Mystery in the Minster (45 page)

‘I do not believe that,’ shouted Michael. ‘Not if he was a good man. Let me go, Isabella. We can discuss this theological point, because Aquinas says—’

‘Do not listen to him,’ warned Frost, when Isabella’s interest was caught. ‘Debate with Jorden or Mardisley instead. They are excellent theologians – better than this monk.’

‘They are,’ acknowledged Isabella sullenly. ‘But they refuse to include me in their discourses. I shall poison them soon, too, because they have no right to reject me.’

‘They reject you because you are not as good as you think,’ declared Cynric, sufficiently confident that he was about to be saved to lash out with some brutal truths. ‘You talk a lot, but your grasp of the subject is feeble. And any decent scholar knows it.’

Isabella’s jaw dropped, and Bartholomew winced. Cynric was right: Isabella’s knowledge was flawed, but saying so now was hardly sensible. Rage took the place of shock, and she advanced on the book-bearer with a murderous expression. Desperately, Bartholomew tried to think of a way to distract her without squandering the slim advantage of surprise that he held. But Michael was there before him.

‘Myton!’ he yelled, and Bartholomew knew exactly what he was going to say; he had drawn the same conclusion himself, based on what Chozaico had whispered just before he had left. ‘
He
stole the chantry money.’

Isabella’s advance on Cynric faltered. Meanwhile, Helen had allowed Frost to guide her up the first few steps, but at Michael’s claim, she spun around. This time, however, Frost nodded that his men were to begin demolishing the scaffolding. They walked towards it, mallets at the ready.

‘Gisbyrn’s ruthless competition was destroying Myton’s business,’ Michael raced on. ‘And he needed cash to save it. So he started to borrow from a source that was not being used.’

‘The chantry fund,’ breathed Isabella, exchanging a shocked glance with her cousin.

‘No one stole it,’ said Marmaduke firmly. ‘It just dribbled away. We would have noticed theft.’

‘No,’ said Michael harshly, ‘you would not. No one was monitoring it very assiduously, and Myton was probably careful to remove only small amounts. But small amounts add up over time.’

‘Hurry,’ snapped Frost to his men.

‘Wait!’ countered Helen. She turned to Michael, while the soldiers exchanged nervous glances, torn between two masters. ‘Go on.’

‘I imagine Myton intended to pay it back. But he borrowed more and more, and his finances never improved. When he realised he never would be able to replace what he had taken, he killed himself. His raiding of his friend’s chantry money is the “terrible sin” he mentioned in the letter he wrote to Gisbyrn, and what he almost confessed to Chozaico.’

‘So your vengeance is misplaced,’ finished Cynric, full of disdain. ‘Myton is the real villain.’

Frost had had enough. He strode towards the scaffolding and snatched a mallet from one of the soldiers. All his agitation and anxiety was in the first blow he dealt the structure, and splinters flew in every direction. The sound boomed through the vault, and Bartholomew was sure the ceiling sagged. The soldiers evidently thought so, too, because they ran, knocking over one of the lamps as they went. In the sudden darkness that descended in his corner, Bartholomew scrambled to his feet.

‘Just one last question,’ said Michael, quiet and dignified as he finally accepted his fate. ‘And then you can leave us to make our peace with God. Did you poison Radeford?’

Bartholomew had been creeping forward, aiming to brain Marmaduke, stab Frost and hope the women would not pose too much of an obstacle to him freeing his friends, but he stopped dead at the mention of Radeford’s name. Why had
he
not made that connection when Isabella had first mentioned poison with such chilling familiarity?

Frost swung at the scaffolding a second time, causing it to groan ominously.

‘Yes,’ Isabella replied calmly. ‘I have forged a codicil that will ensure your College wins Huntington, but the time I spent with John Radeford told me that he would never have accepted a document that he considered dubious. Worse yet, he might have encouraged Michaelhouse to withdraw its claim if he suspected dishonest practices.’

Helen took up the tale. ‘So I found a cloak that was similar to his own, and took him some of the soup he liked – the kind with mint, which masked the taste of Isabella’s … secret ingredients. I do not believe anyone saw me, but if they had, they would have assumed I was him.’

