Mystery in the Minster (18 page)

He did not look terribly distressed, and it was not long before he left the mere, declaring loudly that he had an appointment with the Archbishop. Gisbyrn went to huddle with his fellow merchants, where the notion was immediately mooted that Roger had been murdered in revenge for Sir William.

‘This is a bad business,’ said Michael in a low voice to Bartholomew, who still knelt next to the body with Fournays. ‘Roger is the second executor to have died since we arrived in York – and we have only been here three days. Do you think it is coincidence?’

Bartholomew was about to reply when Marmaduke scuttled towards them. Anketil was still at his side, his eyes bright with unshed tears.

‘Dalfeld is right,’ said Marmaduke sadly. ‘Roger did like his wine …’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Anketil unsteadily. ‘But he was not given to wandering around flooded lakes when in his cups. This is not an accident, especially not so soon after Ferriby.’

‘Ferriby died of a debility,’ Marmaduke pointed out reasonably. ‘He was old and not entirely sane. You cannot
take his ramblings about poison seriously. His fellow vicars do not.’

‘Roger is the seventh of us to die.’ Anketil’s voice shook. ‘Starting with my brother Christopher five years ago. It is eight if we count Myton, because he was Zouche’s friend, too.’

‘But none of these deaths have been suspicious,’ argued Marmaduke gently. ‘They all died of natural causes, and five years is a long time.’

‘Marmaduke is right,’ said Fournays. ‘There is no evidence of a struggle on Roger, although I do detect a faint odour of wine. Bartholomew? What do you say?’

Bartholomew leaned towards the body, and supposed there might be the merest hint of claret about its mouth. However, while it suggested that Roger might have enjoyed one or two cups, it should not have been enough to cause him to topple into a lake.

‘I am going to walk around the Fishpool’s perimeter,’ said Anketil, brushing the tears from his eyes. ‘And I
will
find evidence of a skirmish, because I cannot believe this was natural.’

‘I have already done it.’ Everyone turned. Cynric was standing behind them; so was Oustwyk, and Bartholomew wondered how long the Abbot’s steward had been listening. ‘But the rising water means it is impossible to say where he might have gone in.’

‘If there was anything to find, Cynric would have seen it,’ said Michael quietly to Anketil, when the Benedictine looked ready to dismiss the claim. ‘He is highly skilled at such matters.’

Anketil stared at his feet for a moment, but then nodded. ‘Very well. I accept that there is no evidence around the pond, but that does not mean I accept that Roger’s death was an accident.’

Marmaduke patted his arm sympathetically, but it was a gesture that said he did not agree and that he believed Anketil’s reaction derived from shock and distress.

‘Myton,’ mused Bartholomew in the silence that followed. He was thinking about what Michael had said the day before. He looked at Anketil. ‘His name is on everyone’s lips – you just said he was a friend of Zouche’s; he heard Zouche say our College was to have Huntington; Ferriby died saying his obit; he was a rival to Gisbyrn in commerce …’

‘He was a man of great venerability and discretion,’ said Fournays sadly. ‘York is the poorer for losing him.’

‘Yet he was not chosen to be one of Zouche’s executors,’ remarked Bartholomew.

‘He started having business problems about the time when Zouche made his will,’ explained Anketil, ‘which meant he was too distracted. He exported cloth, but was one of the old breed of merchants – honest and cautious. By the time of his own death five years ago, Gisbyrn had destroyed him with his ruthlessly daring competition.’

‘He died owing Gisbyrn every penny he owned,’ added Fournays.

‘Yet he has obits said for him in the minster,’ remarked Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘How did he pay for them if he died penniless?’

‘Fortunately, he had settled them before Gisbyrn ruined him,’ explained Fournays. ‘And quite right, too – a man’s soul is far too important a matter to leave to others. I have certainly arranged
my
obits in advance, because I do not want to spend an age in Purgatory and—’

‘Roger,’ prompted Michael. ‘We should be discussing him. I am inclined to agree with Anketil – it is suspicious that two executors should die within such a short time of each other.’

