Longton nodded. ‘Playce was an executor, too. A good man, from an ancient and respected family. But you did not come here to talk about him, you came to ask after my brother.’
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew. ‘May we see him?’
‘You may,’ replied Longton. ‘But Lady Helen’ – here he spat the words – ‘is with him at the moment, so drink a cup of wine with us first, to give her time to finish.’
‘Time to finish what?’ asked Bartholomew, sure William would not be fit enough to cavort.
Longton waved an airy hand. ‘Whatever it is she does when they are together. Of course, it will not be anything too debauched, given that she brought those two nuns with her.’
‘Do not be so sure,’ said Pund, with a snigger. ‘Prioress Alice knows a trick or two.’
Before the scholars could demur, Longton had poured them claret. A sip told Bartholomew it was far too strong to be swallowed on an empty stomach, especially when he was about to deploy his medical skills on a patient, so he set it down. Michael had no such qualms, and inclined his head appreciatively, acknowledging its quality.
‘We understand the Archbishop has asked you to unmask the villain who tried to kill William,’ said Pund. ‘It will not be a difficult case to solve, although proving it will be next to impossible. Gisbyrn is too clever to leave clues.’
‘He claims to admire William,’ said Michael, playing devil’s advocate. ‘And wants the attacker brought to justice.’
‘Then he is a liar!’ spat Longton. ‘There is nothing he would not do to advance his mercantile affairs, including the murder of a decent man.’
‘How would Sir William’s death benefit Gisbyrn’s business?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘By prostrating me with grief,’ replied Longton promptly. ‘He thinks I will be so distressed that I will forget to levy taxes – the ones that will help repel this looming French invasion.’
Bartholomew regarded him sceptically, recalling how the man had been more indignant than concerned at the scene of the shooting, and certainly not ‘prostrate with grief’. Longton saw the look and became defensive.
‘It is true! I love my brother and owe him a lot – I know people vote for me as Mayor because they like him, and want to earn his good graces.’ He tried to keep the bitterness from his voice, but did not succeed; clearly, he resented being in his sibling’s shadow.
‘Of course, Gisbyrn would not sully his own hands with a bow,’ added Pund. ‘But that is why he hires henchmen. You must have seen them – rough villains who do not even wear livery.’ He shuddered fastidiously. ‘Frost manages them for him, and he is a lout himself.’
‘Perhaps the arrow was meant for us,’ said Michael, watching carefully for their reaction. ‘Matt was next to William, and it would not be the first time a shot went wide of its mark.’
‘Why would anyone kill a physician?’ asked Pund scornfully. ‘No – the target was William.’
‘Other than Gisbyrn, is there anyone else who might want your brother dead?’ asked Bartholomew.
He expected them to dismiss the question with more assurances of their rival’s guilt, but both surprised him by pondering carefully.
‘There is a rumour that French spies did it,’ replied Pund eventually. ‘To deprive York of a skilled warrior. But that cannot be right: Chozaico and Anketil are not violent men.’
‘The Holy Trinity monks are not spies,’ said Longton impatiently. ‘Popular prejudice claims they are, but it is a nonsense. How can they be villains when they are all from aristocratic families? Besides, most of them never leave their priory, so they are not in a position to gather intelligence.’
‘True,’ acknowledged Pund. ‘Of course, there is always a possibility that the Carmelites harbour these spies, because there is definitely something sinister about them.’
‘Now there I cannot argue.’ Longton addressed the scholars. ‘The French are preparing to invade, you know. They will sail up the river and attack. I do not care if they break Gisbyrn, but I own a lot of houses here, and I cannot afford to rebuild them if they are razed to the ground.’
‘The French will not invade,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There may be the odd raid by pirates, but a coordinated attack is well beyond them at the moment. Their army is still in tatters after Poitiers.’
‘Rubbish,’ argued Longton fiercely. ‘It is only a question of time before—’
‘William,’ interrupted Michael. ‘You were telling us who else might have harmed him.’