‘You killed Radeford because he was honest?’ whispered Michael, white-faced.

Helen nodded apologetically. ‘And because he was keen to reach an amicable settlement with the vicars. Ellis would have cheated you, and our uncle would not have approved of that.’

‘We wish it had not been necessary,’ said Isabella. ‘We even came to apologise to his corpse in St Olave’s Church. But as we approached, we saw Doctor Bartholomew with the spoon …’

Frost’s third blow caused a huge section of scaffolding to fall, and he yelped in alarm before dropping the mallet and racing towards the stairs. This time he did not bother with Helen.

‘Our uncle made his wishes quite clear,’ Isabella went on with unnerving calm, as cracks and groans echoed around her. ‘And not even poor John Radeford could be permitted to interfere. I was more sorry than you will ever know, but we could not let him live.’

Bartholomew had heard enough. Rage boiled in him, and he hurtled towards her, determined that her warped justice was not going to harm Michael and Cynric. And then the roof collapsed.

Ignoring the stones that crashed down around him, Bartholomew raced across the vault and barrelled into Isabella with such ferocity that she was flung aside like a bundle of rags. Then he shoved Helen as hard as he could into a wall, before felling Marmaduke with a punch. He did not wait to see what happened to any of them, thinking only of freeing his friends before it was too late.

‘Matt!’ cried Michael, smiling despite the danger he was in. ‘I thought they had murdered you!’

Bartholomew used Ellis’s knife to hack at the ropes that secured Cynric, but the blade was blunt and he was clumsy with tension. Then Michael yelled a warning, and Bartholomew whipped around to see Marmaduke. When he saw the expression of glittering hatred on the ex-priest’s face, Bartholomew knew he should have hit him harder.

Marmaduke had grabbed a piece of scaffolding, and he swung it at the physician’s head. It came so close to connecting with its target that Bartholomew felt the wind of it on his cheek. As Marmaduke staggered, unbalanced by the force of the blow, Bartholomew clouted him again, vigorously enough to hurt his own hand and send the man sprawling. But the ex-priest was tough. He scrambled upright almost immediately, and this time he held a dagger.

There was another hissing groan, followed by an almighty crash as the ceiling at the far end of the vault gave way. Dust billowed out of the darkness, momentarily blinding Bartholomew, so he felt, rather than saw, Marmaduke lunge at him. Hands fastened around his throat, and he opened his eyes to see the ex-priest’s face filled with a murderous hatred.

The fingers tightened, and although Bartholomew struggled with every ounce of his strength, he could not break the grip. Darkness began to claw at the edges of his vision. But just when he felt his knees begin to buckle, the pressure was released abruptly and Marmaduke slumped to the floor. Cynric stood behind him, holding a stone – Bartholomew had sawn through enough of the rope to allow the Welshman to struggle free.

Bartholomew grabbed the dagger Marmaduke had dropped, and bent to hack away the ropes that bound Michael. But they were viciously tight, and the circulation had been cut off in the monk’s feet. It took the combined
strength of physician and book-bearer to haul him upright.

They turned for the steps, but Marmaduke was there yet again. He was laughing wildly, and yelling something about Sampson’s toe. Isabella had also recovered, and was coming to her accomplice’s aid. She held a knife.

It was no time for caution. With a battle cry he had learned at Poitiers, Bartholomew surged towards Marmaduke, startling him with the fury of the attack. Then more stones fell, and suddenly Marmaduke was no longer in their way.

‘Carry Michael outside!’ Bartholomew yelled to Cynric, standing so he was between them and Isabella. It was a tall order, given the disparity in his friends’ sizes, and he hoped it could be done.

‘Now it is just you and me,’ said Isabella, so softly as to be almost inaudible over the thunderous sounds of collapse that reverberated around them. ‘We shall die here together.’

Bartholomew tried to duck around her, but she flailed with the knife, and he was obliged to retreat or risk being disembowelled. More of the ceiling dropped, and the air around them was so full of dust that it was difficult to see or breathe. Then a hand fastened around his tunic, dragging him to his knees. It was Marmaduke again, torn and bloody, but still intent on revenge. Isabella moved in, dagger held high.