‘Then you are looking for trouble where there is none,’ said Marmaduke firmly. ‘Ferriby died because he was old, and Roger had an accident.’

‘And the others?’ asked Anketil shakily. ‘How do you explain them?’

Marmaduke raised his hands in a gesture that bespoke fatalism. ‘Diseases strike people down all the time, even those of us who consider ourselves in our prime. And it is not as if these men died within a few weeks of each other. It has been
years
since the first passed away.’

‘Matt?’ asked Michael. ‘What can be deduced from Roger’s body?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘All I can tell you for certain is that he drowned. However, there is nothing to say whether he jumped, fell or was pushed.’

‘He would not have jumped,’ stated Fournays, startled by the notion. ‘I saw him myself last night, and he was in excellent spirits. It was an accident, plain and simple.’

Anketil did not argue, although his tense posture suggested he remained unconvinced. He went with the body when Fournays’s apprentices came to carry it away, and Marmaduke accompanied him. Bartholomew was not sure whether it was the Benedictine’s obvious grief that prevented the crowd from regaling him with remarks about spies, or the presence of the sturdy ex-priest at his side. Regardless, the little procession left amid a respectful silence.

‘There
is
something odd about Roger’s death,’ said Michael to Bartholomew, once they were alone. ‘And about Ferriby’s, too. His fellow vicars may be ready to dismiss his claims that he was poisoned, but I am not. It is suspicious, and I intend to get to the bottom of it.’

‘You do?’ asked Bartholomew in alarm. ‘Why?’

‘Because it relates to Huntington. They are executors,
and we are here to unravel a muddle arising from Zouche’s estate. Of course these matters are connected.’

‘How will you begin?’ Bartholomew had no idea whether the monk was right – there was too little information to say one way or the other.

‘I am not sure, although I shall expect your help when I do. But we had better concentrate on Sir William first. We shall ask who
he
thinks shot him on Monday.’

Sir William’s house was an old one, and the weathered coat of arms above the door showed it had been in the Longton family for a long time. Its gutters needed replacing, and so did some of its window shutters, although the craftsmanship on both was outstanding.

‘Fading grandeur,’ remarked Michael. ‘The clan was rich, but is beginning to lose its power. No wonder Mayor Longton hates Gisbyrn – the wealth of the city is flowing to these upstart merchants now, and the likes of him are losing out.’

He rapped on the door, which was answered by an ancient servant whose uniform appeared to be older than he was. The fellow led them along a panelled hallway that would have benefited from a polish, and into a solar where dusty tapestries adorned the walls. Again, all was shabby but fine.

Mayor Longton was there with one of his cronies, sipping wine from a tarnished silver goblet. They were laughing, and Bartholomew had the impression that a toast had just been drunk.

‘Poor Roger,’ said the Mayor insincerely when he saw the scholars. ‘Drowned. What a pity! Gisbyrn will miss him. Is that not right, Pund?’

‘Yes, and now
he
knows how it feels to lose a friend,’ replied Pund. ‘I still mourn our loss.’

Bartholomew regarded him in alarm. ‘Not Sir William? I thought he was getting better.’

‘He means Playce,’ said Longton, a shadow crossing his face. ‘He died of spotted liver two years ago, and Gisbyrn was crass enough to gloat – to tell us Playce deserved it.’

‘Spotted liver?’ asked Bartholomew, frowning. ‘That is what killed two of Zouche’s executors – Neville and Stiendby.’

Longton nodded. ‘Playce was an executor, too. A good man, from an ancient and respected family. But you did not come here to talk about him, you came to ask after my brother.’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew. ‘May we see him?’

‘You may,’ replied Longton. ‘But Lady Helen’ – here he spat the words – ‘is with him at the moment, so drink a cup of wine with us first, to give her time to finish.’

‘Time to finish what?’ asked Bartholomew, sure William would not be fit enough to cavort.

Longton waved an airy hand. ‘Whatever it is she does when they are together. Of course, it will not be anything too debauched, given that she brought those two nuns with her.’

‘Do not be so sure,’ said Pund, with a snigger. ‘Prioress Alice knows a trick or two.’

