by Paul Doherty
‘You are much recovered, my lady, from your sickness at Canterbury?’
‘I am, thanks be to God, as well as to your ministrations.’ Lady Elizabeth’s voice was rich with sarcasm. ‘I intend to leave Ingoldby later today for London. I shall seek the protection of the King himself. I will ask for the removal of this ruffian.’ She pointed at Colum. ‘No, sir, you do not sit in my presence!’ she yelled as Colum went to occupy the chair next to Kathryn.
‘Madam,’ Kathryn tartly replied, ‘Master Murtagh is a King’s Commissioner! He will sit where he wishes whilst I inform you how Master Mawsby killed your husband.’
‘What?’ Lady Elizabeth clutched the arms of the chair. Her face sagged, the anger draining from her eyes. She turned her head slightly. ‘Mistress Swinbrooke, have you taken leave of your wits? Mawsby is dead, his corpse is to be taken to Canterbury . . .’
‘Aye, along with Sir Walter’s, Veronica’s and poor Hockley’s. Mawsby will also join the Vaudois woman and her daughter, Ursula. Murder upon murder, eh, my lady?’
‘The Vaudois woman? What is this?’
‘Master Mawsby killed your husband.’ Kathryn sat back in her chair, studying Lady Elizabeth intently.
‘But he was in Canterbury?’
‘No, he went to Canterbury. He carried out his errands. I don’t know who for; perhaps you, my lady. He then came galloping back dressed in a new cloak, head and face hidden deep in a cowl. The Vaudois woman glimpsed him; Mawsby was cantering so furiously she thought he was a royal messenger and this stirred her addled brain. She thought he was bringing news about her former lover and son, nonsense of course! Master Mawsby reached the curtain wall of Ingoldby Hall about an hour before noon on that particular Friday, the eve of the Transfiguration. He hobbled his horse in the trees and climbed the wall, as the Vaudois woman did, and followed her trackway through the copse to the edge of the great meadow. On his way he collected a sack taken from the stores and a small but very sharp two-headed axe. Mawsby then crept across the meadow to his chosen point along the rearmost hedge of the maze.’
‘But?’ Lady Elizabeth interrupted.
‘But nothing, my lady. The grass grows longer around the maze and Mawsby had found a gap at the foot of the rear hedge, where the roots of the bushes were not so closely planted together. In the weeks before this hideous murder, unbeknown to some, for that is a lonely part of the manor, Mawsby had worked to enlarge that hole. He possibly snapped a root of one of the hedges, forced the branches further up and kept his handiwork hidden until that particular afternoon. Anyway, on that murderous day Mawsby creeps through the hole with his axe and a sack. Once through he pulls back his cowl and puts on a green mask to hide his face. He then makes his way through the path of the maze to the Weeping Cross.’
‘How could he know his way?’ Lady Elizabeth’s face was flushed, her breathing quicker.
‘Oh, he’d found the secret contained within the mosaic in your husband’s library. To most people it simply represents strange geometric symbols tastefully displayed on the tiles, but a closer study reveals that the blue cross in the centre marks the middle of the maze. The mosaic is in fact a very clever map. I discovered that and so did Mawsby. He was your husband’s secretarius, a man skilled in letters. He would draw up a copy and, unbeknown to anyone, learn the mystery of the maze and how to quickly thread its paths. By the time of the murder,’ Kathryn shrugged, ‘Mawsby knew the maze as well as your husband did. Sir Walter, of course, on that Friday reached the Weeping Cross. Lost in his own reverie of reparation, your husband may have only known for a few seconds that he was going to die. Mawsby swings the axe, takes your husband’s head, puts it into the sack and returns the way he came. The back of the maze cannot be seen by anyone, but Mawsby made one mistake. Once he reached the copse he took off his mask, and his gloves were blood-tinged. Mawsby accidentally dropped the mask whilst making his escape.’
Kathryn paused. Colum’s agitation was apparent. He kept shuffling his feet, glancing quickly at Kathryn, then Lady Elizabeth, as if wondering where this was going to lead.
‘Mawsby hid the bloodied axe and the sack with its grisly burden deep in that copse amongst the briars and bracken where no one but he could find it. He also took off the cloak and cowl, hid them, climbed back over the wall and unhobbled his horse, not before wiping any foamy sweat from the animal’s hide. He would probably let it crop the grass for a while before leaving the trees. He’d travel slowly towards the gates of Ingoldby Hall, to all intents and purposes, the faithful retainer returning from Canterbury.’
