by Paul Doherty
‘Trim the hour candle?’ Thomasina retorted. ‘What on earth has got into you, Mistress? You’re acting like a flibbertigibbet!’
‘Thomasina, please do exactly what I say.’
The nurse, breathing noisily, picked up a sharp knife and, with the wine cup in her other hand, went dolefully along the passageway and up the stairs.
‘What’s going to happen?’ Wuf asked, eyes shining. ‘Can Agnes and I have some wine?’
‘No, you can’t,’ Kathryn snapped. ‘Just sit still and be patient.’ She leaned over and tapped the little boy on the nose. ‘But tomorrow, Wuf, I am going to take you to the baker’s and buy you the largest marzipan slice he has on his stall. You too, Agnes,’ Kathryn added quickly, seeing the disappointment in the maid’s eyes.
‘And what about me?’ Colum asked.
Kathryn’s face became mock-serious. ‘Oh yes, and you can have some marzipan too.’
‘I’m trimming the bloody candle!’ Thomasina bellowed from the bedchamber. ‘Are you going to leave me here forever, Mistress?’
Kathryn smiled, picked up her wine cup and, putting her finger to her lips as a sign for the rest to be quiet, went quickly along the passageway and up the stairs.
‘What’s this all about?’ Agnes whispered to Colum.
‘I don’t know,’ Colum replied. ‘But we’ll eventually find out.’
In a few minutes, Kathryn, followed by a still grumbling Thomasina, reentered the kitchen.
‘What was that all about?’ Thomasina muttered, sitting down. ‘Mistress, you know I trim the candles first thing every morning!’
‘Drink your wine,’ Kathryn urged.
Thomasina slurped from the cup.
‘It is your wine?’
Thomasina looked at the cup. ‘Of course.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ Kathryn pointed out. ‘Look at the cup, Thomasina. On one side you’ll find a faint scar, probably where Wuf dropped it.’
Thomasina examined the cup carefully. ‘Yes, yes, I can see it.’
‘Now, I had that cup before I went upstairs. I followed you into the bedchamber. You put your cup on the table, didn’t you?’
‘Well, yes of course, I . . .’
‘All I did,’ Kathryn explained, ‘was exchange your cup for mine. If I’d put poison in mine, you would be well on your way to heaven’s high towers.’
‘Oh, Lord save us!’ Thomasina clucked. ‘You give me the shivers!’
‘Is that what happened at the Wicker Man?’ Colum asked.
‘Perhaps,’ Kathryn replied. ‘But we have another small game to play.’ She looked at the little maid. ‘Agnes, can you count?’
‘Oh, yes,’ the girl replied. ‘I can count to forty on my fingers, though any higher, I’ll need a checkerboard.’
‘Good!’ Kathryn declared. ‘Then go to the foot of the stairs, sit on the stool and tell me who goes upstairs and how many times.’
‘Can I do that?’ Wuf shouted; then his face became serious. ‘But I can only count to ten!’
‘You can help us,’ Kathryn soothed.
Agnes obeyed and, with Thomasina grumbling that she had better things to do, the rest of the household began to troop up and down the stairs.
‘Now, remember, Agnes,’ Kathryn declared. ‘I only want you to notice who goes upstairs and how many times.’
Wuf loved it and went scampering up and down like a whippet. Thomasina followed more ponderously, Colum was bemused, and Kathryn was ensuring that Agnes was counting. After a few minutes, Kathryn came down and gestured for Agnes to stop.
‘How many times did I go up? How many times did I go up?’ Wuf danced from foot to foot.
Agnes closed her eyes. ‘Wuf went up six times, no, I think seven. Master Murtagh five; yourself, Mistress, twice. Thomasina, twice or was it three times?’
‘Good!’ Kathryn exclaimed. ‘And how many times did we come down?’
Agnes’s eyes flew open. ‘But you didn’t ask me that!’ she cried. ‘You told me to count how many times people went up the stairs.’
‘And where’s Thomasina?’ Kathryn asked.
‘I am at the top of the stairs,’ Thomasina shouted. ‘Where you told me to be, Mistress!’
‘Kathryn!’ Colum exclaimed, a note of exasperation in his voice. ‘What is all this about?’
