A Plague of Poison

by Maureen Ash

  Bascot asked how le Breve’s old servant, Nantie, was faring. It was Harald Severtsson who answered. He was very like his brother in appearance, but shorter and not so well-favoured in his features. His face had a more serious cast to it, and his eyes held a look of candour that was lacking in Ivor’s.

  “We have just been to the guildhall, Sir Bascot, to arrange a collection of funds to assist her,” he said, his words touched with the slight Norse accent that Bascot had noticed in his brother. “As yet, she refuses to leave le Breve’s home and is keeping watch over their biers, but after they have been laid to their rest, she will be homeless. My uncle and I have proposed that a collection be made from those of affluence and used to sustain her for the rest of her days, perhaps in the guesthouse of a local nunnery.”

  Bascot was very pleased to learn that the old servant would be provided for and then asked if the merchant had given any more consideration as to who could have had reason to place the poison in his kitchen.

  “I have wracked my brain to think of any person who would bear me such malice,” Reinbald replied. “While there is sometimes a small rivalry between myself and another wine merchant, I can think of nothing of such severity that it would give rise to a wish for my death.”

  “If this attack is not a random one, Onkel, then it would be a dull-witted person that would take revenge over an enmity that was well-known to you, for he would immediately be suspected of the crime,” Harald observed. “And, because of the boldness and cunning it must have taken to place the poison in Tante Helge’s kitchen, I do not believe this poisoner is lacking in intelligence.”

  As Bascot took his leave of the merchant and his nephew, Harald’s last words made the Templar take them into his consideration of the likelihood that Wilkin had committed the crimes. The potter was more well-spoken than the rest of his family, an influence, no doubt, of being often within the town and conversing with the customers he met while he plied his wares. But did such an asset denote the intelligence that Harald Severtsson believed the poisoner possessed? If Wilkin had truly been the person who had adulterated the honey, would he not have been devious enough to hide his dislike of the bailiff in front of himself and Hamo? The Templar would have thought so, but bitter experience had taught him that a person who commits secret murder often wears a guileless face. It could be that Wilkin was such a one.

  Fourteen

  WHEN BASCOT RETURNED TO THE CASTLE, HE found Nicolaa de la HAYE in the hall where she had, up until a few moments before, been speaking to the town bailiff, Henry Stoyle. The official, an expression of disquietude on his face, was just leaving as Bascot came in.

  When Bascot approached the dais, Nicolaa was discussing with Gilles de Laubrec the results of her meeting with Stoyle. Seeing the Templar, she immediately invited him to take a seat and sent a page scurrying for a cup of wine.

  “I hope you have some good news for us, de Marins,” she said. “I am told that the townspeople are becoming very agitated. According to what I have just heard, every death that has taken place in Lincoln in the last few weeks has now been ascribed to have been the work of the poisoner. I do not doubt that if a corpse were found with a dagger through the heart, the death would still be deemed to have been caused by poisoned honey.”

  She picked up her cup and took a sip. “The bailiff tells me that some of the citizens he spoke to are concerned, and rightly so, that rumours of this plague of poison in Lincoln will spread to other parts of the country and affect trade with the town. If it does, it will not only empty the coffers of our richer citizens, it will also mean less work for those they employ, and could cause great hardship among the poor. I have promised to meet tomorrow with some of the leaders of the guilds to discuss the situation. They would be pleased if I could tell them we had apprehended the culprit. Is there any likelihood I may be able to do so, de Marins?”

  “I fear not, lady,” Bascot admitted. “I do have sight of a possible suspect, at least for poisoning the honey in Reinbald’s home, but I can find no reason for him to have done so in the castle.”

  “Who is this person?”

  “Wilkin, the potter at Nettleham, although I do not think it was the merchant he wished to harm, but his nephew, Ivor Severtsson.” Bascot explained how Wilkin believed that Ivor had raped his daughter. “The bailiff often dines at Reinbald’s home. Wilkin could have adulterated the honey in the hope that he would eat a dish that contained the poison.”

  “Is it not more plausible he would try to harm Severtsson directly?”

  “It would be difficult for him to do so. The bailiff is young and strong. The potter has not the physical strength to overcome him, even if he took him by surprise. And Severtsson, as their overseer, holds the livelihood of the potter and all of his family in his hands. To attack him by stealth would be Wilkin’s only option.”

  “It is strange that the bailiff has not taken some action against the potter over the accusation he has made,” de Laubrec said. “Could it be because there is some truth to the charge?”

  “It may be. Whether he is the father of her babe or not, the potter is adamant that Severtsson assaulted her and has made his charge public. Preceptor d’Arderon is very concerned about the matter and has asked that I let him know if I discover whether there is any validity to Wilkin’s claim.”

  “Still,” Nicolaa mused, “whether it is true or not, if the potter believes it is, and he is not in a position to take his revenge openly on Severtsson, it may be that he felt he could do so by poisoning the food the bailiff ate in his uncle’s house.”

  “But that does not give him a reason to harm anyone in the castle,” Bascot said doubtfully.

