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

by Gregory, Susanna

  Talerand shrugged. ‘You did not ask.’

  ‘It was not Radeford you saw, it was his killer,’ said Bartholomew, sitting back on his heels. ‘You are right: Radeford would not have snubbed you. We wondered how he had come to swallow poison, and now we know – someone came here in the late afternoon and gave it to him.’

  ‘And then donned a hooded cloak, and slunk away,’ finished Michael.

  Talerand gaped in horror. ‘The killer? You mean Radeford was murdered here, in my library? But that is a terrible crime, and we shall have to resanctify—’

  ‘It is a terrible crime,’ interrupted Michael briskly. ‘But you can help us to solve it by answering more questions. What can you tell us about this hooded figure?’

  ‘He carried a sack,’ said Talerand, white-faced.

  ‘Containing the toxin,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘Whoever it was must have taken Radeford something to eat or drink, as an apparent act of kindness. What else?’

  Talerand screwed shut his eyes to think. ‘Like Radeford, he was of average height and build …’

  ‘Not Cave then,’ said Michael. ‘Could it have been Dalfeld?’

  Talerand gulped audibly. ‘Yes, I suppose it might. However, it could also have been any of the people we have just been discussing – Multone, Oustwyk, Longton, Fournays, another vicar. Not Alice, though; she is too short.’

  ‘These are your suspects?’ asked Michael keenly.

  ‘No!’ squeaked Talerand. ‘That is not what I meant! I mentioned them only to demonstrate how it would be impossible to identify the culprit from my glimpse of this cloak-swathed person.’

  He became unsteady on his feet, apparently overwhelmed by the notion that such wickedness had been committed in his domain. Bartholomew poured a measure of the medicinal wine he carried for emergencies, but Talerand pushed it away, declaring that he would never drink anything in the minster again. However, when he was calm enough to answer more questions, it quickly became apparent that he had no more to add. The incident had happened days ago, and there had been nothing sufficiently unusual to allow it to stick in his mind.

  ‘We would also like to ask you about Zouche’s chantry,’ said Bartholomew. ‘About when you discovered that the money had run out.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Talerand in confusion. ‘What does—’

  ‘You saw Christopher near it the night before.’ Michael cut across him. ‘I know these appear to be strange questions, but I assure you, we would not ask them if they were not important.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Talerand unhappily. ‘However, it was five years ago, so forgive me if my memory is hazy. I was in here, working probably, when I heard a sound from the treasury. It was late, so I went to investigate.’

  ‘You were not afraid?’ asked Michael.

  Talerand regarded him askance. ‘Of course I was afraid! It was nearing midnight, and the minster was all but deserted. But I have a responsibility to investigate odd noises at a time when all should be silent, so I went to do it. I found Christopher in the treasury, on his knees in front of Zouche’s rosewood chantry box. He was weeping in the most pitiful manner.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Nothing,’ replied Talerand. ‘He was friends with Zouche, and I am not a man to intrude on another’s private grief. I left him alone to mourn. Then, the following day, I discovered the chantry fund was dry, although I suspect it had actually been so for weeks. The executors rarely checked it.’

  ‘Do you think Christopher stole some of it?’ asked Bartholomew.

  Talerand was shocked. ‘No, of course not! However, I did ask him whether the box was empty when he had been with it the previous night.’

  ‘And?’ promoted Michael.

  ‘And he denied being in the treasury at all. It was a lie, but I could hardly say so. I tried pressing him further, but he was adamant. However, his eyes were red, so he had been weeping.’

  ‘Perhaps his grief was because he knew the chantry would never be finished,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘He had failed to do what Zouche had asked.’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Talerand. ‘But why not say so? Of course, it could have been because Dalfeld was listening when we had this discussion, and no one likes to say too much in front of him.’

  ‘Dalfeld?’ asked Michael sharply. ‘What was he doing there?’

  ‘It is too long ago, and I cannot recall. But he often appears in unexpected places. It is what has allowed him to become so powerful – watching the rest of us hurry about our insignificant lives.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Michael. ‘We shall speak to Dalfeld and Anketil this morning. And then we shall return here and resume our search for the codicil, because I feel in my bones that it is hidden near that carrel. We will have it – we must, for Radeford’s sake.’

