A Play of Isaac

by Margaret Frazer

  “Myself, my family, Simon Fairfield . . .”

  “Lewis’s brother and his heir?” Master Barentyne said.

  “Yes. And those players.” He pointed to Basset and Ellis, who bowed, and to Rose, who curtsyed. “Later the other man and the boy came in, too.”

  Joliffe and Piers bowed in their turn.

  “Why?” Master Barentyne asked. “Why players at a time like that?”

  “Because Lewis liked them so much,” Master Penteney answered. “He’d even played for us with them a few evenings ago. Lewis never understood being ill. It always frightened him. I hoped seeing the players would cheer him.”

  “Did it?” Master Barentyne asked.

  Master Penteney looked to Matthew, who said, “It did, sir. Even ill as he was, he asked them to say a play for him and they did.”

  “Was he more ill than anyone else?” Master Barentyne asked.

  “More ill than some,” Matthew answered. “Not so ill as others. I’d say, from what I saw, first and last, Master Penteney was worse off than Master Lewis by a long way.”

  “But Lewis died,” Master Barentyne said.

  “He did, sir, yes,” Matthew said. The words broke a little with the grief in his voice.

  Master Barentyne looked to the doctor. “You saw him die?”

  “I came just afterwards. He was already dead when I arrived. There was nothing I could do except confirm it.”

  “What do you judge was the cause of his death?”

  “I would say without doubt that his weak heart finally gave out. It was a long-standing condition. The strain put on it by the sickness last night proved too much for it. Even the medicine that had proved useful in strengthening his heart other times was insufficient to save him this time.”

  “You weren’t here to give it to him.”

  “Mistress Penteney gave it. It’s easily administered in wine. I provide it already measured, each dose of the powder separately paper-wrapped. She has given it before this and it’s my understanding that she did so then. This time it did not avail.”

  Master Barentyne looked to Mistress Penteney. “You gave him this medicine?”

  Sitting stiffly straight, braced for the question, she said, “Yes. As soon as I had chance among everything else that was happening, I fetched his medicine from my bedchamber where I keep all the household medicines. I should have given it to him sooner. I was too late with it.” Tears rose in her eyes. “I’m . . . I’m sorry.”

  As her voice faltered, Master Penteney put an arm around her and Mistress Geva took her hand in both her own, holding it instead of having her own held, while the doctor said quickly, “No, madam. His heart was poorly. We all knew that. The sickness was too much for it, that’s all. Nothing you did or didn’t do made the difference, I’m sure.”

  Her head bowed, her face hidden, Mistress Penteney shook her head, refusing his comfort.

  “You’re willing, sir,” Master Barentyne asked, “to swear to the natural failing of his heart as the cause of Lewis Fairfield’s death?”

  “I am, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  Master Barentyne’s clerk scratched mightily at his paper. Master Barentyne waited until the scratching stopped, then said to everyone, “That leaves the matter of how this sickness happened at all, and I must ask questions about that now.”

  “No one died of it,” Master Penteney said quickly. “How does it become a matter for the crowner, then?”

  “It can be argued that Lewis Fairfield died of it,” Master Barentyne pointed out. “It can likewise be well argued that only by God’s grace no one else did. This makes it a matter for the crowner. Nor does it help there’s talk that Lollards are responsible for the sickness here last night. If I find that’s possibly true, I have to give the matter over to the sheriff.”

  Mistress Penteney ducked her head and said on a soft sob, “That was foolish of me. I shouldn’t have said anything about Lollards. I was upset by everything and by Lewis dying. You shouldn’t take heed of what I said then.”

  “You’re not the only one who’s said it,” said Master Barentyne, kindly. “Others are saying it elsewhere.” He looked at everyone. “It would have crossed my mind anyway. You see what it means, though? That while I can rule that Lewis Fairfield died of his weak heart, I have to know more about the sickness here last night, so I can judge whether or not there’s cause to set the sheriff on to find out more.”

