Mystery in the Minster

Chapter 5

For a moment, no one spoke, then there was a clamour of questions. Bartholomew listened with half an ear, but was more interested in watching how Fournays examined Roger’s body. The surgeon’s movements were practised and competent, indicating it was something he had done often before.

‘He drowned,’ Fournays announced at last. He gestured at the water. ‘The mere is flooded, so he must have lost his balance and tumbled in.’

‘He could swim,’ said Anketil tightly. He was standing oddly close to Marmaduke, as if to express solidarity with the only other living executor. They formed an odd pair, one tall, slim and fair, and the other short, broad and swarthy. ‘Zouche taught him when they were children. Roger would not have drowned.’

‘He might if he were in his cups,’ said Dalfeld slyly. He glanced at Gisbyrn. ‘I know he professed to be sober and hard-working, but he did like his claret.’

‘Nonsense!’ snapped Gisbyrn. ‘You are maligning a man who cannot defend himself, and your behaviour is reprehensible. You will watch your tongue or I shall not hire your services again, and neither will any other merchant.’

A number of well-dressed men in the crowd looked alarmed by this prospect, suggesting Dalfeld’s dubious talents would be missed. Meanwhile, the expression on Dalfeld’s face was murderous.

‘I may not choose to work for you again,’ he replied coldly. ‘I can easily confine myself to Archbishop Thoresby. Or, better yet, to Mayor Longton and his friends.’

‘As you please,’ said Gisbyrn, equally icy. ‘However, bear in mind that neither the Church nor the city are noted for the prompt settling of their bills. Your pampered existence will be in grave danger.’

When he saw his ploy to manipulate Gisbyrn into apologising had failed, Dalfeld became oily. ‘Why are we exchanging bitter words? It must be the shock of seeing poor Roger in such dreadful circumstances. I know I am terribly distressed.’

He did not look terribly distressed, and it was not long before he left the mere, declaring loudly that he had an appointment with the Archbishop. Gisbyrn went to huddle with his fellow merchants, where the notion was immediately mooted that Roger had been murdered in revenge for Sir William.

‘This is a bad business,’ said Michael in a low voice to Bartholomew, who still knelt next to the body with Fournays. ‘Roger is the second executor to have died since we arrived in York – and we have only been here three days. Do you think it is coincidence?’

Bartholomew was about to reply when Marmaduke scuttled towards them. Anketil was still at his side, his eyes bright with unshed tears.

‘Dalfeld is right,’ said Marmaduke sadly. ‘Roger did like his wine…’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Anketil unsteadily. ‘But he was not given to wandering around flooded lakes when in his cups. This is not an accident, especially not so soon after Ferriby.’

‘Ferriby died of a debility,’ Marmaduke pointed out reasonably. ‘He was old and not entirely sane. You cannot take his ramblings about poison seriously. His fellow vicars do not.’

‘Roger is the seventh of us to die.’ Anketil’s voice shook. ‘Starting with my brother Christopher five years ago. It is eight if we count Myton, because he was Zouche’s friend, too.’

‘But none of these deaths have been suspicious,’ argued Marmaduke gently. ‘They all died of natural causes, and five years is a long time.’

‘Marmaduke is right,’ said Fournays. ‘There is no evidence of a struggle on Roger, although I do detect a faint odour of wine. Bartholomew? What do you say?’

Bartholomew leaned towards the body, and supposed there might be the merest hint of claret about its mouth. However, while it suggested that Roger might have enjoyed one or two cups, it should not have been enough to cause him to topple into a lake.

‘I am going to walk around the Fishpool’s perimeter,’ said Anketil, brushing the tears from his eyes. ‘And I will find evidence of a skirmish, because I cannot believe this was natural.’

‘I have already done it.’ Everyone turned. Cynric was standing behind them; so was Oustwyk, and Bartholomew wondered how long the Abbot’s steward had been listening. ‘But the rising water means it is impossible to say where he might have gone in.’

‘If there was anything to find, Cynric would have seen it,’ said Michael quietly to Anketil, when the Benedictine looked ready to dismiss the claim. ‘He is highly skilled at such matters.’

Anketil stared at his feet for a moment, but then nodded. ‘Very well. I accept that there is no evidence around the pond, but that does not mean I accept that Roger’s death was an accident.’