Before the scholars could demur, Longton had poured them claret. A sip told Bartholomew it was far too strong to be swallowed on an empty stomach, especially when he was about to deploy his medical skills on a patient, so he set it down. Michael had no such qualms, and inclined his head appreciatively, acknowledging its quality.

‘We understand the Archbishop has asked you to unmask the villain who tried to kill William,’ said Pund. ‘It will not be a difficult case to solve, although proving it will be next to impossible. Gisbyrn is too clever to leave clues.’

‘He claims to admire William,’ said Michael, playing devil’s advocate. ‘And wants the attacker brought to justice.’

‘Then he is a liar!’ spat Longton. ‘There is nothing he would not do to advance his mercantile affairs, including the murder of a decent man.’

‘How would Sir William’s death benefit Gisbyrn’s business?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘By prostrating me with grief,’ replied Longton promptly. ‘He thinks I will be so distressed that I will forget to levy taxes – the ones that will help repel this looming French invasion.’

Bartholomew regarded him sceptically, recalling how the man had been more indignant than concerned at the scene of the shooting, and certainly not ‘prostrate with grief’. Longton saw the look and became defensive.

‘It is true! I love my brother and owe him a lot – I know people vote for me as Mayor because they like him, and want to earn
his
good graces.’ He tried to keep the bitterness from his voice, but did not succeed; clearly, he resented being in his sibling’s shadow.

‘Of course, Gisbyrn would not sully his own hands with a bow,’ added Pund. ‘But that is why he hires henchmen. You must have seen them – rough villains who do not even wear livery.’ He shuddered fastidiously. ‘Frost manages them for him, and he is a lout himself.’

‘Perhaps the arrow was meant for us,’ said Michael, watching carefully for their reaction. ‘Matt was next to William, and it would not be the first time a shot went wide of its mark.’

‘Why would anyone kill a physician?’ asked Pund scornfully. ‘No – the target
was
William.’

‘Other than Gisbyrn, is there anyone else who might want your brother dead?’ asked Bartholomew.

He expected them to dismiss the question with more
assurances of their rival’s guilt, but both surprised him by pondering carefully.

‘There is a rumour that French spies did it,’ replied Pund eventually. ‘To deprive York of a skilled warrior. But that cannot be right: Chozaico and Anketil are not violent men.’

‘The Holy Trinity monks are
not
spies,’ said Longton impatiently. ‘Popular prejudice claims they are, but it is a nonsense. How can they be villains when they are all from aristocratic families? Besides, most of them never leave their priory, so they are not in a position to gather intelligence.’

‘True,’ acknowledged Pund. ‘Of course, there is always a possibility that the Carmelites harbour these spies, because there is definitely something sinister about
them
.’

‘Now there I cannot argue.’ Longton addressed the scholars. ‘The French
are
preparing to invade, you know. They will sail up the river and attack. I do not care if they break Gisbyrn, but I own a lot of houses here, and I cannot afford to rebuild them if they are razed to the ground.’

‘The French will not invade,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There may be the odd raid by pirates, but a coordinated attack is well beyond them at the moment. Their army is still in tatters after Poitiers.’

‘Rubbish,’ argued Longton fiercely. ‘It is only a question of time before—’

‘William,’ interrupted Michael. ‘You were telling us who else might have harmed him.’

Longton calmed himself, although his reply was directed at Michael; he sulkily ignored the physician. ‘I suppose we cannot overlook the fact that he is the
advocatus ecclesiae
, and not everyone likes Thoresby. The vicars-choral certainly do not, because he keeps them in order – forces them to say the obits they have been paid to recite.’

‘You think a vicar might be responsible?’ asked Michael, brightening.

‘They make a poor second to Gisbyrn, but it is possible,’ nodded Longton. ‘It would suit you to see them accused, of course, because it would strengthen your claim on Huntington. No one will want the place to go to killers.’

‘Speaking of Huntington, I do not suppose you know what happened to Cotyngham, do you?’ asked Michael hopefully. ‘We visited him earlier, but he has lost his wits.’