Mystery in the Minster

Chapter 6

Because Radeford was not a Benedictine, his body was taken to the parish church, a large, square-towered building set in the abbey’s western wall. Unfortunately, there was a dispute as to whether the town or the monks were responsible for its upkeep, and it had been allowed to fall into disrepair. St Olave’s was not derelict, like St Mary ad Valvas, but its elegant walls were bowed with damp and some of its fine stained-glass windows were broken.

The scholars took it in turns to keep vigil over Radeford’s body, but even when they were relieved and returned to the hospitium, none of them slept. Meanwhile, Cynric spent his night hunting for the documents that Radeford had hidden, and was chagrined the following morning to have to report that he had failed to discover them. It was a disconsolate party that assembled to travel to Huntington in the pale dawn light.

‘Are you sure we need to go?’ the book-bearer asked, while they waited for their horses to be saddled. ‘Because if the arrow was intended for Doctor Bartholomew … well, it may not be safe.’

‘I know,’ said Langelee tersely. ‘But we need to ascertain whether Cotyngham kept a copy of the codicil, and we must find out what sent him mad.’

Bartholomew, whose poor equestrian skills meant he would do a good deal to avoid sitting on an animal that did not want him there, did not see why his presence on the excursion was necessary. ‘I should stay here and search the library, because if Radeford did not conceal those documents in the abbey, then the library is the next obvious place to look.’

‘True,’ acknowledged Langelee. ‘However, Michael will be better at it than you, so he can do it. You must come with me, because you are the one who knows which questions to ask Cotyngham’s parishioners about his health.’

Bartholomew signalled reluctant agreement, but Michael grimaced. ‘Very well, but I want you to escort me to the minster and collect me on your return. Radeford’s death has left me deeply unsettled, and I should not feel safe wandering around alone.’

Langelee nodded, then burst out with, ‘I do not understand what happened last night! You said Radeford was talking to you shortly before I arrived, and that he was in good spirits.’

‘He complained of head pains,’ said Bartholomew miserably. ‘I assumed it was because he had strained his eyes, but obviously it was a symptom of something more serious.’

‘And that did not occur to you? Surely you can tell the difference between a headache and a prelude to a deadly seizure?’

Bartholomew made no reply, acutely aware that if he had been more vigilant, Radeford might still be alive.

‘You did not notice, either, Master,’ protested Michael. ‘None of us did.’

‘But the rest of us are not physicians,’ snapped Langelee. ‘We are not trained to tell when a man is on the verge of death. He is.’

‘Enough!’ said Michael sharply, as Bartholomew flinched. ‘Even if Matt had detected something amiss, it does not mean he could have changed the outcome.’

‘Well?’ demanded Langelee, rounding on the physician again. ‘Could you? What killed him?’

‘I do not know,’ replied Bartholomew in a low voice. ‘A seizure, I suppose.’

Langelee’s temper evaporated as quickly as it had flared, and he gripped Bartholomew’s shoulder in a gruff gesture of apology. For a moment, no one spoke, and the only sounds were the muted voices of the lay-brothers readying the horses in the stable.

‘We were fools last night,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘We allowed ourselves to become distracted with nonsense, and now Radeford has taken his secrets to the grave – the codicil, the letters between the two executors about Zouche’s chantry, the list of French spies…’

‘We will find them,’ said Langelee determinedly. ‘We must.’

‘I shall try my best,’ said Michael. ‘But you have seen the library – finding anything there will be nigh on impossible.’

Bartholomew did not care about any of it. ‘I want to go home,’ he said softly. ‘Today. We have been told that Huntington is not worth our while, so let us cut our losses and abandon it.’

‘Radeford would not appreciate us giving up,’ argued Langelee. ‘We owe it to him to best these grasping vicars. And we owe it to Zouche, too, who intended us to have Huntington.’

‘Perhaps he was poisoned,’ said Michael, after another pause. ‘Radeford, I mean. That would explain the suddenness of his death.’

‘I do not see how,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He told us himself that he was so busy he did not leave the library for anything to eat or drink – and he was telling the truth, because Helen told Langelee that Dean Talerand had remarked on it. He ate pottage for breakfast, but so did I. From the same vat.’

‘What about the medicine you gave him?’ asked Michael.

‘It crossed my mind that someone might have tampered with it, so I fed some to a rat. I did the same with the wine I used to dilute it, too. There was nothing wrong with either.’

‘You say he died of a seizure, but I do not know what that means,’ said Langelee unhappily. ‘Explain it to me.’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Sometimes, the heart, liver or other vital organs simply rupture or stop working for reasons we do not understand. We might learn why, if we were permitted to look inside the corpse, but that is illegal, so we must remain in ignorance.’

‘Thank God!’ said Langelee fervently. ‘I am glad anatomy is banned. It is disgusting!’

‘Then you will always wonder what happened to Radeford,’ said Bartholomew curtly. He softened. ‘However, there are cases where haemorrhaging occurs in the brain, due to some defect in a blood vessel, and death occurs quickly and unexpectedly. It is possible that is what happened here.’

‘If you had known that when it was taking place, could you have saved him?’ asked Michael. Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Then I suggest you stop feeling guilty and put your mind to something more useful. Such as working out where he hid those documents.’

Although Langelee insisted that he remembered the way to Huntington, Multone pressed Oustwyk on him as a guide, and the steward rode in front of the little cavalcade, proud but ungainly on one of the abbey’s mules. Bartholomew regarded him uneasily as he led the way to the main gate.

‘Have you noticed how he seems to be everywhere, despite the fact that he is a monk who is supposed to be confined to his convent?’ he said to Michael, who walked at his side. ‘One of the first things he told us about himself was that he has access to information. So do spies…’

Michael stared at him. ‘You think he is one of the traitors who sends reports to the French?’

‘Radeford died in his monastery, just as he was about to reveal their identities. It might be coincidence, but I find myself suspicious of everyone now.’

‘So do I,’ admitted Michael. ‘And that includes not just the vicars-choral, but Abbot Multone, who has been curiously helpful to us. I am not sure what to make of Alice, either.’

‘Alice?’ blurted Langelee, who had spurred his horse forward to ride next to them. ‘She is not a spy! She is only interested in enjoying herself.’

