Mystery in the Minster

Chapter 7

Cynric offered to keep watch over Radeford, while Michael took Bartholomew – unsteady on his feet now the excitement was over – to the hospitium. Once there, the physician described in detail both his findings and the subsequent assault. Langelee and Michael listened in growing horror.

‘So were you attacked because you were on the verge of discovering that Radeford was poisoned?’ asked Langelee worriedly. ‘Or because you are a Michaelhouse scholar, and the villain failed to dispatch you when he shot his arrow from St Mary ad Valvas?’

‘The first makes no sense,’ said Michael before Bartholomew could speak. ‘Radeford was killed with subtlety – a crime committed in the expectation that no one would ever find out. However, alarm bells would certainly have sounded if Matt had been cleaved in two by a sword.’

‘But the villain may have been coming to ensure that he had left no clues, and panicked when he saw Bartholomew inspecting the corpse,’ argued Langelee. ‘Frightened people are rarely rational. How many of them were there?’

‘Two, perhaps three,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But, as I said earlier, I do not think I was their intended target.’

‘Explain,’ ordered Langelee.

Bartholomew struggled to rally his confused thoughts. ‘The skirmish occurred during compline, when the monks attend prayers in the abbey. Meanwhile, we have stood vigil in St Olave’s for the last two nights, so would not have been expected to do it a third time. The probability was that Radeford would be alone. Moreover, it is common knowledge that he will be buried tomorrow…’

‘So tonight was the last chance to search his body for the codicil,’ finished Michael. ‘Or the list of French spies. Cynric said someone had been in our bags, so when the culprits did not find what they were looking for there, they came to see whether Radeford had concealed it on his person instead.’

‘It will be those vicars,’ predicted Langelee grimly. ‘If they are willing to clamber about in people’s chimneys, then they are not beneath ransacking corpses.’ He glanced at Bartholomew. ‘Are you sure Radeford did not secrete anything in his clothes?’

‘Positive.’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘If the attackers were after the codicil, then the vicars probably are responsible, because they are the ones who do not want us to have it. But if it is the roll of spies, then we have a whole new list of suspects.’

‘Yes, but we do not know who they are,’ said Langelee bitterly. ‘Because I hunted them without success for years, and just as Radeford was on the verge of revealing all, you two distracted him with inconsequential chatter.’

This was not how Bartholomew recalled what had happened, but there was no point in saying so. ‘Oustwyk is at the top of my list for espionage, on the grounds that he is suspiciously interested in our business, and keeps appearing in unexpected places.’

Michael nodded. ‘Aided and abetted by Abbot Multone, because there must be some reason why he appointed the man as his steward – Oustwyk is inept, to say the least. Then we have been told that the Carmelites’ fondness for litigation might be to raise funds for French masters…’

‘Leaving poor Holy Trinity to bear the blame,’ finished Langelee. ‘Meanwhile, I hate to say it, because I have always liked him, but perhaps there is a sinister reason for Sir William’s easy amiability, too – he strives to make people admire him, so they will not see him as questionable.’

‘It is possible,’ said Michael. ‘But my chief suspect is Alice. She barely pays lip service to her vocation, and the reason is that she has been in disguise for so long that she has grown complacent.’

‘No,’ stated Langelee stoutly. ‘I once knew her extremely well: she is no traitor.’

‘We should not forget that Radeford made three discoveries, not two,’ said Bartholomew, still struggling to make sense of the scant facts they had accumulated. ‘The codicil, the spies and the letters between the two executors about Zouche’s chantry.’

‘Which Radeford felt were important, but did not know why,’ sighed Langelee. ‘And I certainly have no idea. Indeed, I do not know where to start with any of it.’

‘With the vicars-choral,’ replied Michael promptly. ‘Tomorrow morning, before Radeford’s burial, if we have time. And if that yields no answers, we shall talk to Chozaico about the spies.’

Langelee’s jaw dropped. ‘Surely you do not follow the popular prejudice against Holy Trinity?’

‘Of course not. Chozaico is no fool, to dabble in espionage when it might reflect badly on our Order. And his monks cannot gather intelligence, because most are too frightened to leave their priory. I was thinking of asking for his list of suspects.’

‘Why would he have one?’ asked Langelee warily.

‘Because I would, were I in his position. What he will not have is evidence, or he would have reported the matter to Thoresby. But we can ask for his thoughts.’

‘You do that,’ nodded Langelee. ‘Meanwhile, I shall continue to search the library, and Cynric can visit more taverns to ask about that arrow. We should not neglect William, either. For all we know, the assault on him might be connected to Radeford’s murder, too.’

‘Speaking of Radeford’s murder,’ said Michael, turning to Bartholomew. ‘Are you sure…’

‘Yes,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Completely.’

‘You did not open him up, did you?’ asked Langelee suspiciously. ‘Because you did say there was no sign of foul play earlier.’

