Mystery in the Minster: The Seventeenth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Read online

  ‘I wish I could help, Brother,’ said Prior Chozaico apologetically. ‘But I have no idea who might want to harm Sir William or why Cotyngham became ill. He was well enough when I last saw him, which was perhaps six weeks ago. I happened to pass his cottage when I was out inspecting one of our farms, and he invited me in for warmed wine.’

  ‘And he seemed normal to you?’ pressed Michael. ‘No signs of poor health?’

  ‘None at all. He was as hale and hearty as you are.’

  ‘And as regards Sir William, I assumed the arrow was meant for one of you scholars,’ added Anketil. ‘I imagine a death in your party would encourage the rest of you to run for home.’

  ‘That suggests you believe a vicar is responsible,’ pounced Michael.

  Anketil shrugged. ‘They stand to lose a church if you win your claim.’

  ‘We have been told to ask whether you saw Zouche destroy the old codicil – the one that left Huntington to the vicars,’ said Michael. ‘Zouche told Prior Penterel that he had done it, but there were no witnesses to the discussion.’

  ‘Zouche told me he had burned it, too,’ replied Anketil. ‘And that he planned to make another favouring Michaelhouse within the week. Unfortunately, no one was witness to my conversation, either. I wish I could help, Brother, I really do. Zouche was a dear friend, and there is nothing I would like more than for Huntington to go where he intended.’

  Michael grimaced. Wishes would not help, no matter how fervent and well meaning.

  ‘However, I shall hunt out all the documents I kept pertaining to Zouche’s will,’ Anketil went on. ‘Do not be too hopeful, though, because I doubt they will be of much use to you. But it may be worth a try.’

  It might, and Michael was grateful. He was about to say so, but the crowd began to press around them with distinct menace, and the word ‘spies’ could be heard. Chozaico bowed briefly, and muttered that he was required to be elsewhere, but Anketil lingered, attempting to render himself incognito by raising his hood. He went to stand with Marmaduke, who was also watching the proceedings; people seemed less inclined to hound him with the squat ex-priest scowling at his side.

  Next, Michael walked towards a group of vicars-choral. They were watching from the bridge, unwilling to spoil their fine footwear in the mud of the pond’s shore.

  ‘Of course we are aware of Cotyngham’s indisposition,’ said Ellis, while his colleagues nodded agreement. ‘Although we do not know precisely what ails him. However, we suspect it is an affliction of the mind, because otherwise Stayndrop would have provided more detail.’

  ‘We had nothing to do with it, though,’ stated Cave, his small eyes cold and hard. ‘And anyone who says we did is a liar.’

  ‘It had not occurred to me to think it might,’ lied Michael. ‘Although your raising of the subject is certainly enlightening.’

  ‘God’s nails!’ swore Ellis suddenly, before Cave could respond. ‘The Carmelites are coming this way, and I have not forgiven them yet for taking us to court for stealing their topsoil.’

  ‘Did you steal their topsoil?’ asked Michael.

  ‘No,’ snapped Ellis, backing away hastily, Cave hot on his heels. Jafford lingered to elaborate, his expression sheepish and his fair curls sodden around his angelic face.

  ‘Well, it went from their garden to ours, but “steal” is too strong a word. We offered to pay.’

  When Jafford had hurried after his fellows, Michael tried to speak to the Carmelites, intending to resume the discussion that had been interrupted earlier, but the mud-lobbing potter reappeared, and they made themselves scarce when several white habits were spoiled by his missiles.

  ‘Personally, I suspect they shot Sir William.’ Michael jumped: he had not known Oustwyk was behind him. ‘And I am sure they are in league with the French spies. Them and Chozaico.’

  ‘You cannot believe that,’ said Michael coolly. He did not like the steward’s spiteful tongue. ‘Chozaico is a fellow Benedictine.’

  ‘So what?’ demanded Oustwyk. ‘Not everyone who wears a black habit is decent. Of course, I suspect Dalfeld of sly dealings, too. He always appears when there is evil afoot. Look – there he is now, rubbing his hands over the prospect of a corpse, like a ghoul.’

  Michael supposed Dalfeld’s interest in the body was distastefully salacious, but before he could approach the lawyer and challenge him about it, Lady Helen appeared, riding over the bridge with a party of horsemen. She reined in to see what was happening, and Frost, who was behind her, dismounted to take her bridle. Michael grabbed it first, and the pony snickered its appreciation when he rubbed its nose: the monk had a way with horses. Helen smiled at this unanticipated talent, while Frost scowled jealously. She ignored him, and asked Michael what was going on.

  ‘A body,’ he explained. ‘Matt and Surgeon Fournays have gone to retrieve it.’

  ‘Who is it?’ she cried in dismay.

  ‘He cannot know that yet, Helen – the boat has not yet touched the shore,’ replied the tall, handsome man who rode at her side. He inclined his head in a bow when Michael regarded him questioningly. ‘I am John Gisbyrn. I am sorry I missed you expounding on the French earlier, but Helen had already engaged me for something else.’

  ‘I asked him to go with me to the suburb we call Walmgate,’ explained Helen. ‘I lost a pig a few weeks ago, and as it is one I am fond of, we went to see whether we could find it.’

  It occurred to Michael that the animal might have wandered into St Mary ad Valvas, where it was responsible for a good deal of the reek. However, he did not want a woman he admired to see him as the bearer of bad news, so he restricted himself to a sympathetic smile.

  ‘I would have accompanied you, Helen,’ said Frost, shooting Gisbyrn a look that was full of jealous resentment. ‘Indeed, I came to help as soon as I had finished in the abbey.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Helen impatiently. Then she seemed to realise this was rude, and forced a smile. Frost flushed almost as deep a red as his hair, and Michael did not think he had ever seen a man more obviously smitten.

  ‘How is Sir William?’ asked Gisbyrn, whose eyes were fixed on the boat and its grim cargo. ‘He might be kin to the reprehensible Longton, but I admire him even so. He is a good man, and I hope whoever shot him is brought to justice.’

  ‘There are those who say it was you,’ said Michael. He glanced at Frost. ‘Or your associates.’

  ‘I know,’ sighed Gisbyrn. ‘But I can assure you that we had nothing to do with it.’

  It was not the most vigorous denial Michael had ever heard, but Gisbyrn made no effort to add more. He kicked his horse into a trot, and directed it to where Bartholomew was beginning to manoeuvre the boat through the reeds at the side of the pond. Helen lingered to ask about progress with Huntington, Frost a looming and unwelcome presence at her side.

  ‘Cotyngham is still witless?’ she breathed in horror, when the monk had provided her with an account of the hapless priest’s condition. ‘Isabella told me he was so when she found him wandering on Petergate, but that was a month ago, and I did not know the condition had persisted. No wonder the Franciscans never let anyone see him! I tried, because I admire his generosity of spirit. He is a lovely—’

  ‘The boat has arrived,’ interrupted Frost, seething with jealousy at the informal way in which she had engaged the monk in conversation. ‘Now we shall know the victim’s identity.’

  Michael turned to see Bartholomew and Fournays lift the body, and lay it on the shore. Its head was plastered in mud, which Fournays began to rinse with water. Gradually, a face emerged.

  ‘It is Roger!’ cried Gisbyrn, looking down from his horse in horror. ‘My fellow merchant!’

  ‘Zouche’s brother and another of his executors,’ murmured Michael to himself. ‘And the seventh of them to die.’

  CHAPTER 5

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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