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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘I did,’ acknowledged Thoresby. ‘But I have not had time. There are rumours that a great flood is coming, and I have been busy making preparations.’

  ‘Was it my imagination or did Talerand make a suspiciously abrupt departure just now?’ asked Bartholomew, when the Archbishop had gone. ‘And if so, why was he unsettled by the notion that the deaths of Zouche’s executors might be suspicious?’

  ‘I do not know, Matt. But he has just put himself at the top of my list of people to watch.’

  The rain had stopped while Bartholomew and Michael had been in the minster, but it started again as they walked to St Olave’s for Radeford’s burial. It was not much to begin with, just a fine drizzle, but it gradually increased until it fell in a thick, smoky veil.

  ‘I hope it stops soon,’ said Oustwyk, glancing skywards as he fell into step at their side. ‘A high tide is predicted for Tuesday, and we shall have floods if there is a lot of rain, too.’

  ‘Does York flood often?’ asked Michael, politely interested.

  ‘Not very,’ replied the steward. ‘But when it does, the results are spectacular.’

  As it had not been possible to buy a coffin for Radeford – Ferriby and Roger had claimed the only two in stock – the scholars had been obliged to borrow the abbey’s re usable one. It was ornate and highly polished, which rendered it slick, so it was a precarious process as Langelee, Michael, Bartholomew and Cynric carried it from the church to the graveyard, their feet skidding in mud.

  Given that they had not been in York long, a lot of people were in attendance. The Benedictines were particularly well represented, with not only Multone, Oustwyk and several monks from the abbey, but Anketil and Chozaico from Holy Trinity, and Isabella and Alice from the nunnery, too. Alice laid a sympathetic hand on Langelee’s arm while Michael intoned the necessary prayers, and Isabella sobbed. When a powerful gust of wind tore the psalter from Michael’s hands, and there was a hiatus while it was retrieved and dabbed dry, Bartholomew went to stand next to her. She buried her face in his shoulder, and he comforted her until she had regained control of herself.

  ‘He was too young to die,’ she whispered, her voice hoarse. ‘Alice told me to consider him as a husband, and I was tempted. He was kind, and helped me with my play.’

  ‘I thought you wanted to be a nun.’

  ‘I do. But if anyone could have shaken my resolve, it was dear John Radeford. He made me laugh, and he was gentle and good. I am sorry I did not have the opportunity to know him better.’

  ‘You would have liked him,’ said Bartholomew miserably. ‘Everyone did.’

  Isabella gripped his arm in a gesture of sympathy that brought a lump to his throat. ‘I know. And as I doubt there is another of his calibre – at least, not here, where most men are greedy, corrupt and dishonest – the Benedictines shall have me.’

  Bartholomew suddenly became aware of Alice staring in their direction, and with a jolt of dismay he read in her calculating gaze that she was assessing whether a physician might do for her young charge, now that the lawyer was no longer available. He eased away from Isabella, and his opinion of Alice slithered down several notches.

  The move put him near Warden Stayndrop of the Franciscans; Mardisley and Jorden were at his side. Unusually, the theologians were silent, although the scrolls up their sleeves said it would not be long before they resumed their intellectual sparring. They offered polite condolences, but left abruptly when Prior Penterel approached. Wy was with him, his scarred face pinched with the cold.

  ‘We said a mass for Radeford last night,’ said Penterel softly. ‘We are so sorry.’

  ‘There is a rumour that he was poisoned,’ said Wy, his eyes agleam with salacious interest. ‘Is it true?’

  ‘Wy!’ exclaimed Penterel, shocked. ‘This is hardly the place for such a question!’

  ‘Why not?’ asked the friar, bemused. ‘The whole city is talking about it.’

  Wincing, Penterel pulled him away before he could say more. The other guests gave them a wide berth, no doubt afraid that any inadvertent jostling might result in a lawsuit.

  Marmaduke also stood at a distance, forlornly blinking away the rain that dripped into his eyes. Chozaico beckoned him closer, inviting him to be part of the proceedings.