Bartholomew rubbed his hand. The numbness had travelled past his wrist, and his fingers ached. Uneasily, it occurred to him that he should have found a more sensible way to test the spoon.

‘When Radeford swallowed the tonic I gave him, he dribbled. I know now that was because his mouth was numb – he probably did not mention it, because there was no pain, and he was more eager to brag about his victories. He did have a headache, though.’

‘But how did this substance get into him?’ asked Michael. ‘He said himself that he did not leave the library all day.’

‘He must have had a visitor,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘One who gave him something to eat or drink – a dish that required him to use his spoon.’

‘Dean Talerand?’ asked Langelee. ‘He knew how Radeford had spent his day – he remarked on it to Helen. And we know he is ruthless, because he has kept his office in the face of some very fierce opposition.’

‘Why would Talerand mean Radeford harm?’ asked Bartholomew, but then answered his own question. ‘Because he will be on the side of the vicars-choral in our dispute. They are minster employees, so of course he hopes they will win against us.’

‘Possibly,’ nodded Langelee. ‘However, we cannot exclude the vicars themselves from our list of suspects, either. They will also have known Radeford’s whereabouts, because their religious duties demand that they spend time in the minster.’

‘Wait,’ said Michael, holding up his hand. ‘We are running ahead of ourselves here. When did either of you last see Radeford use his spoon?’

‘At breakfast,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But I ate from the same vat of pottage, and I suffered no ill effects. Besides, I imagine the toxin was faster acting – and if he had suffered from a numb mouth for several hours, he would have mentioned it the moment he saw me.’

‘But you just said he was more interested in gloating over his discoveries,’ argued Langelee.

‘There is a difference between having a symptom for a short time and suffering from it all day. I suspect the poison was given to him shortly before he left the library.’

Langelee sighed. ‘Maybe we should cut our losses and go home. Whoever murdered Radeford is ruthless, and I do not want to lose any more Fellows. What would our colleagues say if I return to Cambridge alone? They will depose me as Master!’

‘Your concern for our well-being is touching,’ said Michael dryly. ‘However, we are not going anywhere. Radeford was our friend, and I am not walking away from his murder. Moreover, I am unwilling to let the vicars have Huntington without a fight.’

‘True,’ acknowledged Langelee. ‘And I am unwilling to turn my back on the possibility of unmasking men who betray my country to the French, too.’

Bartholomew nodded his agreement. Reluctant to leave Radeford unattended, he and Michael returned to St Olave’s, and told Cynric to rest. Then Bartholomew sat at the base of one of the columns, while Michael knelt by Radeford’s coffin. In four hours, Langelee would relieve them.

The physician woke with a start when he felt a hand shaking his shoulder. It was Langelee, come to take his turn at keeping watch. Guiltily, Bartholomew hoped the Master would do a better job than he had done himself. He fell asleep the moment he lay down in the hospitium, and not even the clang of bells announcing prime the following morning made him stir. Michael was reduced to splashing him with the water that had been left for their ablutions.

‘The river is higher than it was yesterday,’ the monk said, gazing out of the window while Bartholomew crawled slowly off the mattress. ‘Do you think it will flood? It is getting very close.’

Bartholomew went to stand next to him. The scene was a dismal one: sullen grey clouds, wind-battered trees, and houses with darkly sodden thatches. The river was an angry brown torrent, and the vegetation that had been washed from its moorings upstream now comprised small trees, as well as shrubs. He watched one yew being carried along at a cracking rate, turning and writhing as if trying to struggle free.

‘Langelee told me it is often this high,’ he said. ‘And he thinks it will subside without problems. But it is raining again, and there is only so much the waterways can absorb.’

‘How is your hand?’ asked Michael, seeing him rub it. ‘Still numb?’

Bartholomew flexed his fingers. ‘Returning to normal.’

‘You should have tested the spoon on a rat,’ admonished Michael. ‘It was reckless to have tried it on yourself. All I can say is thank God you did not stick it in your mouth.’

Bartholomew recoiled. ‘That would have been revoltingly macabre!’

‘You are revoltingly macabre. Do not deny it, Matt. You know it is true.’

Bartholomew massaged his fingers. ‘I can imagine exactly what would happen if this substance were ingested. It would impair the function of vital organs, and–’

‘Please! No hideous details,’ begged Michael. ‘Hah! Here is Oustwyk with breakfast. We shall dine, then visit the minster to see what the vicars-choral know about poisons. We should have enough time before Radeford’s burial.’

Michael did the victuals justice, but the pottage reminded Bartholomew of their dead colleague and deprived him of his appetite. While he picked listlessly at some bread, Oustwyk bombarded them with questions, both about their investigations and the incident of the previous evening.

‘Why do you want to know?’ demanded Michael, finally growing tired of it.

