Mystery in the Minster: The Seventeenth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 15

  ‘Perhaps so, but she would be better off giving William a second chance. And if it is just a dalliance she is after, there are far more attractive candidates on offer.’

  He preened, and Bartholomew laughed, although the monk had not intended to be amusing. The wind blew suddenly, sending a flurry of spiteful droplets into their faces.

  ‘I have had enough for one day,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘We shall return to the abbey, and see whether there is anything to eat.’

  They reached the hospitium to find Radeford already there, rummaging in the saddlebag where Bartholomew kept his spare medical supplies. Cynric was by the fire, honing his sword.

  ‘There you are,’ said the lawyer, extracting a jar and squinting at the label. ‘I need a tonic for my pounding head – I have strained my eyes by reading all day in atrocious light. Thoresby should forget about raising a new chancel, and build a better library instead.’

  Bartholomew removed the pot from Radeford’s hand. He disliked his colleagues foraging for their own remedies, because he carried potions that could prove dangerous to them. ‘Swallowing this will not make you feel any better. It is a caustic solution for warts.’

  ‘I told you to wait,’ said Cynric reprovingly. ‘Besides, he keeps things in that bag … things you would not want to touch.’

  He shuddered and crossed himself, leaving Bartholomew to wonder what it was Cynric thought he had. The phys ician found a tincture of camomile and betony, and diluted it with wine.

  Radeford went to sit in one of the fireside chairs, and smiled happily. ‘I have had a wonderfully successful day. I have learned all manner of useful facts, although they were cunningly hidden and needed a lawyer to tease them out.’

  ‘Such as what?’ Bartholomew handed him the cup and watched him drain it. Some of the mixture dribbled down Radeford’s chin, obliging him to dab at it with his sleeve.

  ‘Well, I found the codicil that grants us Huntington.’ Radeford grinned when he saw his colleagues’ astonished delight. ‘I discovered it very late, when the light was all but gone, so I shall have to study it properly tomorrow, to ensure nothing is amiss.’

  ‘Amiss?’ demanded Michael in alarm. ‘What could be amiss?’

  Radeford shrugged. ‘These documents are very complex, and you can be sure that Dalfeld will pounce on any irregularities. Besides, I must convince myself that it is genuine before producing it in public. It would not be ethical otherwise.’

  ‘Sometimes I question whether you really are a lawyer,’ said Michael wonderingly. ‘I cannot imagine the likes of Dalfeld bothering with such niceties. Where did you find it?’

  Radeford chuckled. ‘In plain view, on one of the carrels. I do not understand why no one had noticed it before.’

  Michael grimaced. ‘The lost Ark of the Covenant could be in that library, and no one would spot it. The place is a disgrace. But show it to me, please. I want to see it for myself.’

  ‘Cynric told me to hide it. That medicine is not working, Bartholomew. My headache is worse.’

  ‘Give it time.’ Bartholomew turned to Cynric. ‘Why did you tell him to hide it?’

  ‘Because our bags were moved today,’ explained the book-bearer. ‘It might have been innocent – a lay-brother tidying up. But I would not put it past those vicars to sneak in and poke about.’

  ‘Good thinking,’ said Michael approvingly. ‘So where is it?’

  Radeford smiled. ‘Cynric and I are playing a game: if he can guess where I put it by morning, he will buy me a magic charm that will make Isabella fall into my arms. He may as well purchase the thing now, because he will never win this wager.’

  ‘But what if he does?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What will he gain?’

  ‘The best knife in York. But finding the codicil was not my only victory today. I also discovered letters between two of Zouche’s executors – Ralph Neville and Christopher Malore – in which it was remarked that Myton has obits galore, but Zouche is still without a chantry chapel.’

  ‘What is the significance of that?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused.

  ‘I am not sure, and as I am reliably informed that both men are dead, we cannot ask them. However, it pertains to the chantry, and Langelee is keen to learn what happened to that money, so I shall read more of their correspondence tomorrow. I hid that, too, for safe keeping. Of course, it is a minor matter compared to the third item I discovered.’

  ‘Lord!’ said Michael, round-eyed. ‘Perhaps I should retire, and let you be Senior Proctor.’

  ‘Perhaps you should, Brother,’ laughed Radeford. ‘But I did not leave that horrible room all day, not even to snatch anything to eat or drink. It was hard work.’

  ‘Your discovery,’ prompted Michael.

  ‘It is about the French spies. Zouche seems to have learned their identities hours before his death, and dictated a letter to Mayor Longton. I imagine he asked his clerk to transcribe and send it, but then he died and it was never done.’

