Mystery in the Minster (8 page)

‘Perhaps,’ acknowledged Radeford. ‘However, all these speculations are irrelevant, because Sir William was not the intended target. Bartholomew was.’

‘See, boy?’ muttered Cynric, nudging the physician in satisfaction. ‘I told you so.’

‘Because you are from Michaelhouse,’ Radeford went on. ‘And the vicars – along with Dalfeld their lawyer – want us frightened off. I happened to glance back towards you
just before William was cut down, and the angle would have made it very easy to miss one and hit the other.’

‘It is possible, Matt,’ nodded Michael. ‘I am one Benedictine out of dozens who live here, while Langelee, Radeford and Cynric are wearing hooded cloaks that render them anonym ous. But you are distinctive by being bare-headed. You are certainly the easiest target.’

Cynric promptly shoved his own cap in the physician’s hand. It was festooned with pilgrim badges from sites the book-bearer had never visited, interspersed with pagan charms to ward off various kinds of evil. Bartholomew regarded it without enthusiasm, suspecting the Abbot might have something to say if he saw such an item sported within his precincts.

‘So if there are murderous designs on us – by the vicars or anyone else – we have a right to investigate,’ concluded Michael.

There was a gleam in his eye that Bartholomew did not like, and he saw the monk was keen to put his formidable wits to solving the case. Michael had been bored on the journey north, and the prospect of an intellectual challenge was obviously an attractive one.

‘Hide the arrow in your bag, Bartholomew,’ ordered Langelee. ‘I shall show it to a few fletchers later. Meanwhile, we shall all go to see what St Mary ad Valvas has in the way of clues.’

‘Must we, Master?’ asked Cynric uneasily. ‘Lady Helen said it was cursed.’

‘It was not cursed when I lived here,’ said Langelee dismissively, beginning to stride towards it. ‘At least, not that I remember.’

The troubled expression on Cynric’s face said he did not find this assurance very comforting.

* * *

Although the minster precinct was busy, no one seemed to take any notice as they walked to the derelict church. Bartholomew felt exposed and uncomfortable, though, sensing hidden eyes, and when one of St Mary’s broken window shutters slammed with a sharp report, he jumped violently.

‘How good are you with arrow wounds, Bartholomew?’ asked Radeford nervously. ‘Will you be able to remove a second missile, should one come our way?’

‘It depends on where it lands,’ replied Bartholomew.

Radeford swallowed hard. ‘I am beginning to wish I had declined this invitation to travel north. First, it seems Huntington is not worth having anyway, and second, I have a feeling it will not be easy to locate the missing codicil.’

‘No,’ agreed Langelee. ‘But we must do our best. Besides, that particular invitation was not one you were at liberty to decline. I needed you here, so you had no choice but to accompany me.’

They reached the church to find it locked, and Bartholomew was a little shocked by the speed with which the Master managed to circumvent the mechanism. Langelee pushed open the door, which creaked on rusting hinges, and indicated that his colleagues were to follow him inside.

It was a poor, sad place that had been left to decay. Pigeons roosted on the rafters and in crevices in the stone walls, and the floor was thick with their droppings. The rood screen had toppled over, and lay in a splintered mass in the nave, revealing the chancel beyond to be crammed full of fallen masonry. Bartholomew stood in the doorway and stared up at the rotten ceiling, wondering how long it would be before the whole thing came crashing down. It had started to rain again, and he was sure the water that splattered mournfully on to the stone floor was doing nothing to help. He was
reluctant to step farther inside, not liking the odour of rot, the fact that the whole place seemed to be on the verge of losing its battle with gravity, or the notion that a killer might still be lurking.

‘Hurry up,’ hissed Langelee irritably, grabbing his arm and hauling him forward. ‘There is no need to draw attention to what we are about to do by hovering there.’

Once Bartholomew was over the threshold, the Master closed the door, although he did not lock it, for which Bartholomew was grateful. He did not like the thought of being trapped there.

‘Have you been in here before?’ he asked.