Oustwyk shrugged. ‘Because I am interested, and so is Abbot Multone. It is odd that you arrive here, and within days, one of your party lies dead and another has been attacked twice.’

‘You think the arrow was intended for Matt, then?’ asked Michael. ‘Not Sir William?’

Oustwyk nodded. ‘No one would want Sir William harmed – he is one of the nicest men in the city. Like Hugh de Myton, he is venerable and discreet.’

‘Myton,’ mused Michael. He paraphrased what Radeford said he had read in the letters he had found. ‘He has obits recited for him in the minster, but Zouche does not have a chantry chapel, and some of Zouche’s executors found this improper. You claim to know all about York and its inhabitants, so what do you think?’

Oustwyk’s mouth turned down at the corners as he pondered the question. ‘I suppose it is unfair, now you mention it. But neither Myton nor Zouche are destined to spend long in Purgatory, despite their fears to the contrary. I doubt they need many prayers. Especially ones from our vicars-choral.’

‘Speaking of vicars-choral, are they capable of committing murder to gain Huntington?’

It was so bald a question that Bartholomew expected Oustwyk to refuse an answer, but the steward rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he considered his reply.

‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘They spend their mornings saying masses for the dead, and you do not do that day in and day out without being careful about the sins you commit. I believe they would stop short of murder.’

‘Then who did shoot at Matt and attack him with a sword?’

Oustwyk shrugged. ‘Dalfeld is keen to win Huntington for his clients, the vicars. Then there are the French spies, who will not want you dabbling in their business–’

‘What makes you think we know anything about that?’ asked Michael sharply.

Oustwyk shrugged again, and Bartholomew supposed that either the steward had listened to a discussion not intended for his ears, or he was aware of the list Radeford had found because he was on it. Instead of answering, Oustwyk continued with his suggestions.

‘And then there is Fournays. Perhaps he resents a medical rival.’

‘Fournays had not met me before Sir William was injured,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Your logic is flawed.’

‘But he may have heard about you,’ Oustwyk shot back, then resumed his list. ‘We cannot overlook Longton as a suspect, either. Or Gisbyrn, although he at least donates alms to the poor. Longton does not. And while I am as averse as the next man to being invaded by Frenchmen, I resent my abbey being taxed for it. Personally, I suspect he uses the revenue to pay for his claret.’

As usual, the minster was noisy. Every chapel and altar was busy as canons, vicars, choirs and chaplains chanted obits for York’s wealthy dead. Trade was brisk in the aisles, too, with stallholders servicing the pilgrims who came to petition William of York. Bartholomew looked once, and then twice, when he saw Dean Talerand leading a donkey towards the shrine.

‘It is probably infertile,’ explained Michael, seeing his astonishment. ‘Or its milk has dried up.’

‘And that justifies its presence in a minster how exactly?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Look around you. How much do you think it costs to maintain a place like this, let alone raise the funds to rebuild parts of it? The minster will accept money from any source available, and that includes from people desperate for productive livestock.’

‘Then perhaps we are wrong to assume it was the vicars who harmed Radeford – if they do inherit Huntington, the chances are that some of the money will find its way here. The church is not worth much, but, as you have just pointed out, every penny counts.’

‘Perhaps. But there is Jafford. Good heavens! Look at the women who hover around him! Some are remarkably…’ He waved a hand, not sure how to describe them.

‘Sybaritic,’ supplied Bartholomew. ‘Oustwyk told us that Jafford has care of the Altar of Mary Magdalene, which is popular with prostitutes.’

‘Then Oustwyk was not exaggerating,’ said Michael, watching the women clamour for Jafford’s attention when he finished one prayer and prepared to say another. Many were comely, and he seemed more than happy to accede to their requests.

At that moment, there was a commotion as the donkey made a bid for escape. It knocked several people off their feet when they tried to catch it, and its indignant brays competed with excited yells as a chase ensued. Talerand’s hands went to his mouth in consternation, especially when some of the vicars-choral joined the pursuit, clearly welcoming a break from their routine. Delighted by the spectacle, the prostitutes hared after them, leaving Jafford free to join the scholars.

‘I heard there was an unpleasant incident in St Olave’s last night,’ he said, regarding Bartholomew sympathetically. ‘Were you hurt?’

Bartholomew shook his head, and decided to be open. ‘But before he died, Radeford found the codicil to Zouche’s will. We think someone intended to search his body for it.’

‘You have the codicil?’ asked Jafford, startled. ‘You did not say so yesterday!’

‘Because your colleagues did not seem amenable to an exchange of information,’ replied Michael icily before Bartholomew could explain that Radeford finding it and them having it were not the same thing. ‘But yes, it is in our possession. Moreover, there are almost certainly copies.’

Jafford nodded. ‘Yes, if there is one, there will be others. A single codicil could be feloniously altered to Cotyngham’s disadvantage – forcing him out before he was dead or ready to resign – so Zouche would certainly have ensured that there were duplicates.’

