Baked to Death

by Dean James

  “And did you bring anything with you to the pavilion?”

  “Nothing except some paperwork.”

  “Very well, then, Millbank,” I said. Thank you for your cooperation.”

  After insulting my forebears a final time, he stomped off. Had he seen the smile on my face, he would no doubt have been even more infuriated.

  Altogether a most interesting, not to say, productive, interview. I congratulated myself. My forceful approach had yielded some unexpected results. Millbank was a sharp operator, but he hadn’t been terribly clever in his responses to my little onslaught.

  I was now more than ever convinced that his wooing of Adele de Montfort was all part of some scheme of his. Whether that scheme included the murder of Luke de Montfort was a very important question, and one I couldn’t answer just yet.

  A second question, and no less important, was whether Adele was in cahoots with Millbank or whether she was merely his catspaw.

  From the way he laughed when I said I would confront Adele with his scheme I rather doubted that Adele was anybody’s dupe. In fact it might be quite the other way round. Adele, playing at Lady Macbeth, so to speak, could have urged Millbank to murder her brother, promising him not only herself but her family’s company as reward.

  And if she turned her back on him once the deed was done, what could he do? In accusing her, he would open himself to a charge of murder. Stalemate.

  If Millbank had murdered Luke, then how had he done it? How had he managed to get him to eat or drink something laden with foxglove? And when?

  He could have been lying when he said that he had gone to the de Montfort pavilion only once yesterday and that he had taken nothing except some papers with him. Etheldreda the servant girl might very well know if he were telling the truth. It would at least be worth asking her.

  Enough of that for the moment, however. It was time to move on to the next name on my list. His Majesty, Harald Knutson, in other words.

  Moving from behind the tent, I walked down the lane and approached the first person I saw to ask for directions. He pointed in the direction I was already headed and said that I would find the king’s tent a bit farther along.

  “It’s his time for hearing petitions,” the young man advised me. “You can’t miss the tent. There are several people in a queue outside it.”

  After thanking him, I wandered on down the lane. Sure enough, about fifty yards on, I found a tent outside of which waited four people.

  Taking my place at the end of the queue, I listened idly to the chatter about me as I thought about the approach I should use with Knutson.

  After twenty minutes, the person ahead of me had been admitted to the royal presence, and no one had come along to join the queue behind me. Just as well, I thought, because the king might not be in any frame of mind to listen to further petitions after I had finished with him.

  Seven or eight minutes later, the tent flap opened, and the woman who had been ahead of me in the queue exited. An attendant, broad and stubby, beckoned for me to enter. I bent my head slightly to come inside, and when I straightened and removed my sunglasses, I nearly burst into laughter at what I saw.

  I had thought Sir Reginald Bolingbroke’s dais and throne a bit on the pretentious side, but Harald Knutson sat ensconced on a chair that made old Reggie’s seem distinctly bargain basement in comparison. No wonder the man was having cash flow problems, if he spent money on accoutrements like this.

  But, to be fair, I thought, perhaps the G.A.A. had footed the bill for this particular monstrosity.

  Knutson hadn’t been paying any particular attention to his latest petitioner, fiddling with some papers in his lap. When he finally deigned to notice me, however, his eyes widened in what looked very much like fear.

  He stood up. “I’m afraid you must have been misinformed, Dr. Kirby-Jones,” he said frostily. “These audiences are for members only.”

  “What about prospective members?” I asked. “Am I not allowed to speak with you about joining the group?”

  He sat down again, eyeing me suspiciously all the while. “I suppose, if you are really serious about joining us, then I can spare you a few minutes of my time.”

  “Thank you, sire,” I said, bowing.

  Knutson waved a hand, and his attendant brought forward a chair for me. I sat in it, even though doing so left me at a distinct disadvantage. Or so it would appear to Knutson.

  “Is there anyone else waiting?” Knutson asked his attendant belatedly.

  “No, sire,” the man answered.

