A Maze of Murders

by Paul Doherty

  ‘The Vaudois woman?’

  ‘Ah, that’s right.’ Bishopsgate lifted his tankard. ‘Veronica said he was sweet on that woman’s daughter. Veronica didn’t like Thurston: in his cups he used to damn the King and all the House of York.’

  ‘And Father John?’

  Bishopsgate screwed his eyes up. ‘Something, but I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘Did she ever mention Mawsby, a distant kinsman of Sir Walter?’

  ‘Yes but not much. Ah, that’s it, Father John!’ He exclaimed. ‘Veronica overheard bitter words between him and Sir Walter.’

  Kathryn glanced quickly at Colum.

  ‘Over what?’

  ‘It was recent,’ Bishopsgate answered. ‘For our Saviour’s sake, Mistress, I can’t remember. It was just chatter. She told me it took place on the eve of the feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel.’

  ‘That’s about the middle of July?’ Kathryn wondered aloud.

  ‘Well, Mistress.’ Bishopsgate finished the tankard and pushed back the platter. ‘I must be getting back.’ He pointed to the mask. ‘I made enquiries. They told me about you. I don’t want to go up to the Hall so I thought I’d best hand this over.’

  Kathryn shook his hand and Thomasina showed him to the door. Colum picked up the green mask and threw it from hand to hand.

  ‘It would fit over a man’s head or, there again, a girl’s thick hair. Do you think it has any significance?’ Colum asked.

  ‘It may have nothing to do with Veronica’s death or anyone else’s,’ Kathryn replied. ‘However, Master Bishopsgate believes this mask did not belong to his daughter, and why should a chambermaid possess such a thing? We must ask ourselves, was it placed in her chamber deliberately? Or did Veronica find it? If she found it, why didn’t she show it to someone? Let me have another look, Colum.’ Kathryn spread the mask out on the table. ‘See, Colum, the blood stain at the end, the part which should hang over the chin so; someone with bloody fingers took it off.’

  ‘The killer?’ Colum asked. ‘The one who murdered Sir Walter? The handle of his sword or axe would be bloody.’

  ‘And he’d pull it off,’ Kathryn murmured. ‘He’d grab that part between his finger and thumb and pull it up. But what’s it doing in Veronica’s possessions?’ She beat her fists on the table. ‘Colum, you are to come with me to Greyfriars. I wish to—’

  She was cut off by another pounding on the door. Thomasina had hardly answered it when Kathryn heard her scream of protest, followed by the sound of running footsteps and a stable boy she recognised from Ingoldby Hall burst into the kitchen.

  ‘Mistress, Father John sent me! You must come quickly!’ The lad fought to control his breath. He snatched the stoup of ale Thomasina gave him, but more of it splashed over his face than down his throat.

  ‘Take your time, boy. Is it Lady Elizabeth?’

  ‘Oh no, mistress, she’s still in Canterbury!’

  ‘Of course,’ Kathryn agreed. ‘The Requiem Mass.’

  ‘They had to force the door of the writing office,’ the boy burst out. ‘Master Mawsby went there last night. Mistress, he’s dead! Lying all ghastly, his face like a ghoul. Father John thinks he’s been poisoned. He has asked for the body not to be removed, not until you come. He asks you to do so swiftly.’

  Kathryn was already on her feet demanding her cloak. Colum ran down the passageway shouting that he’d get the horses. Kathryn, grasping her writing satchel, followed the boy out. Colum brought round the horses and they were soon clear of Canterbury, Colum setting a fast pace until they reached the gates of Ingoldby Hall. Ostlers and grooms were waiting for them in front of the house. Thurston looked as if he had spent the night drinking. Bleary-eyed and unshaven, he came shuffling to meet them and took them through a side door into the servants’ buttery where Father John and Gurnell were waiting. Both men were agitated and anxious-eyed. Gurnell looked as if he had slept in his clothes, and Father John confessed he had not even celebrated his Mass and had given up any thought of joining his mistress in Canterbury.

  ‘Does Lady Elizabeth know?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘No, Mistress, she’s in the cathedral with Eleanora and some of the maids,’ Gurnell explained.

  ‘I think it’s best,’ Father John interposed, ‘that the Requiem Mass be sung undisturbed. Gurnell and I will go down to meet her as she leaves Canterbury. Mistress, I would like you to look at the corpse so it can be moved. Lady Elizabeth is in a delicate state. Such a sight must not greet her, there will be guests . . .’