‘We would not have done that,’ objected Michael. His eyes narrowed. ‘Would you?’

‘No, of course not,’ replied Jafford impatiently. ‘But you are missing my point, which is that a multitude of copies means that Zouche did want Michaelhouse to have Huntington – he would not have needed them for us, because he knew he could trust us to act honourably. But he did not know you, so he took steps to safeguard his friend.’

‘We can prove our case with documents now,’ said Michael, not sure he liked this particular argument in Michaelhouse’s favour. ‘So will you withdraw your claim?’

‘No,’ came an angry voice from behind them. All three turned to see Cave, who had hurried over when he had seen Jafford consorting with the enemy; Ellis was coming, too, pattens clacking importantly on the flagstones. ‘Not until we are sure your codicil is genuine. Where is it?’

‘In a safe place,’ replied Michael curtly. ‘Somewhere no thief will think to look.’

‘I hope you are not suggesting we would steal it,’ said Cave. ‘Or that we had something to do with the incident in St Olave’s. We were in the Bedern when that happened, at a meeting.’

‘A meeting to discuss what?’ asked Michael.

Ellis gaped at him. ‘You are brazen, demanding to know our private business! But we discussed Huntington, if you must know. We reviewed all we knew about it, to assess who had heard Zouche say he wanted to leave it to you, and whether they are credible witnesses.’

‘We decided unanimously that they are not,’ said Cave, a conclusion that came as no surprise to the scholars. ‘Zouche died almost six years ago, and the human memory is fallible. These recollections are irrelevant, and we intend to pursue our case against you.’

‘They have a copy of the codicil,’ Jafford reminded him.

‘So they say,’ retorted Ellis. ‘But have you never heard of counterfeiting?’

Shocked, Jafford tried to apologise for his colleague’s manners, but Michael cut across him, parrying the attack with one of his own.

‘Radeford was poisoned,’ he said dangerously. ‘So we held a meeting last night, too – one in which we discussed who might benefit from the murder of our lawyer.’

All three vicars stared at him. ‘Well, it was not us,’ declared Ellis, the first to recover his composure. ‘And if you say otherwise, we shall sue you for defamation.’

Jafford started to speak, a look of abject horror on his angelic features, but Ellis hauled him away. Before he followed, Cave shot the scholars a look full of simian menace.

Unhappily, Bartholomew watched them go. ‘I wish you had not told them about Radeford. It will encourage the killer to cover his tracks, and now we might never learn who killed him.’

Michael sighed. ‘I know – I realised that the moment the words were out. But there is something about those vicars that is intensely aggravating, and I could not help myself.’

Bartholomew thought about Ellis’s response to the codicil. ‘Radeford said he wanted to examine the deed in good light before making it public. He was clearly afraid it might be suspect, so Ellis is probably right to be wary of it.’

‘And we shall be wary of it, too – if we ever find the wretched thing.’

They met Thoresby and Talerand as they left the minster. The Archbishop and Dean were just finishing a discussion with three farmers, one of whom held the reins of the recaptured donkey.

‘Of course William of York likes asses,’ Thoresby was assuring them silkily. ‘And you may have half your money back if…’ He paused, eyebrows raised.

‘Nellie,’ supplied the farmers in a chorus.

‘… if Nellie does not produce a foal next year,’ the Archbishop finished. He sketched a blessing. ‘And now go with God. And go with Nellie, too, if you please. She should not be in here.’

As he watched, it occurred to Bartholomew that Talerand might know who had visited the library when Radeford was in it – and thus also know the identity of the poisoner.

‘No one,’ came the disappointing reply, once Dean and Archbishop had recovered from their shock at learning that murder had been done. ‘Radeford was my only guest that day. Dalfeld and the vicars came in the evening, but that was long after your friend had gone. Radeford was alone all day, so if he was poisoned, then it happened elsewhere.’

‘Yet I am sure you did not lock him in,’ Michael pointed out. ‘So what was to stop anyone from sneaking to join him inside when your attention was elsewhere?’

Talerand pondered. ‘Well, nothing, I suppose. But it would have been rude to enter without my permission. Everyone understands that they are meant to ask me first.’

But murderers were not noted for their fine manners, thought Bartholomew. So who had given Radeford poisoned food on the pretext of being kind? Not the vicars, because Radeford would have been suspicious and refused. Or would he? The lawyer had been so keen for an amiable solution that he might well have accepted what he saw as an olive branch.

‘How are your investigations coming along, Brother?’ Talerand was asking pleasantly.

‘Very well,’ lied Michael. ‘And Radeford’s murder has made us all the more determined to succeed. But as we are here, would you mind telling us about Zouche’s executors?’

Talerand’s chubby features creased into a frown. ‘Why?’

