He turned his attention to the empty tankard. Discolored moisture coated the bottom and side of the interior. Mindful of Stefan’s warning at Clementhorpe, he hesitated, placing the coin pouch on the bench beside him. He doubted a small bit of the poison could hurt him if twas just on his skin, he’d suffered no ill effects at the nunnery.
He ran his finger over the bottom of the tankard and up the side. The familiar burning, numbed sensation left no doubt as the tankard’s contents. He rose and stepped to the shelf to plunge his hand into the basin, washing it as well as he could and wiping it on his gown. How had the killer managed to make Sir John drink the ale, if it did that to his mouth and throat? Lady Claire thought she was drinking physik, would have accepted the odd sensation as part of the cure. But ale? Cordwainer puzzled over the question as he rummaged through the shirt and surcoat. Neither held anything of interest, and after a quick look into the boots, he turned to the ladder and climbed down.
By the time Thomas returned, Cordwainer was sitting next to the tavern fire with a tankard of Osric’s strong ale, watching the rain spatter against the waxed-parchment windows. The benches and chairs around him were full of folk from the surrounding streets discussing the finding of the body and waiting to see the Archdeacon. Osric’s wife and a tavern boy with a cowlick sticking up at the back of his head ran to and fro with foaming tankards and cups of wine. But to the disappointment of all concerned, the Archdeacon did not come. Instead, he had sent a cart and two men in the Archbishop’s livery to carry the body to the Minster, where it would lie until burial could be arranged. Or until I’ve scheduled an inquest, thought Cordwainer. Sir John’s death, unlike that of his wife, had not taken place within the Church’s liberty, and he planned to investigate it as murder.
Thomas and Osric followed the Archdeacon’s men to the upper chamber, where, as Thomas later explained, after an unsuccessful attempt to dress the body with its rigid, convulsed limbs, they had simply piled the clothing under the blanket for its journey to the Minster. Bringing the body down the ladder and the steep staircase had occasioned a great deal of cursing, but finally Sir John lay covered in the cart, the rain slowly soaking into the woolen blanket.
One of the liveried men approached Cordwainer. “Master Coroner,” he said, “His Grace the Archdeacon asks that you accompany us to Saint Peter’s. He will speak to you in his reception chamber.”
“Aye,” said Cordwainer. “Is there room in the cart?”
The man looked skeptical. “If you want to ride with the body, aye. If twere me, I’d walk alongside. He looks like death itself and smells worse.”
Cordwainer followed the man outside, pulling his hood up against the rain. He looked into the cart and snorted. “Boost me up,” he said. “Tis better than walking.”
◆◆◆
Prioress Alyse sat on the floor of her reception chamber with Lily Talbot, trying to teach the girl the short response to the versicle of Psalm 70, the beginning of the Divine Office. It had taken Lily close to an hour to learn the word ‘domine,’ and the repetition of the syllable ‘ad’ had delighted her, sparking gales of open-mouthed laughter.
“Sing with me,” said Alyse for what must have been the hundredth time. “Domine, ad adiuvandum me festina.” Lily tried again, her eyes rolling from side to side as she searched for the unfamiliar words. “Domine ad… ad….” She faltered and fell silent, tears falling onto on her gown.
“You have a lovely voice, Lily,” said Alyse. “You need not cry.” She stretched out her arms and gathered the girl in a hug. “You will learn the words in time.”
Alyse stood and reached out her hand. She could tell the Archdeacon she had tried. Lily pulled herself up and threw her short arms around the Prioress’s shoulders. “I love you,” she said.
“Aye, I love you too, Lily,” said Alyse, gently disengaging herself. “Come, let us see what is taking Sister Anne so long.” As if at her words, a soft knock came at the door and it opened to reveal a nun with a lay sister behind her.
“Ah, there you are,” Alyse said. The nun nodded and returned down the corridor. “Rose, I want you to see to Lily while – ”
Lily ran to the door, squealing her delight. She hugged the lay sister and laughed, her mouth wide in her moon-shaped face. Rose stared, discomfited, at the Prioress.
Alyse shook her head, laughing with Lily. “Please see to Lily while we are at Nones,” she said. “As you can see, she’s very affectionate.”
