As Michael seemed disinclined to take Helen up on her offer of information, the book-bearer obliged, confidence and hope blossoming with every word. Bartholomew sincerely hoped his dramatically changed demeanour would not arouse his captors’ suspicions.
‘I assume it was you who killed Cotyngham?’ Cynric asked haughtily. ‘That is why you stopped me digging?’
‘We most certainly did not!’ declared Marmaduke, genuinely shocked. ‘He was loved by Archbishop Zouche, and we would never have harmed him. Besides, he was good to me.’
Cynric’s eyes narrowed. ‘How was he good to you?’
Bartholomew knew the answer to that, putting together two separate conversations with Marmaduke – one when Michael had asked how he had earned a living after being defrocked, and had been informed that Marmaduke had a benefactor; and the other when the ex-priest had waxed lyrical about Cotyngham’s generosity, a quality also praised by Huntington’s parishioners, Sir William, Helen, Fournays and the Franciscans. Michael had drawn the same conclusion.
‘Cotyngham was a kindly man,’ he said quietly, ‘who took pity on someone who had fallen foul of unfair persecution.’
‘Helen,’ warned Frost. ‘I am going to carry you out if you do not come with me. Let Marmaduke wait here for Dalfeld—’
Helen glowered at him. ‘If you lay one finger on me, I will never marry you.’
Frost’s mouth snapped closed, and the glances exchanged between his men said they were bemused by his uncharacteristic meekness. Bartholomew could only suppose they had never been in love. Meanwhile, Marmaduke nodded vigorously in response to Michael’s remark.
‘It was unreasonable of Thoresby to bow to the pressure brought by the other executors, just because I made them feel guilty for failing to do what Zouche wanted. They should have helped me with the chantry, not silenced me for reminding them of it. Later, Cotyngham was charitable …’
‘So was Lady Helen,’ put in Frost, in a transparent effort to regain her favour.
‘Yes, she was.’ Marmaduke smiled briefly at her. ‘And Cotyngham arranged for me to mind St Sampson’s toe, too. He said it would keep me out of trouble.’
‘Then it is a pity it did not work,’ muttered Cynric.
‘You say you did not kill Cotyngham,’ said Michael, speaking quickly when Marmaduke took an angry step towards the book-bearer. ‘But I suspect you know who did. Did you witness Cave’s astonished reaction when he learned “Cotyngham” was ill in the infirmary – he knew it was impossible, but was not in a position to explain why?’
‘Actually, we guessed because it was Cave who urged Ellis to claim Huntington,’ replied Helen. ‘The church that my uncle had specifically said was to go to you.’
‘I found Cotyngham with his head stove in.’ Marmaduke shuddered. ‘I suspect Cave knocked him over. It was probably an accident, but he had no right to push elderly priests around. Later, Ellis let slip that Cave had gone alone to Huntington, on the pretext of a lost purse. There must have been a quarrel, perhaps about the church silver they took …’
‘Please!’ begged Frost, when there was another rumble and more dust billowed. ‘This mad revenge is not worth your life, Helen. Come with me now, before it is too late.’
‘No!’ snarled Helen, so fiercely that Frost took an involuntary step away. ‘Not yet.’
Bartholomew could not delay much longer, either, and knew he had to act soon if he wanted to save his friends. Gripping the knife, he began to ease into a position where he could surge to his feet and attack. But attack whom? Frost, the deadliest fighter who would need to be neutralised? Helen, because she was in charge, and the others might crumble without her? As he moved, the blade scraped against the floor and Frost whipped around, eyes narrowed.
‘Why did you not kill Cave?’ Cynric asked loudly. ‘To avenge Cotyngham?’
‘I wanted to,’ replied Marmaduke. ‘But Lady Helen had a better idea.’
‘You hired an imposter to sit in the Franciscan Priory,’ surmised Michael. ‘And convinced Fournays to keep him in quiet seclusion. Cave’s punishment was being in constant fear.’
‘An actor!’ exclaimed Cynric. ‘There are plenty in York. Helen and Isabella have hired a troupe of them to perform their play.’
‘You even made the fellow cakes, and persuaded Isabella to lend him books,’ Michael went on. ‘All to make him seem more convincing.’