‘Because seven of the nine are dead,’ replied Michael. ‘And I would like to know more about them. They may well transpire to be irrelevant to our investigations, but we would be remiss not to explore the possibility.’

‘Well, Roger drowned, as you know,’ began Thoresby obligingly. ‘Stiendby, Neville and Playce died of spotted liver, while Christopher Malore, Welton and Ferriby died of debilities.’

‘Christopher was Anketil’s brother,’ elaborated Talerand. His eyes were wary, and had lost their habitual merry twinkle. ‘He was also a Benedictine, but at the abbey, not at Holy Trinity.’

‘The diagnoses were made by Surgeon Fournays,’ Thoresby went on, ignoring the Dean’s aside. ‘So I am sure they are accurate, because he is an excellent medicus.’

‘We know that Neville and Christopher died five years ago,’ began Michael. ‘While Ferriby and Roger died this week. But what about the others – Welton, Playce and Stiendby?’

Thoresby frowned as he struggled to remember. ‘Welton died two years after Neville and Christopher. Playce died the year after him. And Stiendby…’

‘Last Easter,’ supplied Talerand promptly. ‘I remember, because it is an auspicious time to die, and will reduce his stay in Purgatory. But you are wrong to think the deaths of these executors have a bearing on Huntington, Brother. They do not, and if you probe them, you will be wasting your time. Oh, Lord! That donkey is back again.’

‘I must go, too,’ said Thoresby, as the Dean hurried away. ‘That wretched beast interrupted the obit I was saying for Myton, so I need to resume it before–’

‘Myton again,’ blurted Bartholomew, unable to help himself. ‘He crops up at every turn.’

‘That is no surprise,’ said Thoresby. ‘He was venerable and–’

‘– and discreet,’ interrupted Michael. ‘Yes, we know. It is what everyone says about him.’

‘Because it is true. He was Zouche’s friend, and did much to keep the peace between Gisbyrn and Longton. I do not know how, because it is beyond me. We were all sorry when Myton died.’

‘Of spotted liver or a debility?’ asked Bartholomew, frustration with their lack of progress rendering him uncharacteristically acerbic.

‘Neither,’ retorted Thoresby sharply. ‘He had a softening of the brain.’

‘I do not suppose you have any other information to impart, do you?’ asked Michael hopefully, before Bartholomew could remark that he had never heard of such an affliction. ‘You said yesterday that you would ask a few questions on our behalf.’

‘I did,’ acknowledged Thoresby. ‘But I have not had time. There are rumours that a great flood is coming, and I have been busy making preparations.’

‘Was it my imagination or did Talerand make a suspiciously abrupt departure just now?’ asked Bartholomew, when the Archbishop had gone. ‘And if so, why was he unsettled by the notion that the deaths of Zouche’s executors might be suspicious?’

‘I do not know, Matt. But he has just put himself at the top of my list of people to watch.’

The rain had stopped while Bartholomew and Michael had been in the minster, but it started again as they walked to St Olave’s for Radeford’s burial. It was not much to begin with, just a fine drizzle, but it gradually increased until it fell in a thick, smoky veil.

‘I hope it stops soon,’ said Oustwyk, glancing skywards as he fell into step at their side. ‘A high tide is predicted for Tuesday, and we shall have floods if there is a lot of rain, too.’

‘Does York flood often?’ asked Michael, politely interested.

‘Not very,’ replied the steward. ‘But when it does, the results are spectacular.’

As it had not been possible to buy a coffin for Radeford – Ferriby and Roger had claimed the only two in stock – the scholars had been obliged to borrow the abbey’s reusable one. It was ornate and highly polished, which rendered it slick, so it was a precarious process as Langelee, Michael, Bartholomew and Cynric carried it from the church to the graveyard, their feet skidding in mud.

Given that they had not been in York long, a lot of people were in attendance. The Benedictines were particularly well represented, with not only Multone, Oustwyk and several monks from the abbey, but Anketil and Chozaico from Holy Trinity, and Isabella and Alice from the nunnery, too. Alice laid a sympathetic hand on Langelee’s arm while Michael intoned the necessary prayers, and Isabella sobbed. When a powerful gust of wind tore the psalter from Michael’s hands, and there was a hiatus while it was retrieved and dabbed dry, Bartholomew went to stand next to her. She buried her face in his shoulder, and he comforted her until she had regained control of herself.

‘He was too young to die,’ she whispered, her voice hoarse. ‘Alice told me to consider him as a husband, and I was tempted. He was kind, and helped me with my play.’

‘I thought you wanted to be a nun.’

‘I do. But if anyone could have shaken my resolve, it was dear John Radeford. He made me laugh, and he was gentle and good. I am sorry I did not have the opportunity to know him better.’

‘You would have liked him,’ said Bartholomew miserably. ‘Everyone did.’

