The Book of Fires

by Paul Doherty

  ‘The Luciferi,’ Falke agreed. ‘Some of them were caught and executed. Beaumont and others escaped and returned to England. However, the Imperial court had to be careful. If they issued demands to the English Crown, our late King Edward III and his warriors would have become deeply intrigued. “The Book of Fires” is greatly valued, the knowledge it holds highly prized. The Imperial court did not wish to emphasize this too much. Moreover, Beaumont soon became a very powerful merchant directly patronized by the Crown. Finding Beaumont was easy enough but the Greeks dared not do anything against him lest the whereabouts of “The Book of Fires” died with him.’

  ‘So Nicephorus asked you to defend Isolda and, by doing so, discover the whereabouts of “The Book of Fires”?’

  ‘In a word, yes, Brother Athelstan. I was given a fee, a good gold coin, and promised much more if I located the precious manuscript. Sir John, Brother Athelstan, I am talking about a veritable fortune.’

  Cranston whistled under his breath. ‘In God’s name,’ the coroner whispered, ‘why do they want it back so much? Surely the Greeks have copies? Of course,’ he clapped his hands as he answered his own question, ‘“The Book of Fires” is a veritable treasure trove with all its formulas and secret mixtures. Others want it!’

  ‘Precisely, Sir John. The Greeks use such fire, the Imperial navy carries it. It’s the last line of defence against their enemies. The Turks are swallowing up one territory after another. One day the Greeks will have to confront their darkest nightmare, a Turkish army laying siege to Constantinople. Greek fire would be crucial to its defence, whilst the Turks would use it with devastating effect. Nicephorus was desperate to retrieve “The Book of Fires”.’ Falke shook his head. ‘Sometimes Nicephorus changed his story.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He talked of Sir Walter, or “Black Beaumont”, pillaging the Imperial chancery and escaping with a close group of Luciferi. Nicephorus hinted that Imperial agents killed some of these but others of the company may have been murdered by Black Beaumont himself. And something else.’ Falke paused to collect his thoughts and Athelstan sensed the man was telling the truth. ‘There may have been two copies of “The Book of Fires”. Beaumont gave one back but withheld the other.’ He shook his head. ‘I am not too sure. You must remember my sole task was to defend Lady Isolda. They paid my fee and provided me with extra money so Lady Isolda could have her own cell in Newgate, squalid though it was. If she’d been thrown in with the common herd, God knows what would have happened.’

  ‘And Lady Isolda knew all this?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘Naturally. She conceded that the Greeks had approached her very soon after her marriage to Sir Walter, offering a veritable fortune for the return of what she called “that damnable book”. I begged her to tell me what she knew. All she could reply was that Sir Walter kept it secret.’

  ‘Do you know,’ Athelstan asked, ‘if the Greeks approached other members of the Luciferi? You did say some survived and returned to England?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Falke nodded. ‘I asked the same question. They said it had been easy to find Walter Beaumont but the rest were not so simple. Sir John, you must know this, men who travel abroad to be mercenaries often change their names and identities.’

  ‘I agree,’ the coroner grunted. ‘On one occasion I did it myself.’

  ‘Anyway, to return to Lady Isolda, I pressed her to tell me what she knew. She replied that Sir Walter was too cunning even to share such secrets with his brother.’ Falke rubbed his face in his hands. ‘Nicephorus was honourable; he paid for the cell and necessities as well as a generous fee. I continued to defend Isolda. I truly believed in her innocence. In the end she could not explain away the testimony of Mortice or Buckholt, whilst the disappearance of Vanner did not help her case. All she could maintain was that she was the victim of a cruel plot.’

  ‘On the question of money,’ Cranston asked, ‘was Sir Walter a generous husband?’

  ‘No. He kept a tight rein on what he called his “high-spirited filly” of a wife. He was not overly generous to her.’

  ‘Did she blame Vanner?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘She said it was possible that he was the killer, that he fed Sir Walter some potion before or after he drank that posset.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘how she accepted that her husband had been poisoned.’

  ‘Oh, yes, but not by her.’

  ‘Did she,’ Athelstan asked, ‘ever refer to a possible annulment of her marriage to Sir Walter?’

