The Deadliest Sin

by The Medieval Murderers

  Geoffrey’s hand shot to his throat. ‘Are you saying that someone put poison in the sweetmeats intended for me?’ But then he shook his head. ‘No! Asser had an apoplexy. Stacpol mentioned similar attacks in the past.’

  ‘And I stand by my claim,’ said Stacpol. ‘Asser died of natural causes, and so did Roger. These theories about poisonous marchpanes are ridiculous.’

  ‘I am not so sure,’ said Elidor, so that Stacpol’s angry glare passed from Gwenllian to him. ‘Cole is right: many poisons are undetectable, and I think it strange that Asser and Roger should die so soon after eating marchpanes. Moreover, their deaths remind me of Prior Martin’s, and we all knew that he did not perish naturally.’

  ‘Fetch the remaining marchpanes,’ ordered Cole, seeing Dafydd the cook among the watching Austins. ‘We shall feed one to a rat and have our answer.’

  ‘They have all gone,’ said Dafydd, frightened. ‘So has the plate. I assumed Roger took them, but now it occurs to me that the killer must have been in my kitchen, removing the evidence of his crimes . . .’

  ‘Clearly,’ said Walter, fixing him with an icy stare. ‘And if the sweetmeats were poisoned, it stands to reason that the toxin was added where they were made: in your domain.’

  ‘No!’ cried Dafydd, then relief flooded his chubby face. ‘Hah! You cannot accuse me, because I was not in Llanthony when Martin was killed – and if Martin, Roger and Asser died from the same cause, then I can be eliminated as a suspect.’

  It was a good point, and Gwenllian watched annoyance flit across Walter’s face. Had he wanted a Carmarthen man blamed so that his own party could be exonerated? Or because a killer among Cadifor’s flock might convince the Prior General that the present incumbent was unfit to rule, and thus strengthen Walter’s justification for seizing the place himself ?

  ‘I wonder if messages about sloth will be scratched onto Roger’s coffin,’ mused Henry. ‘Or Asser’s. I suppose we shall have to wait and see.’

  ‘My soldiers will be guarding them,’ said Cole, although Gwenllian wished he had held his tongue: if the killer was the kind of person to deface caskets, then a trap might have been laid to catch him. He glowered at those who had gathered around. ‘But if someone did murder my knight, I will catch him. You can be sure of that.’

  ‘I imagine his death was accidental,’ said Walter. ‘The intended victim was Bishop Geoffrey, and it is unfortunate that Asser and Roger stole his marchpanes.’ He grinned nastily. ‘So Carmarthen is home to people who murder prelates! The King will certainly support me now – to oust this evil.’

  ‘Let us not allow our imaginations to run away with us,’ cautioned Geoffrey, making an obvious effort to pull himself together. ‘No one wanted to kill me.’ He addressed Gwenllian. ‘And you cannot prove that the marchpanes were poisoned. Not now there are none left.’

  ‘You are right: these theories are nonsense,’ said Sacrist Gilbert. ‘I admit that it is unusual for two men to die so close together, but it happens. Neither was unlawfully slain.’

  ‘Oh, Roger was murdered sure enough,’ said Londres, while the two clerks shot him alarmed glances. ‘The killer aims to weaken Walter’s case by slaughtering one of his retinue – clearly, he hopes that Roger’s replacement will side with Carmarthen.’

  ‘Do not think of accusing Cole,’ said Cadifor, when he saw where the bailiff’s accusing glare had settled. ‘I doubt he cares enough about our priory to kill for it. And do not think of blaming my canons either. None of them was in Llanthony when Martin was killed, which means none of them harmed Roger.’

  ‘No, but you were,’ flashed Walter. ‘And you could not account for your whereabouts at the time, as I recall.’

  ‘Nor could you,’ Cadifor barked back. He turned to the two clerks. ‘Nor you.’

  A spat followed. Geoffrey stepped amid the furiously wagging fingers, and clapped his hands for silence, but no one took any notice, and his increasingly agitated demands for order only added to the clamour. It was an angry roar from Cole that eventually stilled the racket.

  ‘Enough!’ he snapped. ‘Such hollering is unseemly in a House of God.’

