Mystery in the Minster (22 page)

‘Those tales are vicious lies,’ said Langelee shortly. ‘Fournays examined Myton’s body, and states quite categorically that there was no evidence of foul play. I imagine the tale was started by someone like Dalfeld, for no purpose other than malice.’

‘It seems to me that Zouche’s death has caused problems for all manner of people,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘His executors neglected to finish his chantry, so must live with the guilt of failing him; it led Marmaduke to raise money by dubious means, resulting in his expulsion from the Church; it dragged us away from Cambridge to secure a benefaction, and now Radeford is dead …’ He trailed off unhappily.

‘And Zouche’s death caused me to leave York,’ finished Langelee. ‘I would have stayed had he not died and left me with a master who is not his equal.’

They soon reached the wooden bridge that spanned the churning Foss. It creaked ominously as the water hurtled past, and Bartholomew thought Oustwyk was right in refusing to brave it.

‘Cynric can stay here with the horses,’ determined Langelee. ‘We cannot risk them.’

‘What about the risk to Doctor Bartholomew?’ asked Cynric indignantly. ‘Surely he is worth more than a winded nag?’

‘There is not much to choose between them, Cynric,’ replied Langelee mildly. ‘Although I was actually thinking of the danger posed by their added weight. But we shall run across the bridge, so it does not have time to think about collapsing. Follow me, Bartholomew.’

He had dismounted and raced to the opposite bank before Bartholomew could point out the flaws in his argument. With no choice, the physician did likewise. Cynric, unwilling to waste his time, tethered the horses in a thicket, and disappeared towards the village, calling as he went that he would make some enquiries of his own. If he heard Langelee’s irritable yell that it was not a good idea to leave horses unattended, he paid it no heed.

The two scholars walked in silence, the only sounds being the occasional trill of a robin, the patter of rain on leaves and the squelch of mud. It was not many moments before they reached the church, a half-derelict building set in a grove of oaks. There was a tiny cottage nearby, its vaguely abandoned air suggesting it had been Cotyngham’s. Several more shacks stood behind it.

‘It represents employment for one of our student-priests, and the chance of income for the College,’ said Langelee, more to himself than Bartholomew. ‘We are not so wealthy that we can pick and choose. Although I
was
hoping for something a little grander …’

‘We were warned,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Cave said it was poor.’

Langelee looked around disparagingly. ‘“Poor” does not come close to describing it! I never had cause to visit when I worked for Zouche. Now I see why: there is nothing here. However, I remember Cotyngham being pleased when Zouche arranged for him to have it after he lost his St Mary ad Valvas congregation. Perhaps he was mad even then.’

‘I imagine it is pretty in summer, and the duties cannot be taxing. Zouche was kind to have found such a refuge for a grief-stricken man.’

‘Zouche was compassionate,’ said Langelee sadly. ‘It was one of his greatest failings.’

They entered the church, to find it dark, damp and plain. There had once been paintings on the walls, but these had long since peeled away, and the beaten-earth floor was sticky from the leaking roof. But there were flowers and a clean cloth on the altar, and someone had trimmed the candles. The place might be poor, but it was loved.

They had not been there long before the door opened, and several people entered. All had tied oiled cloths around their heads and shoulders as protection against the weather.

‘Cambridge,’ said one, and spat, which told the scholars all they needed to know about what
he
thought of men from distant towns who came to claim his church.

‘Yes,’ replied Langelee with a scowl that was equally unfriendly. ‘We came to see if anyone can tell us what happened to Cotyngham.’

‘And to look at what you think should be yours,’ countered the man resentfully.

‘Would you rather have the vicars-choral, then?’ asked Langelee archly. ‘Ellis and Cave?’

The man spat again. ‘Vultures! They came here, you know. A few days before poor Father Cotyngham was taken ill.’

‘What did they do?’

‘Exactly what you are doing – nosing around.’

‘Did they talk to Cotyngham?’

‘Of course. They spent a long time in his house together.’