  He made to lead her out but Kathryn grasped his arm.

  ‘No, Father, first tell me what happened last night.’

  ‘We left Canterbury late. We had all drunk too much, deeply aggrieved by what had happened. The ride back soothed us, a beautiful starlit night. We arrived at Ingoldby Hall and went our different ways. Mawsby said he had certain matters to attend to in the chancery; that’s where he always was.’

  ‘Who has keys to that?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘Why, Lady Elizabeth and Mawsby. The mistress now holds Sir Walter’s keys.’ He shrugged. ‘I went to bed, so did Gurnell.’

  ‘I made sure the manor house was safe,’ Thurston declared. ‘Watchmen were set. Every door was locked and bolted, all windows closed. We didn’t want any outlaw or wolfshead to think the dreadful events here would offer easy pickings.’

  ‘And?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘I rose this morning,’ Father John declared, ‘and went to Mawsby’s chamber. The door was open, the bed untouched, so I went along to the writing office. Mawsby had drunk a great deal, perhaps he had fallen asleep. I knocked and knocked. Thurston joined me. We received no answer so we went outside but the casement window overlooking the garden was firmly shut.’

  ‘I searched the hall,’ Gurnell explained. ‘I sent servants out through the gardens shouting for Mawsby. I became alarmed over what had happened in the refectory at the cathedral. Mawsby’s horse was still in the stables.’

  ‘So you went back to the chancery?’

  Father John breathed out noisily and nodded. ‘I gave the order for the door to be forced. The crashing and banging must have been heard in Canterbury. It’s a strong door, Mistress. At last we broke it down. It had been bolted and locked from the inside. Mawsby was sprawled on the floor. Near his hand was a wine cup, most of it had been spilt over the carpet. I think you’d best see for yourself.’

  Kathryn agreed.

  They went up the main staircase along the gallery. The door to the chancery, pulled from its leather hinges, now leaned against the wall. Inside Kathryn found it much as she had left it the previous afternoon, except for Mawsby’s corpse, and next to his fingers the spilled wine cup, its dregs staining the floor. Kathryn crouched down. A pool of vomit mixed with a white froth stained Mawsby’s face, turned ugly by the contortions of death. His eyes were half open, his mouth gaping, and his skin had a strange liverish hue. The muscles of the corpse felt tense and hard. Kathryn turned the body over. The front of Mawsby’s jerkin was also stained whilst his tongue was caught between his teeth. Leaning down, Kathryn sniffed at his mouth and then at the wine cup. She pulled a face, feeling the shoulders and neck of the corpse.

  ‘Definitely poison.’ She rose to her feet.

  ‘What type?’

  ‘At a guess, monkshood; it’s deadly and fast acting.’

  She picked up the goblet gingerly between her fingers and recalled admiring it the previous day. The inside was of dark pewter. Kathryn went across to the side table, picked up the finely embossed wine jug and sniffed the sweet tang of the richest burgundy. The other two cups also bore wine dregs. She examined these but could find no trace of any noxious substance.

  ‘Did anyone drink with Mawsby?’ She stared at all three members of the household. ‘There’s a wine jug almost full, dregs in two cups, with a little poisoned wine left in Mawsby’s.’

  ‘I never came here last night,’ Father John declared. ‘I was too tired.’

  The other two wer
e equally emphatic in their denials. Kathryn walked round the chamber; resting on the window seat, she peered through the paned glass. The handles of the small door window were securely in place. Kathryn gazed round the room. Two of the walls faced the outside. She examined the two inside walls.

  ‘If you are looking for some secret entrance,’ Father John plopped down on the chair, ‘you’ll find none, Mistress. Mawsby stayed here all night.’

  ‘Watchmen have patrolled the grounds,’ Gurnell added. ‘They saw candles burning late into the night.’

  Kathryn stared around. All the candles had now burnt down, each of their holders encrusted with snow-white wax. She went across to the desk and recognised the manuscripts she and Colum had put aside the previous day. A large indenture had been spread out, a copy of Sir Walter’s will. The writing on the document was clear and distinct, the Latin words perfectly formed: this must have been the last draft, for small amendments had been made, but nothing significant.