  * * *

  Bartholomew argued for tackling Dalfeld first, because he was growing increasingly convinced that the lawyer had killed Radeford – Dalfeld was determined to win Huntington for the vicars, and there was plenty of evidence that he was ruthless. And even if the lawyer transpired to be innocent of that particular crime, there was always the possibility that he knew more than Talerand about Christopher’s odd behaviour, and might be willing to trade information.

  ‘Trade with what?’ demanded Michael. ‘We do not have the resources to bribe him.’

  ‘We have Huntington,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘He works for the vicars-choral, and will be able to claim a handsome fee if he can tell them he has won the case.’

  Michael gaped at him. ‘You want to bargain with Huntington? That price is rather too high!’

  ‘Not if we learn who killed Radeford.’

  Michael blew out his cheeks in a sigh. ‘We can try I suppose, although Langelee will be livid.’ Then a crafty expression suffused his face. ‘Of course, you can always do the negotiating, then we can later say that you did not have the authority to do it, thus voiding any agreement you make. No, do not look shocked, Matt, it is the way lawyers work. Dalfeld will be used to it.’

  As they left, they saw the minster was busier than ever, although not with the clamour of obits. People were flocking to the city’s grandest church in the hope that prayers said there would avert the looming disaster. There was also a growing number of refugees from the outlying villages, all carrying pitiful tales of lost homes, drowned livestock and destroyed crops. The vicars moved among them, offering comfort and dry blankets, and directing them to corners of the minster where they might rest until the waters receded.

  ‘Dalfeld is not our only suspect for killing Radeford,’ said Michael, as they hurried towards the Ouse Bridge. ‘Fournays lied about the time he spent in the library, and he is a surgeon with a herbarium that boasts any number of poisonous plants.’

  ‘Fournays is not a murderer,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘He is a healer, who—’

  Michael raised his hand. ‘I disagree. Personally, I believe he murdered Radeford, perhaps by encouraging him to drink a tonic that promised a sharper mind or some such nonsense, and then he returned to the scene of his crime, to ensure he had left no clues.’

  ‘According to Talerand, he stayed some time. It would not have taken long to eliminate clues.’

  ‘It might, if he was being careful,’ Michael flashed back. ‘And he will remain on my list until he is eliminated to my satisfaction. Along with the vicars-choral.’

  ‘And Abbot Multone,’ added Bartholomew. ‘I think it is odd that he and his steward should just happen to come here for a book this week, when neither has done anything like it before. And they have been suspiciously interested in our progress ever since we arrived.’

  ‘Very well,’ conceded Michael. ‘We shall include them, too. What about the others Talerand says visited? Longton and Alice?’

  ‘Yes, them, too.’ Bartholomew hesitated. ‘And Talerand himself.’

  Michael nodded slowly. ‘I agree: it is suspicious that he should remember “Radeford” leaving the library now, when he did not ment
ion it before. Also, do you recall his peculiar reaction when we asked him and the Archbishop about the strange deaths of Zouche’s executors?’

  ‘He virtually ran away from the discussion,’ recalled Bartholomew. ‘Using the donkey as an excuse.’

  ‘Moreover, as Langelee pointed out, his bumbling amiability must be a ruse – if he were really inept, he could not rule a busy minster or see off rivals determined to be Dean in his stead.’

  Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘He seems helpful, but no one has actually succeeded in achieving anything in the library. I wonder whether the Archbishop will ever see that charter. It would not surprise me if it went missing again.’

  ‘Do you think Talerand deranged, then?’ asked Michael uneasily.

  ‘It is possible. And he killed Radeford in revenge for drawing order out of chaos. Is that Marmaduke over there? What is he doing?’

  The squat ex-priest was scuttling around St Sampson’s Church with the reliquary containing the saint’s toe tucked under his arm. He was red-faced, staggering and breathless.

  ‘Rain fell for forty days and forty nights before Noah’s flood,’ he gasped. ‘So I have offered to run around the church forty times if Sampson will save York from disaster. I have another seven to go. Or is it eight? I am rather dizzy.’

