Mystery in the Minster (25 page)

‘So tonight was the last chance to search his body for the codicil,’ finished Michael. ‘Or the list of French spies. Cynric said someone had been in our bags, so when the culprits did not find what they were looking for there, they came to see whether Radeford had concealed it on his person instead.’

‘It will be those vicars,’ predicted Langelee grimly. ‘If they are willing to clamber about in people’s chimneys, then they are not beneath ransacking corpses.’ He glanced at Bartholomew. ‘Are you sure Radeford did not secrete anything in his clothes?’

‘Positive.’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘If the attackers were after the codicil, then the vicars probably are responsible, because they are the ones who do not want us to have it. But if it is the roll of spies, then we have a whole new list of suspects.’

‘Yes, but we do not know who they are,’ said Langelee bitterly. ‘Because I hunted them without success for years, and just as Radeford was on the verge of revealing all, you two distracted him with inconsequential chatter.’

This was not how Bartholomew recalled what had happened, but there was no point in saying so. ‘Oustwyk is at the top of my list for espionage, on the grounds that he is suspiciously interested in our business, and keeps appearing in unexpected places.’

Michael nodded. ‘Aided and abetted by Abbot Multone, because there must be some reason why he appointed the man as his steward – Oustwyk is inept, to say the least. Then we have been told that the Carmelites’
fondness for litigation might be to raise funds for French masters …’

‘Leaving poor Holy Trinity to bear the blame,’ finished Langelee. ‘Meanwhile, I hate to say it, because I have always liked him, but perhaps there is a sinister reason for Sir William’s easy amiability, too – he strives to make people admire him, so they will not see him as questionable.’

‘It is possible,’ said Michael. ‘But my chief suspect is Alice. She barely pays lip service to her vocation, and the reason is that she has been in disguise for so long that she has grown complacent.’

‘No,’ stated Langelee stoutly. ‘I once knew her extremely well: she is no traitor.’

‘We should not forget that Radeford made three discoveries, not two,’ said Bartholomew, still struggling to make sense of the scant facts they had accumulated. ‘The codicil, the spies and the letters between the two executors about Zouche’s chantry.’

‘Which Radeford felt were important, but did not know why,’ sighed Langelee. ‘And I certainly have no idea. Indeed, I do not know where to start with any of it.’

‘With the vicars-choral,’ replied Michael promptly. ‘Tomorrow morning, before Radeford’s burial, if we have time. And if that yields no answers, we shall talk to Chozaico about the spies.’

Langelee’s jaw dropped. ‘Surely
you
do not follow the popular prejudice against Holy Trinity?’

‘Of course not. Chozaico is no fool, to dabble in espionage when it might reflect badly on our Order. And his monks cannot gather intelligence, because most are too frightened to leave their priory. I was thinking of asking for
his
list of suspects.’

‘Why would he have one?’ asked Langelee warily.

‘Because I would, were I in his position. What he will
not
have is evidence, or he would have reported the matter to Thoresby. But we can ask for his thoughts.’

‘You do that,’ nodded Langelee. ‘Meanwhile, I shall continue to search the library, and Cynric can visit more taverns to ask about that arrow. We should not neglect William, either. For all we know, the assault on him might be connected to Radeford’s murder, too.’

‘Speaking of Radeford’s murder,’ said Michael, turning to Bartholomew. ‘Are you sure …’

‘Yes,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Completely.’

‘You did not open him up, did you?’ asked Langelee suspiciously. ‘Because you did say there was no sign of foul play earlier.’

Bartholomew rubbed his hand. The numbness had travelled past his wrist, and his fingers ached. Uneasily, it occurred to him that he should have found a more sensible way to test the spoon.

‘When Radeford swallowed the tonic I gave him, he dribbled. I know now that was because his mouth was numb – he probably did not mention it, because there was no pain, and he was more eager to brag about his victories. He did have a headache, though.’

‘But how did this substance get into him?’ asked Michael. ‘He said himself that he did not leave the library all day.’

