by Paul Doherty
‘What profit would there be in that?’ the Prior replied. ‘Doors are locked and barred. The chantry chapel of St. Michael likewise and the sacred ruby safe in its coffer.’ He paused as a bell, deep in the priory, tolled. ‘I have other duties. . . .’
Kathryn and Colum thanked him. The Prior left. Brother Ralph, tactfully as possible, ushered the two guests down the nave and out through the half-open front door.
A lay brother had brought their horses round; he now lay sunning himself whilst the horses cropped the long grass.
‘I was really enjoying myself.’ This beanpole of a man sprang to his feet, dusting down his grey gown. He rubbed his stomach. ‘Time for the evening meal. Man may not live by bread alone.’ He grinned. ‘But sometimes it helps.’
And he disappeared through the door of the church, slamming it behind him.
‘A sea of mystery.’
Kathryn stared up at the white puffs of cloud. The blue sky was beginning to darken. Beyond the lych-gate a boy pushing a noisy wheelbarrow bawled at someone to get out of his way. From the marketplace came the faint sound of the horn, the signal for the end of the day’s trading.
‘Do you know, Colum, one mystery I’ve never solved: Gurnell said that Sir Walter kept a horn at the centre of the maze. He always sounded it as a signal, but on that day no horn was sounded. Was it because Sir Walter didn’t have time, or had the killer already taken it? It’s disappeared and never been returned. And there’s something else.’ Kathryn paused. ‘Whilst riding into Canterbury I realised Gurnell guarded the entrance to the maze. He was seen by other guards, but they were lazing in the sun. Lady Elizabeth also said he remained there, but if he knew how to thread that maze, couldn’t he have disappeared for a short while to do his bloody-handed work?’
‘Possible,’ Colum agreed, unhobbling the horses and wrapping the reins round his wrists. ‘We’ll walk, Kathryn, yes?’
‘For a while let’s just stay here,’ Kathryn urged. ‘This graveyard is so peaceful. Now, Father John and Master Thurston . . .’
‘What about them, Kathryn? Like that lay brother my stomach is grumbling.’
‘Well, Thurston said Father John was in the library,’ Kathryn continued. ‘He took him refreshment there. So, for a while, the only people who could guarantee Thurston’s and Father John’s whereabouts were each other. This is so perplexing.’ She stamped her foot. ‘Is it possible that Sir Walter was killed not by one person, but by a conspiracy of many? Like cunning men in the market place who put a silver piece under one of three cups and then fool the onlookers. Am I looking in the wrong direction? Did Sir Walter’s household plot his murder and do they now protect each other?’
‘Why not include Lady Elizabeth and Eleanora?’ Colum replied.
‘Again that’s possible. I have yet to see a copy of Sir Walter’s will, but apparently, they are all to benefit from his death.’
The bell of the priory began to toll again.
‘An end to your silence, Kathryn.’ Colum stretched out his free hand. ‘We must go.’
Kathryn, lost in her own thoughts, walked beside him as they left for Greyfriars and, turning left, made their way back over the bridge and through the half-emptying streets. Kathryn was unaware of her surroundings. She heard her name being called and Colum exchanging greetings with passersby. They reached her house in Ottemelle Lane and the Irishman playfully tweaked her ear.
‘Kathryn, we are home.’
‘Yes, yes, of course we are.’
Kathryn pushed open the door and immediately Wulf the young foundling came racing along the passageway, arms extended, face smeared with butter and honey. He leapt at Kathryn, throwing his arms round her waist. Behind him trotted Agnes the maid, bright-eyed, her cheeks flushed, and then came Thomasina, Kathryn’s nurse and maid, all a-smiling, her white wimple billowing out like the sails of a ship.
‘Just in time,’ Thomasina called. ‘I have had enough of the teasing of these two.’ She peered through the half-open door. ‘Ah yes, and the Irishman with his horses. Come, Mistress Kathryn, come on in.’
‘How can I resist a greeting like that?’ Kathryn replied.
Thomasina pushed by Agnes, grasped Wulf by the scruff of his neck, and tearfully embraced Kathryn as if her mistress had just returned from a pilgrimage to Jerusalem.
‘I have missed you,’ she whispered. ‘And it’s always dangerous, these sudden, horrible murders. . . .’
Kathryn was surrounded by soft flesh; the smell of lavender, flour and soap tickled her nostrils. By the time Thomasina stood away her eyes were dry as she turned her fierce glare on Wulf.