Marmaduke patted his arm sympathetically, but it was a gesture that said he did not agree and that he believed Anketil’s reaction derived from shock and distress.

‘Myton,’ mused Bartholomew in the silence that followed. He was thinking about what Michael had said the day before. He looked at Anketil. ‘His name is on everyone’s lips – you just said he was a friend of Zouche’s; he heard Zouche say our College was to have Huntington; Ferriby died saying his obit; he was a rival to Gisbyrn in commerce…’

‘He was a man of great venerability and discretion,’ said Fournays sadly. ‘York is the poorer for losing him.’

‘Yet he was not chosen to be one of Zouche’s executors,’ remarked Bartholomew.

‘He started having business problems about the time when Zouche made his will,’ explained Anketil, ‘which meant he was too distracted. He exported cloth, but was one of the old breed of merchants – honest and cautious. By the time of his own death five years ago, Gisbyrn had destroyed him with his ruthlessly daring competition.’

‘He died owing Gisbyrn every penny he owned,’ added Fournays.

‘Yet he has obits said for him in the minster,’ remarked Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘How did he pay for them if he died penniless?’

‘Fortunately, he had settled them before Gisbyrn ruined him,’ explained Fournays. ‘And quite right, too – a man’s soul is far too important a matter to leave to others. I have certainly arranged my obits in advance, because I do not want to spend an age in Purgatory and–’

‘Roger,’ prompted Michael. ‘We should be discussing him. I am inclined to agree with Anketil – it is suspicious that two executors should die within such a short time of each other.’

‘Then you are looking for trouble where there is none,’ said Marmaduke firmly. ‘Ferriby died because he was old, and Roger had an accident.’

‘And the others?’ asked Anketil shakily. ‘How do you explain them?’

Marmaduke raised his hands in a gesture that bespoke fatalism. ‘Diseases strike people down all the time, even those of us who consider ourselves in our prime. And it is not as if these men died within a few weeks of each other. It has been years since the first passed away.’

‘Matt?’ asked Michael. ‘What can be deduced from Roger’s body?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘All I can tell you for certain is that he drowned. However, there is nothing to say whether he jumped, fell or was pushed.’

‘He would not have jumped,’ stated Fournays, startled by the notion. ‘I saw him myself last night, and he was in excellent spirits. It was an accident, plain and simple.’

Anketil did not argue, although his tense posture suggested he remained unconvinced. He went with the body when Fournays’s apprentices came to carry it away, and Marmaduke accompanied him. Bartholomew was not sure whether it was the Benedictine’s obvious grief that prevented the crowd from regaling him with remarks about spies, or the presence of the sturdy ex-priest at his side. Regardless, the little procession left amid a respectful silence.

‘There is something odd about Roger’s death,’ said Michael to Bartholomew, once they were alone. ‘And about Ferriby’s, too. His fellow vicars may be ready to dismiss his claims that he was poisoned, but I am not. It is suspicious, and I intend to get to the bottom of it.’

‘You do?’ asked Bartholomew in alarm. ‘Why?’

‘Because it relates to Huntington. They are executors, and we are here to unravel a muddle arising from Zouche’s estate. Of course these matters are connected.’

‘How will you begin?’ Bartholomew had no idea whether the monk was right – there was too little information to say one way or the other.

‘I am not sure, although I shall expect your help when I do. But we had better concentrate on Sir William first. We shall ask who he thinks shot him on Monday.’

Sir William’s house was an old one, and the weathered coat of arms above the door showed it had been in the Longton family for a long time. Its gutters needed replacing, and so did some of its window shutters, although the craftsmanship on both was outstanding.

‘Fading grandeur,’ remarked Michael. ‘The clan was rich, but is beginning to lose its power. No wonder Mayor Longton hates Gisbyrn – the wealth of the city is flowing to these upstart merchants now, and the likes of him are losing out.’

He rapped on the door, which was answered by an ancient servant whose uniform appeared to be older than he was. The fellow led them along a panelled hallway that would have benefited from a polish, and into a solar where dusty tapestries adorned the walls. Again, all was shabby but fine.

Mayor Longton was there with one of his cronies, sipping wine from a tarnished silver goblet. They were laughing, and Bartholomew had the impression that a toast had just been drunk.