  “Not unless it occurred by accident,” de Laubrec surmised. “Perhaps the honey pot he poisoned was accidentally put in with those that were destined for the castle kitchen and he had need to prepare another to include with those that Severtsson was taking to his uncle.”

  “If that is so, then we must conclude that both of the pots were poisoned last autumn and the fact that they were opened at almost the same time was just by chance,” Nicolaa said. “That would be a rare coincidence indeed.”

  “It would, lady,” Bascot replied. “I think that the honey in both places was tampered with recently. It would be a simple matter to acquire one or more empty pots, fill them with poisoned honey and then exchange them for ones that are pure. And Gosbert has told me that Wilkin is often in the castle kitchen and would have reason to pass the place where the cook keeps the honey. As for the merchant’s home, the kitchen is of easy access to anyone who seeks entry through the lane at the back of the house. The potter could have done it, and my only reservation for not thinking that he did is that he has no reason that I can find to wish the deaths of anyone within the bail.”

  Nicolaa considered the matter. “Is it possible that the potter may have thought that more than one death would cloud the reason he wished to harm Severtsson? That his aim was for all to think, just as we are doing, that he could not be guilty because he had no wish to harm anyone other than the bailiff?”

  Bascot admitted that could be possible. “If that is so, he was foolish not to hide his anger at Severtsson in front of Hamo and myself. His open enmity was the reason I thought to look further into the matter.”

  “Or crafty enough to believe such honesty would remove him from any taint of suspicion,” Nicolaa said. “Keep looking, de Marins. You may yet uncover a reason for his wishing the death of myself or some other person within the bail, and if you do, then—”

  She broke off as a tall figure came rushing through the door of the hall. Pushing past the servant that was on duty there, he came hurrying up towards the dais. It was Brother Andrew from the Priory of All Saints. The ring of light brown hair around his tonsure was in disarray and his demeanour was agitated as he exclaimed in breathless tones, “Lady, there has been another poisoning. A patient in the infirmary is dead.”

  TWO SERVANTS THAT HAD BEEN LAYING CLOTHS On trestle tables
in preparation for the midday meal heard the monk’s words and started back in horror. Nicolaa spoke to them sharply, ordering one to bring Brother Andrew a cup of wine and the other to get on with his task.

  As the servants hurried to obey, she returned her attention to the monk, who apologised for breaking the news in such a precipitate fashion. “It was understandable, Brother,” Nicolaa said, and asked who it was that had died.

  “The patient was one of the lay brothers,” Andrew told them. “His duty is to attend the carp ponds that are on the priory grounds, and he came to us for help only yesterday, suffering from a fever and purulent ulcers in his throat. He was placed in one of the beds in the infirmary, and after bathing him with cooling cloths wrung out in water, Brother Jehan ordered that a decoction made from the flowers and dried seed capsules of the hawthorn bush be given to him every two hours. It was a simple task and, as I was busy lancing a nasty carbuncle on the leg of one of our brothers, was given to Eustace, a novice monk who has been helping us in the infirmary. He gave the medicant as had been ordered, but the patient was finding the medicine difficult to swallow because of the ulcers. Thinking to ease his discomfort, Eustace added some honey from a small pot that is kept on a shelf for the purpose and said that at first the addition of the honey seemed to help the lay brother and he left him resting comfortably, well wrapped in blankets, until it should be time for the next dosage.

  “When Eustace returned, he found the patient tossing and turning in his bed and sweating profusely. He was also complaining that his tongue and gums felt as though they were on fire. Then he began to vomit. Eustace ran to fetch me, and I recognised the symptoms at once as being consistent with a poison derived from the Helleborus niger plant. Brother Jehan and I tried to save the man, but to no avail. He breathed his last just an hour ago. The prior thought you should be told at once and sent me to inform you.”

  The monk shook his head in confusion. “I cannot understand it. Why would this devil wish to kill a man who is already lying in his sick bed? What purpose does it serve?”

  “A good question, Brother, and one to which we must try to find an answer,” Nicolaa replied.

  The servant came and gave Andrew the cup of wine Nicolaa had ordered. He sipped it slowly, becoming less agitated as he did so, but with a face that was still horror-stricken.

  “It is my fault,” he said at last. “We had all the honey in the priory kitchen tested after the deaths in the castle, but this one pot was overlooked.” His eyes were bleak as he continued. “It is kept on a shelf just outside the door to the sickroom, along with other medicants of a benign nature. It is my duty to see that the shelf is kept stocked, and I should have remembered there was a jar of honey there. Now a man is dead because of my negligence.”

  “And the pot of adulterated honey in the infirmary, does it come from the same apiary as the one that was found in the castle kitchen, from the beekeeper at Nettleham?” Nicolaa asked.

  Andrew nodded his head. “It does. It has a glaze of the same colour and the cross pattée etched into the underside of the jar.”

  Nicolaa gave Bascot and de Laubrec each a significant glance in turn before she asked her next question. “Brother Andrew, do you know if a potter, by the name of Wilkin, has lately been in the grounds of the priory?”

  The monk struggled to focus his thoughts on a matter that seemed to bear no relation to what they were discussing, but finally said, “He may have been. I am not sure of the man’s name, but there is a potter that makes the stoppered flagons that we fill with hot water to warm the beds of our patients. They often get broken and he frequently comes with new ones. If he is this Wilkin, then he will have been at the priory during the last week or so.”

