Mystery in the Minster (26 page)

‘Then Oustwyk was not exaggerating,’ said Michael, watching the women clamour for Jafford’s attention when he finished one prayer and prepared to say another. Many were comely, and he seemed more than happy to accede to their requests.

At that moment, there was a commotion as the donkey made a bid for escape. It knocked several people off their feet when they tried to catch it, and its indignant brays competed with excited yells as a chase ensued. Talerand’s hands went to his mouth in consternation, especially when some of the vicars-choral joined the pursuit, clearly welcoming a break from their routine. Delighted by the spectacle, the prostitutes hared after them, leaving Jafford free to join the scholars.

‘I heard there was an unpleasant incident in St Olave’s last night,’ he said, regarding Bartholomew sympathetically. ‘Were you hurt?’

Bartholomew shook his head, and decided to be open. ‘But before he died, Radeford found the codicil to Zouche’s will. We think someone intended to search his body for it.’

‘You have the codicil?’ asked Jafford, startled. ‘You did not say so yesterday!’

‘Because your colleagues did not seem amenable to an exchange of information,’ replied Michael icily before Bartholomew could explain that Radeford finding it and them having it were not the same thing. ‘But yes, it is in our possession. Moreover, there are almost certainly copies.’

Jafford nodded. ‘Yes, if there is one, there will be others. A single codicil could be feloniously altered to Cotyngham’s
disadvantage – forcing him out before he was dead or ready to resign – so Zouche would certainly have ensured that there were duplicates.’

‘We would not have done that,’ objected Michael. His eyes narrowed. ‘Would you?’

‘No, of course not,’ replied Jafford impatiently. ‘But you are missing my point, which is that a multitude of copies means that Zouche
did
want Michaelhouse to have Huntington – he would not have needed them for us, because he knew he could trust us to act honourably. But he did not know you, so he took steps to safeguard his friend.’

‘We can prove our case with documents now,’ said Michael, not sure he liked this particular argument in Michaelhouse’s favour. ‘So will you withdraw your claim?’

‘No,’ came an angry voice from behind them. All three turned to see Cave, who had hurried over when he had seen Jafford consorting with the enemy; Ellis was coming, too, pattens clacking importantly on the flagstones. ‘Not until we are sure your codicil is genuine. Where is it?’

‘In a safe place,’ replied Michael curtly. ‘Somewhere no thief will think to look.’

‘I hope you are not suggesting we would steal it,’ said Cave. ‘Or that we had something to do with the incident in St Olave’s. We were in the Bedern when that happened, at a meeting.’

‘A meeting to discuss what?’ asked Michael.

Ellis gaped at him. ‘You are brazen, demanding to know our private business! But we discussed Huntington, if you must know. We reviewed all we knew about it, to assess who had heard Zouche say he wanted to leave it to you, and whether they are credible witnesses.’

‘We decided unanimously that they are not,’ said Cave, a conclusion that came as no surprise to the scholars. ‘Zouche died almost six years ago, and the human memory
is fallible. These recollections are irrelevant, and we intend to pursue our case against you.’

‘They have a copy of the codicil,’ Jafford reminded him.

‘So they say,’ retorted Ellis. ‘But have you never heard of counterfeiting?’

Shocked, Jafford tried to apologise for his colleague’s manners, but Michael cut across him, parrying the attack with one of his own.

‘Radeford was poisoned,’ he said dangerously. ‘So
we
held a meeting last night, too – one in which we discussed who might benefit from the murder of our lawyer.’

All three vicars stared at him. ‘Well, it was not us,’ declared Ellis, the first to recover his composure. ‘And if you say otherwise, we shall sue you for defamation.’

Jafford started to speak, a look of abject horror on his angelic features, but Ellis hauled him away. Before he followed, Cave shot the scholars a look full of simian menace.

Unhappily, Bartholomew watched them go. ‘I wish you had not told them about Radeford. It will encourage the killer to cover his tracks, and now we might never learn who killed him.’

Michael sighed. ‘I know – I realised that the moment the words were out. But there is something about those vicars that is intensely aggravating, and I could not help myself.’