Isabella gripped his arm in a gesture of sympathy that brought a lump to his throat. ‘I know. And as I doubt there is another of his calibre – at least, not here, where most men are greedy, corrupt and dishonest – the Benedictines shall have me.’

Bartholomew suddenly became aware of Alice staring in their direction, and with a jolt of dismay he read in her calculating gaze that she was assessing whether a physician might do for her young charge, now that the lawyer was no longer available. He eased away from Isabella, and his opinion of Alice slithered down several notches.

The move put him near Warden Stayndrop of the Franciscans; Mardisley and Jorden were at his side. Unusually, the theologians were silent, although the scrolls up their sleeves said it would not be long before they resumed their intellectual sparring. They offered polite condolences, but left abruptly when Prior Penterel approached. Wy was with him, his scarred face pinched with the cold.

‘We said a mass for Radeford last night,’ said Penterel softly. ‘We are so sorry.’

‘There is a rumour that he was poisoned,’ said Wy, his eyes agleam with salacious interest. ‘Is it true?’

‘Wy!’ exclaimed Penterel, shocked. ‘This is hardly the place for such a question!’

‘Why not?’ asked the friar, bemused. ‘The whole city is talking about it.’

Wincing, Penterel pulled him away before he could say more. The other guests gave them a wide berth, no doubt afraid that any inadvertent jostling might result in a lawsuit.

Marmaduke also stood at a distance, forlornly blinking away the rain that dripped into his eyes. Chozaico beckoned him closer, inviting him to be part of the proceedings.

‘But they may not want me here,’ the ex-priest muttered, although he scuttled forward anyway. ‘Me being defrocked and all. Although we all know it was an unfair punishment for–’

‘Hush,’ whispered Chozaico, but kindly. ‘We should be thinking of Radeford, not talking.’

York’s laity was also well represented. Surgeon Fournays had donned especially fine clothes, and nodded reassuringly when Bartholomew glanced in his direction. Touched, Bartholomew realised that he had come to express solidarity with a medical colleague.

Meanwhile, Gisbyrn, Lady Helen and Frost stood together, heads bent respectfully. Gisbyrn’s expression was distant, though, and his lips were moving. With a shock, Bartholomew saw he was engaged in mental arithmetic, and was sure it was nothing to do with Radeford and a lot to do with commerce. Helen was clutching Frost’s arm for support and there were tears on her cheeks. He was brazenly delighted, and stood stiffly proud.

Mayor Longton and his cronies slouched nearby, restless and bored. Bartholomew wondered why they had bothered to come, then supposed they had had no choice: their rivals the merchants had put in an appearance, which had compelled them to do likewise, lest they were compared and found lacking.

When the dismal ceremony was over, Multone invited everyone to his solar for refreshments. Bartholomew watched them go, but made no move to follow. He lingered at the graveside for a long time, and when the inclement weather finally drove him indoors, he had made a solemn vow that he would not leave York without bringing Radeford’s killer to justice.

Multone had been generous with his wine, but had not provided anything to eat, presumably because he had not long finished his own breakfast, so that by the time Bartholomew arrived in the solar, some of the guests were tipsy. It meant the conversation was louder and less restrained than was usual for such occasions.

‘I see none of the vicars-choral came,’ remarked Fournays, as Bartholomew passed him on his way to the fire. The surgeon was one of few who was sober, and Bartholomew recalled him saying that he eschewed strong drink on account of his profession. ‘And Dalfeld spurned the discomfort of the burial, but has appeared for the claret – and the conversation with influential people.’

He pointed to where Dalfeld had cornered Gisbyrn, and whatever he was saying made the merchant scowl angrily at Longton; evidently, mischief was in the making. But York’s squabbles were not Bartholomew’s concern. Radeford was, and here was a surgeon, a man with an intimate knowledge of dangerous potions.

‘Have you encountered a poison that is painless, but that numbs whatever it comes in contact with?’ he asked. ‘And perhaps induces headaches, if ingested?’

‘What a peculiar question!’ Fournays grabbed a goblet from a passing servant and took a substantial gulp. He shrugged sheepishly. ‘I know I said I never drink, but I feel an ague coming on, and a dose of claret is the best way to repel it. Why do you ask about poisons?’

‘Because Radeford was given some.’

Fournays adopted a paternal expression. ‘I know sudden death in the healthy is difficult to accept, but looking for explanations is the way to madness. Just acknowledge that it is God’s will, and put the matter from your mind.’

‘It was not God’s will,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘Radeford was murdered, and–’

‘There are any number of complaints that can carry a man off without warning,’ interrupted Fournays, although his voice was gentle. ‘Seizures, spotted liver, wasting sickness, debilities, falling fits, softening of the brain. You know this as well as I do. But I must go – patients await.’

