by Paul Doherty
‘The courts are not busy,’ Luberon said.
‘They will be soon,’ Colum added. ‘It will get warmer. By morning, the thaw will have arrived and the Lord help anyone who has a hole in their roof.’
‘Those guests will remain at the Wicker Man?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ Colum replied. ‘They must.’
‘I’m trying to imagine,’ Luberon intervened, ‘what Erpingham would have done when he reached his chamber. We know he went up alone, carrying a goblet of wine. He apparently locked and bolted the door. He then undressed, probably sipping from his wine. What else would he do?’
Kathryn paused and clutched Luberon’s wrist. ‘Oh, most subtle clerk,’ she breathed. ‘Of course! But that only deepens the mystery.’
‘What does?’ Colum asked.
‘Irishman, what would you do if you were a tax official and the silver you had collected was in saddlebags left in your locked room? Now, you’d been absent supping belowstairs and then you return?’
‘I’d check the saddlebags,’ Colum replied.
‘And if they were empty?’ Kathryn continued. ‘You’d immediately run out and raise the alarm. Accordingly,’ Kathryn concluded, ‘when Erpingham retired to bed that night, the silver must have still been in those saddlebags unless, of course, Erpingham’s mind was on other matters. But what?’
None of her companions could answer. They walked under the great towering mass of the cathedral; after Turn Again Lane they crossed Sun Street and went down St. Alphage’s Lane. This was as dark as pitch and Luberon had some difficulty in remembering where Erpingham’s house stood, but at last they found it: a narrow, two-storied tenement that looked as if it had been pushed in between the houses on either side. Luberon handed Kathryn the keys; she opened the front door and they entered the stone-flagged hallway. Colum struck a tinder, lit a rushlight and then went deeper into the house looking for candles. At last he returned carrying some and they began their search.
The house was very small: a kitchen, a small parlour on the ground floor and, on the narrow gallery above, a small empty garret beside an opulently furnished bedchamber. As they lit more candles, Kathryn and Colum marvelled at the comfort and wealth of Erpingham’s little hideaway. The bedchamber was hung with cloths, rugs covered the floor and a copper-gilt brazier stood in every corner. Bronze candleholders were fastened to the wall. The bed itself was costly: the tester and counterpane of the great four-poster were of silken cloth fringed with silver tassels. The long bolster was featherdown, its covering matching the sheets of smooth red samite. Downstairs in the kitchen, bronze pots and pewter cups stood neatly on shelves. On either side of a small baker’s hearth, fleshing knives, skillets and ladles, all washed and polished, hung from shining hooks on the wall. The small parlour was no different: wooden panelling covered the walls even above the small, canopied hearth. Box chairs, their seats quilted, stood in every corner; woollen rugs were strewn on the floor. A polished, oval table, with high-backed chairs on either side, stood in the centre of the room.
‘A little love nest,’ Colum declared. ‘I have seen the like before, maintained by great noblemen or royal officials. Erpingham must have been a wealthy man to own this house for such infrequent visits. I wager he was well known to the ladies of the town or to any woman who fell into his evil clutches.’
‘There’s a coffer under the table,’ Luberon exclaimed, squatting down and pointing.
Colum pulled this out. It was about two yards long, metal-studded and reinforced with iron bands. It had three locks but none of the keys Kathryn carried fitted. Colum returned to the kitchen and came back with a hammer; he roughly smashed the locks open, throwing back the lid.
A sweet fragrant smell filled the room. Kathryn pulled out the bag of herbs, a small book covered in calfskin and other scraps of parchment. She opened the book. At first, because of its brilliant colours, she thought it was a Book of Hours but then she studied the paintings carefully and smiled. She passed it to Colum.
‘No prayer book,’ she murmured. ‘Each page depicts a lovely young lady, in a number of poses, naked as the day she was born.’
Colum fairly snatched it from her hands as Kathryn began to study the scraps of parchment. She put her hand back into the chest.
‘And there’s more!’
Kathryn pulled out small pouches and then the yellowing skull of a dog, a cross with a dried bat crucified upside down on it, a mandrake root and balls of wax. Kathryn stared in disgust at these tools and devices of black magic and threw them back into the empty coffer.
