Mystery in the Minster (21 page)

Bartholomew did not care about any of it. ‘I want to go home,’ he said softly. ‘Today. We have been told that Huntington is not worth our while, so let us cut our losses and abandon it.’

‘Radeford would not appreciate us giving up,’ argued Langelee. ‘We owe it to him to best these grasping vicars. And we owe it to Zouche, too, who intended us to have Huntington.’

‘Perhaps he was poisoned,’ said Michael, after another pause. ‘Radeford, I mean. That would explain the suddenness of his death.’

‘I do not see how,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He told us himself that he was so busy he did not leave the library for anything to eat or drink – and he was telling the truth, because Helen told Langelee that Dean Talerand had remarked
on it. He ate pottage for breakfast, but so did I. From the same vat.’

‘What about the medicine you gave him?’ asked Michael.

‘It crossed my mind that someone might have tampered with it, so I fed some to a rat. I did the same with the wine I used to dilute it, too. There was nothing wrong with either.’

‘You say he died of a seizure, but I do not know what that means,’ said Langelee unhappily. ‘Explain it to me.’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Sometimes, the heart, liver or other vital organs simply rupture or stop working for reasons we do not understand. We might learn why, if we were permitted to look inside the corpse, but that is illegal, so we must remain in ignorance.’

‘Thank God!’ said Langelee fervently. ‘I am glad anatomy is banned. It is disgusting!’

‘Then you will always wonder what happened to Radeford,’ said Bartholomew curtly. He softened. ‘However, there are cases where haemorrhaging occurs in the brain, due to some defect in a blood vessel, and death occurs quickly and unexpectedly. It is possible that is what happened here.’

‘If you had known that when it was taking place, could you have saved him?’ asked Michael. Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Then I suggest you stop feeling guilty and put your mind to something more useful. Such as working out where he hid those documents.’

Although Langelee insisted that he remembered the way to Huntington, Multone pressed Oustwyk on him as a guide, and the steward rode in front of the little cavalcade, proud but ungainly on one of the abbey’s mules. Bartholomew regarded him uneasily as he led the way to the main gate.

‘Have you noticed how he seems to be everywhere,
despite the fact that he is a monk who is supposed to be confined to his convent?’ he said to Michael, who walked at his side. ‘One of the first things he told us about himself was that he has access to information. So do spies …’

Michael stared at him. ‘You think he is one of the traitors who sends reports to the French?’

‘Radeford died in his monastery, just as he was about to reveal their identities. It might be coincidence, but I find myself suspicious of everyone now.’

‘So do I,’ admitted Michael. ‘And that includes not just the vicars-choral, but Abbot Multone, who has been curiously helpful to us. I am not sure what to make of Alice, either.’

‘Alice?’ blurted Langelee, who had spurred his horse forward to ride next to them. ‘She is not a spy! She is only interested in enjoying herself.’

‘I disagree – Zouche would not have entrusted his niece to a woman without a certain strength of character, so there must be more to her than the shallow hedonist she likes us to see. Moreover, she seems to be on good terms with both Gisbyrn and Longton, two other York residents I find myself distrusting. But the fellow of whom I am most wary is there.’

Michael pointed to where Dalfeld was riding through the abbey gate, resplendent in a tunic that had been purpose-made for comfort on horseback. He had somehow learned of their expedition, and asked if he might join them, claiming he had business at Huntington’s manor. Bartholomew was inclined to refuse, given the man’s hostility towards him and Radeford the previous day, but Langelee smiled and said he was welcome. Bartholomew could only suppose the Master intended to use the journey to pump him for information.

They set off along Petergate, Bartholomew too wrapped
in misery to notice that his horse was skittish after several days of inactivity, and would require careful handling. He realised it only when someone shot in front of him so suddenly that the animal reared and he was almost unseated.

‘You did not pray to St Sampson in the minster last night,’ said Marmaduke accusingly, cowering with his hands over his head. ‘I waited, but you never came.’

‘Are you going somewhere?’ asked Michael, grabbing Bartholomew’s reins and thus saving the physician both from trampling a pedestrian and the need to respond to the accusation.

