Mystery in the Minster (5 page)

‘Langelee!’ exclaimed one of the newcomers. He was a pleasant-faced man with short brown hair, who carried himself with the careless grace of the aristocrat. He spoke French so flawlessly that it could only be his mother tongue. ‘I heard you might come to challenge the vicars, and I wanted to invite you to stay in Holy Trinity, but …’

‘But I thought it inadvisable,’ finished Multone. He introduced the Frenchman as Prior Jean de Chozaico, and the other monk as Anketil Malore. Then he returned to the subject of Holy Trinity. ‘It was attacked only last week, and guests should not be subjected to that sort of thing. Besides, we have a nice hospitium here.’

‘Spies?’ asked Langelee of Chozaico sympathetically,
speaking the vernacular, because his French was almost as poor as his Latin. ‘People still think you harbour them?’

Chozaico winced. ‘Yes, because of our status as an alien house. It is galling, because we have tried our best to win the city’s affection – giving alms, making donations to worthy causes …’

‘The Carmelites are far more likely suspects than us,’ added Anketil, who was taller than his Prior, and slimmer, with hair so fair as to make him appear bald. ‘They sue anyone who owes them money, presumably so they can send it to their foreign masters.’

‘No,’ said Chozaico, regarding his companion sharply. ‘They are not guilty either, and—’

‘You were one of Zouche’s executors, Anketil,’ interrupted Langelee rudely, turning the subject to one that interested him more. ‘Surely his last testament contained a sentence about Huntington? The codicil has been misplaced, but what about the will itself?’

‘It confined itself solely to his chantry chapel,’ replied Anketil. He looked pleased to have been spared a rebuke from his Prior. ‘And although I heard him say he wanted Michaelhouse to have Huntington, I am not aware that he wrote anything down. However, the man to ask is John Dalfeld.’

Langelee groaned. ‘I was hoping to avoid that. I cannot abide lawyers, and Dalfeld is worse than most.’ He either did not notice or did not care about Radeford’s hurt expression. ‘I do not suppose there has been any improvement in him since I left?’

‘He has grown in importance,’ replied Chozaico carefully. ‘Thoresby uses him a great deal.’

‘He does not even live in the Franciscan Priory now,’ added Anketil. ‘He has his own house.’

‘On the Ouse Bridge,’ elaborated Multone. ‘I asked
Warden Stayndrop why he allowed one of his friars such liberty, and he said it was expedient.’

‘In other words,’ translated Alice, ‘Stayndrop was glad to be rid of him. Dalfeld was arrogant, nosy and sly when you knew him, Ralph, but now he is worse than ever. In fact, he is a beast.’

‘He is not very religious, either,’ added Isabella, in a way that suggested that she considered this the ultimate damnation. ‘He does not even bother wearing his habit these days.’

Chozaico cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with such blunt talking. ‘If Dalfeld cannot help you, try looking in the minster library. When Thoresby became Archbishop, he sent all Zouche’s correspondence there, so if a codicil does exist, that is where it will be.’

‘Thank you,’ said Langelee glumly. ‘But I suppose we had better start with Dalfeld. We shall visit him today.’

‘That will not be necessary,’ said Multone. ‘Because I asked him to come here this morning for that express purpose. I thought you might prefer to deal with him in my presence, because he is …’

‘Ruthless, devious and greedy,’ supplied Alice, when the Abbot faltered, searching for a tactful phrase. ‘The kind of man who should only be addressed in the presence of reliable witnesses, lest he later twists your words or forges your signatures.’

Multone winced, although he made no effort to contradict her. ‘I expect him at any moment.’

‘Then perhaps we could discuss my business before he arrives, Father Abbot,’ suggested Chozaico uneasily. ‘Because … well, you understand.’

‘Indeed,’ nodded Multone quickly. ‘The founding of an obit for Stiendby is none of his affair.’

‘Stiendby is dead?’ asked Langelee, shocked. ‘He was
another of Zouche’s executors. Why did no one inform me?’

‘Because hiring messengers to ride all the way to Cambridge is expensive,’ replied Anketil. ‘Besides, Sir William wrote when Myton died, and you never replied. Naturally, we all assumed you were engrossed in your new life, and the old one no longer held any interest for you.’

