Mystery in the Minster (9 page)

‘Perhaps we should accept Oustwyk’s offer of a counterfeiter,’ suggested Langelee, quite seriously. ‘It may be the only way to win.’

‘Absolutely not,’ said Radeford firmly. ‘I will not be party to anything dishonest, so please do not propose it again, Master. We shall acquire Huntington fairly, or not at all.’

‘But—’ began Langelee.

‘No,’ said Radeford, holding up a hand to stop him. ‘I have never won a case by cheating, and I am not about to start now. We shall conduct ourselves in an ethical manner, or I am going home.’

Bartholomew nodded approval at Radeford’s stance, although Langelee and Michael exchanged a pained glance. Rather stiffly, the Master growled something about questioning fletchers about the arrow, and Cynric offered to go with him. Equally cool, Michael said that he, Radeford and Bartholomew should visit the minster library before any more of the day was lost.

‘All of us must look for the codicil,’ said Michael warningly, seeing Bartholomew brighten at the prospect of a few hours among medical texts. ‘We cannot afford time for pleasure until we have it. Once we do, you may read your ghoulish books to your heart’s content. But not before.’

Bartholomew opened his mouth to point out that he was supposed to be resting, but the monk was already striding away. Bartholomew trailed after him resentfully, then stopped when he saw Fournays by the precinct gate. The surgeon had finished settling Sir William, and was on his way to St Leonard’s Hospital, where a resident had an unusual kind of flux. He invited Bartholomew to accompany him.

‘Oh, you must go,’ said Michael acidly, not breaking step. ‘Radeford and I do not mind labouring while you enjoy yourself.’

He was startled when Bartholomew took him at his word, and abandoned his duties without a backward glance. The physician experienced a momentary twinge of guilt, but reminded himself that he had been dragged the length of the country with promises of great libraries and hospitals, so he was within his rights to take advantage of opportunities to inspect them.

However, any remorse he might have harboured was forgotten when he stepped into St Leonard’s. The first thing he noticed was its spotless floors, and the second the scent of herbs known for their cleansing properties. The laundry far exceeded his expectations, and bedding, clothes and bandages were washed regularly and thoroughly. One of the resident physicians even confided that he frequently rinsed his hands, something unheard of in Cambridge, where Bartholomew’s insistence on it was regarded as an irrational but largely harmless eccentricity that came from his studying medicine under an Arab tutor.

For several hours Bartholomew was shown every corner of the foundation, after which Fournays was summoned to the scene of an accident. Bartholomew went with him, and the resulting surgery took some time, so it was dark by the time he returned to the abbey, wet and cold, but delighted to have learned a new technique for treating head wounds. York, he decided, was going to be far more interesting than Langelee had promised – and the Master had painted an absurdly rosy picture of the place.

Bartholomew arrived at the hospitium to find that Langelee had forgiven Radeford for refusing to be corrupted, although his red, sweaty face said it had been done with copious quantities of wine. Michael’s rosy cheeks indicated that the Master was not the only one who had been drinking. Radeford was writing at a table, squinting in the unsteady light of a guttering candle, and Cynric was still out.

‘The minster library was locked, and no one knew where the Dean had put the key,’ said Michael. ‘So Radeford and I spent the afternoon talking to the canons instead. They all agree that Zouche did intend Michaelhouse to have
Huntington, and he talked about it often in the weeks before his death. They are sure a codicil to his will exists.’

‘Our situation is looking more promising,’ nodded Radeford. ‘Afterwards, we met Lady Helen, and she invited us for wine and cakes. Isabella was with her.’ His expression was oddly dreamy.

‘I think I might make a play for her,’ slurred Langelee. ‘Helen, I mean. Isabella is too skinny, and I like a woman with a bit of meat on her bones. What do you think?’

‘Isabella is not skinny,’ objected Radeford. ‘She has a perfect figure.’

‘I imagine Lady Helen has better taste than to fall for you, Master,’ said Michael rather coolly. ‘You are not much of a catch.’

