Mystery in the Minster (17 page)

‘I am not in my cups,’ said Bartholomew.

Fournays smiled. ‘So I see, which is unusual for a physician. In my experience, they are partial to a tipple, although I find it impairs my ability to stitch. As a consequence, I never touch strong wine.’

Bartholomew’s consumption had also decreased in the last few months, because patients summoned him at all hours of the day and night, which meant he was obliged to remain permanently sober. He tried to recall the last time he had been even remotely tipsy, but could not do it. Grudgingly, he admitted to himself again that Langelee had probably been right to force him to relax by dragging him away from his duties.

‘Why did you recommend that Cotyngham was to have no visitors?’ he asked, as he rowed. ‘I usually urge friends and family to spend as much time as possible with patients in cases like his.’

Fournays shrugged. ‘I thought he would benefit more from solitude, and I was told about a similar case in which isolation resulted in a cure.’

‘You were only told? You did not witness it yourself?’ Bartholomew was unimpressed, thinking
he
would never have imposed such a draconian regime on a client based on hearsay.

‘By Marmaduke, whose uncle had displayed exactly the same symptoms as Cotyngham, but who was cured after several weeks of rest and peace.’

‘Perhaps so, but I am not sure it is the best course of treatment here,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘When I examined Cotyngham, there were odd symptoms that—’

‘Stayndrop let you in?’ Fournays was angry. ‘After I expressly ordered that no one should be admitted except myself and the infirmarian?’

‘He was concerned that your regimen was not working.’

‘It
is
working,’ said Fournays irritably. ‘Cotyngham is much calmer now than when I first examined him. I hope you have not undone all the progress he has made. Besides, I calculated a horoscope for him two weeks ago, and his stars say that my remedy is the right one.’

‘A horoscope?’ asked Bartholomew sceptically. He placed scant faith in what the heavens portended, despite the fact that astrology was generally considered to be one of the most powerful weapons in a physician’s arsenal. He was unusual in that he rarely used it, only obliging when one of his wealthier patients insisted and he needed the money.

Fournays shot him a lopsided grin. ‘We are a fine pair, you and me. You dabble in surgery, which is my domain, while I impinge on yours by consulting the celestial bodies.’

‘Did you know Cotyngham well?’ asked Bartholomew, smiling back and glad Fournays was disinclined to argue.

‘I did not know him at all,’ replied Fournays. ‘Although everyone says he was generous, honest, compassionate and intelligent.’ He sighed. ‘It seems not even innate decency is a defence against an injurious softening of the brain. Still, I suppose God knows what He is doing.’

As such ailments were generally a mystery to Bartholomew – and he was sure a surgeon would not be much better informed – he decided it would be prudent to let the matter drop. He concentrated on navigating the boat through a series of islets. Then they reached the corpse, and the attention of both men was taken up with pulling it into the little craft without causing it to capsize.

While Bartholomew was gone, Michael took the opportun ity to move among the spectators, asking questions about Cotyngham, Huntington and the attempted murder of Sir William. There were plenty of onlookers to choose from, including Benedictines and officials from the minster, but although most held opinions, none had much in the way of solid evidence.

‘I wish I could help, Brother,’ said Prior Chozaico apologetically. ‘But I have no idea who might want to harm Sir William
or
why Cotyngham became ill. He was well enough when I last saw him, which was perhaps six weeks ago. I happened to pass his cottage when I was out inspecting one of our farms, and he invited me in for warmed wine.’

‘And he seemed normal to you?’ pressed Michael. ‘No signs of poor health?’

‘None at all. He was as hale and hearty as you are.’

‘And as regards Sir William, I assumed the arrow was meant for one of you scholars,’ added Anketil. ‘I imagine a death in your party would encourage the rest of you to run for home.’

‘That suggests you believe a vicar is responsible,’ pounced Michael.

Anketil shrugged. ‘They stand to lose a church if you win your claim.’

‘We have been told to ask whether you saw Zouche destroy the old codicil – the one that left Huntington to the vicars,’ said Michael. ‘Zouche told Prior Penterel that he had done it, but there were no witnesses to the discussion.’

