by Paul Doherty
‘Against fire,’ Luberon declared, following her glance. He puffed his chest out and pulled his shoulders back. ‘City regulations demand at least three buckets of water on each gallery in any tavern.’
Colum slapped him on the back. ‘Come on, Master Luberon, my belly thinks my throat’s been cut!’
They went down to the taproom where the Smithlers’ servants and scullions were serving a fragrant dish in pewter bowls with fresh manchet loaves wrapped in napkins. The rest of the guests ignored them as they took their seats near the roaring fire. Kathryn picked up her horn spoon and tasted the dish carefully; Colum attacked his with gusto.
‘You like it?’ Blanche Smithler came forward. Not sure of their response, she nervously wiped her hands on the snow-white apron wrapped round her slender waist.
Kathryn looked up. ‘It’s delicious. Stewed rabbit?’
‘Aye,’ Blanche replied. ‘Old Raston, one of our grooms, there’s not a rabbit alive he can’t catch. I roast it until it is brown, cut it up and cook it further, mixing onions, red wine, ginger, pepper and salt with a pinch of clove. It’s a favourite dish of the house, especially in winter.’
She moved away. Kathryn ate, trying to commit the recipe to memory. Afterwards a scullion gave them all a cup of hippocras, red wine sweetened with cinnamon, ginger and a dash of sugar. Colum smacked his lips and leaned back against the high bench.
‘Now,’ he murmured, ‘the questioning begins about theft, murder and treason.’
Chapter 3
Colum called the guests over and they sat in a semicircle round the hearth, sipping the hippocras Blanche Smithler served. The landlord claimed he had better things to do but Colum glowered at him and told him he would answer his questions either here or in the guildhall gaol. Luberon sat in the middle of the semicircle, his face full of self-importance, pleased that Kathryn and the Irishman had taken him into their confidence. Kathryn sat on the edge of the circle whilst Colum stood facing the guests, his back to the fire.
‘Before any of you ask,’ Colum began, ‘I am the King’s Commissioner in Canterbury. Master Simon Luberon here will attest to that. Mistress Swinbrooke is the city physician. It is her responsibility to view the corpse and assist me in any investigation or enquiry I choose to make. We are dealing with treason.’
Sir Gervase’s jaw fell. ‘What proof,’ he stuttered. The old knight sprang to his feet. ‘What proof do you have of that?’
‘Sit down, sir!’ Colum snapped. ‘The unlawful slaying of an official and the theft of the King’s taxes constitute treason. Sir Reginald Erpingham was definitely killed by a strong infusion of the poison belladonna. Now, today is Friday, the twentieth of December, the feast of St. Adelaide. The snow started falling when?’
‘On Monday evening,’ Father Ealdred offered.
‘And Sir Reginald arrived?’
‘That night,’ the priest replied. ‘We could judge by the skies that the snow was coming.’
‘And when did you all arrive?’
A babble of voices answered his questions. Colum held his hand up. ‘I shall deal with that later. However, you were all here by Wednesday evening?’
The guests agreed.
‘And nothing untoward happened?’
‘I told you,’ Sir Gervase trumpeted. ‘Sir Reginald woke up in a fright on Wednesday evening. The fellow was in a cold sweat, shivering like a maid.’
‘Ah yes.’ Colum moved away from the heat of the fire and sat on a stone plinth on the edge of the hearth. ‘Tell me, Sir Gervase, exactly what happened?’
‘Oh, it must have been well after midnight. I am a light sleeper.’ The old knight glared around, his blue eyes protuberant, his white whiskers bristling. ‘Comes from years of campaigning you know, sword by the bed. Old habits die hard.’
Kathryn hid her smile. Lady Margaret was not so successful and quietly giggled.
‘Anyway,’ Sir Gervase continued, ‘ups I get. Reginald was screaming like a maid. I go out in the gallery and Erpingham is there in his nightgown, shaking like a leaf. I took him into my room, sat him down and gave him a good strong bowl of claret from my own jug.’ Sir Gervase brushed his whiskers. ‘The fellow said he had seen a vision, a woman dressed all in white, her face green-tinged, her eyes black and red like glowing coals, or so he said. She was standing at the foot of his bed staring at him.’
Kathryn watched the old man curiously then glanced along the line of guests. She felt uneasy. Everyone sat so calm and self-assured; they seemed unable to appreciate that anyone of them could be guilty of treason and so suffer a dreadful death. Now this old knight was recounting an experience as if he really believed it. But how could Erpingham see a ghost?
‘Sir Gervase.’ Kathryn got up to stretch her tired muscles. ‘Sir Gervase, I am sorry to interrupt, but you are sure of that?’
