Mystery in the Minster: The Seventeenth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 16

  ‘You did not pray to St Sampson in the minster last night,’ said Marmaduke accusingly, cowering with his hands over his head. ‘I waited, but you never came.’

  ‘Are you going somewhere?’ asked Michael, grabbing Bartholomew’s reins and thus saving the physician both from trampling a pedestrian and the need to respond to the accusation.

  ‘Huntington,’ replied Marmaduke, seeing he was safe so turning to untie the reins of a pony from a rail. ‘With you. I have family there, you see.’

  ‘This is not a pleasure jaunt,’ Langelee snapped angrily. ‘Our colleague died last night, and we are not in the mood for merry chattering.’

  ‘No,’ said Marmaduke softly. ‘Oustwyk told me, and I am sorry. I shall say a prayer for him over holy Sampson’s toe tonight.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Michael quietly. ‘It is appreciated.’

  ‘However, I am not going to Huntington for my own benefit,’ the ex-priest went on. ‘I am going for yours – I intend to ask my Huntington kin whether they know anything about the codicil. As I said when we first met, I would like to see the church go where Zouche intended. You seem to be making scant headway on your own, so it is time for me to intervene.’

  ‘You can intervene all you like,’ said Dalfeld coldly. ‘You will still not prevail.’

  When Marmaduke did not grace the remark with a reply, Michael asked him, ‘Did you see Zouche destroy the original codicil – the one that left Huntington to the vicars? We have witnesses who—’

  ‘Rubbish!’ snapped Dalfeld. ‘Zouche would not have done anything of the kind.’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ replied Marmaduke, shooting the lawyer a defiant glance. ‘I saw him tear it up.’

  Dalfeld began to interrogate him, while Michael and Langelee exchanged a triumphant glance.

  ‘You both know Marmaduke is lying,’ whispered Bartholomew reproachfully. ‘Zouche told both Anketil and Penterel that he had burned the original codicil, not ripped it to pieces. We cannot permit perjury on our account.’

  Langelee looked ready to argue, but Dalfeld quickly tied Marmaduke’s testimony in logistical knots, and even the Master was forced to concede that the ex-priest’s well-meaning fabrications would do their case more harm than good.

  Seeing he was bested, Marmaduke climbed sulkily on his pony, leaving Dalfeld grinning in triumph. On another day, Bartholomew might have been amused to note that the ex-priest’s barrel-shaped mount possessed a crab-like gait that was disconcertingly similar to its owner’s, but he was disinclined to see humour in anything that morning.

  Once they had seen Michael safely inside the minster, the little party rode north, exiting the city through a handsome gate named Monk Bar. Outside the city walls, the houses grew smaller and poorer, until a little leper hospital marked the last of the buildings. The countryside beyond had a brown, drowned look, and great shallow pools covered the fields. The River Foss kept them company on their right, swollen and urgent from the recent rains.

  ‘It was not like this when we arrived,’ remarked Langelee. ‘Then the sky was blue and the sun was warm, like summer. Do you recall how York glittered so splendidly on our first morning? Its stones painted gold by a fine dawn, and its houses shades of pink and yellow? I am astonished at how quickly it has changed.’

  Cynric glanced up at the sky, a solid ceiling of unbroken grey. ‘I told you during that first shower on Monday that it was an omen – that something bad would happen to us. And I was right. First Doctor Bartholomew narrowly escaped being shot, and now Radeford …’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Langelee briskly. ‘There is nothing supernatural about nice weather turning sour. It happens all the time, even in Cambridge. I was only remarking on how much difference a spot of sunshine can do to a place.’

  Cynric did not look convinced. He glanced at the river, flowing fast and silent at their side. ‘Do you think it will burst its banks? It is very high.’

  ‘Sheep,’ said Bartholomew. Master and book-bearer regarded him askance, and he hastened to explain. ‘I always feel sorry for sheep when there are floods. They seem in capable of knowing how to save themselves, and they either drown or starve. And their feet rot, too.’

  ‘I did not know that,’ said Langelee, in the kind of voice that suggested he wished he had not been told, either.