‘Born to tease,’ she accused. ‘If not poor Agnes then me!’
Kathryn thought ‘poor’ Agnes was enjoying every second of it but she held her peace as Thomasina led her into the stone-flagged kitchen. Everything was in place: a small fire burnt in the mantelled hearth, the windows overlooking the garden had been thrown open, and the broad, black oaken table had been scrupulously scrubbed and cleaned. Cutting boards, pots, skillets, and pans hung from hooks on the whitewashed walls. The bread basket had been pulled up under a beam to protect the fresh batch of loaves from the ever present mice. Thomasina had been busy at the cutting table, slicing leeks, shallots and other vegetables. A thick wedge of bread almost covered in butter and honey lay precariously on the side; Wulf immediately grasped this and, ignoring Thomasina’s screech of disapproval, thrust it into his mouth. The boy was a foundling, and Thomasina, despite her gruff appearance, treated him as tenderly as a son. He responded, copying Colum, with a constant stream of teasing.
‘Now, now, now.’
Thomasina made Kathryn sit at the kitchen table and immediately served her a tankard of cool rich ale drawn from its tun in the nearby buttery. Bread, cheese and sliced apple followed. Kathryn knew she had to eat and drink, for the alternative wasn’t worth considering. Once Kathryn had begun to eat, Thomasina cleared Agnes and Wulf out of the kitchen and chattered like a squirrel on a branch, divulging all the gossip of the parish. How Goldere had spent an hour in the stocks for being drunk. How Fulke the tanner had organised a pissing contest as he needed the urine for his vats.
‘He bought the cheapest ale he could,’ Thomasina snapped. ‘Quite a number of the men were sick. Oh and Alicia, the one who is pregnant, she came down, I felt her belly. I think the child’s in the wrong position. I sent her to Father Cuthbert. Henry the sack-maker claimed to have a lump in his throat. I sent him to Father Cuthbert as well.’
I am sure you did, Kathryn reflected. If Thomasina had one great love of her life, apart from Kathryn, it was Father Cuthbert; their relationship dated back many years.
‘Venta the wise woman. Oh no.’ Thomasina screwed her eyes up and scratched her red cheek. ‘No, she didn’t come. I saw her in the street. She was asking about the wedding. I have been down to St. Mildred’s church. I want flowers round the font, church ale near the door. If the weather is good, we could have the feasting in the graveyard.’
Kathryn laughed.
‘And perhaps in the evening,’ Thomasina continued remorselessly, ‘chosen friends.’ She emphasised the word. ‘I don’t want any of the Irishman’s bog-trotting friends. Chosen friends,’ she repeated, ‘will attend the wedding banquet at the Chequer of Hope inn.’
Kathryn recognised it as one of the best taverns in Canterbury.
‘I have been down to see Mine Host: he’s to supply the best pork and beef, not the saltiest he can find in the market. . . .’
On and on Thomasina went. Colum came in, filled a blackjack of ale and went out into the garden. Kathryn sat half-listening to Thomasina, but her mind drifted back to Ingoldby Hall, that shadow-filled maze and the growing suspicion that the black-souled assassin, whoever it was, might kill again.
Chapter 7
‘The smylere with the knyf under the cloke . . .’
—Chaucer, ‘The Knight’s Tale,’
The Canterbury Tales, 1387
The guest house refectory of Canterbu
ry Cathedral was a two-storied wood and plaster building. On that particular night its thick paned windows glowed with light, for the powerful Lady Elizabeth Maltravers, together with principal members of her household, resided there. Lady Elizabeth had attended the churching of her husband’s corpse. The coffin now lay on its trestles in the chantry chapel covered in a black and gold drape surrounded by purple candles. These funeral lights would glow all night as the Lady Elizabeth, or the good brothers, maintained a litany of prayers so that, whatever his sins, Sir Walter’s soul might find peace in Paradise. Lady Elizabeth had ceased her vigil and was now with Gurnell, Thurston, Father John and her lady-in-waiting Eleanora, preparing to dine in the long, narrow refectory.