  Falke gaped in astonishment. ‘Never,’ he spluttered. ‘That was part of her defence, how her relationship with Sir Walter was cordial.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘she would, wouldn’t she? Now, Vanner disappeared the day before her arrest. Did she ever enquire about his whereabouts?’

  ‘No, not really. She said Vanner might have had a hand in Sir Walter’s murder, but she was more concerned about herself than anyone else. You can understand why: she faced disgrace, humiliation and a savage death. She maintained her innocence. She claimed she was a victim of a clever plot by others in the household, Buckholt, Mortice, Sir Henry and Lady Rohesia. Sir John, you are a law officer, you can appreciate my situation in defending her. She hadn’t a shred of evidence to support any counter-allegations and the case against her was so pressing it might well have been the outcome of a very clever plot. The question of the goblets, Sir Walter falling ill …’ Falke let his words hang in the air.

  ‘And the Greeks?’ Cranston asked. ‘Have they troubled you since?’

  ‘No. I was paid my fee, Nicephorus was honest and honourable.’ Falke wiped the sweat from his face. ‘They have left me alone. Sir John, Brother Athelstan, I have told you what I can. I really must leave.’

  ‘Were you busy this morning?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘Yes, around the Inns of Court: I attended a session of the King’s Bench in Westminster Hall. Why?’ Falke leaned forward. ‘Has something happened? It did, didn’t it? I have witnesses. I can swear to where I was. I …’ He paused as Athelstan lifted a hand.

  ‘Master Falke, we are finished – you may leave.’

  ‘Well, Brother?’ Cranston asked as the door closed behind the lawyer.

  ‘I don’t know, Sir John, I truly don’t. We have a number of strands here: the innocence or guilt of Isolda; the truth about a host of secrets at Firecrest Manor such as the where-abouts of Vanner; the role played by Sir Henry and his wife. There’s the identity of the Ignifer, the annulment of Isolda’s marriage, the business of “The Book of Fires” and the fact that some of its dreadful secrets are being used to murderous effect. We deal with the present, Sir John, but many of these mysteries trail back decades. Ah, well, has Parson Garman arrived?’

  Cranston rose and went to the door. He talked to Mortice and returned, followed by the tall, lanky figure of Brother Philippe, Canon of the Order of St Augustine and principal physician in the House of Mercy at the Hospital of St Bartholomew, Smithfield.

  ‘Garman is unable to come,’ Cranston explained, ‘he is attending executions over Tyburn stream.’ He smiled. ‘However, I believe you are acquainted with our next guest.’

  ‘Indeed I am.’ Athelstan stepped round the portly coroner to exchange the kiss of peace with Philippe Layburn, who, in Athelstan’s opinion, was the most skilled physician in London. The Augustinian, his long, weather-beaten face smiling in pleasure, hugged Athelstan close.

  ‘You’re still too skinny, Dominican,’ he whispered. ‘You should eat better.’

  ‘Sir John does that for me,’ Athelstan replied, stepping back and studying the Augustinian from head to toe. ‘Brother physician, you look well.’ What always fascinated Athelstan was Philippe’s sharpness; it seemed to express itself in almost claw-like fingers and eyes as keen as those of a hunting hawk.

  ‘Brother Athelstan, I am well.’ Philippe sat down, gratefully accepting the tankard of ale Cranston poured for him on the side-dresser an
d brought across.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Philippe.’ Athelstan gestured around. ‘We live and work in very dangerous times. You’ve heard of the Ignifer?’ Philippe nodded. ‘He appears to have marked Sir John and me down for death and it’s all connected to Firecrest Manor, where you are physician, yes?’

  ‘One household amongst many.’

  ‘And Sir Walter?’

  ‘Brother, an enigmatic man. I fed him physic but I hardly knew him. To be honest, his household always seemed cloaked in secrets and mystery.’

  ‘And Lady Isolda?’

  ‘No better than her husband. She wore her beauty like a shield, fair of face and lovely of form. Isolda kept her distance and she made sure you kept yours.’

  ‘And her health?’

  ‘I never had to tend to either Isolda or Vanner the clerk, but Sir Walter was close to his sixty-sixth summer, a man whose body had certainly been battered by time and indulgence.’

  ‘In the year before he died,’ Cranston asked, ‘Beaumont fell ill, greatly confined to his bed. Could that have been poison?’

