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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘Is that Holy Trinity Priory?’ asked Michael, pointing across the water to a substantial foundation perched atop a low hill, dominating the houses below it. ‘My Order’s alien house?’

  ‘Yes. And in case you are wondering why their walls are so sturdy, it is because they are always being accused of sheltering French spies. Prior Chozaico does his best to assure folk that they do nothing of the kind, but his words fall on deaf ears.’

  ‘The city authorities should protect them,’ said Michael, indignant on his fellow monks’ behalf.

  ‘Mayor Longton tries, but it is difficult to combat bigotry and prejudice. They own Bestiary Hall, too, just north of the bridge, but alms are dispensed from that, so it tends to be left alone.’

  ‘Bestiary Hall?’ echoed Bartholomew, thinking it a strange name.

  ‘Last century, the Holy Trinity monks produced a beautiful book full of strange and wonderful animals – a bestiary,’ explained Stayndrop. ‘And one wealthy merchant was so impressed with it that he bequeathed them a house. Because of that, it is known as Bestiary Hall.’

  ‘Why dispense alms from it?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Why not from the priory?’

  ‘Because troublemakers kept insinuating themselves into the beggars’ queue, then forcing their way inside the priory, where they caused damage and attacked the almoner.’

  ‘Then Chozaico would be within his rights to withdraw his charity,’ said Michael harshly. ‘He is not obliged to help the city’s poor if it results in harm to his people and property.’

  ‘We all thought he might, but he said he did not see why the needy should suffer just because of a few misguided louts. He pays a parish priest to distribute food and ale now. Bestiary Hall is by the river, so supplies can be unloaded there and the priory need not be involved at all.’

  ‘He sounds like a good man,’ said Bartholomew, impressed by Chozaico’s generosity of spirit.

  ‘He is an exceptional man. I am not sure I would remain generous and kindly in the face of such abuse. But here we are at Cotyngham’s room.’ Stayndrop turned to Bartholomew. ‘Are you sure it is a good idea to see him? I do not want him made worse.’

  Bartholomew had no idea, but when he hesitated, Michael assured the Warden that he was doing the right thing and indicated that he was to open the door. Stayndrop obliged, and led the way into a small but pleasantly appointed chamber overlooking the river. Cotyngham lay in bed. He had a mane of unkempt grey hair, a straggly beard and a sallow face. When he opened his eyes, his gaze was blank, and a ribbon of drool slid from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘He is a shadow of his former self,’ whispered Stayndrop. ‘I did not know him well, but he always seemed neat and vigorous. Now he is scarcely recognisable, poor soul.’

  ‘Has he grown worse since he arrived?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether Fournays’s treatment had done more harm than good.

  ‘There has been no change either way.’

  Bartholomew knelt by the bed and lifted Cotyngham’s hand. It hung limply. He peered into the man’s eyes, and then began to examine the rest of him, noting that his condition had not affected his appetite, because there was no evidence of poor nutrition.

  ‘You see?’ said Stayndrop. ‘He does not even know we are here.’

  ‘Actually, I think he does,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘His heart is beating very rapidly – he is certainly aware of our presence.’

  ‘Then make him talk to us,’ ordered Michael. ‘It is important.’

  Bartholomew tried, speaking in a quiet, patient voice, but the only reaction was that Cotyngham’s heart pounded faster than ever. Seeing his attempts to help were causing distress, he backed away. He left the infirmary, and only spoke to Michael and Stayndrop when he was sure they were well out of the patient’s hearing.

  ‘I assume something happened to turn him like this. Do you know what?’

  ‘No – he was found wandering on Petergate by Zouche’s niece Isabella,’ replied Stayndrop. ‘He was confused and frightened. She wanted to take him to her nunnery, to tend him herself as an act of Christian charity, but I told her he belonged here, with his own Order.’

  ‘So he has not resigned from Huntington, then?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Well, no, not officially. But even if he recovers, we cannot allow him to return there, lest this happens again. We shall have to find him a place closer to home, where he can be sympathetically monitored.’