  ‘So is murder,’ said Cadifor sullenly, not appreciating the reprimand. ‘My chapel has been defiled.’

  ‘Your chapel?’ asked Walter. ‘The King does not think so.’

  ‘It is mine until the Prior General tells me otherwise,’ said Cadifor angrily. ‘However, even if he does find against me, it will not be anyone from your entourage who takes my place. It is obvious that one of you killed Roger in the hope of bringing disgrace on me. Well, it will not work – I shall tell the whole world what kind of men you are.’

  ‘Sir Symon is right,’ said Bishop Geoffrey, as Walter girded himself up to reply in kind. ‘We should take this discussion away from the chapel.’

  ‘Actually, I meant you should stop screeching altogether,’ said Cole shortly. ‘I did not mean that you should just go and find somewhere else to quarrel.’

  But his words went unheard as everyone aimed for the door. They went quickly, eager to resume their haranguing, and it was not long before he and Gwenllian were alone.

  ‘The more I think about it, the more I suspect the marchpanes were poisoned,’ she said. Then she recalled the dying knight murmuring in Cole’s ear. ‘Asser whispered something to you before he stopped breathing. Did you hear what it was?’

  ‘Yes, but it made no sense. First, he said, “Sloth is the most deadly of sins,” which are the words that were scratched on Martin’s coffin in Llanthony, apparently. Then, he told me that I needed to look for an incongruously sharp knife.’

  She regarded him blankly. ‘What does that mean?’

  Cole shrugged. ‘I told you it did not make sense. Perhaps I will ask Stacpol. He is good with riddles.’

  Gwenllian did not want to tell him that Stacpol was at the top of her list of suspects – that he might have poisoned the marchpanes so that Asser would be unable to reveal his past dealings with Belat and Henry, and that Roger had merely been unlucky in his choice of filched food. Cole would refuse to listen.

  Her thoughts churned. What did Asser’s last words mean? Were they the incoherent ramblings of a dying man? Or had he been trying to convey a vital clue? But if Asser knew the identity of the killer, why had he not just told Symon straight out? She sighed. Her husband was right: it made no sense.

  The warring clerics took their quarrel to the refectory, where they sat on benches around one of the long tables. They began by interrogating Dafydd.

  ‘You cannot blame my marchpanes,’ the cook was declaring, half frightened and half defiant, as Gwenllian and Cole walked in. ‘They were made from the finest ingredients, and the bishop ate more than half of them with no ill effects.’

  ‘I did,’ agreed Geoffrey. ‘They were delicious. You are right, Dafydd: no one poisoned the marchpanes. He smiled his relief. ‘Which means that no one wants me dead.’

  But Gwenllian shook her head. ‘After your first meal, the remainder were left in the kitchen, ready for your next visit. But the kitchen is not secure – anyone could have slipped in and dosed the rest with poison. Is that not true, Dafydd?’

  The cook blanched. ‘Well, yes, the kitchen is left unattended on occasion, such as when I go to the chapel for my offices, and it is open all night . . .’

  ‘You see, Your Grace?’ said Gwenllian. ‘It would have been easy for the killer to strike.’

  There was a brief silence, then a flurry of accusations. The Carmarthen men blamed the visitors, and vice versa, while Londres took the opportunity to accuse Cole, saying that he had let Prior Roger eat the last of the marchpanes to conceal the fact that the real victim had been Asser. Startled, Cole asserted that Asser had been a good friend. Stacpol agreed, but fell silent when Belat and Henry shot him sly glances. Again, Gwenllian wondered what dealings the two slippery clerks had had with Stacpol in the past.

  She ignored the angry voices as she tried to decide who had been the intended victim
– Asser, Roger or Geoffrey. She had eight suspects. All but one had been in Llanthony when Martin had died, and all were ruthless, dangerous men who would not hesitate to kill if they thought it would be to their advantage.

  Heading the list was Stacpol, because Asser’s death meant his dealings with Belat and Henry would remain secret. He was a knight, used to killing, and did not seem particularly distressed by the loss of his friend – and she was not convinced by Cole’s explanation that crusaders did not weep. Then, once Asser was dead, Stacpol had neglected to destroy the remaining marchpanes, and Roger had paid the price.

