Mystery in the Minster by Susanna Gregory

claimed?’
    Oustwyk considered the question carefully, but then shook his head, although it was clear he would rather have nodded. ‘He often complained that someone was trying to dispatch him, and it became something of a joke. Fournays inspected the body, and he said Ferriby died of a debility.’
    ‘A debility?’ asked Bartholomew, who had never heard of such a thing.
    Oustwyk regarded him askance. ‘Call yourself a physician? It means he had a seizure. All perfectly natural, and Ferriby was elderly, anyway. He was well past his allotted years.’
    He bustled away, eyes everywhere, and slowing when he passed knots of people in order to eavesdrop. No wonder he was so well informed, thought Bartholomew, watching in distaste. But Thoresby had completed his duties, and was coming to greet them, forcing the physician to pull his attention away from Oustwyk’s antics.
    John Thoresby was in his fifties, with a cap of immaculately groomed silver hair and the lean face of an ascetic. His bearing was haughty, as befitted one of England’s most influential churchmen, and there was a sharp intelligence in his eyes. He shrugged out of his ceremonial vestments to reveal a simple priest’s habit, albeit one made of exceptionally expensive cloth. It made him a striking figure, and Bartholomew immediately sensed the power of his presence.
    ‘Langelee,’ Thoresby said, coming towards the Master and extending a hand so his episcopal ring could be kissed. ‘I am delighted to see you looking so well.’
    ‘Zouche’s chantry,’ said Langelee, performing the most perfunctory of bows over the proffered fingers and coming straight to the matter he wanted to raise. ‘It should have been finished by now.’
    ‘Yes,’ acknowledged Thoresby sadly. ‘I did my best to spur his executors into action, but they are a frustratingly inert group of men.’
    ‘Especially given that several are dead,’ murmured Cynric in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘You cannot get more inert than that.’
    ‘And then the money ran out,’ Thoresby went on. ‘I was surprised, because I had been under the impression that Zouche had left them plenty, but the Dean showed me the rosewood chest from the treasury, where the coins had been stored, and it was empty.’
    ‘The Queen gave him that box,’ said Langelee softly. Then his expression hardened. ‘Perhaps some of the coins were stolen, because there
were
enough. Zouche told me so himself.’
    ‘Unfortunately, each executor assumed the others were overseeing the chapel, and by the time they realised that was not the case, the funds had just dribbled away,’ explained Thoresby. ‘I was vexed, of course, but there was nothing to be done.’
    ‘So the money
was
stolen?’ Langelee was outraged.
    Thoresby shook his head. ‘It disappeared through incompetence and negligence, not dishonesty. I would finish the thing myself, but we are preparing to rebuild the choir and have no funds to spare. Do you?’
    ‘No,’ said Langelee sullenly.
    With an elegant nod, Thoresby indicated that the Master was to introduce his companions. Bartholomew and Radeford received no more than nods, but Michael was favoured with a smile.
    ‘I have heard much about Cambridge’s Senior Proctor,’ the prelate said. ‘From my brother bishops at Ely and Lincoln. Both speak very highly of you.’
    ‘I flatter myself that I have been of use to them,’ replied Michael smoothly. ‘Perhaps I may be of similar service to you. Especially if you were to help us in the matter of Huntington.’
    Bartholomew shot him an alarmed glance, not liking to think what this urbane, shrewdly clever cleric might ask in return for such a favour. Thoresby regarded the monk appraisingly.
    ‘I am sure we can come to an arrangement.’ His gaze flicked suddenly to Bartholomew. ‘Are you the surgeon who helped Sir William? I heard he was saved by a stranger.’
    ‘He is a physician.’ Langelee raised his hand when the prelate started to speak. ‘He knows