He bowed and was gone. Bartholomew was about to follow, feeling the discussion was far from over, but sensed someone behind him, and turned to see Helen, who smiled in a way that made his stomach flutter. Frost hovered nearby, his black glare indicative of the resentment he felt that the woman he adored should smile at another man in such a fashion. Helen was either unaware of her shadow’s simmering bile, or had chosen to ignore it.

‘Fournays is a good man, but I always find him a little … unsettling,’ she said, watching the surgeon shoulder his way out of the solar, knocking into Longton hard enough to make him stagger. ‘Perhaps it is because he is always to hand when anyone dies.’

‘People probably say the same about me,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It comes from being a medicus.’

‘I suppose so.’ Helen changed the subject. ‘Master Langelee told me that he intends to look into the matter of my uncle’s chantry. I hope he can reclaim some of the money, because it grieves me to see the place unfinished.’

‘Zouche must have been a good man,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘Because you are not the only one who regrets that his last wishes remain unrealised.’

Helen’s eyes brimmed with tears, but she brushed them away impatiently. ‘He was a wonderful man, and I still miss him dreadfully. I wish he had made Isabella and me his executors – we would not have let his fund filter away.’

Bartholomew was about to say he was sure they would not, when Dalfeld appeared. The lawyer had left Gisbyrn and Longton in the grip of a furious argument that Bartholomew was sure he had instigated. Had he come to do the same with the physician and Helen, perhaps at Frost’s bidding?

‘Poor Radeford,’ Dalfeld sighed falsely. ‘It is a tragedy when a man is taken in his prime.’

Bartholomew stared at him, taking in the sly smirk and cunning eyes. Was Dalfeld the kind of man to dispatch a rival? Radeford had said that Dalfeld was worried about the outcome of a case he had promised to win, and a defeat would damage his reputation. Dalfeld gazed back almost challengingly, but broke eye contact when an interruption came in the form of Langelee, apparently eager to ensure that his colleague did not steal a march on Helen. When Isabella and Alice also joined them, Frost stepped forward, too, unwilling to be excluded from Helen’s company any longer.

‘Tell the scholars what you read this morning, Isabella,’ Frost said, in a transparent attempt to embroil them in a discussion that would drive Helen away, so he could have her to himself again.

‘Gregory’s Moralia,’ replied Isabella. Her voice lacked the passion it usually held when she talked about her studies, and her eyes were red; she had been crying again. ‘It was very interesting.’

‘Was it?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling that he had been bored almost senseless when he had been obliged to plough through it.

Isabella nodded. ‘Particularly his analysis of the Book of Job.’

Bartholomew blinked. ‘But the whole thing is an analysis of Job. There is nothing else in it.’

She frowned her confusion. ‘There is! It is packed with pithy doctrinal matters.’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘But only ones that pertain to Job.’

‘Do not discuss theology with him, Isabella,’ advised Langelee, although he looked at Helen when he spoke. Frost bristled. ‘He knows nothing about the subject.’

‘Shall we discuss law instead, then?’ asked Dalfeld silkily. ‘That is a subject for–’

‘No,’ interrupted Langelee irritably. ‘It is worse than theology for tedium, and best avoided.’

‘Except when it pertains to Michaelhouse’s claim on Huntington, presumably,’ said Dalfeld coolly. ‘Then I imagine you consider it somewhat more gripping.’

‘Naturally,’ said Langelee tartly. ‘However, that is not a legal issue, but an ethical one. It is following Zouche’s last wishes.’

‘Quite,’ said Helen, while Isabella and Alice nodded. Frost did likewise, although only to ingratiate himself with the object of his passion.

Dalfeld’s smile was patronising. ‘But Zouche is dead, so not in a position to confirm what he did or did not want. And if you do present a codicil, I shall demand that you also provide witnesses prepared to swear that they saw him write, sign and seal it. And we all know you cannot. Anketil and Marmaduke are the only surviving executors, and they have already said that they saw nothing of the kind. Not that their testimony counts for anything, of course.’

‘What do you mean?’ demanded Alice. ‘What is wrong with–’

‘One is a defrocked priest, and the other stands accused of spying for the French,’ interrupted Dalfeld curtly. ‘That hardly makes them men of unimpeachable character.’

‘Zouche had other friends, besides his executors,’ began Langelee. ‘And–’

‘You do not count,’ flashed Dalfeld. ‘You have a vested interest in lying. And Myton is dead.’

‘You are not worthy to speak that good man’s name!’ cried Helen. ‘How dare you!’

Dalfeld barely spared her a glance, all his attention on Langelee. ‘You will lose this case and go home with nothing. However, I might consider changing sides, were you to offer sufficient inducement. Of course, the vicars are paying me very handsomely…’

He had bowed and walked away before either Langelee or Bartholomew could respond, both too stunned by the proposal to speak.