  ‘But they may not want me here,’ the ex-priest muttered, although he scuttled forward anyway. ‘Me being defrocked and all. Although we all know it was an unfair punishment for—’

  ‘Hush,’ whispered Chozaico, but kindly. ‘We should be thinking of Radeford, not talking.’

  York’s laity was also well represented. Surgeon Fournays had donned especially fine clothes, and nodded reassuringly when Bartholomew glanced in his direction. Touched, Bartholomew realised that he had come to express solidarity with a medical colleague.

  Meanwhile, Gisbyrn, Lady Helen and Frost stood together, heads bent respectfully. Gisbyrn’s expression was distant, though, and his lips were moving. With a shock, Bartholomew saw he was engaged in mental arithmetic, and was sure it was nothing to do with Radeford and a lot to do with commerce. Helen was clutching Frost’s arm for support and there were tears on her cheeks. He was brazenly delighted, and stood stiffly proud.

  Mayor Longton and his cronies slouched nearby, restless and bored. Bartholomew wondered why they had bothered to come, then supposed they had had no choice: their rivals the merchants had put in an appearance, which had compelled them to do likewise, lest they were compared and found lacking.

  When the dismal ceremony was over, Multone invited everyone to his solar for refreshments. Bartholomew watched them go, but made no move to follow. He lingered at the graveside for a long time, and when the inclement weather finally drove him indoors, he had made a solemn vow that he would not leave York without bringing Radeford’s killer to justice.

  Multone had been generous with his wine, but had not provided anything to eat, presumably because he had not long finished his own breakfast, so that by the time Bartholomew arrived in the solar, some of the guests were tipsy. It meant the conversation was louder and less restrained than was usual for such occasions.

  ‘I see none of the vicars-choral came,’ remarked Fournays, as Bartholomew passed him on his way to the fire. The surgeon was one of few who was sober, and Bartholomew recalled him saying that he eschewed strong drink on account of his profession. ‘And Dalfeld spurned the discomfort of the burial, but has appeared for the claret – and the conversation with influential people.’

  He pointed to where Dalfeld had cornered Gisbyrn, and whatever he was saying made the merchant scowl angrily at Longton; evidently, mischief was in the making. But York’s squabbles were not Bartholomew’s concern. Radeford was, and here was a surgeon, a man with an intimate knowledge of dangerous potions.

  ‘Have you encountered a poison that is painless, but that numbs whatever it comes in contact with?’ he asked. ‘And perhaps induces headaches, if ingested?’

  ‘What a peculiar question!’ Fournays grabbed a goblet from a passing servant and took a substantial gulp. He shrugged sheepishly. ‘I know I said I never drink, but I feel an ague coming on, and a dose of claret is the best way to repel it. Why do you ask about poisons?’

  ‘Because Radeford was given some.’

  Fournays adopted a paternal expression. ‘I know sudden death in the healthy is difficult to accept, but looking for explanations is the way to madness. Just acknowledge that it is God’s will, and put the matter from your mind.’

  ‘It was not God’s will,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘Radeford was murdered, and—’

  ‘There are any number of complaints that can carry a man off without warning,’ interrupted Fournays, although his voice was gentle. ‘Seizures, spotted liver, wasting sickness, debilities, falling fits, softening of the brain. You know this as well as I do. But I must go – patients await.’

  He bowed and was gone. Bartholomew was about to follow, feeling the discussion was far from over, but sensed someone behind him, and turne
d to see Helen, who smiled in a way that made his stomach flutter. Frost hovered nearby, his black glare indicative of the resentment he felt that the woman he adored should smile at another man in such a fashion. Helen was either unaware of her shadow’s simmering bile, or had chosen to ignore it.

  ‘Fournays is a good man, but I always find him a little … unsettling,’ she said, watching the surgeon shoulder his way out of the solar, knocking into Longton hard enough to make him stagger. ‘Perhaps it is because he is always to hand when anyone dies.’

  ‘People probably say the same about me,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It comes from being a medicus.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Helen changed the subject. ‘Master Langelee told me that he intends to look into the matter of my uncle’s chantry. I hope he can reclaim some of the money, because it grieves me to see the place unfinished.’

  ‘Zouche must have been a good man,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘Because you are not the only one who regrets that his last wishes remain unrealised.’

