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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘Again?’ groaned Michael, going to open the window shutter. He winced as a deluge of wind-gusted wetness splattered at him, then peered into the gloom. ‘The river is much higher today.’

  Cynric touched the amulet he wore around his neck, one the monk had not seen before. ‘Masses are being said in all the churches for the deluge to stop before tomorrow, because of the tide.’

  ‘But I suppose you prefer to rely on other sources for deliverance?’ Michael eyed the new trinket pointedly, then moved, so some of the rain fell on Bartholomew, who woke with a start.

  Cynric shook his head earnestly. ‘Oh, no, Brother! I gave Mardisley and Jorden a penny each to say prayers for the waters to subside. But Oustwyk suggested I also invest in some charms. Would you like yours now, or when the river bursts its banks?’

  ‘Why would Oustwyk know where to buy such things?’ asked Bartholomew drowsily, speaking to spare Michael the need to reply. The monk would not want to offend Cynric by rejecting the offer, but a Benedictine could hardly be seen sporting pagan talismans.

  ‘Because he knows everything,’ replied Cynric. ‘He told me to visit Prioress Alice, and she made them while I waited. I watched her carefully, because I have no small knowledge of such matters myself, and I can tell you that she is very good.’

  ‘Alice?’ blurted Michael, shocked. ‘But she is a nun!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cynric, his puzzled expression saying he failed to understand why this should warrant astonishment. ‘So her charms are especially potent, because she uses holy water. Along with stones from the river and the blood of a toad. And it is important to have effective protection, because there are those – the vicars-choral among them – who say the bad weather is our fault.’

  ‘Our fault?’ echoed Michael, startled. ‘Why should anyone think that?’

  ‘Because it began the day we arrived. Of course, most folk believe the French are to blame – an act of war in revenge for Poitiers. But they are wrong. As I said the moment it started falling, it is an omen. And I was right, because Doctor Bartholomew was shot at, and now Master Radeford is dead. But the downpours continue, so there must be more evil yet to come.’

  Bartholomew rarely allowed the book-bearer’s superstitious musings to disturb him, but he found them unsettling that morning. His disquiet intensified when he climbed out of bed and his eye lit on Radeford’s possessions, packed ready to return to his family. Even looking at them sent a sharp pang of loss spearing through him.

  ‘Where is Langelee?’ he asked, more to change the subject than because he wanted to know.

  Cynric turned back to the fire. ‘He left as soon as he thought we were all asleep last night. He has lots of friends in the city, especially among the women.’

  ‘We have a great deal to do today,’ said Bartholomew, hoping the Master had not imposed himself on Helen – or any other unwilling recipient, for that matter. They had enough to occupy them without being obliged to dodge outraged spouses, brothers and sons. ‘We should make a start.’

  ‘A start on what?’ asked Michael with weary frustration. ‘I am at a loss as to how to proceed.’

  ‘Then think of something,’ urged Cynric. ‘Because if we do not have answers by tomorrow, we may not have them at all – once the river floods, people will be too busy to talk to us.’

  ‘And I am not leaving until we have caught Radeford’s killer,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘So we had better hurry. First, we shall ask Dalfeld what he was doing in the library—’

  ‘He is a lawyer, Matt,’ said Michael gloomily. ‘Even if he was up to something untoward, he will never admit it. We will be wasting our time.’

  ‘Almost certainly, but that does not mean we should not try. Second, we shall concentrate on Zouche’s chantry. We will visit Talerand, and ask exactly what happened the night before he discovered the fund was dry. Then, if he confirms that it was indeed Christopher who was near it, we shall go to Holy Trinity to speak to Anketil.’

  ‘We do not have time to investigate the chantry!’ snapped Michael. ‘Our priorities are to find Radeford’s killer, locate the codicil and identify who shot William – or the Archbishop is going to say that we have not fulfilled our end of the bargain, and may make it difficult for us to leave.’

