Mystery in the Minster

Epilogue

Cambridge, May 1358

It did not take long for Bartholomew, Michael, Langelee and Cynric to settle back into College life. The Summer Term was always busy, with students preparing for final disputations, and they threw themselves into the familiar routine with a sense of relief. Their colleagues had been delighted with the arrangement Langelee had made, especially when he produced a sheaf of accounts that Talerand had inadvertently discovered in the library.

‘The parish barely makes ends meet,’ Langelee crowed, when he happened to see Bartholomew in the orchard. The physician was preparing for a lecture he was to give the following morning, using the trunk of a fallen apple tree as a bench, and enjoying a rare opportunity for solitude. Reluctantly, he closed his book, and made space for the Master to sit next to him.

‘What parish?’ he asked.

‘Huntington,’ replied Langelee impatiently. ‘It was a terrible journey home, what with all those floods, so we have not had time to talk. But you really should study Huntington’s records. Then you will understand what a fabulous bargain I had from those sly vicars. They must be livid!’

‘They will only be livid if they see the accounts,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘But they cannot, because you have them.’

Langelee’s jubilant expression faded. ‘I had not thought of that. Do you think I should send them back? Anonymously. Of course.’

‘No!’ exclaimed Bartholomew uncomfortably. ‘Unless you include a hundred marks in the parcel. What you did was dishonest, and I was ashamed to be party to it.’

Langelee waved an airy hand that said he did not care about the physician’s sensibilities. ‘Huntington makes virtually no money at all, and the church has serious structural defects,’ he gloated. ‘It will cost a fortune to rebuild.’

‘But Zouche wanted Huntington to come to Michaelhouse,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘And you professed yourself eager to see his wishes fulfilled. How can you justify–’

‘Zouche would have applauded this solution,’ declared Langelee; Bartholomew had no idea if it was true. ‘He did not intend for us to be burdened with an expensive millstone. You can call it payment for our silence over the fact that Cave killed Cotyngham, if it makes you feel any better.’

‘No, it does not, because that was unethical, too. Besides, as I told you in York, I am not sure Cave is sufficiently poised to have committed murder and kept calm when his “victim” was in the Franciscan Friary. Moreover, the shoelace we found in the chimney shows that he searched Cotyngham’s house for documents, but it does not prove him a killer.’

‘You are over-thinking the matter,’ said Michael, who had approached so silently that he made them jump by speaking behind them. He smiled and brandished a letter. ‘I thought I might find you here, so I came to tell you that I had a missive today. From Thoresby.’

‘That old rogue,’ said Langelee, but without rancour. ‘What did he want?’

Michael plumped himself down on the trunk with such vigour that Bartholomew was almost catapulted off the other end, while even Langelee had to scramble to keep his balance.

‘To tell me that Cave tried bullying Jafford, who has succeeded Ellis as sub-chanter. But Jafford complained to the minster hierarchy, so Cave was appointed librarian.’

‘Cave is promoted?’ asked Langelee, disgusted. ‘Is that how crime is punished in York?’

‘Cave was so horrified that he had a seizure the same night, and died,’ Michael went on. ‘At least, that is what Thoresby says. Regardless, he will shove no more elderly priests to their deaths.’

‘Then let us hope that marks the end of the matter,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘The whole affair was unpleasant, and I imagine Zouche would have been horrified.’

‘He would,’ agreed Langelee soberly. ‘Especially with Myton – stealing the chantry fund to save his business ventures. I still cannot believe it. He was always so honest.’

‘Do not judge him too harshly,’ said Bartholomew. ‘From all we were told about his character, I believe he would have repaid what he had borrowed if he could.’

Langelee sniffed, unconvinced. ‘Well, he has forfeited my good graces. To strike him where I know it will hurt, I persuaded Jafford to divert some of the obits Myton had founded for himself to Zouche instead. But Myton is still recorded in the deeds as “venerable and discreet”. I could not find a way to change that.’