‘I disagree – Zouche would not have entrusted his niece to a woman without a certain strength of character, so there must be more to her than the shallow hedonist she likes us to see. Moreover, she seems to be on good terms with both Gisbyrn and Longton, two other York residents I find myself distrusting. But the fellow of whom I am most wary is there.’

Michael pointed to where Dalfeld was riding through the abbey gate, resplendent in a tunic that had been purpose-made for comfort on horseback. He had somehow learned of their expedition, and asked if he might join them, claiming he had business at Huntington’s manor. Bartholomew was inclined to refuse, given the man’s hostility towards him and Radeford the previous day, but Langelee smiled and said he was welcome. Bartholomew could only suppose the Master intended to use the journey to pump him for information.

They set off along Petergate, Bartholomew too wrapped in misery to notice that his horse was skittish after several days of inactivity, and would require careful handling. He realised it only when someone shot in front of him so suddenly that the animal reared and he was almost unseated.

‘You did not pray to St Sampson in the minster last night,’ said Marmaduke accusingly, cowering with his hands over his head. ‘I waited, but you never came.’

‘Are you going somewhere?’ asked Michael, grabbing Bartholomew’s reins and thus saving the physician both from trampling a pedestrian and the need to respond to the accusation.

‘Huntington,’ replied Marmaduke, seeing he was safe so turning to untie the reins of a pony from a rail. ‘With you. I have family there, you see.’

‘This is not a pleasure jaunt,’ Langelee snapped angrily. ‘Our colleague died last night, and we are not in the mood for merry chattering.’

‘No,’ said Marmaduke softly. ‘Oustwyk told me, and I am sorry. I shall say a prayer for him over holy Sampson’s toe tonight.’

‘Thank you,’ said Michael quietly. ‘It is appreciated.’

‘However, I am not going to Huntington for my own benefit,’ the ex-priest went on. ‘I am going for yours – I intend to ask my Huntington kin whether they know anything about the codicil. As I said when we first met, I would like to see the church go where Zouche intended. You seem to be making scant headway on your own, so it is time for me to intervene.’

‘You can intervene all you like,’ said Dalfeld coldly. ‘You will still not prevail.’

When Marmaduke did not grace the remark with a reply, Michael asked him, ‘Did you see Zouche destroy the original codicil – the one that left Huntington to the vicars? We have witnesses who–’

‘Rubbish!’ snapped Dalfeld. ‘Zouche would not have done anything of the kind.’

‘Yes, I did,’ replied Marmaduke, shooting the lawyer a defiant glance. ‘I saw him tear it up.’

Dalfeld began to interrogate him, while Michael and Langelee exchanged a triumphant glance.

‘You both know Marmaduke is lying,’ whispered Bartholomew reproachfully. ‘Zouche told both Anketil and Penterel that he had burned the original codicil, not ripped it to pieces. We cannot permit perjury on our account.’

Langelee looked ready to argue, but Dalfeld quickly tied Marmaduke’s testimony in logistical knots, and even the Master was forced to concede that the ex-priest’s well-meaning fabrications would do their case more harm than good.

Seeing he was bested, Marmaduke climbed sulkily on his pony, leaving Dalfeld grinning in triumph. On another day, Bartholomew might have been amused to note that the ex-priest’s barrel-shaped mount possessed a crab-like gait that was disconcertingly similar to its owner’s, but he was disinclined to see humour in anything that morning.

Once they had seen Michael safely inside the minster, the little party rode north, exiting the city through a handsome gate named Monk Bar. Outside the city walls, the houses grew smaller and poorer, until a little leper hospital marked the last of the buildings. The countryside beyond had a brown, drowned look, and great shallow pools covered the fields. The River Foss kept them company on their right, swollen and urgent from the recent rains.

‘It was not like this when we arrived,’ remarked Langelee. ‘Then the sky was blue and the sun was warm, like summer. Do you recall how York glittered so splendidly on our first morning? Its stones painted gold by a fine dawn, and its houses shades of pink and yellow? I am astonished at how quickly it has changed.’

Cynric glanced up at the sky, a solid ceiling of unbroken grey. ‘I told you during that first shower on Monday that it was an omen – that something bad would happen to us. And I was right. First Doctor Bartholomew narrowly escaped being shot, and now Radeford…’

‘Nonsense,’ said Langelee briskly. ‘There is nothing supernatural about nice weather turning sour. It happens all the time, even in Cambridge. I was only remarking on how much difference a spot of sunshine can do to a place.’

Cynric did not look convinced. He glanced at the river, flowing fast and silent at their side. ‘Do you think it will burst its banks? It is very high.’

‘Sheep,’ said Bartholomew. Master and book-bearer regarded him askance, and he hastened to explain. ‘I always feel sorry for sheep when there are floods. They seem incapable of knowing how to save themselves, and they either drown or starve. And their feet rot, too.’

‘I did not know that,’ said Langelee, in the kind of voice that suggested he wished he had not been told, either.

While Cynric huddled deeper inside his hood, Langelee began conversing with Marmaduke, and Bartholomew could tell by the tone of his voice that a crude interrogation was in progress. He tuned it out, wanting to be alone with his thoughts, so was not pleased when Dalfeld came to ride next to him.

‘What happened to Radeford?’ the lawyer asked with unseemly interest. ‘There are all manner of rumours, including one that says he was shot, like Sir William.’

Bartholomew did not want to discuss Radeford with Dalfeld, especially with Oustwyk turning in his saddle to listen. ‘He was not shot,’ he said shortly, hoping his unfriendly tone would discourage further questions.

Prudently, Dalfeld did not press the matter. ‘Do not believe anything Marmaduke tells you, by the way,’ he whispered instead, lowering his voice so Oustwyk would not hear. ‘Myton did the right thing when he exposed his deceitful ways and got him defrocked.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘Myton did?’

‘I knew Myton well, because he was my client. At least, he was my client until he could no longer afford me. He caught Marmaduke selling false relics, and Archbishop Thoresby punished him by banning him from the Church.’

Bartholomew was bemused by the confidence. ‘But Marmaduke guards Sampson’s toe now. Is that not akin to putting a fox in charge of the hencoop?’