  ‘I am not sure why, but I think the chantry is important.’ Bartholomew spoke hesitantly, trying to organise his thoughts. ‘Much of Zouche’s will comprised details about it; Huntington was left to us in one of that will’s codicils – which Radeford was murdered shortly after finding; Christopher was an executor, one of seven who are dead of mysterious causes; and then there is Myton.’

  ‘Myton?’ echoed Michael warily.

  ‘He was Zouche’s friend, but not an executor; he has obits, but Zouche does not; he committed suicide after Gisbyrn broke him; and he exposed Marmaduke’s selling of false relics – and Marmaduke is an executor. I am sure all these threads are connected, and we need to assess how, if we are to understand what is happening.’

  Michael, was thoughtful. ‘You may be right, so I recommend we visit Talerand first. With any luck, his answers will obviate the need to deal with Dalfeld, a man I distrust intensely.’

  They left the hospitium, and were about to walk to the minster when they saw that a number of monks had gathered by what the abbey grandly called its Water Gate: the door that led to the river. Usually, a muddy foreshore separated the Ouse from the monastery, but that day, water lapped at the base of its walls. Glancing out through the gate, Bartholomew saw the river was at least three times as wide as it had been when they had arrived.

  ‘Is that a corpse?’ he asked, pointing suddenly.

  Michael sketched a benediction at the body that was swept past, its head submerged and its arms out to the sides. It rotated slowly as a spiralling undertow caught it.

  ‘Some poor devil from one of the villages,’ said Multone. ‘They underestimate the power of the current when they try to rescue their livestock. He is the first, but he will not be the last.’

  ‘Should we retrieve him?’ asked Bartholomew.

  Multone shook his head. ‘He will be gone long before we can organise hooks and ropes, and you will drown if you try to swim after him. Look – he has disappeared already.’

  Bartholomew saw he was right, and even as they watched, a sheep was washed past, bloated and stiff, followed by what was probably a dog.

  ‘It means the flooding is worse upstream,’ breathed Oustwyk. ‘God help us all!’

  On that unsettling note, Bartholomew and Michael left, but met Isabella and Helen on Petergate. The two women were arm-in-arm, and Alice was behind them, clamouring and pleading. Frost was a silent shadow at their heels, although Bartholomew sensed that he had latched on to them without their consent, and that they probably wished him gone.

  The rain had done the Prioress no favours. It had soaked into the tendrils of hair that had been left to dangle alluringly outside her wimple, but the dye had run, leaving stains on her cheeks. Her face-paints had smudged, too, making her seem old and tawdry, and her once-fine headdress was sodden into shapelessness.

  ‘They want to cancel The Conversion of the Harlot,’ she informed Michael and Bartholomew, irate, ‘because they think people should concentrate on the flood. But they have worked hard on it, and people deserve entertainment. Besides, I am eager to make the acquaintance of this whore.’

  ‘Postpone, not cancel, Mother,’ said Isabella shortly. ‘It offers a chance for York’s sinners to see the error of their ways, and I would not deprive them of that for the world. However, deferring it until the flood is over is the sensible thing to do.’

  ‘It is,’ agreed Helen. ‘We would never forgive ourselves if we enticed people away for drama, and they returned to find their homes underwater and their children drowned. We are going to tell Abbot Multone of our decision.’

  Isabella shot Bartholomew the same smile that had revealed her beauty the day before. ‘It will still be performed, so you need not worry that
Master Radeford’s suggestions will be wasted. Indeed, we shall dedicate our first performance to him. He will not be forgotten.’

  Bartholomew was touched, and smiled back as both women moved away. Still grumbling, Alice followed. Michael watched them go, hands on his hips.

  ‘You see? Alice is my chief suspect for being a French spy, and here she is encouraging her young friends to stage a play that will distract half of York. Do you think Mayor Longton is right to fear a raid? That this drama is a diversion, and the enemy will use it – or the riot that follows when people learn its title is misleading – to attack the city?’

  ‘If so, then the French have miscalculated,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Because only a fool would put ships on a river that is in full spate. They will be smashed to pieces.’

  ‘They might come by land.’

