A Plague of Poison

by Maureen Ash

  The old woman stifled a sob as she said the last words. “I tried to aid them, but they just kept on being sick so I ran out into the street to get help. One of the neighbours came running to see what was the matter, and when he saw how ill they were, he sent for an apothecary.”

  She drew a deep breath and added, “Had I not foregone my own portion of the plums and custard I would be lying dead beside them. And I wish I was. When my own babby died and my husband not long after, I came to give my milk to the mistress and have cared for her ever since. She is the only one I have ever loved for all these years, except for little Juliette, who was just as precious to me.”

  Raising eyes filled with despair, she added, “I have no wish to live on without them.”

  “I understand your sorrow, Nantie,” Bascot said compassionately, and Roget murmured his agreement. The two men waited a moment to give the old woman time to compose herself, then Bascot again asked her to show them the pot that had contained the poisoned honey.

  She went over to the open-faced cupboard and removed a jar. It had the same bright amber glaze as the one that had been adulterated in the castle, and when Bascot tipped it on its side, the cross pattée of the Templar Order could be clearly seen.

  Seven

  THE MIDDAY HOUR WAS FAST APPROCHING BY THE time Bascot and Roget returned to the castle to give their report to Nicolaa de la Haye.

  “Three deaths, lady,” Roget told her once he and Bascot were in her presence. “A spice merchant named Robert le Breve, his wife and their little daughter. They were all poisoned by tainted honey that was contained in this pot.” He laid the jar carefully on the table at which Nicolaa sat; it was wrapped in a clean cloth he had taken from the spice merchant’s kitchen. “We tested it on a rat. It had the same effect as the honey that killed Sir Simon and the clerk. The rodent was dead soon after he had eaten it.”

  “The old woman who is a servant in le Breve’s household used it to make a dish of spiced custard,” Bascot added. “It is marked on the bottom with the Templar insignia and must have come from the same apiary as the one in the castle kitchen.”

  “Did the servant know when her master bought it?” Nicolaa asked.

  “He did not buy it,” Bascot told her. “It was given to him by a neighbour, Reinbald of Hungate.” The Templar paused for a moment, recalling his meeting with the man in the fur-trimmed cloak he had seen talking to the physician before he and Roget had gone into the spice merchant’s house. The man had waited outside until Bascot had emerged then explained to him that it had been his wife who had given the honey to her neighbour and had, by doing so, caused the death of le Breve and his family.

  “Reinbald is a wine merchant, and he often had dealings with le Breve in the course of business. He and the spice seller were good friends, apparently, as were their wives. Le Breve’s wife, Maud, had said she would like to try some of the honey from Nettleham, for she had heard how flavoursome it was, and so Reinbald’s wife exchanged the jar for a bag of cinnamon from the spice merchant’s store.”

  “Did you speak to Reinbald’s wife and ask her where she bought the honey?” Nicolaa asked.

  “We did,” Bascot replied. “It was one of eight pots obtained for her by her nephew, a man named Ivor Severtsson. He is a Templar bailiff and oversees a property at Wragby, which includes the apiary at Nettleham.”

  Nicolaa dabbed at her nose with the square of linen, but the congestion from which she had been suffering seemed to be abating. Her voice was no longer hoarse, and her eyes were clear. “Did she have any other pots left in her kitchen?”

  “There were three,” Roget informed her, “and we had them all tested. Only the one that she gave to Maud le Breve contained poison.”

  “Reinbald’s wife, whose name is Helge, told me that all of the pots have been in her store since last autumn,” Bascot added. “It seems to me most strange that these poisonings have occurred within days of each other. If the honey was poisoned during the months since it was harvested, or even before it left the apiary, then it is a rare chance that both pots should be opened at almost the same time.”

  “You think, then, that both of the poisonings were done recently, while the pots were in their respective kitchens?” Nicolaa asked.

  “I do,” Bascot affirmed. “Reinbald’s wife showed me the place where she kept the honey. The pots are on a shelf in the cookhouse, just as they are in the castle kitchen, and they are arranged with containers of other condiments so that one of each type is to the front. She told me the one she gave to le Breve’s wife was the next to hand. If someone placed a poisoned pot there, it was in the most likely place for it to be used within a short space of time.”

  Bascot’s voice was filled with irritation as he continued. “Reinbald’s kitchen is much like the one in the castle, of easy access to many people. He is an affluent man and has a large number of visitors to his home, including customers who come to select the wines they wish to purchase from his store. As well as these, there are also the carters who deliver the wine and a number of tradesmen who bring a variety of other supplies to the house.

  “And it might not even have been one of the people who were legitimate callers that placed the poisoned honey in the kitchen,” he added. “At the back of the property, behind the building where he keeps his tuns of wine, there is a fence and, beyond that, a lane that leads to Brancegate at one end and Spring Hill at the other.

  Anyone who wished to enter the premises unseen could simply come down the lane and climb over the fence, or through the gate that is set into it, for the portal is only locked at night just before curfew. They had only to wait until the cook had left the kitchen to go on an errand and then slip inside.”