‘And you are?’ asked Langelee archly, snapping his fingers at Bartholomew to indicate that he wanted some claret. The physician obliged only because pouring it himself meant he could water it down. He did the same for Michael, feeling both had had enough.

‘She could do worse,’ Michael flashed back. He viewed himself as a svelte Adonis, and thought women did, too. Oddly, many fell prey to the illusion, and Bartholomew could only suppose they saw something invisible to him, because as far as he was concerned, Michael was a long way from being the answer to any lady’s dreams.

‘You cannot court Helen,’ argued Langelee. ‘Not in a city full of Benedictines. Your fellow monastics would notice, and we might be asked to leave this nice hospitium.’

‘Perhaps you should both leave her alone,’ said Bartholomew, going to kneel by the fire. ‘Her protector Gisbyrn is accused of shooting Sir William – maybe he reacts violently to any would-be suitors.’

‘You are only saying that because you want to ravish her,’ said Langelee accusingly.

Bartholomew shook his head, declining to admit that he would not refuse an opportunity to spend time in the company of a woman like Helen. ‘I have no intention of ravishing anyone.’

‘Why not?’ pressed Langelee. ‘And do not say it is because you still hanker after Matilde – she is long gone, and you will never see her again. I thought you understood that, which is why you have started to pay the occasional visit to—’

‘I will never forget Matilde,’ said Bartholomew quickly, before the Master could reveal something he had believed was private.

‘Visits to whom?’ asked Michael keenly.

‘No one,’ said Bartholomew, glancing warningly at Langelee to tell him that he was not the only one with secrets. Langelee, who had been about to supply an answer, shut his mouth abruptly.

‘Helen is nothing special,’ said Radeford, in the silence that followed. ‘But Isabella is a fine lady. Intelligent, too, with her opinions about theology. I was impressed with her analysis of the nominalism–realism debate.’

‘I was not,’ said Michael. ‘And neither would you have been, had you been listening and not gazing at her chest. She showed a feeble grasp of the main issues.’

Radeford’s dismissive gesture showed he thought Michael was wrong. ‘I shall take a wife soon,’ he announced, somewhat out of the blue. ‘I like Michaelhouse, but I do not intend to be there for ever. I want to be married.’

‘Well, do not set your sights on Isabella,’ warned Langelee, holding out his cup for more wine ‘She is a novice, and there are rules against that sort of thing. Besides, she is rather religious, and I doubt you will win in a contest with God.’

He was about to add something else when the door
opened and Cynric strolled in. The book-bearer went to kneel next to Bartholomew, stretching chilled hands towards the flames.

‘One of the vicars-choral is dead,’ he said casually. ‘Murdered. I just heard it from Oustwyk.’

‘How does Oustwyk know it was murder?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Because the victim – his name was Ferriby – claimed he was poisoned,’ replied Cynric. ‘Apparently, he was struck down when he was saying an obit for a man called Myton.’

‘Ferriby?’ asked Langelee, and the urgency in his voice made the others regard him in alarm. ‘He was one of Zouche’s executors. Lord! I hope no one thinks we had anything to do with it!’

The next day began with rain hammering on the roof, loudly enough to startle even Bartholomew awake, and he was a notoriously heavy sleeper. Instinctively, he scanned the ceiling for leaks, because it was something that had to be done at Michaelhouse. There was no sign of seepage at the hospitium, however – it was far too well built. For the first time in years, he lay back and enjoyed the sense of being comfortably warm and dry while the weather raged outside.

‘We have a lot to do today,’ announced Michael, emerging from behind the screen with cloak and hat in place. With a start, Bartholomew saw the others were ready, too, and he was the only one still in bed. Hastily, he crawled out and began to shave, astonished when he discovered that the water was hot, an unheard of luxury at home. ‘First and most important is to locate the codicil.’

‘We should examine the original will, too,’ added Radeford. ‘We have been told it contains nothing about Huntington, but it would be remiss not to check it for ourselves. Apparently, Dalfeld has it at his home on the Ouse Bridge.’

