Mystery in the Minster (24 page)

The College of vicars-choral lay to the east of the minster in an area known as the Bedern, and comprised a suite of buildings that included a pretty chapel, a hall for communal eating and an enormous dormitory that had been converted into private rooms with their own toilet facilities. In addition, there were a number of small cottages. Looking around him, Bartholomew wondered why the vicars were so determined to have Huntington, when they were already obviously wealthy.

‘We are praying for Ferriby,’ said Cave, who had answered the gate to their knock. His expression was unreadable, but certainly not friendly. ‘So you will have to talk to us in the chapel.’

He led the way inside it, where his fellow vicars waited in two parallel rows at its eastern end, both facing down the aisle. He went to join them, so Bartholomew and Michael found themselves standing in front of them, separated from them by the coffin. The lid was off, revealing
an elderly occupant with grey hair and enormous teeth that appeared vaguely surreal on a corpse.

‘I feel as though
I
am the one being interrogated,’ muttered Michael. ‘Are they trying to unsettle us, do you think, by lining up against us so? And by making us talk over a cadaver?’

‘Poor Ferriby died of a debility,’ announced Sub-Chanter Ellis loudly, narrowing his eyes as he strained to catch what Michael was mumbling. ‘The day you arrived.’

‘You have our sympathies,’ said Michael politely, ignoring the accusation inherent in the remark. ‘We know what it is like to lose a friend.’

‘We had nothing to do with that,’ said Ellis immediately, while Cave’s heavy brows drew down into a scowl that held unmistakable menace.

Michael regarded them coolly. ‘It did not occur to us that you might.’

‘We were sorry to hear about Radeford,’ interjected Jafford hastily. ‘We all appreciated his efforts to devise an amicable solution to our dispute. But how may we help you today? You look like men with questions. Ask them – we shall answer if we can.’

‘We visited Huntington yesterday,’ began Bartholomew. He did not detect overt hostility from anyone except Ellis and Cave, but like Michael, he was uneasy about the way the vicars had chosen to arrange themselves: it was like appearing before the Inquisition. ‘And learned that you saw Cotyngham shortly before he became ill. Was—’

‘We had nothing to do with that, either,’ said Cave, his scowl deepening.

Ellis raised a hand to silence him. ‘We often paid him visits, to ensure all was well and to reassure his parishioners that we will not be absent landlords when Huntington is ours.’

‘What did you say to him?’ Bartholomew was disinclined to argue, because the sub-chanter had a point: Huntington
was
too far away for Michaelhouse to monitor with any degree of care.

‘We inquired after his well-being, and we inspected the church,’ replied Ellis. ‘He was perfectly well when we left.’

‘Did you say anything that might have alarmed him?’ asked Michael.

‘Of course not!’ snapped Cave. ‘Whatever sent him insane must have happened later.’

‘Then describe your visit.’

‘You are not in Cambridge now, Brother,’ said Ellis with a smirk that was full of smug victory. ‘You have no authority to issue us with orders.’

‘On the contrary,’ declared Michael loftily. ‘I carry the King’s authority. I am Senior Proctor of the University at Cambridge, and confer with His Majesty on a regular basis. He will certainly hear if you are obstructive.’

Bartholomew stared at the coffin, uncomfortable with the lie, although it had the desired effect on the vicars, because alarmed glances were exchanged. Ellis became defensive.

‘But there is nothing to tell! We exchanged pleasantries in his house, and he said we could look in the church if we wanted to. We did, and when we had finished, we came home.’

‘What sort of “pleasantries”?’ demanded Michael.

Ellis shrugged. ‘The weather, mutual friends, theology. He said he planned to borrow Holcot’s
Postillae
from Isabella, and I recommended that he read one of Abbot Multone’s recipe books instead, because they are more interesting. And we inspected the church plate.’

‘It was in need of a polish, so we brought it home,’ added Cave, his small eyes glittering beneath his dark brows.
‘He was delighted to be spared the task himself, and thanked us profusely.’

