Mystery in the Minster (32 page)

Cynric nodded. ‘The executors knew the gold was dribbling away, but none of them monitored it properly. Then the Dean went to pay a mason one day, and it was all gone.’

‘Yes,’ said Langelee impatiently. ‘And with no money, the craftsmen laid down their tools, and nothing has been done since. We already know all this.’

‘
But
,’ said Cynric, raising a triumphant finger, ‘the night before this discovery, the Dean saw someone near the box, acting oddly. He believes the money had probably run out weeks before, and assumes this person was weeping over an empty chest. But what if Talerand was wrong, and the box still had some money in it? What if the man he saw was a thief was making his final raid?’

‘It is possible, I suppose,’ said Michael. ‘Who was it?’

‘Christopher Malore,’ replied Cynric triumphantly. ‘One of the executors.’

‘One of the dead executors,’ said Langelee glumly. ‘Who cannot answer questions.’

‘
He
cannot,’ said Cynric. ‘But he has a brother. And Anketil Malore is very much alive.’

Bartholomew slept soundly that night, but Michael’s repose was fitful, as questions and theories rattled around in his mind, and he awoke to a curious drumming sound just before dawn.

‘Rain,’ explained Cynric, who was laying the fire. He did not bother to keep his voice low, knowing it would take a lot more than a discussion at normal volume to disturb the physician.

‘Again?’ groaned Michael, going to open the window shutter. He winced as a deluge of wind-gusted wetness splattered at him, then peered into the gloom. ‘The river is much higher today.’

Cynric touched the amulet he wore around his neck, one the monk had not seen before. ‘Masses are being said in all the churches for the deluge to stop before tomorrow, because of the tide.’

‘But I suppose you prefer to rely on other sources for deliverance?’ Michael eyed the new trinket pointedly, then moved, so some of the rain fell on Bartholomew, who woke with a start.

Cynric shook his head earnestly. ‘Oh, no, Brother! I gave Mardisley and Jorden a penny each to say prayers for the waters to subside. But Oustwyk suggested I also invest in some charms. Would you like yours now, or when the river bursts its banks?’

‘Why would Oustwyk know where to buy such things?’ asked Bartholomew drowsily, speaking to spare Michael
the need to reply. The monk would not want to offend Cynric by rejecting the offer, but a Benedictine could hardly be seen sporting pagan talismans.

‘Because he knows everything,’ replied Cynric. ‘He told me to visit Prioress Alice, and she made them while I waited. I watched her carefully, because I have no small knowledge of such matters myself, and I can tell you that she is very good.’

‘Alice?’ blurted Michael, shocked. ‘But she is a nun!’

‘Yes,’ said Cynric, his puzzled expression saying he failed to understand why this should warrant astonishment. ‘So her charms are especially potent, because she uses holy water. Along with stones from the river and the blood of a toad. And it is important to have effective protection, because there are those – the vicars-choral among them – who say the bad weather is our fault.’

‘
Our
fault?’ echoed Michael, startled. ‘Why should anyone think that?’

‘Because it began the day we arrived. Of course, most folk believe the French are to blame – an act of war in revenge for Poitiers. But they are wrong. As I said the moment it started falling, it is an omen. And I was right, because Doctor Bartholomew was shot at, and now Master Radeford is dead. But the downpours continue, so there must be more evil yet to come.’

Bartholomew rarely allowed the book-bearer’s superstitious musings to disturb him, but he found them unsettling that morning. His disquiet intensified when he climbed out of bed and his eye lit on Radeford’s possessions, packed ready to return to his family. Even looking at them sent a sharp pang of loss spearing through him.

‘Where is Langelee?’ he asked, more to change the subject than because he wanted to know.

Cynric turned back to the fire. ‘He left as soon as he
thought we were all asleep last night. He has lots of friends in the city, especially among the women.’

‘We have a great deal to do today,’ said Bartholomew, hoping the Master had not imposed himself on Helen – or any other unwilling recipient, for that matter. They had enough to occupy them without being obliged to dodge outraged spouses, brothers and sons. ‘We should make a start.’