‘We shall do both without delay,’ determined Langelee. He was pale that morning, indicating he felt unwell after his excesses of the previous night. ‘And then I shall visit Lady Helen again.’

‘You do not have time for philandering,’ said Michael shortly. ‘The abbey will not allow us to stay here free of
charge indefinitely, and the most we can hope to inveigle out of them is a week. After that, we shall be asked for a contribution, and we do not have enough to return home as it is.’

‘
You
do,’ said Langelee accusingly. ‘You have a personal supply. I have seen it.’

‘So do you,’ countered Michael. ‘But mine is for the bribes that might be required to secure Huntington. And perhaps the occasional meal.’

‘I have some,’ said Bartholomew, showing them the coins Fournays had given him for his part in tending Sir William. It was a generous sum, far more than he would have earned in Cambridge.

‘Good,’ said Langelee, taking most of it and putting it in the purse that held the meagre funds Michaelhouse had allocated. ‘You can use the rest to buy yourself a hat, because you look deranged in Cynric’s. But then again, it might put Helen off you, so perhaps you should keep it.’

‘Here is breakfast,’ said Michael, ignoring him as Oustwyk ushered in lay-brothers bearing trays. ‘I was beginning to think we were not going to be provided with any, and I am hungry.’

‘The pottage is good,’ said Radeford, tasting it with his grubby silver spoon. ‘But it would be more appetising served in a smaller bowl. I am unused to eating from pails.’

‘So are we all,’ said Langelee, quite untruthfully, as he vied with Michael for the largest portions of cold meat. He glanced at the lawyer. ‘Did I see you helping Isabella with her play about the whore last night? Or did I imagine it?’

‘It is about a saint,’ objected Radeford. ‘And Isabella told me that it contains some especially interesting theological observations about the Creation.’

‘Not theological observations,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘More an examination of harmony—’

‘If so, then Abbot Multone is right to say the citizens of York will be disappointed,’ interrupted Langelee. ‘Because I can tell you now that they would rather hear about the whore. You should persuade her to abandon it. I can suggest some suitable alternatives.’

Bartholomew was sure he could, and was equally sure they would not be plays with which Isabella would want to be associated. He said nothing, hurrying to finish dressing and eat at the same time, so as not to delay their departure. Cynric had sponged the revolting mess from his cloak, so it was fit to be worn again, although it occurred to him that it was preferable to be pelted with slime than with arrows.

When they went outside, it was to find Oustwyk waiting with a message: Archbishop Thoresby wanted them to visit him at the minster at their earliest convenience.

‘He means now,’ translated Langelee. ‘And we had better not annoy him by dallying, because he might be able to influence our case.’

The rain had eased, but it had left the streets thick with mud, and Bartholomew’s feet were soon sodden. They stopped at a shop on Petergate, where he gazed in awe at the number and variety of hats for sale. Oustwyk had not been exaggerating when he had said anything could be purchased in York, and the physician had never seen such plenty; there was certainly nothing like it in Cambridge. His eye lit on a handsome green item, which he knew Matilde would have liked.

‘No,’ said Langelee, taking it from him and selecting a drab brown one instead. ‘If Cynric and Radeford are right, and you were the intended target of that murderous attack yesterday, we do not want to encourage the villain to try again by wearing brazenly distinctive clothing.’

Bartholomew supposed he was right, but resented the fact that buying a hat he did not like took every penny remaining of the fee he had earned from Sir William, leaving him as impecunious as he had been when he had arrived.

They had just entered the minster precinct, all alert for hissing arrows, when they met the vicars-choral, who were processing to their prayers. As the priests’ wooden pattens clattered on the cobbles, Bartholomew was reminded of a herd of performing ponies he had once seen in Spain. Careful to keep the priests between him and St Mary ad Valvas, Michael waylaid them.

‘We were sorry to hear about Ferriby,’ he said gently. ‘It is never easy to lose a friend.’

Bartholomew and Radeford added their condolences, and most of the vicars seemed pleased to accept them. Ellis remained cold and aloof, though, and his henchman Cave’s expression was one of smouldering dislike.