‘A simple game, Irishman. Agnes was so intent on remembering who went up the stairs, she failed to take proper count of who came down. Remember, we asked the same question of the guests at the Wicker Man? Now the rest of you must be patient. Colum, collect your cloak and mine. Oh, you’d best take your sword belt as well. Agnes, go across to the tavern on the corner.’ She handed the maid a coin. ‘Give this to one of the pot boys and tell him to go straight to the guildhall. He’s to ask Master Luberon to join us at the Wicker Man.’ Kathryn smiled at Thomasina and patted her on the shoulder. ‘I promise, I’ll explain everything on our return.’
By the time they arrived at the Wicker Man, Kathryn had explained her conclusions and how she was to prove them. They found the taproom empty, the guest having retired to their chambers.
‘Oh, not again!’ Tobias Smithler moaned as Colum and Kathryn came through the door. ‘Mistress Swinbrooke, I have a living to make.’
‘Aye,’ Kathryn replied. ‘But the King’s Justices, not to mention God’s, wait for an answer.’
The landlord looked at her strangely.
‘I want everyone down here!’ Colum interrupted. ‘All the guests and your servant Raston. Once they are, the doors of the tavern are to be locked, the servants confined to their quarters and the keys handed over to me.’
Smithler was about to object, but Colum drew his dagger and drove it quiveringly into the tabletop.
‘I am the King’s Commissioner,’ the Irishman warned, making even Kathryn start. ‘You, sir, will do as you are told!’ Colum pointed at the taverner’s pallid-faced wife. ‘And you, Mistress Blanche, will serve us some wine.’
Colum arranged the trestle tables, pushing two together with benches along each side. As the guests hurried down, the Irishman gestured to Kathryn to sit at the head of the table.
‘I will sit by your side.’ Colum pulled the dagger from the tabletop and sat on a stool, slipping the dagger into the top of his boot.
‘Sweet heavens above!’ Sir Gervase trumpeted, taking his place. ‘No rest for the wicked, eh?’ He wagged one bony finger at the Irishman. ‘I don’t care if you are an angel sent by the good Lord. Tomorrow morning, if this thaw continues, I am leaving. You know where my manor house is. You can send your bailiffs there to arrest me.’
Sir Gervase’s words were chorused by the rest.
Colum gazed unblinkingly back. The old knight lost some of his bombast and hid his embarrassment by gulping from his wine cup.
‘We really must go,’ Lady Margaret de Murville said. ‘Master Murtagh, Mistress Swinbrooke, not every mystery under heaven can be solved. I am innocent, as is my husband, of any crime. Christmas will soon be upon us. The roads are difficult to traverse . . .’ Her voice trailed off.
‘I shall not keep you long,’ Kathryn declared.
She paused as Raston, the last to arrive, came lumbering in. He gave Kathryn a gap-toothed grin and sat on a stool at the far corner of the table. Colum pointed at Smithler.
‘Sir, your keys?’
The landlord almost threw them along the table. Colum put them on the floor next to him.
‘Mistress Swinbrooke,’ the Irishman murmured. ‘Everyone will now listen to what you have to say.’
‘Vavasour,’ Kathryn began. ‘Poor old Vavasour, Erpingham’s clerk. You will remember he went out to the Great Meadow to meet someone? He went down the hill, attracted by that beacon light winking through the mist, inviting him onto the mere, which broke and drowned him.’
‘Aye, that’s correct,’ Raston confirmed. ‘I see what I sees.’ The old poacher glared round fiercely, daring anyone to object.
‘Now, you may also remember,’
Kathryn continued, ‘that this was a great mystery, for everyone was in the tavern when Vavasour left. Secondly, if the ice broke beneath him, why didn’t it also drag down the murderer waiting there? Thirdly, we found no sign of the assassin either going down to the mere or returning.’ She looked at the landlord’s wife. ‘Mistress Blanche, I would like a large metal plate, thin and smooth.’
The taverner’s wife just stared at her.
‘Please,’ Kathryn insisted. ‘Do as I say.’
The woman hurried to obey. She brought back a large plate. Kathryn inspected its base, running her hand over the smooth metal. She pointed down the table at Sir Gervase.
‘Sir,’ she exclaimed. ‘Get ready to catch this!’
The old knight looked startled.
‘No,’ Kathryn laughed. ‘I am not going to throw it but just slide it down the table towards you.’
Father Ealdred, who was sitting where the two tables joined, pulled them closer together. Kathryn pulled the plate back and sent it skimming along the table towards the old knight, who neatly caught it.
‘Now,’ Kathryn invited, ‘send it back to me.’
The old knight obliged and the plate clattered along the table into Kathryn’s hands.