‘Perhaps people in the future will think like Sir William,’ suggested Michael. ‘And read in those words a euphemism for haughty and secretive. Regardless, Myton’s crime precipitated a chain of events that culminated in the murders of Radeford, Ellis and seven executors, and the attempted murders of us, Cynric, Sir William and Dalfeld.’

‘It might have been eight executors, if Anketil had not been stabbed by Wy,’ said Langelee. ‘And I am still dismayed that Helen survived the collapse of the church. She emerged with not so much as a scratch, and brays that she is innocent. She may yet evade justice.’

They were silent for a while, and the only sounds were the bees among the lavender and the distant babble of students emerging from a class. Then Michael asked, ‘How did Myton discover the list of French spies? We know Zouche dictated it to the clerk, who was murdered by Wy as he was on his way to report the matter to Mayor Longton. But how did Myton come by it?’

‘We will probably never know for certain,’ replied Langelee. ‘But I suspect the clerk made duplicates, which he filed in Zouche’s records. Myton probably happened across one by chance – as did Radeford, five years later. But such a list would have been worthless alone, so Myton must have spent a lot of time hunting out supporting evidence. Perhaps that is what led him to neglect his failing business…’

‘Thus allowing Gisbyrn to crush him,’ nodded Michael. ‘But why not expose Chozaico before killing himself?’

‘If he was unhappy enough to take his own life, he would not have cared about spies,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Besides, he probably liked Chozaico, and did not consider it a pleasure to deliver such a man to his execution. I know I would not have done – I liked him, too.’

‘Well, I am sorry he escaped,’ said Langelee sulkily. ‘I spent years trying to catch him and his helpmeets, and now they are sitting happily in France, enjoying the fruits of their deception.’

‘Actually, they are not.’ Michael tapped his letter. ‘Thoresby guessed they might encounter difficulties on the flooded roads, so he dispatched messengers to those foundations in which he thought they might take refuge.’

‘They are apprehended?’ cried Langelee in dismay. For all his hot words, he did not want Chozaico dead, either.

Michael inclined his head. ‘But their capture coincides with the arrest of some English spies in France, so an exchange is being negotiated. They will elude the hangman, although the Benedictines at their Mother house in Marmoutier will have to pay an enormous fine in compensation to our King.’

‘He will be pleased, then,’ grinned Langelee. ‘He is always in need of money, and loves unexpected windfalls.’

‘Incidentally, the floods that prevented Chozaico’s escape also punished Dalfeld,’ added Michael rather gleefully. ‘His house fell in the river, taking with it everything he owned. He had to throw himself on Stayndrop’s mercy, and Stayndrop obliged by sending him to Grimsby.’

‘Where?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Quite,’ said Michael. ‘It is not somewhere he will be able to accrue riches and power again. And finally, Thoresby tells me that the Carmelites are feted as heroes for their unstinting efforts to help the dispossessed during the floods. I am glad: they are decent men.’

‘I have one question, though,’ said Langelee. ‘We thought we had a clue when Talerand saw Christopher weeping the night before Zouche’s chantry fund was discovered empty. But it was nothing of the kind, and we never did find out what had distressed him.’

‘Actually, it was explained in a document Sir William found in the rosewood chest,’ said Michael. ‘Christopher had learned that his brother was a spy. Obviously, he could not confide that when Talerand asked for an explanation – not without harming Anketil.’

‘And we wasted all that time hunting for a codicil that never existed,’ said Langelee with a sigh. ‘Time I could have spent enjoying myself with old friends, although I am grateful I did not try to pass too much of it with Helen. She might have tried to poison me.’

‘She might,’ agreed Michael. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘I know Cynric discovered Radeford’s hiding place in the end, but he refuses to tell me about it. Did he confide in you?’

