Mystery in the Minster (44 page)

‘Anketil a spy?’ breathed Helen, shocked. ‘Then the tales about the monks at Holy Trinity are true? I always assumed they were spiteful rumours. But no matter. Dalfeld can still die here, and—’

‘It was you!’ exclaimed Michael suddenly. Bartholomew paused in his efforts to locate Ellis’s knife, wondering what was coming. ‘Gisbyrn inherited all Myton’s belongings, to discharge the debts he was owed. The letters in that rosewood box were among them.
You
left them in the library! Why? So we would chase traitors, and leave you alone!’

Helen’s confusion seemed genuine. ‘There was something about spies in that box?’

‘It makes sense now,’ said Michael, nodding. ‘As Gisbyrn’s friend, you have access to his house. You were able to lay hold of Myton’s box, and leave it for us to find.’

‘Yes – so you could see whether Myton had owned a copy of the codicil,’ explained Helen. ‘I told you: I want your College to have Huntington. I did not have time to plough through all that rubbish myself, and so I thought you could do it.’

‘I listened outside the door, you see,’ said Marmaduke smugly. ‘And I heard the Dean tell you that one desk looked more promising than the others. I mentioned it to Lady Helen, and we put the box there, so you would think you had stumbled on it by chance.’

‘Except that it immediately aroused our suspicions,’ said Michael in disdain. ‘We are not stupid, to assume we missed the thing earlier. But why the subterfuge? Why not just give it to us?’

Helen stared at him. ‘Yes, I suppose that would have been best, but it did not occur to me.’

‘Never mind this,’ said Frost, when there was a low, eerie groan from the ceiling. ‘We may not have to smash the scaffolding – the place is ready to come down on its own. Forget Dalfeld. I will deal with him later.’

‘I do not understand any of this,’ said Michael. He sounded tired and defeated, as if he knew words were a waste of time. ‘I have no idea why we are here, or what you intend to do.’

‘Then ask me,’ said Helen pleasantly. ‘I have nothing better to do for a few moments. But when Dalfeld arrives, you will have to die. I am sorry, but it cannot be helped.’

‘Mother of God!’ muttered Frost tightly to himself. ‘More chatter?’

Aware that time was running out fast, Bartholomew intensified his search for Ellis’s knife. Anxiety and tension were on the verge of making him sit up to look, when his questing fingers touched metal. He pulled it towards him, dismayed to discover the blade was neither large nor sharp.

At that moment, he sensed he was the object of attention and froze in alarm. But it was only Cynric. The book-bearer had been unable to look away from the place where his friend’s body had been dragged, and his sharp eyes had detected movement. Knowing all would be lost if Helen saw him gaping, Bartholomew gestured urgently. Cynric immediately looked away, but not before triumph had flashed in his eyes. Uneasily, the physician saw he thought salvation was at hand.

As Michael seemed disinclined to take Helen up on her offer of information, the book-bearer obliged, confidence and hope blossoming with every word. Bartholomew sincerely hoped his dramatically changed demeanour would not arouse his captors’ suspicions.

‘I assume it was you who killed Cotyngham?’ Cynric asked haughtily. ‘That is why you stopped me digging?’

‘We most certainly did not!’ declared Marmaduke, genuinely shocked. ‘He was loved by Archbishop Zouche, and we would never have harmed him. Besides, he was good to me.’

Cynric’s eyes narrowed. ‘How was he good to you?’

Bartholomew knew the answer to that, putting together two separate conversations with Marmaduke – one when Michael had asked how he had earned a living after being defrocked, and had been informed that Marmaduke had a benefactor; and the other when the ex-priest had waxed lyrical about Cotyngham’s generosity, a quality also praised by Huntington’s parishioners, Sir William, Helen, Fournays and the Franciscans. Michael had drawn the same conclusion.

‘Cotyngham was a kindly man,’ he said quietly, ‘who took pity on someone who had fallen foul of unfair persecution.’

‘Helen,’ warned Frost. ‘I am going to carry you out if you do not come with me. Let Marmaduke wait here for Dalfeld—’

Helen glowered at him. ‘If you lay one finger on me, I will never marry you.’

Frost’s mouth snapped closed, and the glances exchanged between his men said they were bemused by his uncharacteristic meekness. Bartholomew could only suppose they had never been in love. Meanwhile, Marmaduke nodded vigorously in response to Michael’s remark.