  ‘Rest for a few moments, then,’ advised Michael. ‘I am sure the saint will not mind.’

  Relieved, Marmaduke started to pass the reliquary to Bartholomew while he wiped the sweat from his face, but then changed his mind and gave it to the monk instead.

  ‘Sampson does not like you, Doctor,’ he said sternly. ‘He knows you have not prayed to him as you promised. Indeed, perhaps that is why it is raining so hard.’

  ‘I did not promise,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘It was—’

  ‘Christopher Malore,’ said Michael, cutting across him and addressing the ex-priest. ‘One of your fellow executors. What kind of man was he?’

  Marmaduke’s eyebrows shot into his hair. ‘He is dead, Brother. I do not speak ill of the dead.’

  ‘So he was a rogue,’ surmised Michael. ‘Could he have stolen the chantry fund?’

  ‘No one stole it!’ cried Marmaduke, shocked. ‘We would have noticed that! It just trickled away because we failed to monitor it properly. And Christopher was not a rogue – he was just more interested in his own soul than anyone else’s. But why ask about him? He died years ago.’

  ‘He was discovered weeping over Zouche’s chantry box the day before it was announced that the fund was dry,’ explained Michael. ‘And then denied being there. Do you know why?’

  Marmaduke shook his head. ‘No, but I doubt it had anything to do with theft. He was not dishonest, just rather selfishly pious.’

  ‘What about Myton?’ asked Michael. ‘Was he selfishly pious, too? Is that why he reported you to the Archbishop for selling false relics?’

  Marmaduke flinched. ‘I have already told you that is personal. I do not choose to discuss it.’

  ‘I am sure it is painful for you,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘And we have been told that Myton was wrong to have taken the matter to Thoresby when it could have been handled discreetly. Especially as you were trying to raise funds for Zouche, not for yourself.’

  Marmaduke’s eyes filled with tears. ‘It was a terrible time. Cotyngham, Sir William and Lady Helen were kind, but I was shunned by others I thought were friends. And Myton …’

  ‘Yes?’ asked Michael.

  ‘I think my punishment hurt him as much as me, because he was never the same afterwards, and Fournays said it played on his conscience. I never blamed him, though; it was my own fault.’

  ‘You bore him no grudge?’ asked Michael sceptically.

  Marmaduke grimaced. ‘Briefly perhaps, but the crime was mine, and he only did what he thought was right. But he is dead now, and I hope his obits will see him out of Purgatory soon. And speaking of religion, I had better resume my penance, or the river will be through these church doors before the end of the day.’

  The Ouse Bridge was pandemonium, with some people pouring towards the sanctuary represented by the minster and priories, and others just as eager to escape from the crowded city. Hence the structure was packed with carts, horses and pedestrians, and panic and uncertainty made tempers wear thin as the twin flows of traffic battled against each other.

  When Bartholomew and Michael knocked at Dalfeld’s door, his servant told them that Warden Stayndrop had issued an urgent summons to all York’s Franciscans, ordering them back to the friary to help with the impending crisis. With a smug smirk, the man said that Dalfeld had not been pleased to be included in the general recall, but declining to obey had not been an option. Stifling sighs of exasperation, Bartholomew and Michael began to hurry there.

  They were still on the bridge when they saw Anketil, his cowl pulled low to avoid recognition. He jumped in alarm when Michael touched his arm.

  ‘Oh, it is you, Brother,’ he said, recognising the monk in relief. ‘I thought it was someone else wanting to blame Holy Trinity for the storms.’

  When he pulled them into a doorway so that they could speak without being trampled, they saw he sported a black eye.

  ‘Someone struck you?’ asked Michael, concerned.

  Anketil shook his head. ‘A stone was lobbed over our wall, and it was simple bad luck that it found its mark. However, it has made my brethren wary of going out.’

  ‘But not you?’ asked Bartholomew. Anketil was indistinguishable from other Benedictines in his black habit, but a random gust could easily blow back his hood to reveal his face.