‘Zouche told me he had burned it, too,’ replied Anketil. ‘And that he planned to make another favouring Michaelhouse within the week. Unfortunately, no one was witness to my conversation, either. I wish I could help, Brother, I really do. Zouche was a dear friend, and there is nothing I would like more than for Huntington to go where he intended.’

Michael grimaced. Wishes would not help, no matter how fervent and well meaning.

‘However, I shall hunt out all the documents I kept pertaining to Zouche’s will,’ Anketil went on. ‘Do not be too hopeful, though, because I doubt they will be of much use to you. But it may be worth a try.’

It might, and Michael was grateful. He was about to say so, but the crowd began to press around them with distinct menace, and the word ‘spies’ could be heard. Chozaico bowed briefly, and muttered that he was required to be elsewhere, but Anketil lingered, attempting to render himself incognito by raising his hood. He went to stand with Marmaduke, who was also watching the proceedings; people seemed less inclined to hound him with the squat ex-priest scowling at his side.

Next, Michael walked towards a group of vicars-choral. They were watching from the bridge, unwilling to spoil their fine footwear in the mud of the pond’s shore.

‘Of course we are aware of Cotyngham’s indisposition,’ said Ellis, while his colleagues nodded agreement. ‘Although we do not know precisely what ails him. However, we suspect it is an affliction of the mind,
because otherwise Stayndrop would have provided more detail.’

‘We had nothing to do with it, though,’ stated Cave, his small eyes cold and hard. ‘And anyone who says we did is a liar.’

‘It had not occurred to me to think it might,’ lied Michael. ‘Although your raising of the subject is certainly enlightening.’

‘God’s nails!’ swore Ellis suddenly, before Cave could respond. ‘The Carmelites are coming this way, and I have not forgiven them yet for taking us to court for stealing their topsoil.’

‘Did you steal their topsoil?’ asked Michael.

‘No,’ snapped Ellis, backing away hastily, Cave hot on his heels. Jafford lingered to elaborate, his expression sheepish and his fair curls sodden around his angelic face.

‘Well, it went from their garden to ours, but “steal” is too strong a word. We offered to pay.’

When Jafford had hurried after his fellows, Michael tried to speak to the Carmelites, intending to resume the discussion that had been interrupted earlier, but the mud-lobbing potter reappeared, and they made themselves scarce when several white habits were spoiled by his missiles.

‘Personally, I suspect
they
shot Sir William.’ Michael jumped: he had not known Oustwyk was behind him. ‘And I am sure they are in league with the French spies. Them
and
Chozaico.’

‘You cannot believe that,’ said Michael coolly. He did not like the steward’s spiteful tongue. ‘Chozaico is a fellow Benedictine.’

‘So what?’ demanded Oustwyk. ‘Not everyone who wears a black habit is decent. Of course, I suspect Dalfeld of sly dealings, too. He always appears when there is evil afoot.
Look – there he is now, rubbing his hands over the prospect of a corpse, like a ghoul.’

Michael supposed Dalfeld’s interest in the body was distastefully salacious, but before he could approach the lawyer and challenge him about it, Lady Helen appeared, riding over the bridge with a party of horsemen. She reined in to see what was happening, and Frost, who was behind her, dismounted to take her bridle. Michael grabbed it first, and the pony snickered its appreciation when he rubbed its nose: the monk had a way with horses. Helen smiled at this unanticipated talent, while Frost scowled jealously. She ignored him, and asked Michael what was going on.

‘A body,’ he explained. ‘Matt and Surgeon Fournays have gone to retrieve it.’

‘Who is it?’ she cried in dismay.

‘He cannot know that yet, Helen – the boat has not yet touched the shore,’ replied the tall, handsome man who rode at her side. He inclined his head in a bow when Michael regarded him questioningly. ‘I am John Gisbyrn. I am sorry I missed you expounding on the French earlier, but Helen had already engaged me for something else.’

‘I asked him to go with me to the suburb we call Walmgate,’ explained Helen. ‘I lost a pig a few weeks ago, and as it is one I am fond of, we went to see whether we could find it.’