‘Poor Roger,’ said the Mayor insincerely when he saw the scholars. ‘Drowned. What a pity! Gisbyrn will miss him. Is that not right, Pund?’

‘Yes, and now he knows how it feels to lose a friend,’ replied Pund. ‘I still mourn our loss.’

Bartholomew regarded him in alarm. ‘Not Sir William? I thought he was getting better.’

‘He means Playce,’ said Longton, a shadow crossing his face. ‘He died of spotted liver two years ago, and Gisbyrn was crass enough to gloat – to tell us Playce deserved it.’

‘Spotted liver?’ asked Bartholomew, frowning. ‘That is what killed two of Zouche’s executors – Neville and Stiendby.’

Longton nodded. ‘Playce was an executor, too. A good man, from an ancient and respected family. But you did not come here to talk about him, you came to ask after my brother.’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew. ‘May we see him?’

‘You may,’ replied Longton. ‘But Lady Helen’ – here he spat the words – ‘is with him at the moment, so drink a cup of wine with us first, to give her time to finish.’

‘Time to finish what?’ asked Bartholomew, sure William would not be fit enough to cavort.

Longton waved an airy hand. ‘Whatever it is she does when they are together. Of course, it will not be anything too debauched, given that she brought those two nuns with her.’

‘Do not be so sure,’ said Pund, with a snigger. ‘Prioress Alice knows a trick or two.’

Before the scholars could demur, Longton had poured them claret. A sip told Bartholomew it was far too strong to be swallowed on an empty stomach, especially when he was about to deploy his medical skills on a patient, so he set it down. Michael had no such qualms, and inclined his head appreciatively, acknowledging its quality.

‘We understand the Archbishop has asked you to unmask the villain who tried to kill William,’ said Pund. ‘It will not be a difficult case to solve, although proving it will be next to impossible. Gisbyrn is too clever to leave clues.’

‘He claims to admire William,’ said Michael, playing devil’s advocate. ‘And wants the attacker brought to justice.’

‘Then he is a liar!’ spat Longton. ‘There is nothing he would not do to advance his mercantile affairs, including the murder of a decent man.’

‘How would Sir William’s death benefit Gisbyrn’s business?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘By prostrating me with grief,’ replied Longton promptly. ‘He thinks I will be so distressed that I will forget to levy taxes – the ones that will help repel this looming French invasion.’

Bartholomew regarded him sceptically, recalling how the man had been more indignant than concerned at the scene of the shooting, and certainly not ‘prostrate with grief’. Longton saw the look and became defensive.

‘It is true! I love my brother and owe him a lot – I know people vote for me as Mayor because they like him, and want to earn his good graces.’ He tried to keep the bitterness from his voice, but did not succeed; clearly, he resented being in his sibling’s shadow.

‘Of course, Gisbyrn would not sully his own hands with a bow,’ added Pund. ‘But that is why he hires henchmen. You must have seen them – rough villains who do not even wear livery.’ He shuddered fastidiously. ‘Frost manages them for him, and he is a lout himself.’

‘Perhaps the arrow was meant for us,’ said Michael, watching carefully for their reaction. ‘Matt was next to William, and it would not be the first time a shot went wide of its mark.’

‘Why would anyone kill a physician?’ asked Pund scornfully. ‘No – the target was William.’

‘Other than Gisbyrn, is there anyone else who might want your brother dead?’ asked Bartholomew.

He expected them to dismiss the question with more assurances of their rival’s guilt, but both surprised him by pondering carefully.

‘There is a rumour that French spies did it,’ replied Pund eventually. ‘To deprive York of a skilled warrior. But that cannot be right: Chozaico and Anketil are not violent men.’

‘The Holy Trinity monks are not spies,’ said Longton impatiently. ‘Popular prejudice claims they are, but it is a nonsense. How can they be villains when they are all from aristocratic families? Besides, most of them never leave their priory, so they are not in a position to gather intelligence.’

‘True,’ acknowledged Pund. ‘Of course, there is always a possibility that the Carmelites harbour these spies, because there is definitely something sinister about them.’

‘Now there I cannot argue.’ Longton addressed the scholars. ‘The French are preparing to invade, you know. They will sail up the river and attack. I do not care if they break Gisbyrn, but I own a lot of houses here, and I cannot afford to rebuild them if they are razed to the ground.’

