Mystery in the Minster (28 page)

‘The Carmelites are—’ began Anketil, less inclined to be diplomatic.

‘No!’ snapped Chozaico, and his eyes blazed with such anger that Anketil flushed and looked away. ‘The Carmelites are no more guilty than we are, and if you accuse them, you are no better than the louts who flocked to watch us burn the other day. There is nothing – not a single shred of evidence – to point to them.’

‘There is their behaviour,’ said Anketil, in the defensive tone of a man who knew he was going to lose the debate. ‘Their fondness for suing everyone. Do you know how many people they have wronged? The Dominicans, Dean Talerand, the vicars-choral over the theft of some topsoil—’

‘The White Friars’ preference for litigation over informal solutions does not make them spies,’ argued Chozaico, still glaring at his monk. Then he turned to Michael. ‘But we had better take our leave. I came to console you, not to engage in gossip.’

‘What do you think?’ asked Michael, once he and Bartholomew were out of the solar and were aiming for the abbey gate to join Langelee in the library. ‘Of all we have learned today?’

‘That we still have no idea who murdered Radeford, or how to find out. That we are no closer to locating the codicil, the executors’ letters and the list of spies than we were this
morning. And that I suspect we may have earned some enemies with our questions.’

Michael sighed. ‘I imagine you are right. We shall just have to be more careful from now on.’

Although Bartholomew, Michael and Langelee spent the rest of the day in the library, working with increasing desperation to locate the documents Radeford had hidden – or duplicates of them – they met with no success. When the light failed, and they were finally compelled to desist, all three were tired, discouraged and frustrated.

‘I cannot recall a time when this place was more popular,’ beamed Dean Talerand, when he came to lock the door after them. ‘No one had been in here for weeks before you arrived, but in the last three days alone, we have had Dalfeld, several vicars, Abbot Multone, Oustwyk, Prioress Alice and even Mayor Longton – and
he
cannot read!’

‘Did they say what they wanted?’ asked Michael, immediately suspicious.

Talerand waved a careless hand. ‘Oh, this and that. We have a lot of material here, as you know – leases, cartularies, papal bulls, land grants, rents, deeds and privileges, not to mention books.’

‘Not very many books,’ said Bartholomew resentfully, recalling the riches he had been promised. It had not taken him long to learn that the minster’s collection comprised mostly obscure legal texts, and that the few medical tomes he had located were ones he had already read.

‘We have what we need,’ said Talerand, his amiability fading a little. ‘And Surgeon Fournays did not complain when he came to consult Theophilus’s’
De Urinis
.’

‘Did he find it?’ asked Bartholomew, looking around doubtfully.

‘He did not say, although I expect he did, because he stayed for quite a while. But it is almost time for compline, so you must excuse me.’

The scholars left the minster, dejection showing in the heaviness of their steps. When they reached the precinct gate, they found Cynric waiting. The book-bearer was also disheartened, having spent an unproductive day asking questions in taverns and interviewing fletchers.

‘I vote we abandon our struggles in the library,’ said Langelee glumly. ‘For all we know, these other visitors have already found what Radeford hid and laugh at us while we waste our time there.’

‘I agree,’ said Michael. ‘Everyone Talerand mentioned just now is a suspect for something – spying, trying to cheat us over Huntington, shooting at Sir William. Or perhaps they came to ensure they had left no trace of the poison that killed Radeford.’

‘And I am suspicious of Talerand himself,’ said Langelee. ‘He seems pleasant, with his smiles and charming eccentricity, but there must be more to him, or he would not have seen off two very determined rivals. Moreover, why did Longton come, when he cannot read? I think I shall pay him a visit this evening, and ask.’

‘Then please be discreet,’ begged Bartholomew. ‘We are dealing with a cunning and ruthless killer, and you may be walking into the lion’s—’

‘I survived this place for years without your advice,’ scoffed Langelee. ‘I think I can manage one drunken Mayor by myself, thank you.’