‘Huntington,’ replied Marmaduke, seeing he was safe so turning to untie the reins of a pony from a rail. ‘With you. I have family there, you see.’

‘This is not a pleasure jaunt,’ Langelee snapped angrily. ‘Our colleague died last night, and we are not in the mood for merry chattering.’

‘No,’ said Marmaduke softly. ‘Oustwyk told me, and I am sorry. I shall say a prayer for him over holy Sampson’s toe tonight.’

‘Thank you,’ said Michael quietly. ‘It is appreciated.’

‘However, I am not going to Huntington for my own benefit,’ the ex-priest went on. ‘I am going for yours – I intend to ask my Huntington kin whether they know anything about the codicil. As I said when we first met, I would like to see the church go where Zouche intended. You seem to be making scant headway on your own, so it is time for me to intervene.’

‘You can intervene all you like,’ said Dalfeld coldly. ‘You will still not prevail.’

When Marmaduke did not grace the remark with a reply, Michael asked him, ‘Did you see Zouche destroy the original codicil – the one that left Huntington to the vicars? We have witnesses who—’

‘Rubbish!’ snapped Dalfeld. ‘Zouche would not have done anything of the kind.’

‘Yes, I did,’ replied Marmaduke, shooting the lawyer a defiant glance. ‘I saw him tear it up.’

Dalfeld began to interrogate him, while Michael and Langelee exchanged a triumphant glance.

‘You both know Marmaduke is lying,’ whispered Bartholomew reproachfully. ‘Zouche told both Anketil and Penterel that he had burned the original codicil, not ripped it to pieces. We cannot permit perjury on our account.’

Langelee looked ready to argue, but Dalfeld quickly tied Marmaduke’s testimony in logistical knots, and even the Master was forced to concede that the ex-priest’s well-meaning fabrications would do their case more harm than good.

Seeing he was bested, Marmaduke climbed sulkily on his pony, leaving Dalfeld grinning in triumph. On another day, Bartholomew might have been amused to note that the ex-priest’s barrel-shaped mount possessed a crab-like gait that was disconcertingly similar to its owner’s, but he was disinclined to see humour in anything that morning.

Once they had seen Michael safely inside the minster, the little party rode north, exiting the city through a handsome gate named Monk Bar. Outside the city walls, the houses grew smaller and poorer, until a little leper hospital marked the last of the buildings. The countryside beyond had a brown, drowned look, and great shallow pools covered the fields. The River Foss kept them company on their right, swollen and urgent from the recent rains.

‘It was not like this when we arrived,’ remarked Langelee. ‘Then the sky was blue and the sun was warm, like summer. Do you recall how York glittered so splendidly on our first
morning? Its stones painted gold by a fine dawn, and its houses shades of pink and yellow? I am astonished at how quickly it has changed.’

Cynric glanced up at the sky, a solid ceiling of unbroken grey. ‘I told you during that first shower on Monday that it was an omen – that something bad would happen to us. And I was right. First Doctor Bartholomew narrowly escaped being shot, and now Radeford …’

‘Nonsense,’ said Langelee briskly. ‘There is nothing supernatural about nice weather turning sour. It happens all the time, even in Cambridge. I was only remarking on how much difference a spot of sunshine can do to a place.’

Cynric did not look convinced. He glanced at the river, flowing fast and silent at their side. ‘Do you think it will burst its banks? It is very high.’

‘Sheep,’ said Bartholomew. Master and book-bearer regarded him askance, and he hastened to explain. ‘I always feel sorry for sheep when there are floods. They seem in capable of knowing how to save themselves, and they either drown or starve. And their feet rot, too.’

‘I did not know that,’ said Langelee, in the kind of voice that suggested he wished he had not been told, either.

While Cynric huddled deeper inside his hood, Langelee began conversing with Marmaduke, and Bartholomew could tell by the tone of his voice that a crude interrogation was in progress. He tuned it out, wanting to be alone with his thoughts, so was not pleased when Dalfeld came to ride next to him.