Dalfeld smirked. ‘It is probably a fake, which is why no one is worried. Of course, Marmaduke claims he committed his crimes to raise money for Zouche’s chantry. His conscience was pricking, you see: he had failed to do what Zouche had asked of him as an executor.’

‘If that was his motive, then his punishment seems unduly harsh.’

‘Thoresby probably had other reasons for ousting him. I have done my best to discover them, but have met with no success as yet. Still, I shall persevere – my interest is pricked by the matter now. Perhaps you will let me know if you hear anything?’

Bartholomew did not reply, finding the tale and the lawyer’s request distasteful. He coaxed his horse into a trot, so he could ride with Oustwyk instead, but soon realised his mistake when the steward began to quiz him about Radeford.

‘Then tell me about your other investigations,’ Oustwyk invited, when Bartholomew declined to answer. ‘I will inform Abbot Multone on your behalf, and thus save you an interview.’

‘I cannot,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘They are not mine to discuss.’

When he saw the physician would be a poor source of gossip, Oustwyk regaled him with his theories regarding the French spies instead, and was so eager to assure him that they infested every part of the city except his own that Bartholomew wondered afresh whether his suspicions about the man might be true. All in all, he was relieved when he spotted a stout tower among the trees ahead.

‘Yes, it is Huntington,’ replied Oustwyk, shooting him a resentful scowl for interrupting. ‘The manor and most of the village is on this side of the river, and the church is on the other. There is a bridge, but it gets washed away a lot, so be careful when you cross it.’

‘You are not coming with us?’ asked Bartholomew.

The steward shook his head. ‘I never use bridges when the rivers are in full spate. Besides, I have friends in the village, and they will provide me with a little innocent chitchat. Unlike you, who has barely spared me two words. Can you find your own way home? I may be some time.’

Bartholomew was inordinately grateful when Oustwyk, Dalfeld and Marmaduke took the track that led to the manor, leaving him alone with Langelee and Cynric.

‘What did you learn from them?’ he asked of the Master, as they rode towards the bridge.

‘Nothing,’ replied Langelee irritably. ‘Dalfeld declined to talk and Marmaduke knows little, despite his eagerness to help. He assures me that there will be more than one copy of the codicil, but cannot suggest where we might look for them. But he says he will ask his kin today.’

‘Dalfeld told me that Marmaduke was defrocked for selling false relics,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And was exposed by the ubiquitous Myton.’

‘I will not hear anything against Myton,’ said Langelee sharply. ‘He was a good man. Besides, I had that particular tale from Oustwyk yesterday. Myton did catch Marmaduke selling snail shells from his garden, and telling gullible pilgrims they came from Jesus’s tomb. But it was not Myton’s fault the matter went so far.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Myton told Thoresby, because he felt Marmaduke should be officially admonished. But it happened at a time when such crimes were rife, and Thoresby decided he had to make an example. Myton would not have blabbed had he foreseen the consequences, especially as Marmaduke was hawking the snails to raise funds for Zouche’s chantry.’

‘What about the rumour that Myton was murdered?’ asked Cynric. ‘Do you think Marmaduke killed him in revenge?’

‘Those tales are vicious lies,’ said Langelee shortly. ‘Fournays examined Myton’s body, and states quite categorically that there was no evidence of foul play. I imagine the tale was started by someone like Dalfeld, for no purpose other than malice.’

‘It seems to me that Zouche’s death has caused problems for all manner of people,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘His executors neglected to finish his chantry, so must live with the guilt of failing him; it led Marmaduke to raise money by dubious means, resulting in his expulsion from the Church; it dragged us away from Cambridge to secure a benefaction, and now Radeford is dead…’ He trailed off unhappily.

‘And Zouche’s death caused me to leave York,’ finished Langelee. ‘I would have stayed had he not died and left me with a master who is not his equal.’

They soon reached the wooden bridge that spanned the churning Foss. It creaked ominously as the water hurtled past, and Bartholomew thought Oustwyk was right in refusing to brave it.

‘Cynric can stay here with the horses,’ determined Langelee. ‘We cannot risk them.’

‘What about the risk to Doctor Bartholomew?’ asked Cynric indignantly. ‘Surely he is worth more than a winded nag?’

‘There is not much to choose between them, Cynric,’ replied Langelee mildly. ‘Although I was actually thinking of the danger posed by their added weight. But we shall run across the bridge, so it does not have time to think about collapsing. Follow me, Bartholomew.’

He had dismounted and raced to the opposite bank before Bartholomew could point out the flaws in his argument. With no choice, the physician did likewise. Cynric, unwilling to waste his time, tethered the horses in a thicket, and disappeared towards the village, calling as he went that he would make some enquiries of his own. If he heard Langelee’s irritable yell that it was not a good idea to leave horses unattended, he paid it no heed.

The two scholars walked in silence, the only sounds being the occasional trill of a robin, the patter of rain on leaves and the squelch of mud. It was not many moments before they reached the church, a half-derelict building set in a grove of oaks. There was a tiny cottage nearby, its vaguely abandoned air suggesting it had been Cotyngham’s. Several more shacks stood behind it.

‘It represents employment for one of our student-priests, and the chance of income for the College,’ said Langelee, more to himself than Bartholomew. ‘We are not so wealthy that we can pick and choose. Although I was hoping for something a little grander…’

‘We were warned,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Cave said it was poor.’

Langelee looked around disparagingly. ‘“Poor” does not come close to describing it! I never had cause to visit when I worked for Zouche. Now I see why: there is nothing here. However, I remember Cotyngham being pleased when Zouche arranged for him to have it after he lost his St Mary ad Valvas congregation. Perhaps he was mad even then.’

‘I imagine it is pretty in summer, and the duties cannot be taxing. Zouche was kind to have found such a refuge for a grief-stricken man.’

‘Zouche was compassionate,’ said Langelee sadly. ‘It was one of his greatest failings.’

They entered the church, to find it dark, damp and plain. There had once been paintings on the walls, but these had long since peeled away, and the beaten-earth floor was sticky from the leaking roof. But there were flowers and a clean cloth on the altar, and someone had trimmed the candles. The place might be poor, but it was loved.

They had not been there long before the door opened, and several people entered. All had tied oiled cloths around their heads and shoulders as protection against the weather.