Bartholomew smiled. ‘He did not discover it, Brother – I did. Radeford had put the documents in the saddlebag where I keep my medical supplies, a place Cynric never ventures because he believes it to be full of sinister ingredients and equipment. Although he is wrong, of course – it contains nothing unpleasant.’

Michael gaped at him. ‘Then why did you not find them immediately?’

‘Because they were right at the bottom, wedged beneath a fold in the leather – they fell out when I upended it to repack before we left York. I gave the list of spies and the correspondence between Neville and Christopher to Sir William, but I burned Isabella’s forged codicil.’

‘Why?’ asked Michael curiously.

‘I ordered him to,’ explained Langelee. ‘We could not risk the vicars-choral seeing it – they might have accused us of making it ourselves. Or worse, demanded their hundred marks back.’

‘I read the letters first, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Neville had discovered that some of the chantry fund had been stolen, and Christopher suspected Myton. They were on the verge of proving it when they were murdered.’

Michael stared at him. ‘You mean that if Isabella and Helen had stayed their hand, Myton would have been exposed? And the executors would not have been murdered, because Helen and Isabella could not have held them responsible for failing to complete Zouche’s chapel?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Although Myton did not steal all of it – a good deal had been allowed to dribble away through incompetence and negligence.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Michael, shocked.

‘Do you remember the night we arrived back at the hospitium, and found Radeford rummaging in my saddlebag, Brother?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He claimed he wanted a remedy for his headache, but I think he was just checking that his discoveries would be safe until the following day, when he planned to pull them out and prove himself cleverer than Cynric.’

‘In exchange for a magic spell to snag Isabella,’ said Langelee. ‘Poor Radeford. He really did love her, so perhaps it was a mercy that he never learned her true nature.’

They were silent for a while, reflecting on all that had happened. Then the bell began to chime, informing them that supper was ready in the hall. Its note was sweet and high on the evening air.

‘Come,’ said Langelee, standing abruptly. ‘Or there will be nothing left.’

‘That may not be a bad thing,’ grumbled Michael. ‘Because there is fish-giblet soup tonight. It is on days like this that I wish we were still in York, because the abbey knew how to feed us.’

Langelee winked. ‘The students will eat fish-giblet soup, but I have arranged for something a little more appetising for the Fellows. We owe ourselves something for getting that hundred marks.’

Michael brightened. ‘Really? Will there be enough for Matt and the others, as well as for you and me? Or is that why you suggest that we should hurry?’

Langelee considered carefully, then broke into a run. ‘I am not sure.’

Bartholomew smiled as Michael hared after him. He missed Radeford, but it was still good to be among the familiar things of home.

The same day, York

In her cramped prison cell, Lady Helen waited in tense anticipation for the appointed hour. She had known she would not hang, not when the saints had delivered her from the collapsing crypt, although she was sorry her good fortune had not been extended to Marmaduke and Isabella. It hardly seemed fair, when the scholars and Frost had escaped.

Frost! Helen felt nothing but contempt for him and the way he had capitulated so readily, thus tightening the noose around her neck. It was all Sir William’s fault, of course. He had shown Frost letters she had written to Isabella, which exposed the fact that she had never really intended to marry him, and had made the ‘promise’ as a way to secure a devoted henchman. Bitterly hurt, Frost had provided a full account of her crimes, in return for which he had been permitted to abjure the realm.

Unfortunately, the whole business had so appalled Gisbyrn that he had renounced all association with both of them. He had not even relented when Frost – in a desperate effort to redeem himself – had paid for an expensive obit for Gisbyrn and his entire family. Of course, it was not just the murders that had so horrified Gisbyrn – he was angry because the ensuing scandal had given Longton the moral advantage in their continuing feud.

There was a slight scratch on the cell door, and Helen glided towards it. Sir William thought he was so clever, pawing through her private correspondence, and asking probing questions of her friends and acquaintances. He believed he had learned the answers to everything. But she had one helpmeet he had never suspected, one who had also admired Zouche, and who would do anything to see the wrongs against him righted.