‘Let’s leave,’ she said, studying the pieces of parchment before putting them into her wallet.
Colum and Luberon agreed. They made one last search of the house but could find no other coffer or secret compartment. Luberon promised he would return the following morning to make a second sweep. Kathryn nodded absent-mindedly. She had scrutinised the scraps of parchment carefully, especially the drawing of a huge wicker man, similar to the painting on the sign of the tavern where Erpingham had died. A giant built of twigs and branches, and inside it, sets of initials which Kathryn had immediately recognised.
Chapter 7
Kathryn slept late the following morning, and when she got out of bed and pulled back the shutters of her window, she laughed.
‘Trust an Irishman!’
The sun had risen and a strong thaw had arrived. On the rooftops across Ottemelle Lane, the snow was already beginning to slide down to the eaves and Kathryn could hear the water dripping from the gable end of her own house. Kathryn opened the casement, breathed in the ice-cold air and listened to the clatter of the carts and the shouts from the street below. The city would make up for lost time; the early morning mist was already being burnt off and, through the clear morning air, above the rattle of the carts, the crack of whips and the cries of the early morning traders, Kathryn heard the great bells of the cathedral tolling for morning Mass. She shivered, closed the window and quickly washed and dressed. Kathryn then lit the hour candle, trimming it carefully with a knife so the flame began at the tenth red circle. From the cathedral bells Kathryn knew it must be about two hours before noon. She dabbed a little of her precious ointment on her neck and the palms of her hands, then pulled back the bedspread, stripping off the sheets and bolster covers: Thomasina would wash the bedding and take advantage of the change in the weather.
‘Kathryn! Kathryn!’ Wuf jumped up and down outside in the gallery.
She opened the door and the little boy thrust a wooden disc in her face.
‘I’ve carved it myself!’ he declared. ‘I can use it on the ice!’
Kathryn patted his head absent-mindedly and said good morning to Agnes; the maid was already taking a bundle of sheets down to the small washhouse that stood in the far corner of the garden.
In the kitchen below, Thomasina was preparing a pot of steaming oatmeal over the fire. The old nurse straightened up and looked at her sternly. ‘You were long gone yesterday evening!’
Kathryn smiled. ‘Coroner’s business, Thomasina!’ She stared up at the newly baked bread Thomasina had hauled up so it swung from just below the rafters, well away from any foraging mice. ‘That smells sweet.’
‘Don’t change the subject!’ Thomasina snapped. ‘What were you and that bloody Irishman up to?’
Kathryn walked over. ‘He seized me, Thomasina,’ she whispered. ‘Dragged me up an alleyway and cruelly ravished me.’
Thomasina stuck her tongue out. ‘It’s wrong to tell lies.’ She turned away to stir the oatmeal. ‘But even as a child you were fanciful.’
Kathryn made a face and sat down at the table. She and Colum had walked back from Erpingham’s house. They had not talked about what they had found, Colum undergoing one of his abrupt changes of mood. He’d pointed to the stars and begun to recount his youthful exploits as a boy in Ireland.
‘The sky is very clear there,’ he’d commented. ‘I used to go out and sing songs. They say it’s lucky to sin
g to the stars: the ancients claim that when the stars move and the planets whirl, the heavens are full of music.’
And without any invitation from Kathryn, Colum had begun to sing a lilting, bittersweet Gaelic song. Kathryn smiled to herself.
‘Here’s your oatmeal!’ Thomasina slammed the bowl down in front of her. ‘And your milk and there’s your honey. Now, if you are going to sit like a cat who has stolen the cream, that’s fine by me!’ Thomasina walked away, her back as stiff as a poker.
Kathryn poured the milk and scooped a lump of honey. She put it over the oatmeal and began to sip carefully.
‘And there’s your ale.’ Thomasina thrust a flagon of watered ale along the table.
Kathryn put the horn spoon down.
‘Thomasina, come here.’
Her old nurse flounced across and Kathryn grabbed her hand.
‘We walked home,’ Kathryn declared, ‘under the stars. Colum sang a song for me. Thomasina, can you blame us? Murder, heartbreak, the viewing of corpses at the dead of night: unravelling the mystery of Erpingham.’
