Mystery in the Minster (29 page)

Marmaduke gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘Hardly! I told Fournays about my uncle, but who takes any notice of a defrocked priest?’

‘Fournays did. He based Cotyngham’s treatment on what you told him.’

Marmaduke regarded him in astonishment. ‘Really? He told me it was a remedy he had devised through horoscopes and books. But it is late, and you look tired. Shall I escort you back to the abbey? You might be safer with me than alone.’

Bartholomew was certain of it.

The following day was a Sunday, and as Langelee, Michael and Cynric had returned to the hospitium very late, all four Michaelhouse men overslept. The bells for High Mass woke them, and then it was a rush to dress in time. Afterwards, they returned to the hospitium to discuss the information they had gleaned from their various expeditions.

‘Longton claimed he was in the library looking for the charter pertaining to York’s mint,’ said Langelee. ‘The Archbishop is agitating to see it, apparently, but Talerand is dragging his feet.’

‘Because he has lost it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Did Longton explain how he was going to identify this document when he cannot read?’

‘By its seal,’ explained Cynric, after Langelee had confessed sheepishly that he recalled very little of the Mayor’s conversation after their tenth cup of wine. ‘Which is large, green and distinctive.’

‘I am not sure what to make of what I learned,’ said Michael. ‘Abbot Multone told me that he wanted to read Augustine’s
Sentences
, but when I started to debate the text with him, I discovered that he knows it extremely well – better than me, and I have been teaching it for years.’

‘Then why did he want to consult it?’ demanded Langelee immediately.

‘Quite,’ replied Michael.

‘What about Oustwyk?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did he explain why
he
went to the library?’

Michael nodded. ‘To look for
Sentences
when Multone failed to locate it. Both were suspiciously interested in my enquiries, bombarding me with all manner of questions, none of which I answered truthfully. Matt? Did you discover anything helpful?’

No one was impressed when the physician recounted his adventures at the Bedern.

‘You should not have taken such a risk, boy,’ declared Cynric admonishingly. ‘At least, not without me there to help you. Cave would not have been gentle, had you been caught.’

‘We would have lost Huntington for certain,’ added Langelee, disgusted. ‘And for what? The knowledge that the vicars think Radeford was sly, and that they are not above bribing the Franciscans to keep Cotyngham locked up? We already knew they were unsavoury.’

‘All I can say is thank God for Marmaduke,’ said Michael.
‘Do you think they recognised you? It will be wretchedly inconvenient if they did, because none of us can give you an alibi: Multone knows you were not with me, and Longton knows you were not with the Master or Cynric.’

‘Perhaps Marmaduke will oblige,’ suggested Langelee. ‘But you had better borrow my spare cloak and hat today, Bartholomew. We do not want the vicars identifying yours from last night.’

Suitably chastened, Bartholomew offered to visit Fournays that morning, to ask about the surgeon’s visit to the library and the diagnoses he had made on the dead executors. Michael decided to accompany him, while Cynric elected to resume his trawl for helpful gossip in the taverns.

‘And I shall return to the library.’ Langelee raised his hand. ‘I know I said it was a waste of time yesterday, but Longton showed me several cleverly hidden drawers in his furniture last night – perhaps the library has some similar devices. If so, I shall find them.’

‘Be careful,’ warned Michael. ‘Or we may have to sell Huntington to pay for the damage.’

Langelee nodded in a way that said he would do what he liked, and strode off purposefully. Cynric also hurried away, leaving Bartholomew and Michael to walk to the abbey gate together.

‘Langelee is wasting his time,’ predicted Michael. ‘He will not find the codicil or Radeford’s hiding place, not given the number of people who have been granted access to the library since he secreted them. Besides, perhaps the vicars have a point: maybe Radeford
did
say he found the codicil as a ruse to make them drop their claim.’

‘I cannot believe that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I never knew him to lie, especially to us.’