  ‘Mawsby must have been examining this,’ Kathryn murmured. ‘He goes across and fills himself a goblet of wine. He drinks it and continues reading. He begins to feel the effects of the poison.’ She pointed to the door. ‘But it’s too late. Monkshood strikes like an arrow. He collapses, suffers some convulsions, loses consciousness, and slips into death – a hideous way to die!’ she added. ‘When you dress his corpse, Father, you will notice liverish marks on his belly, red, almost mulberry in colour.’

  Kathryn examined the corpse, feeling the head, but she could find no blow or cut. She went back, sat at the desk, and pulled across a copy of the will, reading the clauses carefully. Sir Walter had been a generous man: there were bequests to chantry chapels for priests to say Masses for his soul and legacies to principal retainers, whilst the bulk of his wealth went to Lady Elizabeth. Kathryn was about to push it away when she caught one correction. Sir Walter had inserted a clause about his library but made a change from ‘liberos’ to ‘libros.’ Kathryn became so engrossed with this that she sat staring at it until Colum lightly touched her shoulder.

  ‘What is the matter?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing for the moment.’

  She quickly finished reading the will, rose from her chair and went across to the side table. She examined the two used cups and the amount of wine in the jug, sniffing carefully.

  ‘According to the evidence,’ she turned, ‘Mawsby must have entertained two other people here last night.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous!’ Gurnell stepped forward. ‘Ask my men, I retired to bed. I was exhausted. . . .’

  Thurston and Father John also gave their explanations.

  ‘And Mawsby would never allow anyone else into this chamber,’ Father John added, ‘except Lady Elizabeth. But the only person who came into this room last night was Mawsby, no one else.’

  ‘Then who filled the wine jug?’

  Thurston shrugged and left the chamber. Kathryn went and knelt on the window seat and stared out of the window. Truly perplexing, she reflected. Here is a man who locks himself in a chamber yet is found poisoned the following morning. No one else came in; the three other principal members of the household can account for their actions. Lady Elizabeth is lying sick at Canterbury whilst it would be ridiculous to think of Eleanora riding through the countryside at night and somehow stealing into this chamber. Did Mawsby commit suicide? According to the evidence he was busy in here, possibly without a thought to the future. She closed her eyes and tried to remember the properties of monks-hood: a deadly potion; the claret would have masked it.

  ‘Mistress Swinbrooke?’

  She opened her eyes. Thurston had returned to the room. Kathryn smiled when she recognised Amelia, who looked frightened out of her wits.

  ‘Have I done wrong, Mistress?’

  ‘I don’t know, why is she here?’ Kathryn asked Thurston.

  ‘Amelia brought up the wine jug last night.’

  ‘Yes I did,’ the maid replied breathlessly. ‘I took it from the cask of the best Bordeaux, that’s what the master always wanted in this chamber. I filled a jug and brought it up here as Master Mawsby had asked.’

  ‘And how was he?’

  ‘Oh, Mistress Swinbrooke, he was tired! He seemed distracted. I filled the jug.’ She pointed across to the beautiful pewter wine container. ‘I filled it right to the brim.’

  ‘And the other cups?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘Mistress, I didn’t touch them.’

  ‘Was there any wine in the pewter jug?’

  Amelia shook her head. ‘No, no, I remember that. Master Mawsby said there wasn’t a drop left so I filled it. There were only two or three candles burning and it was dark. I made sure I didn’t spill any, then I left. Master Mawsby locked and bolted the door behind me.’

  Kathryn thanked and dismissed her.

  ‘Are we finished as well?’ Thurston grumbled. ‘The mistress is returning; she will be bringing guests.’

  Kathryn walked across and examined the door; a beautifully carved piece of oak, it had hung on a number of thick leather hinges, but both its lock and bolts had been broken.

  ‘Can we go?’ Thurston pleaded.

  ‘Yes, yes, you can but, Father John, I would like you to stay.’

  Kathryn waited until the footsteps of the others faded, then took the priest to the other side of the chamber. Colum stayed and guarded the doorway.

  ‘Mistress?’ The priest forced a smile. ‘I must be honest, I am very, very tired.’

  ‘Was Mawsby the type of man to take his own life?’

  ‘Never!’

  ‘Where is his chamber?’

  ‘On the stairwell leading up to the second gallery.’

