Текст книги "The Devil's domain"

Автор книги: Paul Doherty

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

CHAPTER 12

‘I think we’d best go with him,’ Athelstan said.

Sir Walter was striding up the main staircase. In the stairwell a frightened-looking servant whispered in his ear and he stopped, grabbing the newel of the staircase. He rocked backwards and forwards and gave the most terrible moan.

‘Oh my God!’ he cried. ‘My poor, poor daughter!’

He disappeared down the gallery. By the time Athelstan, Sir John and Sir Maurice reached it they could hear his lamentations through an open door. Inside the chamber they found him kneeling beside his prostrate daughter who lay sprawled on her back, head slightly twisted to one side. Athelstan grasped the girl’s wrist and felt her throat for the life pulse but he could detect nothing. He turned the girl’s face. The eyelids were almost closed, jaws slack, a drool of spittle on her chin; her face was livid rather than pale, her skin cold and clammy. Athelstan ignored Sir Walter’s groans and quickly checked the girl’s body but could see no mark, bruise or slash. Aspinall came in the doorway and crouched down. He held the girl’s face between his hands and, ignoring Sir Walter’s protests, took a small knife and cut the brown smock. Her neck and upper chest were already tainted with faint purplish blotches.

‘She’s been poisoned,’ Aspinall said softly. ‘Probably died within the hour.’

‘Why?’ Sir Walter clutched his daughter’s hair, twisting it round his fingers. ‘Why?’ he moaned. ‘She had no wits, she had no life!’

Athelstan whispered the ‘Absolvo Te’ in the dead woman’s ear, uttered a short prayer then blessed the corpse. He got up and helped Sir Walter to his feet. The knight’s face was stricken with grief, tears streaming down his face, lips moving but no sound came.

‘Sir Walter?’ Athelstan made him sit down on a chair. ‘Sir Walter, listen to me.’

The knight turned, bleary-eyed.

‘Those bastards!’ he grated. ‘Those French bastards! They are responsible for that!’ He clasped his hands together and rocked backwards and forwards. ‘I’ll kill them all!’ he whispered. ‘I’ll kill every single one! You’ll help me won’t you, Cranston? The friar here can absolve them then we’ll hang them from a bloody tree for the pirates they are: murderers, assassins, ravishers of women, killers of children!’

‘Sir Walter! We have no proof of that.’

Sir John looked at the chamber. It contained a few leather chests, some faded cloths on the walls, an aumbry, two stools and a small writing desk beneath the window with a clerk’s stool pushed alongside it.

‘This was your daughter’s chamber?’

Sir Walter nodded.

‘And where was she before?’

‘Why are you asking me?’

‘Where was your daughter before?’ Athelstan insisted.

‘She went down into the garden. She just wandered around, like she always did. Brother, who would poison such a poor thing?’ He wetted his lips. ‘I need some wine,’ he rasped.

Aspinall left and came back with a large goblet filled to the brim, but Sir John stopped him.

‘Where did you get that?’

‘From Sir Walter’s chamber further down the gallery. It’s packed with poison, Sir John,’ he added wearily.

‘Take a sip yourself,’ the coroner ordered.

The doctor made to refuse but Sir John’s hand fell to the dagger in his belt.

‘Oh, for the love of heaven!’ Aspinall complained and took a deep draught. He then went across and gave it to Sir Walter, who seized it greedily. He drained it in one gulp then gestured at his daughter’s corpse.

‘Pick her up,’ he ordered. ‘She’s not a dog to lie sprawled on the floor!’

They lifted the young woman’s corpse and laid it gently out on the bed, crossing the hands. Sir John opened his purse and put two pennies over the eyes.

‘Leave me.’ Sir Walter forced a smile, but there were tears in his eyes. ‘Leave me for a while. You have business with those demons below.’

‘Stay with Sir Walter,’ Athelstan asked Aspinall. ‘Sir John, Sir Maurice, we should go down.’

They returned to the hall and told the Frenchmen what had happened. De Fontanel quickly crossed himself. The prisoners, huddled together, looked frightened.

‘It’s not safe to leave us here.’ Vamier spoke up. ‘Sir Walter is our enemy already. He will blame us for his daughter’s death.’ He banged the table with his fist. ‘I demand to be removed! To be given safer and better custody than this!’