Longton calmed himself, although his reply was directed at Michael; he sulkily ignored the physician. ‘I suppose we cannot overlook the fact that he is the advocatus ecclesiae, and not everyone likes Thoresby. The vicars-choral certainly do not, because he keeps them in order – forces them to say the obits they have been paid to recite.’
‘You think a vicar might be responsible?’ asked Michael, brightening.
‘They make a poor second to Gisbyrn, but it is possible,’ nodded Longton. ‘It would suit you to see them accused, of course, because it would strengthen your claim on Huntington. No one will want the place to go to killers.’
‘Speaking of Huntington, I do not suppose you know what happened to Cotyngham, do you?’ asked Michael hopefully. ‘We visited him earlier, but he has lost his wits.’
‘He is mad?’ asked Longton, astonished. ‘Is that why Stayndrop refuses to let anyone see him? I knew him when he was priest at St Mary ad Valvas, and you could never hope to meet a saner, more rational fellow. If he has become a lunatic, you should find out what made him so. It might help your case.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Michael. ‘Although it is easier said than done.’
The same ancient servant conducted Bartholomew and Michael to a pleasant bedchamber on an upper floor, where Sir William was recovering. Like the rest of the house, it contained fine, solid furniture that had seen better days, and the covers on the bed were richly embroidered but faded.
Bartholomew was heartened to see the knight sitting up. Lady Helen was perched on one side of the bed, and he was smiling at something she had said. Prioress Alice was on the other, one hand resting indecorously close to his thigh. Isabella was in the window seat, reading aloud from a Latin text that Bartholomew recognised as Holcot’s Postillae, although he was fairly sure she was missing out the bits that contained the theologian’s more impenetrable ramblings.
‘Have you wrested Huntington from those greedy vicars yet?’ asked Alice, transparently delighted that Isabella’s monologue was to be interrupted.
‘No,’ replied Michael. ‘But if anyone can find the codicil, it is Radeford. I only hope it does not take him until Judgment Day, because the minster library …’
‘I have never seen it,’ sighed Isabella unhappily. ‘Dean Talerand says the books might burst into flames if they are handled by a woman.’
‘Did he?’ asked Alice, with the feigned innocence of someone who was probably the real author of the Dean’s words. ‘Shame on him!’
‘As you are here, Isabella, perhaps you would answer some questions,’ said Michael, hastily drawing the three women away from the sickbed when Bartholomew began to unwrap William’s bandages. ‘About Cotyngham. I understand it was you who found him wandering on Petergate.’
Isabella nodded. ‘He did not know me, which was distressing, because I had always considered him to be a friend – he was one of few men who would discuss theology with me, and was very patient with my mistakes. I was worried for him, so I took him to my convent …’
‘I would have had him back to normal in no time,’ said Alice. She did not wink when she spoke, but it was inherent in her voice. ‘Unfortunately, Warden Stayndrop ordered me to hand him over, on the basis that he should be nursed by members of his own Order.’
‘And now you say he is still witless,’ said Helen sadly. ‘Poor Cotyngham!’
‘Do you have any notion as to what might have put him in such a state? Did he say anything when you found him?’
‘No,’ replied Isab
ella miserably. ‘He never spoke a word, and I have no idea what happened to him. Does Doctor Bartholomew think he will recover?’
‘He does not know,’ said Michael, sorry when Isabella and Helen exchanged stricken glances.
‘Marmaduke’s uncle suffered from a similar complaint, and he mended,’ said Helen. She sounded more defiant than hopeful, but Isabella brightened.
‘True. I shall recite some psalms for Cotyngham, just as I did for Marmaduke’s uncle. I am sure they helped. In fact, I shall do it now.’
‘We should all go,’ said Helen, smiling fondly at her. She crossed the room to William, and gently kissed his cheek. ‘Too many visitors will tire you.’
‘You could never do that,’ said the knight, the carefully accented reply suggesting that he could have done without Alice’s roving hands and Isabella’s reading.
‘There is nothing like Holcot to put a man on the road to recovery,’ said Isabella serenely. ‘Next time, I shall bring St Augustine, because he will certainly inspire you to get up and walk.’
