Mystery in the Minster

Chapter 9

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.’

‘Why not?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘They have a right to be part of it.’

Talerand shrugged. ‘Habit, I suppose. We always exclude them, lest they find some reason to sue us.’

‘But it represents an opportunity for them to reclaim the city’s favour,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘If they are the only Order not helping with the crisis, they will face more trouble than ever later.’

‘Never mind them,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘Why did Chozaico decline? He is not a man to refuse comfort to the needy.’

‘Because many people believe the French are responsible for this awful weather,’ explained Talerand. ‘So he is naturally keen to maintain a low profile, lest his priory suffers the consequences. I do not blame him. I would do the same myself, were I head of a foundation that is constantly accused of spying.’

‘The French do not control the rain!’ said Bartholomew in disgust.

‘Of course, but you cannot reason with superstition and bigotry.’ Talerand sighed. ‘However, his help will be missed – especially the supplies of food he keeps in Bestiary Hall – so I shall visit him later, and beg him to change his mind. But I should not burden you with my concerns. How fare your efforts to win Huntington?’

‘Badly,’ admitted Michael. He decided to be honest. ‘Radeford found the codicil, but he secreted it away, and we have been unable to discover where.’

‘Secreted it away?’ asked Talerand sharply. ‘Why?’

‘Because there are those who would rather it remained lost,’ replied Michael shortly. ‘I do not suppose you have any notion of a suitable hiding place, do you?’

Talerand thought for a moment. ‘Well, if I had to conceal something I would put it in the library, because even if it were in full view, the chances of it being spotted are slim.’

‘Will you come with us now, to see if any particular places stand out?’ asked Michael. He saw the Dean about to refuse. ‘Please! I know you are busy, but it will not take a moment. And we would like to win this case, for Radeford’s sake.’

‘He was a nice young man,’ acknowledged Talerand. ‘Very well, although I doubt I will be of much use. I am not very good with documents.’

Neither scholar needed him to tell them that.

If anything, the library was in a worse state than when they had first seen it, with even more parchments on the floor or stuffed in clumsy handfuls on to the shelves. The many recent visitors had left their mark, particularly Langelee, whom Bartholomew had seen several times flinging documents around as he became increasingly frustrated. Talerand did not seem to notice, though. He folded his arms and looked around carefully, but eventually, he shook his head.

‘I cannot help you. As I said yesterday, a lot of people have been in the last few days. First, Fournays wanted a medical text, and was a long time searching for it before admitting defeat–’

‘He told us he took one look and decided the task was impossible,’ interrupted Michael.

‘Then he is mistaken – he was still here when I returned some time later. Perhaps he just did not want to confess that he had wasted his morning.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Michael, not looking at Bartholomew.

‘Then there was Longton, after the mint charter again,’ Talerand went on. ‘And I never did discover why Multone and Oustwyk came, because neither has expressed any interest in my theological collections before. But men change, I suppose…’

‘Not in my experience,’ muttered Michael.

‘Perhaps they do not want to be seen as lacking when Isabella challenges them on points of doctrine,’ Talerand went on. ‘I know I do not like it. Women should not possess such knowledge, because it makes us men look foolish, and no good can come of that situation.’

‘You mentioned the vicars-choral coming, too,’ said Michael, preventing Bartholomew from pointing out that if Talerand wanted to compete with Isabella, then he should start honing his mind.

‘Yes, with Dalfeld, even though it was dark and they had to use candles. Prioress Alice appeared, too, although I dislike letting her in, because she does not know how to care for books.’

‘Unlike you,’ muttered Bartholomew, looking around pointedly. ‘What did she want?’

‘She did not say. But wait!’ Talerand stabbed a plump finger suddenly at a table that had been placed under a window to catch the meagre light that filtered through it. ‘That desk is different from the others.’

‘It is?’ asked Michael doubtfully.

‘Yes – it is neater. Someone has tidied it, perhaps as a place to work.’

‘I wonder if that is where Radeford found the codicil.’ Bartholomew crouched to look beneath it. ‘He told us that particular document was in plain view on a carrel, and could not understand why no one had noticed it before. Oh! Here is the charter for the mint. It had fallen behind–’

Talerand snatched it. ‘At last! The Mayor will be delighted, and so will the Archbishop. Do you mind if I claim credit? I am rather tired of people accusing me of not knowing where anything is.’

Michael began to sift through the piles of parchments on the desk, although his disgruntled expression showed he was having no success. Bartholomew stayed kneeling, sorting through the hectic muddle below.

‘Tell us again what happened the day Radeford died,’ said Michael, as they worked. ‘You said he was here alone the whole time, and that the only other visitors came after he had left.’

