by Paul Doherty
Tobias lit a rushlight on the wall, then a candle on the table. Kathryn gazed at Colum and Luberon. They, too, were uneasy even though nothing was amiss in the room. It was a perfect square, the ceiling of ribbed design, the black timber beams contrasting sharply with the white plaster. The walls were lime-washed and draped with canvas or linen cloths. The rushes on the wooden floor were clean, dry and sprinkled with fresh herbs. A small cupboard stood in one corner and, at the base of the great four-poster bed, a large wooden chest. Beside this lay two leather panniers or saddlebags, their clasps undone, the covers thrown back to reveal a pile of stones.
‘The tax money was in them?’ Kathryn asked.
Smithler shrugged. ‘That’s what Standon said.’
‘And I was right.’ The royal serjeant came in uninvited. Behind him, in the gallery, stood the landlord’s wife, her pretty face drawn and anxious. Colum opened his mouth to tell Standon to leave but he caught Kathryn’s warning glance.
‘Well, let’s see him!’ Colum growled, gesturing at the bed curtains.
Luberon pulled these back. Sir Reginald Erpingham lay there, covered by a sheet. Kathryn slowly lifted it back and stared down at the dead tax collector: a small, thickset man, balding head, fleshy featured, his eyes tightly closed, the lids held down by two pennies. Kathryn leant down and sniffed at the lips, then felt the man’s hands, cold and hardening.
‘What time was he discovered dead?’ she asked.
‘Early this morning,’ Smithler replied.
‘And what time did you retire last night?’ Kathryn now slipped her hand beneath the dead man’s nightshirt, pressing his chest and stomach.
‘About eight o’clock.’
Kathryn shook her head. ‘Well, he’s been dead for hours,’ she muttered. ‘The flesh feels waxy, the bones and muscles hardening.’ She peered closer. ‘Colum, pull back the bed drapes. Master Standon, open the window. No, stop!’
She walked towards the window. ‘On second thought I’ll open it myself.’
Kathryn carefully lifted the latch on the shutters and pulled them back. She stared closely at the latch on the window casement; she then pressed this down and pushed it open, knocking the snow off the ledge into the yard below.
Colum came up behind her. ‘What’s the matter, Kathryn?’
‘I am not speaking to you, Irishman,’ she whispered. ‘You owe me an explanation.’ She turned away. ‘I think Erpingham was murdered,’ she declared. ‘I just want to make sure this window hadn’t been forced.’
The landlord quickly understood what Kathryn was doing.
‘Mistress Swinbrooke, that window has not been open for at least a week.’
‘I can see that,’ Kathryn replied, coming back to the bed and staring down at the corpse, which now looked ghastly in the poor light coming through the open casement. She lifted up the heavy nightshirt and stared down at the greyish-white flesh, the rather shrivelled testicles and the flabby chest, stomach and thighs.
‘Not the prettiest of sights,’ Standon muttered.
They all grouped round the bed. Kathryn glimpsed a small goblet of wine on the table. She picked this up and sniffed. It only contained a few dregs of wine and smelt untainted. Kathryn carefully dipped her finger in and licked.
‘Was that safe?’ Colum murmured.
‘Yes, it’s only wine.’ She stared across at Smithler. ‘The tax collector took this up on the night he retired?’
‘Oh, yes, nothing has been touched. Master Luberon ordered that.’
Now Luberon took the goblet; he swilled the wine round, noticing the thin coating on the top, how deeply stained the pewter cup was.
‘Yes, that’s the cup I saw when I came here this morning,’ he declared. ‘And the wine’s been in it for some time. Mistress Swinbrooke, what is the matter?’
Kathryn once more sniffed the dead man’s slightly stained mouth, pulled back the eyelids and ran her hand over the swollen stomach.
‘Colum, bring a candle closer.’
The Irishman obeyed.
‘Closer still!’ she urged. ‘Near the face!’
Colum did so and gasped as he noticed the faint red blotches, like scabs on the man’s cheeks. The same reddish marks covered the corpse’s throat, chest and stomach.
‘What is it?’