‘Is
that
why he lost his wits?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling that Cotyngham’s parishioners had noticed the silver was missing. ‘He was distressed at the loss of—’

‘He was
not
distressed,’ interrupted Cave flatly. ‘I told you: he was grateful to us.’

‘It is true,’ said Ellis coldly. ‘His chalices were in a terrible state, and when he recovers, he will be amazed at their transformation. But perhaps you will excuse us now, gentlemen? We have Ferriby’s soul to consider.’

No one accompanied them out, which allowed Bartholomew to stop in the porch, where the priests had left their outdoor footwear. Each vicar had his own shelf for the purpose, with his name embossed above it. They were alphabetical, so it was easy to determine which shoes belonged to whom. Cave’s had distinctive gold-coloured laces, one of which was broken.

Bartholomew was inclined to storm back into the chapel and demand to know what Cave had been doing in Cotyngham’s chimney, but Michael pulled him away, muttering that the vicar was unlikely to give them honest answers. It would be better, he said, to confront him when the entire Bedern was not glaring at them over a coffin.

‘What happened is clear,’ said Bartholomew, once they were outside. ‘Cotyngham objected to them removing his silver, and an argument ensued. They either said something that terrified him out of his wits or, more likely, were the cause of an injury that damaged his brain.’

‘Do you think they took the plate deliberately, then, to provoke him?’

‘If so, they are unlikely to confess. And even if Cotyngham
recovers, he may not recall exactly what happened. It is possible that we shall never know the truth.’

They were silent as they walked back to the abbey. Night had fallen, although the city hummed with noise and vitality. Taverns were bursting at the seams, groups of people strolled the streets in search of entertainment, street vendors hawked delicious-smelling wares and a group of singers performed a piece of music that was so hauntingly beautiful that Bartholomew stopped to listen.

‘Give me a penny, Matt,’ begged Michael after a moment. ‘I want some of those pies.’

‘I do not have a penny, Brother.’

‘Pity. I sampled a few yesterday, and they were the finest I have ever tasted. Cambridge could learn a lot from York where food is concerned. I have never seen such a magnificent array of delicacies.’

‘York is ahead of us in medicine, too,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And hygiene. St Leonard’s is—’

‘Here we are at the abbey,’ interrupted Michael briskly, unwilling to listen to one of the physician’s enthusiastic monologues, knowing from experience that he was likely to be regaled with information he would sooner not have. ‘It is almost time for compline and I should attend, given that I have neglected my other offices today. Will you come?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I am going to sit with Radeford for a while.’

Michael patted his shoulder in kindly understanding. ‘Very well. I shall join you there later.’

Bartholomew squelched across the yard, using as a beacon the candles that had been lit in St Olave’s chancel. He arrived to find Oustwyk and two other monks kneeling by the coffin, and was grateful for their consideration. They finished the psalm they were reciting, and left when
the bell chimed for compline. Bartholomew took a deep breath, and stepped towards the body.

Radeford looked younger in death than he had done in life, although the lines around his eyes were still there, a reminder that he had liked to laugh. Bartholomew knew better than most that healthy people sometimes died for no apparent reason, but Radeford was not the only man connected to Zouche’s business to have died of ‘natural causes’, and the physician had recently looked at Ferriby, a man who claimed he had been poisoned. As Bartholomew stared down at Radeford, all his instincts clamoured at him that something was very badly wrong.

He glanced behind him. No one was there – the monks were at their devotions, after which they would go to the frater for a light supper. Thus Bartholomew had at least an hour and a half before anyone might join him. Making up his mind, he embarked on an examination that was as detailed as any he had ever performed.

He started with Radeford’s head, even shaving hair to be sure there was nothing sinister in the slight irregularities he detected in the skull. Then he moved to the body, assessing every inch of skin in the flickering light of a candle. He looked especially closely at the lawyer’s mouth and fingers, lest there was some sign that a toxin had been touched. But there was nothing.

