by Paul Doherty
‘I believe,’ Athelstan declared, ignoring Cranston’s warning look, ‘that Master Fitzroy did not die of a seizure but was poisoned.’
‘Murdered?’ Goodman snapped.
‘Impossible!’ Marshall snorted. ‘What are you implying, Brother?’
‘My clerk is implying nothing!’ Cranston retorted, getting to his feet.
Athelstan carefully laid the napkin over the table, covering the plate and cups.
‘If my secretarius,’ Cranston continued defiantly, ‘says a man is poisoned, then he’s been poisoned.’
‘Now, now, what is this?’ the young King intervened. ‘If Sir Thomas were murdered here, his assassin would still be in the room.’
Athelstan got up and walked across to a servitor who stood holding a jug of rose water and a bowl, with a small towel over his wrist. Athelstan smiled at the fellow, extended his fingers and carefully washed away the sugary-sweet substance from Fitzroy’s mouth. He dried his hands carefully on the towel and walked back to the group.
I believe Master Fitzroy was murdered,’ he declared. ‘I have seen seizures before, but not like this one. Death was too sudden and I detect a strange smell on his lips.’
The powerful Guildmasters stared at Athelstan: they believed him now and their arrogant looks were tinged by fear and suspicion.
‘Who sat on either side of him?’ Cranston asked the unspoken question.
‘I did,’ Goodman declared. ‘I sat to his right.’
‘And I to his left,’ Sudbury added. ‘Why, what are you implying?’
Cranston looked at the servants huddled near the door. ‘You, sir.’ One stubby finger singled out a frightened-looking steward. ‘Come here!’
The fellow scuttled forward.
‘Did Sir Thomas Fitzroy eat or drink anything we did not?’
‘No, sir. All food was served from the one platter and his wine came from the same jugs as everyone else’s.’
‘I will stand as surety for that.’ Bremmer, Guildmaster of the Drapers, spoke up.
‘As will I,’ Marshall of the Spicers declared. ‘You see, old Fitzroy liked his food and drink. Bremmer and I had a quiet wager that Fitzroy would ask for double portions of everything and his cups be refilled more than anyone else’s. I was right,’ the spicer added slyly, glancing quickly at Cranston. ‘He ate and drank even more than you, Sir John.’
Cranston glared back and belched loudly as if that was the only answer such a statement warranted. He turned to Bremmer. ‘You are sure of that?’
‘l am, Sir John.’
‘And you?’ Beginning to sway slightly, Cranston looked sharply at the steward.
Oh, Lord, Athelstan prayed silently, don’t let Sir John sit down and go to sleep. Not now. Please, please!
Cranston, however, seemed to have the bit between his teeth as he advanced threateningly on the frightened steward.
‘Are you sure that Fitzroy ate and drank only what we did?’
‘Of course, Sir John. You see,’ the steward turned, bobbing to the King and the Regent, ‘all meats and all drinks were served to His Grace the King and my Lord of Gaunt first, then to everyone else. If any servitor had returned for more wine or meat by the time he had reached Sir Thomas, I would have remembered.’
‘Can the servants be trusted?’ Goodman jibed.
The steward glared furiously back. ‘How could any of us,’ he retorted, ‘while serving meat and drink with both hands, stop to sprinkle or pour poison with others, including Fitzroy, watching?’
‘I only asked!’ Goodman smirked.
Cranston made a rude sound and walked over to Athelstan. He towered above the friar and glared down at him. ‘You’d better be right!’ he hissed.
‘Don’t worry, my good Coroner.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘Ah, here comes the physician.’
Theobald de Troyes, swathed in a voluminous cloak, strode into the room, eyes heavy with sleep and face angry at being disturbed so late. Adam Clifford arrived at the same time, his riding boots covered in mud, the spurs still attached, clinking and jangling. As the physician went to crouch beside the corpse, Gaunt signalled Clifford away from the rest and stood whispering. Athelstan watched Clifford’s face and knew that not only was he right about Fitzroy but, from the look of surprised anger on the Regent’s face, this second murder was a major blow to Gaunt’s political dreams.
Clifford asked the Regent a question. Gaunt drew back his head sharply and shook his head. Clifford strode forward, pushing his way through the group of Guildmasters. Without a by-your-leave, he curtly ordered the physician to stand aside whilst he searched the dead man’s wallet, ignoring cries of protest from the others. At last he found what he was searching for and, with a key in his hands, beamed triumphantly at Gaunt.