‘I do not believe this.’ Lady Elizabeth drew herself up. ‘Master Murtagh, I would be grateful if you could fill me a goblet of wine. I . . .’ She touched her stomach. ‘Please join me.’
Colum went across to a side table covered with an embroidered linen cloth.
‘I do not want any wine,’ Kathryn called out.
Colum filled one goblet and took it over to Lady Elizabeth. She grabbed the cup and drank quickly, her eyes never leaving Kathryn as the physician continued her explanation.
‘Mawsby acted the innocent, though of course his business was unfinished. Later that night he returned to his secret hiding place in the copse, took out the pole, already prepared, and your husband’s head, and committed that blasphemous act.’
‘Tell her how.’ Colum turned in his chair and winked at Kathryn.
‘Oh, the day Sir Walter was killed, Mawsby was very busy. He had the pole ready together with a wineskin full of oil, a tinder and a piece of rope. The pole was driven into the ground and the decapitated head placed on it. Mawsby then soaked that part of the hedge where the secret entrance lay, and using the rope as a fuse, began the conflagration. He not only dishonoured his master but roused the house and destroyed any chance of anyone, including myself, discovering his secret passage into the maze.’
‘Mawsby must have hated Sir Walter,’ Colum murmured.
‘Mawsby breathed hatred and suspicion,’ Kathryn replied. ‘He resented my arrival here and watched me closely. He glimpsed me in the library studying the mosaic and again, out in the great meadow, on my knees searching the hedges of the maze. He thought I’d stumbled onto the secret and decided to kill me. Mawsby knew the cellars of this house. He followed Hockley and me down, using one of the other entrances so no one might glimpse him. He murdered Hockley and tried to kill me, and when I started that fire he fled.’
‘But this is unbelievable!’ Lady Elizabeth snapped. ‘Then who killed Mawsby? Did he drink that poison himself and commit suicide?’
‘No, my lady, you killed Mawsby.’
Lady Elizabeth sprang to her feet, sending the wine cup clattering to the floor, its contents spilling out like blood gushing from a wound. She advanced on Kathryn, fists clenched, face a mask of fury.
‘Sit down, my lady.’ Kathryn didn’t flinch. ‘If you do not sit down I will ask Master Murtagh to restrain you.’
Lady Elizabeth’s lips moved wordlessly and a strange sound echoed from the back of her throat. Colum half-rose. Lady Elizabeth retreated to her chair, slumping down. She tried to speak.
‘What proof?’ Kathryn spoke softly. ‘Is that what you are trying to ask me? Why, Master Murtagh and I have been busy all night. Eleanora, your lady-in-waiting, has confessed to everything.’
‘Never!’
‘Never what, my lady? That she never confessed or that she was never involved in murder? Let me tell you,’ Kathryn continued coolly; she dared not turn and look at Colum, ‘what Eleanora has told us. Mawsby was with you in Canterbury. However, before he left, he met Master Murtagh and me in your husband’s writing chamber. I noticed the beautiful wine jug and goblets. Mawsby was drinking from one of these whilst I was studying your husband’s papers. You sent Eleanora with a message that you were now departing Ingoldby for Canterbury. So we left your husband’s writing chamber and came downstairs. Now I am sure that Mawsby locked the door behind him. However, during the period of waiting, Eleanora quietly retu
rned to the writing chamber. She poured a little wine into two of the goblets and put grains of monkshood in the unused one. She then took the wine jug to the window, opened this and emptied its contents out. She put the jug back on the tray and left the chamber, locking the door behind her.’ Kathryn paused and silently prayed her bluff would succeed. ‘Later that day,’ she continued, ‘possibly just before midnight, Mawsby and the others returned from Canterbury. Your husband’s chancery was Mawsby’s favourite haunt. Now, on that particular night, Mawsby had already drunk a great deal. He was very anxious. He didn’t really understand what had happened in Canterbury, so he went up to the writing office.’ Kathryn pointed at Lady Elizabeth. ‘You made sure he’d go there. Before he left Canterbury, you asked him to look at your husband’s will or some other task which had to be completed immediately?’
Lady Elizabeth did not reply but stared hatefully across.