‘What happened to Radeford?’ the lawyer asked with unseemly interest. ‘There are all manner of rumours, including one that says he was shot, like Sir William.’

Bartholomew did not want to discuss Radeford with Dalfeld, especially with Oustwyk turning in his saddle to
listen. ‘He was not shot,’ he said shortly, hoping his unfriendly tone would discourage further questions.

Prudently, Dalfeld did not press the matter. ‘Do not believe anything Marmaduke tells you, by the way,’ he whispered instead, lowering his voice so Oustwyk would not hear. ‘Myton did the right thing when he exposed his deceitful ways and got him defrocked.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘
Myton
did?’

‘I knew Myton well, because he was my client. At least, he was my client until he could no longer afford me. He caught Marmaduke selling false relics, and Archbishop Thoresby punished him by banning him from the Church.’

Bartholomew was bemused by the confidence. ‘But Marmaduke guards Sampson’s toe now. Is that not akin to putting a fox in charge of the hencoop?’

Dalfeld smirked. ‘It is probably a fake, which is why no one is worried. Of course, Marmaduke claims he committed his crimes to raise money for Zouche’s chantry. His conscience was pricking, you see: he had failed to do what Zouche had asked of him as an executor.’

‘If that was his motive, then his punishment seems unduly harsh.’

‘Thoresby probably had other reasons for ousting him. I have done my best to discover them, but have met with no success as yet. Still, I shall persevere – my interest is pricked by the matter now. Perhaps you will let me know if you hear anything?’

Bartholomew did not reply, finding the tale and the lawyer’s request distasteful. He coaxed his horse into a trot, so he could ride with Oustwyk instead, but soon realised his mistake when the steward began to quiz him about Radeford.

‘Then tell me about your other investigations,’ Oustwyk invited, when Bartholomew declined to answer. ‘I will inform
Abbot Multone on your behalf, and thus save you an interview.’

‘I cannot,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘They are not mine to discuss.’

When he saw the physician would be a poor source of gossip, Oustwyk regaled him with his theories regarding the French spies instead, and was so eager to assure him that they infested every part of the city except his own that Bartholomew wondered afresh whether his suspicions about the man might be true. All in all, he was relieved when he spotted a stout tower among the trees ahead.

‘Yes, it is Huntington,’ replied Oustwyk, shooting him a resentful scowl for interrupting. ‘The manor and most of the village is on this side of the river, and the church is on the other. There is a bridge, but it gets washed away a lot, so be careful when you cross it.’

‘You are not coming with us?’ asked Bartholomew.

The steward shook his head. ‘I never use bridges when the rivers are in full spate. Besides, I have friends in the village, and they will provide me with a little innocent chitchat. Unlike you, who has barely spared me two words. Can you find your own way home? I may be some time.’

Bartholomew was inordinately grateful when Oustwyk, Dalfeld and Marmaduke took the track that led to the manor, leaving him alone with Langelee and Cynric.

‘What did you learn from them?’ he asked of the Master, as they rode towards the bridge.

‘Nothing,’ replied Langelee irritably. ‘Dalfeld declined to talk and Marmaduke knows little, despite his eagerness to help. He assures me that there will be more than one copy of the codicil, but cannot suggest where we might look for them. But he says he will ask his kin today.’

‘Dalfeld told me that Marmaduke was defrocked for
selling false relics,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And was exposed by the ubiquitous Myton.’

‘I will not hear anything against Myton,’ said Langelee sharply. ‘He was a good man. Besides, I had that particular tale from Oustwyk yesterday. Myton
did
catch Marmaduke selling snail shells from his garden, and telling gullible pilgrims they came from Jesus’s tomb. But it was not Myton’s fault the matter went so far.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Myton told Thoresby, because he felt Marmaduke should be officially admonished. But it happened at a time when such crimes were rife, and Thoresby decided he had to make an example. Myton would not have blabbed had he foreseen the consequences, especially as Marmaduke was hawking the snails to raise funds for Zouche’s chantry.’

‘What about the rumour that Myton was murdered?’ asked Cynric. ‘Do you think Marmaduke killed him in revenge?’