‘We have it, My Lord!’
‘Good!’ The Regent sighed with relief. ‘Keep it for a while.’ He turned. ‘Master physician, can you determine the cause of death?’
‘Oh, yes.’ De Troyes got to his feet, wiping his hands on his robe. ‘Oh, yes,’ the physician repeated sarcastically. ‘First, Sir Thomas is dead. Second, the cause is murder. And third, the means is probably white arsenic administered to his food and drink.’
‘Impossible!’ Goodman shouted, his bulbous eyes glaring at the doctor. ‘How do you know he didn’t eat or drink something before he came here?’
‘Now, now.’ The physician held up his slender fingers. ‘I am merely the physician, not the poisoner.’ De Troyes turned, choosing to ignore Goodman. He smiled and bowed at Sir John and Athelstan. ‘My Lord Coroner, Brother Athelstan, so we meet again?’ The physician enjoyed seeing Goodman’s bubbling fury at being snubbed. ‘You are the city Coroner, Sir John. I have been summoned here to determine the cause of death and have given it. May I now ask a question of my own? How long were you feasting here before Fitzroy collapsed?’
‘About three hours,’ Cranston replied. ‘Why?’
‘Well, white arsenic would take about an hour to strike at the humours. The patient would feel some discomfort but perhaps dismiss it as wind or a piece of food stuck in the stomach. Death, however, follows rapidly after.’
‘Well, he did complain,’ Sir James Denny spoke up. ‘He mentioned some discomfort but, as is well known, Fitzroy liked his food and ate like a pig.’
‘Sir John,’ the physician continued, ignoring the Guildmaster, ‘you have my verdict: Fitzroy was poisoned here. Now, do you need my assistance any further?’
‘Yes, we do.’ The young King, who had been conversing with his tutor, Sir Nicholas Hussey, tapped his boots until he had everyone’s attention. Richard’s voice was surprisingly strong. ‘We have established certain matters, have we not, dearest Uncle?’ He smiled at Gaunt’s sullen expression. ‘First, Sir Thomas Fitzroy has been murdered by poison. Second, the poison was administered here. Yet, third, Sir Thomas Fitzroy ate and drank what we did.’
Gaunt bowed. ‘Your Grace, my dear nephew, you are as usual most perceptive. A wise head on such young shoulders. So what do you advise next?’
‘Let My Lord Coroner finish his task.’
Cranston bowed, walked back to Fitzroy’s table and removed the napkin. He beckoned the physician over and he, Brother Athelstan and the Coroner carefully examined the remnants of the food, the wine cup, and Fitzroy’s napkin and knife. The others looked on, moving restlessly and talking amongst themselves. De Troyes, despite being a fussy man, listened carefully to what Athelstan said as they sniffed, touched and slightly tasted everything on the table.
‘Nothing,’ de Troyes declared. ‘My Lord Coroner, I suggest the remnants of all this food be given to me. There are ways of testing it — perhaps left as rat bait. But I must conclude there’s no poison in anything on Sir Thomas’s table.’
Athelstan stood perplexed. He was sure that no one had touched anything after Fitzroy’s collapse. He and Cranston had been the first to cross to the stricken man and, even as Fitzroy had sprung to his feet, clutching his throat, Athelstan had carefu
lly watched the men on either side of him. Neither Goodman nor Denny had made any move to take or replace anything on the table. Sir John carefully went through the dead man’s pouch but could find nothing which would explain Fitzroy’s sudden death by poison.
The atmosphere in the hall had now subtly changed. People were drawing apart as the full implications of the day’s events sunk in. Sudbury spoke for them all.
‘My Lord of Gaunt,’ he declared defensively, ‘we began this day in such amity, yet within hours two of our company are dead, foully murdered.’
‘What are you implying?’ Clifford snapped. ‘These deaths cannot be laid at the Lord Regent’s door!’
‘I merely describe what has happened,’ the Guildmaster replied smoothly.
‘Your Grace.’ Determined to take charge of the situation, Gaunt walked towards his nephew. ‘Your Grace,’ he repeated, ‘you should retire. Sir Nicholas!’ He glared at the royal tutor.
‘We will go now,’ Richard declared. ‘But, sweet Uncle, two foul murders have occurred in the Guildhall. Someone must account for them.’ Spinning on his heel, the young King swept out of the Hall of Roses, followed by Hussey and the physician.