‘The French will not invade,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There may be the odd raid by pirates, but a coordinated attack is well beyond them at the moment. Their army is still in tatters after Poitiers.’

‘Rubbish,’ argued Longton fiercely. ‘It is only a question of time before–’

‘William,’ interrupted Michael. ‘You were telling us who else might have harmed him.’

Longton calmed himself, although his reply was directed at Michael; he sulkily ignored the physician. ‘I suppose we cannot overlook the fact that he is the advocatus ecclesiae, and not everyone likes Thoresby. The vicars-choral certainly do not, because he keeps them in order – forces them to say the obits they have been paid to recite.’

‘You think a vicar might be responsible?’ asked Michael, brightening.

‘They make a poor second to Gisbyrn, but it is possible,’ nodded Longton. ‘It would suit you to see them accused, of course, because it would strengthen your claim on Huntington. No one will want the place to go to killers.’

‘Speaking of Huntington, I do not suppose you know what happened to Cotyngham, do you?’ asked Michael hopefully. ‘We visited him earlier, but he has lost his wits.’

‘He is mad?’ asked Longton, astonished. ‘Is that why Stayndrop refuses to let anyone see him? I knew him when he was priest at St Mary ad Valvas, and you could never hope to meet a saner, more rational fellow. If he has become a lunatic, you should find out what made him so. It might help your case.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Michael. ‘Although it is easier said than done.’

The same ancient servant conducted Bartholomew and Michael to a pleasant bedchamber on an upper floor, where Sir William was recovering. Like the rest of the house, it contained fine, solid furniture that had seen better days, and the covers on the bed were richly embroidered but faded.

Bartholomew was heartened to see the knight sitting up. Lady Helen was perched on one side of the bed, and he was smiling at something she had said. Prioress Alice was on the other, one hand resting indecorously close to his thigh. Isabella was in the window seat, reading aloud from a Latin text that Bartholomew recognised as Holcot’s Postillae, although he was fairly sure she was missing out the bits that contained the theologian’s more impenetrable ramblings.

‘Have you wrested Huntington from those greedy vicars yet?’ asked Alice, transparently delighted that Isabella’s monologue was to be interrupted.

‘No,’ replied Michael. ‘But if anyone can find the codicil, it is Radeford. I only hope it does not take him until Judgment Day, because the minster library…’

‘I have never seen it,’ sighed Isabella unhappily. ‘Dean Talerand says the books might burst into flames if they are handled by a woman.’

‘Did he?’ asked Alice, with the feigned innocence of someone who was probably the real author of the Dean’s words. ‘Shame on him!’

‘As you are here, Isabella, perhaps you would answer some questions,’ said Michael, hastily drawing the three women away from the sickbed when Bartholomew began to unwrap William’s bandages. ‘About Cotyngham. I understand it was you who found him wandering on Petergate.’

Isabella nodded. ‘He did not know me, which was distressing, because I had always considered him to be a friend – he was one of few men who would discuss theology with me, and was very patient with my mistakes. I was worried for him, so I took him to my convent…’

‘I would have had him back to normal in no time,’ said Alice. She did not wink when she spoke, but it was inherent in her voice. ‘Unfortunately, Warden Stayndrop ordered me to hand him over, on the basis that he should be nursed by members of his own Order.’

‘And now you say he is still witless,’ said Helen sadly. ‘Poor Cotyngham!’

‘Do you have any notion as to what might have put him in such a state? Did he say anything when you found him?’

‘No,’ replied Isabella miserably. ‘He never spoke a word, and I have no idea what happened to him. Does Doctor Bartholomew think he will recover?’

‘He does not know,’ said Michael, sorry when Isabella and Helen exchanged stricken glances.

‘Marmaduke’s uncle suffered from a similar complaint, and he mended,’ said Helen. She sounded more defiant than hopeful, but Isabella brightened.

‘True. I shall recite some psalms for Cotyngham, just as I did for Marmaduke’s uncle. I am sure they helped. In fact, I shall do it now.’

‘We should all go,’ said Helen, smiling fondly at her. She crossed the room to William, and gently kissed his cheek. ‘Too many visitors will tire you.’

‘You could never do that,’ said the knight, the carefully accented reply suggesting that he could have done without Alice’s roving hands and Isabella’s reading.