  ‘Did you visit Mawsby last night, Father?’

  The priest shook his head. ‘Master Mawsby and myself, well, we were friendly enough, but that’s because we lived under the same roof.’

  ‘Did you resent his closeness to Sir Walter?’

  Again the faint smile. ‘I can see the path you are following, Mistress, but you are wasting your time.’

  He raised his head slightly. Standing so close to him, Kathryn realised how powerful his eyes were, with his deep, penetrating stare.

  ‘Let me read your mind, Mistress. I was Sir Walter’s chaplain, confessor and companion for the last twenty years. Yet perhaps I don’t mourn him as I should.’

  ‘The thought has crossed my mind, Father. However, that could be said of all of you, though I suspect Sir Walter played his part in that.’

  The priest shifted his gaze. ‘I don’t mourn him as I should. I am a priest. Other people prepare for life, I prepare for death and what: comes afterwards.’

  ‘Yet you quarrelled with Sir Walter?’

  The priest stared at her.

  ‘Last July,’ Kathryn continued, ‘they say angry words were exchanged between you?’

  ‘Because I asked to leave him,’ the priest replied quickly. ‘Mistress, I have lived my life. I wanted to prepare for death. I told Sir Walter that I was thinking of entering a monastery, taking the vows of a monk. I want to be away from the hurly-burly, the clatter of arms, the chink of cups. I want to prepare. Don’t you understand?’

  And, not waiting for an answer, Father John strode across the room. He stopped at the doorway, crossed himself and came back.

  ‘I don’t mean to give offence, Mistress.’

  ‘None taken.’

  The priest pointed at the corpse. ‘One of the seven acts of mercy is to bury the dead. In justice to him and fairness to my mistress . . . ’

  ‘You may have the body removed,’ Kathryn declared. ‘I am finished here.’

  Kathryn, followed by Colum, left the chamber. They walked along the polished gallery up the stairs at the far end. The door to Mawsby’s chamber hung half-open; Kathryn pushed this aside and stepped in. In many ways it reminded her of Colum’s room, a typical soldier’s; everything was neat and orderly. A gold embroidered coverlet was pulled up over the bolsters. A small black table stood be
side the bed with a six-branched candelabra. There were shelves on the walls for pots and caskets, and two large chests beneath, along with a table and writing chair. The books on the table included a bible, a psalter, and the copy of a chronicle which Mawsby must have borrowed from Sir Walter’s library. She and Colum carefully went through the contents of the coffers and chests. Kathryn felt rather guilty, yet all she found were a few letters and some keepsakes. The rest was nothing significant.

  ‘Are you searching for anything in particular?’ Colum asked.

  Kathryn went across and pulled back the shutters of the window, then picked up a lute and a roll of parchment from a corner shelf.

  ‘Nothing,’ she remarked. ‘This is the song Mawsby was humming to himself in the library.’

  ‘How do you think Mawsby was poisoned?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Kathryn left the chamber and continued up the servants’ gallery. This was not so grand but simply a long passageway with large windows at either end. The walls were whitewashed and unadorned except for the occasional crucifix. Leading off the passageway to the left were thin, narrow rooms. Kathryn peered into one; all it contained was a cot bed, a stool, table and chest with pegs driven into the walls. Most of the rooms were empty, the servants busy preparing for their mistress’s return from Canterbury. Abruptly a door opened and Amelia came out.

  ‘Why, Mistress?’ She wiped her hands on her skirt.

  ‘Ah, Amelia, I thought you’d be busy below?’

  ‘I asked Master Thurston’s permission to tidy my chamber,’ the maid gabbled.

  ‘May I have a look?’

  Amelia stepped back, pushing the door open. Kathryn walked inside. The chamber was no different from the others, with whitewashed walls, a truckle bed and a few sticks of furniture. The window was square shaped, high in the wall; Kathryn had to step on a small ledge beneath to peer out. Below her stretched the great meadow and the dark green mass of the maze. She glimpsed the top of the Weeping Cross and the meadow behind it running down to the line of trees and bushes. Kathryn realised how, even from here, the maze was still an impenetrable mystery. She could detect no trace of any path as the hedges seemed to close in, blocking any view. Kathryn stepped down, wiping the dust from her fingers. She left the chamber and Amelia closed the door and made to hurry off.