  Anketil grimaced. ‘Prior Chozaico is urged to attend a conference in the minster, and I am sent to inform the Dean that he will not be going. They will vote to open the gates of all religious houses to refugees, but we cannot oblige – people would use the opportunity to attack us.’

  ‘Your refusal to help will be noted,’ warned Michael. ‘People will be even more convinced that you have something to hide.’

  Anketil smiled wanly. ‘Better that than inevitable destruction. However, standing here speaking French is not a good idea, because passers-by are glaring at us.’

  Uneasily, Bartholomew saw it was true, and suspected it was only because people were in a hurry that they did not stop to express their suspicions with their fists.

  ‘Just one more question,’ said Michael, reaching out to catch Anketil’s sleeve. ‘Your brother was seen weeping in the treasury the night before Zouche’s chantry fund was declared empty.’

  ‘Yes,’ nodded Anketil. ‘He told me. I have already confessed that we allowed the money to trickle away due to poor supervision, and he was the one who discovered it had gone. The Dean claimed it was him, but it was actually Christopher. He wanted to tell the other executors before making it public, but Talerand pre-empted him.’

  ‘Then why did he deny being in the treasury when Talerand asked him about it the next day?’ demanded Michael.

  ‘He did not deny anything,’ said Anketil, puzzled. ‘Talerand must have misunderstood.’

  ‘Do you think he stole it?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘No,’ replied Anketil. Then his expression became pained. ‘Although the fund represented a substantial sum of money, and the minster is notorious for being in constant need of cash. It is possible that Talerand … borrowed the odd shilling, although, if he did, I do not see why he was the one to announce that the box was empty. I imagine he would have distanced himself.’

  ‘Actually, I think Matt meant Christopher,’ said Michael. ‘Did Christopher steal the money?’

  Anketil gaped at him. ‘No, of course not! He was a monk.’

  So was Anketil, and as his habit was of far better quality than any clothes Bartholomew owned, and his pectoral cross alone would have kept Cambridge’s poor in medicine for a month, the physician felt he had the right to treat him to a disbelieving glance.

  Anketil saw it, and hastened to convince him. ‘Christopher was not interested in mon
ey, and if you do not believe me, ask Abbot Multone. He made a will, bequeathing all his property to our Order, but it comprised two books and a pair of sandals. And that is all. He was not a worldly man.’

  ‘How long after this discovery did he die?’ asked Bartholomew, not sure what to think.

  ‘A few days. Why? Surely you cannot believe the two are connected? Christopher died of a debility, something which Fournays says can strike at anyone. His death had nothing to do with that wretched chantry money. Besides, Talerand says the box might have been empty for weeks before he and Christopher discovered—’

  ‘Wretched chantry money?’ interrupted Michael sharply.

  Anketil winced at the slip, but began to explain. ‘It was a millstone, Brother, and although Christopher was distressed to learn it had gone, I was relieved. It was an unreasonable responsibility, and Zouche should have paid a clerk to monitor progress, not relied on his busy friends. If I had known what a burden it would be, I would have refused his request.’

  ‘Did all the executors think like you?’ asked Bartholomew.

  Anketil closed his eyes. ‘Some did. Not Christopher, Marmaduke and Neville, though. My brother and Neville were always writing to each other about the chantry and its problems.’

  ‘Those letters are in the minster library,’ said Michael. ‘Radeford found them.’

  Anketil nodded. ‘Yes, I imagine Multone would have passed them to Talerand after Christopher’s death. But I cannot stand here chatting. Prior Chozaico will be worried, and may venture out to look for me himself. I do not want him in needless danger.’

  He pulled his cowl further over his head and slipped away, although there was something in his gait that caused an apprentice to grab some dung from the road and lob it. It hit a woman instead, and Anketil took advantage of the resulting melee to escape.

  Bartholomew and Michael arrived at the Franciscan Priory to find it in the grip of frenzied activity. Friars were running everywhere with sandbags, and as it was a time when they should be saying sext, it was another example of the general alarm. Mardisley came to greet them.

  ‘Where is Jorden?’ asked Bartholomew. It was the first time he had seen one without the other.