Langelee glared at him. ‘I was so stricken with sorrow that responding must have slipped my mind. But never mind this – what happened to Stiendby?’

‘He died last year, of spotted liver.’ Abbot Multone shuddered. ‘God deliver us all from such a vile affliction! It took Neville, too – another executor – although that was five years ago now.’

‘What is spotted liver?’ asked Bartholomew curiously, while Langelee’s jaw dropped with the realisation that events in York had moved on without him during the time he had been absent.

‘A terrible disease,’ replied Multone bleakly. ‘Best not ask.’

The Abbot turned his attention to the document Chozaico produced and began to scan through it, although he shoved it rather furtively up his sleeve when Oustwyk appeared with yet another guest. There was immediate disquiet among those already there, and it was obvious that none of them appreciated being thrust into the company of the latest arrival.

Dalfeld was a tall man with a mop of black curly hair and restless eyes. There was nothing to identify him as a member of the Franciscan Order, because he wore a green belted tunic called a gipon, and fine calfskin boots. However, although both were of excellent quality, they were sadly stained with mud and one sleeve had been ripped. He was also wet, and wore no hat or cloak.

‘I have just been robbed,’ he raged, stamping into the room and making directly for the fire. He jostled Alice as he went, and only a timely lunge by Chozaico prevented her from falling. ‘Me, a poor friar!’

‘Robbed?’ asked Abbot Multone in astonishment. ‘By whom?’

‘If I knew that, the villain would be kicking on a gibbet by now,’ fumed Dalfeld viciously. ‘He knocked me into the filth of the street, and then stole my purse, my new hat and my favourite cloak. And although there were a dozen witnesses, not one admitted to seeing anything.’

‘Fleeced of your belongings,’ said Alice flatly. ‘Now you know how your victims feel.’

‘I do not
fleece
people,’ snapped Dalfeld. ‘I merely apply the law.’

‘It invariably amounts to the same thing with you,’ said Chozaico quietly. ‘And a little conscience would not go amiss. What you do is rarely just, and your religious vows—’

‘How dare you lecture me!’ snarled Dalfeld. ‘You are a damned French spy.’

‘I hardly think—’ began Multone, shocked, while the colour drained from Chozaico’s face.

‘I know why you asked me here,’ interrupted Dalfeld curtly. ‘But the answer is no: I wrote no document giving Huntington to Michaelhouse.
Ergo
, the vicars will win this case. But that was a foregone conclusion when they went out and hired the best lawyer available to represent them: me.’

‘You are not the only notary-public in York,’ said Langelee stiffly. ‘Zouche may have asked someone else to produce the codicil.’

‘He may,’ acknowledged Dalfeld. ‘But if you do discover one, you will have to prove it is not a forgery – especially as I imagine Oustwyk has already offered to introduce you
to men skilled at producing fraudulent writs. However, I am not easily deceived, so you may as well save your money and go home now. You stand as much chance of besting me as you do of flying to Venus.’

Before the scholars could react to Dalfeld’s remarks, Oustwyk appeared with yet another visitor. Exasperated, the Abbot hauled his steward into a corner, whispering fierce admonitions, but although Oustwyk nodded understanding, he did not seem contrite.

The newcomer’s eyebrows shot up in surprise at the number of people the Abbot was entertaining, but he squeezed himself into the solar gamely. He aimed for Langelee, and gripped the Master’s arm in comradely affection. His sword and short cloak said he was a knight, and he carried himself with confidence and dignity. He was in his fifties, with iron-grey hair and a weather-beaten face that might have been austere, were it not for his ready smile.

‘Scholarship suits you, Langelee,’ he said warmly. ‘You look younger than you ever did here.’

‘This is Sir William Longton,’ said Langelee to his colleagues. He grinned at the knight. ‘It is hard to believe that twelve years have passed since Zouche took us to put an end to the Scots’ unrest at Neville’s Cross. It feels like yesterday.’

Sir William sighed. ‘It does. Thoresby is an excellent archbishop, who has given up all his royal appointments to concentrate on running his diocese, but I
liked
Zouche.’

‘I liked him, too,’ said Alice. ‘He did not appreciate music, but he was a fine figure of a man.’