Bartholomew thought about Ellis’s response to the codicil. ‘Radeford said he wanted to examine the deed in good light before making it public.
He
was clearly afraid it might be suspect, so Ellis is probably right to be wary of it.’

‘And we shall be wary of it, too – if we ever find the wretched thing.’

* * *

They met Thoresby and Talerand as they left the minster. The Archbishop and Dean were just finishing a discussion with three farmers, one of whom held the reins of the recaptured donkey.

‘Of course William of York likes asses,’ Thoresby was assuring them silkily. ‘And you may have half your money back if …’ He paused, eyebrows raised.

‘Nellie,’ supplied the farmers in a chorus.

‘… if Nellie does not produce a foal next year,’ the Archbishop finished. He sketched a blessing. ‘And now go with God. And go with Nellie, too, if you please. She should not be in here.’

As he watched, it occurred to Bartholomew that Talerand might know who had visited the library when Radeford was in it – and thus also know the identity of the poisoner.

‘No one,’ came the disappointing reply, once Dean and Archbishop had recovered from their shock at learning that murder had been done. ‘Radeford was my only guest that day. Dalfeld and the vicars came in the evening, but that was long after your friend had gone. Radeford was alone all day, so if he was poisoned, then it happened elsewhere.’

‘Yet I am sure you did not lock him in,’ Michael pointed out. ‘So what was to stop anyone from sneaking to join him inside when your attention was elsewhere?’

Talerand pondered. ‘Well, nothing, I suppose. But it would have been rude to enter without my permission. Everyone understands that they are meant to ask me first.’

But murderers were not noted for their fine manners, thought Bartholomew. So who had given Radeford poisoned food on the pretext of being kind? Not the vicars, because Radeford would have been suspicious and refused. Or
would he? The lawyer had been so keen for an amiable solution that he might well have accepted what he saw as an olive branch.

‘How are your investigations coming along, Brother?’ Talerand was asking pleasantly.

‘Very well,’ lied Michael. ‘And Radeford’s murder has made us all the more determined to succeed. But as we are here, would you mind telling us about Zouche’s executors?’

Talerand’s chubby features creased into a frown. ‘Why?’

‘Because seven of the nine are dead,’ replied Michael. ‘And I would like to know more about them. They may well transpire to be irrelevant to our investigations, but we would be remiss not to explore the possibility.’

‘Well, Roger drowned, as you know,’ began Thoresby obligingly. ‘Stiendby, Neville and Playce died of spotted liver, while Christopher Malore, Welton and Ferriby died of debilities.’

‘Christopher was Anketil’s brother,’ elaborated Talerand. His eyes were wary, and had lost their habitual merry twinkle. ‘He was also a Benedictine, but at the abbey, not at Holy Trinity.’

‘The diagnoses were made by Surgeon Fournays,’ Thoresby went on, ignoring the Dean’s aside. ‘So I am sure they are accurate, because he is an excellent
medicus
.’

‘We know that Neville and Christopher died five years ago,’ began Michael. ‘While Ferriby and Roger died this week. But what about the others – Welton, Playce and Stiendby?’

Thoresby frowned as he struggled to remember. ‘Welton died two years after Neville and Christopher. Playce died the year after him. And Stiendby …’

‘Last Easter,’ supplied Talerand promptly. ‘I remember, because it is an auspicious time to die, and will reduce his stay in Purgatory. But you are wrong to think the deaths
of these executors have a bearing on Huntington, Brother. They do not, and if you probe them, you will be wasting your time. Oh, Lord! That donkey is back again.’

‘I must go, too,’ said Thoresby, as the Dean hurried away. ‘That wretched beast interrupted the obit I was saying for Myton, so I need to resume it before—’

‘Myton
again
,’ blurted Bartholomew, unable to help himself. ‘He crops up at every turn.’

‘That is no surprise,’ said Thoresby. ‘He was venerable and—’

‘— and discreet,’ interrupted Michael. ‘Yes, we know. It is what everyone says about him.’