  Nicolaa got up from her seat and paced the length of the room and back, the skirt of her plain grey gown swishing back and forth as she did so. Never had either Bascot or Roget seen her so perturbed. It was evident her chagrin was as great as their own. Finally, she said, “These additional deaths reinforce my belief that Gosbert is innocent. He is rarely in town and it is certain that he would not be acquainted with a merchant of Reinbald’s standing. Only the fact that he, like the old cook in le Breve’s household, opened the jar containing the poison made suspicion be cast upon him. He is no more likely to be guilty of this crime than she is. But who can it be? What is the evil purpose of the person who has caused these deaths? First, our own castle kitchen is contaminated, and then one in the household of an affluent merchant within the town. What is the connection between these two places, and the intended victims? This grade of honey is costly and would only be used by persons with the means to buy it. Has the poisoner some grievance against those of higher station? Is the fact that both of these pots came from the same apiary of significance? Has poison been placed in other households about the town, and if so, where?”

  “If these poisonings were done recently,” Bascot said, “then the person who did it must be a man or a woman who is often within the city walls, perhaps lives here in the castle or in the town. If that is so, then our only hope of discovering his or her identity is to keep searching until we find some evidence that links the person to both of these crimes. If it is the poisoner’s intention to kill again, we must act with as much haste as possible.

  “If we can confirm our impression that the honey was tampered with recently, lady,” Bascot said, “then we can be fairly sure that there is need only to interrogate those who had recent access to the honey pots. If it was done during the months since the honey was delivered to both the castle kitchen and the merchant’s home, questioning those who were only lately in either place will be futile. We might be able to narrow our search by questioning the beekeeper at Nettleham. If the jars were not made secure while they awaited delivery, it is possible they were adulterated either at the apiary or somewhere in transit. I would also like to speak to the bailiff, Severtsson. Since it was he who took the honey to his uncle’s home, it may be that someone tampered with one of the pots while they
were in his possession. He may even be able to give us the name of a person who could have done so.”

  Nicolaa agreed. “The answer to these questions may well give us a clearer guide of the direction our search should take. De Marins, go to Preceptor d’Arderon. Tell him what has happened and that you are requesting permission, on my behalf, to speak to the beekeeper and the bailiff. I do not think he will object.”

  “I am sure he will not, lady,” Bascot said. “It might also be worthwhile to ascertain how many pots of this grade were harvested and to whom they were sold. If they were tampered with before they were delivered, there may be others in the town that are poisoned.”

  Nicolaa acknowledged, regretfully, that such a possibility might be the case and then, turning to Roget, gave the captain his orders. “There will be unrest in the town once news of these latest deaths spreads. I shall send for the town bailiff and ask for his support in keeping all of Lincoln’s citizens calm, but it may prove a difficult task. Tell your men to deal gently with any who create a disturbance. This situation is bound to frighten the townspeople, and we must try to assuage their disquietude, not aggravate it. If you find there is a need for more men to patrol the streets, you may ask Ernulf to send some of the castle men-at-arms to your assistance.”

  When she had finished, both men rose to leave, and Nicolaa said, “Let us pray that God will guide our efforts and enable us to snare this knave before anyone else dies.”

  WHEN BASCOT ARRIVED AT THE TEMPLAR ENCLAVE, Everard d’Arderon was standing at the edge of the practice ground watching a serjeant put a couple of newly initiated men-at-arms through a drill with short swords. The preceptor listened with a grave countenance as he was told of the deaths that had taken place in the town, and how it was subsequently found that the second pot which had contained the poisoned honey had, like the jar in the castle kitchen, come from the Nettleham apiary. He quickly gave his permission for Bascot to go to Nettleham and also to elicit the help of Ivor Severtsson, the bailiff.

  “Severtsson has only held the post for a couple of years, although he was employed in a minor capacity at Wragby for some time before I gave him the office,” d’Arderon said. “I am sure, since it was his own family members who were very nearly poisoned, that he will do his utmost to help you. He lives in the manor house at Wragby, which is not too far from the apiary, and I can arrange for him to meet you at Nettleham village, if you wish.”

  D’Arderon shook his head sadly as he added, “These deaths make me wonder if the position of bailiff at that property is not ill-fated in some way. If Reinbald or his wife had been harmed, it would have been the second time that tragedy had struck the man who has held the post.”

  “How so?” Bascot asked.

  “The former bailiff was a man named John Rivelar,” d’Arderon explained. “He had a son who lived with him, and just about the time I came to Lincoln two years ago, the boy was discovered to have been consorting with brigands and was taken into custody by Sheriff Camville. When the lad was hanged for his crimes, Rivelar became so distraught that, a few days later, he was taken with a seizure of his heart and died.” He sighed heavily. “As I said, the post seems to be ill-fated.”

  “How long has the property been in the Order’s possession?”

  “Quite a number of years,” the preceptor replied. “It was bequeathed to us by a widow whose youngest son was a member of our brotherhood and stationed in Outremer. He was killed during a skirmish with the Saracens in the Holy Land only a few months before King Richard left on crusade. Shortly after she received news of her son’s death, the widow sickened and met her own end. In her will, she left Wragby and the Nettleham apiary—both of which had been part of her dower—to the Order in memory of her son.”