‘Did he have visitors after that?’

The man shrugged. ‘Maybe he did, and maybe he didn’t. We were out in the fields, because the weather was good then, and we could plant.’

‘But you saw Ellis and Cave?’ pressed Langelee.

‘Yes. Do you want to inspect the house, too? I imagine your shabby companion is eager to know where he will live when he takes up his duties as our vicar.’

He pointed at Bartholomew, who supposed the miserable weather had taken its toll on his once-fine tunic and warm winter cloak. He would not have said he was shabby, though.

‘I will not be your priest,’ he replied, offended. ‘I am a physician.’

The man’s eyes widened in disbelief. ‘A physician? Prove it. Give me a remedy for something.’

‘Anything in particular?’ asked Bartholomew coolly, aware that Langelee was smirking.

The man considered carefully, while his friends murmured suggestions in his ear. ‘Chilblains,’ he said eventually. ‘Cure my chilblains.’

Chilblains were a common complaint at Michaelhouse, where feet were often cold and shoes rarely had the chance to dry, so Bartholomew had had plenty of opportunity to develop lotions that worked. He removed a pot from his bag, and indicated that the man was to sit. While he worked, the atmosphere began to thaw, and the fellow he was tending said his name was John Keysmaby.

‘We liked Cotyngham,’ he said. ‘Our church is poor so did not provide him with much money, but what he had he gave away. He is generous and kind, and we are sorry he is unwell.’

‘Do you know what happened?’ asked Bartholomew.

Keysmaby shook his head. ‘After the vicars-choral left, he kept to his house. A few mornings later, we found the door open and him gone. A week after that, Prior Stayndrop sent a pair of quarrelling friars to tell us he would not be coming back. Is it true? Can he not be cured?’

‘I do not know,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps in time.’

‘But even if he does rally, Prior Stayndrop told us he would keep him in York,’ said Keysmaby sadly. ‘We did not even have a chance to say goodbye.’

When Bartholomew had finished with the chilblains, he and Langelee were conducted to the little priest’s house. Cotyngham had lived a simple life, and had owned virtually nothing in the way of property, although there were two scrolls on a shelf above the hearth. Bartholomew took them down, while Langelee poked about behind the bed and under the table.

‘He was given those by Archbishop Zouche,’ said Keysmaby, nodding at the scrolls.

They were compilations of theological debates, and when he started to read, Bartholomew discovered that they had been written by Jorden and Mardisley. Cotyngham had made copious notes in the margins, and it was clear he had enjoyed studying them.

‘The quarrelling priests had invited him to York, to join in one of their rows,’ said Keysmaby. He shook his head, obviously unable to see the appeal. ‘He was actually looking forward to it. Incidentally, we cleaned the house after he left. It was a bit smelly, and we wanted it nice for him when
he came back. So we came in and scrubbed it from top to bottom.’

‘That was kind,’ said Bartholomew, supposing there was no point examining the place for evidence of a struggle now. ‘I do not suppose you found any documents, did you?’

Keysmaby shook his head. ‘And we did not find the church silver, either. He must have taken it with him when he went to York.’

‘Or the vicars stole it when they visited,’ said Langelee, as he and Bartholomew walked back to the bridge. ‘It seems to me that
they
might have driven him mad, perhaps by saying or doing something to frighten him out of his wits.’

‘It is possible,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘But Keysmaby and his friends were in the fields, so did not see whether anyone else came, too. You cannot prove the vicars are responsible.’

‘And you cannot prove they were not,’ countered Langelee. He waved something. ‘Besides, I found this – part of a lace from a shoe. And we all know the vicars have a penchant for nice footwear.’

It was a short leather cord, one that was an unusual shade of gold and frayed at one end. It was distinctive, and Bartholomew imagined it would not be difficult to identify its owner.

‘Unfortunately, it proves nothing except that they were here,’ he said. ‘And that has never been contested.’