  While Cynric huddled deeper inside his hood, Langelee began conversing with Marmaduke, and Bartholomew could tell by the tone of his voice that a crude interrogation was in progress. He tuned it out, wanting to be alone with his thoughts, so was not pleased when Dalfeld came to ride next to him.

  ‘What happened to Radeford?’ the lawyer asked with unseemly interest. ‘There are all manner of rumours, including one that says he was shot, like Sir William.’

  Bartholomew did not want to discuss Radeford with Dalfeld, especially with Oustwyk turning in his saddle to listen. ‘He was not shot,’ he said shortly, hoping his unfriendly tone would discourage further questions.

  Prudently, Dalfeld did not press the matter. ‘Do not believe anything Marmaduke tells you, by the way,’ he whispered instead, lowering his voice so Oustwyk would not hear. ‘Myton did the right thing when he exposed his deceitful ways and got him defrocked.’

  Bartholomew frowned. ‘Myton did?’

  ‘I knew Myton well, because he was my client. At least, he was my client until he could no longer afford me. He caught Marmaduke selling false relics, and Archbishop Thoresby punished him by banning him from the Church.’

  Bartholomew was bemused by the confidence. ‘But Marmaduke guards Sampson’s toe now. Is that not akin to putting a fox in charge of the hencoop?’

  Dalfeld smirked. ‘It is probably a fake, which is why no one is worried. Of course, Marmaduke claims he committed his crimes to raise money for Zouche’s chantry. His conscience was pricking, you see: he had failed to do what Zouche had asked of him as an executor.’

  ‘If that was his motive, then his punishment seems unduly harsh.’

  ‘Thoresby probably had other reasons for ousting him. I have done my best to discover them, but have met with no success as yet. Still, I shall persevere – my interest is pricked by the matter now. Perhaps you will let me know if you hear anything?’

  Bartholomew did not reply, finding the tale and the lawyer’s request distasteful. He coaxed his horse into a trot, so he could ride with Oustwyk instead, but soon realised his mistake when the steward began to quiz him about Radeford.

  ‘Then tell me about your other investigations,’ Oustwyk invited, when Bartholomew declined to answer. ‘I will inform Abbot Multone on your behalf, and thus save you an interview.’

  ‘I cannot,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘They are not mine to discuss.’

  When he saw the physician would be a poor source of gossip, Oustwyk regaled him with his theories regarding the French spies instead, and was so eager to assure him that they infested every part of the city except his own that Bartholomew wondered afresh whether his suspicions about the man might be true. All in all, he was relieved when he spotted a stout tower among the trees ahead.

  ‘Yes, it is Huntington,’ replied Oustwyk, shooting him a resentful scowl for interrupting. ‘The manor and most of the village is on this side of the river, and the church is on the other. There is a bridge, but it gets washed away a lot, so be careful when you cross it.’

  ‘You are not coming with us?’ asked Bartholomew.

  The steward shook his head. ‘I never use bridges when the rivers are in full spate. Besides, I have friends in the village, and they will provide me with a little innocent chitchat. Unlike you, who has barely spared me two words. Can you find your own way home? I may be some time.’

  Bartholomew was inordinately grateful when Oustwyk, Dalfeld and Marmaduke took the track that led to the manor, leaving him alone with Langelee and Cynric.

  ‘What did you learn from them?’ he asked of the Master, as they rode towards the bridge.

  ‘Nothing,’ replied Langelee irritably. ‘Dalfel
d declined to talk and Marmaduke knows little, despite his eagerness to help. He assures me that there will be more than one copy of the codicil, but cannot suggest where we might look for them. But he says he will ask his kin today.’

  ‘Dalfeld told me that Marmaduke was defrocked for selling false relics,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And was exposed by the ubiquitous Myton.’

  ‘I will not hear anything against Myton,’ said Langelee sharply. ‘He was a good man. Besides, I had that particular tale from Oustwyk yesterday. Myton did catch Marmaduke selling snail shells from his garden, and telling gullible pilgrims they came from Jesus’s tomb. But it was not Myton’s fault the matter went so far.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Myton told Thoresby, because he felt Marmaduke should be officially admonished. But it happened at a time when such crimes were rife, and Thoresby decided he had to make an example. Myton would not have blabbed had he foreseen the consequences, especially as Marmaduke was hawking the snails to raise funds for Zouche’s chantry.’