  Michael frowned. ‘Do you think the vicars-choral did something to him? Because they are eager to claim Huntington for themselves and grew tired of waiting for him to relinquish it?’

  ‘I sincerely doubt it!’ replied Stayndrop, shocked. ‘They like property, but they are not monsters. Besides, they are more likely to have persuaded him to resign properly. As it stands, I imagine the legal situation is disturbingly ambiguous.’

  Michael turned to Bartholomew. ‘It seems a visit to Huntington is in order, because we need to know exactly what happened to Cotyngham. Perhaps his parishioners will be able to tell us.’

  They left the friary, holding their hats against a wind that threatened to tear them from their heads. It was still raining, and the clouds were so low that they shrouded the tops of the minster’s towers. Because Michael was concerned about getting lost again, Stayndrop had provided a guide in the form of one John Mardisley, the friar who had been debating with the Dominican. Unfortunately, the Dominican – William Jorden – had accompanied him. Still arguing and paying no attention at all to the men they were supposed to be helping, the two of them stopped by the meat-market.

  ‘Our Lady would never have agreed to that,’ Mardisley was saying heatedly. ‘Not with the Archangel Gabriel.’

  ‘Which way?’ demanded Michael irritably. ‘Or do we stand here all morning?’

  Jordan eyed the monk with sudden interest. ‘Warden Stayndrop said you are a theologian from Cambridge, so perhaps you can settle this point. We are debating the question of the Blessed Virgin’s immaculate conception, and what we want to know is—’

  ‘Another time,’ said Michael curtly. ‘When I am not struggling to prevent my College from being feloniously cheated by York’s vicars, and trying to discover who shot Sir William Longton.’

  ‘When?’ pressed Jorden eagerly. ‘Because Mardisley and I have reached something of an impasse, and we would appreciate contributions from a superior mind.’

  The flattery had an immediate effect, and then there were three of them arguing. Bartholomew had nothing to contribute, so contented himself with tapping their shoulders each time they stopped to pontificate, to remind them to keep walking.

  ‘Poor Cotyngham,’ said Mardisley, when Michael had confounded both friars by quoting a source neither was able to refute – it was also one Bartholomew suspected was invented – and the discourse came to an abrupt end. ‘He has been lying there, staring at the ceiling, for a month now, and I think he might die. It is a pity, because he was a good and generous man.’

  ‘He was,’ agreed Jorden. ‘He had an excellent mind, too, and I enjoyed discussing theology with him. Do you think he lost his wits because living in Huntington was so dull, Mardisley?’

  ‘It is possible,’ nodded the Franciscan. ‘Are you sure you want it, Brother? It is not very nice.’

  ‘So we have been told,’ sighed Michael. ‘But a gift is a gift, and we cannot afford to refuse it. Look – here come Alice and Isabella. Perhaps they can help you with your debate.’

  ‘Women?’ asked Jorden in rank disdain. ‘I do not think so!’

  The nuns had arrived before Bartholomew could inform the Dominican that he had met a number of ladies who were more than capable of holding their own in a theological discourse, and that Isabella might well prove to be one of them. She had a different book that day: Augustine’s De Sancta Virginate.

  ‘Yes!’ exclaimed Michael, snatching it from her and thumbing through it rather roughly. ‘See here – it says Our Lady was “conceived as virgin, gave birth as virgin and sta
yed virgin for ever”.’

  ‘I could have told you that,’ said Isabella, smiling. ‘I know this particular volume by heart. For example, did you know that Augustine believed the soul has no spatial dimensions?’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Michael haughtily. ‘But he did not say so in this particular body of work.’

  ‘You will find he did,’ countered Isabella, taking the book back from him. ‘It is in the—’

  ‘Enough, Isabella,’ snapped Alice, snatching the tome away. ‘It is not polite to contradict University-educated theologians in the street, especially in front of members of rival Orders. Now be a good girl, and collect that necklace I ordered from the goldsmith.’

  Isabella shot Michael an apologetic glance and hurried away, although she grabbed the book before she went, apparently afraid her Prioress might contrive to lose it. Alice rolled her eyes.