‘Yes,’ agreed William, his voice indicating he might do it just to escape. ‘And my best wishes for your play, ladies. I am looking forward to it.’
‘Next Tuesday – six days’ time,’ said Isabella, nodding keenly. She smiled at the scholars. ‘It is kind of Master Radeford to help with our rehearsals. He has promised to come again this evening.’
‘Tell him to visit after vespers,’ said Alice, and her grimly determined expression suggested he might not be permitted to leave until he had made serious inroads into her protégée’s affections.
‘Visit me again soon, Helen,’ begged William. He lowered his voice hopefully. ‘Alone.’
‘It would not be seemly.’ Then Helen saw the pleading expression on his face, and relented. ‘Although I suppose you are hardly in a position to challenge my virtue.’
‘No,’ muttered William. ‘Although mine is in serious danger from Alice.’
Helen laughed. ‘He is bored, Doctor Bartholomew. Prescribe him something to make him sleep, or he will be up and about before he is properly healed.’
‘He is mending well,’ said Bartholomew, who had been pleased to see no trace of inflammation. Clearly, William was a strong and resilient man.
Before she left, Helen took Michael aside. ‘John Gisbyrn did not do this,’ she whispered. ‘I know what Mayor Longton will have told you, but he is wrong. You must look elsewhere.’
‘At whom, specifically?’ asked Michael.
Helen shook her head slowly. ‘My initial suspect was Dalfeld, but he claims he has an alibi in you. Apparently, you left the Abbot’s solar at the same time.’
‘We did,’ said Michael, keeping to himself the fact that Dalfeld had dashed ahead of them, and thus had had plenty of time to wait in St Mary ad Valvas for his prey. ‘But why single him out?’
‘Because he is always trying to exacerbate the quarrel between John Gisbyrn and Longton – he thinks he will be able to claim higher fees for his services if there is more at stake. In fact, I was on my way to meet him, to beg him to desist, when William was shot. He had agreed to meet me in the minster, you see, to hear me out.’
‘You think you could have reasoned with him?’ asked Michael doubtfully.
Helen sighed. ‘Probably not, but it had to be tried. I planned to take him to the shrine, to see whether I could trick him into swearing to be nicer in future.’
Michael regarded her askance, his incredulous expression making it clear that she could never have ‘tricked’ a lawyer of Dalfeld’s ability, and nor could she have trusted his word if she had: it was patently obvious that Dalfeld would not allow a mere vow to dissuade him from a course of action he thought might benefit him financially. Helen’s naivety was touching, but foolish.
‘She seems fond of you,’ said Bartholomew to William, after she had gone.
William nodded. ‘And I would have married her, but she said it was too soon after my first wife’s death. She is right, of course, because I do still mourn Eleanor.’
‘How did Eleanor die?’ asked Bartholomew. The moment the question was out, he wished he could retract it: it was hardly the kind of thing to ask an ailing man.
‘Giving birth,’ William replied softly. ‘She was old for another child, and the midwives were concerned from the start. I loved her dearly, but a man must move on.’
‘I suppose he must,’ said Bartholomew, wondering whether he would ever ‘move on’ from Matilde. If he did, then it would take a woman of Helen’s calibre to bring it about, because he would not engage in what he felt would be a betrayal for anyone less worthy.
‘I owe you my thanks, Bartholomew,’ said William, after a while. ‘Fournays told me how you were able to remove the barb without damaging my entrails. It hurt like the devil, though.’
‘I am sure it did,’ said Michael with a shudder. ‘Do you have any idea who shot you?’
William grimaced. ‘My brother has enemies, so one of them may have struck at him through me. Helen assures me that Gisbyrn is innocent, but that still leaves Frost and his cronies. Then I may have incurred dislike by acting as advocatus ecclesiae. However, I do not believe French spies are responsible – my presence will make no difference one way or another to an invasion.’
‘You think there will be one?’ asked Michael.
‘Not really, although my brother would disagree.’
‘Have you heard that Roger Zouche is drowned, and there are rumours that it was in revenge for you?’ asked Michael, rather baldly.
