Susanna GREGORY - Mystery in the Minster

Her plan, thought Bartholomew, relieved when she moved away, taking the lantern with her. Then it occurred to him that Frost was much more likely to follow the woman he loved down a dubious path than Gisbyrn. But what plan? And why must it necessitate their deaths?

‘I suppose so,’ said Helen with a rueful sigh, and Bartholomew saw her shoot an apologetic glance at Michael. The monk gazed back stonily.

‘Marmaduke thinks we should stay down here,’ said Frost, to reclaim her attention. ‘But it is unsafe. We should wait upstairs.’

‘Right is on our side,’ said Helen simply. ‘No harm will come to us, because we have the saints’ protection. But I need to know exactly what the scholars have learned, so we can take steps to mitigate the damage.’

‘I eavesdropped on their discussion.’ Frost was delighted to curry favour, and provided a concise account of all that had been reasoned about Cotyngham’s murder and the attempt on Dalfeld’s life. When Helen nodded approvingly, he flushed with pleasure.

‘Clearly, Ellis and the scholars were ignorant when they arrived, so the only question that remains is why he came,’ said Helen, looking hard at Cynric. With a nod, she indicated that Frost was to remove the gag from the book-bearer’s mouth.

Bartholomew looked around desperately for something he might use as a weapon, but he had dropped his medical bag and neglected to take his sword from Holy Trinity. He had nothing. Moving with infinite care, he reached towards Ellis, hoping the sub-chanter would have a knife in his belt. Most men did, even vicars, for cutting meat and paring fruit.

‘Well?’ demanded Helen. When Cynric only regarded her defiantly, she turned to the soldiers. ‘Cut off Brother Michael’s ears.’

‘No!’ shouted Cynric, when one warrior grabbed Michael’s head and the other drew a dagger. Bartholomew could only watch in horror. ‘Wait! I came because people kept telling me this place is cursed. But it is not.’

‘No?’ asked Helen coldly. ‘What makes you think so, when I have been to considerable trouble to make people believe it is?’

Bartholomew recalled that she had been the one who had first mentioned the tale to them, and that she had repeated it several times since.

‘Because I would have felt it,’ replied Cynric simply. ‘St Mary ad Valvas is sad, not haunted. So I came to see why someone should have invented such a story, and I noticed that the rubble on the top of the plague pile was different to that below – there was less moss and different weeds. The only explanation is that it was added later.’

‘So you decided to dig,’ surmised Helen. ‘Poking, where you should not have done.’

Now Bartholomew understood exactly why she had started the rumours: derelict buildings were a free source of raw materials, but she had not wanted anyone to raid St Mary ad Valvas, lest they discovered what was buried in the chancel. Of course, he still did not know why she should have hidden Cotyngham there, given that it had almost certainly been Cave who had murdered him.

Michael had been struggling with his gag while the conversation was taking place, and had managed to spit it out. Bartholomew was relieved. Perhaps the monk would talk sense into her.

‘Let Cynric go,’ Michael said quietly. ‘He has done nothing wrong.’

‘I wish I could,’ said Helen. She sounded sincere. ‘But I am afraid it is impossible.’

‘Why?’ demanded Michael.

‘Because I am righting a terrible wrong,’ replied Helen quietly. ‘I am sorry blood must be spilled in the process, especially yours, but we are not the ones who started it. My conscience is clear.’

‘Longton?’ asked Michael. ‘Is it something to do with the feud between him and Gisbyrn?’

‘You would not understand.’ Helen turned to Frost. ‘Is all ready?’

The henchman nodded. ‘A few judiciously aimed strokes with a mallet will make the scaffolding collapse, and the crypt will go with it. You were right to choose today to act: not only is everyone preoccupied with the floods, but rain will be blamed for destabilising the church, too. No one will suspect sabotage, and none of our victims will ever be found.’

There was a brief silence, during which Frost and the soldiers gazed uneasily at the ceiling, Helen smiled with a serenity that was unnerving, and Marmaduke’s face was lit with a grin that made him look deranged. Eventually, Helen turned her beatific expression on the ex-priest.

‘Where are Anketil and Dalfeld? There is no point demolishing the place if they are not in it.’

‘You intend to kill them, too?’ whispered Michael, appalled. ‘But why?’

‘They are a risk we do not need to take, Helen,’ said Frost, ignoring him. ‘Let me bring down the church now, and we can deal with Dalfeld and Anketil later. This is not a good–’

‘It will happen as I say,’ said Helen curtly. Stung by the rebuke, Frost fell silent.

Michael was staring at Marmaduke. ‘Why do you want Dalfeld dead? We know you have already tried to kill him once – and Sir William paid the price – but what has he done to make you hate him? Surely it is not because he is interested to know why you were defrocked?’

Marmaduke did not deign to reply, and addressed Helen instead. ‘I sent him a message, urging him to come. I told him I wanted to make a confession – he is still a friar, after all – and that he was the only one who would understand. He will take the bait, because his curiosity will be piqued.’

‘And I invited Anketil,’ added Frost ingratiatingly. ‘I promised him a handsome benefaction for Holy Trinity if he hurries here at once, so he will not be long, either.’

‘Anketil will not be coming,’ interjected Michael, to reclaim their attention. ‘He is dead.’

Helen gaped at him. ‘I do not believe you! How can he be dead?’

‘It is a complex story.’ Michael indicated his bound hands. ‘So untie me, and let us repair to more conducive surroundings for–’

Helen darted towards him with such venom that he flinched. ‘You will tell me now.’

‘He was a French spy,’ explained Michael quickly. ‘So was Wy, who stabbed him.’

‘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?’