  ‘The sooner she is married, the sooner this theology nonsense will stop. She takes it far too seriously. Zouche did not know what an enormous favour he was asking when he delivered her into my care and ordered me to ensure that she took no premature vows.’

  ‘Isabella knows just enough of scholarship to be a menace,’ said Mardisley, when the Prioress had gone, too. ‘But not enough to be useful.’

  ‘And Alice has grown indiscreetly debauched since Zouche died,’ added Jorden. ‘He would never have entrusted his niece to her care had he known her true colours. But here we are on Fossgate. However, as Sir William lives near the Carmelites, we shall leave you here.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What is wrong with them?’

  ‘They prosecuted my Prior in the courts for some money he owed them,’ explained Jorden. ‘They sued Mardisley, too.’

  ‘Perhaps some of my ideas did originate with them,’ said Mardisley resentfully. ‘And I should have acknowledged their contributions. But I forgot, and I disliked being forced to defend myself in front of a lot of people who did not understand what I was talking about.’

  ‘Lord!’ hissed Jorden. ‘Here they come now – Prior Penterel and his two favourite henchmen. I am off!’

  He and Mardisley sped away, and Bartholomew turned towards the three men who were walking towards him. The Prior had a pleasant face with eyes that seemed full of goodness, while his ‘henchmen’ were unremarkable except for the fact that one had a long scar on his cheek. He was introduced as Wy, while his bulkier companion was Harold.

  ‘You must be the scholars from Oxford,’ said Prior Penterel amiably.

  ‘Cambridge,’ corrected Michael sharply. ‘We do not mention the Other Place in polite company.’

  ‘My apologies,’ said Penterel with a half-smile, as if uncertain whether the monk was joking; Bartholomew knew he was not. ‘But we intercepted you because we have information to impart. It is about Huntington, which we understand the vicars are trying to steal from you.’

  ‘They are.’ Michael nodded, pleased with this interpretation of events.

  ‘Zouche told me he had burned the writ leaving them Huntington,’ said Penterel. ‘He disliked their greed, and wanted your College to have it instead. Unfortunately, I cannot prove I had this discussion, because there were no witnesses, but I thought you should know anyway.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Michael gratefully. ‘Your testimony might prove helpful, especially if Dalfeld produces such a document. I would not put forgery past him.’

  ‘You are wise to be cautious,’ agreed Penterel. ‘Perhaps you should ask Zouche’s surviving executors if they saw him destroy the old codicil. There were nine of them originally, but only three are still alive – Roger, Marmaduke and Anketil.’

  ‘Six is a lot to die in as many years,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘Were they all old men?’

  Penterel shook his head. ‘One belonged to our Order. His name was Gilbert Welton, and he was in his prime. He died three years ago.’

  ‘We were all surprised when he fell victim to a debility, because we thought he was too lazy to catch one,’ said Wy. A shocked gasp from his Prior made him add, ‘But his indolence was far outweighed by his piety, of course.’

  ‘Did he—’ began Michael, then ducked as a clod of mud sailed over his head.

  ‘It is that potter again,’ said Harold, stepping protectively between his Prior and the man who had lobbed the missile. ‘Still vexed because we made him return the money he took.’

  ‘The money he stole,’ corrected Wy angrily. ‘He is piqued because he was caught.’

  A second clod followed the first, and Bartholomew did not think he had ever seen friars move so fast, as all three scampered towards their convent without another word. The sound of their door slamming was like a crack of thunder. Gleeful laughter followed, and the potter strutted away.

  ‘All Orders take legal action against thieves,’ said Michael, watching. ‘But, according to the gossiping Oustwyk, the Carmelites have challenged some especially vociferous offenders – ones who still bray their innocence, even though they were convicted years ago. I asked why, but he was unable to provide me with a sensible answer.’

  Bartholomew shrugged. ‘It only takes one person to declare a verdict unsound for others to clamour likewise. Doubtless they are hoping to be awarded some kind of compensation.’

  As there was no one to ask where Sir William lived, they went to stand on the bridge that crossed the Foss, waiting for someone to happen along. The river had been dammed farther downstream, and the water to the north had broadened into an attractively marshy mere known as the King’s Fishpool. Fringed by reeds and dappled with islets, it was home to an impressive number of wildfowl, and provided an arresting sight, even in the rain.