‘I shall continue.’ Kathryn smiled. ‘Mawsby lights a few candles and goes over to the wine jug; it’s empty so he orders a maid to bring up some fresh. The jug is filled. Mawsby, and you must remember the light in the chancery would be quite poor, naturally chooses the goblet containing no wine. Everyone drinks from a fresh cup, a stratagem I tried on Master Murtagh last night. Eleanora had stained the other two, forcing Mawsby to accept the cup containing the monkshood. Mawsby pours the wine in and moves round the chamber. What he is now drinking is not the richest burgundy but the most venomous poison. If Mawsby realised what had happened, then he would only have a short while to express his regrets. Death would have been nearly instant. Monkshood is most deadly, but how did it get there? Well, that’s how we trapped Eleanora,’ Kathryn continued lightly. She held up her hand, fingers splayed. ‘There are only two keys to the writing chamber, one held by Mawsby, the other by you! Who else could have put poison in that cup? Who else could have emptied a jug outside that window? Mawsby had been neatly trapped and killed by his accomplices.’
‘Accomplices! You forget, Mistress.’ Lady Elizabeth fought to control her temper. ‘The night Mawsby died, I, too, was poisoned in Canterbury.’
‘Oh, a clever piece of mummery,’ Kathryn responded. ‘I can describe a number of ways to make yourself sick and leave an empty winecup with an acrid smell. Adding salt or some other herbal concoction to wine is one method. You acted the part well: vomiting and retching, collapsing to the floor. As you did so, you knocked your platter and wine goblet into the rushes. The good brothers of Canterbury would be very solicitous. The refectory is a public place. The brothers pride themselves on their cleanliness. The cup had been emptied whilst the rushes, stained and polluted, had to be cleared away and burnt immediately. Eleanora,’ she added, ‘also confessed to that. Any evidence you’d really been poisoned was swept away.’
‘Did Eleanora also confess why Mawsby would kill my husband?’ Lady Elizabeth’s head went back and she peered at Kathryn through half-closed eyes.
‘Oh yes! ‘Radix malorum est cupiditas,’ though in this case ‘cupiditas’ is not a love of money but something deeper, more subtle. Let me tell you a story, Lady Elizabeth, about a young noblewoman, namely yourself. You were raised and pampered by your father and brothers, spoilt and indulged yet possessing an inflexible will and a deep resentment of what you term ‘The iron world of men.’ Your father gave you everything you wanted; his greatest present was to hire Eleanora as your lady-in-waiting. Only God knows the real relationship between you and that murderous woman. I have heard of such love, a deep infatuation where two souls become one in thought, word and deed. I can imagine you and Eleanora fashioning your own reality in the busy world of men. How one day you would escape it, be masters of your own fate. Nevertheless, you were particular, you cast around for a husband of your choice.’
‘You seem to know a lot about me!’ Lady Elizabeth’s words came in a hiss. Elbows resting on the arm of the chair, fingers laced together, she reminded Kathryn of Ursula holding that cross-bolt.
‘Sir Walter was a strange man,’ Kathryn mused, ‘constantly living in the past, persecuted by his own demons. He wasn’t hunted by the Athanatoi, that was only a story which others seized on. In Constantinople Sir Walter did what any man would have done. He fled, taking as much treasure as he could find. Sir Walter, however, was haunted by another sin: a massacre of prisoners which took place after the battle of Towton eleven years ago. A group of mercenaries was slain, their decapitated heads barbarously hung from the branches of trees.’ Kathryn steeled herself for the next lie, the real lie. ‘One of those men, one of the Provencales, was Eleanora’s kinsman!’
‘She is from Spain!’
‘I saw the deed roll in your husband’s library,’ Kathryn replied. ‘Provencale is a general term but this group of mercenaries, according to that roll, came from northern Spain as well as the south of France, territories on either side of the great mountain range. That massacre, blameless though he may be, was Sir Walter’s downfall. Eleanora had a blood feud with him, secretive but one she was determined to avenge. Years after the battle, Sir Walter came to London. He moved, as you did, in the glorious circle of the court; the massacre at Towton was well reported. Eleanora marked down the man responsible. She would hold him to account and display his head on a pole. You married Maltravers, my lady, for three reasons: to escape your father’s house, to become a mistress of great wealth in your own right, and to avenge Eleanora’s blood feud.’
