invited us inside after the riot the other day.’

  ‘And here is more of the same,’ said Michael, waving other documents. His face was white. ‘Chozaico’s antics will reflect badly on every Benedictine in the country!’

  ‘They will not,’ stated Langelee. ‘Everyone knows Holy Trinity is an alien house, and therefore different. But we cannot stand here chatting when there are enemies to rout. We must tackle them at once. Come with me to report to Thoresby.’

  ‘What about the documents?’ asked Bartholomew, not moving. ‘We cannot take them with us, lest we are obliged to go outside – the ink will run in the rain, and they will be useless. And it is certainly not a good idea to leave them here. They might disappear.’

  Langelee snatched them from him and shoved them in the rosewood box, which he tossed on to the highest shelf available.

  ‘It is hardly inconspicuous,’ said Michael worriedly. ‘And—’

  ‘There is no time to argue,’ snapped Langelee sharply. ‘It will have to suffice until we come back to reclaim them. Now follow me.’

  They had not gone far before they met Dean Talerand, who immediately began to bemoan the fact that the volume of human and animal traffic might permanently damage his flagstone floors.

  ‘Zouche’s rosewood chest,’ said Michael, interrupting the tirade. ‘When did you move it from the treasury to the library?’

  Talerand stared at him. ‘It has never been in the library. Once it was empty, I gave the thing to Myton, because he had always expressed a fondness for it.’

  ‘You did not leave it under the carrel you pointed out as a good place for hiding documents?’

  Talerand looked bemused, although whether from genuine confusion, or because he was an extremely able actor, was impossible to say. ‘I have not had time to visit the library since I took you there earlier. How could I, when my minster is akin to Noah’s Ark? Do you think dung stains, Brother?’

  Thoresby was in the Lady Chapel, issuing orders to the canons, vicars, chaplains, clerks and servants who thronged around him. His voice was calm and his manner composed, so the only sign that he was under intense pressure came from a slight tic under one eye. Langelee forced his way to the front of the crowd, and started to murmur in his ear, but he had barely begun before the Archbishop waved him away.

  ‘Tell Mayor Longton,’ he ordered brusquely. ‘I do not have time for this now.’

  ‘But it is important,’ objected Langelee. ‘We cannot del
ay, because—’

  ‘In a few hours, there will be a tidal surge of such magnitude that the entire city might be engulfed,’ interrupted Thoresby sharply. ‘You will forgive me if that takes precedence over some ancient letter of Myton’s. Besides, it sounds more like a secular matter than an episcopal one to me. See Longton.’

  He turned away abruptly, giving his attention to Cave who had come to report on the current state of the rivers. The vicar smirked when he saw Langelee summarily dismissed in his favour.

  ‘Longton, then,’ determined Langelee, grabbing his Fellows’ arms and hauling them along after him. ‘Hurry!’

  The Mayor was on Petergate, standing up in his stirrups as he bawled instructions to a pack of bemused soldiers. His directions were muddled and contradictory, although his response to requests for clarification was simply to yell the same commands more loudly. Langelee marched up to him and seized the reins of his horse.

  ‘We have discovered the identities of the French spies,’ he announced. ‘It is—’

  ‘Not now, man,’ grated Longton, jerking the bridle away. ‘I am busy.’

  ‘The French spies!’ bellowed Langelee, lest the Mayor had not heard. ‘We have them at last, and you must come with us to—’

  ‘I said not now,’ snarled Longton. ‘The Ouse is close to bursting its banks, and if we do not requisition sandbags from the minster immediately, we shall lose the fish-market.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Besides, the spies are hardly relevant now,’ Longton went on bitterly. ‘They have already done their worst, and their masters will be poised to attack even as we speak.’

  ‘Yes!’ cried Langelee desperately. ‘But laying hold of the intelligencers will provide us with some idea of the information they have passed on, and thus give us a tactical advantage.’

  ‘They will not talk,’ predicted Longton. ‘And I cannot waste time on them today.’

  ‘Then where is your brother?’ demanded Langelee. ‘The advocatus ecclesiae will not stand by while England’s enemies use the upheaval created by the floods to escape.’