  The first person to pass was Fournays. Michael started to ask for directions, but the surgeon was full of eager chatter about a complex amputation he had just performed. Bartholomew was keenly interested and started to ask questions, but Michael interrupted by pointing suddenly.

  ‘Is that a body floating over there?’

  ‘Lord!’ exclaimed Fournays, shocked. ‘It is! We had better raise the alarm.’

  * * *

  A crowd gathered to watch Fournays and Bartholomew board a boat and row out to retrieve the corpse. The water was so shallow that Bartholomew thought it might be quicker to wade, but Fournays informed him that if he tried, he was likely to become trapped by the boggy silt that formed a thick layer on the bottom.

  ‘I suspect that is what happened to our victim,’ he predicted grimly. ‘People often drown when they attempt to make off with the royal carp. Especially when they are in their cups.’

  ‘I am not in my cups,’ said Bartholomew.

  Fournays smiled. ‘So I see, which is unusual for a physician. In my experience, they are partial to a tipple, although I find it impairs my ability to stitch. As a consequence, I never touch strong wine.’

  Bartholomew’s consumption had also decreased in the last few months, because patients summoned him at all hours of the day and night, which meant he was obliged to remain permanently sober. He tried to recall the last time he had been even remotely tipsy, but could not do it. Grudgingly, he admitted to himself again that Langelee had probably been right to force him to relax by dragging him away from his duties.

  ‘Why did you recommend that Cotyngham was to have no visitors?’ he asked, as he rowed. ‘I usually urge friends and family to spend as much time as possible with patients in cases like his.’

  Fournays shrugged. ‘I thought he would benefit more from solitude, and I was told about a similar case in which isolation resulted in a cure.’

  ‘You were only told? You did not witness it yourself?’ Bartholomew was unimpressed, thinking he would never have imposed such a draconian regime on a client based on hearsay.

  ‘By Marmaduke, whose uncle had displayed exactly the same symptoms as Cotyngham, but who was cured after several weeks of rest and peace.’

  ‘Perhaps so, but I am not sure it is the best course of treatment here,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘When I exam
ined Cotyngham, there were odd symptoms that—’

  ‘Stayndrop let you in?’ Fournays was angry. ‘After I expressly ordered that no one should be admitted except myself and the infirmarian?’

  ‘He was concerned that your regimen was not working.’

  ‘It is working,’ said Fournays irritably. ‘Cotyngham is much calmer now than when I first examined him. I hope you have not undone all the progress he has made. Besides, I calculated a horoscope for him two weeks ago, and his stars say that my remedy is the right one.’

  ‘A horoscope?’ asked Bartholomew sceptically. He placed scant faith in what the heavens portended, despite the fact that astrology was generally considered to be one of the most powerful weapons in a physician’s arsenal. He was unusual in that he rarely used it, only obliging when one of his wealthier patients insisted and he needed the money.

  Fournays shot him a lopsided grin. ‘We are a fine pair, you and me. You dabble in surgery, which is my domain, while I impinge on yours by consulting the celestial bodies.’

  ‘Did you know Cotyngham well?’ asked Bartholomew, smiling back and glad Fournays was disinclined to argue.

  ‘I did not know him at all,’ replied Fournays. ‘Although everyone says he was generous, honest, compassionate and intelligent.’ He sighed. ‘It seems not even innate decency is a defence against an injurious softening of the brain. Still, I suppose God knows what He is doing.’

  As such ailments were generally a mystery to Bartholomew – and he was sure a surgeon would not be much better informed – he decided it would be prudent to let the matter drop. He concentrated on navigating the boat through a series of islets. Then they reached the corpse, and the attention of both men was taken up with pulling it into the little craft without causing it to capsize.

  While Bartholomew was gone, Michael took the opportun ity to move among the spectators, asking questions about Cotyngham, Huntington and the attempted murder of Sir William. There were plenty of onlookers to choose from, including Benedictines and officials from the minster, but although most held opinions, none had much in the way of solid evidence.