Mystery in the Minster (30 page)

‘We did not want to take legal action,’ sighed Harold. ‘But they refused to bring it back, and where were we supposed to grow
our
cabbages?’

‘But we bear them no grudge,’ said Penterel with a serene smile. Harold nodded to say it was true, although Wy’s glower suggested
he
was still bitter. ‘Most are sober, honest men.’

‘And others are liars and thieves,’ stated Wy, earning another reproving look, one that did nothing to shame him into silence. ‘Namely Ellis and Cave. Neither are very nice.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘They are not.’

Fournays’s home was a pleasant one, separated from the Carmelite Priory by a wooden fence. The house was stone, suggesting his practice was lucrative, and his garden was extensive enough to boast vegetable plots, two wells and an orchard complete with a herd of goats. There was also a herbarium, and Bartholomew was astonished by the number and variety of plants growing in it.

‘Yes,’ said Fournays proudly, when the physician complimented him. He was sitting in a spacious, well-scrubbed
kitchen, eating fragrantly scented stew and fresh bread dipped in melted butter. ‘I like mixing my own remedies.’

‘So you know about poisons, then?’ asked Michael innocently.

Fournays regarded him askance. ‘Of course. What
medicus
does not? Why do you—’

‘Do you mind living here?’ Michael turned abruptly to another matter, aiming to disconcert, and Bartholomew winced. He liked the surgeon, and did not want him subjected to one of the monk’s interrogations. ‘So close to the foundation that strikes terror into so many city purses?’

‘The Carmelites and I have an agreement,’ replied Fournays, blinking at the change of topic, but answering anyway. ‘I bequeath them this house when I die, and they leave me alone while I am alive.’

Michael gaped. ‘But it must be worth a fortune! Surely that is too high a price to pay for peace. Do you not have heirs?’

‘They died of the plague. Bleak days …’ Then Fournays shook himself, and forced a smile. ‘Did you have any success in lancing buboes, Bartholomew? I found that—’

‘Please!’ exclaimed Michael with a shudder. ‘Not when I am about to eat.’

‘Are you about to …’ began Fournays, startled, then stopped when the monk sat at the table and produced a spoon. He nodded good-naturedly, and called for a maid to bring bowls.

Bartholomew was not hungry, and ate only to be polite, but even so he was forced to admit that the stew was excellent, flavoured as it was with a wide variety of herbs from the garden.

‘So you do not mind leaving your estate to the Carmelites?’ said Michael, returning to the subject like a dog with a bone. ‘I would.’

‘I imagine so, given that you are a member of a rival Order,’ replied Fournays, smiling. ‘But they may as well have it. They will say obits for me, and it is an attractive offer, because my sins are great.’

‘Are they indeed?’ purred Michael. ‘And which ones give you particular concern?’

‘Avarice and gluttony.’ Fournays smiled again. ‘The same as you, Brother.’

Michael’s expression was cold. ‘So you are giving them this property willingly?’

‘Yes. They were always threatening to sue me when my goats escaped into their precinct before, but now they just return them with a smile. It is worth the price, and I cannot take my wealth with me when I die. I am content with the arrangement.’

‘We have been hearing about Zouche’s executors,’ said Bartholomew, feeling it was time to ask what they particularly wanted to know. ‘How they died of spotted liver and debilities.’

‘And Hugh de Myton, who had a softening of the brain,’ added Michael.

‘I was sorry to lose them,’ sighed Fournays sadly. ‘Especially Myton. Everyone liked him.’

‘Not everyone,’ said Michael. ‘We have been told that he that he was secretive and haughty.’

‘Myton?’ exclaimed Fournays, shocked. ‘No! He did a great deal to keep the peace, and now he has gone, there is outright war between Mayor Longton and John Gisbyrn. He is greatly missed!’

‘Whose side are you on?’ asked Michael.

Fournays considered carefully. ‘Gisbyrn’s, I think. He and his cronies are sober, quiet men, who raise the tone of the place, whereas Longton and his followers are debauched. Of course, the merchants are brutally ruthless
in business, and woe betide anyone who stands in their way.’