‘Perhaps, but experience has taught me that you never
really know a person. Take you, for example. I would never have predicted that you would single-handedly invade the Bedern.’

Bartholomew sighed unhappily. ‘I had been thinking about Radeford, and nothing seemed too great a risk when the prize was unveiling his killer.’

Michael patted his shoulder comfortingly. ‘Perhaps we shall do it today.’

Fournays lived on a road named Hungate, which ran behind the Carmelite Priory, and as Bartholomew and Michael walked there, the city dripped. Water oozed from saturated thatches, gutters and trees, while the drains at the side of the road had been transformed into treacherous, fast-flowing streams.

They had not gone far when they met Mayor Longton. Pund was at his side, and both looked fragile, indicating that Langelee had not been the only one who had imbibed too much the previous night. A gaggle of liveried but slovenly henchmen were in tow.

‘My brother says he owes you his life,’ replied Longton with a careful smile, as if he was afraid his brains might drop out if he employed too many facial muscles. ‘Would you like to see him again? I am sure he would appreciate the kindness, and we can walk there together.’

Supposing no harm would come from asking whether William had had any further thoughts on who might have shot him, Bartholomew nodded. Longton led the way, weaving through the bustle of the main street, sometimes acknowledging the greetings of the people he passed, sometimes not.

‘I remembered something this morning,’ the Mayor said as they went. ‘Thoresby banned Sunday trading recently, and as
advocatus ecclesiae
, William was responsible for
ensuring that everyone knew it. The merchants were livid, because foodstuffs spoil, and Gisbyrn was especially vexed. It is a good motive for him wanting my poor brother dead, would you not agree?’

As it probably involved large sums of money, Bartholomew did. He exchanged a glance with Michael, and hoped it would not mean they were obliged to question every tradesman in York, because it would take an age. He also wondered why William had not mentioned it.

‘What did Myton think of these restrictions?’ asked Michael, moving to another subject.

Longton blinked. ‘Myton? He died long before this particu lar edict came into force.’ He pondered the question anyway. ‘But he would have approved – he was very devout. He died of a softening of the brain, you know, which is nasty, but mercifully quick.’

‘A number of people seem to have suffered mercifully quick ends in the last few years,’ observed Michael. ‘Including seven of Zouche’s executors.’

‘Mostly of spotted liver and debilities,’ nodded Longton, then sighed. ‘Poor Myton. I wish he were alive today – he would not have let these vile merchants amass so such power.’

‘How would he have stopped them?’

‘With words – he was very good at reasoning with people. He even kept Langelee in check when they worked together, and you do not need me to tell you that
that
was something of a feat.’

‘Did Myton have any views on French spies?’ asked Bartholomew, declining to comment.

Longton nodded vigorously. ‘Oh, yes. He hated them, but who does not? Most people think the Holy Trinity Benedictines are responsible, but they are decent men, with excellent taste in imported wine. The Carmelites, on the other hand, make their own.’

‘How is your search for the mint’s charter coming along?’ asked Michael guilelessly.

Longton waved a dismissive hand. ‘My answer to you is the same as it was to Langelee last night: I shall pay Dalfeld to produce another one, because that inept Dean has lost the original.’

‘Dalfeld is good at counterfeiting, then, is he?’ probed Michael, amused by the bald admission.

Longton nodded blithely. ‘The best. You should consider hiring him to produce a codicil if you cannot locate one, because the vicars will never be able to tell.’

‘Thank you,’ said Michael blandly. ‘We shall bear it in mind.’

William was sitting in a chair when they arrived, pale but in good spirits. When Bartholomew inspected the wound, he found it was healing well, which the knight attributed to Fournays changing the bandages twice a day. Bartholomew warmed to the surgeon even more when he learned that wine had been forbidden, too, and the patient had been ordered to drink boiled broth instead.

‘Gisbyrn still denies attacking you,’ said Longton to his brother. ‘But when I trick a confession out of him, he will hang, because no merchant shoots
my
brother and lives to tell the tale.’