‘Sir Reginald Erpingham,’ Kathryn replied, sitting on the edge of the bed, ‘did not die of a seizure or apoplexy, or from any natural cause. He died from the commonest and most virulent of poisons. What the Latinists would call belladonna or the common tongue deadly nightshade.’ She pointed to the flushed skin and then gingerly put her finger between the man’s lips. ‘All the signs are here. First, his mouth reeks of it. You see, deadly nightshade is a tall perennial herb and can be gathered from any wood, thicket or hedgerow. The purple bell flower is nothing, but its leaves and roots hold a deadly potion. After death the symptoms become quite apparent: the abdomen slightly swollen, the skin flushed in places, particularly the face and neck, which become waxlike to the touch. The dead man’s lips and mouth are as dry as sand and his pupils remain widened.’
She got to her feet and carefully covered the naked corpse. ‘Sir Reginald Erpingham was poisoned. Death would have come very quickly.’ She shrugged. ‘It would occur well within half an hour.’
‘Wouldn’t he have known?’ Colum asked. ‘And struggled against it or cried for help?’
Kathryn shook her head. ‘No, the symptoms are very similar to those of a sudden seizure.’
She stared round the chamber. Apart from the open window and the saddlebags, everything seemed in place. The small fire that had burned in the hearth was now a pile of white ash. In the far corner lay a heap of the dead man’s clothing: jerkin, tunic, hose and war belt. Kathryn pointed at them.
‘Is this how they were this morning?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Standon replied. ‘Why?’
Kathryn gestured at a peg driven into the wall. ‘I was just curious. Why didn’t he hang them up there?’
Standon muttered something about Erpingham being an untidy bastard which Kathryn chose to ignore. She walked across and studied the pile of clothing.
‘How was Erpingham discovered?’ Colum asked.
‘Well, I came up this morning.’ Standon replied. ‘I knocked and knocked. I knew something had happened so I called Smithler and’ – Standon sighed noisily – ‘he told me to piss off, he was too busy in the kitchen. He did allow Vavasour and some of my soldiers to use a bench and we knocked the door clean off its hinges.’
Kathryn went and studied the door very carefully. She tapped the key.
‘And this was still in the lock?’
‘Yes,’ Standon replied. ‘Both Vavasour and I checked that; it was also bolted.’
Now Colum sauntered across and carefully checked the bolts, recalling how, only a few months earlier at the castle, a door that was supposed to be bolted had, in fact, simply been locked from the outside. But this time there could be no mistake: the bolts and the clasps had been torn away, the metal bending. The wood on both the door and lintel had roughly splintered and the lock was bent.
‘This door was forced all right,’ he said.
‘So?’ The Irishman pointed down at the corpse. ‘What else did you discover?’
Standon shrugged. ‘What you see. The window was secured. The fire dead.’
Colum went over and stood under the lintel of the door and stared up curiously.
‘This is crooked,’ he exclaimed and then went out to the gallery before coming back in. ‘All the door lintels are slightly crooked. Why is that?’
‘This is an old building,’ Smithler replied. ‘Foundations are strong but wood moves.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Which is why every door creaks on its leather hinges.’
Kathryn meanwhile had walked back to the saddlebags.
‘These were open?’ she asked.
‘No,’ Standon replied. ‘The bags were clasped but when we opened them we found nothing but stones and rocks.’
‘How much was there?’ Colum said.
‘I don’t know,’ the soldier stammered, his face paling. ‘But Vavasour murmured something about two hundred and fifty pounds sterling in good coin.’
Colum whistled under his breath and stared at Kathryn.
‘The King will be furious,’ Standon muttered. ‘If the money was in coin, its market value was probably worth much more, perhaps even as high as four hundred pounds.’
‘And where had it been collected from?’ Colum insisted.
‘Until the roads closed,’ Standon said, ‘from the villages between Rochester and Canterbury.’ He looked hard-eyed at Kathryn. ‘And, before you say it, Mistress, I know what you are thinking.’
‘What?’ she asked innocently.
The soldier looked down at the floor and nervously tugged at his belt. ‘There is no guarantee that the silver hadn’t gone missing before Erpingham was murdered or even before he arrived here.’
‘Yes,’ Kathryn replied softly. ‘I had thought of that.’