‘Of course I am,’ he replied. ‘I am not a bloody liar. I am a Knight of the Shires. I’ve served on royal commissions myself. I was with Talbot in France, can’t stand the goddamned frogs, jackanapes every one of them. I have seen sights, Mistress Swinbrooke, which would curdle your blood. Anyway’ – he pointed at Standon, who sat toying with the buckle of his sword belt – ‘ask him, he joined us.’
Kathryn looked at the serjeant.
‘It’s the truth,’ the soldier replied. ‘I was sleeping at the foot of the stairs. I heard the scream and the doors opening.’ He shrugged. ‘You always can hear them, they creak so badly. Anyway, I go upstairs, Erpingham is with Sir Gervase. He’s covered in sweat, white-faced, breathing fit to burst. You’d think he’d been swimming.’
‘I heard it as well,’ Smithler said. ‘Our room is at the end of that gallery.’ He glanced at the de Murvilles. ‘You too?’
Husband and wife agreed. Kathryn smiled at the old knight.
‘Sir Gervase, please continue.’
‘Anyway, I calmed Erpingham down and he drank the claret. I told him it was a trick of the light.’ He smirked at Smithler. ‘Or something in the gravy the night before. I gave him a napkin to dry himself and took him back into his chamber.’
‘I also went,’ Standon added.
‘And?’ Colum asked.
‘There was nothing except a foul smell: his night jar was full, you know, as if he had vomited or had the flux.’
‘And this is what your servants found the next morning?’ Kathryn asked the landlord.
‘Yes, after our guests came down to break their fast, the scullions emptied the night jars. One of them said the room smelt like a cesspit.’
Kathryn nodded and stared into the fire.
‘Mistress Swinbrooke,’ Colum asked, ‘what do you think?’
‘I am a physician,’ she replied. ‘I deal with diseases and their ailments, the imbalance of humours in the body. However, I agree with Sir Gervase, something might have frightened Erpingham that night, terrified him out of his wits, to lose control over his bowels, bladder and stomach.’ She looked at the mousy little clerk. ‘Master Vavasour, on the night he saw his vision, had your master been drinking heavily?’
‘Oh, no,’ the little man squeaked, looking even more like a frightened rabbit, his nose twitching, his buck teeth protuberant. Kathryn was sure that, if they could, his ears would have started twitching as well.
‘Oh, no,’ Vavasour repeated. ‘Master Erpingham liked his wine but he was fairly abstemious, two or three cups at the very most. That’s correct, isn’t it, Standon?’
‘Aye,’ the serjeant agreed. ‘And he only ate what we did. Roast goose, tender and well cooked, covered in a parsley sauce.’
‘And the next day?’ Kathryn asked. ‘The day he died?’
‘Well, in the morning he seemed a bit ashamed.’ Sir Gervase apparently regarded himself as the guests’ self-appointed leader. ‘He was a little trembly; he broke his fast on some bread and watered wine but, by noon, he was the same as ever.’
‘Which was?’ Kathryn persisted.
The old knight seemed to lose some of his confidenc
e.
‘Well?’ she asked.
‘I can answer that, Mistress Swinbrooke,’ Father Ealdred offered. ‘In the full light of day, Sir Reginald Erpingham is not a man you would seek out. After all, he was a tax collector.’
His reply provoked soft laughter from the group.
‘So was St. Matthew,’ Kathryn replied. ‘What kind of man was Sir Reginald?’
‘He was a cruel, heartless bastard,’ Blanche Smithler said, her face white and drawn. She had lost some of her prettiness and shrugged off the warning tap on her arm by her husband. ‘He often came here. He used to boast about how he could squeeze a penny out of an old crone or terrify some peasant. He was always feeling the bums of the maids or grabbing at their breasts. Aye, he was abstemious in drink but he liked his food and he was none too clean in his personal habits. He used to boast about his great house in Maidstone and how he was looking forward to being awarded some manor on the outskirts of Dover.’
Kathryn looked at Vavasour. ‘Of course, you’d disagree with that, sir?’
The clerk opened his mouth to reply then looked away, nose twitching vigorously.
‘The good wife speaks the truth,’ Standon confirmed. He stared at Colum. ‘Like you, Irishman, I am a professional soldier.’ He smiled sourly. ‘Though in the recent wars I fought for Lancaster. I was with the Bastard of Falconbridge when he tried to seize the Tower.’
Colum nodded sympathetically.