Langelee looked triumphant. ‘Yes, but they should not have been climbing around in the chimney, which is where I found it. Clearly, they searched his house, probably to see whether he had a copy of the codicil. Perhaps
that
is what sent him mad – their audacity.’

It had stopped raining by the time they reached the bridge, where Cynric was waiting. Dalfeld, Oustwyk and
Marmaduke were not, so the return journey was rather more pleasant than the outward one. Ruefully, Cynric reported that he had learned nothing from the village, other than that Dalfeld and Oustwyk had been received politely but warily, while Marmaduke had been greeted with open delight.

By the time they reached York it was afternoon, and the streets were too crowded for riding. They dismounted and left Cynric to deal with the horses, while they went to collect Michael from the library. They did not need to ask whether the monk had met with any success, because his face was bleak and unhappy.

‘I do not know how Radeford survived all those hours there yesterday,’ he said, rubbing his eyes. ‘I am in desperate need of fresh air. Walk outside with me for a few moments and tell me what happened at Huntington. Then we shall all return here, and continue the search.’

Bartholomew furnished him with a concise account of their journey, but the monk was unimpressed and declared it a waste of time. Langelee argued that the lace comprised an important clue that would allow them to visit the vicars-choral at their lair the following day. Michael disagreed, and they were still arguing when they passed St Mary ad Valvas. Langelee hesitated for a moment, then led the way towards it. He picked the lock with consummate ease again, and stepped inside. It was more dank and dismal than ever, and the chancel with its plague-dead mound was decidedly sinister in the half-light.

‘Lady Helen said this place is cursed,’ Langelee looked around in distaste. ‘And so have others. Do you think it is true?’

‘Cynric does not,’ said Bartholomew, recalling what the book-bearer had claimed the previous night. ‘And he is usually the first to detect evil auras. So it must be all right.’

Langelee shook himself. ‘Well, I do not feel comfortable here, regardless. So inspect the dead pig, Bartholomew, and then we can leave.’

‘The pig?’ echoed Bartholomew, startled. ‘Why?’

‘Because Lady Helen has lost a much-loved pet, and I thought we should see whether this one matches its description. Hers has three black spots on its rump, and a black ear.’

‘You look,’ said Bartholomew in distaste. ‘You are the one who was talking to her about it.’

‘I tried, but it is too badly rotted for me to tell. I could not decide what was its natural colour, and what has just gone off. You must do it.’

‘Just oblige him, Matt,’ sighed Michael, seeing the physician ready to argue. ‘He will not let us out until you do, and it will not take a moment. And I am sure Helen will appreciate the kindness.’

Muttering under his breath that he was a physician, not a farmer, Bartholomew made his way to the chancel, where the hapless pig was slowly turning into a reeking, fatty sludge. He was obliged to turn it to compare ears, at which point he saw the animal’s throat had been cut. It was no surprise: pigs were a menace in towns, and there were bylaws that said they could be killed if their owners did not keep them under proper control. However, it was unusual for the carcass to be dumped; it was something that could have been eaten.

‘It is hers,’ he said eventually. ‘The markings are as you described.’

‘Someone must have dispatched it when it escaped, then threw it in here when he realised it belonged to her, doubtless afraid that Frost might avenge it on her behalf,’ surmised Langelee. ‘Otherwise it would have been turned into ham. You can break the sad news.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘And this time you cannot make me.’

The grim duty in St Mary ad Valvas completed, Bartholomew looked for somewhere to rinse his hands, and was impressed to see a conduit with separate sections for drinking and washing. There was nothing like it in Cambridge, but he immediately decided there should be. Unfortunately, such a structure would be expensive, and as no one but him placed much value on hygiene, the town worthies would almost certainly condemn it as an expensive folly. He found himself greatly in awe of York for its innovative thinking.

‘There is enough light for an hour or two in the library,’ said Langelee without enthusiasm, watching the physician walk around the structure to memorise its dimensions. ‘Although I would far rather adjourn to a tavern. I am chilled to the bone and—’