‘No,’ replied Langelee. ‘It was always a bit shabby for my taste, and Cotyngham never had much of a congregation, not even before the plague. Then the Death took every last one of them, and Zouche sent him to Huntington – to stop him from coming here and spending all day in tears.’

‘An act of compassion?’ asked Radeford.

Langelee nodded. ‘Zouche was a considerate man. And it worked, because Cotyngham threw off his misery once he was away from York, and was happy in his new parish. But his departure was the death knell for this church. I imagine it will be demolished once Thoresby starts rebuilding the minster choir, because it will be in the way.’

They all jumped when a bird exploded from a pile of discarded wood and flapped away in a flurry of snapping wings.

‘Can anyone remember those recipes for pigeon pie?’ muttered Michael, fixing it with a venomous glare. ‘Lord, it stinks in here! I have never liked pigeons. Nasty, dirty things.’

As they ventured farther inside the smell grew worse,
and Michael reeled away with a cry of revulsion when he discovered a dead pig, crawling with maggots. There were three dead cats, too, apparently tossed through the windows by people too lazy to dispose of them properly.

‘The bowman stood here,’ announced Langelee eventually, stopping at one of the windows. He peered out, and took aim with an imaginary weapon. ‘It cannot have been anywhere else, because this is the only place that has been cleared of rubbish – and I cannot imagine he balanced on a decomposing animal while he waited for his quarry to appear.’

‘I agree,’ said Cynric, examining it carefully. ‘You can see where the weeds growing between the flagstones have been trampled, and there are marks in the dust where he rested his weapon.’

‘He was here for some time,’ added Bartholomew. When the others regarded him quizzically, he pointed to the remains of a makeshift meal – bread and cheese – that had been tossed towards the rubble of the collapsed rood.

‘How do you know they were not here before?’ asked Radeford sceptically.

‘With all these pigeons?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘True,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘I doubt the food will be here tomorrow. So what can we conclude from it? That we can eliminate Dalfeld, because he would not have had time to eat anything before shooting at Matt? Remember that he left the abbey at the same time as us.’

‘Yes, but we walked slowly and he hurried,’ countered Langelee. ‘I think he would have had ample time to come in, grab a pre-hidden bow and satisfy his hunger. After all, he appeared very quickly to watch Bartholomew prodding about in poor William’s guts.’

‘So did the vicars,’ said Michael. ‘And I imagine a large man like Cave will not like going long without feeding. He
may have fortified himself before loosing a quarrel at a Michaelhouse man.’

‘But the vicars have a valid reason for being in the minster precinct,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘They work here.
Ergo
, I do not think we can draw any inferences from their speedy arrival at the scene of the crime.’

Langelee frowned. ‘Then perhaps we should assess who did
not
come to gawp –
I
never loitered after I had shot someone.’

His colleagues regarded him uneasily, and it occurred to Bartholomew that not everyone might be pleased to see Langelee back. Perhaps the arrow
had
been intended for one of his Fellows, as a punishment for his violent past, and had nothing to do with Michaelhouse and Huntington.

‘I would not linger here, if I were you,’ came a voice from the door that made even Langelee start. ‘There are those who say it is cursed.’

Bartholomew did not need to look at his book-bearer to know that amulets were being grasped and prayers muttered. Cynric took curses seriously. Meanwhile, Radeford had leapt so violently that he had stumbled, and Michael’s hand shook as he steadied him. Langelee was the first to regain his composure.

‘Sub-Chanter Ellis,’ he said, as the wet-lipped vicar waddled towards them. ‘What are you doing here? You gave us a fright.’

‘I came to advise you to leave,’ replied Ellis. ‘St Mary ad Valvas is an unsafe place to venture into on three counts: it is haunted, it contains hastily buried corpses, and its roof is on the verge of collapse. It would be a pity to lose you before we have had the satisfaction of defeating you over Huntington.’

‘What “hastily buried corpses”?’ asked Bartholomew, seeing Michael’s eyes harden and Langelee gird himself up for a tart reply. ‘Do you mean these animals?’