  ‘It’s possible, Sir John. Look,’ the physician sipped from his tankard, ‘Brother Athelstan, we have discussed this before. It is very easy to disguise poisons. Too much foxglove and the heart can be seriously affected. Too much arsenic, and remember it can be used for stomach ailments, and the person dies. I would go on oath that some of my patients who died of so-called natural causes were truly poisoned, but it’s one thing to allege, another to prove and convince a jury. Sir Walter is a fine example. He had served abroad. God knows what ills, miasmas, contagions or diseases he’d encountered. He returned to London and lived high on the hog; his belly, bowel, blood and humours must have been affected by all of this. Yes, I had my suspicions, but it was a question of much suspected and nothing really proved. I gave him potions to purge, cleanse and restore his humours. I urged caution in what he ate and drank. After a while, this wasn’t necessary – Sir Walter ate and drank very little.’

  ‘But on the morning you examined his corpse you concluded that he had been poisoned?’

  ‘I disagreed with the local physician Milemete – though, there again,’ Brother Philippe spread his hands, ‘it’s hard to link cause and effect. I examined Beaumont’s corpse most carefully: his face was liverish, eyes slightly popping, a white sputum or froth coated his lips and chin. Here,’ the physician patted his own stomach, ‘purplish blotches. Now,’ he supped from his tankard, ‘there are physicians who would argue that such symptoms could be caused by malignant humours rather than a potion. You must also remember, as I told Sutler, that Sir Walter was known to take his own remedies – for example, the last cup of posset was thickly coated with herbs and spices. The wealthy ignore my advice and, as both of you know, many gardens contain more poisons than a sorcerer’s cabinet. When I arrived in the house that morning, of course, there were whisperings and mutterings, so I was most scrupulous. I examined the inside of Sir Walter’s mouth, which had turned singularly dry. I was able to establish that he had drunk a thick, rich posset. I removed some of the crushed herbs, little shreds caught between his teeth and gum. I noticed a blackness of his tongue, mouth and throat. I detected an offensive smell and I concluded that the posset had been used to disguise something. Sutler pressed me on this and I had to be careful. I did concede that I couldn’t prove it beyond reasonable doubt. I used a less rigorous assessment, namely, that on the balance of probability Sir Walter appeared to be poisoned. Sutler seemed satisfied with that.’

  ‘Of course, he would be,’ Athelstan conceded.

  ‘You must remember my conviction deepened when Sutler produced more proof. If that steward and buttery clerk had not given evidence, it would have been very difficult to prove anything against Isolda. According to Sutler, Isolda seized the posset to feed her husband, she changed the goblet and Vanner, who went into the city to buy an extra goblet, appears to have been her accomplice. Both judges and jury fastened on that and, Brother, what real defence did Isolda muster?’

  ‘And the maid?’ Cranston asked. ‘Rosamund Clifford?’

  ‘Very strange. I was summoned to attend Sir Walter’s corpse. Buckholt told me that Rosamund was lying very ill. Of course, I examined her. She had been vomiting until her belly ached. She had a fever, a terrible thirst and looseness of the bowels, but she was also very young and vigorous.’

  ‘Could she have been poisoned?’ Athelstan asked. ‘It’s strange that she fell ill on the same day Sir Walter died.’

  ‘Brother, coincidence is one thing, proof is another. Rosamund had an ailment of the belly but such a condition, though not as serious, was common in this household.’

  ‘Was it?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Brother, belly sickness, bowel disorders, ailments of the spleen and other conditions but nothing fatal. The same applied to Rosamund. She did not die. I did ask her if she could explain the cause of her illness. She was unable to. I told her to drink good clear water and not to consume anything else until her stomach became calm and the fever abated. I distilled her a potion, dried moss mixed with sour milk. She recovered but by then her poor mistress had been arrested, tried, condemned and executed.’

  ‘And the Great Miracle at St Erconwald’s?’