‘It
was
unreasonable of Thoresby to bow to the pressure brought by the other executors, just because I made them feel guilty for failing to do what Zouche wanted. They should have helped me with the chantry, not silenced me for reminding them of it. Later, Cotyngham was charitable …’

‘So was Lady Helen,’ put in Frost, in a transparent effort to regain her favour.

‘Yes, she was.’ Marmaduke smiled briefly at her. ‘And Cotyngham arranged for me to mind St Sampson’s toe, too. He said it would keep me out of trouble.’

‘Then it is a pity it did not work,’ muttered Cynric.

‘You say you did not kill Cotyngham,’ said Michael, speaking quickly when Marmaduke took an angry step towards the book-bearer. ‘But I suspect you know who did. Did you witness Cave’s astonished reaction when he learned “Cotyngham” was ill in the infirmary – he knew it was impossible, but was not in a position to explain why?’

‘Actually, we guessed because it was Cave who urged Ellis to claim Huntington,’ replied Helen. ‘The church that my uncle had specifically said was to go to you.’

‘I found Cotyngham with his head stove in.’ Marmaduke shuddered. ‘I suspect Cave knocked him over. It was probably an accident, but he had no right to push elderly priests around. Later, Ellis let slip that Cave had gone alone to Huntington, on the pretext of a lost purse. There must have been a quarrel, perhaps about the church silver they took …’

‘Please!’ begged Frost, when there was another rumble and more dust billowed. ‘This mad revenge is not worth your life, Helen. Come with me now, before it is too late.’

‘No!’ snarled Helen, so fiercely that Frost took an involuntary step away. ‘Not yet.’

Bartholomew could not delay much longer, either, and knew he had to act soon if he wanted to save his friends. Gripping the knife, he began to ease into a position where he could surge to his feet and attack. But attack whom? Frost, the deadliest fighter who would need to be neutralised? Helen, because she was in charge, and the others might crumble without her? As he moved, the blade scraped against the floor and Frost whipped around, eyes narrowed.

‘Why did you not kill Cave?’ Cynric asked loudly. ‘To avenge Cotyngham?’

‘I wanted to,’ replied Marmaduke. ‘But Lady Helen had a better idea.’

‘You hired an imposter to sit in the Franciscan Priory,’ surmised Michael. ‘And convinced Fournays to keep him in quiet seclusion. Cave’s punishment was being in constant fear.’

‘An actor!’ exclaimed Cynric. ‘There are plenty in York. Helen and Isabella have hired a troupe of them to perform their play.’

‘You even made the fellow cakes, and persuaded Isabella to lend him books,’ Michael went on. ‘All to make him seem more convincing.’

‘I had hoped Prioress Alice would keep him in the nunnery, where I could “tend” him,’ said Helen. ‘Warden Stayndrop caused us a good deal of agitation by insisting that he remain with his fellow Franciscans. But my actor rose to the challenge with consummate skill.’

‘Although he fled when he thought he might be exposed at last,’ said Michael disdainfully.

‘But why dump Cotyngham in the plague pit?’ asked Cynric. ‘Why not alert the proper authorities, so Cave could be charged with his crime?’

‘They did not “dump” him,’ said Michael quietly. ‘They
laid him decently to rest in the church that had been his before the Death – with the congregation he had loved. And they told no one, because they thought he would be happier here than at Huntington.’

‘Of course!’ exclaimed Cynric. ‘That is why I sensed this church is more sad than haunted!’

‘And they disguised the odour of decay with animals,’ Michael went on. ‘Cats and a pi—’

‘Perhaps Frost is right,’ interrupted Marmaduke, apparently unwilling for Helen to be reminded of that particular beast. ‘Leave me to deal with Dalfeld, while you go. I will not let you down.’

‘Yes,’ said Frost, relieved. He held out his hand. ‘Come, Helen.’

Bartholomew willed her to go, leaving him just Marmaduke and the two guards to tackle, but she hesitated. ‘It should not have ended like this,’ she said softly. ‘I wanted to help Michaelhouse, not deprive it of members.’

‘Help Michaelhouse,’ mused Michael. ‘You have said from the start that we should have Huntington because it is what Zouche wanted. Is that what this is about? Zouche?’

