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

by Gregory, Susanna

  Supposing no harm would come from asking whether William had had any further thoughts on who might have shot him, Bartholomew nodded. Longton led the way, weaving through the bustle of the main street, sometimes acknowledging the greetings of the people he passed, sometimes not.

  ‘I remembered something this morning,’ the Mayor said as they went. ‘Thoresby banned Sunday trading recently, and as advocatus ecclesiae, William was responsible for ensuring that everyone knew it. The merchants were livid, because foodstuffs spoil, and Gisbyrn was especially vexed. It is a good motive for him wanting my poor brother dead, would you not agree?’

  As it probably involved large sums of money, Bartholomew did. He exchanged a glance with Michael, and hoped it would not mean they were obliged to question every tradesman in York, because it would take an age. He also wondered why William had not mentioned it.

  ‘What did Myton think of these restrictions?’ asked Michael, moving to another subject.

  Longton blinked. ‘Myton? He died long before this particu lar edict came into force.’ He pondered the question anyway. ‘But he would have approved – he was very devout. He died of a softening of the brain, you know, which is nasty, but mercifully quick.’

  ‘A number of people seem to have suffered mercifully quick ends in the last few years,’ observed Michael. ‘Including seven of Zouche’s executors.’

  ‘Mostly of spotted liver and debilities,’ nodded Longton, then sighed. ‘Poor Myton. I wish he were alive today – he would not have let these vile merchants amass so such power.’

  ‘How would he have stopped them?’

  ‘With words – he was very good at reasoning with people. He even kept Langelee in check when they worked together, and you do not need me to tell you that that was something of a feat.’

  ‘Did Myton have any views on French spies?’ asked Bartholomew, declining to comment.

  Longton nodded vigorously. ‘Oh, yes. He hated them, but who does not? Most people think the Holy Trinity Benedictines are responsible, but they are decent men, with excellent taste in imported wine. The Carmelites, on the other hand, make their own.’

  ‘How is your search for the mint’s charter coming along?’ asked Michael guilelessly.

  Longton waved a dismissive hand. ‘My answer to you is the same as it was to Langelee last night: I shall pay Dalfeld to produce another one, because that inept Dean has lost the original.’

  ‘Dalfeld is good at counterfeiting, then, is he?’ probed Michael, amused by the bald admission.

  Longton nodded blithely. ‘The best. You should consider hiring him to produce a codicil if you cannot locate one, because the vicars will never be able to tell.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Michael blandly. ‘We shall bear it in mind.’

  William was sitting in a chair when they arrived, pale but in good spirits. When Bartholomew inspected the wound, he found it was healing well, which the knight attributed to Fournays changing the bandages twice a day. Bartholomew warmed to the surgeon even more when he learned that wine had been forbidden, too, and the patient had been ordered to drink boiled broth instead.

  ‘Gisbyrn still denies attacking you,’ said Longton to his brother. ‘But when I trick a confession out of him, he will hang, because no merchant shoots my brother and lives to tell the tale.’

  ‘No!’ exclaimed William, horrified. ‘You cannot—’

  ‘I shall do as I please. But discussing that villain will impede your recovery, so we shall talk about something else instead. Such as my plan to prevent the Foss from flooding.’

  He began to oblige, although it sounded an ill-conceived and confused strategy to Bartholomew. William also voiced reservations, but Longton declared angrily that there was nothing wrong with his arrangements, and stalked out in a huff, although not before he had drained the wine in his cup.

  ‘Did you know Myton?’ asked Bartholomew of William, in the slightly awkward silence that followed Longton’s departure. He was not sure why he wanted to know, and supposed he was curious about the man because so many people had mentioned him.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ William was transparently grateful for the change of subject. ‘He was a decent fellow, although perhaps a little pompous.’

  ‘Everyone else says he was venerable and discreet,’ said Michael.

  William smiled. ‘Yes, but “venerable” is a word that is often applied to haughty men, while “discreet” can be synonymous with secretive. He gave lots of money to the vicars-choral – for obits to shorten his time in Purgatory – so he must have been worried about his venial sins.’

