A Plague of Poison

by Maureen Ash

  Since it seemed that the honey had not been tampered with while it was on the apiary property—or while it was in Severtsson’s possession—it was likely that the adulteration of the honey had been carried out recently, as had been suspected. Nonetheless, he asked Adam how many pots of that grade had been gleaned last year and if the beekeeper knew who had bought them.

  “ ’Twere two score and four pots altogether,” Adam replied. “I don’t know who bought ’em, but Margot does, she keeps the tally sticks for to show the bailiff.”

  “A score went to the castle, lord,” the beekeeper’s daughter replied. “Then there were the eight given to Master Severtsson for his uncle, six that went to the priory and t’other ten were sold in ones and twos to customers in the town. I don’t know the names of the people that had those; I never goes to town except to sell the honey, and I only know their faces, not who they are.”

  Bascot was relieved to hear that the remainder of the pots had been sold in small quantities throughout the town. It was likely that all of these had been opened and used throughout the winter months, and since no suspicious deaths had been reported during that time, all of that honey must have been pure. Deciding there was nothing further to be learned from Adam and his family, Bascot signalled to Hamo that he was ready to leave.

  As they went towards the door of the cot, the bailiff, who was a little ahead of Bascot, hesitated and glanced at Rosamunde. The young woman was still sitting as she had been during the whole time they had been there, staring vacantly at the empty space in front of her, and made no sign of having noticed his, or anyone else’s, presence. Despite that, Wilkin quickly stepped into the space between the bailiff and his daughter in a protective manner and glared at Severtsson. Margot watched her husband’s defiant movement with an anxious face, her lips pressed tight together as though to stop her from crying out in alarm. The bailiff gave them both a disdainful stare and then, with a petulant shrug of his shoulders, turned and left the room.

  Severtsson parted company with the two Templars at the junction of the apiary road with the main track, his journey back to Wragby taking him in the opposite direction to their own. As they watched his retreating figure disappear down the road, Bascot said to Hamo, “All is not well between the potter and the bailiff, and it would seem to have some connection with Wilkin’s daughter, Rosamunde.”

  Hamo was alert at once, ever conscious of any wrongdoing which might impugn the integrity of the Order. “Severtsson said the girl was unmarried,” he observed. “Perhaps he is the father of her babe. If that is so, the preceptor must be told. The Order frowns on moral laxity among its lay servants.”

  “We will do so when we return to Lincoln. But, Hamo, both the potter and the bailiff are connected to the mystery of these poisonings, although only by tenuous threads—Wilkin because he is one of those who oversee the preparation of the honey and undertakes its delivery; and Severtsson because one of the jars that he took to his uncle’s house was adulterated. Is it possible that the enmity between the two is somehow involved in the matter?”

  Ten

  THE POISONER FOUND IT DIFFICULT TO MAINTAIN his facade of innocence during the turmoil that followed the deaths of le Breve and his family. His anger had almost overwhelmed him, and it still burned in his gut like molten iron in the depths of a blacksmith’s forge. After all the risks he had taken, it had happened again, just as it had with Nicolaa de la Haye, and instead of the lives of Reinbald and his family being taken, it had been people of no consequence who had died.

  He recalled how, for one heart-stopping moment, he had thought himself discovered and had made preparations to flee if the hue and cry was raised for his capture. But, as the hours passed, and his alarm proved groundless, he knew that he could resume his quest for vengeance without fear of hindrance.

  He would need to wait before he made another attempt to poison either the castellan or the merchant.

  Counselling himself to patience, he took comfort from the thought that since the finger of suspicion had not been pointed in his direction, there would be no obstacle to his entering the premises of his next victim.

  Eleven

  THE MORNING WAS NOT FAR ADVANCED WHEN BASCOT and Hamo returned to Lincoln. D’Arderon was waiting for them, and Bascot told him briefly of their visit to the apiary and of his suspicion that there was something amiss between the bailiff and the potter.

  The preceptor shook his head in distaste. “Whether their rancour has any connection to the poisonings or not, if Severtsson has been involved with this young woman, perhaps even responsible for the babe she bore out of wedlock, I cannot let him continue as a servant of the Order. It would be tantamount to blasphemy to do so.” He looked at Bascot with weary eyes. “Unpleasant as it may be, I must learn the truth of the matter, de Marins. The decision to appoint him as bailiff was mine. If he is immoral, I should have discovered his inclinations before giving him the post.”

  Hamo nodded his head in confirmation of the preceptor’s statement, and Bascot knew the depth of concern they both felt. Not only must the brothers of the Templar Order be morally above reproach, but also any servants they employed. As preceptor of the Lincoln enclave, the responsibility for ensuring this was so fell on d’Arderon’s shoulders.

  “I shall let you know if I discover anything about the girl and Severtsson that might be relevant, Preceptor,” Bascot promised.

  AFTER BASCOT HAD RIDDEN OUT Of THE ENCLAVE he returned immediately to the castle and sought out Ernulf. The serjeant had been in service to the Hayes for many years and was familiar with most of the people who lived and worked in the town. Although Ivor Severtsson did not reside in Lincoln, his uncle did and was a well-known figure among the populace. It might be possible that Ernulf had heard some gossip that was pertinent to the merchant’s nephew.