‘I had hoped Prioress Alice would keep him in the nunnery, where I could “tend” him,’ said Helen. ‘Warden Stayndrop caused us a good deal of agitation by insisting that he remain with his fellow Franciscans. But my actor rose to the challenge with consummate skill.’
‘Although he fled when he thought he might be exposed at last,’ said Michael disdainfully.
‘But why dump Cotyngham in the plague pit?’ asked Cynric. ‘Why not alert the proper authorities, so Cave could be charged with his crime?’
‘They did not “dump” him,’ said Michael quietly. ‘They laid him decently to rest in the church that had been his before the Death – with the congregation he had loved. And they told no one, because they thought he would be happier here than at Huntington.’
‘Of course!’ exclaimed Cynric. ‘That is why I sensed this church is more sad than haunted!’
‘And they disguised the odour of decay with animals,’ Michael went on. ‘Cats and a pi—’
‘Perhaps Frost is right,’ interrupted Marmaduke, apparently unwilling for Helen to be reminded of that particular beast. ‘Leave me to deal with Dalfeld, while you go. I will not let you down.’
‘Yes,’ said Frost, relieved. He held out his hand. ‘Come, Helen.’
Bartholomew willed her to go, leaving him just Marmaduke and the two guards to tackle, but she hesitated. ‘It should not have ended like this,’ she said softly. ‘I wanted to help Michaelhouse, not deprive it of members.’
‘Help Michaelhouse,’ mused Michael. ‘You have said from the start that we should have Huntington because it is what Zouche wanted. Is that what this is about? Zouche?’
‘My uncle was the kindest man who ever lived,’ said Helen softly.
‘He was,’ agreed a new voice, and it was all Bartholomew could do to prevent himself from reacting when he saw Isabella. ‘Unlike his selfish, treacherous executors.’
‘You should have stayed in the minster,’ said Helen, moving quickly to embrace her cousin. ‘There was no need for you to have come.’
‘I wanted to be here,’ Isabella assured her. ‘Besides, the minster is more like a fish-market than a house of prayer at the moment, and I could not concentrate on my devotions.’
‘Everything is in place,’ Helen assured her. ‘Anketil died before we could get him, but Dalfeld is expected at any moment. Then we shall seal the door, leaving him to die here in terror.’
‘At the same time ensuring that dear Cotyngham is buried with his beloved congregation for all eternity,’ finished Isabella, smiling. ‘But why are Cynric and Michael here? We have no grudge against them. Indeed, our uncle would want them returned safely to Cambridge.’
‘Yes, but unfortunately they stumbled across our plan, so they must die, too,’ explained Helen. ‘Our revenge is almost complete, and I am unwilling to forgo it, even for them.’
Isabella inclined her head. ‘However, we cannot wait for Dalfeld. He is notoriously unpunctual, and I would sooner send him poison. The scholars shall have the crypt to themselves.’
‘Thank God!’ breathed Frost. ‘Someone who sees sense at last.’
‘Is Zouche’s last will and testament the reason you have done all this?’ asked Michael, to prevent them from leaving. Frost had taken Helen’s arm and was guiding her towards the steps, while the soldiers now toted mallets. ‘Because its terms were not fulfilled?’
Bartholomew was in an agony of indecision. Should he attack now? Or wait, and hope he would be able to rescue Michael and Cynric after the scaffolding had been knocked down? But one glance at the now-sagging ceiling told him it
would collapse long before he could reach them. Meanwhile, Michael’s question had caught Isabella’s attention. Like all people with a cause, she was eager to explain why she was right.
‘Our uncle wanted to be buried in a chantry chapel, and asked nine men to see it finished,’ she said bitterly. ‘With the exception of Marmaduke, they all failed him.’
‘He gave them money, property and promotions when he was alive,’ added Helen, pulling away from Frost, much to his agitated exasperation. ‘He loved them and trusted them. But they took what he gave, then declined to carry out their end of the bargain. They were not dishonest – they stole nothing – but they allowed the fund to evaporate through laziness and incompetence.’
‘So you killed them,’ said Michael in disgust. ‘Starting with Christopher five years ago, and followed by Neville, Welton, Playce, Stiendby, Ferriby and Roger. Fournays is easy to hoodwink – he gave verdicts of spotted liver and debility. But what happened to Roger? Did he hurl himself into the King’s Fishpool in his final agonies, allowing Fournays to say he drowned?’