  Helen’s eyes brimmed with tears, but she brushed them away impatiently. ‘He was a wonderful man, and I still miss him dreadfully. I wish he had made Isabella and me his executors – we would not have let his fund filter away.’

  Bartholomew was about to say he was sure they would not, when Dalfeld appeared. The lawyer had left Gisbyrn and Longton in the grip of a furious argument that Bartholomew was sure he had instigated. Had he come to do the same with the physician and Helen, perhaps at Frost’s bidding?

  ‘Poor Radeford,’ Dalfeld sighed falsely. ‘It is a tragedy when a man is taken in his prime.’

  Bartholomew stared at him, taking in the sly smirk and cunning eyes. Was Dalfeld the kind of man to dispatch a rival? Radeford had said that Dalfeld was worried about the outcome of a case he had promised to win, and a defeat would damage his reputation. Dalfeld gazed back almost challengingly, but broke eye contact when an interruption came in the form of Langelee, apparently eager to ensure that his colleague did not steal a march on Helen. When Isabella and Alice also joined them, Frost stepped forward, too, unwilling to be excluded from Helen’s company any longer.

  ‘Tell the scholars what you read this morning, Isabella,’ Frost said, in a transparent attempt to embroil them in a discussion that would drive Helen away, so he could have her to himself again.

  ‘Gregory’s Moralia,’ replied Isabella. Her voice lacked the passion it usually held when she talked about her studies, and her eyes were red; she had been crying again. ‘It was very interesting.’

  ‘Was it?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling that he had been bored almost senseless when he had been obliged to plough through it.

  Isabella nodded. ‘Particularly his analysis of the Book of Job.’

  Bartholomew blinked. ‘But the whole thing is an analysis of Job. There is nothing else in it.’

  She frowned her confusion. ‘There is! It is packed with pithy doctrinal matters.’

  ‘Yes,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘But only ones that pertain to Job.’

  ‘Do not discuss theology with him, Isabella,’ advised Langelee, although he looked at Helen when he spoke. Frost bristled. ‘He knows nothing about the subject.’

  ‘Shall we discuss law instead, then?’ asked Dalfeld silkily. ‘That is a subject for—’

  ‘No,’ interrupted Langelee irritably. ‘It is worse than theology for tedium, and best avoided.’

  ‘Except when it pertains to Michaelhouse’s claim on Huntington, presumably,’ said Dalfeld coolly. ‘Then I imagine you consider it somewhat more gripping.’

  ‘Naturally,’ said Langelee tartly. ‘However, that is not a legal issue, but an ethical one. It is following Zouche’s last wishes.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Helen, while Isabella and Alice nodded. Frost did likewise, although only to ingratiate himself with the object of his passion.

  Dalfeld’s smile was patronising. ‘But Zouche is dead, so not in a position to confirm what he did or did not want. And if you do present a codicil, I shall demand that you also provide witnesses prepared to swear that they saw him write, sign and seal it. And we all know you cannot. Anketil and Marmaduke are the only surviving executors, and they have already said that they saw nothing of the kind. Not that their testimony counts for anything, of course.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ demanded Alice. ‘What is wrong with—’

  ‘One is a defrocked priest, and the other stands accused of spying for the French,’ interrupted Dalfeld curtly. ‘That hardly makes them men of unimpeachable character.’

  ‘Zouche had other friends, besides his executors,’ began Langelee. ‘And—’

  ‘You do not count,’ flashed Dalfeld. ‘You have a vested interest in lying. And Myton is dead.’

  ‘You are not worthy to speak that good man’s name!’ cried Helen. ‘How dare you!’

  Dalfeld barely spared her a glance, all his attention on Langelee. ‘You will lose this case and go home with nothing. However, I might consider changing sides, were you to offer sufficient inducement. Of course, the vicars are paying me very handsomely …’

  He had bowed and walked away before either Langelee or Bartholomew could respond, both too stunned by the proposal to speak.

  ‘Do not accept,’ said Helen tightly. Her face was pale with anger. ‘It is either a sly trick, or a disgusting betrayal of his current clients. Either way, you should not trust him.’