‘There is nothing like Holcot to put a man on the road to recovery,’ said Isabella serenely. ‘Next time, I shall bring St Augustine, because he will certainly inspire you to get up and walk.’

‘Yes,’ agreed William, his voice indicating he might do it just to escape. ‘And my best wishes for your play, ladies. I am looking forward to it.’

‘Next Tuesday – six days’ time,’ said Isabella, nodding keenly. She smiled at the scholars. ‘It is kind of Master Radeford to help with our rehearsals. He has promised to come again this evening.’

‘Tell him to visit after vespers,’ said Alice, and her grimly determined expression suggested he might not be permitted to leave until he had made serious inroads into her protégée’s affections.

‘Visit me again soon, Helen,’ begged William. He lowered his voice hopefully. ‘Alone.’

‘It would not be seemly.’ Then Helen saw the pleading expression on his face, and relented. ‘Although I suppose you are hardly in a position to challenge my virtue.’

‘No,’ muttered William. ‘Although mine is in serious danger from Alice.’

Helen laughed. ‘He is bored, Doctor Bartholomew. Prescribe him something to make him sleep, or he will be up and about before he is properly healed.’

‘He is mending well,’ said Bartholomew, who had been pleased to see no trace of inflammation. Clearly, William was a strong and resilient man.

Before she left, Helen took Michael aside. ‘John Gisbyrn did not do this,’ she whispered. ‘I know what Mayor Longton will have told you, but he is wrong. You must look elsewhere.’

‘At whom, specifically?’ asked Michael.

Helen shook her head slowly. ‘My initial suspect was Dalfeld, but he claims he has an alibi in you. Apparently, you left the Abbot’s solar at the same time.’

‘We did,’ said Michael, keeping to himself the fact that Dalfeld had dashed ahead of them, and thus had had plenty of time to wait in St Mary ad Valvas for his prey. ‘But why single him out?’

‘Because he is always trying to exacerbate the quarrel between John Gisbyrn and Longton – he thinks he will be able to claim higher fees for his services if there is more at stake. In fact, I was on my way to meet him, to beg him to desist, when William was shot. He had agreed to meet me in the minster, you see, to hear me out.’

‘You think you could have reasoned with him?’ asked Michael doubtfully.

Helen sighed. ‘Probably not, but it had to be tried. I planned to take him to the shrine, to see whether I could trick him into swearing to be nicer in future.’

Michael regarded her askance, his incredulous expression making it clear that she could never have ‘tricked’ a lawyer of Dalfeld’s ability, and nor could she have trusted his word if she had: it was patently obvious that Dalfeld would not allow a mere vow to dissuade him from a course of action he thought might benefit him financially. Helen’s naivety was touching, but foolish.

‘She seems fond of you,’ said Bartholomew to William, after she had gone.

William nodded. ‘And I would have married her, but she said it was too soon after my first wife’s death. She is right, of course, because I do still mourn Eleanor.’

‘How did Eleanor die?’ asked Bartholomew. The moment the question was out, he wished he could retract it: it was hardly the kind of thing to ask an ailing man.

‘Giving birth,’ William replied softly. ‘She was old for another child, and the midwives were concerned from the start. I loved her dearly, but a man must move on.’

‘I suppose he must,’ said Bartholomew, wondering whether he would ever ‘move on’ from Matilde. If he did, then it would take a woman of Helen’s calibre to bring it about, because he would not engage in what he felt would be a betrayal for anyone less worthy.

‘I owe you my thanks, Bartholomew,’ said William, after a while. ‘Fournays told me how you were able to remove the barb without damaging my entrails. It hurt like the devil, though.’

‘I am sure it did,’ said Michael with a shudder. ‘Do you have any idea who shot you?’

William grimaced. ‘My brother has enemies, so one of them may have struck at him through me. Helen assures me that Gisbyrn is innocent, but that still leaves Frost and his cronies. Then I may have incurred dislike by acting as advocatus ecclesiae. However, I do not believe French spies are responsible – my presence will make no difference one way or another to an invasion.’

‘You think there will be one?’ asked Michael.

‘Not really, although my brother would disagree.’

‘Have you heard that Roger Zouche is drowned, and there are rumours that it was in revenge for you?’ asked Michael, rather baldly.

The knight nodded unhappily. ‘Helen told me. I sincerely hope it is untrue, because it might mean open war between my brother and Gisbyrn, and that will benefit no one.’