‘There was no agony – he simply fell. We are not monsters.’ Isabella sounded indignant that he might think so. ‘Alice dabbles in the dark arts, and I read about this particular compound in one of her books – a substance that kills quickly, but with no pain. None of them suffered, I assure you.’
‘Alice knows nothing of our work, before you ask,’ added Helen. ‘She would not approve.’
‘So that vicar with the big teeth – Ferriby – was right when he claimed he had been poisoned,’ said Michael, gabbling now. ‘It was not just because he was old and addled.’
‘He became suspicious after Christopher and Neville,’ explained Isabella with a grimace. ‘We wanted to dispatch him sooner, but he was too careful. Of course, the foolish man never asked why there were designs on his miserable life. If he had, he might have finished the chantry chapel, and thus been spared.’
‘But Dalfeld is not an executor,’ said Michael. ‘Why should he—’
‘He was our uncle’s lawyer,’ replied Isabella, all righteous indignation. ‘He had a moral responsibility to see his wishes fulfilled. But he did not bother.’
‘Zouche would not have wanted this!’ cried Michael, as they all turned to go. He sounded frantic, and Cynric shot an agonised glance in Bartholomew’s direction, urging him to act. ‘He—’
‘Do you not comprehend the enormity of the crime against him?’ flared Isabella, with such passion that Michael flinched. ‘His inept executors have interfered with the progress of his immortal soul! He might be trapped in Purgatory for ever without his obits, and—’
‘I do not believe that,’ shouted Michael. ‘Not if he was a good man. Let me go, Isabella. We can discuss this theological point, because Aquinas says—’
‘Do not listen to him,’ warned Frost, when Isabella’s interest was caught. ‘Debate with Jorden or Mardisley instead. They are excellent theologians – better than this monk.’
‘They are,’ acknowledged Isabella sullenly. ‘But they refuse to include me in their discourses. I shall poison them soon, too, because they have no right to reject me.’
‘They reject you because you are not as good as you think,’ declared Cynric, sufficiently confident that he was about to be saved to lash out with some brutal truths. ‘You talk a lot, but your grasp of the subject is feeble. And any decent scholar knows it.’
Isabella’s jaw dropped, and Bartholomew winced. Cynric was right: Isabella’s knowledge was flawed, but saying so now was hardly sensible. Rage took the place of shock, and she advanced on the book-bearer with a murderous expression. Desperately, Bartholomew tried to think of a way to distract her without squandering the slim advantage of surprise that he held. But Michael was there before him.
‘Myton!’ he yelled, and Bartholomew knew exactly what he was going to say; he had drawn the same conclusion himself, based on what Chozaico had whispered just before he had left. ‘He stole the chantry money.’
Isabella’s advance on Cynric faltered. Meanwhile, Helen had allowed Frost to guide her up the first few steps, but at Michael’s claim, she spun around. This time, however, Frost nodded that his men were to begin demolishing the scaffolding. They walked towards it, mallets at the ready.
‘Gisbyrn’s ruthless competition was destroying Myton’s business,’ Michael raced on. ‘And he needed cash to save it. So he started to borrow from a source that was not being used.’
‘The chantry fund,’ breathed Isabella, exchanging a shocked glance with her cousin.
‘No one stole it,’ said Marmaduke firmly. ‘It just dribbled away. We would have noticed theft.’
‘No,’ said Michael harshly, ‘you would not. No one was monitoring it very assiduously, and Myton was probably careful to remove only small amounts. But small amounts add up over time.’
‘Hurry,’ snapped Frost to his men.
‘Wait!’ countered Helen. She turned to Michael, while the soldiers exchanged nervous glances, torn between two masters. ‘Go on.’
‘I imagine Myton intended to pay it back. But he borrowed more and more, and his finances never improved. When he realised he never would be able to replace what he had taken, he killed himself. His raiding of his friend’s chantry money is the “terrible sin” he mentioned in the letter he wrote to Gisbyrn, and what he almost confessed to Chozaico.’
‘So your vengeance is misplaced,’ finished Cynric, full of disdain. ‘Myton is the real villain.’
