Mystery in the Minster by Susanna Gregory

Cynric dismissively. ‘By the forceps. Obviously, they were not that shape when they struck.’
    ‘You mean you destroyed evidence that may allow us to catch a murderer?’ demanded Dalfeld. It was a remark made purely to repay Cynric for making him look foolish, but a murmur of suspicion rippled through the onlookers, and Bartholomew felt decidedly uneasy.
    ‘Of course not,’ said Fournays firmly, cutting it off. ‘Obviously, it was better to damage the arrow than to further damage the patient.’
    Meanwhile, Langelee was scanning the area with the eye of a professional. ‘The bowman could have loosed the weapon from anywhere, but the most likely place is there.’
    He pointed to a church that sat curiously close to the eastern end of the minster. It had probably once been handsome, but was now derelict: its window shutters were rotting, ivy grew over its roof, and pigeons roosted in the cracks that yawned in its crumbling tower.
    ‘St Mary ad Valvas?’ asked Lady Helen in surprise. ‘I sincerely doubt it! That place is cursed, and no one goes in it for any reason.’
    ‘It does have a reputation,’ agreed Isabella. She glanced at Langelee. ‘It is odd that you should single it out, because it has a slight connection to Michaelhouse. As you know, John Cotyngham is the current vicar of Huntington, but before that, he was priest at St Mary ad Valvas.’
    ‘A strange dedication,’ mused Michael. ‘Do I understand from the Latin that it has a sliding door? Perhaps a similar contrivance to the rollable stone that sealed Jesus’s tomb?’
    ‘Yes, it did,’ replied Isabella. ‘But it fell into disrepair years ago.’
    ‘Regardless, it is the perfect place for an ambush,’ said Langelee, still staring at it. ‘An archer could stand in there and no one would see him.’
    ‘But who would want to kill Sir William Longton?’ asked Fournays. ‘He is one of the most popular men in York.’
    ‘Yes, but his brother is not,’ said Dalfeld slyly. ‘
John
Longton has enemies galore.’
    When the last stitch was in place, Fournays helped Bartholomew dress the wound, and they finished just as William opened pain-filled eyes. Helen crouched next to him, muttering re assurances; the knight smiled gratefully and squeezed her fingers.
    Knowing the patient was going to be in for an uncomfortable time as he was carried home, no matter how careful the bearers, Bartholomew helped him sip a powerful soporific. It was not long before the knight’s eyes closed a second time, although he struggled to open them when someone began shoving through the crowd in a manner that was rudely aggressive.
    ‘Is it true?’ the newcomer demanded. ‘Someone has attacked my brother?’
    There was a resemblance between him and the casualty, but the older man’s brusque manner could not have been more different from William’s amiable dignity. Moreover, his face was florid from high living, and he was unsteady on his feet, despite the fact that it was not yet noon. He was accompanied by companions who were also far from sober, all of whom wore clothes that said they were wealthy.
    ‘Sir William has been shot, Mayor Longton,’ supplied Dalfeld, when no one else spoke. ‘I imagine the wound will prove fatal. They usually are, where innards are concerned.’
    ‘Not necessarily,’ countered Fournays sharply, while Bartholomew gaped at the lawyer in dismay: the patientwas listening, and hearing such a grim prognosis would do nothing to aid his recovery. ‘Sir William is strong.’
    ‘Yes, and I am not ready to die just yet,’ whispered William with a wan smile. He tried to fight the effects of the medicine, but could not do it, and his head lolled to one side.
    ‘Sleeping,’ explained Bartholomew hastily, when there was a shocked intake of breath from the onlookers. ‘Do you have a stretcher? He must be taken home.’
    ‘It was Gisbyrn!’ howled Longton, and the slumbering William was the only one who did not jump at the sudden