‘Do you know Cotyngham?’ Michael changed the subject with a speed that made the knight blink in surprise. ‘And have you ever been to Huntington?’

‘Yes to both. He was devastated when plague took his St Mary ad Valvas congregation, and Zouche asked me to visit him in Huntington, to ensure he had settled there. I went several times, and we enjoyed some excellent conversations. He was an erudite and interesting man.’

‘And had he settled there?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Better than I would have thought,’ William said. ‘It took time, of course, but the shock of his loss eased eventually, and he was able to take pleasure in his new situation. I last saw him in February, when he was delighted because Mardisley and Jorden had just invited him to mediate in one of their debates. As a scholar himself, he considered it a great honour.’

‘Something must have happened to change him,’ said Michael. ‘An injury or a shock. He does not sound like the kind of man to go mad for no reason.’

‘If so, then I know nothing about it,’ said William. ‘I wish I did, for the knowledge might allow you to cure him, and if anyone deserves to be saved, it is Cotyngham. A gentler, kinder, more decent man does not exist.’

‘So,’ concluded Michael. ‘You do not know who shot you; you do not know whether Roger might have been harmed to avenge you; and you do not know why Cotyngham became ill?’

‘I am sorry, Brother,’ said William sheepishly. ‘I fear I have not been very helpful.’

‘We have a wealth of suspects for William’s shooting,’ said Michael, as he and Bartholomew left the knight’s house. ‘They include the French spies, although he dismissed that possibility. Assuming they exist, of course…’

‘They do. Langelee hunted them when he was here, and letters have been intercepted.’

‘Chozaico and Anketil have been proposed as culprits,’ Michael went on, ‘but Benedictines are not going to dabble in espionage, not even French ones. And I suspect the same can be said for the Carmelites. These spies are more likely to be seculars from the city.’

‘Gisbyrn denies having anything to do with shooting William,’ said Bartholomew, more interested in the mystery they had been charged to solve than one that was well beyond their remit. ‘And Helen defends him. But Frost seems ruthless, and he has henchmen. Then there are the enemies William may have accrued as advocatus ecclesiae…’

‘Meanwhile, I think it odd that Dalfeld should have informed Helen that he had an alibi in me,’ said Michael. ‘Especially when he had nothing of the kind. And finally, there are those vicars-choral who had left to fetch documents to show us – Ellis, Cave and Jafford. I distrust all three.’

‘Even Jafford?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘He is the decent one.’

‘He has been to some trouble to make himself agreeable,’ conceded Michael. ‘However, do not forget Cynric and Radeford’s contention that the intended victim was you, in the hope that the rest of us would flee back to Cambridge and abandon our claim on Huntington. The vicars are the men who stand to benefit from that particular outcome.’

‘I suppose it is possible,’ said Bartholomew, although he was far from convinced. ‘Yet there is one other suspect for shooting Sir William – namely Mayor Longton.’

Michael nodded. ‘I wondered when you would say that. And your reasons?’

‘Because he was more angry than dismayed when he heard his brother had been injured, and because he seems jealous of William’s popularity. He said himself that people only vote for him as Mayor because they want to earn William’s good graces, and he sounded bitter about it.’

‘My thoughts exactly. Look – there is Frost. What is he doing?’

‘Spying on Helen’s house,’ replied Bartholomew in distaste. ‘I saw him doing it last night, before she invited us in. The man is hopelessly smitten with her.’

‘Then he should learn to control himself,’ said Michael, treating Gisbyrn’s red-haired helpmeet to a scornful glare as they passed. Frost, who had apparently believed himself to be invisible behind the water butt, flushed scarlet with mortification. ‘She will not want him if he moons over her like a lovesick cow. Not that she would demean herself with such a fellow anyway.’

‘Why not?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘His clothes show that he is wealthy, and although everyone calls him Gisbyrn’s henchman, I suspect he is rather more than that – a merchant in his own right.’

‘Perhaps so, but she would be better off giving William a second chance. And if it is just a dalliance she is after, there are far more attractive candidates on offer.’

He preened, and Bartholomew laughed, although the monk had not intended to be amusing. The wind blew suddenly, sending a flurry of spiteful droplets into their faces.

‘I have had enough for one day,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘We shall return to the abbey, and see whether there is anything to eat.’