‘Do not accept,’ said Helen tightly. Her face was pale with anger. ‘It is either a sly trick, or a disgusting betrayal of his current clients. Either way, you should not trust him.’

‘She is right,’ said Isabella softly. ‘Our poor uncle would be turning in his grave if he knew Huntington was the subject of such filthy tactics.’

Bartholomew shook his head slowly, still astounded by Dalfeld’s brazen rapacity. ‘I cannot imagine the vicars will be pleased when they learn he offered to change sides.’

Alice shrugged. ‘He will deny it. Dalfeld is nothing if not a talented liar.’

Bartholomew would have been content to pass more time with Lady Helen, finding her company a welcome antidote to the ugliness of the day. Unfortunately, Frost thought the same, and offered to escort her when she expressed a desire to go home. He smirked triumphantly when she accepted, but his gloating evaporated when she invited Alice and Isabella to join her, too. The smile she shot the physician as she left was wry, as if she knew Frost had aimed to thwart a rival and she had deliberately frustrated his attempts to get her alone.

‘No,’ said Langelee, watching the exchange and not liking what he saw. ‘I have known her for years, so I have first claim.’

‘We will not be here long enough for dalliances anyway,’ said Bartholomew, forcing himself to ignore the spark of hope the impish grin had ignited. It was a pity, because she had touched something in his heart that had been largely dormant since Matilde had left.

‘I was not thinking of marrying her,’ objected Langelee. ‘Just showing her what–’

‘Please stop,’ begged Bartholomew, unwilling to listen to the Master’s lascivious plans. ‘Time is passing, and we have work to do. We will not catch Radeford’s killer by loitering here.’

‘True,’ agreed Langelee. Then he frowned. ‘How do we catch him, then?’

Bartholomew had no good ideas, either. ‘All I can suggest is that we try harder to find the documents he hid. With luck, they will cast light on who wanted him dead.’

‘It is as good a way forward as any. I will return to the library, while you prise Michael away from the Abbot’s wine. Do not be long – I shall be vexed if you leave me to do all the work myself.’

Langelee’s accusation was unfair, because Michael was not availing himself of the claret, but using the opportunity provided by the gathering to ask Chozaico and Anketil for their list of possible French spies. Briefly, he outlined what little they had learned from Radeford about the document he had found, and explained why they were currently unable to produce it.

‘Damn!’ cried Anketil. ‘It would have been good to have been proved innocent after all these years. Where did he discover this list?’

‘Hidden among Zouche’s correspondence,’ replied Michael. ‘Do not ask me how he came across it – he was extremely skilled at such matters, and saw order where the rest of us see only chaos. Between you and me, his death is a serious blow to our claim on Huntington.’

‘I wish we could help,’ said Chozaico unhappily. ‘Zouche always defended us against accusations of espionage, and I would like to do something for him in return.’

‘Perhaps we should look in the library for this list,’ said Anketil worriedly. ‘Supposing the real spies find it – and destroy it, so we continue to be the city’s scapegoats?’

‘I doubt you will succeed,’ said Michael. ‘Although you are welcome to try. Or do you think we shall be accused of espionage, too, if we are seen collaborating with you?’

‘No,’ said Anketil bitterly. ‘Because you are not French. But perhaps we should not place too much faith in this list. There is nothing to say the names will be right, or even that the culprits are still in York. Zouche died almost six years ago now…’

‘You must have some ideas about suspects,’ said Michael. ‘After all, you have had years to think about it, taking the blame for their actions.’

‘Of course we do, but that is all they are – ideas,’ replied Chozaico. ‘Wild horses would not tear them from me without supporting evidence.’

‘The Carmelites are–’ began Anketil, less inclined to be diplomatic.

‘No!’ snapped Chozaico, and his eyes blazed with such anger that Anketil flushed and looked away. ‘The Carmelites are no more guilty than we are, and if you accuse them, you are no better than the louts who flocked to watch us burn the other day. There is nothing – not a single shred of evidence – to point to them.’

‘There is their behaviour,’ said Anketil, in the defensive tone of a man who knew he was going to lose the debate. ‘Their fondness for suing everyone. Do you know how many people they have wronged? The Dominicans, Dean Talerand, the vicars-choral over the theft of some topsoil–’

‘The White Friars’ preference for litigation over informal solutions does not make them spies,’ argued Chozaico, still glaring at his monk. Then he turned to Michael. ‘But we had better take our leave. I came to console you, not to engage in gossip.’

‘What do you think?’ asked Michael, once he and Bartholomew were out of the solar and were aiming for the abbey gate to join Langelee in the library. ‘Of all we have learned today?’

‘That we still have no idea who murdered Radeford, or how to find out. That we are no closer to locating the codicil, the executors’ letters and the list of spies than we were this morning. And that I suspect we may have earned some enemies with our questions.’

Michael sighed. ‘I imagine you are right. We shall just have to be more careful from now on.’