  Slow nods of understanding and agreement passed around the room, and Master Barentyne addressed himself to the Lovells. “My lord and lady, do you wish to stay for this?”

  “If we may,” Lord Lovell said. He looked to his wife. “Yes?”

  “Yes,” she agreed with a kind smile at Mistress Penteney. “The more we know, the better we can tell people how things truly are and allay whatever fears and ill talk may be running.”

  Mistress Penteney smiled faintly back and said in a half-whisper of embarrassment and gratitude, “Thank you, my lady.”

  But even her faint smile faded as Master Barentyne said, not just to her but to all the Penteneys and Simon, “I’m sure you’ve begun to ask your own questions here in your household. Has any determination been made as to what was eaten or drunk that caused the sickness?”

  Mistress Penteney started to speak but stopped and looked at her husband, leaving it to him to speak for all of them. He smiled at her a little and answered Master Barentyne steadily, “We’ve been thinking on the matter, yes, and have asked what questions there’ve been time for. The best we’ve been able to determine is that the sweetmeats served in the second remove were the cause. They were small date cakes soaked in wine. Partly we guess this because they’re a particular favorite of mine, I ate more than my reasonable share, and I was among the sickest here.”

  “You said you partly guess,” Master Barentyne said. “There’s another part?”

  “Except for the breads, the sweetmeats were the only food not prepared here. They were ordered from Master Wymund, the baker in the High Street.”

  “When?” Master Barentyne asked.

  Master Penteney looked to his wife who said, “A week ago. Last week sometime.”

  “And were brought here when?” Master Barentyne asked her.

  “The day before yesterday. In the afternoon.”

  “What was done with them then?”

  “I took them into my own keeping.” Which was good sense, given how costly such things were. “I had them put in my bedchamber until just before the feast began. Then I had my maid and one of the hall servants take them to the butlery.” Where they would have been kept with the wine for the feast, under lock or else under the butler’s guard and safe from idle greed.

  And from anyone’s meddling with them, Joliffe thought.

  Master Barentyne returned his questioning to Master Penteney. “At the feast they were served to everyone?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the sickness shortly followed?”

  “Yes.”

  Master Barentyne turned to the doctor. “Do you have knowledge of anything that could have caused such a sickness, sir?”

  “Groundsel and elder would both serve,” the doctor promptly replied.

  “And could that have been concealed in the sweetmeats?”

  “Easily.”

  “Would it have to have been included when the sweetmeats were made? Or could it have been added later?”

  The doctor considered, then answered, “To do it when they were made would have been easiest, but possibly they could have been soaked in a solution of either—or both—of those, sufficient to bring on the illness. Such sweetmeats are already dark and sticky. That would conceal much. They’re likewise strongly enough seasoned to conceal what, if any, taste there might be from the herbs. But you do understand that the problem is most likely to have been no more than a spoiling due to the warm weather?”

  “I do indeed,” Master Barentyne assured him. “What I hope is to find that out in detail enou
gh that people can be assured the sickness was no more than a matter of chance, not a deliberate poisoning by Lollards or anyone else. One thing, though. Are any of these sweetmeats left, that we could try on a dog, say, to see what happens?”

  “No,” Mistress Penteney said, with an unhappy, guilty glance at her husband, as if she had somehow failed him. “We weren’t thinking about them last night. The few that were left were cleared away with everything else and . . . and thrown out.” She began to speak more rapidly, to have her confession done. “With the sickness and then Lewis dying and because I didn’t want to risk anyone else sickening—the servants or beggars if the food was given for alms, like I’d meant to—I had all the food taken—I’m sorry—and dumped into the river.”