‘He must have had a visitor,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘One who gave him something to eat or drink – a dish that required him to use his spoon.’

‘Dean Talerand?’ asked Langelee. ‘He knew how Radeford had spent his day – he remarked on it to Helen. And we know he is ruthless, because he has kept his office in the face of some very fierce opposition.’

‘Why would Talerand mean Radeford harm?’ asked Bartholomew, but then answered his own question. ‘Because
he will be on the side of the vicars-choral in our dispute. They are minster employees, so of course he hopes they will win against us.’

‘Possibly,’ nodded Langelee. ‘However, we cannot exclude the vicars themselves from our list of suspects, either. They will also have known Radeford’s whereabouts, because their religious duties demand that they spend time in the minster.’

‘Wait,’ said Michael, holding up his hand. ‘We are running ahead of ourselves here. When did either of you last see Radeford use his spoon?’

‘At breakfast,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But I ate from the same vat of pottage, and I suffered no ill effects. Besides, I imagine the toxin was faster acting – and if he had suffered from a numb mouth for several hours, he
would
have mentioned it the moment he saw me.’

‘But you just said he was more interested in gloating over his discoveries,’ argued Langelee.

‘There is a difference between having a symptom for a short time and suffering from it all day. I suspect the poison was given to him shortly before he left the library.’

Langelee sighed. ‘Maybe we should cut our losses and go home. Whoever murdered Radeford is ruthless, and I do not want to lose any more Fellows. What would our colleagues say if I return to Cambridge alone? They will depose me as Master!’

‘Your concern for our well-being is touching,’ said Michael dryly. ‘However, we are not going anywhere. Radeford was our friend, and I am not walking away from his murder. Moreover, I am unwilling to let the vicars have Huntington without a fight.’

‘True,’ acknowledged Langelee. ‘And I am unwilling to turn my back on the possibility of unmasking men who betray my country to the French, too.’

Bartholomew nodded his agreement. Reluctant to leave Radeford unattended, he and Michael returned to St Olave’s, and told Cynric to rest. Then Bartholomew sat at the base of one of the columns, while Michael knelt by Radeford’s coffin. In four hours, Langelee would relieve them.

The physician woke with a start when he felt a hand shaking his shoulder. It was Langelee, come to take his turn at keeping watch. Guiltily, Bartholomew hoped the Master would do a better job than he had done himself. He fell asleep the moment he lay down in the hospitium, and not even the clang of bells announcing prime the following morning made him stir. Michael was reduced to splashing him with the water that had been left for their ablutions.

‘The river is higher than it was yesterday,’ the monk said, gazing out of the window while Bartholomew crawled slowly off the mattress. ‘Do you think it will flood? It is getting very close.’

Bartholomew went to stand next to him. The scene was a dismal one: sullen grey clouds, wind-battered trees, and houses with darkly sodden thatches. The river was an angry brown torrent, and the vegetation that had been washed from its moorings upstream now comprised small trees, as well as shrubs. He watched one yew being carried along at a cracking rate, turning and writhing as if trying to struggle free.

‘Langelee told me it is often this high,’ he said. ‘And he thinks it will subside without problems. But it is raining again, and there is only so much the waterways can absorb.’

‘How is your hand?’ asked Michael, seeing him rub it. ‘Still numb?’

Bartholomew flexed his fingers. ‘Returning to normal.’

‘You should have tested the spoon on a rat,’ admonished Michael. ‘It was reckless to have tried it on yourself. All I can say is thank God you did not stick it in your mouth.’

Bartholomew recoiled. ‘That would have been revoltingly macabre!’

‘
You
are revoltingly macabre. Do not deny it, Matt. You know it is true.’

Bartholomew massaged his fingers. ‘I can imagine exactly what would happen if this substance were ingested. It would impair the function of vital organs, and—’

‘Please! No hideous details,’ begged Michael. ‘Hah! Here is Oustwyk with breakfast. We shall dine, then visit the minster to see what the vicars-choral know about poisons. We should have enough time before Radeford’s burial.’