‘Yes,’ replied Talerand. ‘The poor boy laboured furiously, and even refused my offer of bread and cheese in the deanery. The only time he left was late afternoon, but he cannot have been gone many moments, because I looked in again shortly afterwards, and he was back at work.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘But he told us he did not leave at all.’

‘Perhaps he forgot,’ said Talerand. ‘His hood was up, and he ignored me, which was rude. That is why I remember – such churlishness was unlike him.’

‘You did not mention this before,’ said Michael accusingly.

Talerand shrugged. ‘You did not ask.’

‘It was not Radeford you saw, it was his killer,’ said Bartholomew, sitting back on his heels. ‘You are right: Radeford would not have snubbed you. We wondered how he had come to swallow poison, and now we know – someone came here in the late afternoon and gave it to him.’

‘And then donned a hooded cloak, and slunk away,’ finished Michael.

Talerand gaped in horror. ‘The killer? You mean Radeford was murdered here, in my library? But that is a terrible crime, and we shall have to resanctify–’

‘It is a terrible crime,’ interrupted Michael briskly. ‘But you can help us to solve it by answering more questions. What can you tell us about this hooded figure?’

‘He carried a sack,’ said Talerand, white-faced.

‘Containing the toxin,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘Whoever it was must have taken Radeford something to eat or drink, as an apparent act of kindness. What else?’

Talerand screwed shut his eyes to think. ‘Like Radeford, he was of average height and build…’

‘Not Cave then,’ said Michael. ‘Could it have been Dalfeld?’

Talerand gulped audibly. ‘Yes, I suppose it might. However, it could also have been any of the people we have just been discussing – Multone, Oustwyk, Longton, Fournays, another vicar. Not Alice, though; she is too short.’

‘These are your suspects?’ asked Michael keenly.

‘No!’ squeaked Talerand. ‘That is not what I meant! I mentioned them only to demonstrate how it would be impossible to identify the culprit from my glimpse of this cloak-swathed person.’

He became unsteady on his feet, apparently overwhelmed by the notion that such wickedness had been committed in his domain. Bartholomew poured a measure of the medicinal wine he carried for emergencies, but Talerand pushed it away, declaring that he would never drink anything in the minster again. However, when he was calm enough to answer more questions, it quickly became apparent that he had no more to add. The incident had happened days ago, and there had been nothing sufficiently unusual to allow it to stick in his mind.

‘We would also like to ask you about Zouche’s chantry,’ said Bartholomew. ‘About when you discovered that the money had run out.’

‘Why?’ asked Talerand in confusion. ‘What does–’

‘You saw Christopher near it the night before.’ Michael cut across him. ‘I know these appear to be strange questions, but I assure you, we would not ask them if they were not important.’

‘Very well,’ said Talerand unhappily. ‘However, it was five years ago, so forgive me if my memory is hazy. I was in here, working probably, when I heard a sound from the treasury. It was late, so I went to investigate.’

‘You were not afraid?’ asked Michael.

Talerand regarded him askance. ‘Of course I was afraid! It was nearing midnight, and the minster was all but deserted. But I have a responsibility to investigate odd noises at a time when all should be silent, so I went to do it. I found Christopher in the treasury, on his knees in front of Zouche’s rosewood chantry box. He was weeping in the most pitiful manner.’

‘What did you do?’

‘Nothing,’ replied Talerand. ‘He was friends with Zouche, and I am not a man to intrude on another’s private grief. I left him alone to mourn. Then, the following day, I discovered the chantry fund was dry, although I suspect it had actually been so for weeks. The executors rarely checked it.’

‘Do you think Christopher stole some of it?’ asked Bartholomew.

Talerand was shocked. ‘No, of course not! However, I did ask him whether the box was empty when he had been with it the previous night.’

‘And?’ promoted Michael.

‘And he denied being in the treasury at all. It was a lie, but I could hardly say so. I tried pressing him further, but he was adamant. However, his eyes were red, so he had been weeping.’

‘Perhaps his grief was because he knew the chantry would never be finished,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘He had failed to do what Zouche had asked.’

‘Possibly,’ said Talerand. ‘But why not say so? Of course, it could have been because Dalfeld was listening when we had this discussion, and no one likes to say too much in front of him.’

‘Dalfeld?’ asked Michael sharply. ‘What was he doing there?’

‘It is too long ago, and I cannot recall. But he often appears in unexpected places. It is what has allowed him to become so powerful – watching the rest of us hurry about our insignificant lives.’