  Master Barentyne was not happy at that but Mistress Penteney’s distress and guilt were so severe that he took time to reassure her that it made little difference, before he asked that the butler be sent for. Matthew fetched him, a stout, stiff man who stated firmly that the sweetmeats had been given into his care late yesterday afternoon and had been under his eye or else the butlery been locked until such time as they were served at the feast. The maid and hall servant in their turn were summoned and confirmed the sweetmeats had been carried directly from Mistress Penteney’s chamber to the butlery, with no chance for anyone to do anything with them. Then the two servants who had gone to the baker’s and brought the boxed sweetmeats home were called in and to Master Barentyne’s questions swore they had come directly back to the house, with no chance for anyone to have even seen the sweetmeats, let alone do anything to them. At the end of that, with no other questions to ask, Master Barentyne said that when he had talked with Master Wymund, the baker, he would almost surely be satisfied that last night’s misfortune had happened by accident, not someone’s ill-purpose, with no need to take the matter further. There might possibly be inquest held on Lewis’s death, but with the doctor able to make clear that it was from natural heart failure, it would be a slight matter. For now, he was finished here.

  Everyone eased at his words. He turned to say something to his clerk. Lord and Lady Lovell and the doctor went to speak with the Penteneys and Simon. The players quietly left the room, no word said among them until they were nearly to the barn, when Basset said, “That was none so bad,” and Rose with her arm around Piers’s shoulders gave him a little squeeze of relief and affection while Ellis with a friendly poke in Joliffe’s ribs said, “For once you kept your mouth shut.”

  Joliffe, matching no one’s relief and merriment, asked, “Last night, the empty medicine packet Mistress Penteney showed the doctor, do any of you remember which sleeve she took it from?”

  Chapter 17

  Basset, Rose, Ellis, and Piers turned outraged looks on him, but they were too in the open to give way to words and no one said anything until they had reached the barn and Basset had unlocked the door and let them in. Then, with the door safely shut, they rounded on him, Ellis’s demand of, “What, in hell’s teeth, do you mean by that?” cutting across Rose’s, “Oh, Joliffe,” and Basset’s, “Don’t be daft, boy,” while Piers simply gave him a glare and stalked away to the cart, crawled up and into it, and disappeared.

  “It was only a question!” Joliffe protested.

  “It was more than only a question!” Ellis said back at him in a strangled shout. “It was halfway to some sort of idiot accusation. What’s the matter with you?”

  “All right,” Joliffe granted sharply, starting to be angry back at him. “It was more than a question and I’m an idiot. Satisfied? But which sleeve did she take it from? Do you know?”

  “No!” Ellis said.

  Rose had Ellis by the arm and said, pulling him to come away, “We don’t know, Joliffe. Why would anyone note anything like that? Ellis, come. Leave him to Basset.”

  Ellis went, fuming and trading low words with her as they went, leaving Joliffe and Basset still standing not far inside the door, with Basset’s solemn regard on him making Joliffe wish he had never opened his mouth. But when Basset finally spoke to him, it was only to say quietly, “What made you ask that?”

  Joliffe, looking at it straight on, had to answer, “I don’t know.”

  “Something did. It didn’t float into your mind like dandelion fluff on a gentle wind.”

  Joliffe grimaced at the slight edge of scorn in Basset’s voice, went quickly through his thoughts, and said, “Kathryn and Lewis were to be betrothed today, and I’ll warrant the first banns would have been read in their church this Sunday. Now, just before too late, Lewis is dead and she’ll surely be married to Simon instead.”

  “A far better match for her,” Basset said.

  “Something any number of people could see. Kathryn herself, for one. Simon for another. They get on well together, and while they’ve both seemed ready to accept her marriage to Lewis, was one of them less ready than he seemed? Or she seemed? There was maybe more understanding on Simon’s part than on Kathryn’s of what she’d lose by marrying Lewis, but Kathryn’s no fool. When it came to the point, she maybe decided she could not face it. Or Simon did.”

  “Or Mistress Penteney did. Joliffe, do you fully know what you’re saying?”

  “That Lewis’s death was purposed. By Mistress Penteney or someone else. And that the tainted sweetmeats were no accident. That someone deliberately poisoned them.”

  “Why? To make all those people sick in the hope Lewis would die?”

  “Maybe I’m wrong about Lewis’s death being purposed. Maybe it was Lollards looking for revenge on Master Penteney for Hubert Leonard’s death.”