  ‘What about the rumour that Myton was murdered?’ asked Cynric. ‘Do you think Marmaduke killed him in revenge?’

  ‘Those tales are vicious lies,’ said Langelee shortly. ‘Fournays examined Myton’s body, and states quite categorically that there was no evidence of foul play. I imagine the tale was started by someone like Dalfeld, for no purpose other than malice.’

  ‘It seems to me that Zouche’s death has caused problems for all manner of people,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘His executors neglected to finish his chantry, so must live with the guilt of failing him; it led Marmaduke to raise money by dubious means, resulting in his expulsion from the Church; it dragged us away from Cambridge to secure a benefaction, and now Radeford is dead …’ He trailed off unhappily.

  ‘And Zouche’s death caused me to leave York,’ finished Langelee. ‘I would have stayed had he not died and left me with a master who is not his equal.’

  They soon reached the wooden bridge that spanned the churning Foss. It creaked ominously as the water hurtled past, and Bartholomew thought Oustwyk was right in refusing to brave it.

  ‘Cynric can stay here with the horses,’ determined Langelee. ‘We cannot risk them.’

  ‘What about the risk to Doctor Bartholomew?’ asked Cynric indignantly. ‘Surely he is worth more than a winded nag?’

  ‘There is not much to choose between them, Cynric,’ replied Langelee mildly. ‘Although I was actually thinking of the danger posed by their added weight. But we shall run across the bridge, so it does not have time to think about collapsing. Follow me, Bartholomew.’

  He had dismounted and raced to the opposite bank before Bartholomew could point out the flaws in his argument. With no choice, the physician did likewise. Cynric, unwilling to waste his time, tethered the horses in a thicket, and disappeared towards the village, calling as he went that he would make some enquiries of his own. If he heard Langelee’s irritable yell that it was not a good idea to leave horses unattended, he paid it no heed.

  The two scholars walked in silence, the only sounds being the occasional trill of a robin, the patter of rain on leaves and the squelch of mud. It was not many moments before they reached the church, a half-derelict building set in a grove of oaks. There was a tiny cottage nearby, its vaguely abandoned air suggesting it had been Cotyngham’s. Several more shacks stood behind it.

  ‘It represents employment for one of our student-priests, and the chance of income for the College,’ said Langelee, more to himself than Bartholomew. ‘We are not so wealthy that we can pick and choose. Although I was hoping for something a little grander …’

  ‘We were warned,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Cave said it was poor.’

  Langelee looked around disparagingly. ‘“Poor” does not come close to describing it! I never had cause to visit when I worked for Zouche. Now I see why: there is nothing here. However, I remember Cotyngham being pleased when Zouche arranged for him to have it after he lost his St Mary ad Valvas congregation. Perhaps he was mad even then.’

  ‘I imagine it is pretty in summer, and the duties cannot be taxing. Zouche was kind to have found such a refuge for a grief-stricken man.’

  ‘Zouche was compassionate,’ said Langelee sadly. ‘It was one of his greatest failings.’

  They entered the church, to find it dark, damp and plain. There had once been paintings on the walls, but these had long since peeled away, and the beaten-earth floor was sticky from the leaking roof. But there were flowers and a clean cloth on the altar, and someone had trimmed the candles. The place might be poor, but it was loved.

  They had not been there long before the door opened, and several people entered. All had tied oiled cloths around their heads and shoulders as protection against the weather.

  ‘Cambridge,’ said one, and spat, which told the scholars all they needed to know about what he thought of men from distant towns who came to claim his church.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Langelee with a scowl that was equally unfriendly. ‘We came to see if anyone can tell us what happened to Cotyngham.’

  ‘And to look at what you think should be yours,’ countered the man resentfully.

  ‘Would you rather have the vicars-choral, then?’ asked Langelee archly. ‘Ellis and Cave?’

  The man spat again. ‘Vultures! They came here, you know. A few days before poor Father Cotyngham was taken ill.’

  ‘What did they do?’