She watched as Lily dragged Rose down the corridor to the stairs, saying something about the doll she had brought with her from Sir John’s manor. Alyse’s smile faded. The girl was too affectionate, too trusting to live in the world, but neither could she stay at Clementhorpe as a nun. Surely the Archdeacon had contacted Sir John by now, and he would be coming for his wife’s body. She would insist he take Lily home with him, she must, whatever Archdeacon Godfrey had to say about it.
◆◆◆
Once within the Minster liberty, Thomas conferred with the Archbishop’s men, then helped a sodden Cordwainer down from the cart. “Tis that building,” he said, pointing at a stone structure half-hidden behind a cluster of dripping ash trees.
“Aye,” said Cordwainer, peering through the rain, “and twill be mud all the way. Hand me down my stick, tis still in the cart.”
Leaving the liveried men to deal with Sir John’s body, they trudged up the muddy path, their heads down to keep the rain from their faces. Thomas’s hat was soaked through, and Cordwainer’s hood dripped in a steady stream from its point. As they neared the building, two heavy oak doors opened in front of them, and a servant stood waiting with towels to greet them. They wiped the rain from their hands and faces as the servant took their cloaks and Thomas’s hat. Knocking the worst of the mud from their boots, they followed another servant through a second set of doors into a chamber full of light. Candles burned on every surface, and two tall brass candlesticks flanked a cushioned chair with carved armrests. Three smaller chairs were positioned to face it. A fire burned in a stone fireplace to one side, while glazed windows ran along the other side of the chamber, the daylight showing dim and pale.
They stood uneasily by the fire with their clothing dripping on the polished floor, unsure whether it would be rude to sit before the Archdeacon entered. A clerk came in with a wax tablet and nodded to them before taking a seat by the wall. Cordwainer snorted and stepped toward the chairs, seating himself with a grunt. Thomas came to stand beside him. After a few minutes, the servant who had greeted them arrived with hot wine, while another cleaned the muddy tracks from the floor. They waited.
When the doors at the back of the chamber opened again, Cordwainer stood and turned. Archdeacon Godfrey entered in his red robes with a young monk in brown at his side. He strode across the gleaming floor to his chair, waving for the other men to be seated. The monk nodded to Cordwainer as they took their seats. Tall, with a halo of fair hair billowing around his tonsure, his wide forehead, arched eyebrows, and small mouth made his face an inverted triangle. Cordwainer wondered what he was doing here.
Archdeacon Godfrey cleared his throat. “Master Coroner,” he said. “Please tell us about Sir John Talbot’s death.”
Cordwainer described Osric’s finding of the body and his own examination of the corpse and Sir John’s belongings, but did not mention the pouch of gold for fear the Archdeacon would demand it. If tis to be a donation to the Minster, he thought, let it be made by Sir John’s heir. He ended with his conclusion that Sir John, and by implication Lady Claire, had been murdered. “Tis impossible that both should die by accident or even self-murder in such a way. If the bodies had been discovered together, perhaps. But this? There is another hand at work, your Grace.”
Godfrey nodded. “I agree,” he said, “and I apologize for not heeding your suspicions at Clementhorpe. Yet it would seem the killer is careless, having left the poison in Lady Claire’s chamber, and will likely be easily apprehended.”
Cordwainer shrugged, s
urprised and somewhat mollified by the apology. Yet the words needed to be said. “Perhaps, your Grace. But we lost an entire day of the investigation,” he said, “and with it the possibility of preventing Sir John’s death. As to carelessness, tis possible the killer simply wanted to get away as quickly as possible. It does not help us. We still have no idea who he is.”
Godfrey reddened and anger flashed in his eyes. “Aye, Master Coroner, I understand that I must accept responsibility for the delay, and the weight of it lies heavy on my heart. I can only pray I am not responsible for the death.”
Cordwainer could see that the words had cost him. The Archdeacon did not enjoy admitting his mistakes. Godfrey closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I notice you say ‘he.’ Are you certain the killer is a man?”’
“Nay, your Grace, though most are,” Cordwainer replied. “Poison, though, is said to be a woman’s weapon.”