‘Marriage for that?’
‘I have heard of marriages for worse, my lady. And why not? Sir Walter was personable enough, well favoured by the King and very rich. A man haunted by demons, he would leave you and Eleanora to your own devices. He never suspected the brood of vipers he was nurturing. Sir Walter also arranged for the pardon of Mawsby and gave his kinsman high office in his household. Mawsby, however, was a man who had lost all fighting for the House of Lancaster. He resented what he’d termed Sir Walter’s patronising generosity. A man full of hate was Mawsby. Yet he had to dance to the tune being piped: secretarius to Sir Walter was better than penniless exile in the rotting slums of some city beyond the Narrow Seas. They say it takes one soul to recognise another. Elearnora and Mawsby, probably encouraged by you, drew closer together. Mawsby became infatuated with your lady-in-waiting. He began a secret affair, clandestine but deadly. Mawsby would open his heart, let the hate and resentment out. Eleanora would coax him. He fell madly in love with her but, of course, Eleanora loves no one but you.’
‘And did Mawsby tell you all this before he died?’ Lady Elizabeth asked. ‘Did he write out his confession before he drank the monkshood?’
‘In a way he did,’ Kathryn replied. ‘The afternoon when we were in the writing chamber, Mawsby acted like some besotted lover drinking his wine, sitting in the window seat moodily gazing out. He knew we posed no danger. There was nothing amongst Sir Walter’s papers, or so he thought, which could resolve his master’s murder.’ Kathryn paused. ‘He was singing a song, comparing his love to a rose. When Eleanora came to summon us down because you were leaving for Canterbury, I noticed for the first time a beautiful chain with a gold rose hanging about her neck. That was a gift from Mawsby. He was your weapon, your foil, the dagger to strike at the hearts of all who opposed you.’
‘And Veronica?’ Colum asked, fascinated by Kathryn’s revelations. He caught himself just in time. ‘Tell her about Veronica.’
‘Veronica was nothing more than a country maid who was supposed to be busy in the kitchen. One of Eleanora’s responsibilities, as your lady-in-waiting, was to supervise those maids. On that Friday she was determined that they all be busy in the kitchens. No one had to be in the galleries or chambers just in case Mawsby was glimpsed in that brief period of time when he’d run to and from the maze.’ Kathryn scratched the back of her hand. ‘Veronica was most unfortunate; she’d lost a precious locket. As girls do when they misplace something, she started to accuse others, in this case Amelia, another maid. Veronica, just after noon, slipped from the kitchen and returne
d to the top gallery.’
‘But Veronica’s chamber was at the front of the house!’ Lady Elizabeth retorted.
‘She didn’t go there,’ Kathryn answered. ‘She went up to Amelia’s, which overlooks the great meadow. Veronica was unlucky. Perhaps some demon in the air prompted her or, perhaps, she just wanted to see what the view was like. She peered out of the window and glimpsed Mawsby, probably leaving the maze. Nothing more than a sinister shadow flitting across the grass into the line of trees. Veronica would dismiss this as fantasy, more intent on discovering if Amelia had her locket. However, when Sir Walter’s murder was announced, she began to wonder. Was it a dream, a vision? She went out to the copse and found a green mask. Now,’ Kathryn paused to gather her thoughts. ‘She may have been seen doing that or, like the good girl she was, went and told your lady-in-waiting. Eleanora arranged to meet Veronica at that lonely spot near the ruined tower. However, instead of Eleanora waiting for her, Mawsby was. He made another mistake. He didn’t first find out what she discovered. Instead he crept up behind her and gave Veronica a terrible blow to the back of her head, then pushed his victim into the mere where she quickly drowned.’
‘Green masks!’ Lady Elizabeth played with her hands.
‘Ah yes, the mask. Eleanora must have been furious.’ Kathryn leaned down, opened her writing-satchel and drew out the mask. ‘Would you like to examine this, Lady Elizabeth?’ She held it out so the blood stain was obvious. ‘This is no piece of sacking but two pieces of cloth neatly sewn together. I examined this last night. Mawsby was a soldier. He would be used to mending a girth, or fitting a patch in his jerkin, but stitching like this?’ Kathryn shook her head. ‘If I compared this to needlework in Eleanora’s box, I’d warrant the stitching’s the same.’