‘You were telling us how Zouche’s executors died,’ prompted Bartholomew.

‘I know spotted liver and debilities when I see them,’ obliged Fournays. ‘And they were as plain as day on Neville, Playce, Christopher, Welton, Stiendby and Ferriby. Incidentally, Roger had a debility, too – I examined his corpse more carefully later. It must have struck him down when he was near the King’s Fishpool, causing him to fall in and drown.’

‘Ferriby claimed he was poisoned,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He told his fellow vicars—’

‘Ferriby was not in his right wits,’ interrupted Fournays. ‘You cannot give credence to anything he said, especially once he was afflicted with a debility. Besides, who would want to kill him? He was old, addled and refused to go anywhere except the Bedern and the minster.’

‘I am not sure I would recognise spotted liver, a debility or softening of the brain,’ said Bartholomew. ‘What are the symptoms?’

Fournays pursed his lips, although whether at the physician’s deficiency or the need to explain was unclear. ‘They are similar for all three conditions: waxen skin, absence of breathing, floppiness of limbs and an unnatural chill. In addition, spotted liver is distinctive by causing a dullness in the eyes; a debility produces blue lips; and a softening of the brain … well, suffice to say that it is always fatal.’

Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly: the reply was ridiculously vague, and Fournays had listed signs that would be present in virtually anyone dying or newly dead. ‘Do you see many of these cases?’ he asked, not sure what else to say.

‘No more than I would in any city. But if you are concerned about contracting them, always wear a hat and keep a tincture of St John’s wort to hand. That should keep you safe.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Michael. ‘Did you read it in Theophilus’s
De Urinis
?’

Fournays shot him a sharp look. ‘No. I have been unable to consult that particular tome, because the Dean has misplaced it. I took one look at the muddle he calls a library, and left.’

‘Really?’ pounced Michael. ‘Because he told us you stayed for some time.’

‘Then he is mistaken,’ said Fournays firmly. ‘But that should not surprise you, if his memory is anything like his system for filing documents.’

‘What about Myton?’ asked Bartholomew, when Michael only helped himself to more bread and butter. ‘What happened to him exactly?’

Fournays stared at the table. ‘A softening of the brain. At least, that is what I tell everyone. But you are a
medicus
– you understand that suicide is not a sin when a soul is in terrible torment …’

‘Myton killed himself?’

‘He opened his veins. But he was a decent man, and I did not want him buried in unhallowed ground or deprived of the obits he had bought, so I adjusted the truth. It
was
a softening of the brain in a way, though: everyone who commits self-murder has a troubled mind, and should be viewed with compassion, not condemnation.’

Bartholomew did not admit that he sometimes ‘adjusted the truth’ regarding suicides, too, because Michael was listening, and he did not want to burden the monk with such knowledge. ‘What drove Myton to such an end?’ he asked instead.

‘I have already told you – the other day, when we dragged Roger from the King’s Fishpool.’

‘Gisbyrn’s ruthless business practices?’

‘Yes. Myton had old-fashioned standards, and could not compete. When he died, everything he owned went to Gisbyrn to pay his debts, except the property he had already given the vicars-choral for obits. It was fortunate he had arranged those in advance, or he would have lost them, too.’

‘No one knows he took his own life, except you?’

Fournays nodded. ‘And I am only confiding in you because I trust you not to tell anyone else. You are a fellow
medicus
, and Brother Michael is your friend.’

‘I suppose it explains why there were rumours that he was murdered,’ sighed Michael. ‘The gossips sensed something amiss, and capitalised on it.’

‘Yes,’ said Fournays ruefully. ‘Their malicious speculations did cause me anxiety for a while.’

‘Well?’ asked Michael, once they were outside. ‘Was Fournays telling the truth about these debilities and spotted livers?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘I think he genuinely believes that ailments with those names killed the seven executors.’

‘But he is mistaken? The truth is that he has no idea what killed them?’