‘Well, you know what happened to that?’ Standon continued. ‘Falconbridge lost his head. Like many others, I changed sides and sealed indentures with the Sheriff of Kent. I and the rest of my lads were Erpingham’s guard; we have been since his Michaelmas tour around the shire.’
‘And?’ Colum asked.
‘I’ve fought in battles,’ Standon said. ‘I’ve put flames to thatches, done my fair share of killing, God save me!’ Standon blinked, his face losing some of its hardness. ‘I wasn’t always like that. In my youth I wanted to be a knight.’ He blinked furiously. ‘But, there again, you become what you are, not what you want to be.’
The taproom fell silent as this hard-bitten soldier opened his soul. Standon paused and rubbed his face with his hand.
‘Erpingham was a bastard. He had a stone for a heart.’
‘Did he have any family?’ Kathryn asked.
‘A wife,’ Vavasour squeaked. ‘He once had a wife but the poor woman died giving birth. He liked dogs,’ the clerk added as if that was the only thing he could say in favour of his dead master.
‘Was he honest?’ Colum asked.
Vavasour looked so frightened Colum thought he was going to jump up and run away.
‘Well?’ the Irishman demanded.
‘You know how it is,’ Vavasour said timidly.
‘Aye,’ Colum replied. ‘Show me an honest tax collector and I’ll show you an Irishman who can fly.’
‘By his own rights he was honest,’ Standon added. ‘Everyone has the right to appeal to the Sheriff or the King.’
‘Oh yes?’ Colum just grinned.
‘Listen.’ Kathryn pulled a chair forward. ‘Master Smithler, this ghost, this haunted chamber? Erpingham always used it?’
‘Aye, I have told you that.’
‘And the painting, faded on the wall? It shows a devil, a young man and a woman.’
‘Oh, there are many stories,’ Blanche Smithler interrupted. ‘They are all confused but, apparently, a young woman was murdered there or disappeared from the room.’
‘And is it haunted?’ Kathryn asked.
‘People who have stayed there,’ Smithler replied, ‘talk of a feeling of unease, of sounds at night.’ He shrugged. ‘But we all have fanciful dreams.’
Luberon spoke up. ‘If this tavern is as old as you say and a crime was committed here, there should be some record of it in the court rolls at the guildhall. Master Murtagh, I’ll search those for you.’
‘Has it ever been exorcised?’ Father Ealdred asked. ‘Blessed with holy water and salt?’
‘It’s too late for that now,’ Sir Gervase muttered.
‘And there are no secret entrances or passageways?’ Kathryn asked. She ignored the old knight and stared at the landlord.
‘I’ve already answered that,’ he snapped. ‘Search for yourself.’
‘Oh, we may well do that,’ Colum replied. ‘And, sir, I must ask you to keep a civil tongue in your head.’
The landlord glanced away and hawked over his shoulder.
‘And in the days before Erpingham died?’ Colum continued, trying to ignore a cat which came padding across to claw amongst the rushes for a sliver of fat.
‘Well, because of the snow,’ Sir Gervase said, ‘we were locked in here eating and drinking. The landlord has made a fine profit.’
‘Aye, and I have served you well.’
‘Never mind that,’ Colum continued. ‘You slept late, you ate, you drank . . .’
‘Master Murtagh.’ Lady Margaret straightened in her chair, daintily adjusting the veil over her lustrous hair. She stared coolly at him, her pretty mouth open; she glanced sideways at Kathryn and grinned as if she enjoyed flirting with this rough, dark-faced Irishman.
‘My lady, I am waiting,’ Colum said.
‘I simply want to say,’ she cooed rather quickly, ‘that we played games like blind man’s buff or told stories or diced. Those who could read, did so; books, Master Murtagh, if you know what they are?’
‘Or perhaps write?’ Kathryn interrupted. ‘With quills, if you know what they are.’
Lady Margaret flounced back in her chair and stared petulantly at her husband.
‘We were bored,’ Lord Alan declared. ‘We prayed for the snow to stop so we could continue our journey.’
‘What happened the night Erpingham died?’ Colum asked.
The old knight banged his sword on the floor and glowered round the group. ‘I can answer that. We all dined here: haunch of venison, cooked in a thick sauce with vegetables roasted in its juice. Then the landlord opened his best claret, a small tun.’ He gestured away towards the rafters. ‘We sat here feasting.’
‘And what time did Sir Reginald leave?’
‘Sometime between the seventh and eighth hour,’ Vavasour said. ‘He said he was tired. He took his wine cup and went up to his chamber.’
‘And where was everyone else?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Oh, we all stayed down here. Master Smithler was our host. His good wife supervised the cooks and scullions in the kitchen.’