‘A start on what?’ asked Michael with weary frustration. ‘I am at a loss as to how to proceed.’

‘Then think of something,’ urged Cynric. ‘Because if we do not have answers by tomorrow, we may not have them at all – once the river floods, people will be too busy to talk to us.’

‘And I am not leaving until we have caught Radeford’s killer,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘So we had better hurry. First, we shall ask Dalfeld what he was doing in the library—’

‘He is a lawyer, Matt,’ said Michael gloomily. ‘Even if he was up to something untoward, he will never admit it. We will be wasting our time.’

‘Almost certainly, but that does not mean we should not try. Second, we shall concentrate on Zouche’s chantry. We will visit Talerand, and ask exactly what happened the night before he discovered the fund was dry. Then, if he confirms that it was indeed Christopher who was near it, we shall go to Holy Trinity to speak to Anketil.’

‘We do not have time to investigate the chantry!’ snapped Michael. ‘Our priorities are to find Radeford’s killer, locate the codicil and identify who shot William – or the Archbishop is going to say that we have not fulfilled our end of the bargain, and may make it difficult for us to leave.’

‘I am not sure why, but I think the chantry is important.’
Bartholomew spoke hesitantly, trying to organise his thoughts. ‘Much of Zouche’s will comprised details about it; Huntington was left to us in one of that will’s codicils – which Radeford was murdered shortly after finding; Christopher was an executor, one of seven who are dead of mysterious causes; and then there is Myton.’

‘Myton?’ echoed Michael warily.

‘He was Zouche’s friend, but not an executor; he has obits, but Zouche does not; he committed suicide after Gisbyrn broke him; and he exposed Marmaduke’s selling of false relics – and Marmaduke is an executor. I am sure all these threads are connected, and we need to assess how, if we are to understand what is happening.’

Michael, was thoughtful. ‘You may be right, so I recommend we visit Talerand first. With any luck, his answers will obviate the need to deal with Dalfeld, a man I distrust intensely.’

They left the hospitium, and were about to walk to the minster when they saw that a number of monks had gathered by what the abbey grandly called its Water Gate: the door that led to the river. Usually, a muddy foreshore separated the Ouse from the monastery, but that day, water lapped at the base of its walls. Glancing out through the gate, Bartholomew saw the river was at least three times as wide as it had been when they had arrived.

‘Is that a corpse?’ he asked, pointing suddenly.

Michael sketched a benediction at the body that was swept past, its head submerged and its arms out to the sides. It rotated slowly as a spiralling undertow caught it.

‘Some poor devil from one of the villages,’ said Multone. ‘They underestimate the power of the current when they try to rescue their livestock. He is the first, but he will not be the last.’

‘Should we retrieve him?’ asked Bartholomew.

Multone shook his head. ‘He will be gone long before we can organise hooks and ropes, and you will drown if you try to swim after him. Look – he has disappeared already.’

Bartholomew saw he was right, and even as they watched, a sheep was washed past, bloated and stiff, followed by what was probably a dog.

‘It means the flooding is worse upstream,’ breathed Oustwyk. ‘God help us all!’

On that unsettling note, Bartholomew and Michael left, but met Isabella and Helen on Petergate. The two women were arm-in-arm, and Alice was behind them, clamouring and pleading. Frost was a silent shadow at their heels, although Bartholomew sensed that he had latched on to them without their consent, and that they probably wished him gone.

The rain had done the Prioress no favours. It had soaked into the tendrils of hair that had been left to dangle alluringly outside her wimple, but the dye had run, leaving stains on her cheeks. Her face-paints had smudged, too, making her seem old and tawdry, and her once-fine headdress was sodden into shapelessness.

‘They want to cancel
The Conversion of the Harlot
,’ she informed Michael and Bartholomew, irate, ‘because they think people should concentrate on the flood. But they have worked hard on it, and people deserve entertainment. Besides, I am eager to make the acquaintance of this whore.’

