Mystery in the Minster (34 page)

‘And Abbot Multone,’ added Bartholomew. ‘I think it is odd that he and his steward should just happen to come here for a book this week, when neither has done anything like it before. And they have been suspiciously interested in our progress ever since we arrived.’

‘Very well,’ conceded Michael. ‘We shall include them, too. What about the others Talerand says visited? Longton and Alice?’

‘Yes, them, too.’ Bartholomew hesitated. ‘And Talerand himself.’

Michael nodded slowly. ‘I agree: it is suspicious that he should remember “Radeford” leaving the library now, when he did not mention it before. Also, do you recall his peculiar reaction when we asked him and the Archbishop about the strange deaths of Zouche’s executors?’

‘He virtually ran away from the discussion,’ recalled Bartholomew. ‘Using the donkey as an excuse.’

‘Moreover, as Langelee pointed out, his bumbling amiability must be a ruse – if he were really inept, he could not
rule a busy minster or see off rivals determined to be Dean in his stead.’

Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘He seems helpful, but no one has actually succeeded in achieving anything in the library. I wonder whether the Archbishop will ever see that charter. It would not surprise me if it went missing again.’

‘Do you think Talerand deranged, then?’ asked Michael uneasily.

‘It is possible. And he killed Radeford in revenge for drawing order out of chaos. Is that Marmaduke over there? What is he doing?’

The squat ex-priest was scuttling around St Sampson’s Church with the reliquary containing the saint’s toe tucked under his arm. He was red-faced, staggering and breathless.

‘Rain fell for forty days and forty nights before Noah’s flood,’ he gasped. ‘So I have offered to run around the church forty times if Sampson will save York from disaster. I have another seven to go. Or is it eight? I am rather dizzy.’

‘Rest for a few moments, then,’ advised Michael. ‘I am sure the saint will not mind.’

Relieved, Marmaduke started to pass the reliquary to Bartholomew while he wiped the sweat from his face, but then changed his mind and gave it to the monk instead.

‘Sampson does not like you, Doctor,’ he said sternly. ‘He knows you have not prayed to him as you promised. Indeed, perhaps
that
is why it is raining so hard.’

‘I did not promise,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘It was—’

‘Christopher Malore,’ said Michael, cutting across him and addressing the ex-priest. ‘One of your fellow executors. What kind of man was he?’

Marmaduke’s eyebrows shot into his hair. ‘He is dead, Brother. I do not speak ill of the dead.’

‘So he was a rogue,’ surmised Michael. ‘Could he have stolen the chantry fund?’

‘No one stole it!’ cried Marmaduke, shocked. ‘We would have noticed that! It just trickled away because we failed to monitor it properly. And Christopher was not a rogue – he was just more interested in his own soul than anyone else’s. But why ask about him? He died years ago.’

‘He was discovered weeping over Zouche’s chantry box the day before it was announced that the fund was dry,’ explained Michael. ‘And then denied being there. Do you know why?’

Marmaduke shook his head. ‘No, but I doubt it had anything to do with theft. He was not dishonest, just rather selfishly pious.’

‘What about Myton?’ asked Michael. ‘Was he selfishly pious, too? Is that why he reported you to the Archbishop for selling false relics?’

Marmaduke flinched. ‘I have already told you that is personal. I do not choose to discuss it.’

‘I am sure it is painful for you,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘And we have been told that Myton was wrong to have taken the matter to Thoresby when it could have been handled discreetly. Especially as you were trying to raise funds for Zouche, not for yourself.’

Marmaduke’s eyes filled with tears. ‘It was a terrible time. Cotyngham, Sir William and Lady Helen were kind, but I was shunned by others I thought were friends. And Myton …’

‘Yes?’ asked Michael.

‘I think my punishment hurt him as much as me, because he was never the same afterwards, and Fournays said it played on his conscience. I never blamed him, though; it was my own fault.’

‘You bore him no grudge?’ asked Michael sceptically.