Gaunt waited until they had gone. ‘Clear the room!’ he ordered the serjeant-at-arms.
‘Sir,’ the steward spoke up. ‘The banquet is not yet finished. Shall I serve the dessert?’
Gaunt’s look of fury answered his question and the steward and the other servants scuttled from the hall.
Clifford whispered to the archers and soldiers that they too should leave. He had no sooner closed the door behind them than a loud knocking made him re-open it. Athelstan glimpsed a liveried servant who muttered a few words and thrust a piece of parchment into Clifford’s hand. He re-closed the door and walked into the centre of the room, read the parchment then handed it to the Regent. Gaunt studied it and fury flared in his face.
‘Take your seats!’ he ordered. ‘I have news for you.’
They all obeyed, Athelstan and Cranston included. Gaunt sat down in the King’s chair, the piece of parchment held before him. They waited until the four archers, summoned by Clifford, came in and bundled Fitzroy’s corpse unceremoniously into a canvas sheet, carrying it out of the room with as much care as they would a heap of refuse. Gaunt stared round the now silent, watchful guests.
‘I have a proclamation.’ His voice rose to a shout. ‘From the miscreant traitor who calls himself Ira Dei!’ He flung the parchment at Clifford.
The nobleman smoothed it out. ‘“Sir Thomas Fitzroy”,’ Clifford read, ‘“executed for crimes against the people.” signed, Ira Dei.’ He looked up and Athelstan sensed the fear in all of Gaunt’s guests. Even Cranston, not easily intimidated, bowed his head.
‘What is this?’ Goodman muttered hoarsely. ‘Who is this miscreant who can strike down the greatest in the city?’
‘I don’t know.’ Athelstan spoke up, trying to dispel the atmosphere of fear. ‘But now we are assured of three things. First, Fitzroy was murdered. Second, his murder was committed by, or on the orders of, this man who calls himself Ira Dei.’ He paused and looked sideways at Cranston.
‘And third?’ Gaunt questioned.
‘Your Grace, it is obvious. Fitzroy’s death has not been announced publicly. This proclamation, pinned on the Guildhall doors, proves one of two things: either Ira Dei is present in this room and had one of his henchmen attach such a notice, or one of his henchmen is now with us and this Anger of God, as he terms himself, pinned up the notice himself.’
‘What about the guards?’ Cranston asked. ‘We saw them as we came in.’
‘They were withdrawn into the Guildhall once the banquet had begun,’ Gaunt replied crossly.
‘In which case, my clerk must be right,’ Cranston tartly observed. ‘Whatever interpretation you put on it, Your Grace, you have a murderous traitor in your midst!’
Athelstan’s words had already provoked raised eyebrows. When they were repeated by the Coroner, consternation broke out.
‘What are you saying?’ Goodman shouted, getting to his feet, all court etiquette forgotten.
‘It’s imperative!’ the foppish Denny shouted. ‘Your Grace, we must inspect the gold each of us deposited in the chest in the Guildhall chapel.’ He pulled out the key hanging from his neck on a silver chain, very similar to the one Clifford had removed from the dead Fitzroy.
‘I agree,’ the red-haired Sudbury declared, his face even more flushed from the claret he was gulping. ‘Your Grace, this is a disaster. For all our sakes, the chest must be examined.’
Gaunt looked at Clifford who nodded perceptibly. The Regent removed a silver chain from round his own neck. The key which swung from it glinted in the candlelight.
‘It’s best if we do,’ he agreed.
Clifford called the guards and, led by four serjeants-at-arms bearing torches, Gaunt and his now subdued guests, Cranston and Athelstan included, marched along the vaulted passageways, up the wide wooden stairs and into the small Guildhall chapel. They stood for a while just within the door, peering through the darkness, smelling the fragrance of incense; the guards lit flambeaux, as well as the candles they found on the high altar. The chapel, a small jewel with polished marble pillars, mosaic floor and painted walls, flared into life. The marble altar at the far end was covered by pure white cloths. They walked towards it. Gaunt deftly pulled the cloths aside. Beneath the altar, supported on four pillars, sat a long wooden chest reinforced with iron bands. Even in the poor light, Athelstan could see the six locks along one side.
‘Pull it out!’ Gaunt ordered.
Two soldiers brought it forward so that it stood before the altar. Even this action caused consternation for the chest seemed surprisingly light. Gaunt shouted for silence as he, followed by Clifford, who held Fitzroy’s, inserted and turned their keys. The Guildmasters followed suit, the clasps were lowered and the chest opened. Athelstan and Cranston peered over the shoulders of the others.