Thomasina’s face softened. ‘Just be careful,’ she pleaded. ‘Do you still want me to see Widow Gumple?’
‘No,’ Kathryn replied.
Thomasina glanced away, closed her eyes and murmured a prayer of thanks. She despised Widow Gumple with all her heart. Not only did she regard the good widow as an arrogant hypocrite, but months earlier Thomasina had trapped Widow Gumple into confessing she had been sending blackmail letters to her mistress, taunting her about the whereabouts of Alexander Wyville. Thomasina smiled to herself: the letters had stopped though God only knew the whereabouts of Alexander Wyville.
‘How were the Blunts?’ Thomasina asked.
‘Emma Darryl is a strong woman,’ Kathryn said between mouthfuls. ‘Peter is still in some sort of trance. Colum and I intend to visit Richard later in the day.’
Thomasina went back to stir the oatmeal. She absent-mindedly stirred the food, watching the creamy mixture turn like butter in a churn. All things pass, Thomasina thought sadly. Kathryn had changed since the Irishman’s arrival: she was more resolute and determined. Murtagh had given her a new lease on life: Kathryn had used her sharp observation and acute mind to trap a number of murderers. After her success at the castle earlier in the year, even the King had sent a purse of gold and a personal letter of thanks ‘TO HIS DEAR AND FAVOURED PHYSICIAN, KATHRYN SWINBROOKE, DWELLING IN OTTEMELLE LANE.’ Nevertheless, the tragedy of the Blunt household had sharpened Thomasina’s sense of time passing and life changing. She had always had a soft spot for the painter with his dancing eyes and merry smile. Now he’d hang on the gibbet set up in the Buttermarket. He would dance those dreadful steps as the rope strangled his breath. A vague idea took firmer shape in Thomasina’s mind.
‘Can I come?’ she asked over her shoulder.
‘Come where?’ Colum came into the kitchen freshly shaved, his hair all tousled.
‘To the guildhall.’ Thomasina straightened up and turned round. ‘Mistress, I would like to pay my respects to Master Blunt.’
Kathryn stared at her nurse’s red, podgy face and the determined set of her mouth and chin.
‘There’s really no need . . .’ Colum began.
‘Of course you can,’ Kathryn said quickly. ‘Once I see my patients and they’ll be here soon.’
Thomasina thanked her and immediately launched into good-natured banter against the Irishman: how he was an idle wastrel, spending his time mooning over good Christian women. She served Colum oatmeal and placed some bread and butter on the table.
‘Shouldn’t you go to Kingsmead?’ Kathryn asked.
Colum sipped from the spoon and smiled lazily.
‘Holbech’s there,’ he replied, referring to his serjeant-at-arms. ‘He’ll keep an eye on things. The King will be more concerned by his taxes and Erpingham’s death. You found something last night, didn’t you, Kathryn?’
Kathryn put her spoon down and went to her chancery office. She brought back the scraps of parchment she’d found at Erpingham’s house and smoothed them out on the table between her and Colum.
‘This is the Wickerman.’ Kathryn pointed to the clumsy drawing of a giant, made out of branches which crisscrossed each other. ‘Now the Wickerman, if I remember my father’s stories correctly, was a huge figure-shaped cage made out of branches. The ancient people, those who lived here before the Romans came, used to put their prisoners inside the Wickerman, then fire it as an offering to their gods.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Colum turned the parchment round. ‘I have heard similar stories from Ireland.’ He glanced at Kathryn. ‘And?’
‘Well, the drawing represents the tavern, a similar painting of the Wickerman hangs on the sign outside there, more finely depicted, but that doesn’t matter. What’s important is –’ Kathryn pointed to some of the little squares which had been filled with initials. ‘What do you see?’
Colum studied them carefully. ‘Well, in this square are the letters GP.’ He looked quizzically at Kathryn. ‘Sir Gervase Percy?’
‘Continue,’ Kathryn insisted.
‘AM.’
‘Alan de Murville,’ Kathryn replied.
‘Of course,’ Colum breathed. ‘All the guests at the tavern have their initials here.’
‘And look at the dates, done in Roman numerals between the Wickerman’s legs.’
Colum whistled. ‘The sixteenth December.’