‘So.’ Colum walked over and kicked the saddlebag with the toe of his boot. ‘I think it was here when Erpingham retired last night. He brought up a cup of wine, which, we now know, contained no trace of poison. He locked and bolted the door; the saddlebags, we can only surmise, were secure, the windows both closed and shuttered. In the morning, however, Erpingham was found poisoned. Neither the door nor window had been interfered with and there is no trace of poison in the room, yet Erpingham is dead and the King’s taxes gone.’ Colum shrugged. ‘There must only be one conclusion: someone came at night through a secret passageway in and out of this room and poisoned Erpingham.’
‘But that can’t be,’ Standon objected. ‘After the meal, I slept in the gallery. Mistress Smithler gave me a mattress and a blanket. I always slept near Sir Reginald’s room. Moreover, as the landlord says, these doors creak when they open. Neither I, nor Sir Gervase asleep in the adjoining chamber, heard any disturbance.’
‘And there are no secret passageways,’ Smithler intervened. ‘I assure you of that, Master Murtagh.’ He shrugged. ‘If you wish, you can make your own investigation.’
Kathryn crossed her arms and stared round this bleak chamber. Why, she wondered, was it so oppressive, so evil? What danger, what menace lurked here? She recalled her father’s words, Physician Swinbrooke, who now lay coffined beneath the slabs in St. Mildred’s Church. ‘Never be fearful of the dead, Kathryn. Whatever you see, whatever you hear, whatever you feel, the dead are with God. If you must, only fear the living.’ Kathryn drew in her breath sharply.
‘Master Simon.’ She glanced at Luberon, who was also standing uneasily, shuffling from foot to foot. ‘You were called here this morning?’
The little clerk nodded. ‘Yes, Standon immediately sent a messenger to the guildhall.’
‘And I stood on guard,’ the serjeant said. ‘Until he arrived. The landlord and the rest came in but nothing in this room was disturbed.’
Kathryn looked at the little clerk.
‘Is that right, Master Simon?’
Luberon nodded.
‘In which case,’ Kathryn continued, ‘let us return to the taproom. Master Smithler,’ she smiled placatingly. ‘I have walked through the cold and snow. My feet are freezing, my stomach is empty. I would appreciate some hot food.’
‘Who will pay for it?’ Smithler demanded crossly.
‘I will,’ Luberon replied. ‘Whatever is bought here on the King’s business, send your bills in to the guildhall with any receipts. Mistress Swinbrooke, what else?’
‘After we have eaten, and perhaps the rest could join us, I need to speak to all the other guests. You’d agree, Master Murtagh?’
The Irishman, who was sitting on the bed, eyes heavy, suddenly stirred.
‘Of course. Now leave us for a while.’
Kathryn stood back and waited for the rest to leave.
‘What a pretty mess,’ Colum muttered. He got up, making sure the corpse was covered from head to toe by pulling the bedclothes up over it. ‘Kathryn, this is not guildhall business but the King’s. He’ll want an answer from me, Erpingham’s murderer caught and, above all, that money returned.’
‘And I want an answer from you,’ Kathryn said, turning to face him. ‘Irishman, you are over a day late. You go wandering off across the Weald of Kent. A sudden snowstorm blows in and you disappear. Then you come striding back as if you had been playing with the ducks on the River Stour.’
Colum smiled mischievously, enjoying the sparks in Kathryn’s eye and the colour high in her cheek. He looked at Kathryn’s black hair, slightly greying at the temples, peeping out from beneath her veil: her eyes and her body tense, her pretty chin now slightly up, hands clenched together.
‘So, you did miss me, Kathryn?’
‘If you say that again,’ she replied, ‘I’ll pick something up and, this time, I won’t miss you, Irishman!’
Colum opened his mouth to tease her but he saw the warning look in Kathryn’s eyes. Normally placid and serene, Kathryn had a hot temper and a biting tongue to match. He strode over and grasped her hands.
‘Now, now, listen, Kathryn. I left Chilham –’
Kathryn pulled her hands away. ‘I gather that.’
‘At a crossroads outside the village,’ Colum continued. ‘Frenland, the ostler who came with me, suddenly got down from the cart and ran away.’
Kathryn’s mouth opened in astonishment.
‘You mean, he just climbed off the cart and disappeared in the middle of a snow-swept countryside?’
Colum nodded. ‘I know, Kathryn.’ He shook his head. ‘The man must have been witless or he just panicked. I have seen that happen before: seven years ago at the battle of Towton, some of the King’s troops were more frightened of the blizzard than they were of the enemy.’