  ‘Brother, I met Fulchard of Richmond on his arrival in the city. He came into the House of Mercy at the hospital because of his condition, badly burnt down his right side, weak and infirm after his journey south. Such terrible injuries are eye-catching. I also noted his left side, the colour of his hair and distinguishing marks. You might ask why. As a physician, I would reply that’s a habit. If a man’s hand is shrunken, you immediately look at the other to compare, to judge, to assess. He told me about his past life and the hideous injuries he’d received years ago in a Greek tavern. I gave him treatment and a letter of attestation which,’ Philippe gestured at Cranston, ‘he could use in London if stopped by the city bailiffs who wage constant war against counterfeits.’

  ‘True,’ Cranston grunted.

  ‘Anyway,’ the physician continued, ‘Master Tuddenham summoned me to St Erconwald’s and presented me with a Fulchard of Richmond who was all healed. Of course, I found him stronger, fit and able, intelligent and reflective, yet still the same man. I noted the mole high on his left cheek, I questioned him about his past experiences. Brother, I could find nothing to say he wasn’t Fulchard of Richmond. Like you, I am a priest. Our faith teaches that due to God’s grace miracles do happen. Master Tuddenham is a lawyer, a master of logic. I had to tell him the only conclusion I could reach. A miracle had occurred. That there was no other evidence to suggest trickery.’ Philippe sighed and drained his tankard. ‘Brother Athelstan, Sir John, what have I talked to you about? Signs and symptoms, and that is what we all deal with, particularly in physic where the rash on a man’s chest or back can have a hundred and one causes. It can be symptomatic of a wide variety of contagions, a predictor of minor infirmity or some deadly disease. The same is true of Fulchard. I found him the same man with all his symptoms cured. I could produce no evidence to contradict such a story.’

  The physician made his farewells and left. Buckholt then joined them. Athelstan questioned him closely about the events of that fateful day, but the steward would not concede anything he had not declared before.

  ‘I hated Isolda,’ he confessed. ‘I despised her. She poisoned Sir Walter and I believe she weakened him in the months before his death. She used Vanner as she used anybody. She loved no one but herself. Master Sutler had the truth – she was an assassin.’

  ‘You mention Vanner?’

  ‘And I have answered you, Brother. She used him. I know what I saw that day. I believe both of them were involved in Sir Walter’s murder.’

  ‘Did you serve with Sir Walter abroad?’

  ‘No.’ Buckholt shook his head. ‘My father did and died in Outremer. I think that’s why Sir Walter gave me a post in his household. And before you ask, I have never seen “The Book of Fires”. I don’t
know where Sir Walter kept it or what he meant by his riddles. I don’t know where it is now. Perhaps Vanner knew more than I but he’s probably dead.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ Athelstan asked sharply.

  ‘Vanner liked his comforts. He hasn’t fled. He took none of his possessions except his chancery satchel. He’s not been seen, he’s just disappeared. I suspect Isolda killed him, though God knows how, when, where or why.’

  Athelstan studied this stubborn, resolute steward who seethed with hatred for his former mistress. Did that hatred, he wondered, cause him to lie, and what was its source? Did he believe Isolda had frustrated his yearning for the fair Rosamund?

  ‘Did you have any dealings with Falke, Lady Anne or Parson Garman?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘Very little. Why should I?’

  ‘Garman is parson at Newgate. They say he is close to the Upright Men. A supporter of the Great Community of the Realm.’ Cranston jabbed a finger. ‘They also say the same about you.’

  ‘I don’t know who “they” are,’ Buckholt snapped. ‘Most of London supports their cause. Gaunt is hardly popular, is he? Anyway, what has that got to do with Sir Walter’s death?’

  ‘Aren’t you frightened?’ Athelstan asked softly. ‘The Ignifer is dealing out judgement.’

  ‘You mean the ghost of Lady Isolda,’ Buckholt jibed. ‘Yes, that’s what they say. Only a soul steeped in wickedness such as hers could wreak such horror.’ He lifted his hand. Ave beads were wrapped around his fingers. ‘I put my trust in God. I know what the Ignifer is doing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He is leaving me for last so I can drink and feed on all the terrors which are supposedly coming for me. I will deal with that when it happens. I do not regret what I did.’

  ‘But you do regret some things, don’t you?’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Rosamund Clifford? You used to visit the Minoresses with Sir Walter. You became acquainted with young Rosamund?’

  ‘No, Brother, I didn’t become acquainted; I fell in love with her. I truly did and I still am.’