  ‘You cannot move an army in this weather, Brother. However, I think you are right to be wary of Alice. Langelee vouches for her, but she was one of those who visited the library after Radeford died. Like Myton, her name crops up in dubious circumstances.’

  ‘I asked her about that,’ said Michael, still staring after the women but distantly, as his mind focused on his investigations. ‘She said she went to see whether she could find the codicil on our behalf, but there was something about her reply that made me disinclined to believe it.’

  ‘She is—’ Bartholomew whipped around suddenly when he sensed a presence behind him.

  ‘Do not ogle Lady Helen.’ It was Frost, and he was angry. ‘It is not seemly.’

  ‘Actually, I was looking at Alice,’ retorted Michael, who had also jumped in alarm at the voice so close behind him. ‘Not that it is any of your concern.’

  ‘Lady Helen is my concern,’ said Frost icily. ‘Because we are betrothed.’

  ‘Does she know?’ asked Michael coolly. ‘Or is it something you have decided unilaterally?’

  Suddenly there was a knife in Frost’s hand, although it was held in a way that meant it would not be seen by passers-by, proving he was indeed skilled with weapons and their handling.

  ‘She has agreed,’ he snarled. ‘And if you leer at her again, I will kill you.’

  He shoved past them roughly, causing both to stagger – and as Michael’s bulk meant he was not easily thrown off balance, it underlined the fact that Frost was a very powerful man.

  ‘I do not leer,’ said Michael indignantly, although the henchman was already too far away to hear him. ‘He is confusing me with Langelee.’

  As Bartholomew and Michael walked along Petergate, they found the atmosphere markedly different from when they had arrived. Then the rain had been no more than a nuisance; now, people cast fearful glances at the sky, and gathered on street corners to talk in low, anxious voices.

  The roads were different, too, because the drains that ran along their sides were bloated with swirling brown water, which spilled out of their courses to spread in treacherous ponds. In several places it was ankle deep, and even Michael’s superior footwear failed to prevent his feet from becoming sodden. Bartholomew might as well have been barefoot.

  Although York was generally flat, the minster benefited from being on a rise, and so was drier than those foundations and buildings that bordered the rivers. Even so, the Dean and his canons emerged from a meeting in their chapter house with worried faces.

  ‘We are bracing ourselves for disaster,’ explained Talerand. ‘We do not believe the water will reach us – and if it does, God help the rest of the city – but we are making preparations regardless.’

  ‘How?’ asked Michael.

  ‘By filling sacks with sand to stack against the gates. By assessing our accounts, to see what money is available for repairing damage. And the Archbishop has summoned the heads of the religious houses to a gathering tonight, to devise a coordinated plan to help victims. They have all agreed to come except Holy Trinity. And the Carmelites, of course, but we did not invite them.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘They have a right to be part of it.’

  Talerand shrugged. ‘Habit, I suppose. We always exclude them, lest they find some reason to sue us.’

  ‘But it represents an opportunity for them to reclaim the city’s favour,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘If they are the only Order not helping with the crisis, they will face more trouble than ever later.’

  ‘Never mind them,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘Why did Chozaico decline? He is not a man to refuse comfort to the needy.’

  ‘Because many people believe the French are responsible for this awful weather,’ explained Talerand. ‘So he is naturally keen to maintain a low profile, lest his priory suffers the consequences. I do not blame him. I would do the same myself, were I head of a foundation that is constantly accused of spying.’

  ‘The French do not control the rain!’ said Bartholomew in disgust.

  ‘Of course, but you cannot reason with superstition and bigotry.’ Talerand sighed. ‘However, his help will be missed – especially the supplies of food he keeps in Bestiary Hall – so I shall visit him later, and beg him to change his mind. But I should not burden you with my concerns. How fare your efforts to win Huntington?’

  ‘Badly,’ admitted Michael. He decided to be honest. ‘Radeford found the codicil, but he secreted it away, and we have been unable to discover where.’