‘I hope he is right,’ said Bartholomew, watching the Master stride away, his bearing soldierly again now he had set himself a mission. ‘Cynric? Would you …’

‘I will not let him come to harm,’ promised the book-bearer, slipping off into the shadows, and treading as silently as a cat.

‘I shall spend the evening with Multone,’ said Michael. A wolfish expression crossed his face. ‘He is generous with the wine, but I can imbibe far more than he, so we shall see what he lets slip in his cups. What will you do, Matt? Visit Fournays and do the same to him?’

‘Not tonight,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I just want to walk.’

‘Be careful, then. Remember someone has already tried to kill you, possibly more than once.’

It was not a comforting thought, and the warning meant that Bartholomew jumped at every unusual sound. Eager to leave the lively but disconcerting bustle of Petergate, he turned left, and found himself near the Bedern. As he passed, he noticed the vicars’ back gate was open. He glanced around quickly, and as no one was looking, he crossed the street and stepped inside.

The grounds were deserted, but lights blazed from the hall and the clatter of cutlery on plates indicated that the residents were at their evening meal. His thoughts full of Radeford and the villain who had cut short his life, Bartholomew crept towards the building. Its windows had the luxury of glass, but one pane had broken and the wood that replaced it had warped in the rain so that voices drifted out and he was able to see and hear the vicars’ conversation. Unfortunately, they were only discussing the price of shoes; some of them intended to treat themselves again the following day.

Bored, he studied their surroundings, noting that the hall was unusually fine, with a dais at one end, on which sat Ellis, Jafford, Cave and two others. The remainder perched on
benches that ran at right angles to it. Delicious smells wafted out, reminding him that he had barely eaten all day. The meal was a sumptuous one, and included an inordinate amount of meat, along with a platter of boiled cabbage that no one had touched.

A vast assortment of church silver was displayed behind the dais, all beautifully polished. Bartholomew stared at it. Was Cotyngham’s there, and he had known when it was removed that he would never have it back? Was that what had turned his wits? Before Bartholomew could ponder the matter properly, Sub-Chanter Ellis stood, and the rumble of idle chatter died away.

‘The scholars lied to us,’ he announced. Even from a distance, Bartholomew could see the red wetness of his lips. ‘They claimed Radeford had found the codicil, but I am reliably informed that they have spent the last three days in the library. In other words, they are still looking for it.’

‘The deceit was almost certainly Radeford’s idea,’ added Cave. The lamplight cast shadows on his face, making him appear more ape-like than ever. ‘By saying he had the document, he hoped we would drop our case. It is a sly ruse, but one Dalfeld told us to expect. It is a common trick among lawyers, apparently.’

Bartholomew clenched his fists in impotent anger, itching to storm the place and inform Cave that he was wrong: Radeford would never have stooped to such low tactics.

‘
Ergo
, we shall persist with our claim,’ determined Ellis. ‘It is unethical for Huntington to go to a foundation that lies so far away. Its moneys should stay here, in York.’

A few vicars nodded agreement, but most stared at the tables, and Bartholomew had the distinct impression that they were uncomfortable with the aggressive stance their sub-chanter had taken.

‘How is Cotyngham?’ asked Jafford suddenly. He shrugged when everyone looked at him in puzzlement. ‘If he regains his wits, he may decline to tender his resignation, in which case our dispute with Michaelhouse is irrelevant.’

‘It will be relevant eventually,’ Cave pointed out. ‘So we may as well settle it now.’

‘And if Cotyngham does recover, we shall ask Warden Stayndrop to keep him where he is, anyway,’ added Ellis. ‘It would be bad for a village to have a mentally unstable priest.’

‘You mean we should tell Stayndrop to
imprison
him?’ Jafford’s face was white with shock. ‘No! I will not be party to it! Besides, Stayndrop would never agree. He—’

‘He will oblige us if we offer him money,’ interrupted Ellis shortly. ‘I have not met a friar yet who refuses a generous gift for the poor.’