It occurred to Michael that the animal might have wandered into St Mary ad Valvas, where it was responsible for a good deal of the reek. However, he did not want a woman he admired to see him as the bearer of bad news, so he restricted himself to a sympathetic smile.

‘I would have accompanied you, Helen,’ said Frost, shooting Gisbyrn a look that was full of jealous resentment. ‘Indeed, I came to help as soon as I had finished in the abbey.’

‘Yes,’ said Helen impatiently. Then she seemed to realise
this was rude, and forced a smile. Frost flushed almost as deep a red as his hair, and Michael did not think he had ever seen a man more obviously smitten.

‘How is Sir William?’ asked Gisbyrn, whose eyes were fixed on the boat and its grim cargo. ‘He might be kin to the reprehensible Longton, but I admire him even so. He is a good man, and I hope whoever shot him is brought to justice.’

‘There are those who say it was you,’ said Michael. He glanced at Frost. ‘Or your associates.’

‘I know,’ sighed Gisbyrn. ‘But I can assure you that we had nothing to do with it.’

It was not the most vigorous denial Michael had ever heard, but Gisbyrn made no effort to add more. He kicked his horse into a trot, and directed it to where Bartholomew was beginning to manoeuvre the boat through the reeds at the side of the pond. Helen lingered to ask about progress with Huntington, Frost a looming and unwelcome presence at her side.

‘Cotyngham is
still
witless?’ she breathed in horror, when the monk had provided her with an account of the hapless priest’s condition. ‘Isabella told me he was so when she found him wandering on Petergate, but that was a month ago, and I did not know the condition had persisted. No wonder the Franciscans never let anyone see him! I tried, because I admire his generosity of spirit. He is a lovely—’

‘The boat has arrived,’ interrupted Frost, seething with jealousy at the informal way in which she had engaged the monk in conversation. ‘Now we shall know the victim’s identity.’

Michael turned to see Bartholomew and Fournays lift the body, and lay it on the shore. Its head was plastered in mud, which Fournays began to rinse with water. Gradually, a face emerged.

‘It is Roger!’ cried Gisbyrn, looking down from his horse in horror. ‘My fellow merchant!’

‘Zouche’s brother and another of his executors,’ murmured Michael to himself. ‘And the seventh of them to die.’

For a moment, no one spoke, then there was a clamour of questions. Bartholomew listened with half an ear, but was more interested in watching how Fournays examined Roger’s body. The surgeon’s movements were practised and competent, indicating it was something he had done often before.

‘He drowned,’ Fournays announced at last. He gestured at the water. ‘The mere is flooded, so he must have lost his balance and tumbled in.’

‘He could swim,’ said Anketil tightly. He was standing oddly close to Marmaduke, as if to express solidarity with the only other living executor. They formed an odd pair, one tall, slim and fair, and the other short, broad and swarthy. ‘Zouche taught him when they were children. Roger would not have drowned.’

‘He might if he were in his cups,’ said Dalfeld slyly. He glanced at Gisbyrn. ‘I know he professed to be sober and hard-working, but he did like his claret.’

‘Nonsense!’ snapped Gisbyrn. ‘You are maligning a man who cannot defend himself, and your behaviour is reprehensible. You will watch your tongue or I shall not hire your services again, and neither will any other merchant.’

A number of well-dressed men in the crowd looked alarmed by this prospect, suggesting Dalfeld’s dubious talents would be missed. Meanwhile, the expression on Dalfeld’s face was murderous.

‘I may not choose to work for you again,’ he replied coldly. ‘I can easily confine myself to Archbishop Thoresby. Or, better yet, to Mayor Longton and his friends.’

‘As you please,’ said Gisbyrn, equally icy. ‘However, bear in mind that neither the Church nor the city are noted for the prompt settling of their bills. Your pampered existence will be in grave danger.’

When he saw his ploy to manipulate Gisbyrn into apologising had failed, Dalfeld became oily. ‘Why are we exchanging bitter words? It must be the shock of seeing poor Roger in such dreadful circumstances. I know I am terribly distressed.’