‘Yes, but I do not know what kills most of my patients, either. Take old Master Kenyngham, for example. He died of something I called a seizure, but I do not know whether it was bleeding in the brain, failure of some vital organ, or an unrelated complaint that had gone undetected for years. And we never will know without anatomy.’

‘Then I suppose we shall remain ignorant,’ said Michael. ‘Because I cannot imagine a situation where we shall ever
be supplied with that sort of information. But what about the poisons Fournays grows in his garden? Did you see one that would explain Radeford’s symptoms?’

‘No! Fournays has no reason to harm Radeford.’

‘None that we know of,’ corrected Michael. ‘I half expected him to drop something in our stew, and I only asked him for some to see whether he would try. But he must have known I was watching, so he decided against it. Oh, Lord! We are about to run into a bevy of vicars-choral.’

Bartholomew looked around rather desperately when he saw Ellis, Cave, Jafford and several of the younger vicars walking in a tight cluster towards them. The clatter made by their wooden pattens on the cobbles made them sound purposeful and authoritative.

‘At least
try
to look innocent,’ hissed Michael crossly. ‘You could not come across as more guilty if you wore a sign around your neck saying you broke into their domain last night.’

‘We will reach Petergate if we run down that alley,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And then we—’

‘I am not running anywhere,’ interrupted Michael firmly. ‘Not only is it undignified, but they will almost certainly catch me. Besides, you said they did not see your face, and you are wearing different clothes today. Just be nonchalant – they have no reason to suspect you.’

‘Easy for you to say,’ muttered Bartholomew, acutely uncomfortable as the distance narrowed between them and their rivals. ‘You are not the one they will beat to a pulp.’

‘We had an intruder last night,’ said Cave without preamble. He stared at Bartholomew with a smouldering dislike. ‘The culprit is playing with fire.’

‘We have no idea what you are talking about,’ said Michael shortly. ‘What intruder?’

‘One who invaded the Bedern to spy,’ replied Cave coldly. ‘But be warned: if it happens again, the culprit will be sorry. We shall protect our property by whatever means we deem necessary.’

‘Is that what happened with Cotyngham?’ asked Michael, going on the offensive himself. ‘You defended your property? Or what you
thought
should be your property?’

The blood drained from Cave’s face, although whether from guilt, shock or temper was impossible to say. ‘We had nothing to do with that. How dare you say such things!’

‘Incidentally, we have evidence to identify the villain who ransacked Cotyngham’s house,’ said Michael smoothly. ‘Burglary is an unsavoury crime with which to be associated.’

‘Now just a moment,’ said Ellis, outraged. ‘Yesterday, you intimated that we murdered Radeford, and today, you call us burglars. It is not to be tolerated!’

‘I
said
we have evidence to identify a felon,’ corrected Michael pedantically. ‘I did not
accuse
anyone. Or is it a troubled conscience that causes you to leap to your own defence with such vigour? But never mind this – tell me what you think of Sir William Longton instead.’

‘What?’ asked Ellis, disconcerted by the sudden change of subject. ‘Sir William Longton? What does he have to do with anything?’

‘Am I to assume that you dislike him?’ asked Michael, although the vicars had said nothing to indicate such a conclusion was warranted.

Ellis’s wet lips tightened. ‘I have never given it much thought, although he has a tendency to be sanctimonious in his dealings with us. It is not an attractive trait.’

‘But not one worth shooting a man for,’ added Cave in a whisper that was vaguely unnerving. His eyes were almost
invisible under his simian brow. ‘It would be a waste of an arrow.’

‘I see.’ Michael’s tone of voice made it clear that Cave and Ellis were firmly on his list as suspects for the knight’s attempted murder. Meanwhile, Jafford and the other vicars were listening in open-mouthed horror, and Bartholomew suspected they were keen to bring the discussion to an end before any more incautious remarks were made, but did not dare, lest the sub-chanter or his henchman vented their spleen on them.

‘You claim to have the codicil that gives you Huntington,’ said Ellis, after taking a deep breath to calm himself. He smiled, slyly and without humour. ‘So show it to us. Do not be shy. The moment you do, and we are satisfied as to its authenticity, Huntington will be yours.’