A number of vicars exchanged horrified glances and Jafford opened his mouth to argue, but at that moment there was a loud yell from outside. Bartholomew turned to see two men running towards him. With dismay, he realised he had been so engrossed in eavesdropping that he had failed to watch for servants, and these had seen him framed against the light from the windows. The shout alerted the vicars, and several of the younger, more sprightly ones were already heading for the door.

Cursing the reckless whim that had driven him there in the first place, Bartholomew raced towards the gate. The servants hared after him, bawling their indignation. More voices joined in, and Bartholomew glanced behind him to see a number of priests were already hot on their heels.

Could he escape from so many? He knew he had to try – Cave was one of those in front, and he did not like to
imagine what would happen to him if he fell into
those
vengeful hands.

Bartholomew flew through the gate and turned towards the main road, sprinting as hard as he could, although it was not easy in unfamiliar terrain, and he could tell from the rattling footfalls behind him that his pursuers were gaining. His heart hammered in his chest, and his breath came in gasps.

How could he have been so foolish? Even if he survived the trouncing they were sure to give him, the incident was going to reflect badly on Michaelhouse, and might even cost them Huntington. He reached another of York’s many churches, and tore around the end of it, wondering whether to risk ducking down an alley – the danger being that it might be a dead end. But before he could decide, disaster struck.

Someone materialised in front of him, and although he tried to avoid a collision, he was moving far too fast, and the impact sent him flying. He scrambled upright, but the tumble had lost him vital moments, and capture was now inevitable.

Fortunately, the person he had crashed into had other ideas. A powerful hand fastened around his arm, and he was hauled into the damp, cobwebbed recesses of a graveyard yew. Moments later, the vicars tore past, howling their outrage when they saw their quarry had disappeared. Several had the presence of mind to peel off and search the churchyard, but none thought to look in the tree.

‘That was a close call,’ said Marmaduke, when they had gone. ‘Cave has a nasty temper, and is not above expressing it with his fists. What were you doing to annoy him?’

‘Eavesdropping,’ confessed Bartholomew, seeing no point
in adjusting the truth. The tale was likely to be all over York the following day, and there was nothing to be gained from lying.

The ex-priest regarded him askance. ‘I know I said I wanted to help Michaelhouse, but assisting spies was what not quite what I had in mind! Still, I am glad to have been of service.’

‘They have a lot of church plate,’ Bartholomew heard himself say, and supposed relief at his escape was making him gabble. ‘Behind the dais in their hall.’

‘They do. It is a wealthy foundation, and Ellis has always been partial to silver.’

‘Would you recognise Huntington’s?’

Bartholomew was not sure why he had asked, because he and Marmaduke could hardly march into the Bedern and demand to inspect their collection. And what if Marmaduke did identify Cotyngham’s? Ellis would claim he was minding it until Cotyngham had recovered, and no one would find fault with that – it would be irresponsible to send it back to an empty church.

‘No,’ replied Marmaduke, bemused by the question. ‘Although I did enjoy visiting the village and its church. Cotyngham was kind to me after I was defrocked – generous in his sympathy
and
in more practical ways. Indeed, it is largely because of him that I did not commit a mortal sin and cast myself into the river in my shame and despair.’

‘Was Cotyngham the kind of man to lose his wits because someone had made off with his church’s silver?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or because something was said to unsettle him?’

Marmaduke shook his head in incomprehension. ‘What strange questions you ask tonight! Perhaps you are losing
your
wits, and it is because you still have not prayed to Sampson’s toe.’

‘Please,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Will you answer?’

There was something in his voice that made Marmaduke stop berating him and consider his reply. ‘Five years ago, I would have said no,’ he answered eventually. ‘But that was before an uncle of mine was driven insane by shock. His experience taught me that the ways of the human mind are a mystery known only to God, and that anyone might suffer spells of madness.’

‘Your kinsman regained his sanity after being kept in isolation,’ said Bartholomew, recalling what Fournays had told him. ‘You recommended a similar cure for Cotyngham.’