‘My uncle was the kindest man who ever lived,’ said Helen softly.

‘He was,’ agreed a new voice, and it was all Bartholomew could do to prevent himself from reacting when he saw Isabella. ‘Unlike his selfish, treacherous executors.’

‘You should have stayed in the minster,’ said Helen, moving quickly to embrace her cousin. ‘There was no need for you to have come.’

‘I wanted to be here,’ Isabella assured her. ‘Besides, the minster is more like a fish-market than a house of prayer at the moment, and I could not concentrate on my devotions.’

‘Everything is in place,’ Helen assured her. ‘Anketil died before we could get him, but Dalfeld is expected at any moment. Then we shall seal the door, leaving him to die here in terror.’

‘At the same time ensuring that dear Cotyngham is buried with his beloved congregation for all eternity,’ finished Isabella, smiling. ‘But why are Cynric and Michael here? We have no grudge against them. Indeed, our uncle would want them returned safely to Cambridge.’

‘Yes, but unfortunately they stumbled across our plan, so they must die, too,’ explained Helen. ‘Our revenge is almost complete, and I am unwilling to forgo it, even for them.’

Isabella inclined her head. ‘However, we cannot wait for Dalfeld. He is notoriously unpunctual, and I would sooner send him poison. The scholars shall have the crypt to themselves.’

‘Thank God!’ breathed Frost. ‘Someone who sees sense at last.’

‘Is Zouche’s last will and testament the reason you have done all this?’ asked Michael, to prevent them from leaving. Frost had taken Helen’s arm and was guiding her towards the steps, while the soldiers now toted mallets. ‘Because its terms were not fulfilled?’

Bartholomew was in an agony of indecision. Should he attack now? Or wait, and hope he would be able to rescue Michael and Cynric after the scaffolding had been knocked down? But one glance at the now-sagging ceiling told him it would collapse long before he could reach them. Meanwhile, Michael’s question had caught Isabella’s attention. Like all people with a cause, she was eager to explain why she was right.

‘Our uncle wanted to be buried in a chantry chapel, and asked nine men to see it finished,’ she said bitterly. ‘With the exception of Marmaduke, they all failed him.’

‘He gave them money, property and promotions when he was alive,’ added Helen, pulling away from Frost, much to his agitated exasperation. ‘He loved them and trusted them. But they took what he gave, then declined to carry out their end of the bargain. They were not dishonest – they stole nothing – but they allowed the fund to evaporate through laziness and incompetence.’

‘So you killed them,’ said Michael in disgust. ‘Starting with Christopher five years ago, and followed by Neville, Welton, Playce, Stiendby, Ferriby and Roger. Fournays is easy to hoodwink – he gave verdicts of spotted liver and debility. But what happened to Roger? Did he hurl himself into the King’s Fishpool in his final agonies, allowing Fournays to say he drowned?’

‘There was no agony – he simply fell. We are not monsters.’ Isabella sounded indignant that he might think so. ‘Alice dabbles in the dark arts, and I read about this particular compound in one of her books – a substance that kills quickly, but with no pain. None of them suffered, I assure you.’

‘Alice knows nothing of our work, before you ask,’ added Helen. ‘She would not approve.’

‘So that vicar with the big teeth – Ferriby – was right when he claimed he had been poisoned,’ said Michael, gabbling now. ‘It was not just because he was old and addled.’

‘He became suspicious after Christopher and Neville,’ explained Isabella with a grimace. ‘We wanted to dispatch him sooner, but he was too careful. Of course, the foolish man never asked
why
there were designs on his miserable life. If he had, he might have finished the chantry chapel, and thus been spared.’

‘But Dalfeld is not an executor,’ said Michael. ‘Why should he—’

‘He was our uncle’s lawyer,’ replied Isabella, all righteous indignation. ‘He had a moral responsibility to see his wishes fulfilled. But he did not bother.’

‘Zouche would not have wanted this!’ cried Michael, as they all turned to go. He sounded frantic, and Cynric shot an agonised glance in Bartholomew’s direction, urging him to act. ‘He—’

‘Do you not comprehend the enormity of the crime against him?’ flared Isabella, with such passion that Michael flinched. ‘His inept executors have interfered with the progress of his immortal soul! He might be trapped in Purgatory for ever without his obits, and—’