  He found Ernulf in the barracks, having just returned after a spell of duty on the walls. “There’s a lot of unrest over these murders in the town,” he told Bascot. “Had to send a few of my men to help Roget, so I’ve been doing some of the rounds myself.”

  The Templar told him of his visit to the apiary and of the ill will that the potter seemed to bear Ivor Severtsson. “I need to find out what the cause is, Ernulf,” Bascot said. “It may be no more than the usual resentment of a tenant towards those in authority, especially if Wilkin has been subjected to a reprimand by the bailiff for some infringement of his rights, but I have a feeling it is more than that, and somehow centred on the potter’s daughter, Rosamunde, who is the mother of a bastard child.”

  “Of the people in the town I keeps close track, lest their affairs touch on the security of the castle and so upon milady,” Ernulf said regretfully. “Out in the countryside . . .”

  He shrugged but, after giving the matter some thought, said, “I do know of one as might be able to help you. The rat catcher, Germagan, has a cousin who used to be employed as a resident catcher at Wragby. He might have some knowledge of what goes on at Nettleham, since it’s part of the same property that the old widow left to the Order. This cousin, he was at Wragby under the old bailiff, and for a little while after Severtsson took over. Came back to Lincoln town a few months ago, I think. If you was to ask Germagan, he can tell you if his cousin is plying his trade in the town, or moved elsewhere.

  “Other than that,” Ernulf went on, “the best I can do for you is ask around amongst my men and a few people in the town. As far as the bailiff is concerned, I do know that Severtsson’s uncle, Reinbald, is a man of good repute. He and his wife took Ivor and a younger brother, Harald, into their home when the wife’s sister and her husband died. Reinbald has no sons, and Harald helps the merchant in his business and will probably be his heir one day. About Ivor, I know little, even though he is often in Lincoln on the Order’s business, for he spends most of his time at Wragby. But it could be Germagan’s cousin might know summat useful about him. The cousin must have plied his trade under Severtsson’s direction after the old bailiff died. He might know
about any dealings he has with the apiary and if there is reason for sourness on the potter’s part.”

  Bascot thanked the serjeant and said he would follow up his suggestion. Severtsson had said he went to his uncle’s house whenever he was in Lincoln, which would seem to be fairly often. Was the rancour the potter felt against the bailiff deep enough for him to have poisoned the honey sent to the merchant’s house in the hope that Severtsson would eat a dish that contained it?

  But, if that was so, it did not explain why Wilkin would have placed poison in the castle kitchen. The potter had admitted he delivered the honey to the castle store last autumn at the time of the fair. Did he have any reason to be in the kitchen on subsequent occasions? And if so, did he have a grievance against someone in the castle, and a wish to harm them, as well as Severtsson? Perhaps Gosbert could give him answers to these questions.

  Calling to Gianni, the Templar and the boy went out into the ward and walked over to the kitchen. It was full of its customary bustle, but now, with Gosbert in charge, the tumult seemed more orderly than it had been under Eric. The morning meal having just been served, scullions were in the process of preparing the vegetables that would be used for the midday meal. In one of the huge grates, a dozen chickens, ducks and rabbits that had been skewered on spits were roasting over the open flames. At the side of the fireplace, a young boy turned the handles of the spits at regular intervals, basting the meat with grease from a pot after each rotation. A large number of loaves of bread had already been baked and were piled in neat stacks on a table. The wooden platters that had been used to carry the food to the hall for the morning meal were being scraped clean by a couple of kitchen maids and then arranged in neat piles.

  Gosbert was at the gutting table, stuffing an ox heart with a mixture of onions and herbs. He looked up at Bascot’s approach and gave a respectful nod as he waited for the Templar to speak.

  “I have come to ask about the potter, Wilkin, who is son-by-marriage to the beekeeper at Nettleham. I am told that he sells his wares in Lincoln town. Does he supply any of the vessels you use here, in the castle kitchen?”

  Gosbert’s spiky eyebrows rose up towards his shining bald pate in surprise. “Yes, he does,” he replied.

  “Has he been here recently?” Bascot asked.

  “He comes here often,” Gosbert informed him. “Some of the scullions can be cack-handed if Eric or I don’t watch them close, and quite a few of the wine or oil beakers get broken. Wilkin makes good pots, and they aren’t too expensive. We usually get one or two replacements from him every week or so, and although I can’t remember exactly which days he came, it is more than likely he has been here at least once in the last sennight.”

  “Does he come into the kitchen when he brings them?”

  “Yes, he does,” Gosbert confirmed. “He leaves his cart outside, in the bail, and carries whatever I have ordered through here and puts them in the storeroom down there—the one that Lady Nicolaa ordered locked after Thorey found the poison in that pot of honey.” He pointed to a door that was just past the table where he was working. Anyone going into it was within easy reach of the shelf where the jars of honey had been kept.

  Bascot felt his interest in the potter quicken at the cook’s statement. So Wilkin had the opportunity to covertly remove a pure pot of honey and replace it with a tainted one—had he availed himself of it?