  ‘Can you tell us anything else about him?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Zouche was fond of him, and he worked well with Langelee. I fell out with him when he reported Marmaduke to Thoresby. He should have told me first, and I would have resolved the matter quietly. Instead, he went to the Archbishop, who felt compelled to make an example.’

  ‘For peddling false relics?’

  William nodded. ‘It was not as if Marmaduke was keeping the money for himself, and defrocking him was too severe a punishment. He was only trying to raise funds for Zouche’s chantry – as an executor, he felt guilty that the project had foundered.’

  ‘So Myton had his failings,’ mused Michael.

  ‘Yes, but you will not find many people prepared to list them. He was popular, and when he died, any defects in his character were conveniently forgotten. It happens.’

  ‘Your brother has just told us that you might have accrued enemies by helping Thoresby to ban Sunday trading,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Is it true?’

  William sighed. ‘My brother would love a merchant to be guilty of harming me, and he exaggerates their anger against the prohibition. They were peeved, of course, but they understand it is for the good of their souls. Moreover, they know it was not my idea.’

  But Bartholomew was not sure whether he believed him – or rather, he was not sure whether he believed that the merchants had accepted the ban with as much equanimity as William seemed to think. He and Michael thanked the knight for his cooperation, and took their leave.

  To reach Fournays’s house, they had to pass the Carmelite Priory. The gate opened as they passed, and Penterel stepped out, Wy and Harold at his heels. They were laughing at something Wy had said, but their merriment abated when they saw the scholars, and they came to ask after their well-being following Radeford’s burial. Their concern seemed sincere, and Bartholomew failed to understand why their easy manners were insufficient to combat the dislike they had engendered by suing people. When they had to take refuge inside a doorway to talk, because stones were hurled by three sullen youths, he broached the subject.

  ‘Those are Elen Duffield’s sons,’ explained Wy. He made a threatening gesture at the lads, which earned him a reproving glare from his Prior. ‘We took her to court for debt.’

  ‘We had no choice,’ said Penterel, his expression pained. ‘She owed us a fortune, and we needed it back to provide alms for the poor.’

  ‘She has never forgiven us,’ added Harold. ‘Although it was hardly our fault she lost the case: she should not have purchased wine from us if she could not afford it.’

  ‘She could afford it,’ said Wy. ‘She is a wealthy woman. She just disliked having to pay for something after it was gone, and hoped we would forget about it if she procrastinated long enough.’

  ‘The people of York are not very good losers when it comes to the law,’ said Penterel ruefully.

  ‘And the vicars-choral do not help,’ Wy went on, his scarred face resentful. ‘They spread nasty rumours about us. And do you know why? Because they stole our topsoil to make themselves a nice garden, and were embarrassed and angry when we challenged them over it. Of course we sued them! What did they expect?’

  ‘We did not want to take legal action,’ sighed Harold. ‘But they refused to bring it back, and where were we supposed to grow our cabbages?’

  ‘But we bear them no grudge,’ said Penterel with a serene
smile. Harold nodded to say it was true, although Wy’s glower suggested he was still bitter. ‘Most are sober, honest men.’

  ‘And others are liars and thieves,’ stated Wy, earning another reproving look, one that did nothing to shame him into silence. ‘Namely Ellis and Cave. Neither are very nice.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘They are not.’

  Fournays’s home was a pleasant one, separated from the Carmelite Priory by a wooden fence. The house was stone, suggesting his practice was lucrative, and his garden was extensive enough to boast vegetable plots, two wells and an orchard complete with a herd of goats. There was also a herbarium, and Bartholomew was astonished by the number and variety of plants growing in it.

  ‘Yes,’ said Fournays proudly, when the physician complimented him. He was sitting in a spacious, well-scrubbed kitchen, eating fragrantly scented stew and fresh bread dipped in melted butter. ‘I like mixing my own remedies.’

  ‘So you know about poisons, then?’ asked Michael innocently.