‘Cambridge,’ said one, and spat, which told the scholars all they needed to know about what he thought of men from distant towns who came to claim his church.

‘Yes,’ replied Langelee with a scowl that was equally unfriendly. ‘We came to see if anyone can tell us what happened to Cotyngham.’

‘And to look at what you think should be yours,’ countered the man resentfully.

‘Would you rather have the vicars-choral, then?’ asked Langelee archly. ‘Ellis and Cave?’

The man spat again. ‘Vultures! They came here, you know. A few days before poor Father Cotyngham was taken ill.’

‘What did they do?’

‘Exactly what you are doing – nosing around.’

‘Did they talk to Cotyngham?’

‘Of course. They spent a long time in his house together.’

‘Did he have visitors after that?’

The man shrugged. ‘Maybe he did, and maybe he didn’t. We were out in the fields, because the weather was good then, and we could plant.’

‘But you saw Ellis and Cave?’ pressed Langelee.

‘Yes. Do you want to inspect the house, too? I imagine your shabby companion is eager to know where he will live when he takes up his duties as our vicar.’

He pointed at Bartholomew, who supposed the miserable weather had taken its toll on his once-fine tunic and warm winter cloak. He would not have said he was shabby, though.

‘I will not be your priest,’ he replied, offended. ‘I am a physician.’

The man’s eyes widened in disbelief. ‘A physician? Prove it. Give me a remedy for something.’

‘Anything in particular?’ asked Bartholomew coolly, aware that Langelee was smirking.

The man considered carefully, while his friends murmured suggestions in his ear. ‘Chilblains,’ he said eventually. ‘Cure my chilblains.’

Chilblains were a common complaint at Michaelhouse, where feet were often cold and shoes rarely had the chance to dry, so Bartholomew had had plenty of opportunity to develop lotions that worked. He removed a pot from his bag, and indicated that the man was to sit. While he worked, the atmosphere began to thaw, and the fellow he was tending said his name was John Keysmaby.

‘We liked Cotyngham,’ he said. ‘Our church is poor so did not provide him with much money, but what he had he gave away. He is generous and kind, and we are sorry he is unwell.’

‘Do you know what happened?’ asked Bartholomew.

Keysmaby shook his head. ‘After the vicars-choral left, he kept to his house. A few mornings later, we found the door open and him gone. A week after that, Prior Stayndrop sent a pair of quarrelling friars to tell us he would not be coming back. Is it true? Can he not be cured?’

‘I do not know,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps in time.’

‘But even if he does rally, Prior Stayndrop told us he would keep him in York,’ said Keysmaby sadly. ‘We did not even have a chance to say goodbye.’

When Bartholomew had finished with the chilblains, he and Langelee were conducted to the little priest’s house. Cotyngham had lived a simple life, and had owned virtually nothing in the way of property, although there were two scrolls on a shelf above the hearth. Bartholomew took them down, while Langelee poked about behind the bed and under the table.

‘He was given those by Archbishop Zouche,’ said Keysmaby, nodding at the scrolls.

They were compilations of theological debates, and when he started to read, Bartholomew discovered that they had been written by Jorden and Mardisley. Cotyngham had made copious notes in the margins, and it was clear he had enjoyed studying them.

‘The quarrelling priests had invited him to York, to join in one of their rows,’ said Keysmaby. He shook his head, obviously unable to see the appeal. ‘He was actually looking forward to it. Incidentally, we cleaned the house after he left. It was a bit smelly, and we wanted it nice for him when he came back. So we came in and scrubbed it from top to bottom.’

‘That was kind,’ said Bartholomew, supposing there was no point examining the place for evidence of a struggle now. ‘I do not suppose you found any documents, did you?’

Keysmaby shook his head. ‘And we did not find the church silver, either. He must have taken it with him when he went to York.’

‘Or the vicars stole it when they visited,’ said Langelee, as he and Bartholomew walked back to the bridge. ‘It seems to me that they might have driven him mad, perhaps by saying or doing something to frighten him out of his wits.’

‘It is possible,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘But Keysmaby and his friends were in the fields, so did not see whether anyone else came, too. You cannot prove the vicars are responsible.’

‘And you cannot prove they were not,’ countered Langelee. He waved something. ‘Besides, I found this – part of a lace from a shoe. And we all know the vicars have a penchant for nice footwear.’

It was a short leather cord, one that was an unusual shade of gold and frayed at one end. It was distinctive, and Bartholomew imagined it would not be difficult to identify its owner.

‘Unfortunately, it proves nothing except that they were here,’ he said. ‘And that has never been contested.’

Langelee looked triumphant. ‘Yes, but they should not have been climbing around in the chimney, which is where I found it. Clearly, they searched his house, probably to see whether he had a copy of the codicil. Perhaps that is what sent him mad – their audacity.’

It had stopped raining by the time they reached the bridge, where Cynric was waiting. Dalfeld, Oustwyk and Marmaduke were not, so the return journey was rather more pleasant than the outward one. Ruefully, Cynric reported that he had learned nothing from the village, other than that Dalfeld and Oustwyk had been received politely but warily, while Marmaduke had been greeted with open delight.

By the time they reached York it was afternoon, and the streets were too crowded for riding. They dismounted and left Cynric to deal with the horses, while they went to collect Michael from the library. They did not need to ask whether the monk had met with any success, because his face was bleak and unhappy.

‘I do not know how Radeford survived all those hours there yesterday,’ he said, rubbing his eyes. ‘I am in desperate need of fresh air. Walk outside with me for a few moments and tell me what happened at Huntington. Then we shall all return here, and continue the search.’

Bartholomew furnished him with a concise account of their journey, but the monk was unimpressed and declared it a waste of time. Langelee argued that the lace comprised an important clue that would allow them to visit the vicars-choral at their lair the following day. Michael disagreed, and they were still arguing when they passed St Mary ad Valvas. Langelee hesitated for a moment, then led the way towards it. He picked the lock with consummate ease again, and stepped inside. It was more dank and dismal than ever, and the chancel with its plague-dead mound was decidedly sinister in the half-light.

‘Lady Helen said this place is cursed,’ Langelee looked around in distaste. ‘And so have others. Do you think it is true?’