‘He did nothing untoward, Mother,’ said Isabella, aware of the conclusions that Bartholomew, Michael and Radeford were drawing from this particular remark. ‘He was not that sort of person.’

‘No,’ agreed Langelee. ‘He was decent and practical – not irritatingly devout, like many clerics, but a man for the people. I shall visit his chantry chapel later, and pray for his soul.’

‘I only wish you could,’ said Sir William sadly. ‘But unfortunately, it is not finished.’

Langelee frowned. ‘Not finished? But that is impossible! It was started long before he died, and by the time I left, it was half done. He left ample money—’

‘It ran out,’ interposed Dalfeld, all smug malice. ‘He should have provided more.’

‘Ran out?’ exploded Langelee. ‘But he left a fortune – enough to pay for a shrine twice over. He told me so himself.’

‘As he told you he left Huntington to Michaelhouse?’ asked Dalfeld snidely.

Langelee rounded on Anketil. ‘You are his executor – appointed to see his last wishes carried out. Why is his chapel not ready after nearly six years?’

Anketil raised his hands placatingly. ‘Masons are costly, and so is stone. We all thought what he left would be more than sufficient, but we were wrong.’

‘Then why does the minster not pay?’ demanded Langelee.

‘Because it is about to begin remodelling the choir, and there are no funds to spare,’ explained Multone. He brightened. ‘Have you seen the plans? They are pleasingly ambitious, and—’

‘He was good to you, Anketil,’ shouted Langelee angrily. ‘He defended Holy Trinity against those spying accusations, and he helped you secure lucrative benefactions.’ He whirled around to include Dalfeld in his tirade. ‘And he was generous to you, too. He introduced you to wealthy clients and he left you property. Is this how you repay him? By failing to complete his chantry?’

‘It is not my concern,’ stated Dalfeld indignantly. ‘
I
was not one of his executors.’

‘But you were his lawyer!’ yelled Langelee, unappeased. ‘He trusted you – both of you.’

Anketil flinched. ‘I know, and I would have done what he asked, had it been in my power. But the money is gone. I wish with all my heart that it were otherwise, but …’

‘I agree with Master Langelee,’ said Isabella quietly. ‘My poor uncle’s bones still lie in the minster’s nave, whereas he expected to be in his tomb by now, one with an altar, so that prayers can be said to speed his soul out of Purgatory.’

‘Yes,’ nodded Langelee in a strained voice. ‘It was important to him.’

‘When I make money from my theological treatises, I shall donate every penny to his chapel,’ vowed Isabella. She smiled wanly at Langelee. ‘His
real
friends will see his wishes granted.’

Dalfeld, making no effort to disguise the fact that he was bored with the discussion, turned to Multone. ‘Give me your blessing, Father, and then I shall be about my own affairs.’

The Abbot started to raise his hand before realising that he could not bless anyone with a roll of parchment stuffed up his sleeve. He faltered, and a sly grin stole across Dalfeld’s face when he saw that his ploy to force Multone to reveal it was going to work. Seeing the Abbot’s predicament, Chozaico stepped forward, and performed the service instead.

‘I do not want
your
benediction,’ the lawyer snapped, showing his anger at being thwarted by knocking Chozaico’s hand away. ‘I do not treat with French traitors!’

Bartholomew held his breath, anticipating an unedifying row, but Chozaico only bowed politely to Multone and took
his leave, indicating with a nod that Anketil was to go with him. Alice and Isabella also took the opportunity to depart, and when Dalfeld followed, Radeford hurried after him, asking how he could be so certain that no codicil existed. Langelee and Michael were hot on his heels, apparently distrusting their mild-mannered colleague to extract the truth from so devious and unpleasant a man.

Bartholomew followed more sedately, and only after he had thanked the Abbot again for his hospitality, feeling that to tear away as abruptly as the others would be unmannerly. Sir William trailed him down the stairs, remarking wryly that his own business with Multone could wait until the Abbot had had a chance to regain his composure after his trying morning.

‘It has stopped raining, but the wind has picked up,’ the knight said conversationally, as he and Bartholomew walked towards the monastery’s main gate together. ‘Do you have no hat? It is not a good idea to walk around York without one.’