  “Then you may go,” the king said.

  Bowing, the servant took his leave, and I was alone with the king.

  He immediately launched into a long and somewhat incoherent history of the society, taking the occasional detour to stress his own importance to the whole operation. I waited as politely as I could until he began to run out of steam.

  Abruptly, he switched off the flow. “Did you really come here to talk about joining us?” Knutson asked.

  “I am interested, actually,” I said, “but you’re right. I didn’t really come here to talk to you about membership.”

  He stood up. “Then I have nothing further to say to you. I would very much like you to leave.”

  I remained seated. “This won’t do, you know. You’re not my king, and I haven’t the slightest intention of going anywhere until I’m good and ready.”

  “Then I shall leave,” he announced, stepping down from his dais.

  “Without hearing me tell you how and why you murdered Luke de Montfort?”

  He faltered, then backed up a couple of paces and plopped down on the dais. “What... what do you mean?” His voice came out thinly.

  “You disappoint me, Your Majesty,” I said, in tones of mock sadness. “I had expected you to deny my accusations forcefully, and yet you do not.”

  The sad excuse for a monarch breathed deeply. “And why should I bother to deny your accusations? Who the bloody hell are you to accuse me of anything?”

  “That’s better,” I said approvingly. “Much more regal. The air of outraged majestic virtue might just work. On someone other than me, that is.”

  “You can go to the bloody devil,” Knutson said. With his temper on the rise, he seemed to have regained his strength. He stood up from the dais and strode forward, shaking a finger at me. “Get out of here! You have no authority here, and I shall see to it that you are not allowed entrance here again. I do have authority.”

  “But for how long?” I said. “I should think, after the upcoming election, you won’t have the authority to do much of anything.”

  His face darkened. “I said, get out!”

  “Now, now,” I replied calmly, “no need to get excited.” Really, the man was much too predictable. He had behaved exactly as I had expected when I decided on this course of action.

  “You still haven’t answered my question,” I continued. “Don’t you want me to tell you how and why you murdered Luke?”

  “You are completely, utterly, and entirely barmy, do you know that?” Like Millbank before him, Knutson was fairly hopping up and down in his fury.

  “I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’ ” I said. “First, let me tell you how you murdered Luke.” I waited a moment, and he stopped flapping about and paid attention to me.

  “That’s better. How did you do it? You put distilled foxglove in that mead you took him yesterday. Apparently he drank it all. Did you drink any of it?”

  “Yes, of course I did,” Knutson said, but I could tell he was lying. “And if I drank it, it couldn’t have been poisoned, or I would have died myself.”

  “But you can’t prove you drank any of it,” I said. “The only person who might have seen you drink it was poor Luke, and he won’t be answering questions.”

  He gaped at me. “But, but, that servant girl. She saw me.”

  “She says not.”

  That’s ridiculous,” he shouted. “She’s lying.”

  “No, I
don’t think she is,” I said.

  “She is,” Knutson insisted. “But even if she didn’t see me, then if it was poisoned, why didn’t Luke die right then and there? Do you think I’d be stupid enough to poison him while I was right there?” He seemed very happy over his little feat of logic.

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” I said, trying not to laugh. “But since Luke may have been poisoned with foxglove, it would have taken several hours to act. Hence you could have poisoned the wine, knowing that he wouldn’t succumb to the poison until sometime later, when you’d be safely out of the way.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Knutson said. “I don’t know anything about foxglove, and you can’t prove I did.”

  “I doubt I shall have to. That’s a job for the police.” I smiled at him. “Now, to the second part of the question. Why? Why did you murder Luke?”

  Before I could continue, an interruption occurred, in the form of Knutson’s servant, who erupted into the tent.

  “Sire, sire!” He stumbled to a halt in front of Knutson, who took a moment to focus on him.

  “Yes, yes, what is it?” His Majesty snapped.