‘I can arrange that.’ Sir John took a seat, tapping his hands on the table-top.

Athelstan sat down and took out his writing tray. He opened the ink pot, dipped the quill in but simply scratched the parchment, making strange signs and symbols. He had little to write; there was nothing about this affair which made sense. He glanced across at Sir John.

‘Semper veritas,’ he murmured. ‘Always the truth. Perhaps it’s time we were blunt and honest and told these gentlemen that they are, truly, in mortal danger but not from Sir Walter. Indeed, if we removed them elsewhere, or advised the Regent to change their keeper, it would look as if the finger of accusation were being pointed at Sir Walter.’

‘He is, as you correctly say,’ de Fontanel drawled, ‘their keeper. He is responsible for their safety. I am truly sorry his daughter died but Vamier does speak the truth, Limbright is our enemy.’

‘Tell me, gentlemen.’ Sir John looked down the table at the three prisoners. ‘Have you ever heard of Mercurius?’

Athelstan studied their faces. Was that a flicker of recognition in Gresnay’s eyes?

‘Mercurius?’ de Fontanel sneered. ‘Who is Mercurius?’

‘He’s an assassin,’ Athelstan replied slowly. ‘Employed by the French Crown. He kills people whom his masters in Paris want removed as quickly as possible. Do you know, sirs, you are probably safer in England than you are in France.’

‘Don’t talk in riddles!’ Gresnay snapped.

‘Mercurius is an assassin,’ Athelstan repeated. ‘The French believe the St Sulpice and St Denis were betrayed by an officer on one of those two ships. We think, indeed we know, Mercurius is in England. His task is to kill the traitor among you.’

‘In which case,’ Maneil replied guardedly, ‘he has killed two.’

‘No, no.’ Gresnay spoke up. ‘I realise what you are saying, Brother. Mercurius doesn’t really care how many of us die.’

‘As long as the traitor dies,’ Athelstan declared, ‘that’s all that matters. Sentence of death has been passed against you.’

‘But who?’ Vamier sprang to his feet. He gripped Gresnay’s shoulder. ‘Is it you, Jean?’

‘What do you mean?’ Gresnay squirmed free.

‘Vamier’s telling the truth,’ Maneil said. ‘You were once a clerk! You’re always boasting about your high-ranking connections in Paris.’

‘And what about you?’ Gresnay countered. ‘Didn’t you get preferment to the St Denis because of a relative at court?’

‘This is preposterous!’ De Fontanel got to his feet and walked down the table, sitting down next to Vamier. ‘Sir John Cranston, I am an accredited envoy, a high-ranking clerk of the chancery. I have never heard of this Mercurius. I think you are trying to divide these men, frighten them into making confessions, make them watch each other.’

‘It would certainly help,’ Sir John said as he smiled back. ‘If they watched each other more closely, perhaps they could discover the murderer?’

De Fontanel laid his hands on the table, spreading his fingers.

‘Five men were here,’ he replied slowly. ‘Two are dead of the same poison but they only ate and drank what the others did. True, Serriem may have been tricked but Routier was alert to any danger. And why should Mercurius kill that poor girl who was a danger to no one? Don’t you agree, Brother?’

Athelstan raised his eyes heavenwards. The murder of Sir Walter’s daughter threw all these theories back into the melting pot.

‘It could be an act of vengeance,’ Sir Maurice said.

‘Oh, come, come!’ Vamier snarled. ‘Sir Maurice, I would like to take your head and that of Sir Walter. We are soldiers, fighters. Why should we kill a poor wench? She had a woman’s body but a child’s mind.’

‘Which is due to the French,’ Sir Maurice added quickly.

De Fontanel got to his feet. ‘I am not here to trade insults. Sir John, what are you going to do about the custody of these men?’

‘They are going to stay here. Brother Athelstan, my secretarius, is correct. If they are taken elsewhere and Sir Walter is relieved of his duties, distraught though he is, that would look as if he were under suspicion.’

‘In which case I shall send urgent despatch to France asking for the ransoms to be forwarded as quickly as possible. I ask my fellow countrymen to fall to their prayers and recite their Aves daily and be very careful of what they eat or drink.’ He bowed. I shall return.’

His footsteps echoed along the gaunt, empty hallway, the door slamming shut behind him.