‘Nothing!’ Marshall breathed.
Cranston, quicker than the rest, pushed forward and plucked up the piece of yellow parchment lying on the bottom.
‘“These taxes have been collected”,’ he read aloud, ‘“by the Great Community of the Realm.” Signed, Ira Dei.’
‘This is intolerable!’ Denny shouted. ‘My Lord of Gaunt, we have been betrayed in this matter!’
But the Regent, his face white as a ghost, sat slumped in the sanctuary chair, staring into the darkness, his lips moving wordlessly. Cranston, who had known John of Gaunt since he was a boy, had never seen him look so frightened or bewildered.
‘This is the devil’s work,’ Gaunt muttered.
His words were ignored as the other Guildmasters shouted and cursed. Clifford stood, mouth agape, staring down at the empty chest. Cranston shook him roughly by the shoulder.
‘For God’s sake, man!’ he hissed. ‘Clear the chapel. This does no one any good.’
Clifford broke out of his reverie and clapped his hands loudly. ‘My Lord of Gaunt must ponder this matter!’ he shouted above the hubbub.
‘What matter?’ Sudbury screamed back. ‘My Lord of Gaunt stretches out his hand and we clasp it. He talks of amity between himself and the city — now two of our company are dead. The gold we deposited here has been stolen and the miscreant, Ira Dei, not only murders and robs but makes a mockery of us all. What shall we report to our Guilds, eh? How do we tell our brethren that thousands of pounds sterling are now missing?’
‘My Lord of Gaunt will act,’ Cranston replied. ‘He is Regent, acting for the Crown. Is any man here going to commit treason and claim my Lord of Gaunt is responsible for this?’ He stared at Goodman the Mayor, leaning against the altar, a look of stupefaction on his face.
‘The chapel is to be cleared. My Lord Mayor, you should stay.’
At last Cranston’s authority prevailed and the Guildmasters, muttering amongst themselves and throwing black glances over their shoulders, trooped out of the chapel. G
aunt waited until the door closed behind them then lifted his face from his hands.
‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, I thank you for that.’ He got to his feet. ‘But what shall we do? The Guildmasters are right. Each has lost a thousand pounds sterling. Mountjoy and Fitzroy are dead, and Ira Dei dances round me as if I was some bloody maypole.’ He gestured with his hand. Athelstan and Cranston sat down, Goodman and Lord Adam Clifford likewise. Gaunt covered his face with his hands then rubbed his eyes and looked at Cranston.
‘What do you propose, My Lord Coroner?’
Cranston shook his head. Athelstan caught a spark of anger in the Regent’s eyes. Sir John would have to move quickly or he might well become the scapegoat for the rage boiling in the Regent’s heart.
‘Your Grace.’ Athelstan rose to his feet. He tried to shake off his own tiredness, curbing his desire to flee back to his own quiet church in Southwark.
‘Your Grace,’ he repeated, ‘two men have been foully murdered, but all assassins make mistakes and we have yet to reflect upon the events of this calamitous day. However, the removal of the gold from a chest which could only be opened by six separate keys is most mysterious. I have a number of questions. First, who made the chest?’
‘Peter Sturmey,’ Clifford replied, ‘a trusted locksmith whose services are retained by the Crown. I doubt very much whether he would act the traitor in this. His own son is an Exchequer official who was recently in an affray at Colchester whilst trying to collect taxes.’
Athelstan held up his hand. ‘Then what about the chest itself? My Lord Regent, perhaps we might examine it?’
Gaunt grunted his assent and Athelstan, assisted by Cranston and Clifford, with Goodman looking on, turned the chest over, knocking at the wooden panelling, examining the locks.
Cranston shook his head. ‘Good and true,’ he breathed, getting to his feet. ‘The chest has no secret compartments.’ He studied the clasp and locks. ‘None of these has been tampered with.’
Athelstan flicked the dust from his robes. ‘Therefore, my third question. Could there have been a master key?’
‘Impossible!’ Clifford snapped. ‘Each lock is unique.’ He drew out two of the keys which the Guildmasters had left, I am no locksmith, Brother, but study these carefully. Look!’ He held both of them up against the candlelight. ‘See the curves and notches of each key? They are quite separate and distinct. Indeed, my Lord of Gaunt insisted that they be so.’