  “Someone’s been attacked. You’d best come right away.” The servant turned, expecting his master to follow him.

  Knutson staggered forward. He seemed still dazed by our conversation. I stood up and grabbed his arm. “Come along, man, this could be serious.” Half-dragging the king, I followed the servant out of the tent. “Where did it happen?” I asked the man.

  “Behind The Happy Destrier,” he puffed as we ran down the lane.

  Letting go of Knutson’s arm, I pushed ahead of the servant and ran rapidly toward the tavern tent. Moments later, when I reached it I found a crowd gathered round the back. Elbowing a number of people aside, I quickly moved to the front of the crowd.

  In shocked disbelief, I stared down at the crumpled body of Giles Blitherington.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  For a moment, everything was black. I could neither hear nor see anything or anyone.

  Then my eyes cleared, and once again I saw Giles lying unconscious on the ground before me. He was on his back, his face turned slightly away from me and his arms flung out to either side.

  I stumbled forward and fell to my knees. “Oh, Giles,” I whispered. “Please be all right.” I reached out with a trembling hand and caressed his arm.

  In my shock at seeing him like that I had failed to notice that he was breathing evenly and easily. At my touch, he stirred slightly.

  “Don’t move, Giles,” I said, my voice gathering strength. “Lie still until the doctor comes.”

  I moved around to the other side so that I could see his face more clearly.

  His eyes opened briefly, and when he saw me, his lips twisted into a smile. “Simon,” he whispered.

  “Don’t try to talk,” I said. I was afraid to touch his head. I couldn’t see any obvious head wound, but I didn’t want him moving about until a doctor had arrived.

  “Has anyone gone for the doctor?” I said, looking up into the faces of the crowd around me.

  My expression must have been more fierce than I realized, because those standing in the front began to press back a bit.

  “Aye,” said a voice from somewhere nearby. “She has been summoned.”

  Though it seemed an eternity, it must have been only three or four minutes longer before the doctor arrived, breathless, her Gladstone bag in hand. All the while Giles had continued to revive, growing increasingly restless under my attempts to keep him still.

  I moved out of the way to let the doctor examine Giles. She probed his head carefully, and he winced as her fingers came into contact with the back of his head.

  “A bit of a lump there,” she said in a cheerful voice. “Not too bad though. Someone struck you on the back of the head. There doesn’t seem to be any blood, just the lump.”

  “That’s quite enough,” Giles said in a brave attempt at humor.

  She checked his eyes for signs of concussion, then asked, “Can you sit up?”

  “Yes, I think so,” Giles said. His voice had gained strength, and he sounded almost his usual self. Had I been able to breathe, I would have exhaled a huge sigh of relief.

  “Will he be all right, doctor?” I asked.

  “I believe so,” she said. “A nasty knock on the head, and of course we have to be alert for signs of concussion. Confusion, nausea and vomiting, convulsions, any kind of muscle weakness, or even loss of consciousness. Keep him awake for the next twelve hours or so, and if you see any problems, get him to hospital right away.”

  “Do you think I should take him anyway, just to be safe?” I asked anxiously.

  “Are you able to stand?” The doctor ignored my question, focusing instead on Giles.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m feeling stronger now.”

  I bent down and grasped him under the arms. With extreme care I pulled him to his feet, and he leaned gratefully against me.

  “I think he’ll be fine,” the doctor said, addressing me. “No need to take him to the casualty ward just yet.”

  “Thank you, doctor,” I said.

  “Yes, thank you,” Giles echoed.

  “You’re quite welcome. Just take it easy.” She smiled as she bent to retrieve her bag. She delved into it and rummaged around for a moment. At last her hand came out holding a small white envelope. “For pain,” she explained as she dropped them into my hand. “One tablet every four to six hours as needed.” Then she melted away into the crowd before I could offer to pay her. Still holding on to Giles, I tucked the envelope into a pocket. Then I glanced around at the curious faces surrounding us.