‘Thank you,’ said Michael. ‘We shall speak to Dalfeld and Anketil this morning. And then we shall return here and resume our search for the codicil, because I feel in my bones that it is hidden near that carrel. We will have it – we must, for Radeford’s sake.’

Bartholomew argued for tackling Dalfeld first, because he was growing increasingly convinced that the lawyer had killed Radeford – Dalfeld was determined to win Huntington for the vicars, and there was plenty of evidence that he was ruthless. And even if the lawyer transpired to be innocent of that particular crime, there was always the possibility that he knew more than Talerand about Christopher’s odd behaviour, and might be willing to trade information.

‘Trade with what?’ demanded Michael. ‘We do not have the resources to bribe him.’

‘We have Huntington,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘He works for the vicars-choral, and will be able to claim a handsome fee if he can tell them he has won the case.’

Michael gaped at him. ‘You want to bargain with Huntington? That price is rather too high!’

‘Not if we learn who killed Radeford.’

Michael blew out his cheeks in a sigh. ‘We can try I suppose, although Langelee will be livid.’ Then a crafty expression suffused his face. ‘Of course, you can always do the negotiating, then we can later say that you did not have the authority to do it, thus voiding any agreement you make. No, do not look shocked, Matt, it is the way lawyers work. Dalfeld will be used to it.’

As they left, they saw the minster was busier than ever, although not with the clamour of obits. People were flocking to the city’s grandest church in the hope that prayers said there would avert the looming disaster. There was also a growing number of refugees from the outlying villages, all carrying pitiful tales of lost homes, drowned livestock and destroyed crops. The vicars moved among them, offering comfort and dry blankets, and directing them to corners of the minster where they might rest until the waters receded.

‘Dalfeld is not our only suspect for killing Radeford,’ said Michael, as they hurried towards the Ouse Bridge. ‘Fournays lied about the time he spent in the library, and he is a surgeon with a herbarium that boasts any number of poisonous plants.’

‘Fournays is not a murderer,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘He is a healer, who–’

Michael raised his hand. ‘I disagree. Personally, I believe he murdered Radeford, perhaps by encouraging him to drink a tonic that promised a sharper mind or some such nonsense, and then he returned to the scene of his crime, to ensure he had left no clues.’

‘According to Talerand, he stayed some time. It would not have taken long to eliminate clues.’

‘It might, if he was being careful,’ Michael flashed back. ‘And he will remain on my list until he is eliminated to my satisfaction. Along with the vicars-choral.’

‘And Abbot Multone,’ added Bartholomew. ‘I think it is odd that he and his steward should just happen to come here for a book this week, when neither has done anything like it before. And they have been suspiciously interested in our progress ever since we arrived.’

‘Very well,’ conceded Michael. ‘We shall include them, too. What about the others Talerand says visited? Longton and Alice?’

‘Yes, them, too.’ Bartholomew hesitated. ‘And Talerand himself.’

Michael nodded slowly. ‘I agree: it is suspicious that he should remember “Radeford” leaving the library now, when he did not mention it before. Also, do you recall his peculiar reaction when we asked him and the Archbishop about the strange deaths of Zouche’s executors?’

‘He virtually ran away from the discussion,’ recalled Bartholomew. ‘Using the donkey as an excuse.’

‘Moreover, as Langelee pointed out, his bumbling amiability must be a ruse – if he were really inept, he could not rule a busy minster or see off rivals determined to be Dean in his stead.’

Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘He seems helpful, but no one has actually succeeded in achieving anything in the library. I wonder whether the Archbishop will ever see that charter. It would not surprise me if it went missing again.’

‘Do you think Talerand deranged, then?’ asked Michael uneasily.

‘It is possible. And he killed Radeford in revenge for drawing order out of chaos. Is that Marmaduke over there? What is he doing?’

The squat ex-priest was scuttling around St Sampson’s Church with the reliquary containing the saint’s toe tucked under his arm. He was red-faced, staggering and breathless.

‘Rain fell for forty days and forty nights before Noah’s flood,’ he gasped. ‘So I have offered to run around the church forty times if Sampson will save York from disaster. I have another seven to go. Or is it eight? I am rather dizzy.’

‘Rest for a few moments, then,’ advised Michael. ‘I am sure the saint will not mind.’

Relieved, Marmaduke started to pass the reliquary to Bartholomew while he wiped the sweat from his face, but then changed his mind and gave it to the monk instead.

‘Sampson does not like you, Doctor,’ he said sternly. ‘He knows you have not prayed to him as you promised. Indeed, perhaps that is why it is raining so hard.’