  ‘Secreted it away?’ asked Talerand sharply. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because there are those who would rather it remained lost,’ replied Michael shortly. ‘I do not suppose you have any notion of a suitable hiding place, do you?’

  Talerand thought for a moment. ‘Well, if I had to conceal something I would put it in the library, because even if it were in full view, the chances of it being spotted are slim.’

  ‘Will you come with us now, to see if any particular places stand out?’ asked Michael. He saw the Dean about to refuse. ‘Please! I know you are busy, but it will not take a moment. And we would like to win this case, for Radeford’s sake.’

  ‘He was a nice young man,’ acknowledged Talerand. ‘Very well, although I doubt I will be of much use. I am not very good with documents.’

  Neither scholar needed him to tell them that.

  If anything, the library was in a worse state than when they had first seen it, with even more parchments on the floor or stuffed in clumsy handfuls on to the shelves. The many recent visitors had left their mark, particularly Langelee, whom Bartholomew had seen several times flinging documents around as he became increasingly frustrated. Talerand did not seem to notice, though. He folded his arms and looked around carefully, but eventually, he shook his head.

  ‘I cannot help you. As I said yesterday, a lot of people have been in the last few days. First, Fournays wanted a medical text, and was a long time searching for it before admitting defeat—’

  ‘He told us he took one look and decided the task was impossible,’ interrupted Michael.

  ‘Then he is mistaken – he was still here when I returned some time later. Perhaps he just did not want to confess that he had wasted his morning.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Michael, not looking at Bartholomew.

  ‘Then there was Longton, after the mint charter again,’ Talerand went on. ‘And I never did discover why Multone and Oustwyk came, because neither has expressed any interest in my theological collections before. But men change, I suppose …’

  ‘Not in my experience,’ muttered Michael.

  ‘Perhaps they do not want to be seen as lacking when Isabella challenges them on points of doctrine,’ Talerand went on. ‘I know I do not like it. Women should not possess such knowledge, because it makes us men look foolish, and no good can come of that situation.’

  ‘You mentioned the vicars-choral coming, too,’ said Michael, preventing Bartholomew from pointing out that if Talerand wanted to compete with Isabella, then he should start honing his mind.

  ‘Yes, with Dalfeld, even though it was dark and they had to use candles. Prioress Alice appeared, too, although I di
slike letting her in, because she does not know how to care for books.’

  ‘Unlike you,’ muttered Bartholomew, looking around pointedly. ‘What did she want?’

  ‘She did not say. But wait!’ Talerand stabbed a plump finger suddenly at a table that had been placed under a window to catch the meagre light that filtered through it. ‘That desk is different from the others.’

  ‘It is?’ asked Michael doubtfully.

  ‘Yes – it is neater. Someone has tidied it, perhaps as a place to work.’

  ‘I wonder if that is where Radeford found the codicil.’ Bartholomew crouched to look beneath it. ‘He told us that particular document was in plain view on a carrel, and could not understand why no one had noticed it before. Oh! Here is the charter for the mint. It had fallen behind—’

  Talerand snatched it. ‘At last! The Mayor will be delighted, and so will the Archbishop. Do you mind if I claim credit? I am rather tired of people accusing me of not knowing where anything is.’

  Michael began to sift through the piles of parchments on the desk, although his disgruntled expression showed he was having no success. Bartholomew stayed kneeling, sorting through the hectic muddle below.

  ‘Tell us again what happened the day Radeford died,’ said Michael, as they worked. ‘You said he was here alone the whole time, and that the only other visitors came after he had left.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Talerand. ‘The poor boy laboured furiously, and even refused my offer of bread and cheese in the deanery. The only time he left was late afternoon, but he cannot have been gone many moments, because I looked in again shortly afterwards, and he was back at work.’

  Bartholomew frowned. ‘But he told us he did not leave at all.’

  ‘Perhaps he forgot,’ said Talerand. ‘His hood was up, and he ignored me, which was rude. That is why I remember – such churlishness was unlike him.’

  ‘You did not mention this before,’ said Michael accusingly.