‘What does this prove?’ Lord de Murville declared.
‘I know,’ Raston said. ‘When I was young, I’d go down to the River Stour when it was frozen and do the same with the polished shinbone of an ox.’
‘Exactly,’ Kathryn breathed. ‘And that’s what happened the night poor Vavasour died.’
‘What did?’ Father Ealdred asked. ‘Mistress Swinbrooke, I cannot follow your line of thought.’
Kathryn took a lantern from a shelf and put it on the plate.
‘Father, somebody took a lantern and a large plate, something like this, a platter or bowl made of pewter or bronze. They crossed the Great Meadow, lit the lantern, put it on the platter and pushed it out across the mere.’ Kathryn tapped the plate. ‘Something like this, though I suspect it was a bowl with a slightly raised edge to prevent the lantern sliding off. Vavasour’s assassin put the lighted lantern into the bowl and, using a pole, pushed it across the frozen ice. The murderer then carried that pole back to the Wicker Man.’
‘But that’s ridiculous!’ Standon snapped.
Kathryn studied the soldier’s unshaven face. ‘Why is it ridiculous?’ she asked.
‘Well, first, the person would have been seen.’
‘No, they would not,’ Kathryn interrupted. ‘On a dark, freezing night anyone could have slipped out with a lantern hooked on their belt, a tinder in their pouch and a bronze platter or bowl beneath their cloak.’
The serjeant pulled a face and nodded.
‘But surely,’ Father Ealdred objected, ‘surely Raston or Vavasour would have seen that the lantern wasn’t held by someone?’
‘Would they?’ Colum interrupted. ‘The night was cold and misty. Remember, Raston and Vavasour stood on the top of the hill looking downwards. Have you ever seen a lantern shine through a night mist? It shimmers deceptively, even in moonlight, and the flame is blurred so it is difficult to establish just where it is.’
‘That’s right,’ Raston spoke up. He peered round guiltily. ‘When I was a young man, um, well, we did some smuggling along the Medway. The best protection was the mud flats and the mist. Even on a moonlit night, you could use a lantern to good effect.’
‘Aye.’ Kathryn pushed the plate away. ‘And I have heard stories about outlaws using lights to confuse and mislead either their victims or pursuers.’
‘You get the same in the summer,’ Colum explained. ‘Above marshes or bogs, strange lights appear. In England, you call them Jack-o’-lanterns.’
‘Very well,’ Father Ealdred commented. ‘But there was no evidence of anyone going down to the mere.’
‘Tell me, Father,’ Kathryn replied. ‘If you wished to walk through a snow-covered meadow, then return with as little sign as possible, what would you do?’
The priest thought. ‘Well, it’s obvious. I’d try to follow my footprints back to the place where I started.’
‘Of course,’ Kathryn replied. ‘And why not? You already have a path made. This will not only act as your guide but make it easier for your return as well as confuse any curious searcher.’
The priest nodded his agreement.
‘Now let me ask you a second question,’ Kathryn continued. ‘If you were crossing that same field, covered in snow, and you saw the footprints and marks of someone else, what would you do?’
‘Well, it would be easier to follow that path.’
‘Which is exactly what Vavasour did.’ Kathryn smiled at the old servitor. ‘Raston’s eyewitness account of Vavasour’s death actually assisted the murderer.’
‘How’s that?’ the old man shouted.
‘It’s no fault of yours,’ Kathryn said. ‘But the next morning, at first light, a group of people left this tavern to drag the mere for Vavasour’s body. In doing so, they obliterated any sign of Vavasour’s or his assassin’s walk down to the mere.’ Kathryn stared at Tobias Smithler. ‘I am correct, Master taverner?’
The landlord, his face pale and sweaty, just stared back.
Kathryn held his gaze.
‘I reached my conclusions,’ she explained, ‘by watching a little boy play with a piece of polished wood on a frozen carp pond. That little boy, Master Smithler, trapped you.’
The landlord opened his mouth to reply but his jaw fell slack.
‘I asked myself simple questions,’ Kathryn continued. ‘Who would know the Great Meadow?’ She held a hand up. ‘Oh, the other guests did, but you, Smithler, knew it very well. You know where the meadow ended and where the mere began. Secondly, who could provide a polished bowl and a heavy lantern? Who else but the landlord of the local tavern? Thirdly, who would find the footprints going across the Great Meadow the following morning? I am sure if it wasn’t for Raston’s intervention, it would have been you. Finally, who organised the dragging of the mere for Vavasour’s corpse and, in doing so, obliterated as much evidence as possible from the Great Meadow. Of course, the answer is you.’ Kathryn chewed the corner of her lip. ‘I was intrigued, Master Smithler. You are not the most compassionate of men, yet you moved heaven and earth to drag the mere for this despised clerk’s corpse.’