  ‘Exactly what you are doing – nosing around.’

  ‘Did they talk to Cotyngham?’

  ‘Of course. They spent a long time in his house together.’

  ‘Did he have visitors after that?’

  The man shrugged. ‘Maybe he did, and maybe he didn’t. We were out in the fields, because the weather was good then, and we could plant.’

  ‘But you saw Ellis and Cave?’ pressed Langelee.

  ‘Yes. Do you want to inspect the house, too? I imagine your shabby companion is eager to know where he will live when he takes up his duties as our vicar.’

  He pointed at Bartholomew, who supposed the miserable weather had taken its toll on his once-fine tunic and warm winter cloak. He would not have said he was shabby, though.

  ‘I will not be your priest,’ he replied, offended. ‘I am a physician.’

  The man’s eyes widened in disbelief. ‘A physician? Prove it. Give me a remedy for something.’

  ‘Anything in particular?’ asked Bartholomew coolly, aware that Langelee was smirking.

  The man considered carefully, while his friends murmured suggestions in his ear. ‘Chilblains,’ he said eventually. ‘Cure my chilblains.’

  Chilblains were a common complaint at Michaelhouse, where feet were often cold and shoes rarely had the chance to dry, so Bartholomew had had plenty of opportunity to develop lotions that worked. He removed a pot from his bag, and indicated that the man was to sit. While he worked, the atmosphere began to thaw, and the fellow he was tending said his name was John Keysmaby.

  ‘We liked Cotyngham,’ he said. ‘Our church is poor so did not provide him with much money, but what he had he gave away. He is generous and kind, and we are sorry he is unwell.’

  ‘Do you know what happened?’ asked Bartholomew.

  Keysmaby shook his head. ‘After the vicars-choral left, he kept to his house. A few mornings later, we found the door open and him gone. A week after that, Prior Stayndrop sent a pair of quarrelling friars to tell us he would not be coming back. Is it true? Can he not be cured?’

  ‘I do not know,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps in time.’

  ‘But even if he does rally, Prior Stayndrop told us he would keep him in York,’ said Keysmaby sadly. ‘We did not even have a chance to say goodbye.’

  When Bartholomew had finished with the chilblains, he and Langelee were conducted to the little priest’s house. Cotyngham had lived a simple life, and had owned virtually nothing in the way of property, although there were two scrolls on a shelf above the hearth.
Bartholomew took them down, while Langelee poked about behind the bed and under the table.

  ‘He was given those by Archbishop Zouche,’ said Keysmaby, nodding at the scrolls.

  They were compilations of theological debates, and when he started to read, Bartholomew discovered that they had been written by Jorden and Mardisley. Cotyngham had made copious notes in the margins, and it was clear he had enjoyed studying them.

  ‘The quarrelling priests had invited him to York, to join in one of their rows,’ said Keysmaby. He shook his head, obviously unable to see the appeal. ‘He was actually looking forward to it. Incidentally, we cleaned the house after he left. It was a bit smelly, and we wanted it nice for him when he came back. So we came in and scrubbed it from top to bottom.’

  ‘That was kind,’ said Bartholomew, supposing there was no point examining the place for evidence of a struggle now. ‘I do not suppose you found any documents, did you?’

  Keysmaby shook his head. ‘And we did not find the church silver, either. He must have taken it with him when he went to York.’

  ‘Or the vicars stole it when they visited,’ said Langelee, as he and Bartholomew walked back to the bridge. ‘It seems to me that they might have driven him mad, perhaps by saying or doing something to frighten him out of his wits.’

  ‘It is possible,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘But Keysmaby and his friends were in the fields, so did not see whether anyone else came, too. You cannot prove the vicars are responsible.’

  ‘And you cannot prove they were not,’ countered Langelee. He waved something. ‘Besides, I found this – part of a lace from a shoe. And we all know the vicars have a penchant for nice footwear.’

  It was a short leather cord, one that was an unusual shade of gold and frayed at one end. It was distinctive, and Bartholomew imagined it would not be difficult to identify its owner.

  ‘Unfortunately, it proves nothing except that they were here,’ he said. ‘And that has never been contested.’