‘We are finished here,’ Athelstan said. ‘There is nothing more we can do except speak to Aspinall. The business of Vulpina,’ he added in a whisper.

Sir John nodded and, followed by Sir Maurice, left the hall. Athelstan sat sketching two parallel lines on a piece of parchment.

‘You seem perplexed.’ Vamier’s tone was kindly.

‘There is great evil here,’ Athelstan replied slowly. I am right to call this the Devil’s Domain.’

‘I know of your Order in France,’ Gresnay said. ‘My father hired a Dominican as a chancery priest, a kindly man. Is there nothing you can do for us, Brother?’

Athelstan shook his head. ‘Nothing. At least for the moment. Tell me now, on your oaths. Forget I am an Englishman, think of me only as a priest. Tell me, is there anything you saw or heard which provoked suspicion?’

The three men sat in silence then, one by one, shook their heads.

‘Your two colleagues who have been murdered, you saw neither of them eat or drink anything extra?’

Again the shake of heads.

‘Or did they say anything to you?’

‘Brother.’ Maneil spoke up. ‘We have been down the same paths ourselves. We have no food or drink in our chambers. All our sustenance comes from Sir Walter’s kitchens, paltry though it may be.’

‘Does de Fontanel bring food?’

‘Never. Sir Walter would not allow it.’

‘I tell you this.’ Gresnay pointed a finger. ‘Yesterday morning we all took a solemn oath not to eat or drink what another didn’t. We also searched each other and the shabby garrets which serve as our chambers. Nothing was found.’

‘You did that?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Brother, a killer stalks us. We have to be sure.’

Athelstan got to his feet.

‘One thing does intrigue me.’

‘What’s that?’ Vamier asked.

‘Well, Routier escaped this morning. He climbed the garden wall, crossed the yard and went through an outhouse. How did he know which path to take? How did he know that the outhouse was deserted, that the shutter was loose? You have never been allowed into that part of the manor, have you?’

All three shook their heads.

‘Then I bid you good day, sirs.’

Athelstan left the hall and wandered out into the garden. He looked up at the parapets and realised that, if the sentries were less than vigilant, it would be easy for someone to cross the corner of the wall and climb the crumbling buttress. He now did this and let himself down the other side. The yard or bailey was deserted. A slight breeze was blowing up little clouds of dust. Built alongside, into the far curtain wall, were a line of wooden outhouses, probably used for storage. Athelstan crossed over and went in. Most of the doors were closed. Athelstan went through the one which hung ajar. Inside the walls were dirty and cobwebbed, and there was a smell of straw and horse manure. In the far wall the shutters were closed and barred. Athelstan lifted the bar, opened the shutters and looked out across the sun-scorched heathland. He put his bag down, climbed out and began to walk, following the same path Routier had probably taken. He stopped and looked about him. Above him a crow circled, cawing raucously. Athelstan saw that there was no sentry on the rear wall while those along the side must not only have been lax but distracted by the supposed quarrel taking place among the prisoners. Routier would have run, heading for that distant copse of trees. Even if the sentries had glimpsed him they might have thought it was some chapman or peasant, not realising one of their prisoners had escaped. He looked back at the window whose shutters still hung open. Routier had probably closed them when he fled. Athelstan scanned the sky.

‘There’s something wrong here,’ he said to himself. ‘Something I’ve seen and heard but it’s always the same: pieces in a puzzle!’

He walked back, climbed through the window, closed the shutters behind him and went out. His two companions were waiting for him in the hall. As Athelstan arrived, Aspinall came downstairs.

‘Are you leaving now, Sir John?’

‘Once we’ve asked you some questions, sir.’ Athelstan smiled.

Aspinall peered at him. ‘Why, Brother, what can I tell you?’

‘Well, first, how is Sir Walter?’

‘I persuaded him to go back to his chamber. He has fallen asleep. I will see to his daughter’s corpse. Sir Walter will probably have it taken to the city and buried in the house of Crutched Friars; that’s where Sir Walter attends Sunday Mass.’

Aspinall sat down on a bench and stretched out his legs.

‘What other questions, Brother?’

‘Does Sir Walter often go into the city?’ Sir John asked. ‘We know he was a customer of the poisoner Vulpina.’

Aspinall glanced up quickly.

‘As you were, sir.’