  ‘Close your eyes,’ advised Bartholomew, seeing Radeford squint against the light. ‘And do not spend so many hours peering at poor handwriting tomorrow.’

  ‘It was worth it,’ said Radeford, doing as the physician suggested. When he next spoke, he sounded drowsy. ‘Do you want to know the traitors’ names? You will be amazed.’

  But Langelee arrived at that moment, all noise and clatter, and Radeford waved a hand to say he would reveal all once the Master had settled. Michael grimaced at being made to wait, but Bartholomew understood that Radeford wanted Langelee’s undivided attention when he informed him that he had discovered in a few hours what the Master had struggled to learn for years. It was petty, but Bartholomew was disinclined to begrudge Radeford his satisfaction.

  Langelee tugged off his sodden cloak and tossed it on the floor, then ousted Cynric from his chair, indicating at the same time that the book-bearer was to help him remove his wet boots. His voice was loud as he regaled them with an account of his day.

  ‘I passed a very pleasant morning,’ he declared. ‘But then I felt guilty, so I spent the afternoon talking to fletchers. None could identify that arrow, so I shall ask a couple more tomorrow.’

  ‘A pleasant morning doing what?’ asked Michael suspiciously.

  ‘Lady Helen,’ replied Langelee with a leering grin. ‘She entertained me royally, and although she has not succumbed to my charms yet, it is only a matter of time before she does. I predict she will fall tomorrow, because no woman can hold out against me for long.’

  Bartholomew did not want to hear it, sorry that Helen should have been the object of the Master’s rough attentions. He turned to Radeford. ‘Tell us the names of these spies.’

  ‘What spies?’ demanded Langelee immediately. ‘Not the French ones?’

  ‘What exactly did you do with Helen?’ asked Michael, before Radeford could reply.

  ‘We played exotic games.’ Langelee shot him a lascivious smirk, but there was something in the monk’s expression that made him relent. ‘Chess, and she defeated me six times.’

  ‘Nothing else?’ Michael’s face and voice were full of dark distrust.

  Langelee grimaced. ‘No, unfortunately. She was more interested in reminding me of something Dean Talerand had told her, namely that Radeford was imprisoned in the library, too busy to stop for victuals. I cannot imagine why she thought I would be interested in his doings.’

  ‘She was making the point that he was working while you were enjoying yourself,’ explained Michael curtly. ‘Although her barbs seem to have missed their mark.’

  Langelee scowled. ‘Then she should have made herself more clear. I cannot be expected to interpret obtuse remarks when I am concentrating on chess. And when she was not telling me about Radeford, she was asking me about Bartholomew. I hope he does not intend to compete for her.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Michael, rather coolly.

  Bartholomew was tempted to say it would be his business if he did, but he did not want a spat. He started to ask Radeford a
gain about the spies, but this time it was Cynric who overrode him.

  ‘St Mary ad Valvas is not cursed, you know,’ the book-bearer announced confidently.

  Langelee regarded him askance. ‘That is not what everyone else says. There is an almost universal agreement that the plague-dead haunt the place.’

  ‘Then they are wrong,’ declared Cynric firmly. ‘I went back there today, to look for more clues about the attack on Sir William. I was nervous at first, because I have a healthy respect for ghosts and the like, but there was nothing to fear. You see, I can always sense if a building is infested with evil spirits, and that one is not. It has an aura of sadness, but nothing else.’

  Bartholomew was disinclined to listen to an account of the book-bearer’s superstitions, either, and it was with some asperity that he turned back to Radeford. ‘The French spies. Who are they?’

  The lawyer did not reply.

  ‘He has fallen asleep,’ said Michael. ‘I am surprised he could with you lot braying.’

  But there was something about Radeford’s utter stillness that made Bartholomew’s stomach lurch. He stepped towards him and touched his face. The lawyer’s head lolled to one side. Bartholomew felt for a life-beat in his neck, then hauled him off the chair to the floor, where he began to press on his chest, willing the heart to start beating again. When that did not work, he pressed his mouth against Radeford’s and tried to breathe for him.

  Michael and Langelee clamoured at him, demanding to know what was happening, but he ignored them, blowing into Radeford’s lungs with increasing desperation until his own breath grew ragged and he became dizzy. Eventually, Michael laid a hand on his shoulder, to tell him to stop. Bartholomew shoved him away, although the rational part of his mind told him the situation was hopeless. Then Langelee grabbed his tunic and hauled him backwards, and he did not have the strength to resist. He let himself slump, and put his hands over his face.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Michael, after a very long silence.

  ‘Radeford is dead,’ replied Bartholomew brokenly.

  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 h
id 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.