‘And no one visited Sir Reginald?’
A chorus of ‘No’s’ greeted Kathryn’s question.
‘So.’ Kathryn got to her feet. The heat from the fire was now strong and Colum’s eyes were beginning to droop. ‘Sir Reginald picks up his cup.’ Kathryn picked up the goblet she’d brought down from Erpingham’s chamber. ‘In fact, this one. He goes upstairs to his bedchamber where he locks and bolts the door. He drinks the wine. Next morning he is found dead, poisoned whilst the taxes he has collected are stolen.’ Kathryn rolled the cup between her hands. ‘There can be a number of conclusions. So please help us with them.’ She gently tapped Colum on the shoulder, fearful lest he fall asleep. ‘First, Sir Reginald could have been poisoned at table.’
‘Impossible!’ Standon replied. ‘I was sitting next to him. We shared the same trencher.’
Kathryn sighed. ‘What about the wine?’
‘Because of the inclement weather and my guests were paying so well,’ Smithler replied, ‘I opened a small tun, the best claret from Gascony. I gave each person at least one cup.’
‘And Erpingham?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Well, he said he was tired; he took his goblet upstairs.’
‘Could it have been poisoned before he left the table?’ Colum asked, stirring himself.
‘I doubt it,’ Vavasour said.
‘Why is that, Master clerk?’ Kathryn asked.
The little man wriggled his nose and scratched the end of it thoughtfully. ‘Well, the
landlord gave us each a cup. I am not too fond of claret: Sir Reginald offered me a sip from his as a taster.’
‘Was he that kindly?’ Kathryn asked.
‘No, no.’ Vavasour shook his head. ‘He drank from mine as well. What I am trying to say is that Erpingham’s cup, mine and Master Standon’s all became confused.’ He struck his breast, eyes wide. ‘God be my witness,’ he said. ‘I never tainted Sir Reginald’s cup but, to the best of my knowledge, nor did anyone else. Indeed,’ his voice rose even higher, ‘with the cups being passed back and forth, people stretching and yawning after a good meal, it would have been impossible for any murderer to know which cup to poison.’
‘So.’ Kathryn moved away from the fire in the direction of the stairs, still clutching Erpingham’s cup. ‘Sir Reginald bade you good night?’
Vavasour agreed.
‘And he goes upstairs?’
Again the nod of assent. Kathryn smiled at the old knight.
‘Sir Gervase, perhaps you and Master Luberon could accompany me?’
And, with the old knight going before them, Kathryn and Luberon climbed the steep stairs into the gallery. They stopped outside Sir Gervase’s chamber.
‘Please.’ Kathryn smiled. ‘Let me see how these doors creak and groan.’
Sir Gervase happily obliged. He took the key from his wallet, unlocked the chamber door and pushed it slightly open.
‘That’s quiet enough,’ Kathryn murmured.
Sir Gervase grinned mischievously. ‘Ah, but listen to this.’
He pushed the door farther back on its hinges and Kathryn started at the strident screech of leather against iron. The old knight then closed it again, creating the same din. Kathryn’s shoulders sagged.
‘Lord above! I take your point, Sir Gervase. Such a noise would awaken the dead.’
They returned downstairs where the Irishman was waiting for her.
‘You heard that, Colum?’
He scratched his head and grinned. ‘Like a banshee’s cry.’
Kathryn rejoined the watchful group.
‘So,’ she said again, putting the cup back on the mantel of the hearth. ‘We have a group of people staying at the Wicker Man tavern. Two nights previous, the tax collector, Sir Reginald Erpingham, suffers a nightmare so dreadful he arouses Sir Gervase in the adjoining chamber. Last night all the guests attend a special dinner, deliciously cooked by Mistress Blanche. At the end of the meal, the landlord opens a small tun of claret.’ Kathryn paused. ‘According to what you all say, Sir Reginald then took his cup and retired to his chamber for the night. Now . . .’ Kathryn rubbed a finger along her lips. ‘As a physician, I would go on oath that Erpingham was deliberately and maliciously poisoned by an infusion of belladonna. We have also established, unless two or three people here are arrant liars, that Sir Reginald’s food was not tainted, nor was the wine which he took to his chamber. Ergo,’ she smiled at Luberon, ‘as the scholars would say, someone must have visited Sir Reginald later that night and poisoned him. He or she then removed any trace of poison as well as the money from the saddlebags, replacing it with rocks.’ Kathryn flailed her hands against her sides. ‘Yet we know that such a person did not enter or leave by the window, nor is there any secret passageway, whilst Erpingham’s door was locked and bolted from the inside.’