Michael did the victuals justice, but the pottage reminded Bartholomew of their dead colleague and deprived him of his appetite. While he picked listlessly at some bread, Oustwyk bombarded them with questions, both about their investigations and the incident of the previous evening.

‘Why do you want to know?’ demanded Michael, finally growing tired of it.

Oustwyk shrugged. ‘Because I am interested, and so is Abbot Multone. It is odd that you arrive here, and within days, one of your party lies dead and another has been attacked twice.’

‘You think the arrow was intended for Matt, then?’ asked Michael. ‘Not Sir William?’

Oustwyk nodded. ‘No one would want Sir William harmed – he is one of the nicest men in the city. Like Hugh de Myton, he is venerable and discreet.’

‘Myton,’ mused Michael. He paraphrased what Radeford
said he had read in the letters he had found. ‘He has obits recited for him in the minster, but Zouche does not have a chantry chapel, and some of Zouche’s executors found this improper. You claim to know all about York and its inhabitants, so what do
you
think?’

Oustwyk’s mouth turned down at the corners as he pondered the question. ‘I suppose it is unfair, now you mention it. But neither Myton nor Zouche are destined to spend long in Purgatory, despite their fears to the contrary. I doubt they need many prayers. Especially ones from our vicars-choral.’

‘Speaking of vicars-choral, are they capable of committing murder to gain Huntington?’

It was so bald a question that Bartholomew expected Oustwyk to refuse an answer, but the steward rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he considered his reply.

‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘They spend their mornings saying masses for the dead, and you do not do that day in and day out without being careful about the sins you commit. I believe they would stop short of murder.’

‘Then who
did
shoot at Matt and attack him with a sword?’

Oustwyk shrugged. ‘Dalfeld is keen to win Huntington for his clients, the vicars. Then there are the French spies, who will not want you dabbling in their business—’

‘What makes you think we know anything about that?’ asked Michael sharply.

Oustwyk shrugged again, and Bartholomew supposed that either the steward had listened to a discussion not intended for his ears, or he was aware of the list Radeford had found because he was on it. Instead of answering, Oustwyk continued with his suggestions.

‘And then there is Fournays. Perhaps he resents a medical rival.’

‘Fournays had not met me before Sir William was injured,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Your logic is flawed.’

‘But he may have
heard
about you,’ Oustwyk shot back, then resumed his list. ‘We cannot overlook Longton as a suspect, either. Or Gisbyrn, although he at least donates alms to the poor. Longton does not. And while I am as averse as the next man to being invaded by Frenchmen, I resent my abbey being taxed for it. Personally, I suspect he uses the revenue to pay for his claret.’

As usual, the minster was noisy. Every chapel and altar was busy as canons, vicars, choirs and chaplains chanted obits for York’s wealthy dead. Trade was brisk in the aisles, too, with stallholders servicing the pilgrims who came to petition William of York. Bartholomew looked once, and then twice, when he saw Dean Talerand leading a donkey towards the shrine.

‘It is probably infertile,’ explained Michael, seeing his astonishment. ‘Or its milk has dried up.’

‘And that justifies its presence in a minster how exactly?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Look around you. How much do you think it costs to maintain a place like this, let alone raise the funds to rebuild parts of it? The minster will accept money from any source available, and that includes from people desperate for productive livestock.’

‘Then perhaps we are wrong to assume it was the vicars who harmed Radeford – if they do inherit Huntington, the chances are that some of the money will find its way here. The church is not worth much, but, as you have just pointed out, every penny counts.’

‘Perhaps. But there is Jafford. Good heavens! Look at the women who hover around him! Some are remarkably …’ He waved a hand, not sure how to describe them.

‘Sybaritic,’ supplied Bartholomew. ‘Oustwyk told us that Jafford has care of the Altar of Mary Magdalene, which is popular with prostitutes.’