  “Do you know anything about the beekeeper that may have a connection with these poisonings?” Bascot asked.

  D’Arderon shook his head. “No, I do not. I have only met the apiarist, whose name is Adam, once, when I went on a tour of the Order’s properties shortly after I arrived. He is a rather strange old man, and has a peculiar way of speaking about his bees, but seems competent enough.”

  “Are there any others living at the apiary?”

  “Only a daughter and her husband with their children. The daughter’s husband is a potter and makes jars for the beekeeper’s honey as well as a variety of other vessels which he sells in the town.”

  Bascot thanked the preceptor for his help and promised to inform him immediately if he found any connection between the poisoner and the apiary. “It may only be a chance occurrence, Preceptor, that both pots came from Nettleham,” he said.

  “We must hope so, de Marins,” d’Arderon replied. “But it shall be, as always, as God wills.”

  Eight

  EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, JUST AFTER THE SERVICE of Mass had been held in the castle chapel, Nicolaa de la Haye gave orders that all of the household were to assemble in the bail. She did not intend to let Gosbert, of whose innocence she was convinced, remain a prisoner in the holding cells any longer. When her summons had been obeyed, she donned her cloak and, accompanied by Ernulf, went down the steps of the forebuilding and across the ward to the holding cells. At her command, the serjeant brought Gosbert out and left him quaking with fear in front of his mistress. Nicolaa gave him a few words of quiet reassurance and then turned to face the watching servants and addressed them in a stern voice.

  “It has been proven to my satisfaction that Gosbert is innocent of the crime of poisoning Sir Haukwell and Ralf the clerk. He will now return to his duties, and I charge you all to know he is under my protection. Should any of you be foolish enough to cast further aspersions on his name, that person will be dismissed from his or her post and banished from Lincoln.”

  As she said this, she turned her eyes towards Thomas, the squire. The young man reddened but returned her gaze steadily, and nodded in her direction to show that he realised the import of her words and would obey her instruction.

  Gosbert fell to his knees in front of Nicolaa. “I thank you, lady, for your trust in me. I would never harm you, never.”

  “You may get up, Gosbert,” she said kindly. “I never doubted your loyalty, but it had to be proved before I could release you. Return to your duties. You have trained Eric well, but he does not have your delicacy of touch when it comes to preparing the roasted coney of which I am so fond.”

  Gosbert rose to his feet and gravely nodded his head. “I shall prepare it for you tonight, lady,” he said, “and in the manner to which you are accustomed.” The cook gave his mistress a solemn bow and then, his head held high, strode across the bail to the kitchen.

  WHILE GOSBERT WAS BEING RELEASED FROM THE holding cell, Bascot was on his way to visit the apiary at Nettleham. The preceptor had sent a message to Ivor Severtsson, instructing him to await the Templar at Nettleham village. Hamo, a serjeant from the preceptory, went with Bascot at d’Arderon’s suggestion, so there would be no doubt in the bailiff’s mind that any enquiries put to himself and the residents of the apiary were being made with the Order’s permission. The Templar would have liked to bring Gianni with him. The boy had sharp eyes and ears, and his help had been invaluable to Bascot on the previous occasions when a murderer had been abroad in Lincoln town. But his involvement in his master’s investigations had, the last time, nearly cost the boy his life, and Bascot was reluctant to put him in such jeopardy again. Gianni had been downcast when he had been told he would be left behind, but it was better he suffer disappointment than take a risk with his well-being.

  Bascot gave a glance at the stern countenance of the knight riding beside him. Hamo was a dour and taciturn individual, but his devotion to the Order was total and without reservation. He would, Bascot knew, be as anxious as the preceptor to prevent any stigma from attaching itself to the Templar brotherhood through the actions of one of its tenants.

  The weather was holding to its promise and the day was again a warm one, with white fleecy clouds scudding overhead acr
oss a pale blue sky. After leaving Lincoln by the northern gate of Newport Arch, they turned off Ermine Street a short distance from the town, onto a track that led eastwards towards Nettleham and Wragby. As they rode, the sights and sounds of the countryside engulfed them; all of the trees were in bud, and intermittent patches of bluebells filled the air with their earthy scent. Small birds flitted to and fro, twigs or bits of leaf clamped in their tiny beaks as they went about the task of building their nests, and the hammering of woodpeckers made an intermittent, and clamorous, accompaniment to their passage. An occasional traveller passed them on the track, mainly carters taking produce to one of the markets in Lincoln, but for most of the way, the road was empty.

  Nettleham village was situated about four miles’ distance from the main road, with the larger property of Wragby a further seven miles on. The village was a tiny one, consisting only of a small church, a blacksmith’s forge and a few cots built of wattle and daub. On one side was a grassy area of common ground where meetings could be held or animals grazed, and beyond that was a stretch of rolling flatland dotted with sheep. A few villagers were in the street, a woman with a basketful of eggs over one arm and another two women standing gossiping by a well near one of the houses that had a sheaf of greenery fixed beside the door, denoting it was an alehouse. Severtsson was waiting for them outside the blacksmith’s forge, his horse tethered to a nearby post and a pot of ale in his hand.