‘Postpone, not cancel, Mother,’ said Isabella shortly. ‘It offers a chance for York’s sinners to see the error of their ways, and I would not deprive them of that for the world. However, deferring it until the flood is over is the sensible thing to do.’

‘It is,’ agreed Helen. ‘We would never forgive ourselves if we enticed people away for drama, and they returned to find their homes underwater and their children drowned. We are going to tell Abbot Multone of our decision.’

Isabella shot Bartholomew the same smile that had revealed her beauty the day before. ‘It will still be performed, so you need not worry that Master Radeford’s suggestions will be wasted. Indeed, we shall dedicate our first performance to him. He will not be forgotten.’

Bartholomew was touched, and smiled back as both women moved away. Still grumbling, Alice followed. Michael watched them go, hands on his hips.

‘You see? Alice is my chief suspect for being a French spy, and here she is encouraging her young friends to stage a play that will distract half of York. Do you think Mayor Longton is right to fear a raid? That this drama is a diversion, and the enemy will use it – or the riot that follows when people learn its title is misleading – to attack the city?’

‘If so, then the French have miscalculated,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Because only a fool would put ships on a river that is in full spate. They will be smashed to pieces.’

‘They might come by land.’

‘You cannot move an army in this weather, Brother. However, I think you are right to be wary of Alice. Langelee vouches for her, but she was one of those who visited the library after Radeford died. Like Myton, her name crops up in dubious circumstances.’

‘I asked her about that,’ said Michael, still staring after the women but distantly, as his mind focused on his investigations. ‘She said she went to see whether she could find the codicil on our behalf, but there was something about her reply that made me disinclined to believe it.’

‘She is—’ Bartholomew whipped around suddenly when he sensed a presence behind him.

‘Do not ogle Lady Helen.’ It was Frost, and he was angry. ‘It is not seemly.’

‘Actually, I was looking at Alice,’ retorted Michael, who had also jumped in alarm at the voice so close behind him. ‘Not that it is any of your concern.’

‘Lady Helen
is
my concern,’ said Frost icily. ‘Because we are betrothed.’

‘Does she know?’ asked Michael coolly. ‘Or is it something you have decided unilaterally?’

Suddenly there was a knife in Frost’s hand, although it was held in a way that meant it would not be seen by passers-by, proving he was indeed skilled with weapons and their handling.

‘She has agreed,’ he snarled. ‘And if you leer at her again, I will kill you.’

He shoved past them roughly, causing both to stagger – and as Michael’s bulk meant he was not easily thrown off balance, it underlined the fact that Frost was a very powerful man.

‘I do not leer,’ said Michael indignantly, although the henchman was already too far away to hear him. ‘He is confusing me with Langelee.’

As Bartholomew and Michael walked along Petergate, they found the atmosphere markedly different from when they had arrived. Then the rain had been no more than a nuisance; now, people cast fearful glances at the sky, and gathered on street corners to talk in low, anxious voices.

The roads were different, too, because the drains that ran along their sides were bloated with swirling brown water, which spilled out of their courses to spread in treacherous ponds. In several places it was ankle deep, and even
Michael’s superior footwear failed to prevent his feet from becoming sodden. Bartholomew might as well have been barefoot.

Although York was generally flat, the minster benefited from being on a rise, and so was drier than those foundations and buildings that bordered the rivers. Even so, the Dean and his canons emerged from a meeting in their chapter house with worried faces.

‘We are bracing ourselves for disaster,’ explained Talerand. ‘We do not believe the water will reach us – and if it does, God help the rest of the city – but we are making preparations regardless.’

‘How?’ asked Michael.

‘By filling sacks with sand to stack against the gates. By assessing our accounts, to see what money is available for repairing damage. And the Archbishop has summoned the heads of the religious houses to a gathering tonight, to devise a coordinated plan to help victims. They have all agreed to come except Holy Trinity. And the Carmelites, of course, but we did not invite them.’