Her heart began to thump as she heard the bar lifted. She was ready, her cloak donned and her bag packed. Her friend would see to the rest of the escape, although not personally, of course. That was what minions were for. Thus she was astonished when the door opened, and she saw him standing there, tall, grave and haughty. Recovering quickly, she moved towards him and knelt to kiss his ring.

‘My Lord Archbishop,’ she said softly. ‘I was not expecting to see you in person.’

‘Some matters cannot be delegated,’ replied Thoresby. ‘As poor Zouche discovered to his cost.’

‘But you will build a whole choir to be your chantry chapel,’ she said eagerly. ‘I have seen the plans. And you will raise an altar for Zouche at the same time. You will see he has what he wanted, and he will be released from Purgatory.’

‘No,’ said Thoresby shortly. ‘You have ensured that any such memorial to him will be tainted, so I cannot afford to be associated with it. Poor Zouche will have to rely on his own good deeds to set himself free.’

‘Then I shall remain here, and see that justice is done,’ said Helen stiffly. ‘Because–’

‘Unfortunately, it has been decided that you must disappear,’ came another voice, and Helen frowned her bemusement when Jafford stepped out from behind the prelate. ‘So you will not be in a position to meddle with Zouche’s affairs again.’

‘Murder should never go unpunished,’ said Thoresby softly, standing aside, so the new sub-chanter could enter the cell. With horror, Helen saw that Jafford carried a knife, and that the angelic features were cold and hard. ‘No murder.’

Jafford had been in the process of raising the weapon, but he lowered it when he heard the odd timbre of the Archbishop’s voice, and regarded him uneasily. Thoresby nodded his satisfaction.

‘Your reaction tells me all I needed to know, Jafford. The physician was right: Cave did lack the poise to have dispatched Cotyngham and remain calm while his “victim” languished in the infirmary. But you knew how to leave misleading clues – ones that pointed to him as the killer.’

‘What?’ Jafford’s face was white with shock.

‘You knew how to ensure Ellis’s downfall, too,’ Thoresby went on remorselessly. ‘If he had not been killed in St Mary ad Valvas, you would have arranged matters so that he was deposed. Either way, you were there, ready to step into his shoes.’

For a moment, it seemed Jafford would deny the accusations, but then he shrugged. ‘Both were causing untold damage to the Bedern with their foul manners and brazen greed. I did not mean to kill Cotyngham, anyway. I went to apologise for Cave making off with his church silver, but he was angry, and would not believe me when I said I had nothing to do with it.’

‘So you pushed him,’ said Thoresby in disgust, while Helen’s face was a mask of shock. ‘And he cracked his head on the hearth. Moreover, I know Cave did not suffer a seizure, either. He was poisoned by the same toxin that killed the executors. Everyone is talking about the stuff, so I imagine it was not difficult for a man with access to books to learn what Isabella used.’

Jafford looked at the knife in his hand. ‘And because of this, you asked me here to…’

‘To see how low you would stoop.’

‘Thank God!’ breathed Helen. ‘For a moment, I thought you intended to let him stab me!’

‘You are both despicable,’ said Thoresby, regarding first one and then the other with such utter disdain that neither could meet his eyes. ‘I shall pray for your souls, although I doubt my petitions will help. You are not bound for Purgatory, but for Hell.’

He turned to leave, his cloak billowing behind him. Helen started to follow, but found her way blocked by two men. Her irritable objections died in her throat when they pushed back their hoods to reveal their faces: both were kin to Ralph Neville, one of the first executors she and Isabella had dispatched.

The grim business did not take long, and when the bodies were found the following morning, Neville’s nephews were many miles from York.

The gaoler was a simple man, and he opted for a simple explanation: that Jafford had gone to hear Lady Helen’s confession, and she had tried to escape. Both had died in the ensuing struggle. Thoresby listened gravely, then dismissed him with a blessing.