‘Because it is true. He was Zouche’s friend, and did much to keep the peace between Gisbyrn and Longton. I do not know how, because it is beyond me. We were all sorry when Myton died.’

‘Of spotted liver or a debility?’ asked Bartholomew, frustration with their lack of progress rendering him uncharacteristically acerbic.

‘Neither,’ retorted Thoresby sharply. ‘He had a softening of the brain.’

‘I do not suppose you have any other information to impart, do you?’ asked Michael hopefully, before Bartholomew could remark that he had never heard of such an affliction. ‘You said yesterday that you would ask a few questions on our behalf.’

‘I did,’ acknowledged Thoresby. ‘But I have not had time. There are rumours that a great flood is coming, and I have been busy making preparations.’

‘Was it my imagination or did Talerand make a suspiciously abrupt departure just now?’ asked Bartholomew, when the Archbishop had gone. ‘And if so, why was he unsettled by the notion that the deaths of Zouche’s executors might be suspicious?’

‘I do not know, Matt. But he has just put himself at the top of my list of people to watch.’

The rain had stopped while Bartholomew and Michael had been in the minster, but it started again as they walked to St Olave’s for Radeford’s burial. It was not much to begin with, just a fine drizzle, but it gradually increased until it fell in a thick, smoky veil.

‘I hope it stops soon,’ said Oustwyk, glancing skywards as he fell into step at their side. ‘A high tide is predicted for Tuesday, and we shall have floods if there is a lot of rain, too.’

‘Does York flood often?’ asked Michael, politely interested.

‘Not very,’ replied the steward. ‘But when it does, the results are spectacular.’

As it had not been possible to buy a coffin for Radeford – Ferriby and Roger had claimed the only two in stock – the scholars had been obliged to borrow the abbey’s re usable one. It was ornate and highly polished, which rendered it slick, so it was a precarious process as Langelee, Michael, Bartholomew and Cynric carried it from the church to the graveyard, their feet skidding in mud.

Given that they had not been in York long, a lot of people were in attendance. The Benedictines were particularly well represented, with not only Multone, Oustwyk and several monks from the abbey, but Anketil and Chozaico from Holy Trinity, and Isabella and Alice from the nunnery, too. Alice laid a sympathetic hand on Langelee’s arm while Michael intoned the necessary prayers, and Isabella sobbed. When a powerful gust of wind tore the psalter from Michael’s hands, and there was a hiatus while it was retrieved and dabbed dry, Bartholomew went to stand next to her. She buried her face in his
shoulder, and he comforted her until she had regained control of herself.

‘He was too young to die,’ she whispered, her voice hoarse. ‘Alice told me to consider him as a husband, and I was tempted. He was kind, and helped me with my play.’

‘I thought you wanted to be a nun.’

‘I do. But if anyone could have shaken my resolve, it was dear John Radeford. He made me laugh, and he was gentle and good. I am sorry I did not have the opportunity to know him better.’

‘You would have liked him,’ said Bartholomew miserably. ‘Everyone did.’

Isabella gripped his arm in a gesture of sympathy that brought a lump to his throat. ‘I know. And as I doubt there is another of his calibre – at least, not here, where most men are greedy, corrupt and dishonest – the Benedictines shall have me.’

Bartholomew suddenly became aware of Alice staring in their direction, and with a jolt of dismay he read in her calculating gaze that she was assessing whether a physician might do for her young charge, now that the lawyer was no longer available. He eased away from Isabella, and his opinion of Alice slithered down several notches.

The move put him near Warden Stayndrop of the Franciscans; Mardisley and Jorden were at his side. Unusually, the theologians were silent, although the scrolls up their sleeves said it would not be long before they resumed their intellectual sparring. They offered polite condolences, but left abruptly when Prior Penterel approached. Wy was with him, his scarred face pinched with the cold.

‘We said a mass for Radeford last night,’ said Penterel softly. ‘We are so sorry.’

‘There is a rumour that he was poisoned,’ said Wy, his eyes agleam with salacious interest. ‘Is it true?’

‘Wy!’ exclaimed Penterel, shocked. ‘This is hardly the place for such a question!’