They reached the hospitium to find Radeford already there, rummaging in the saddlebag where Bartholomew kept his spare medical supplies. Cynric was by the fire, honing his sword.

‘There you are,’ said the lawyer, extracting a jar and squinting at the label. ‘I need a tonic for my pounding head – I have strained my eyes by reading all day in atrocious light. Thoresby should forget about raising a new chancel, and build a better library instead.’

Bartholomew removed the pot from Radeford’s hand. He disliked his colleagues foraging for their own remedies, because he carried potions that could prove dangerous to them. ‘Swallowing this will not make you feel any better. It is a caustic solution for warts.’

‘I told you to wait,’ said Cynric reprovingly. ‘Besides, he keeps things in that bag … things you would not want to touch.’

He shuddered and crossed himself, leaving Bartholomew to wonder what it was Cynric thought he had. The physician found a tincture of camomile and betony, and diluted it with wine.

Radeford went to sit in one of the fireside chairs, and smiled happily. ‘I have had a wonderfully successful day. I have learned all manner of useful facts, although they were cunningly hidden and needed a lawyer to tease them out.’

‘Such as what?’ Bartholomew handed him the cup and watched him drain it. Some of the mixture dribbled down Radeford’s chin, obliging him to dab at it with his sleeve.

‘Well, I found the codicil that grants us Huntington.’ Radeford grinned when he saw his colleagues’ astonished delight. ‘I discovered it very late, when the light was all but gone, so I shall have to study it properly tomorrow, to ensure nothing is amiss.’

‘Amiss?’ demanded Michael in alarm. ‘What could be amiss?’

Radeford shrugged. ‘These documents are very complex, and you can be sure that Dalfeld will pounce on any irregularities. Besides, I must convince myself that it is genuine before producing it in public. It would not be ethical otherwise.’

‘Sometimes I question whether you really are a lawyer,’ said Michael wonderingly. ‘I cannot imagine the likes of Dalfeld bothering with such niceties. Where did you find it?’

Radeford chuckled. ‘In plain view, on one of the carrels. I do not understand why no one had noticed it before.’

Michael grimaced. ‘The lost Ark of the Covenant could be in that library, and no one would spot it. The place is a disgrace. But show it to me, please. I want to see it for myself.’

‘Cynric told me to hide it. That medicine is not working, Bartholomew. My headache is worse.’

‘Give it time.’ Bartholomew turned to Cynric. ‘Why did you tell him to hide it?’

‘Because our bags were moved today,’ explained the book-bearer. ‘It might have been innocent – a lay-brother tidying up. But I would not put it past those vicars to sneak in and poke about.’

‘Good thinking,’ said Michael approvingly. ‘So where is it?’

Radeford smiled. ‘Cynric and I are playing a game: if he can guess where I put it by morning, he will buy me a magic charm that will make Isabella fall into my arms. He may as well purchase the thing now, because he will never win this wager.’

‘But what if he does?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What will he gain?’

‘The best knife in York. But finding the codicil was not my only victory today. I also discovered letters between two of Zouche’s executors – Ralph Neville and Christopher Malore – in which it was remarked that Myton has obits galore, but Zouche is still without a chantry chapel.’

‘What is the significance of that?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused.

‘I am not sure, and as I am reliably informed that both men are dead, we cannot ask them. However, it pertains to the chantry, and Langelee is keen to learn what happened to that money, so I shall read more of their correspondence tomorrow. I hid that, too, for safe keeping. Of course, it is a minor matter compared to the third item I discovered.’

‘Lord!’ said Michael, round-eyed. ‘Perhaps I should retire, and let you be Senior Proctor.’

‘Perhaps you should, Brother,’ laughed Radeford. ‘But I did not leave that horrible room all day, not even to snatch anything to eat or drink. It was hard work.’

‘Your discovery,’ prompted Michael.

‘It is about the French spies. Zouche seems to have learned their identities hours before his death, and dictated a letter to Mayor Longton. I imagine he asked his clerk to transcribe and send it, but then he died and it was never done.’

‘Close your eyes,’ advised Bartholomew, seeing Radeford squint against the light. ‘And do not spend so many hours peering at poor handwriting tomorrow.’

‘It was worth it,’ said Radeford, doing as the physician suggested. When he next spoke, he sounded drowsy. ‘Do you want to know the traitors’ names? You will be amazed.’