“I would think it obvious that the killer is a woman. A man would not go unnoticed in Clementhorpe.”
Cordwainer bowed his head in assent.
Godfrey smiled as if scoring a point, and Cordwainer suppressed a snort, his sympathy for the man evaporating. Solving a murder was not a debating game, but the Archdeacon seemed determined to make it into one. So be it, he thought. We shall see who wins.
“And why wolfsbane?” continued Godfrey. “Might the name have any significance? Why is the poison called wolfsbane? Does the killer think the Talbots wolves?”
“I doubt the name is important, your Grace,” said the young monk. “The herb has many names – wolfsbane, mousebane, the devil’s helmet, monkshood…. The killer would not know which name we called it by.”
Cordwainer raised his eyebrows and looked at the monk. “Are you learned in herbs, Brother?”
The monk began to reply, but Godfrey interrupted. “I am sorry, I should have introduced Brother Michael. I have borrowed him from Abbot Simeon to investigate Lady Claire’s death, which lies within the Church’s authority. You, Master Cordwainer, will investigate the death of Sir John, as is your duty and right. Together you may find the killer.”
Cordwainer bit back another snort. “Have you experience in investigating such matters, Brother Michael?” he asked.
The monk flushed. “Nay. As you have guessed, I am primarily an herbalist, assistant to Brother Anselm at Saint Mary’s. Abbot Simeon felt that since the killer used herbs, I might be of service.”
Cordwainer prayed for patience. “Your Grace, given that Brother Michael has no experience in finding a murderer, would it not be more…practical? to allow me to conduct both investigations?”
“Nay,” replied Godfrey. “The Church’s liberty must be maintained. I am certain you will be able to coordinate your efforts to bring the malefactor to justice. I shall expect to be kept fully informed of your progress. Is there naught else you can tell me now?”
“Someone will have to notify the daughter of her parents’ deaths,” said Cordwainer. “And someone should let Prioress Alyse know what has happened. I doubt the killer will return to Clementhorpe, but tis possible. She should be on her guard.”
The Archdeacon looked puzzled. “I thought the daughter was in the care of the Prioress at Clementhorpe,” he said. “She will be told eventually, but she may be too simple to understand. As to the nuns, there is no need to alarm them unnecessarily if, as you say, the killer is unlikely to return.”
“You misunderstand, your Grace,” said Cordwainer. “I meant the elder daughter, Marie. The one who wrote the letter I showed you at Lady Claire’s death. I shall want to question her when we find her.”
Godfrey drew himself up in his chair. “Ah yes, the letter,” he said. “I shall make inquiries so Lady Marie may be found and informed. But why should you wish to question her? Surely she is not suspect in her parents’ deaths.”
“Given that Sir John reneged on a large part of her dowry,” said Cordwainer, smugly aware that he was about to win the debate, “tis quite possible she or her husband is indeed suspect.”
The Archdeacon flushed. “This is precisely the sort of thing I expect you to inform me about,” he said. “Why have you kept this information private?”
“Twas in the letter, your Grace,” said Cordwainer. “I thought you read it.”
Godfrey glared at Cordwainer, his hands clutching the carved armrests of his chair. “Pray point out any such information in future.”
“Of course, your Grace.”
Godfrey rose from his chair and the three men stood in deference. He walked to the doors, then turned. “We of the Church are not so untutored in these matters as you imagine, Master Coroner,” he said. “I have already sent my men to apprehend another, more likely suspect. You will be informed when she is in custody.” With an ironic bow, the Archdeacon left the chamber.
Cordwainer stood sputtering as the doors closed. He picked up his stick and turned on the monk. “Who?” he demanded. “Who is this suspect?”
Brother Michael stepped back, raising his hands in front of himself as if he feared Cordwainer would strike him. “I do not know,” he said. “The Archdeacon has not confided in me.”
“Then what good are you?” Cordwainer started towards the doors, Thomas behind him. The young monk scurried after them.