‘Vulpina’s dead,’ Aspinall said. ‘She died in a house fire.’

‘No, she was murdered.’ Athelstan sat down on the bench next to him. ‘She was murdered, Master Aspinall. Someone wanted to keep the secrets Vulpina held secret for ever.’

The physician shifted uneasily.

‘What are you implying, Brother? Yes, I went to Vulpina. Her collection of herbs and poisons was well known throughout the city. An evil, ruthless woman,’ Aspinall continued. ‘She still had every herb and, yes, I bought poisons from her. Foxglove can be used to quicken the heart and stir sluggish blood. Arsenic, both red and white, can be administered to those who have pains in the gut. Just because a plant is poisonous doesn’t mean it can’t be used to heal. It all depends on the quantities you use.’

‘Did you know Sir Walter purchased potions from her?’

Aspinall was about to deny this but then he shrugged.

‘Yes. Sir Walter bought potions and poisons. I advised him not to but he followed Vulpina’s advice.’

‘Why?’ Sir John asked.

‘For his daughter,’ Aspinall replied. ‘I believe there was nothing that could be done for the poor girl. She was witless, her mind was empty. Vulpina advised Sir Walter differently. He bought herbal remedies to keep her calm and soothe her ramblings: St John’s wort, a little belladonna. Such plants can have a soothing effect when the humours of the mind have been disturbed and are no longer in alignment. Nevertheless, I tell you this, Brother, the deaths which have occurred here are not the work of some common potion. I have never seen a poison with such an effect. You see,’ he saw the puzzlement in Athelstan’s eyes, ‘if you want to poison a man, such potions take effect almost immediately. If I gave a man of Sir John Cranston’s girth a cup heavily tainted with arsenic he would, within a short while, feel its effect. This is different. If you disbelieve me, ask any physician from the city. A man like Routier could take the poison but its effect is much slower to begin with; then it hastens up and the malignancy stops the heart.’

‘So?’ Athelstan asked. ‘The murderer has chosen this potion because it works slowly?’

‘Possibly,’ Aspinall agreed. ‘What I’m saying, gentlemen, is that most poisons kill quickly. If you reduce the grains, illness may occur but not death. This, whatever it is, acts in a simple way: it is prolonged yet still deadly. A good choice, because the assassin certainly doesn’t want to be near when his victim dies.’

‘But if that’s the case,’ Sir Maurice asked, ‘how did the poor wench die?’

I think it was an accident. I really do. Somehow or other, Lucy found this poison and ate it. You saw her yourself: she was constantly picking things up and putting them in her mouth. I have seen her in the hall after meals are finished, eating crumbs from the table.’

‘It’s possible,’ Athelstan mused. ‘I wonder if the assassin intended to kill Routier and one other? Perhaps a sweetmeat was left? A piece of cheese or bread smeared with a noxious substance? Master Aspinall, are the prisoners’ rooms locked?’

‘From what I can gather, at night they are but, during the day, no. They are allowed to take the air in the morning and evening but, for most of the time, the prisoners are kept here in the manor. They talk, sleep or play a game.’

‘So Lucy could have wandered into one of their rooms?’ Sir John asked.

‘That’s possible.’

‘In which case,’ Athelstan declared, ‘those prisoners told me a lie. They said they had searched each other’s rooms to clear any suspicions but nothing was found. Yet here’s a witless maid who not only finds the poison but eats it.’

Cranston took a drink from his wineskin and glanced back up the stairs.

‘It could still be murder,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Limbright hates the French, the French hate him. The death of his daughter could be seen as a terrible act of vengeance. Master Aspinall, do you think that any of these prisoners have such malice?’

The physician shook his head.

‘They strike me as soldiers, warriors. They might pillage and burn in the heat of battle but deliberately kill a poor madcap?’ He pulled a face. ‘No.’

Athelstan got to his feet. ‘Lucy was found in her own room. The door was open. Is that not right?’

‘So the soldier told me,’ Aspinall replied. ‘The door was open and she was lying on the rushes.’

‘What is the longest time over which a poison can take effect?’ Athelstan asked.

‘In my studies,’ Aspinall shrugged, ‘certainly no more than an hour. However, if I follow your logic, it would be nigh impossible to see where Lucy had gone. She wandered this manor like a ghost.’