‘Cynric does not,’ said Bartholomew, recalling what the book-bearer had claimed the previous night. ‘And he is usually the first to detect evil auras. So it must be all right.’

Langelee shook himself. ‘Well, I do not feel comfortable here, regardless. So inspect the dead pig, Bartholomew, and then we can leave.’

‘The pig?’ echoed Bartholomew, startled. ‘Why?’

‘Because Lady Helen has lost a much-loved pet, and I thought we should see whether this one matches its description. Hers has three black spots on its rump, and a black ear.’

‘You look,’ said Bartholomew in distaste. ‘You are the one who was talking to her about it.’

‘I tried, but it is too badly rotted for me to tell. I could not decide what was its natural colour, and what has just gone off. You must do it.’

‘Just oblige him, Matt,’ sighed Michael, seeing the physician ready to argue. ‘He will not let us out until you do, and it will not take a moment. And I am sure Helen will appreciate the kindness.’

Muttering under his breath that he was a physician, not a farmer, Bartholomew made his way to the chancel, where the hapless pig was slowly turning into a reeking, fatty sludge. He was obliged to turn it to compare ears, at which point he saw the animal’s throat had been cut. It was no surprise: pigs were a menace in towns, and there were bylaws that said they could be killed if their owners did not keep them under proper control. However, it was unusual for the carcass to be dumped; it was something that could have been eaten.

‘It is hers,’ he said eventually. ‘The markings are as you described.’

‘Someone must have dispatched it when it escaped, then threw it in here when he realised it belonged to her, doubtless afraid that Frost might avenge it on her behalf,’ surmised Langelee. ‘Otherwise it would have been turned into ham. You can break the sad news.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘And this time you cannot make me.’

The grim duty in St Mary ad Valvas completed, Bartholomew looked for somewhere to rinse his hands, and was impressed to see a conduit with separate sections for drinking and washing. There was nothing like it in Cambridge, but he immediately decided there should be. Unfortunately, such a structure would be expensive, and as no one but him placed much value on hygiene, the town worthies would almost certainly condemn it as an expensive folly. He found himself greatly in awe of York for its innovative thinking.

‘There is enough light for an hour or two in the library,’ said Langelee without enthusiasm, watching the physician walk around the structure to memorise its dimensions. ‘Although I would far rather adjourn to a tavern. I am chilled to the bone and–’

‘Look!’ interrupted Michael, stabbing a chubby finger towards where black smoke rose in a thick pall to the west. ‘And I can hear shouting.’

‘Holy Trinity!’ Langelee’s expression was grim and urgent. ‘On fire again. Brother, inform Mayor Longton. Bartholomew, come with me.’

Obediently, Bartholomew followed him at breakneck pace down narrow lanes and through yards that did not look as if they had exits. Finally, they emerged on a main road, where they joined a stream of people all running in the same direction. Many carried makeshift weapons – spades, kitchen knives and cudgels.

They reached the Ouse Bridge, where water raced through the arches in a constant roar, and Bartholomew wondered how much pounding the structure could take before it collapsed. Then they were across, and Langelee tore up the hill opposite, before skidding to a halt next to some of the highest, thickest walls Bartholomew had ever seen. Outside it, the road thronged with a howling mob.

‘Go home!’ bawled Langelee, the sheer volume of his yell immediately stilling much of the clamour. ‘There is nothing for you here. Go home!’

‘You cannot make us, Langelee,’ yelled a man whose stained leather apron said he was a butcher. ‘You do not carry an archbishop’s authority any more. You are just a man.’

‘A man with a sword,’ countered Langelee, drawing his weapon, although the momentary flash of uncertainty in his eyes showed that his right to intervene had not crossed his mind.

The butcher brandished a massive cleaver, and began to advance. Bartholomew reached for his own blade, although he was aware as he raised it that neither it nor he were as imposing as Langelee. Still, he stood his ground as the horde converged chanting cries of ‘spy lovers’.

‘Enough!’ came another stentorian voice. It was Marmaduke, and he was holding a bow. ‘I will shoot anyone who takes another step.’

The butcher stopped abruptly, but the blood of those behind him was up, and they shoved forward, so he was forced to advance whether he wanted to or not. He screeched in alarm, and Marmaduke’s bow quivered.

Then there was a clatter of hoofs, and Mayor Longton arrived with soldiers. At the sight of such heavily armed men, the rabble melted away with prudent speed. When they had gone, the priory gate opened and Chozaico stepped out. Behind him were Anketil and a dozen monks. Some clutched staves, and from their familiar handling it was evidently not the first time they had been obliged to defend themselves. Chozaico smiled wanly at his rescuers.

‘Thank you,’ he said weakly. He addressed Langelee, Bartholomew and Marmaduke. ‘Especially you three. Defending us was a courageous thing to have done, because you would have been ripped to pieces had Mayor Longton not arrived when he did.’

‘It was nothing,’ said Langelee, although Marmaduke’s horrified gulp was audible.

‘What is burning?’ asked Longton. He was unsteady in his saddle, and his face was flushed as red as the claret he had imbibed. ‘It was the sight of smoke that attracted folk to your doors. They thought you were on fire, and hoped to take advantage by looting you.’

‘Someone climbed in and set a wagon of straw alight,’ explained Chozaico, his voice still unsteady. ‘But the least we can do to thank you is offer some refreshment. Come inside.’

Holy Trinity was an impressive foundation. Its church was substantial, and there was an inordinate number of buildings considering there were only a dozen monks and no servants – hiring locals was clearly inadvisable. Bartholomew glanced into the church as they passed, and saw a beautifully painted chancel and an embroidered altar cloth depicting a flock of golden doves.

Chozaico led them to the refectory, where he served French wine that tasted expensive and plates of small pastries. He and Anketil were the only monks to join the visitors, the others having smiled their thanks and hurried away to douse the still smouldering straw.

‘I wish people would leave us alone,’ sighed Anketil unhappily. ‘Chozaico and I are the only ones who dare go out these days, and only because we speak English, so have warning of impending attacks.’

‘It has always been so,’ said Chozaico stoically. ‘But fortunately, friends are often nearby, to protect us. Long may it continue.’