  Next were the Hempsted men, Walter and Gilbert, and their intended victim would have been Geoffrey, because they were afraid he would side with Carmarthen – which was exactly what he had done. And Roger? Perhaps they had decided that he had outlived his usefulness, or they had not cared who died, and simply thought that any murder in Car mar then would discredit Cadifor. Yet Gilbert had been eager for everyone to think that no one had been killed, and that the two deaths were natural. Did he really believe it, or was he just losing his nerve?

  Then there were the clerks Belat and Henry, who would be keen to tell the King that all had gone well in Carmarthen, and that the royal writ had been implemented without any problems. They would not want the Bishop of St David’s issuing counterclaims. Or had they just tired of Roger’s unpleasant character, and decided they could not face the return journey in his company? It was a paltry reason to kill, but Gwenllian had known murder committed for less.

  Cadifor was next, although she disliked including him. Yet he had despised Roger, and blamed him for losing Llanthony’s daughter house – to the point where he had left rather than live in a foundation where Roger was prior. He had also remarked on Roger’s indolence and greed, and would have been in a position to ensure the deadly marchpanes were in a place where Roger would see then. Perhaps the notion that Roger was part of a deputation that aimed to oust him had been too much for Cadifor to bear.

  Although Bishop Geoffrey had also been in Llanthony when the first murder had taken place, Gwenllian could see no reason for him wanting Roger dead. Or Asser. Moreover, it had been his marchpanes that had been poisoned, and had Asser and Roger not raided the kitchen, it would be him lying in his coffin. She crossed him off her list.

  Her last suspect was Londres. He had lived in Carmarthen long enough to know where to buy toxins, and he had had ample opportunity to sneak into the monastery kitchen. He had thrown in his lot with Hempsted, so he would not want Geoffrey damaging Walter’s chances of winning. Or perhaps he did not care whom he killed, and just wanted to create an awkward situation for Cole. He had not been in Llanthony when Martin had died, but he was perfectly capable of mimicking the original crime.

  Gwenllian watched her suspects carefully as they argued, but the killer was far too clever to give himself away with a careless word or gesture, and it was not long before she realised she was wasting her time. Afterwards, she and Cole went to the kitchen, and asked Dafydd to show them where the marchpanes had been.

  ‘I did not think it was necessary to hide them,’ the cook said. ‘Nothing has ever been stolen before. I can forgive Asser, who snagged a few before I told him they were ear-marked for the bishop. But not Roger, who knew and took them anyway.’

  Gwenllian stared at the table that Dafydd indicated. Like all the others in the room, it had been scrubbed so often that the wood was white. There were scratches on the surface, forming a series of rough triangles. Dafydd grimaced his irritation.

  ‘Those wicked scullions! I have told them hundreds of times to use a board when they slice vegetables, but they are too lazy to fetch one.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Gwenllian. ‘They look more purposeful than marks made from chopping – there is a distinct pattern here.’

  Dafydd peered at them. ‘You are right! The rogues did it deliberately, knowing that I shall never prove which of them did it. They are a sore trial to a busy man.’

  Cole dropped to his hands and knees and began to peer underneath. It was not long before he released a triumphant exclamation and scrambled to his feet. He held a dead mouse in one hand, while in the other was a slightly gnawed sweetmeat.

  ‘A marchpane must have dropped off the plate and rolled out of sight,’ he said. ‘However, this poor creature proves for certain that Roger and Asser were poisoned.’

  ‘It does,’ agreed Gwenllian. ‘Not much of the sweetmeat is missing, which means the mouse was overcome very fast.’

  She and Cole remained at the priory for the rest of the day, asking questions of residents and invaders alike, but learned nothing more. They walked home as the daylight began to fade, disheartened because they were no further forward.

  ‘Martin’s murder was never solved,’ said Cole with uncharacteristic gloom. ‘Perhaps Roger and Asser’s will not be either.’

  ‘Then those two clerks or Londres will tell the King that you are incompetent,’ said Gwenllian. ‘And John will dismiss you. I do not intend to give them that satisfaction.’

  ‘Damn it, there is that shadow again!’ Cole darted into the undergrowth and was gone so long that Gwenllian began to worry that something had happened to him. She was on the verge of following when he emerged, covered in dead leaves.