  Nicolaa wasted no time in rapping out an order to the marshal. “De Laubrec, take two men-at-arms from the garrison and go immediately to the Nettleham apiary. If this Wilkin admits to being the potter that makes the flagons for the priory, bring him back here at once and place him in a holding cell.”

  De Laubrec quickly rose from his seat and started down the steps of the dais. As he began to cross the hall, Brother Andrew looked after him in bafflement. “I do not understand. Do you suspect this potter of being the poisoner? What reason would he have for wishing the death of one of our brethren?”

  “As yet, we do not know, Brother,” Nicolaa replied, “but I think it is more than likely that he has one.”

  Fifteen

  AFTER THE MARSHAL And BROTHER ADREW HAD left, Nicolaa expressed her satisfaction that the identity of the poisoner had been discovered and congratulated Bascot on his perspicacity in suspecting the potter. She was surprised to find that the Templar did not share her elation. “Are you not convinced of the potter’s guilt, de Marins?”

  Bascot tried to explain the uncertainty he felt. “It is only that he seemed, on the one occasion I met him, to be an open and honest man. I find it difficult to believe he could harbour such evil in his heart and give no sign of it on his countenance.”

  “Many people are adept at hiding their true nature behind a mask of innocence, de Marins, as you should well know,” Nicolaa said. Bascot knew she was reminding him of how he had been gulled once before, during his investigation into the murders of four people that had been found slain in an alehouse. “The evidence against Wilkin is overwhelming,” Nicolaa continued. ”There is his hatred for the bailiff and his close involvement with the honey when it is harvested and sold. He also has access to all of the kitchens where it was found. Do not let yourself be taken in by his ingenuous manner.”

  Bascot nodded his acceptance of her caution, and when she asked him if he would go to the Templar enclave and tell Everard d’Arderon of the imminent arrest of one of the Order’s tenants, he rose from his seat. It was not a task he relished. The preceptor had already been disturbed by the news that a Templar bailiff might be guilty of rape; for him to learn that yet another person connected to the Order was now accused of a far more serious crime would greatly distress him.

  As Bascot had feared, his visit to d’Arderon that afternoon proved that he had been right to be concerned. The preceptor heard the news in silence and then said, “I have failed in my duty to the Order, Bascot. If both the bailiff and the potter are guilty of these sinful acts, I must ask to be relieved of my post.”

  Bascot made an attempt to convince his friend that he should not feel responsible for crimes committed by others, but his efforts proved useless.

  “I fought for Christ on the field of battle for many long years,” d’Arderon said, “and, through His grace, survived. Had it not been for the illness that overtook me in the Holy Land I should still be there, and would willingly have died in His service. But I see now that I have been guilty of the sin of arrogance. If I had taken the trouble to express more interest in those who are tenants of the Order, it may be that the potter would have come to me with his charge against the bailiff and his need for retribution would have been satisfied. Because I did not, six people are now dead.”

  Bascot knew how much d’Arderon missed the life he had led prior to becoming preceptor of the Lincoln enclave. Recurring bouts of a tertian fever had forced the Order to remove him from the harsh climes of Outremer and assign him to duties in a land where the weather was more hospitable. But he was an able preceptor, faithful in ensuring that the profits from property held by the Order and from the commodities they traded in were sent in their entirety to fund the cost of arms and equipment needed by brethren overseas. He also gave wholeheartedly of his own martial abilities to train the younger men that were sent to him for instruction.

  Bascot felt a fresh surge of anger rise at the havoc the poisonings had wrought. Not only had the lives of six people been taken, but great sorrow had fallen on those who had been in some way associated with each of the victims—Clare, the young sempstress who had lost her betrothed when Ralf had been killed; Thomas, the squire who had lost his lord when Haukwell died; Nantie, the old servant, left alone and homeless when le
Breve and his family perished; Brother Andrew, who blamed himself for the death of a patient; and now d’Arderon, who felt that negligence on his part had driven a man to commit heinous crimes.

  As he left the preceptor, he sent up a fervent prayer that succour be given to all of those who were now suffering such unwarranted distress.

  IT WAS EARLY In THE EVENING by THE TIME DE Laubrec returned with his prisoner. Bascot had been asked by Nicolaa de la Haye to interrogate Wilkin after he was incarcerated, but before he did so, he went to speak to the marshal and asked him how the potter had reacted to his arrest.

  “He seemed genuinely shocked,” the marshal said, his long, narrow face sceptical, “and tried to argue with me at first, but desisted when one of the men-at-arms gave him a clout about the head. Unfortunately, he cut his arm quite badly when he landed on a large earthenware pot as he fell. It broke into pieces and one of them gave him a nasty gash. The leech is with him now, stitching it up.”

  De Laubrec went on to tell Bascot that he had searched the apiary and found a wooden box containing some strange-looking roots in the potter’s shed. “I thought it might be the plant he used to make the poison, so I brought it back with me and gave it to Lady Nicolaa. She said she’ll ask Brother Jehan if he can identify it.”