‘This proves,’ Kathryn continued, ‘that Erpingham and all those guests arriving at the Wicker Man at the same time was no coincidence.’
Colum tapped the other scraps of parchment. ‘And these?’
‘Nothing much,’ Kathryn said, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. ‘Calculations, sets of figures, though there again the initials appear: GP, AM, even Father Ealdred’s.’
‘Is it possible,’ Colum asked, ‘that we wasted our time yesterday? How do we know the guests didn’t all plot Erpingham’s death? And then each stand as surety for the other?’
‘We don’t!’ Kathryn paused at a knock on the door. ‘However, we shall deal with that later, for my patients are arriving.’
They came in a regular stream. The two old spinsters, Eleanor and Maude, complained of sores in their joints and knuckles. Kathryn dispensed some black briony. Bryan the bell-ringer arrived, clutching his belly.
‘I have the flux,’ he moaned. ‘Mistress, it’s terrible!’
Kathryn gently felt his podgy stomach, searching for any lump or hardness but found none.
‘What have you been eating?’
‘Sound bread,’ Bryan replied. ‘Fresh meat.’
Kathryn smiled at him. ‘Then what have you been drinking?’
The bell-ringer blushed. Kathryn told him to be careful about drinking freshly brewed ale and provided a distillation of sweet flag.
‘Put that in some good clear water,’ Kathryn instructed. ‘Let it stand near the fire for at least half an hour, then drink one large spoonful, two or three times a day before you eat. And,’ she called out as the bell-ringer, clutching the small phial, sped like an arrow for the door, ‘don’t drink any ale, at least for a week.’
The last patient was Wynken the watchman. A large, burly, middle-aged man, he staggered into the house, his head twisted slightly to one side. Thomasina, who had more than a soft spot for this stern-faced keeper of the law, fluttered solicitously round him.
‘What’s the matter?’ Kathryn asked.
‘I have a spot!’ Wynken bellowed. ‘A spot on my neck. Can you give me some ointment, Mistress? I’ll just rub it on.’
‘Sit down,’ Kathryn ordered. ‘And take off your cloak. Now,’ she said firmly as Wynken made to protest, ‘how can I treat something I haven’t seen?’
The watchman obeyed. Kathryn pulled back the grubby collar of his shirt and grimaced at Thomasina as she glimpsed the angry red swelling that was growing at least an inch from the nape of the watchman’s neck.
‘That’s no spot, Wyn
ken, my lad,’ she declared. ‘It’s what you call a carbuncle.’ Kathryn touched it gently and Wynken winced.
‘Well, put some cream on it.’
‘Aye, I might as well bless it with fairy water,’ Kathryn retorted. ‘But you want me to treat it?’
‘Oh yes, please,’ the watchman wailed. ‘For the love of God!’
Kathryn paused as she heard another knock on the door. She smiled and went back to her patient as she heard Luberon’s voice from the doorway.
‘Now, Wynken,’ she said. ‘This is going to hurt me more than it’s going to hurt you. Thomasina, bring me a candle, two needles and my small cutting knife.’
Alarmed, Wynken made to rise.
‘And you can sit still,’ Kathryn ordered, pressing him firmly back on the seat.
Thomasina brought the needles and knife, a bowl of hot water and a small roll of bandages. Kathryn made sure the knife and needles were clean and waved them slowly through the flame of the candle. Wynken watched over his shoulder, wincing now and again as his collar caught the boil.
‘Oh, Lord, Mistress, what are you doing?’
Kathryn smiled. ‘I don’t really know but my father, God rest him, always told me that fire is the best cleanser. Now, Wynken, bow your head and say your prayers.’
Kathryn began to talk softly about the weather, then asked why Wynken, an upright widower of the parish, had not yet found another good woman? Kathryn glanced impishly at Thomasina and grinned. As soon as Wynken relaxed, she stopped dabbing at the skin around the angry boil and lanced it neatly, pressing out the pus and cleaning it carefully before applying a small compress made out of dried moss. Wynken yelped. Thomasina told him to shut up but, once Kathryn had finished bandaging, the watchman smiled with relief. He paid his coin and walked out of the door, loudly proclaiming Kathryn’s praises.