  ‘No one was there?’ she asked.

  ‘Someone was,’ he replied. ‘I just could not catch him.’

  That night, Gwenllian’s mind raced with questions, and she lay staring at the ceiling until the small hours of the morning, when exhaustion finally claimed her. She started awake not long after, when little Alys came to complain about bad dreams. It was a ploy to gain attention, but Cole doted on his only daughter, and obediently went to calm her.

  ‘Eight years old and already your master,’ remarked Gwenllian when he returned. ‘What will she be like at eighteen?’

  ‘Beautiful,’ he murmured drowsily, closing his eyes. ‘Just like her mother.’

  ‘I cannot stop thinking about the murders,’ said Gwenllian, resenting his intention to go back to sleep while she only tossed and turned. ‘I find myself hoping that Londres is responsible, simply because exposing him would see him gone from our town.’

  ‘I suppose it would,’ he mumbled. ‘But you will solve the case, Gwen. You always do.’

  His faith was simultaneously touching and annoying. She liked the fact that he appreciated her intelligence, but there was something lazy about his willingness to abrogate the responsibility to her. He was constable of Carmarthen, and it should be him fretting for solutions, not her. She prodded him awake. Perhaps discussing it would help her see sense in the muddle of facts they had accumulated.

  ‘The poison killed the mouse after a few nibbles,’ she began. ‘Asser also succumbed quickly, and so probably did Roger. That means the toxin was very strong. How could the killer have laid hold of such a deadly substance?’

  ‘Not from an apothecary.’ Cole sat up to prevent himself from nodding off. ‘They know better than to sell that sort of thing. However, I can tell you that it was a soporific, because both closed their eyes and drifted gently into death. In the Holy Land, surgeons dispensed soporifics to dying crusaders.’

  She blinked. ‘What are you saying? That a medicus poisoned the marchpanes?’

  ‘Or someone with access to or knowledge of such potions.’

  ‘Who?’ She peered at him in the gloom. ‘Not Bishop Geoffrey! I know he said he would have been a physician if he had not entered the Church, but he is more interested in healing than killing. He is no murderer.’

  ‘Then perhaps someone raided his supplies. If he was the intended victim, using his own medicines to dispatch him would have a certain ironic appeal to the culprit.’

  ‘Yes, but he does not have any with him, which is why he was unable to furnish Walter with a remedy for his bad stomach.’

  ‘No, he did not have any at the priory,’ Cole corrected, ‘because he had left his bag in the castle. So someone could have stolen
it from here, although it would have been a daring move.’

  She nodded agreement, then began to list her suspects, although she received short shrift when she reached Stacpol. She did not press her case, knowing they would quarrel if she did.

  ‘So of your original eight we can eliminate Stacpol, the bishop, Cadifor, Walter and Gilbert,’ he said when she had finished. ‘Stacpol is no poisoner, while the others are monks, and would be too concerned for their immortal souls to kill.’

  She gaped at him. ‘We have encountered plenty of murderous clerics in the past! Besides, Walter and Gilbert are not very devout men.’

  ‘No, but Walter is clearly unwell, and I doubt he would commit a mortal sin so close to death, while Gilbert will do nothing on his own initiative. We have already discounted Geoffrey, and I like Cadifor. So your list now comprises three: Belat, Henry and Londres.’

  She wished it were that simple. ‘It is not—’

  But her words were lost as he bounded off the bed, suddenly full of energy. ‘That was time well spent, Gwen. The murders will be easy to solve now.’

  It was another pretty winter day, with a pale sun shining in a light blue sky, and hoarfrost sparkling on the rooftops. Gwenllian spent an hour with the children while Cole dealt with urgent castle business, after which they spoke to the scribe who had taken notes at the hearing. The man began to cry the moment he was summoned, and quickly confessed that Londres had paid him to write an account that would favour Hempsted.

  His confession allowed Gwenllian to summon Londres for questioning – it would have been awkward to use the discussion she had overheard between Belat and Henry. The bailiff refused to come, but Iefan was more than happy to use force. The delighted grins of the townsfolk who witnessed him frogmarched to the castle did nothing to soothe his furious indignation, and he was seething by the time he was shoved into Cole’s office.