‘Perhaps you will do something for us in return,’ said Langelee to Anketil. ‘You know Zouche wanted us to have Huntington, and as you let him down over his chantry, maybe you should ensure that his wishes are fulfilled in this.’

Anketil flinched; it was a low blow. ‘I only wish I could! I looked out those documents, as I promised, but there is nothing in them to help you. I will try to think of something else, but…’

‘Where are they?’ asked Langelee coolly. ‘May we see them now?’

‘They are in Bestiary Hall, the house we own by the river,’ replied Chozaico. ‘We keep all our muniments there, lest the priory ever fall to rioters and is burned down.’

‘They leave Bestiary Hall alone, because it is only used to dispense alms,’ explained Anketil. He gave a wan smile. ‘Although I am sure that would change if it became known that we keep our records there. I hope we can trust you to be discreet?’

‘Of course,’ said Langelee, offended. ‘What do you take us for?’

Bartholomew and Langelee followed Anketil down the hill to a road that ran parallel to the river, where he turned left. There, opposite a church dedicated to All Saints, was Bestiary Hall, stone-built and ancient, with round-headed windows and thick walls. There was a yard to one side, and it was here that the door was located. Anketil opened it to reveal a room full of sacks and barrels.

‘The food and ale we give out,’ he explained. ‘We unload them from the river and donate them to the poor every Wednesday. Or rather, the All Saints’ priest does – we would not dare.’

‘It is a sorry state of affairs,’ said Langelee, shaking his head. ‘People should be grateful for your generosity, not force you to find ways to administer it without being assaulted.’

‘I quite agree,’ said Anketil bitterly. ‘And if I were Prior, I would withdraw our charity on the grounds that it is not really appreciated. But Chozaico will not hear of it.’

‘It is a waste of a fine house, too,’ Langelee went on, looking around. ‘You could rent this out for a tidy profit, but instead you have reduced it to little more than a warehouse.’

‘It is a fine house,’ agreed Anketil with a smile. He pointed to a door in the corner. ‘There is a large basement below this room, but it is rather damp, so we store most of our supplies in here. And the muniments are on the top floor. Come.’

He led the way up a spiral staircase to a beautifully airy chamber with an elegant wooden ceiling and two-light windows in all four walls. While Anketil bent to unlock a large chest, Bartholomew went to look out of them, and was rewarded by spectacular views of the city.

Dominating all was the minster, rising majestically through the mist caused by the rain. To the south was the Franciscans’ priory and the castle, while the eastern prospect was taken up by the Carmelites’ foundation and an attractive maze of tiled roofs that underlined the city’s enormous size. Holy Trinity lay to the west, dark, squat and imposing on its hill.

‘York is a fine place,’ Bartholomew said, recalling with a pang that the last time he had admired such a prospect it had been in Dalfeld’s home and Radeford had been at his side.

‘It is,’ nodded Anketil, rummaging in the chest and emerging with a bundle of documents. He took them to a table, and indicated that Langelee and Bartholomew should sit. ‘I spent hours last night hunting for anything pertaining to Zouche’s will, but all I could find relates to his chantry.’

It did not take the two scholars long to see he was right: not one document mentioned Huntington or Michaelhouse. Eventually, they were obliged to concede defeat and leave.

Although Bartholomew knew he should spend at least some time in the library that day, he was glad when Langelee declared it too late. He went to St Olave’s instead, and knelt next to Radeford’s shrouded form, more sorry than he could say that such a promising life should have been cut so unfairly short. He stayed until the small hours of the morning, when Cynric appeared soundlessly at his side and offered to keep vigil for the rest of the night. He went back to the hospitium to find Langelee and Michael still out. They returned much later, having honoured Radeford’s memory with copious quantities of wine. Their attempts to be quiet were pitiful, and once awake, Bartholomew could not go back to sleep.

In revenge, he roused them at dawn, informing them that they should use every moment of daylight hunting for the codicil. They grumbled and growled, but did as he suggested, and they arrived at the library just as Talerand was finishing prime.

‘I was sorry to hear about Radeford,’ the Dean said quietly. ‘He was a nice young man.’

‘Thank you,’ said Langelee. Then he sagged as Talerand unlocked the door, revealing again the disorder within. ‘God’s blood! We will never find anything in here! Do you have any idea where Radeford was working? It would help if we had a starting point.’

‘None at all, I am afraid,’ said Talerand with inappropriate cheer. ‘However, he was a lawyer, and they have a sense for how these things work.’

‘Are there any lawyers in York we might hire?’ asked Langelee, rather helplessly.

‘The best one is Dalfeld,’ replied Talerand. ‘But he represents the vicars-choral, so you had better not approach him. He was in here last night, anyway, with Ellis and Cave.’

‘And you let them?’ cried Langelee, dismayed.

‘Our priests have just as much right to rummage as you,’ said Talerand reproachfully. ‘More, in fact: it is their minster.’

He left them to it. Bartholomew explored the room carefully, looking for smudges in the dust or evidence that one scroll rather than another had been examined. But if there had been anything to see, Michael, Dalfeld and the vicars would have obliterated it, and it was not long before he was forced to concede that his task was impossible.

‘We are wasting our time,’ he said, disheartened.

‘We are,’ agreed Langelee in disgust. ‘Some of these cartularies date back to the Conqueror. And looking for newer parchment is pointless, because the minsters’ clerks are in the habit of writing current documents on the backs of old ones, to save on costs.’

‘And none of us are Radeford,’ sighed Michael. ‘We do not have a feel for what we are doing, like he did. But we must persist, because there is nowhere else he could have put those documents. Ergo, they are in here somewhere, and I refuse to give up just yet.’

Persist they did, working until well into the afternoon, at which point their eyes burned from strain and dust, and all of them were filthy.

‘Enough,’ said Langelee, tossing the scroll he had been reading on to a pile of others. It caused a landslide, and more slithered to join those already on the floor. ‘I have just remembered another fletcher I can question, so I shall visit him now. It will be more profitable than this nonsense.’

‘Then Matt and I will beg an interview with the vicars,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘Although we do not really have any evidence to accuse them of anything untoward concerning Cotyngham – the lace you found at Huntington is hardly damning.’