  “Did anyone see what happened?”

  There was a bit of muttering, but no one stepped forward as a witness.

  “Very well, then,” I said sharply. “The show’s over. Get on with your business.”

  They dispersed very quickly at that.

  Giles laughed, and I could feel his body shake slightly. “Oh, Simon, you’re like the proverbial mother hen.”

  “You gave me quite a scare there, you know,” I said.

  He looked up into my face, and his smile grew wider. “No one is going to get rid of me that easily, Simon.”

  I wrapped my arms around him, and he laid his head on my shoulder. “When I find out who did this to you,” I whispered, “I’ll beat the crap out of him.”

  Giles drew back and grinned at me. “Not a very elegantly expressed sentiment, Simon, but I do appreciate it nevertheless. It’s almost worth getting banged on the head to see you like this.”

  “Silly boy,” I said tenderly. “If anything happened to you, I don’t know what I’d do.”

  His eyes widened as the import of that statement dawned on him. “Simon?”

  I nodded.

  “Oh, Simon,” he said, snuggling into my arms again.

  “We have some things to talk about later,” I said, feeling a bit light-headed, “when we can have some privacy. There are some things you need to know.”

  “Whatever you say, Simon,” he said, then turned his face up to mine for a kiss.

  After a few very pleasant moments I pulled away from him. Holding on to his hand, I led him around to the front of the tavern and across the lane to where someone had thoughtfully placed a long bench in the shade of a massive oak tree. Settling Giles on the bench, I sat beside him. Passersby glanced at us a bit curiously, but no one approached us. One quick glare from me, and no one would dare. “Now, about this knock on the head,” I said.

  “Yes, Simon,” he said. “And before you ask, I didn’t see who did it.”

  “Very well,” I responded. “What were you doing behind the tavern in the first place?”

  Giles frowned in concentration. “I’m trying to remember,” he said, “though things are a bit fuzzy. I know I had stopped in the tavern for something to drink, and there was someone inside. We were talking for a bit.”

  “Who?”

  “I th
ink it was Professor Lovelace,” Giles said. He paused, his eyes closed. “Yes,” he continued, opening his eyes, “it was Professor Lovelace.”

  “Did you talk with him for very long?” I asked.

  “No,” Giles said slowly, “I don’t think so. I tried asking him a few questions, but he persisted in pretending to flirt with me.”

  “Pretending to flirt with you?” I said sharply. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I’m not sure.” Giles shrugged. “He was chatting me up a bit but I didn’t think his heart was in it. It just all seemed so insincere.”

  “And that’s all he was doing?” I asked. Would Giles have realized it if Tris had tried to hypnotize him again?

  “Yes,” Giles said. “Although I did notice him glancing across the room a few times.”

  “What or rather whom, was he looking at?”

  “I believe it was a handsome young man, dressed in a scarlet tunic and hose. I had noticed him earlier, and he seemed terribly interested in what was going on between the professor and me.”

  I remembered seeing Tris chatting up a young man who fit that description. Tris was a fast worker, and perhaps the young man was so enamored of him, he was jealous of any competition. He could have perceived Giles as a threat and attacked him to discourage him.

  I voiced these thoughts to Giles.

  “Maybe,” he said, “but that does seem a bit silly, don’t you think?”

  “Possibly,” I said, “though where Tris is concerned, I wouldn’t rule anything out.” I watched Giles with some anxiety. “Now, are you sure you’re all right? Would you like something to drink?” I stood up.

  “Yes, Simon, I’m fine,” Giles said. “My head is a bit sore and throbbing, but I’ll do just fine. I wouldn’t mind some water, however, and one of those pills the doctor gave you.”

  “Be back in a tick,” I said, crossing the lane for the tavern. Moments later I returned with a tall pewter drinking vessel of cool water, and Giles quaffed it gratefully along with one of the pain pills.

  “Thanks,” he said. “That’s much better.” He set the water aside.