But Langelee arrived at that moment, all noise and clatter, and Radeford waved a hand to say he would reveal all once the Master had settled. Michael grimaced at being made to wait, but Bartholomew understood that Radeford wanted Langelee’s undivided attention when he informed him that he had discovered in a few hours what the Master had struggled to learn for years. It was petty, but Bartholomew was disinclined to begrudge Radeford his satisfaction.

Langelee tugged off his sodden cloak and tossed it on the floor, then ousted Cynric from his chair, indicating at the same time that the book-bearer was to help him remove his wet boots. His voice was loud as he regaled them with an account of his day.

‘I passed a very pleasant morning,’ he declared. ‘But then I felt guilty, so I spent the afternoon talking to fletchers. None could identify that arrow, so I shall ask a couple more tomorrow.’

‘A pleasant morning doing what?’ asked Michael suspiciously.

‘Lady Helen,’ replied Langelee with a leering grin. ‘She entertained me royally, and although she has not succumbed to my charms yet, it is only a matter of time before she does. I predict she will fall tomorrow, because no woman can hold out against me for long.’

Bartholomew did not want to hear it, sorry that Helen should have been the object of the Master’s rough attentions. He turned to Radeford. ‘Tell us the names of these spies.’

‘What spies?’ demanded Langelee immediately. ‘Not the French ones?’

‘What exactly did you do with Helen?’ asked Michael, before Radeford could reply.

‘We played exotic games.’ Langelee shot him a lascivious smirk, but there was something in the monk’s expression that made him relent. ‘Chess, and she defeated me six times.’

‘Nothing else?’ Michael’s face and voice were full of dark distrust.

Langelee grimaced. ‘No, unfortunately. She was more interested in reminding me of something Dean Talerand had told her, namely that Radeford was imprisoned in the library, too busy to stop for victuals. I cannot imagine why she thought I would be interested in his doings.’

‘She was making the point that he was working while you were enjoying yourself,’ explained Michael curtly. ‘Although her barbs seem to have missed their mark.’

Langelee scowled. ‘Then she should have made herself more clear. I cannot be expected to interpret obtuse remarks when I am concentrating on chess. And when she was not telling me about Radeford, she was asking me about Bartholomew. I hope he does not intend to compete for her.’

‘So do I,’ said Michael, rather coolly.

Bartholomew was tempted to say it would be his business if he did, but he did not want a spat. He started to ask Radeford again about the spies, but this time it was Cynric who overrode him.

‘St Mary ad Valvas is not cursed, you know,’ the book-bearer announced confidently.

Langelee regarded him askance. ‘That is not what everyone else says. There is an almost universal agreement that the plague-dead haunt the place.’

‘Then they are wrong,’ declared Cynric firmly. ‘I went back there today, to look for more clues about the attack on Sir William. I was nervous at first, because I have a healthy respect for ghosts and the like, but there was nothing to fear. You see, I can always sense if a building is infested with evil spirits, and that one is not. It has an aura of sadness, but nothing else.’

Bartholomew was disinclined to listen to an account of the book-bearer’s superstitions, either, and it was with some asperity that he turned back to Radeford. ‘The French spies. Who are they?’

The lawyer did not reply.

‘He has fallen asleep,’ said Michael. ‘I am surprised he could with you lot braying.’

But there was something about Radeford’s utter stillness that made Bartholomew’s stomach lurch. He stepped towards him and touched his face. The lawyer’s head lolled to one side. Bartholomew felt for a life-beat in his neck, then hauled him off the chair to the floor, where he began to press on his chest, willing the heart to start beating again. When that did not work, he pressed his mouth against Radeford’s and tried to breathe for him.

Michael and Langelee clamoured at him, demanding to know what was happening, but he ignored them, blowing into Radeford’s lungs with increasing desperation until his own breath grew ragged and he became dizzy. Eventually, Michael laid a hand on his shoulder, to tell him to stop. Bartholomew shoved him away, although the rational part of his mind told him the situation was hopeless. Then Langelee grabbed his tunic and hauled him backwards, and he did not have the strength to resist. He let himself slump, and put his hands over his face.

‘What happened?’ asked Michael, after a very long silence.

‘Radeford is dead,’ replied Bartholomew brokenly.