‘I did not promise,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘It was–’

‘Christopher Malore,’ said Michael, cutting across him and addressing the ex-priest. ‘One of your fellow executors. What kind of man was he?’

Marmaduke’s eyebrows shot into his hair. ‘He is dead, Brother. I do not speak ill of the dead.’

‘So he was a rogue,’ surmised Michael. ‘Could he have stolen the chantry fund?’

‘No one stole it!’ cried Marmaduke, shocked. ‘We would have noticed that! It just trickled away because we failed to monitor it properly. And Christopher was not a rogue – he was just more interested in his own soul than anyone else’s. But why ask about him? He died years ago.’

‘He was discovered weeping over Zouche’s chantry box the day before it was announced that the fund was dry,’ explained Michael. ‘And then denied being there. Do you know why?’

Marmaduke shook his head. ‘No, but I doubt it had anything to do with theft. He was not dishonest, just rather selfishly pious.’

‘What about Myton?’ asked Michael. ‘Was he selfishly pious, too? Is that why he reported you to the Archbishop for selling false relics?’

Marmaduke flinched. ‘I have already told you that is personal. I do not choose to discuss it.’

‘I am sure it is painful for you,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘And we have been told that Myton was wrong to have taken the matter to Thoresby when it could have been handled discreetly. Especially as you were trying to raise funds for Zouche, not for yourself.’

Marmaduke’s eyes filled with tears. ‘It was a terrible time. Cotyngham, Sir William and Lady Helen were kind, but I was shunned by others I thought were friends. And Myton…’

‘Yes?’ asked Michael.

‘I think my punishment hurt him as much as me, because he was never the same afterwards, and Fournays said it played on his conscience. I never blamed him, though; it was my own fault.’

‘You bore him no grudge?’ asked Michael sceptically.

Marmaduke grimaced. ‘Briefly perhaps, but the crime was mine, and he only did what he thought was right. But he is dead now, and I hope his obits will see him out of Purgatory soon. And speaking of religion, I had better resume my penance, or the river will be through these church doors before the end of the day.’

The Ouse Bridge was pandemonium, with some people pouring towards the sanctuary represented by the minster and priories, and others just as eager to escape from the crowded city. Hence the structure was packed with carts, horses and pedestrians, and panic and uncertainty made tempers wear thin as the twin flows of traffic battled against each other.

When Bartholomew and Michael knocked at Dalfeld’s door, his servant told them that Warden Stayndrop had issued an urgent summons to all York’s Franciscans, ordering them back to the friary to help with the impending crisis. With a smug smirk, the man said that Dalfeld had not been pleased to be included in the general recall, but declining to obey had not been an option. Stifling sighs of exasperation, Bartholomew and Michael began to hurry there.

They were still on the bridge when they saw Anketil, his cowl pulled low to avoid recognition. He jumped in alarm when Michael touched his arm.

‘Oh, it is you, Brother,’ he said, recognising the monk in relief. ‘I thought it was someone else wanting to blame Holy Trinity for the storms.’

When he pulled them into a doorway so that they could speak without being trampled, they saw he sported a black eye.

‘Someone struck you?’ asked Michael, concerned.

Anketil shook his head. ‘A stone was lobbed over our wall, and it was simple bad luck that it found its mark. However, it has made my brethren wary of going out.’

‘But not you?’ asked Bartholomew. Anketil was indistinguishable from other Benedictines in his black habit, but a random gust could easily blow back his hood to reveal his face.

Anketil grimaced. ‘Prior Chozaico is urged to attend a conference in the minster, and I am sent to inform the Dean that he will not be going. They will vote to open the gates of all religious houses to refugees, but we cannot oblige – people would use the opportunity to attack us.’

‘Your refusal to help will be noted,’ warned Michael. ‘People will be even more convinced that you have something to hide.’

Anketil smiled wanly. ‘Better that than inevitable destruction. However, standing here speaking French is not a good idea, because passers-by are glaring at us.’

Uneasily, Bartholomew saw it was true, and suspected it was only because people were in a hurry that they did not stop to express their suspicions with their fists.

‘Just one more question,’ said Michael, reaching out to catch Anketil’s sleeve. ‘Your brother was seen weeping in the treasury the night before Zouche’s chantry fund was declared empty.’

‘Yes,’ nodded Anketil. ‘He told me. I have already confessed that we allowed the money to trickle away due to poor supervision, and he was the one who discovered it had gone. The Dean claimed it was him, but it was actually Christopher. He wanted to tell the other executors before making it public, but Talerand pre-empted him.’

‘Then why did he deny being in the treasury when Talerand asked him about it the next day?’ demanded Michael.