  Gosbert was regarding Bascot closely as the Templar considered what he had just been told. Suddenly the cook, his fingers tightening on the haft of the sharp knife he was holding, asked, “Do you think it was Wilkin that tampered with the honey?” His tone was truculent.

  “I do not know, cook,” Bascot replied, “and until I find out whether he did or not, I ask that you keep our conversation to yourself.”

  Gosbert responded with an angry clenching of his jaw but was mollified when Bascot reminded him that suspicion had fallen on Gosbert not so long ago and, at the time, had seemed justified to everyone except himself. To cast aspersion on another without proof, as the cook should well know, was an act that could have dire consequences.

  Gosbert reluctantly agreed with his observation, and when Bascot went on to ask if he knew of any reason for Wilkin to bear a grudge against anyone who lived within the bail, he admitted he did not. “Wilkin is always made welcome here,” the cook said, “and, as far as I know, is content in our company. I would not call him a talkative man, but he is always polite and respectful, and seems pleased that I authorise the purchase of his wares. He has never shown or made mention of any animosity towards me or my staff, or of any disgruntlement with Lady Nicolaa or the sheriff.”

  Despite the cook’s assurance, Bascot decided there was enough reason to investigate further into the matter of the ill feeling between Wilkin and the bailiff. Perhaps it would lead to a discovery of some dispute the potter had with those who lived in the castle of which Gosbert was unaware. The man had originally delivered the honey and also had easy access to the confines of the kitchen. It was necessary to find out more about Wilkin before he could be considered innocent.

  Taking Gianni with him, the Templar went down into the town. The atmosphere on the streets of Lincoln was oppressive. There were small knots of citizens gathered in groups of two or three on corners and at the marketplaces, their attitudes ranging from belligerence to wariness. As Nicolaa de la Haye had instructed, the men of Roget’s guard and the castle men-at-arms were a visible presence on the streets.

  After asking one of the town guards for information, Bascot found Germagan in the yard behind the house of a prominent silversmith, testing various foodstuffs—notably honey and preserved fruit—on half a dozen rats that his assistant had secured in cages. The rat catcher greeted the Templar with his former effusiveness and asked how he might be of service.

  After motioning Germagan a little to one side of the yard, out of earshot of the catcher’s assistant and the silversmith’s wife, Bascot said, “I am looking for a kins-man of yours, a relative that Serjeant Ernulf told me was engaged as a rat catcher for some time at Wragby. I have some questions I would like to put to him.”

  “That would be Dido,” Germagan replied. “He is my cousin and now lodges with me, and plies his trade within the town walls.” Waving his hand at his assistant, who was busy pushing a bit of bread smeared with apricot conserve through the bars of one of the cages, the catcher added, “As you can see, the fear of poison has made the services of those who ply my trade in much demand. Dido went this morning to the premises of a baker in Baxtergate who asked him to test the honey he uses in his pastries. Do you wish me to send him to the castle to attend you?”

  Bascot shook his head. “No, I want to speak to him as soon as possible. And privily.”

  Germagan looked up at the Templar with dark, intelligent eyes, very like those of the rats he caught. “ ’Tis not my place to ask, sir, but I would reckon this is to do with the poisoner that’s brought our fair town to the depths of such misery. If that is so, both myself and Dido will be right pleased to help you.”

  When no reply from Bascot was forthcoming, just a tightening of the Templar’s mouth that the catcher took for confirmation of his statement, Germagan said, “My lodgings are near Baxtergate, sir, close by the baker’s house where my cousin is at work. I would be honoured to offer my home for your use. You may be as private as you wish within my walls, for there is only my wife at home, and she will absent herself if I tell her to. I can take you there immediately and collect Dido on the way.”

  “That will do admirably, Germagan,” Bascot replied. As they left the silversmith’s house, the catcher strode ahead of the Templar and Gianni, cleaving a path through the people that were gathered on the street by waving his ratting pole so that the bells affixed to its tip crashed together noisily as he walked. Bascot smiled inwardly. Germagan, he thought, was a man who was not averse to making any potential customers aware that he was in the confidence of a person of such high rank as a Templar knight.

&nb
sp; Twelve

  DIDO WAS A SHORT, THIN MAN Of ABOUT FORTY years of age with a shock of carrot-coloured hair. He came at once when Germagan knocked at the door of the baker’s home and asked to speak to him, hastily stuffing the two ferrets he used in his work into one of the large pockets of his rough tunic. Telling the baker he would return as soon as he could, Dido came out into the street, and the two catchers led Bascot and Gianni to a small dwelling place near the Witham River. The house was sturdily built of strong wooden timbers with an interior that was clean and had sweet-smelling rushes strewn on the floor. There were only two rooms, but both were a fair size, and Germagan led Bascot and Gianni, bowing as he did so, into the larger chamber of the two, which contained four comfortable chairs and an oaken table. The catcher’s wife, a broad-hipped woman with a large bosom, greeted the guests with a low curtsey and hastened, at her husband’s bidding, to bring tankards of ale for them all.