All seemed lost, but out of nowhere an image of Radeford sprang into Bartholomew’s mind. The lawyer had been kind and decent, and they had killed him for it. Rage filled him again. He wrenched away from Marmaduke and lashed out with his fists as hard as he could. He felt them connect, but there was too much dust to let him see with what.

He staggered upright, and when he found no one there
to stop him, lurched towards the stairs. They were littered with debris, and it was not an easy scramble. The sliding door was ahead of him, and he watched with horror as it began to roll closed, its mechanism thrown into action by the shifting angle of the floor on which it rested. He started to step through it, but it lurched violently, and he could tell from the noise it made that it would kill him if he was caught by it.

Desperately, he looked around and his eye lit on a mallet that had been dropped by Frost or one of his soldiers. He jammed it in the tracks. The door stopped moving, and he shot through it. But he was only just in time – the mallet flew into pieces from the immense weight, and the door slammed closed right behind him. It caught the hem of his tunic, jerking him to an abrupt standstill. He tore it free, and emerged with relief into the cold, clean dampness of the church above.

Unfortunately, his problems were still not over. The collapsing crypt had destabilised the chancel walls, which were beginning to teeter. He leapt backwards as one section crashed at his feet, and he knew he would never reach the nave door alive.

But St Mary ad Valvas was well endowed with windows. He raced towards the nearest and launched himself through it with as much power as he could muster. There was a moment when he thought he was going to collide with the sill, but he grazed across it and sailed through, to land in a skidding, sprawling, spraying heap in the flooded grass on the other side.

It was not a moment too soon, and he had barely finished sliding when the wall crumpled inwards. He clambered to his feet and ran, aiming to put as much distance between him and the building as possible, and hoping with all his heart that Cynric and Michael had escaped, too.

He reached the minster, and took refuge behind one of its sturdy buttresses. Peering around it, he was just in time to see the top of the tower wobble, and then glide out of sight in a cloud of dust with a sound like distant thunder.

It was not many moments before people began to pour out of the minster, to see what was responsible for such an unearthly medley of groans, rumbles and crashes. They pointed and yelled, surging forward to stand unwisely close to the dust-shrouded ruins. The vicars-choral were hot on their heels, pleading with them to watch from a safer distance. Few heeded the advice.

Bartholomew joined the stream of spectators, shoving through them frantically as he hunted for Michael and Cynric. They were nowhere to be found, and despair began to seize him.

‘There you are,’ came an aggrieved voice, and he whipped around to see Michael, dirty, bruised and dishevelled, but certainly alive. Cynric was beaming at his side. ‘Where have you been? We were worried.’

‘Thank God!’ Relief turned Bartholomew’s legs to jelly, and he grabbed Michael’s shoulder for support. ‘I thought you were still inside – that Cynric was unequal to carrying you.’

Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘I sincerely hope you are not suggesting that I am fat.’

‘Or that I am feeble,’ added Cynric, although the gleam in his eyes said he was amused.

Bartholomew had no wish to linger by the rubble, so he led the way to the minster, hoping one of the vicars would give him something to drink, to wash the grit from his mouth and throat. Inside, he was startled to hear people
cheering, and was obliged to shout when he asked Talerand what was happening.

‘The tidal surge,’ the Dean hollered back. ‘It was smaller than predicted, and the devastation is not nearly as great as we feared. The water levels are already falling. And look!’

They followed the direction of his pointing finger and saw bright light arch through the stained glass of the chancel windows. It had stopped raining, and the first sunshine in days told those inside that although there would be a lot of work to do before York recovered, the worst was over.

The Dean bustled away, all smiles and eccentric bonhomie, and Bartholomew leaned against a wall, feeling tainted by the entire encounter with Helen, Isabella, Marmaduke and their deranged plans. He was so engrossed in maudlin thoughts that he did not see Langelee until the Master was standing right in front of him. Langelee regarded his Fellows’ torn and dirty clothes with rank disapproval.