  “Leonard’s death wasn’t Master Penteney’s doing,” Basset said.

  “Lollards might think otherwise. Who knows? Whoever did it, maybe they didn’t mean for anyone to die, just badly disgrace the Penteneys by ruining the dinner and make trouble for them.”

  “It has done that,” Basset said. “If it was deliberate poisoning at all, which is unproven.”

  “But not impossible.”

  “No, not impossible. But impossible enough. You think someone at the baker’s did it? Because there’s no way it could have been done at the Penteneys’. The sweetmeats went directly to Mistress Penteney’s keeping and from hers to the butler’s . . .” Basset stopped, weighing what he had said and not liking it. He glared at Joliffe. “So, yes, she could have done something to them, but so could the butler. Why not suspect him?”

  “I would if I knew he had any reason for it.”

  “What reason does Mistress Penteney have, you fool? Why would she want disaster at her feast and humiliation for her household?”

  “So Lewis would die and Kathryn not have to marry him.”

  “St. Vitus give me patience. That marriage has been set and certain for years. Why would she balk at it now?”

  “Because something that’s bearable from a-far off is sometimes too painful to face as it comes near. Or because there was always the hope that Lewis would die before it came to the marriage. And now he has.”

  “And you think she did it.”

  “I think she could have. I can see why she would.”

  “So she made everyone at the feast ill, in the hope Lewis would die,” Basset said, unconvinced. “Not a very efficient way of murder. Wait. No. You think she made everyone ill so she could poison Lewis afterwards and it would seem nothing more than his weak heart failing under the strain. God’s mercy, Joliffe, that’s twisted. Let go of it. It’s no concern of ours.”

  “It is,” Joliffe said stubbornly, covering that he was somewhat desperate that Basset at least should understand. “Our concern, I mean. There have been two deaths here since we came to stay. One was undeniably murder, the other maybe. And there’s been a poisoning that would have made talk even without Lewis’s death, with talk of Lollards thrown in for worse measure. Master Barentyne may not be inclined to think us guilty of anything but that doesn’t mean other people won’t be. Talk against us will finish us as fast as anything. We won’t be able
to come back to Oxford for years. And what if it follows us? What if the taint ‘Lollard’ goes with us? We’ll be finished within the year, one way or another.”

  Basset was scowling ferociously but more with thought than anger now. “Nor will it be good for Penteney to have Lollard talk around him again.” His voice sharpened. “Nor good for him to have his wife found out for murder.”

  “Or himself considered a murderer. That’s possible, too. It’s his bedchamber as much as Mistress Penteney’s, I assume. He would have had chance to taint the sweetmeats.”

  “And then eat enough to make himself very ill and somehow poison Lewis along the way? Joliffe!”

  “It’s possible,” Joliffe said stubbornly.

  “So’s the chance that Judgment Day may come tomorrow but the likelihood is small to the point of invisibility. Suppose we come at it a different way. Suppose Mistress Penteney was right last night in her first suspicion—that it was Master Penteney who was supposed to die? It was probably no secret in the household that those sweetmeats are a favorite of his so he’d eat a great many. What better cover for murder than making a great many people ill and Master Penteney having the misfortune to die?”

  “That’s possible, too,” Joliffe granted, “but as you said, not a very efficient way of murder. Seeing the sickness as cover for Lewis’s death works better.”

  “Bringing us back to Mistress Penteney,” Basset said with disgust. “Why couldn’t whoever poisoned the sweetmeats have simply been hoping his weak heart would fail under the strain of the sickness and it did and there an end?”

  “If that was going to be the end, maybe I could leave it lie as it is. But there’s going to be talk and I’ll lay you eggs to gold pieces that much of that talk is going to be against us.”

  Basset had not left off frowning since they had begun to talk, nor did he now as he asked, “So, supposing this poisoning was deliberate and done by someone, do you think you have any chance whatever of finding out who and proving it?”

  “Probably not. But I’ve no chance at all if I don’t try.”