Ellis’s lips were almost purple in the dim light. ‘No, I refer to the congregation who died of the plague. Archbishop Zouche refused to inter them in the cemetery, because he said it was too near the minster well. So they were laid in the chancel, and covered in rubble instead.’

Bartholomew peered to where he pointed, and saw that the mound he assumed had been caused by a collapse was more regularly shaped than it would have been from a random fall. It was also larger than he had appreciated: higher than he was tall, it stretched almost the entire width of the building.

‘How many?’ he asked disapprovingly. The masonry appeared to have been carefully packed, but rats would have found a way in to feast, and so would flies.

‘Fifteen or twenty.’ Ellis wrinkled his nose. ‘This place has always reeked, but it has been much worse recently. It must be the rain, along with the fact that some folk have been using it as a convenient repository for unwanted livestock.’

‘The plague victims should have been put somewhere more appropriate,’ said Bartholomew, unwilling to let the matter drop. ‘It was not healthy to leave them here.’

Ellis smiled patronisingly. ‘Do not worry about them standing up to wander about at night. Most of the slabs are extremely heavy, and the dead will never break free.’

‘That is not my concern,’ said Bartholomew, aware of Cynric’s hand moving to grip another of his amulets. ‘But what would have happened if contagious fluids had seeped out of them?’

‘Matt is our University’s Corpse Examiner,’ said Michael, apparently feeling an explanation was required to account
for the physician’s remarks. ‘He knows a lot about unnatural death.’

‘Your University’s what?’ asked Ellis warily, and Bartholomew winced. It was hardly a title to endear him to anyone, and while Cambridge was used to it, York was not, and it made him sound sinister.

‘It means he is skilled at working out who murdered whom,’ said Michael, wholly untruthfully. ‘So if there are clues here to tell us who attacked Sir William, he is sure to find them.’

Alarm filled Ellis’s face. ‘Well do not look to us vicars. We were with you when it happened.’

‘Actually,
you
were not. You, Cave and Jafford had gone to fetch some documents.’

Ellis waved the parchments he held, slyness taking the place of concern. ‘And here they are. I cannot have fetched them
and
shot William, so do not think to accuse me of the crime.’

Bartholomew had no idea whether he was telling the truth, and judging by the guarded expressions on his colleagues’ faces, neither did they.

‘Thank you for agreeing to let us see them, Master Ellis,’ said Radeford, ever tactful. ‘But perhaps we could do it outside? It is too dark in here for reading.’

He led the way to the door. Ellis, Michael and Cynric followed, leaving Bartholomew and Langelee behind. The Master began to look for more clues, while Bartholomew inspected the plague grave. His fears were borne out when he glimpsed the gleam of yellow-white near the bottom of the pile. It was a bone, pitted with marks which showed that rats had found it. Slowly, he walked around the mound’s base, pressing his sleeve against his nose to lessen the stench emanating from the pig. Right at the back was a bow, apparently tossed there in the confident
expectation that no one was likely to venture into such an unpleasant place.

‘It is a town weapon,’ said Langelee, taking it from him. ‘One of those provided at the butts for apprentices. Clearly, someone took it from the sheds where they are stored, and it provides no kind of clue whatsoever, because anyone can take one to practise with on Mondays.’

‘But you say the arrow is distinctive?’ asked Bartholomew.

Langelee smiled rather wolfishly. ‘Yes, it is.’

When Langelee and Bartholomew emerged from the church, both grateful to be away from the foul smell and depressing gloom, they found Michael and Radeford talking in low voices, while Cynric hovered nearby. There was no sign of Ellis.

‘He has a letter Zouche wrote to a former sub-chanter, mentioning Huntington in a way that suggests he did originally intend the vicars to have it,’ said Michael un happily. ‘Although it pre-dates the plague.
And
he has a note from Cotyngham, acknowledging the vicars’ assurance that no move would be made on Huntington until he either died or resigned.’

‘The inference being that Cotyngham thought Huntington was going to them, too,’ added Radeford. Then he smiled. ‘But neither of these missives is the codicil, and although they are a setback to our cause, it is not one that is insurmountable, legally speaking.’