It was a simple, stark chamber, befitting a monastery with its heavy black-beamed roof and plaster white walls decorated with the occasional crucifix or devotional painting. A trestle ran down the centre with benches on either side, though a cushioned chair was placed at the top for Lady Elizabeth. The brothers had swept the refectory and laid down fresh rushes strewed with mint and other herbs. The nearby kitchen had been busy preparing roast duck, quail and strips of spiced venison. The lay brothers had served the meal on pewter dishes, giving each of the guests a white napkin. They had left the wine on a side table and, after the guest master had intoned the Benedicite, quietly withdrawn. Lady Elizabeth now allowed herself to relax. She pulled back the veil covering her face and picked delicately at the food, lost in her own thoughts. Thurston and Gurnell served the wine whilst Father John, aware of the growing tension, simply stared down at his platter of well cooked venison.
‘My Lady.’ He glanced up. ‘The day went as well as it could, I mean in the circumstances.’
‘In the circumstances, Father, yes it did.’ Lady Elizabeth sipped at her cup and stared coldly over its rim at the priest. ‘I am glad we are here,’ she continued, ‘as there are matters we must discuss.’
She paused as Mawsby entered the refectory, bowed, poured himself a goblet of wine and sat down beside Father John. Thurston served him food from the main platter while Lady Elizabeth stared in annoyance at the latecomer.
‘As I was saying.’ Her voice rose. Eleanora’s hand went out to stroke her hand but this was gently pushed away. ‘We have matters to discuss. No, no, not matters of the will. Sir Walter’s made it very clear. You are each to receive a generous bequest and you may, if you wish, continue at Ingoldby for a while, though I shall be returning to London.’
‘What matters, my lady?’
Father John picked at his food.
‘You know very well,’ came the tart reply. ‘Mistress Swinbrooke is of the firm belief that one of us is responsible for Sir Walter’s death.’
‘She has not said that,’ Father John said.
‘She has implied it.’ Mawsby pointed his knife at the priest. ‘It’s in her eyes, the way she looks at you.’
‘Aye, she’s a shrewd woman,’ the priest agreed. ‘And she moves round the hall like a ghost.’
‘My house, Father,’ Lady Elizabeth declared, but then her face softened. ‘Though I agree she has sharp wits and a keen mind.’
‘So keen she may cut herself,’ Father John quipped.
‘She was attacked,’ Gurnell stated.
Silence greeted his words.
Lady Elizabeth cleared her throat. ‘The day my husband Sir Walter was murdered we all knew where we were, though that’s not the full truth, is it?’
‘What?’ Mawsby’s head came up. ‘My lady, I was in Canterbury.’
‘So you say. So you say. But, Master Gurnell, is it not true you entered the maze?’
‘Well, yes.’ Gurnell dropped his meat knife, hand going out to the goblet of wine. He lifted it hastily to his lips and slurped. ‘You know I often do; I am intrigued by its mystery. But I came out again.’
‘Yet you were so distracted,’ Lady Elizabeth retorted, ‘that you forgot to listen for the sound of the horn?’
‘Well, yes, but . . .’ Gurnell’s voice faltered.
‘And you, Master Thurston. Did you not bring out refreshments to the guards and follow Master Gurnell into the maze?’
The Manciple, his face red with anger, glared at his mistress.
‘Of course I did, but Gurnell was just in the entranceway. I told him I had left a tray on the grass, that he’d best drink . . .’
‘And Father John?’
‘Mistress, what are you saying?’ the priest replied coolly.
‘You did come down from the library and speak to Master Gurnell?’
‘But I then returned to the library.’
‘And have you told Mistress Swinbrooke all this?’
‘They are matters of little consequence,’ Gurnell spluttered. ‘My lady, where are you leading us? None of us could follow Sir Walter into the maze, and even if we could, who here would want to murder him? He was a good lord, a generous master.’
‘I am simply making a point,’ Lady Elizabeth declared. ‘I agree with Mistress Swinbrooke. The murderer must have been one of Sir Walter’s household. I have, therefore, decided that after my husband’s will has been approved by the Court of Chancery, I will be dismissing my household.’ She lifted a hand to quell their protests. ‘You will all receive generous bequests, and that includes you, Eleanora.’ She ignored her lady-in-waiting’s gasp of protest. ‘I do not feel safe,’ Lady Elizabeth continued. ‘Indeed, I warn you, none of us should feel safe, until this matter is resolved.’
Lady Elizabeth grasped her knife and cut the venison. She paused, picked up a small manchet roll and crumbled it on the pewter dish.
‘You know my wishes in this matter.’ She forced a smile. ‘But now we will eat a funeral meal.’ She lifted her goblet in a toast and the rest, sullen-faced, followed suit.