Frost had had enough. He strode towards the scaffolding and snatched a mallet from one of the soldiers. All his agitation and anxiety was in the first blow he dealt the structure, and splinters flew in every direction. The sound boomed through the vault, and Bartholomew was sure the ceiling sagged. The soldiers evidently thought so, too, because they ran, knocking over one of the lamps as they went. In the sudden darkness that descended in his corner, Bartholomew scrambled to his feet.
‘Just one last question,’ said Michael, quiet and dignified as he finally accepted his fate. ‘And then you can leave us to make our peace with God. Did you poison Radeford?’
Bartholomew had been creeping forward, aiming to brain Marmaduke, stab Frost and hope the women would not pose too much of an obstacle to him freeing his friends, but he stopped dead at the mention of Radeford’s name. Why had he not made that connection when Isabella had first mentioned poison with such chilling familiarity?
Frost swung at the scaffolding a second time, causing it to groan ominously.
‘Yes,’ Isabella replied calmly. ‘I have forged a codicil that will ensure your College wins Huntington, but the time I spent with John Radeford told me that he would never have accepted a document that he considered dubious. Worse yet, he might have encouraged Michaelhouse to withdraw its claim if he suspected dishonest practices.’
Helen took up the tale. ‘So I found a cloak that was similar to his own, and took him some of the soup he liked – the kind with mint, which masked the taste of Isabella’s … secret ingredients. I do not believe anyone saw me, but if they had, they would have assumed I was him.’
‘You killed Radeford because he was honest?’ whispered Michael, white-faced.
Helen nodded apologetically. ‘And because he was keen to reach an amicable settlement with the vicars. Ellis would have cheated you, and our uncle would not have approved of that.’
‘We wish it had not been necessary,’ said Isabella. ‘We even came to apologise to his corpse in St Olave’s Church. But as we approached, we saw Doctor Bartholomew with the spoon …’
Frost’s third blow caused a huge section of scaffolding to fall, and he yelped in alarm before dropping the mallet and racing towards the stairs. This time he did not bother with Helen.
‘Our uncle made his wishes quite clear,’ Isabella went on with unnerving calm, as cracks and groans echoed around her. ‘And not even poor John Radeford could be permitted to interfere. I was more sorry than you will ever know, but we could not let him live.�
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Bartholomew had heard enough. Rage boiled in him, and he hurtled towards her, determined that her warped justice was not going to harm Michael and Cynric. And then the roof collapsed.
Ignoring the stones that crashed down around him, Bartholomew raced across the vault and barrelled into Isabella with such ferocity that she was flung aside like a bundle of rags. Then he shoved Helen as hard as he could into a wall, before felling Marmaduke with a punch. He did not wait to see what happened to any of them, thinking only of freeing his friends before it was too late.
‘Matt!’ cried Michael, smiling despite the danger he was in. ‘I thought they had murdered you!’
Bartholomew used Ellis’s knife to hack at the ropes that secured Cynric, but the blade was blunt and he was clumsy with tension. Then Michael yelled a warning, and Bartholomew whipped around to see Marmaduke. When he saw the expression of glittering hatred on the ex-priest’s face, Bartholomew knew he should have hit him harder.
Marmaduke had grabbed a piece of scaffolding, and he swung it at the physician’s head. It came so close to connecting with its target that Bartholomew felt the wind of it on his cheek. As Marmaduke staggered, unbalanced by the force of the blow, Bartholomew clouted him again, vigorously enough to hurt his own hand and send the man sprawling. But the ex-priest was tough. He scrambled upright almost immediately, and this time he held a dagger.
There was another hissing groan, followed by an almighty crash as the ceiling at the far end of the vault gave way. Dust billowed out of the darkness, momentarily blinding Bartholomew, so he felt, rather than saw, Marmaduke lunge at him. Hands fastened around his throat, and he opened his eyes to see the ex-priest’s face filled with a murderous hatred.
The fingers tightened, and although Bartholomew struggled with every ounce of his strength, he could not break the grip. Darkness began to claw at the edges of his vision. But just when he felt his knees begin to buckle, the pressure was released abruptly and Marmaduke slumped to the floor. Cynric stood behind him, holding a stone – Bartholomew had sawn through enough of the rope to allow the Welshman to struggle free.
Mystery in the Minster: The Seventeenth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 33