‘But you said he was a steady man?’
‘As Chaucer says,’ Colum replied, ‘“I have seen madness laughing in his rage.” Anything is possible.’
‘“Your wit is thin”,’ Kathryn snapped back.
‘Who said that?’ Colum asked.
‘Read your Chaucer,’ Kathryn replied. ‘The Merchant’s Tale. Colum, you have lost one of your men, people will ask questions. I remember Frenland, he was small, black-haired; didn’t he have a wife out at Kingsmead?’
Colum nodded. ‘I have to tell her yet.’
‘What happened then?’ Kathryn asked.
‘I drove the cart on,’ Colum replied. ‘Night was coming, the blizzard was growing fiercer and, all around me, I could hear the howling of those wild dogs. God knows how I did it and God bless the brave hearts of those horses. I reached a farmstead where I spent the night. The farmer was an honest man. I hired a sturdy garron and made my way back. I didn’t bother to go to Kingsmead but came straight to Ottemelle Lane. Thomasina told me about Luberon’s visit, the murder of the painter’s wife as well as this sorry mess.’ He stared across at the corpse lying on the bed, then smiled back at Kathryn. ‘We are never alone in a room are we, Mistress Swinbrooke?’
‘No.’ Kathryn came over, grasped his hands and stared up straight into his heavy-lidded eyes. ‘Thomasina was right.’ She said, touching the stubble on his dirty cheek. ‘Never trust a sweet-talking, bog-trotting Irishman. I am glad you are back, Colum, I was worried sick.’ She let go of his hand but nipped his knuckle. ‘No questions, Colum, about whether I missed you or not. You know my state: I am married to Alexander Wyville, though God knows where he is! Now, that I can come to terms with.’ She winked at the Irishman. ‘But if anything happened to you, bog-trotter’ – Kathryn touched her chest – ‘something in here would die and never come back to life.’
Colum was tempted to question her further but Luberon suddenly appeared in the doorway.
‘They are all assembled, Mistress Kathryn. Mistress Smithler has something fragrant in the pot.’ He stepped round the broken door and walked into the room. ‘Is it me?’ he asked. ‘Or is there something abo
ut this chamber? Something of the sepulchre, the touch of death?’ He pointed at Colum. ‘Are you fey, Irishman? Can’t you sense something?’
Colum pulled a face. ‘Earlier this year,’ he replied, ‘I took part in the King’s victory at Tewkesbury. Near a ford across the Severn, the Lancastrian dead were piled waist high. Now, there I could smell and taste death.’
‘Wait!’ Kathryn walked across and pointed at the wall. ‘Look, there’s a painting, very faded.’
They crossed over and watched as Kathryn’s finger traced the outlines of a faded painting.
‘Done years ago,’ Kathryn declared. ‘In red, black and green. Two figures. Look, there’s the outline of a priest kneeling, and here is a woman’s wimple and dress.’ She pointed to a dark shape with black horns on a goatlike head.
‘The Lord Satan,’ Colum replied. ‘Perhaps you are right, Master Luberon.’ He pushed aside the rushes and started tapping the floor. ‘Perhaps this is some hell chamber. If necessary, I’ll pull it to pieces bit by bit to discover the mystery.’ He kicked the saddlebag full of rocks. ‘I have seen the best counterfeit men ply their trade at fairs and markets, but you’d need the devil’s skill to murder a man in a locked room, take his treasure and replace it with stones without leaving the slightest trace of your felony.’ Colum went and stared out of the window. ‘Thank God I haven’t had to report this immediately to the King.’ He closed the shutters with a bang. ‘However, there’s a thaw on its way.’
‘How can you tell that?’ Kathryn asked.
Colum winked and knowingly tapped the side of his nose. Luberon looked away, embarrassed and slightly jealous. He liked the Irishman but he adored Mistress Swinbrooke. Luberon recalled her words about meeting some good woman. I have met her, Luberon realised, staring sadly at Kathryn, but God knows I can never tell her.
‘Come on,’ Kathryn murmured. ‘Let’s not keep Master Smithler’s profits from suffering too much.’
They went out into the gallery where they could hear the hubbub from the taproom below. Kathryn glimpsed the capped wooden buckets standing along the gallery.