‘He did not deny anything,’ said Anketil, puzzled. ‘Talerand must have misunderstood.’

‘Do you think he stole it?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘No,’ replied Anketil. Then his expression became pained. ‘Although the fund represented a substantial sum of money, and the minster is notorious for being in constant need of cash. It is possible that Talerand … borrowed the odd shilling, although, if he did, I do not see why he was the one to announce that the box was empty. I imagine he would have distanced himself.’

‘Actually, I think Matt meant Christopher,’ said Michael. ‘Did Christopher steal the money?’

Anketil gaped at him. ‘No, of course not! He was a monk.’

So was Anketil, and as his habit was of far better quality than any clothes Bartholomew owned, and his pectoral cross alone would have kept Cambridge’s poor in medicine for a month, the physician felt he had the right to treat him to a disbelieving glance.

Anketil saw it, and hastened to convince him. ‘Christopher was not interested in money, and if you do not believe me, ask Abbot Multone. He made a will, bequeathing all his property to our Order, but it comprised two books and a pair of sandals. And that is all. He was not a worldly man.’

‘How long after this discovery did he die?’ asked Bartholomew, not sure what to think.

‘A few days. Why? Surely you cannot believe the two are connected? Christopher died of a debility, something which Fournays says can strike at anyone. His death had nothing to do with that wretched chantry money. Besides, Talerand says the box might have been empty for weeks before he and Christopher discovered–’

‘Wretched chantry money?’ interrupted Michael sharply.

Anketil winced at the slip, but began to explain. ‘It was a millstone, Brother, and although Christopher was distressed to learn it had gone, I was relieved. It was an unreasonable responsibility, and Zouche should have paid a clerk to monitor progress, not relied on his busy friends. If I had known what a burden it would be, I would have refused his request.’

‘Did all the executors think like you?’ asked Bartholomew.

Anketil closed his eyes. ‘Some did. Not Christopher, Marmaduke and Neville, though. My brother and Neville were always writing to each other about the chantry and its problems.’

‘Those letters are in the minster library,’ said Michael. ‘Radeford found them.’

Anketil nodded. ‘Yes, I imagine Multone would have passed them to Talerand after Christopher’s death. But I cannot stand here chatting. Prior Chozaico will be worried, and may venture out to look for me himself. I do not want him in needless danger.’

He pulled his cowl further over his head and slipped away, although there was something in his gait that caused an apprentice to grab some dung from the road and lob it. It hit a woman instead, and Anketil took advantage of the resulting melee to escape.

Bartholomew and Michael arrived at the Franciscan Priory to find it in the grip of frenzied activity. Friars were running everywhere with sandbags, and as it was a time when they should be saying sext, it was another example of the general alarm. Mardisley came to greet them.

‘Where is Jorden?’ asked Bartholomew. It was the first time he had seen one without the other.

‘With the Dominicans,’ replied Mardisley unhappily. ‘I hope this flood does not last long, because we need to hone our skills if we are going to make a good impression in our public debate. But you are scholars. Perhaps you might spare a few moments to–’

‘Not today,’ interrupted Michael shortly. ‘We need to speak to Dalfeld. Is he here?’

‘Yes, although he is useless. When Warden Stayndrop asked him to move some sandbags, he declined on the basis that it would spoil his new tunic. He should be wearing a habit, and–’

‘Did you know Christopher Malore?’ asked Michael abruptly.

Mardisley blinked at the change of subject. ‘Yes. Why?’

‘What was he like?’

Mardisley regarded him warily. ‘He seemed decent. Why? And why do you want Dalfeld? It is not about Zouche’s chantry fund, is it?’

Michael regarded him closely. ‘What do you know about that?’

Mardisley shrugged. ‘Nothing, other than that there was something of a scandal when the money ran out. Dalfeld was accused of theft, but nothing was ever proven.’

A yell called him back to his duties at that point. Bartholomew watched him go, wondering why he had been so eager to know their business, and why he should have mentioned the accusations against Dalfeld. Members of religious Orders tended to stick together, and it was considered anathema to betray each other, even if one did deplore the other’s secular lifestyle.

‘Lord!’ muttered Michael. ‘Are we to include Mardisley on our list of suspects now, on the grounds that he is oddly keen for Dalfeld to be discredited?’

‘I have no idea.’ Bartholomew pointed. ‘But there is Dalfeld.’