Marmaduke grimaced. ‘Briefly perhaps, but the crime was mine, and he only did what he thought was right. But he is dead now, and I hope his obits will see him out of Purgatory soon. And speaking of religion, I had better resume my penance, or the river will be through these church doors before the end of the day.’

The Ouse Bridge was pandemonium, with some people pouring towards the sanctuary represented by the minster and priories, and others just as eager to escape from the crowded city. Hence the structure was packed with carts, horses and pedestrians, and panic and uncertainty made tempers wear thin as the twin flows of traffic battled against each other.

When Bartholomew and Michael knocked at Dalfeld’s door, his servant told them that Warden Stayndrop had issued an urgent summons to all York’s Franciscans, ordering them back to the friary to help with the impending crisis. With a smug smirk, the man said that Dalfeld had not been pleased to be included in the general recall, but declining to obey had not been an option. Stifling sighs of exasperation, Bartholomew and Michael began to hurry there.

They were still on the bridge when they saw Anketil, his cowl pulled low to avoid recognition. He jumped in alarm when Michael touched his arm.

‘Oh, it is you, Brother,’ he said, recognising the monk in relief. ‘I thought it was someone else wanting to blame Holy Trinity for the storms.’

When he pulled them into a doorway so that they could speak without being trampled, they saw he sported a black eye.

‘Someone struck you?’ asked Michael, concerned.

Anketil shook his head. ‘A stone was lobbed over our
wall, and it was simple bad luck that it found its mark. However, it has made my brethren wary of going out.’

‘But not you?’ asked Bartholomew. Anketil was indistinguishable from other Benedictines in his black habit, but a random gust could easily blow back his hood to reveal his face.

Anketil grimaced. ‘Prior Chozaico is urged to attend a conference in the minster, and I am sent to inform the Dean that he will not be going. They will vote to open the gates of all religious houses to refugees, but we cannot oblige – people would use the opportunity to attack us.’

‘Your refusal to help will be noted,’ warned Michael. ‘People will be even more convinced that you have something to hide.’

Anketil smiled wanly. ‘Better that than inevitable destruction. However, standing here speaking French is not a good idea, because passers-by are glaring at us.’

Uneasily, Bartholomew saw it was true, and suspected it was only because people were in a hurry that they did not stop to express their suspicions with their fists.

‘Just one more question,’ said Michael, reaching out to catch Anketil’s sleeve. ‘Your brother was seen weeping in the treasury the night before Zouche’s chantry fund was declared empty.’

‘Yes,’ nodded Anketil. ‘He told me. I have already confessed that we allowed the money to trickle away due to poor supervision, and he was the one who discovered it had gone. The Dean claimed it was him, but it was actually Christopher. He wanted to tell the other executors before making it public, but Talerand pre-empted him.’

‘Then why did he deny being in the treasury when Talerand asked him about it the next day?’ demanded Michael.

‘He did not deny anything,’ said Anketil, puzzled. ‘Talerand must have misunderstood.’

‘Do you think he stole it?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘No,’ replied Anketil. Then his expression became pained. ‘Although the fund represented a substantial sum of money, and the minster is notorious for being in constant need of cash. It is possible that Talerand …
borrowed
the odd shilling, although, if he did, I do not see why he was the one to announce that the box was empty. I imagine he would have distanced himself.’

‘Actually, I think Matt meant Christopher,’ said Michael. ‘Did
Christopher
steal the money?’

Anketil gaped at him. ‘No, of course not! He was a monk.’

So was Anketil, and as his habit was of far better quality than any clothes Bartholomew owned, and his pectoral cross alone would have kept Cambridge’s poor in medicine for a month, the physician felt he had the right to treat him to a disbelieving glance.

Anketil saw it, and hastened to convince him. ‘Christopher was not interested in money, and if you do not believe me, ask Abbot Multone. He made a will, bequeathing all his property to our Order, but it comprised two books and a pair of sandals. And that is all. He was not a worldly man.’

‘How long after this discovery did he die?’ asked Bartholomew, not sure what to think.