  Fournays regarded him askance. ‘Of course. What medicus does not? Why do you—’

  ‘Do you mind living here?’ Michael turned abruptly to another matter, aiming to disconcert, and Bartholomew winced. He liked the surgeon, and did not want him subjected to one of the monk’s interrogations. ‘So close to the foundation that strikes terror into so many city purses?’

  ‘The Carmelites and I have an agreement,’ replied Fournays, blinking at the change of topic, but answering anyway. ‘I bequeath them this house when I die, and they leave me alone while I am alive.’

  Michael gaped. ‘But it must be worth a fortune! Surely that is too high a price to pay for peace. Do you not have heirs?’

  ‘They died of the plague. Bleak days …’ Then Fournays shook himself, and forced a smile. ‘Did you have any success in lancing buboes, Bartholomew? I found that—’

  ‘Please!’ exclaimed Michael with a shudder. ‘Not when I am about to eat.’

  ‘Are you about to …’ began Fournays, startled, then stopped when the monk sat at the table and produced a spoon. He nodded good-naturedly, and called for a maid to bring bowls.

  Bartholomew was not hungry, and ate only to be polite, but even so he was forced to admit that the stew was excellent, flavoured as it was with a wide variety of herbs from the garden.

  ‘So you do not mind leaving your estate to the Carmelites?’ said Michael, returning to the subject like a dog with a bone. ‘I would.’

  ‘I imagine so, given that you are a member of a rival Order,’ replied Fournays, smiling. ‘But they may as well have it. They will say obits for me, and it is an attractive offer, because my sins are great.’

  ‘Are they indeed?’ purred Michael. ‘And which ones give you particular concern?’

  ‘Avarice and gluttony.’ Fournays smiled again. ‘The same as you, Brother.’

  Michael’s expression was cold. ‘So you are giving them this property willingly?’

  ‘Yes. They were always threatening to sue me when my goats escaped into their precinct before, but now they just return them with a smile. It is worth the price, and I cannot take my wealth with me when I die. I am content with the arrangement.’

  ‘We have been hearing about Zouche’s executors,’ said Bartholomew, feeling it was time to ask what they particularly wanted to know. ‘How they died of spotted liver and debilities.’

  ‘And Hugh de Myton, who had a softening of the brain,’ added Michael.

  ‘I was sorry to lose them,’ sighed Fournays sadly. ‘Especially Myton. Everyone liked him.’

  ‘Not everyone,’ said Michael. ‘We have been told that he that he was secretive and haughty.’

  ‘Myton?’ exclaimed Fournays, shocked. ‘No! He did a great deal to keep the peace, and now he has gone, there is outright war between Mayor Longton and John Gisbyrn. He is greatly missed!’

  ‘Whose side are you on?’ asked Michael.

  Fournays considered carefully. ‘Gisbyrn’s, I think. He and his cronies are sober, quiet men, who raise the tone of the place, whereas Longton and his followers are debauched. Of course, the merchants are brutally ruthless in business, and woe betide anyone who stands in their way.’

  ‘You were telling us how Zouche’s executors died,’ prompted Bartholomew.

  ‘I know spotted liver and debilities when I see them,’ obliged Fournays. ‘And they were as plain as day on Neville, Playce, Christopher, Welton, Stiendby and Ferriby. Incidentally, Roger had a debility, too – I examined his corpse more carefully later. It must have struck him down when he was near the King’s Fishpool, causing him to fall in and drown.’

  ‘Ferriby claimed he was poisoned,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He told his fellow vicars—’

  ‘Ferriby was not in his right wits,’ interrupted Fournays. ‘You cannot give credence to anything he said, especially once he was afflicted with a debility. Besides, who would want to kill him? He was old, addled and refused to go anywhere except the Bedern and the minster.’

  ‘I am not sure I would recognise spotted liver, a debility or softening of the brain,’ said Bartholomew. ‘What are the symptoms?’

  Fournays pursed his lips, although whether at the physician’s deficiency or the need to explain was unclear. ‘They are similar for all three conditions: waxen skin, absence of breathing, floppiness of limbs and an unnatural chill. In addition, spotted liver is distinctive by causing a dullness in the eyes; a debility produces blue lips; and a softening of the brain … well, suffice to say that it is always fatal.’

  Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly: the reply was ridiculously vague, and Fournays had listed signs that would be present in virtually anyone dying or newly dead. ‘Do you see many of these cases?’ he asked, not sure what else to say.

  ‘No more than I would in any city. But if you are concerned about contracting them, always wear a hat and keep a tincture of St John’s wort to hand. That should keep you safe.’

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Michael. ‘Did you read it in Theophilus’s De Urinis?’

  Fournays shot him a sharp look. ‘No. I have been unable to consult that particular tome, because the Dean has misplaced it. I took one look at the muddle he calls a library, and left.’

  ‘Really?’ pounced Michael. ‘Because he told us you stayed for some time.’

  ‘Then he is mistaken,’ said Fournays firmly. ‘But that should not surprise you, if his memory is anything like his system for filing documents.’

  ‘What about Myton?’ asked Bartholomew, when Michael only helped himself to more bread and butter. ‘What happened to him exactly?’

  Fournays stared at the table. ‘A softening of the brain. At least, that is what I tell everyone. But you are a medicus – you understand that suicide is not a sin when a soul is in terrible torment …’

  ‘Myton killed himself?’

  ‘He opened his veins. But he was a decent man, and I did not want him buried in unhallowed ground or deprived of the obits he had bought, so I adjusted the truth. It was a softening of the brain in a way, though: everyone who commits self-murder has a troubled mind, and should be viewed with compassion, not condemnation.’

  Bartholomew did not admit that he sometimes ‘adjusted the truth’ regarding suicides, too, because Michael was listening, and he did not want to burden the monk with such knowledge. ‘What drove Myton to such an end?’ he asked instead.

  ‘I have already told you – the other day, when we dragged Roger from the King’s Fishpool.’

  ‘Gisbyrn’s ruthless business practices?’

  ‘Yes. Myton had old-fashioned standards, and could not compete. When he died, everything he owned went to Gisbyrn to pay his debts, except the property he had already given the vicars-choral for obits. It was fortunate he had arranged those in advance, or he would have lost them, too.’

  ‘No one knows he took his own life, except you?’

  Fournays nodded. ‘And I am only confiding in you because I trust you not to tell anyone else. You are
a fellow medicus, and Brother Michael is your friend.’

  ‘I suppose it explains why there were rumours that he was murdered,’ sighed Michael. ‘The gossips sensed something amiss, and capitalised on it.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Fournays ruefully. ‘Their malicious speculations did cause me anxiety for a while.’

  ‘Well?’ asked Michael, once they were outside. ‘Was Fournays telling the truth about these debilities and spotted livers?’

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘I think he genuinely believes that ailments with those names killed the seven executors.’

  ‘But he is mistaken? The truth is that he has no idea what killed them?’

  ‘Yes, but I do not know what kills most of my patients, either. Take old Master Kenyngham, for example. He died of something I called a seizure, but I do not know whether it was bleeding in the brain, failure of some vital organ, or an unrelated complaint that had gone undetected for years. And we never will know without anatomy.’

  ‘Then I suppose we shall remain ignorant,’ said Michael. ‘Because I cannot imagine a situation where we shall ever be supplied with that sort of information. But what about the poisons Fournays grows in his garden? Did you see one that would explain Radeford’s symptoms?’

  ‘No! Fournays has no reason to harm Radeford.’

  ‘None that we know of,’ corrected Michael. ‘I half expected him to drop something in our stew, and I only asked him for some to see whether he would try. But he must have known I was watching, so he decided against it. Oh, Lord! We are about to run into a bevy of vicars-choral.’

  Bartholomew looked around rather desperately when he saw Ellis, Cave, Jafford and several of the younger vicars walking in a tight cluster towards them. The clatter made by their wooden pattens on the cobbles made them sound purposeful and authoritative.

  ‘At least try to look innocent,’ hissed Michael crossly. ‘You could not come across as more guilty if you wore a sign around your neck saying you broke into their domain last night.’