“Please, Master Coroner, wait,” he said. Cordwainer stopped and turned. Brother Michael looked flustered, but took a deep breath and continued. “I hope you will forgive the Archdeacon for taking charge of your investigation in such a preemptory manner, Master. He worries about scandal touching the nunnery, and about protecting the liberty, of course. I know I’ve no experience in these matters, but perhaps you could regard me as an assistant? Or as a student? I assure you I will do only what you tell me – and if tis to stay out of your way, so be it.”
Cordwainer snorted, disarmed by Brother Michael’s candid words. His first inclination was to take the monk at his word and tell him to stay out of the investigation entirely, but perhaps he could make use of the lad, especially with Thomas gone to Adam in the afternoons and the problem of the Church’s liberty. Twasn’t Brother Michael’s fault the Archdeacon was an arrogant ass. Nor was it his fault that he’d been plucked from his cloister and given a task he had no idea how to perform. “Aye,” he said, “an assistant. There will be enough for you to do, make no mistake. But first, do you truly know nothing of this suspect?”
“Nothing,” replied Brother Michael. “Twas the first I’d heard of it, or of her, I guess I should say.” His eyes flicked to Thomas and back again. “What do you plan for me to do?”
“Tis obvious, you must question the nuns at Clementhorpe.”
“You think a nun did the killing?” The wide eyes got wider as his arched brows rose.
“Nay, I do not,” replied Cordwainer. “If you think for a moment, you can tell me why.”
Brother Michael returned Cordwainer’s stare for a long moment. “Is it because a nun could not have left the cloister to kill Sir John unnoticed, and tis probable tis only one killer?”
Cordwainer nodded, both pleased and surprised. “Good,” he said, “you can think. You need to question the nuns to find out if any of them saw or heard something unusual, if Lady Claire had any visitors, if the nunnery had any visitors at all. I want you to find out who the lay sisters are, if there are male servants to do the heavy work, who they are and where they live. When you have done that, you must report back to me.”
The monk’s mouth was hanging open. He had taken a wax tablet from his sleeve and was writing frantically. Thomas stood by, looking amused. “Tis not so hard as all that,” he said. “Just ask the nuns what they know, and get the names of the lay sisters and servants. It sounds more than tis.”
Brother Michael looked at him gratefully. “Thank you,” he said, squaring his shoulders. “I think I can do this. I’ll let you know whatever I find out.”
“Aye,” said Cordwainer. “When you have anything to say, come to Saint Martin’s Lane. My housekeeper will know h
ow to find me.”
“Aye, I will, Master Cordwainer.” His mouth spread in a wide grin, and for a moment his triangular face seemed balanced. “Perhaps I will find the killer,” he said. “Tis possible, isn’t it?”
◆◆◆
Edgar Westcote rode the bay gelding through the rain away from York, Magda riding pillion behind him. Father Robert was staying the night in the Saint Mary’s guesthouse, and the villagers had all decided to spend the evening in the taverns celebrating his victory over Sir John, but Edgar had paid out so much coin for the writ and the extra wages that he knew twould be foolish to join them. He’d been foolish already in not selling the gelding to the ostler at Micklegate. The man had offered a fair price, better than he could get in the countryside, but Edgar couldn’t bear to give up the horse until he had no other choice, nor did he want to force Magda to walk the long miles home to Market Weighton.
Magda had spent some of her coin from the herbs on a skin of wine, and they passed it between them as they rode. Twould be close to morning by the time they were home, but Edgar did not want to stop or make camp along the way. He knew twas risky to ride at night, for thieves haunted all the roads in these lawless days, but he could not have rested. Sir John’s absence from the Petty Assize worried him, and he feared what may have happened to the farm while they were in York.
They were more than halfway home when he heard hoofbeats ahead, although the way the road curved he could see nothing. Magda had fallen asleep against his back, and the rain had dwindled to a cold drizzle. Edgar was riding slowly to keep to the road in the misty darkness; twould be disaster were the horse to step off into a ditch and be lamed or worse. He pulled the reins and edged the gelding carefully into a deep shadow under a tree growing at the side of the road. If twas thieves, perhaps they would ride by without noticing them. If they were seen, he would lose the gelding and get nothing for it, even if they escaped with their lives.
[Matthew Cordwainer 03] - The White Rose Page 8