The lawyer could not have looked less like his brethren had he tried. They were, to a man, hot, sweaty and grimy from their exertions, but he was perfectly attired and clean. He had been given the task of weighing beans into bowls, ready to be used to feed the hungry, but, so as not to soil his clothes, he wielded the scoop with ridiculous inefficiency. He grinned and set it down when he saw Michael and Bartholomew, transparently delighted to have an excuse to shirk. Bartholomew fought down the urge to grab him by the throat, sure this silky, arrogant man was involved in the murder of his colleague, and hating to see the smug satisfaction on his face.

‘Why did you visit the library this week?’ demanded Michael without preamble.

Dalfeld smirked. ‘Why do you think? Radeford is said to have discovered the codicil, but you have spent hours there since he died. Ergo, either he lied about finding it or he did not give it to you. Either way, you are still searching. So of course I went to see if I could get it first.’

‘And did you?’

Dalfeld laughed. ‘I think I shall keep that information to myself.’

‘In other words, you have not,’ surmised Bartholomew, gratified when a moue of irritation flashed across Dalfeld’s face. ‘I do not suppose you took Radeford some refreshments when he was working there, did you? It would have been a kindness, and–’

‘I did not,’ interrupted Dalfeld brusquely. ‘I have better things to do with my time than wait on a man who aimed to snatch Huntington from its rightful claimants. Have you considered my offer on that point, by the way? I am sure we can come to a mutually acceptable agreement.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew sharply. ‘We do not need your help.’

‘Christopher,’ said Michael, as the lawyer shrugged, feigning indifference, although disappointment flickered in his eyes. ‘What do you know about him?’

Dalfeld frowned. ‘Christopher Malore? Why? Surely you cannot think he did something to the codicil? Although he was an executor … However, I was always surprised that Zouche picked him, because he was hopelessly dreamy, as were Stiendby and Welton. On the other hand, Anketil, Neville, Roger, Playce and Ferriby were too busy with their own affairs, and Marmaduke…’

‘Yes?’ prompted Michael, when the lawyer trailed off.

‘Marmaduke was a good choice,’ said Dalfeld, although it clearly pained him to say something pleasant. ‘He loved Zouche enough to sell fraudulent relics on his behalf, and the others should have given him more responsibility. However, because he looks seedy, they discounted him.’

‘Are you saying you would trust him?’

‘Not with my own property,’ replied Dalfeld. ‘But I would with Zouche’s. Marmaduke would never have done anything to injure him. Of course, I am still convinced that there was more to his defrocking than was made public, although my efforts to find out have so far failed. I do not suppose you have uncovered anything interesting, have you?’

‘I understand you were accused of stealing the chantry fund yourself,’ said Bartholomew baldly, feeling time was too short for a more circuitous approach.

Dalfeld’s eyes widened fractionally, but he quickly regained his composure. ‘I was, but all charges were dropped, because I was innocent. I never did learn who started that nasty story, but I shall take a leaf from the Carmelites’ book and sue him, if I ever do.’

It was not long before the lawyer was ordered back to his beans by an irate Mardisley. Bartholomew watched him go with a sense of frustration, mingled with disgust at himself.

‘I could not bring myself to do it,’ he said to Michael. ‘Use Huntington to bribe him for information, I mean. The notion of him profiting from what Radeford died trying to win is obscene, especially if we never prove he had a hand in the murder, and he remains free to enjoy…’

‘There are other suspects,’ said Michael consolingly. ‘Dalfeld is a loathsome specimen, but that does not make him guilty.’

Bartholomew nodded, although his instincts told him otherwise. ‘As we are here, I should visit Cotyngham. He may be distressed by the noise and panic, and the infirmarian will not have time to reassure him.’

‘Perhaps a fright will shock him back into his wits,’ said Michael hopefully. ‘And he will tell us what happened when the vicars visited and Cave scrambled about in his chimney.’

The infirmary was being readied as emergency accommodation, with some friars folding blankets and others sewing mattresses from coarse cloth and straw. No one looked up or spoke as Bartholomew and Michael hurried past. They arrived at Cotyngham’s chamber to find it empty.

‘He must have been moved,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I hope it does not impede his recovery.’

‘I am afraid we may never know,’ said Warden Stayndrop, making them jump by speaking behind them. He was pale and agitated, a man burdened with too many concerns. ‘He went missing during the night, and we are not sure where he has gone.’

‘Then we must find him,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed. ‘He is too vulnerable to wander around unsupervised. He may come to harm.’

Stayndrop wrung his hands. ‘You do not need to tell me that! I feel responsible for his disappearance, because I should have guessed that he would be frightened by the fuss.’

‘Have you searched the friary?’ asked Bartholomew urgently.

‘Of course we have! He is not here.’

‘Then he will have gone to Huntington. His home.’