‘A few days. Why? Surely you cannot believe the two are connected? Christopher died of a debility, something which Fournays says can strike at anyone. His death had nothing to do with that wretched chantry money. Besides, Talerand says the box might have been empty for weeks before he and Christopher discovered—’

‘
Wretched
chantry money?’ interrupted Michael sharply.

Anketil winced at the slip, but began to explain. ‘It was
a millstone, Brother, and although Christopher was distressed to learn it had gone, I was relieved. It was an unreasonable responsibility, and Zouche should have paid a clerk to monitor progress, not relied on his busy friends. If I had known what a burden it would be, I would have refused his request.’

‘Did all the executors think like you?’ asked Bartholomew.

Anketil closed his eyes. ‘Some did. Not Christopher, Marmaduke and Neville, though. My brother and Neville were always writing to each other about the chantry and its problems.’

‘Those letters are in the minster library,’ said Michael. ‘Radeford found them.’

Anketil nodded. ‘Yes, I imagine Multone would have passed them to Talerand after Christopher’s death. But I cannot stand here chatting. Prior Chozaico will be worried, and may venture out to look for me himself. I do not want him in needless danger.’

He pulled his cowl further over his head and slipped away, although there was something in his gait that caused an apprentice to grab some dung from the road and lob it. It hit a woman instead, and Anketil took advantage of the resulting melee to escape.

Bartholomew and Michael arrived at the Franciscan Priory to find it in the grip of frenzied activity. Friars were running everywhere with sandbags, and as it was a time when they should be saying sext, it was another example of the general alarm. Mardisley came to greet them.

‘Where is Jorden?’ asked Bartholomew. It was the first time he had seen one without the other.

‘With the Dominicans,’ replied Mardisley unhappily. ‘I hope this flood does not last long, because we need to hone our skills if we are going to make a good impression in our
public debate. But you are scholars. Perhaps you might spare a few moments to—’

‘Not today,’ interrupted Michael shortly. ‘We need to speak to Dalfeld. Is he here?’

‘Yes, although he is useless. When Warden Stayndrop asked him to move some sandbags, he declined on the basis that it would spoil his new tunic. He should be wearing a habit, and—’

‘Did you know Christopher Malore?’ asked Michael abruptly.

Mardisley blinked at the change of subject. ‘Yes. Why?’

‘What was he like?’

Mardisley regarded him warily. ‘He seemed decent. Why? And why do you want Dalfeld? It is not about Zouche’s chantry fund, is it?’

Michael regarded him closely. ‘What do you know about that?’

Mardisley shrugged. ‘Nothing, other than that there was something of a scandal when the money ran out. Dalfeld was accused of theft, but nothing was ever proven.’

A yell called him back to his duties at that point. Bartholomew watched him go, wondering why he had been so eager to know their business, and why he should have mentioned the accusations against Dalfeld. Members of religious Orders tended to stick together, and it was considered anathema to betray each other, even if one did deplore the other’s secular lifestyle.

‘Lord!’ muttered Michael. ‘Are we to include Mardisley on our list of suspects now, on the grounds that he is oddly keen for Dalfeld to be discredited?’

‘I have no idea.’ Bartholomew pointed. ‘But there is Dalfeld.’

The lawyer could not have looked less like his brethren had he tried. They were, to a man, hot, sweaty and grimy
from their exertions, but he was perfectly attired and clean. He had been given the task of weighing beans into bowls, ready to be used to feed the hungry, but, so as not to soil his clothes, he wielded the scoop with ridiculous inefficiency. He grinned and set it down when he saw Michael and Bartholomew, transparently delighted to have an excuse to shirk. Bartholomew fought down the urge to grab him by the throat, sure this silky, arrogant man was involved in the murder of his colleague, and hating to see the smug satisfaction on his face.

‘Why did you visit the library this week?’ demanded Michael without preamble.

Dalfeld smirked. ‘Why do you think? Radeford is said to have discovered the codicil, but you have spent hours there since he died.
Ergo
, either he lied about finding it or he did not give it to you. Either way, you are still searching. So of course I went to see if I could get it first.’