‘It’s true,’ old Raston shouted hoarsely. ‘Smithler did organise us. He was all ready, at first light. I must admit I was surprised.’ He stared contemptuously at his master. ‘It’s the first time I sees you care anything for anybody!’
‘What you did, Master taverner,’ Kathryn summarised, ‘was sometime before Vavasour left your tavern, you went down to the mere with a polished plate and lantern. Using a pole, you shoved the lantern across the ice as a beacon light and, of course, as a secret trap for the hapless Vavasour. That is why no tracks were left around the edge of the mere: the pole enabled you to push the light out over the ice, then turn around and follow your own tracks back to the tavern. It was a dark, freezing night Nobody would notice you had gone. Raston was busily hunting elsewhere. Everyone else was confined to their rooms.’
‘But when would Vavasour know when to leave?’ Lord Alan asked. ‘And would the lantern stay alight?’
‘The time was prearranged,’ Kathryn answered, pointing to the flickering hour candle near the hearth. ‘Whilst the Smithlers, like every good citizen, possess lantern-horns that burn all night. Nobody would see it, not even Raston. Remember, he said you’d never catch rabbits in a frozen meadow. His meeting with the hapless Vavasour was purely fortuitous.’
Sir Gervase spoke up. ‘But I was in the taproom when Vavasour left. Smithler was also here. Would not Vavasour have thought that was strange?’ The old knight rapped the tabletop. ‘And what about the coins found in Vavasour’s room, eh? How can you explain them?’
‘Oh, quite easily,’ Kathryn replied. ‘But let me take your questions one at a time. You see, when Vavasour left the taproom and walked out to
the mere, he wasn’t expecting to meet Master Smithler but Tobias’s wife, Blanche.’
All eyes turned to where the landlord’s wife sat, lips moving soundlessly; the shock of Kathryn’s revelations had apparently rendered her witless.
‘Mistress Smithler.’ Kathryn raised her voice. ‘Lady Margaret, please give her some wine.’
The noblewoman rose and went down to where the landlord’s wife was sitting. She shook her gently by the shoulder. Blanche blinked, grasped the goblet of wine and, like a sleepwalker, carefully sipped from it.
‘I didn’t know,’ the woman muttered. ‘I didn’t think anyone would find out.’
‘Shut up!’ her husband roared, reasserting himself. Smithler threw a hateful glance at Kathryn. ‘You have no proof for what you say. Anyone here could have done what you describe.’
‘Could they?’ Colum asked. ‘Shall we ask who owns a lantern and a brass or pewter plate? Or shall I gather your servants and order them to make a careful search of the tavern? I am sure one of the scullery maids will notice something is amiss.’
The landlord just glanced away.
‘But the coins?’ Father Ealdred insisted.
‘Ah, yes, the coins,’ Kathryn replied. ‘Vavasour never held those coins.’
‘Well, the landlord couldn’t have put them there,’ Standon spoke up. ‘Only Vavasour had the key to his own chamber.’
‘The coins were rolled under the door,’ Kathryn said. ‘They were put there as a diversion. You see,’ she continued, ‘if we had only found one coin, I could accept that Vavasour, in his haste to hide his ill-gotten gains, dropped a coin onto the rushes. He would hardly notice that. But tell me, Standon, if you were handling stolen monies in a chamber, what would you do?’
The soldier pulled a face. ‘I’d lock the door,’ he replied. ‘And use the bed as a table.’
‘Of course you would,’ Kathryn agreed. ‘Just to make sure you dropped nothing or left any evidence which might implicate you. Yet here’s Vavasour, the cunning clerk, dropping not one coin, but several right across the chamber. Some near the fire hearth, some in the rushes and you, Master Smithler, picked one up near the wall alongside the door where few rushes lie. Now, what was Vavasour doing so close to the wall handling stolen monies? Even if he had, surely he would hear the clink as that coin hit the wooden floor? My only conclusion is that all the coins were thrown haphazardly beneath the door, each being sent in a different direction. An ill considered act,’ Kathryn concluded. ‘An act of desperation to divert attention to Vavasour.’