‘No!’ exclaimed William, horrified. ‘You cannot—’

‘I shall do as I please. But discussing that villain will impede your recovery, so we shall talk about something else instead. Such as my plan to prevent the Foss from flooding.’

He began to oblige, although it sounded an ill-conceived and confused strategy to Bartholomew. William also voiced reservations, but Longton declared angrily that there was nothing wrong with his arrangements, and stalked out in
a huff, although not before he had drained the wine in his cup.

‘Did you know Myton?’ asked Bartholomew of William, in the slightly awkward silence that followed Longton’s departure. He was not sure why he wanted to know, and supposed he was curious about the man because so many people had mentioned him.

‘Yes, of course.’ William was transparently grateful for the change of subject. ‘He was a decent fellow, although perhaps a little pompous.’

‘Everyone else says he was venerable and discreet,’ said Michael.

William smiled. ‘Yes, but “venerable” is a word that is often applied to haughty men, while “discreet” can be synonymous with secretive. He gave lots of money to the vicars-choral – for obits to shorten his time in Purgatory – so he must have been worried about his venial sins.’

‘Can you tell us anything else about him?’ asked Michael.

‘Zouche was fond of him, and he worked well with Langelee. I fell out with him when he reported Marmaduke to Thoresby. He should have told me first, and I would have resolved the matter quietly. Instead, he went to the Archbishop, who felt compelled to make an example.’

‘For peddling false relics?’

William nodded. ‘It was not as if Marmaduke was keeping the money for himself, and defrocking him was too severe a punishment. He was only trying to raise funds for Zouche’s chantry – as an executor, he felt guilty that the project had foundered.’

‘So Myton had his failings,’ mused Michael.

‘Yes, but you will not find many people prepared to list them. He was popular, and when he died, any defects in his character were conveniently forgotten. It happens.’

‘Your brother has just told us that you might have accrued
enemies by helping Thoresby to ban Sunday trading,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Is it true?’

William sighed. ‘My brother would love a merchant to be guilty of harming me, and he exaggerates their anger against the prohibition. They were peeved, of course, but they understand it is for the good of their souls. Moreover, they know it was not
my
idea.’

But Bartholomew was not sure whether he believed him – or rather, he was not sure whether he believed that the merchants had accepted the ban with as much equanimity as William seemed to think. He and Michael thanked the knight for his cooperation, and took their leave.

To reach Fournays’s house, they had to pass the Carmelite Priory. The gate opened as they passed, and Penterel stepped out, Wy and Harold at his heels. They were laughing at something Wy had said, but their merriment abated when they saw the scholars, and they came to ask after their well-being following Radeford’s burial. Their concern seemed sincere, and Bartholomew failed to understand why their easy manners were insufficient to combat the dislike they had engendered by suing people. When they had to take refuge inside a doorway to talk, because stones were hurled by three sullen youths, he broached the subject.

‘Those are Elen Duffield’s sons,’ explained Wy. He made a threatening gesture at the lads, which earned him a reproving glare from his Prior. ‘We took her to court for debt.’

‘We had no choice,’ said Penterel, his expression pained. ‘She owed us a fortune, and we needed it back to provide alms for the poor.’

‘She has never forgiven us,’ added Harold. ‘Although it was hardly our fault she lost the case: she should not have purchased wine from us if she could not afford it.’

‘She could afford it,’ said Wy. ‘She is a wealthy woman. She just disliked having to pay for something after it was gone, and hoped we would forget about it if she procrastinated long enough.’

‘The people of York are not very good losers when it comes to the law,’ said Penterel ruefully.

‘And the vicars-choral do not help,’ Wy went on, his scarred face resentful. ‘They spread nasty rumours about us. And do you know why? Because they stole our topsoil to make themselves a nice garden, and were embarrassed and angry when we challenged them over it. Of course we sued them! What did they expect?’