‘Impossible,’ stated Stayndrop. ‘I sent Mardisley and Jorden to look for him, but they got less than a mile before they were driven back by floods. He cannot have reached it.’

‘The body in the river!’ exclaimed Michael. ‘Could that have been him?’

‘Wrong river,’ replied Bartholomew tersely. ‘Perhaps we should look for him.’

‘If Mardisley and Jorden could not track him down, then neither will you,’ predicted Stayndrop. ‘We must put our trust in God, for there is nothing any of us can do to help him.’

‘Our business lies in the minster, anyway,’ said Michael. ‘Because if the library floods, and all the documents are lost, we will never win Huntington.’

‘The minster will not flood,’ said Stayndrop. ‘Like Holy Trinity, it stands on high ground. And speaking of Holy Trinity, I refuse to believe that Chozaico will not stand with us in this crisis. I shall visit him later, and urge him to change his mind.’

‘We just met Anketil,’ said Michael. ‘He had been injured by a stone that had been hurled over the wall, because people believe this catastrophe is part of a diabolical plot by the French. You cannot blame Chozaico for wanting to protect his monks.’

‘Only stupid folk believe that nonsense about Holy Trinity,’ said Stayndrop scornfully. ‘And Chozaico should not let the likes of them affect his decisions.’

Moving as quickly as they could through the thronging streets, Bartholomew and Michael hurried north again. A familiar voice hailed them, and Bartholomew was startled to see Sir William, pale and slightly stooped, but still a dignified and commanding figure. Mayor Longton’s liveried men were at his heels, but seemed prouder and less slovenly with him in charge.

‘It is too soon,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Your wound is not yet healed, and it–’

‘I cannot lie in bed when my city needs me,’ interrupted William, and Bartholomew could not help but notice that people seemed relieved to see the advocatus ecclesiae on his feet again. They smiled as they passed, and panic-stricken voices calmed when he looked in their direction.

‘But we still do not know who shot you,’ said Michael. ‘They may try again.’

William smiled. ‘No one will strike at me in the middle of an emergency. Besides, I may not have been the intended victim – Huntington may not seem like much, but there are many who feel it should be kept in the hands of local priests.’

He strode away, and Bartholomew scanned the street warily, although it was so packed that he imagined any bowman would find assassination nigh on impossible. Before they could start walking again, they were intercepted by Oustwyk.

‘Have you heard that Harold of the Carmelites is murdered?’ he asked, eyes gleaming at the prospect of spreading gossip. ‘He was one of Prior Penterel’s henchmen – not the one with the scarred face, but the quieter, bulky one.’

‘Murdered?’ echoed Michael, startled. ‘How do you know?’

‘He was shot. Of course, it means trouble for the city – the White Friars will sue someone in revenge. The other news is that Cotyngham has regained his wits. I saw him with my own eyes.’

‘Where is he?’ asked Bartholomew urgently.

‘Gone,’ replied Oustwyk. ‘At midnight last night, I watched someone who looked like him scale the wall of the Franciscan Priory before haring off towards Walmgate. When I learned today that Cotyngham had run away, I realised it was indeed him I saw.’

‘How did he seem?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘Bewildered? Disorientated?’

‘Neither,’ replied Oustwyk. ‘He knew exactly where he wanted to go – and he wanted to do it quickly, because I tried to follow, but he was too fast for me. I lost him.’

‘What were you doing out at such an hour?’ asked Michael suspiciously.

Oustwyk winked and tapped the side of his nose. ‘Business, Brother.’

‘What kind of business?’

‘Something for Prior Chozaico, if you must know. He wanted a letter delivered to the Carmelite Friary, and he gave me a shilling for agreeing not to tell anyone about it.’

‘Chozaico writes to the Carmelites?’ asked Michael, while Bartholomew thought the Prior should demand his money back, given that Oustwyk had not hesitated long before revealing all. ‘I thought everyone avoided contact with them, lest it result in being sued.’

‘That is what I said, but Chozaico told me to deliver the missive and mind my own affairs. He is not normally rude – he must have been upset by the rumours that blame him for the rains.’

‘The Cotyngham we saw would not have been capable of climbing and running,’ said Bartholomew, once the steward had gone.

Michael stared at him. ‘What are you saying? That Oustwyk is lying?’

‘I am saying that patients who have been witless for a month do not recover to scramble over walls and race around dark streets confidently enough to escape pursuit. Something is very wrong with what Oustwyk described.’

Michael squawked suddenly, and Bartholomew saw that in the few moments since they had stopped, water had flowed around their feet. One of the rivers was over its banks, and the city was beginning to flood.