The knight nodded unhappily. ‘Helen told me. I sincerely hope it is untrue, because it might mean open war between my brother and Gisbyrn, and that will benefit no one.’
‘Do you know Cotyngham?’ Michael changed the subject with a speed that made the knight blink in surprise. ‘And have you ever been to Huntington?’
‘Yes to both. He was devastated when plague took his St Mary ad Valvas congregation, and Zouche asked me to visit him in Huntington, to ensure he had settled there. I went several times, and we enjoyed some excellent conversations. He was an erudite and interesting man.’
‘And had he settled there?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Better than I would have thought,’ William said. ‘It took time, of course, but the shock of his loss eased eventually, and he was able to take pleasure in his new situation. I last saw him in February, when he was delighted because Mardisley and Jorden had just invited him to mediate in one of their debates. As a scholar himself, he considered it a great honour.’
‘Something must have happened to change him,’ said Michael. ‘An injury or a shock. He does not sound like the kind of man to go mad for no reason.’
‘If so, then I know nothing about it,’ said William. ‘I wish I did, for the knowledge might allow you to cure him, and if anyone deserves to be saved, it is Cotyngham. A gentler, kinder, more decent man does not exist.’
‘So,’ concluded Michael. ‘You do not know who shot you; you do not know whether Roger might have been harmed to avenge you; and you do not know why Cotyngham became ill?’
‘I am sorry, Brother,’ said William sheepishly. ‘I fear I have not been very helpful.’
‘We have a wealth of suspects for William’s shooting,’ said Michael, as he and Bartholomew left the knight’s house. ‘They include the French spies, although he dismissed that possibility. Assuming they exist, of course …’
‘They do. Langelee hunted them when he was here, and letters have been intercepted.’
‘Chozaico and Anketil have been proposed as culprits,’ Michael went on, ‘but Benedictines are not going to dabble in espionage, not even French ones. And I suspect the same can be said for the Carmelites. These spies are more likely to be seculars from the city.’
‘Gisbyrn denies having anything to do with shooting William,’ said Bartholomew, more interested in the mystery they had been charged to solve than one that was well beyond their remit. ‘And Helen defends him. But Frost seems ruthless, and
he has henchmen. Then there are the enemies William may have accrued as advocatus ecclesiae …’
‘Meanwhile, I think it odd that Dalfeld should have informed Helen that he had an alibi in me,’ said Michael. ‘Especially when he had nothing of the kind. And finally, there are those vicars-choral who had left to fetch documents to show us – Ellis, Cave and Jafford. I distrust all three.’
‘Even Jafford?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘He is the decent one.’
‘He has been to some trouble to make himself agreeable,’ conceded Michael. ‘However, do not forget Cynric and Radeford’s contention that the intended victim was you, in the hope that the rest of us would flee back to Cambridge and abandon our claim on Huntington. The vicars are the men who stand to benefit from that particular outcome.’
‘I suppose it is possible,’ said Bartholomew, although he was far from convinced. ‘Yet there is one other suspect for shooting Sir William – namely Mayor Longton.’
Michael nodded. ‘I wondered when you would say that. And your reasons?’
‘Because he was more angry than dismayed when he heard his brother had been injured, and because he seems jealous of William’s popularity. He said himself that people only vote for him as Mayor because they want to earn William’s good graces, and he sounded bitter about it.’
‘My thoughts exactly. Look – there is Frost. What is he doing?’
‘Spying on Helen’s house,’ replied Bartholomew in distaste. ‘I saw him doing it last night, before she invited us in. The man is hopelessly smitten with her.’
‘Then he should learn to control himself,’ said Michael, treating Gisbyrn’s red-haired helpmeet to a scornful glare as they passed. Frost, who had apparently believed himself to be invisible behind the water butt, flushed scarlet with mortification. ‘She will not want him if he moons over her like a lovesick cow. Not that she would demean herself with such a fellow anyway.’
‘Why not?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘His clothes show that he is wealthy, and although everyone calls him Gisbyrn’s henchman, I suspect he is rather more than that – a merchant in his own right.’
Mystery in the Minster: The Seventeenth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 14