‘No,’ admitted Langelee. ‘But it is a start, and you are a cunning interrogator. See what a few “innocent” questions can shake loose.’

Bartholomew was relieved to be away from the library, and he and Michael were just passing William of York’s shrine, where the monk grumbled again about the iniquity of charging an entrance fee, when they met Thoresby.

‘I was sorry to hear about your lawyer,’ the Archbishop said kindly. ‘As he died in the parish of St Olave, I have taken the liberty of arranging an interment there. And I persuaded Multone to pay for it, on the grounds that Radeford was an abbey guest.’

‘Thank you,’ said Michael gratefully. ‘I shall say the mass myself, though.’

‘As you wish. How are your investigations proceeding?’

‘Very well,’ lied Michael. ‘We have a list of suspects for the attack on Sir William, and we have evidence that a codicil does exist and that there is more than one copy of it.’

‘I imagine so,’ nodded Thoresby. ‘I have made duplicates of all mine.’

‘I suspect Cotyngham owned one,’ said Michael, more to himself than the prelate. ‘Which is why the vicars searched his house. And they visited the library last night for the same reason.’

‘Obviously,’ replied Thoresby. ‘You only need one of these documents to prove your case, but they must locate and destroy them all, which is difficult, given that they do not know how many there are. Otherwise, there will always be a risk of you presenting them with one.’

‘You think that is what they have been doing?’ Bartholomew was shocked. ‘But that would be sly and dishonest!’

Thoresby gave him a patronising smile. ‘Huntington may not seem like much, but who knows what it might be worth in the future? And Ellis has always had an eye for the longer term.’

Michael regarded him stonily. ‘So do we, and it includes plans for Huntington. I do not suppose you have any more useful leads, do you? You promised to help if we caught William’s attacker.’

Thoresby raised his eyebrows. ‘Yes, I did, but you have not presented me with a culprit – only devised a list of suspects. But, to show good faith, I shall ask one or two questions on your behalf.’

The College of vicars-choral lay to the east of the minster in an area known as the Bedern, and comprised a suite of buildings that included a pretty chapel, a hall for communal eating and an enormous dormitory that had been converted into private rooms with their own toilet facilities. In addition, there were a number of small cottages. Looking around him, Bartholomew wondered why the vicars were so determined to have Huntington, when they were already obviously wealthy.

‘We are praying for Ferriby,’ said Cave, who had answered the gate to their knock. His expression was unreadable, but certainly not friendly. ‘So you will have to talk to us in the chapel.’

He led the way inside it, where his fellow vicars waited in two parallel rows at its eastern end, both facing down the aisle. He went to join them, so Bartholomew and Michael found themselves standing in front of them, separated from them by the coffin. The lid was off, revealing an elderly occupant with grey hair and enormous teeth that appeared vaguely surreal on a corpse.

‘I feel as though I am the one being interrogated,’ muttered Michael. ‘Are they trying to unsettle us, do you think, by lining up against us so? And by making us talk over a cadaver?’

‘Poor Ferriby died of a debility,’ announced Sub-Chanter Ellis loudly, narrowing his eyes as he strained to catch what Michael was mumbling. ‘The day you arrived.’

‘You have our sympathies,’ said Michael politely, ignoring the accusation inherent in the remark. ‘We know what it is like to lose a friend.’

‘We had nothing to do with that,’ said Ellis immediately, while Cave’s heavy brows drew down into a scowl that held unmistakable menace.

Michael regarded them coolly. ‘It did not occur to us that you might.’

‘We were sorry to hear about Radeford,’ interjected Jafford hastily. ‘We all appreciated his efforts to devise an amicable solution to our dispute. But how may we help you today? You look like men with questions. Ask them – we shall answer if we can.’

‘We visited Huntington yesterday,’ began Bartholomew. He did not detect overt hostility from anyone except Ellis and Cave, but like Michael, he was uneasy about the way the vicars had chosen to arrange themselves: it was like appearing before the Inquisition. ‘And learned that you saw Cotyngham shortly before he became ill. Was–’

‘We had nothing to do with that, either,’ said Cave, his scowl deepening.

Ellis raised a hand to silence him. ‘We often paid him visits, to ensure all was well and to reassure his parishioners that we will not be absent landlords when Huntington is ours.’

‘What did you say to him?’ Bartholomew was disinclined to argue, because the sub-chanter had a point: Huntington was too far away for Michaelhouse to monitor with any degree of care.

‘We inquired after his well-being, and we inspected the church,’ replied Ellis. ‘He was perfectly well when we left.’

‘Did you say anything that might have alarmed him?’ asked Michael.

‘Of course not!’ snapped Cave. ‘Whatever sent him insane must have happened later.’

‘Then describe your visit.’

‘You are not in Cambridge now, Brother,’ said Ellis with a smirk that was full of smug victory. ‘You have no authority to issue us with orders.’

‘On the contrary,’ declared Michael loftily. ‘I carry the King’s authority. I am Senior Proctor of the University at Cambridge, and confer with His Majesty on a regular basis. He will certainly hear if you are obstructive.’

Bartholomew stared at the coffin, uncomfortable with the lie, although it had the desired effect on the vicars, because alarmed glances were exchanged. Ellis became defensive.

‘But there is nothing to tell! We exchanged pleasantries in his house, and he said we could look in the church if we wanted to. We did, and when we had finished, we came home.’

‘What sort of “pleasantries”?’ demanded Michael.

Ellis shrugged. ‘The weather, mutual friends, theology. He said he planned to borrow Holcot’s Postillae from Isabella, and I recommended that he read one of Abbot Multone’s recipe books instead, because they are more interesting. And we inspected the church plate.’

‘It was in need of a polish, so we brought it home,’ added Cave, his small eyes glittering beneath his dark brows. ‘He was delighted to be spared the task himself, and thanked us profusely.’

‘Is that why he lost his wits?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling that Cotyngham’s parishioners had noticed the silver was missing. ‘He was distressed at the loss of–’

‘He was not distressed,’ interrupted Cave flatly. ‘I told you: he was grateful to us.’

‘It is true,’ said Ellis coldly. ‘His chalices were in a terrible state, and when he recovers, he will be amazed at their transformation. But perhaps you will excuse us now, gentlemen? We have Ferriby’s soul to consider.’