The meal continued in silence, Lady Elizabeth making it very clear that she wanted no idle chatter. Thurston cleared the platters and brought around the dish of small pastries and comfits the brothers had left on the side table. Wine cups were refilled. The sombre meal continued. Gurnell, drinking heavily, grew more withdrawn and heavy-eyed. Mawsby tried to talk to Father John, but the priest failed to respond, whilst Thurston sat staring into his wine cup as if it could determine what the future held. Eleanora was crying softly, and when Lady Elizabeth tried to comfort her, she morosely turned away. The meal was almost ended and Father John thought Lady Elizabeth was going to deliver another speech when his mistress suddenly pushed away her chair and made to rise, clenching her fists, her beautiful face contorted in pain.
‘Oh, Domine Miserere!’ she whispered. ‘Oh, Lord, have mercy!’
Eleanora screamed, springing to her feet, and tried to support her mistress. Lady Elizabeth, lost in her own pain, was clutching her abdomen. Her headdress became loose and fell to the floor, her golden hair spilling out. The others, surprised, simply stood and stared as Lady Elizabeth gripped the edge of the table and tried to pull herself up. She had almost done so when another spasm caught her and, hands flailing, knocking her goblet to the floor, she collapsed once again. The sound of her lady-in-waiting’s screams rang through the refectory, alarming the brothers who had been cleaning in the nearby kitchen. They hurried in to find Lady Elizabeth stretched out on the floor, a hideous gargling sound coming from the back of her throat, her household standing about.
‘My mistress has been poisoned!’ Eleanora cried. She stared accusingly around. ‘Someone has poisoned my mistress!’
Kathryn sat in her writing office, filling in the ledger of payments received.
‘As well as those owing,’ she whispered to herself. The sums were petty. Kathryn’s profits accrued not so much from the patients but potions and powders, the remedies she sold from her apothecary’s chamber further down the passageway. Kathryn put down her quill. The house was now quiet. Wulf was sitting out in the garden, staring up at the stars, Agnes and Thomasina busy in the kitchen. Kathryn welcomed the distraction from the murderous riddles which had plagued her mind since she had arrive
d from Ingoldby Hall. News had soon spread that Kathryn was back in her house, and a line of patients promptly appeared.
‘As quickly,’ Thomasina declared, ‘as bees to the honey.’
Helga, the rotund wife of Torquil the carpenter, maintained she was pregnant, but Kathryn quietly believed it was more wishful thinking than a happy event. Molyns the baker had burnt his arms then tried to treat himself; the wounds had begun to suppurate, and Kathryn had to clean these with salt, wine and honey. Edith and Eadwig Fulke, the tanner’s twins, had arrived as deaf as posts.
‘We can’t hear!’ they had yelped. ‘We have gone deaf!’
‘When did this happen?’ Kathryn asked as solemnly as she could.
‘We can’t hear you,’ Eadwig had shouted. ‘That’s why we are here.’
Kathryn had carefully examined their ears and consulted the leech book. She had warned Fulke about the dust in his shop which, somehow or other, irritated the noses and throats of his family.
‘It’s a build-up of fluids,’ she tried to explain.
The twins, alike as peas in a pod, had simply sat dolefully, staring round-eyed, unable to comprehend.
‘You have hardened wax in your ears,’ Kathryn shouted.
‘We are not candles,’ Edith had replied.
‘No, no, you have wax.’ Kathryn tried to stop her laughter.
Wulf, alarmed by her shouts, came down and stood grinning in the doorway of her apothecary chamber until Kathryn glared at him. She had done her best to clean the ears of both girls and prepared a mixture of oil, stirring in cloves and cinnamon. She gently heated this and, using a small funnel, had tried to pour some of it into the ears of the hapless girls, explaining how the wax must be softened whilst they could help by blowing their noses. Kathryn’s best efforts, however, had ended in farce. Wulf was eventually despatched to bring their mother so Kathryn could explain what had to be done, only to find that Fulke’s wife was in no better condition than her daughters. Other patients were arriving and Kathryn had to usher the mother and daughters into the kitchen for Thomasina to treat in a loud booming voice, as well as prepare certain potions to take home. The most intriguing case of the evening was Stephen the sackman, a hearty young man whose wife had just given birth to vigorous twin boys. Stephen had been the proud father but tonight he had shuffled in and sat on the stool like a man ready to be hanged.