Water blocked several of the roads they tried to hurry along, forcing them to make detours into uncharted territory, and when they finally emerged on a street they recognised, it was one near the Carmelite Priory. A number of White Friars were standing on the Foss Bridge, watching the surging brown water that gushed beneath it. Several were sobbing.

‘No, we will not flood,’ Penterel said in reply to Michael’s expression of concern. ‘We have levees, and our buildings are on elevated ground. It is not the prospect of a deluge that grieves us.’

‘Harold?’ asked Bartholomew sympathetically. ‘Oustwyk told us he was dead.’

‘Shot with an arrow,’ nodded Penterel tearfully. ‘I have known him for years, and he was a good man. Will you join us in a prayer for his soul, Brother?’

Michael could hardly refuse, so stepped inside the friary, although he was reluctant to spare the time. Bartholomew followed, and saw it was a pretty place, with timber-framed buildings ranged around a duck pond. Its chapel had a robust tower that looked more like a military building than a religious one, with a crenellated roof and arrow slits at different levels. Inside, it was silent, calm and smelled of dried flowers and expensive candle wax.

Harold was lying in front of the high altar, and several Carmelites were washing his body, readying it for burial with full ceremonial honours. All were red-eyed, although they smiled wanly at the scholars. Bartholomew blanched when he saw the hole in Harold’s stomach.

‘That was not caused by an arrow!’ he blurted. ‘It is a knife wound.’

There was silence in the chapel.

‘You mean someone stabbed him?’ asked Penterel eventually. His face was white with shock. ‘But who would do such a thing? You cannot be right, Doctor Bartholomew!’

‘Harold’s injury was caused by a weapon with a single-edged blade,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘An arrow wound looks completely different.’

With unsteady hands, Penterel crossed himself. ‘But Fournays told us the killer was an archer.’

‘Then he is mistaken.’ Bartholomew knew Michael was looking at him, reading significance into this latest example of the surgeon’s opinions, but he refused to acknowledge it.

‘Perhaps you had better inspect Harold properly, then,’ said Penterel, swallowing hard. ‘We must have all the facts before we launch legal proceedings against the culprit. There is a big difference between death from a bow and one from a knife: one suggests premeditation, the other may have been spur-of-the-moment.’

Michael nodded to the physician, who stepped forward to oblige. Fortunately, all he had to do was look, because the friars had already removed Harold’s clothes. He was about to say there was no more he could tell them, when he happened to glance at the dead man’s hands. The nails were ragged, and one finger was at an odd angle – Harold had fought his attacker, clawing at him and dislocating a joint in the process. The jagged fingernails had snagged fibres of material. Bartholomew bent to inspect them more closely while Penterel talked.

‘We had better not tell Wy about Doctor Bartholomew’s conclusions,’ the Prior was saying shakily to his friars. ‘He is already distraught, and I am loath to distress him further. They were close friends.’

‘When did you find Harold’s body?’ asked Michael.

‘This morning. It was on the riverbank, which makes me suspect the killer hoped it would be washed away before it was found. But how could anyone do this? I know we are unpopular, but no one has tried to kill us before!’

‘You might be better liked if you did not sue so many people,’ Michael pointed out.

‘How else are we to retrieve what is owed by debtors and thieves?’ asked Penterel tiredly. ‘Besides, someone needs to take a stand against dishonesty. What if we looked the other way, and our complacency encouraged them to practise their wiles on someone less able to afford it? My conscience would never let me sleep easily in my bed again!’

‘And Fournays, who is leaving you his house?’ asked Michael sceptically. ‘Is he a debtor or a thief?’

‘He is someone who has bribed us to ignore the fact that his goats constantly escape into our grounds and do a lot of damage,’ explained Penterel. ‘And his ploy has worked, because all we do now is return them with a smile. Not to mention the obits we shall say for him when he is dead.’

He knelt to pray, and Michael and his friars joined him. When they had finished, Michael and Bartholomew left them to their grief and walked outside. There they saw the water had risen a little higher.

‘Well?’ asked Michael. ‘Were there clues to tell you who killed Harold?’

‘Yes,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘A Carmelite.’

Michael gaped at him in surprise. ‘How do you know?’

Bartholomew showed him what he had pulled from Harold’s fingernails. ‘Because these are threads from a Carmelite habit. He was knifed by someone he knew.’

‘Wy?’ asked Michael. ‘His friend?’

‘Not if he is prostrate with grief. However, he and Harold were Penterel’s particular favourites – they accompanied him everywhere. Perhaps the others decided it was time for a change.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Michael. ‘I hope we are not charged to investigate this matter, too, or we will never reach Cambridge before the beginning of term.’