  ‘She is right,’ said Isabella softly. ‘Our poor uncle would be turning in his grave if he knew Huntington was the subject of such filthy tactics.’

  Bartholomew shook his head slowly, still astounded by Dalfeld’s brazen rapacity. ‘I cannot imagine the vicars will be pleased when they learn he offered to change sides.’

  Alice shrugged. ‘He will deny it. Dalfeld is nothing if not a talented liar.’

  Bartholomew would have been content to pass more time with Lady Helen, finding her company a welcome antidote to the ugliness of the day. Unfortunately, Frost thought the same, and offered to escort her when she expressed a desire to go home. He smirked triumphantly when she accepted, but his gloating evaporated when she invited Alice and Isabella to join her, too. The smile she shot the physician as she left was wry, as if she knew Frost had aimed to thwart a rival and she had deliberately frustrated his attempts to get her alone.

  ‘No,’ said Langelee, watching the exchange and not liking what he saw. ‘I have known her for years, so I have first claim.’

  ‘We will not be here long enough for dalliances anyway,’ said Bartholomew, forcing himself to ignore the spark of hope the impish grin had ignited. It was a pity, because she had touched something in his heart that had been largely dormant since Matilde had left.

  ‘I was not thinking of marrying her,’ objected Langelee. ‘Just showing her what—’

  ‘Please stop,’ begged Bartholomew, unwilling to listen to the Master’s lascivious plans. ‘Time is passing, and we have work to do. We will not catch Radeford’s killer by loitering here.’

  ‘True,’ agreed Langelee. Then he frowned. ‘How do we catch him, then?’

  Bartholomew had no good ideas, either. ‘All I can suggest is that we try harder to find the documents he hid. With luck, they will cast light on who wanted him dead.’

  ‘It is as good a way forward as any. I will return to the library, while you prise Michael away from the Abbot’s wine. Do not be long – I shall be vexed if you leave me to do all the work myself.’

  Langelee’s accusation was unfair, because Michael was not availing himself of the claret, but using the opportunity provided by the gathering to ask Chozaico and Anketil for their list of possible French spies. Briefly, he outlined what little they had learned from Radeford about the document he had found, and explained why they were currently unable to produce it.

  ‘Damn!’ cried Anketil. ‘It would have been good to have been proved innocent after all these years. Where did he discover this list?’

  ‘Hidden among Zouche’s correspondence,’ rep
lied Michael. ‘Do not ask me how he came across it – he was extremely skilled at such matters, and saw order where the rest of us see only chaos. Between you and me, his death is a serious blow to our claim on Huntington.’

  ‘I wish we could help,’ said Chozaico unhappily. ‘Zouche always defended us against accusations of espionage, and I would like to do something for him in return.’

  ‘Perhaps we should look in the library for this list,’ said Anketil worriedly. ‘Supposing the real spies find it – and destroy it, so we continue to be the city’s scapegoats?’

  ‘I doubt you will succeed,’ said Michael. ‘Although you are welcome to try. Or do you think we shall be accused of espionage, too, if we are seen collaborating with you?’

  ‘No,’ said Anketil bitterly. ‘Because you are not French. But perhaps we should not place too much faith in this list. There is nothing to say the names will be right, or even that the culprits are still in York. Zouche died almost six years ago now …’

  ‘You must have some ideas about suspects,’ said Michael. ‘After all, you have had years to think about it, taking the blame for their actions.’

  ‘Of course we do, but that is all they are – ideas,’ replied Chozaico. ‘Wild horses would not tear them from me without supporting evidence.’

  ‘The Carmelites are—’ began Anketil, less inclined to be diplomatic.

  ‘No!’ snapped Chozaico, and his eyes blazed with such anger that Anketil flushed and looked away. ‘The Carmelites are no more guilty than we are, and if you accuse them, you are no better than the louts who flocked to watch us burn the other day. There is nothing – not a single shred of evidence – to point to them.’

  ‘There is their behaviour,’ said Anketil, in the defensive tone of a man who knew he was going to lose the debate. ‘Their fondness for suing everyone. Do you know how many people they have wronged? The Dominicans, Dean Talerand, the vicars-choral over the theft of some topsoil—’