‘So, it would be futile to investigate her death?’

‘Yes, Brother, Lucy was frightened of both the French and the guards. She would take nothing from them and only heaven knows where she was in the time before her death!’

Athelstan glanced away. Lucy had certainly taken or been given the poison during the chaos caused by Routier’s escape. Aspinall was right: God knows where she went but, Athelstan reflected, would the girl take something from this physician?

‘Brother Athelstan, Sir John.’ Sir Maurice, arms crossed, tapped his boot against the paved stones. ‘Let us say for the sake of argument that the assassin is one of the prisoners. I know it’s hard to believe but…’

‘I know what you are going to say,’ Sir John interrupted. ‘Logic dictates that there will be two more deaths and the man left alive must be the assassin.’

‘Not necessarily,’ Athelstan said. ‘God knows what de Fontanel will do. He may have the prisoners’ ransoms ready and have them out of Hawkmere. For all we know Routier’s death could be the last. What we should do before we leave Hawkmere is search this manor from top to bottom, and that includes the prisoners’ rooms. Master Aspinall, if you would keep an eye on Sir Walter, my colleagues and I will begin our search. The guards cannot protest. I suppose Monsieur de Fontanel has left?’

‘Yes,’ Sir John replied. ‘He left the hall and walked straight out of the manor.’

Athelstan rubbed the end of his nose. ‘Let’s begin in the garden.’

In the small garret which served as his chamber as well as his cell, Eudes Maneil pulled the bolt securing his door and sat at the small table placed just beneath the arrow slit window. He stared out at the blue sky. A bird whirled by and Maneil felt a pang of envy. The same sky, the same sun as in France. He half-closed his eyes. The Paris markets would be busy now. Its taverns and the cookshops full, the narrow streets a sea of colour, thronged with merchants, their wives, students from the Sorbonne, clerks and scriveners. How nice it would be to stroll those alleyways, flirt with the courtesans then sit in a tavern and enjoy a stew of fresh meat and vegetables, a cup of malmsey or some of the best claret Bordeaux could produce. Maneil’s stomach grumbled in protest. He opened his eyes, his fingers tapping the table. Would he ever see Paris again? The St Sulpice and St Denis had been taken. He had resigned himself to a fairly lengthy and sordid imprisonment amongst the Goddamns, these tail-bearing Englishmen, but now it had grown dangerous. Maneil looked over his shoulder at the door. How on earth had Routier and Serriem been killed? He was sure that both his companions had been careful in what they ate and drank. There was no hidden supply of food. Sir Walter was a tight-fisted miser and the kitchen and buttery were kept under close guard. So was he the murderer? Maneil scratched his chin. Was that why the poor, witless Lucy had died? Had she gone into her father’s chamber? Or was it someone else? There was something he had seen this morning, out there in the garden. He recalled Routier walking up and down then he had left, gone back into the hall. Someone had followed him, he was sure, but who was it?

Maneil went and lay down on his bed. Before he had run away to sea, Maneil’s father had put him into one of the best church schools in Paris. Maneil recalled how he had been taught to collect evidence, sift it and draw a conclusion. So, if the assassin was one of them, that same person must be the spy in the pay of the English milords. But that seemed impossible. If there had been a spy among the French officers taking English gold, why should that spy now turn assassin? Maneil breathed in. Never once, and he had known the other four for a number of years, had he seen or heard anything suspicious. Indeed, his companions had all lost kinfolk to the English and were fiercely committed to the bloody war at sea. So, if there was no spy, why should one of them now turn to murder? Maneil recalled Routier sitting at table breaking his fast. He had been against his companion’s attempted escape. Routier, however, had whispered that he could stand Hawkmere no longer: he had to break out or he would become as witless as Limbright’s daughter. He had refused to listen to Maneil. He’d eaten his bread and drunk the ale Sir Walter had provided. Maneil had been sitting by him all the time. True, Gresnay had saved some of his meal for Routier to take with him. However, this had been a spontaneous gesture while Gresnay had eaten some of the bread and meat. They had then left the hall and gone into the garden. The only time Routier had left them was when he went back into the manor.

Maneil heard a knock on the door.

‘Who is it?’

Again the knock. Maneil sighed and swung his feet off the bed. He pulled back the bolt, opened it and the crossbow quarrel struck him full in the throat.