No one accompanied them out, which allowed Bartholomew to stop in the porch, where the priests had left their outdoor footwear. Each vicar had his own shelf for the purpose, with his name embossed above it. They were alphabetical, so it was easy to determine which shoes belonged to whom. Cave’s had distinctive gold-coloured laces, one of which was broken.

Bartholomew was inclined to storm back into the chapel and demand to know what Cave had been doing in Cotyngham’s chimney, but Michael pulled him away, muttering that the vicar was unlikely to give them honest answers. It would be better, he said, to confront him when the entire Bedern was not glaring at them over a coffin.

‘What happened is clear,’ said Bartholomew, once they were outside. ‘Cotyngham objected to them removing his silver, and an argument ensued. They either said something that terrified him out of his wits or, more likely, were the cause of an injury that damaged his brain.’

‘Do you think they took the plate deliberately, then, to provoke him?’

‘If so, they are unlikely to confess. And even if Cotyngham recovers, he may not recall exactly what happened. It is possible that we shall never know the truth.’

They were silent as they walked back to the abbey. Night had fallen, although the city hummed with noise and vitality. Taverns were bursting at the seams, groups of people strolled the streets in search of entertainment, street vendors hawked delicious-smelling wares and a group of singers performed a piece of music that was so hauntingly beautiful that Bartholomew stopped to listen.

‘Give me a penny, Matt,’ begged Michael after a moment. ‘I want some of those pies.’

‘I do not have a penny, Brother.’

‘Pity. I sampled a few yesterday, and they were the finest I have ever tasted. Cambridge could learn a lot from York where food is concerned. I have never seen such a magnificent array of delicacies.’

‘York is ahead of us in medicine, too,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And hygiene. St Leonard’s is–’

‘Here we are at the abbey,’ interrupted Michael briskly, unwilling to listen to one of the physician’s enthusiastic monologues, knowing from experience that he was likely to be regaled with information he would sooner not have. ‘It is almost time for compline and I should attend, given that I have neglected my other offices today. Will you come?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I am going to sit with Radeford for a while.’

Michael patted his shoulder in kindly understanding. ‘Very well. I shall join you there later.’

Bartholomew squelched across the yard, using as a beacon the candles that had been lit in St Olave’s chancel. He arrived to find Oustwyk and two other monks kneeling by the coffin, and was grateful for their consideration. They finished the psalm they were reciting, and left when the bell chimed for compline. Bartholomew took a deep breath, and stepped towards the body.

Radeford looked younger in death than he had done in life, although the lines around his eyes were still there, a reminder that he had liked to laugh. Bartholomew knew better than most that healthy people sometimes died for no apparent reason, but Radeford was not the only man connected to Zouche’s business to have died of ‘natural causes’, and the physician had recently looked at Ferriby, a man who claimed he had been poisoned. As Bartholomew stared down at Radeford, all his instincts clamoured at him that something was very badly wrong.

He glanced behind him. No one was there – the monks were at their devotions, after which they would go to the frater for a light supper. Thus Bartholomew had at least an hour and a half before anyone might join him. Making up his mind, he embarked on an examination that was as detailed as any he had ever performed.

He started with Radeford’s head, even shaving hair to be sure there was nothing sinister in the slight irregularities he detected in the skull. Then he moved to the body, assessing every inch of skin in the flickering light of a candle. He looked especially closely at the lawyer’s mouth and fingers, lest there was some sign that a toxin had been touched. But there was nothing.

He stepped back and considered Radeford’s last day. The lawyer himself had said that he had spent almost every moment of it in the library, and that he had not even left to eat or drink. Bartholomew rubbed his chin. But what if someone had gone there and given him something, safe in the knowledge that there would be no witnesses? The chaos Dean Talerand had created meant the library was not a place that attracted casual visitors, and Bartholomew, Michael, Langelee and Cynric had been busy elsewhere.

The more he thought about it, the more Bartholomew became certain that was what had happened. And then, as whatever substance Radeford had been fed began to work, he had experienced head pains. But how was Bartholomew to prove his theory? He had seen anatomists in Padua demonstrate poisoning by excising entrails, but he could hardly do that in St Olave’s.

Then he remembered the spoon that Radeford had always used to eat. He found it still tucked into the lawyer’s belt. It was dirty as usual, and carried an odour he could not place. He rubbed it on the back of his hand, but nothing happened. Dispirited, he put it back, thinking Radeford might have wanted to be buried with it. It was then that he heard a sound behind him.

He whipped around just in time to avoid the blow that had been aimed at his head. The next swipe was lower, and he fell as he jerked away from it. The candles were behind his attacker, so all he could see was a cloaked form, the face nothing but darkness beneath a hood. The figure took aim again, and he glimpsed the glitter of steel.

Then the door clanked, and he heard Michael calling his name. His attacker faltered, then darted away into the blackness. Bartholomew scrambled to his feet to give chase, but something – a foot or a staff – cracked into his legs and sent him flying. Moments later, Michael issued a screech of shock and pain. Bartholomew staggered upright a second time, lurching to his friend’s rescue.

Michael was sprawled in an undignified heap of flailing white limbs, desperately trying to fight his way free of the ample folds of his habit that had wrapped themselves around him. Once he was sure the monk was unharmed, Bartholomew raced outside, but too late. He glimpsed running figures disappearing down one of the nearby alleys, and knew he would never catch them in the dark and in unfamiliar territory. He sagged in defeat and returned to the church.

‘Someone came with a sword,’ he said unsteadily. ‘But I think it was Radeford they wanted – I was only attacked because I happened to be here.’

‘I doubt it, Matt,’ said Michael, holding out a hand so he could be hauled to his feet. ‘Why would anyone be after a corpse?’

‘To prevent it from telling us something,’ replied Bartholomew, staggering as he took the monk’s weight. ‘God’s teeth, Brother. Your bones were never this heavy when you were younger.’

‘Do not blaspheme,’ admonished Michael sharply; he rarely swore. ‘What do you mean? Prevent it from telling us what?’

Bartholomew showed him the back of his hand in the candlelight. It was red, swollen and so numb that he could have jabbed a knife in it and felt nothing. ‘That Radeford was murdered.’