He stepped back and considered Radeford’s last day. The lawyer himself had said that he had spent almost every moment of it in the library, and that he had not even left to eat or drink. Bartholomew rubbed his chin. But what if someone had gone there and given him something, safe in the knowledge that there would be no witnesses? The chaos Dean Talerand had created meant the library was not a place that attracted casual visitors, and Bartholomew, Michael, Langelee and Cynric had been busy elsewhere.

The more he thought about it, the more Bartholomew became certain that was what had happened. And then, as whatever substance Radeford had been fed began to work, he had experienced head pains. But how was Bartholomew to prove his theory? He had seen anatomists in Padua demonstrate poisoning by excising entrails, but he could hardly do that in St Olave’s.

Then he remembered the spoon that Radeford had always used to eat. He found it still tucked into the lawyer’s belt. It was dirty as usual, and carried an odour he could not place. He rubbed it on the back of his hand, but nothing happened. Dispirited, he put it back, thinking Radeford might have wanted to be buried with it. It was then that he heard a sound behind him.

He whipped around just in time to avoid the blow that had been aimed at his head. The next swipe was lower, and he fell as he jerked away from it. The candles were behind his attacker, so all he could see was a cloaked form, the face nothing but darkness beneath a hood. The figure took aim again, and he glimpsed the glitter of steel.

Then the door clanked, and he heard Michael calling his name. His attacker faltered, then darted away into the blackness. Bartholomew scrambled to his feet to give chase, but something – a foot or a staff – cracked into his legs and sent him flying. Moments later, Michael issued a screech of shock and pain. Bartholomew staggered upright a second time, lurching to his friend’s rescue.

Michael was sprawled in an undignified heap of flailing white limbs, desperately trying to fight his way free of the ample folds of his habit that had wrapped themselves around him. Once he was sure the monk was unharmed, Bartholomew raced outside, but too late. He glimpsed running figures disappearing down one of the nearby alleys, and knew he would never catch them in the dark
and in unfamiliar territory. He sagged in defeat and returned to the church.

‘Someone came with a sword,’ he said unsteadily. ‘But I think it was Radeford they wanted – I was only attacked because I happened to be here.’

‘I doubt it, Matt,’ said Michael, holding out a hand so he could be hauled to his feet. ‘Why would anyone be after a corpse?’

‘To prevent it from telling us something,’ replied Bartholomew, staggering as he took the monk’s weight. ‘God’s teeth, Brother. Your bones were never this heavy when you were younger.’

‘Do not blaspheme,’ admonished Michael sharply; he rarely swore. ‘What do you mean? Prevent it from telling us what?’

Bartholomew showed him the back of his hand in the candlelight. It was red, swollen and so numb that he could have jabbed a knife in it and felt nothing. ‘That Radeford was murdered.’

Cynric offered to keep watch over Radeford, while Michael took Bartholomew – unsteady on his feet now the excitement was over – to the hospitium. Once there, the physician described in detail both his findings and the subsequent assault. Langelee and Michael listened in growing horror.

‘So were you attacked because you were on the verge of discovering that Radeford was poisoned?’ asked Langelee worriedly. ‘Or because you are a Michaelhouse scholar, and the villain failed to dispatch you when he shot his arrow from St Mary ad Valvas?’

‘The first makes no sense,’ said Michael before Bartholomew could speak. ‘Radeford was killed with subtlety – a crime committed in the expectation that no one would ever find out. However, alarm bells would certainly have sounded if Matt had been cleaved in two by a sword.’

‘But the villain may have been coming to ensure that he had left no clues, and panicked when he saw Bartholomew inspecting the corpse,’ argued Langelee. ‘Frightened people are rarely rational. How many of them were there?’

‘Two, perhaps three,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But, as I said earlier, I do not think I was their intended target.’

‘Explain,’ ordered Langelee.

Bartholomew struggled to rally his confused thoughts. ‘The skirmish occurred during compline, when the monks attend prayers in the abbey. Meanwhile, we have stood vigil
in St Olave’s for the last two nights, so would not have been expected to do it a third time. The probability was that Radeford would be alone. Moreover, it is common knowledge that he will be buried tomorrow …’