The Canterbury Murders (11 page)

Chapter Seventeen

About the same time as Nicolaa was being shown into the archbishop’s presence, William Marshal and Bascot were finishing their interrogation of the wine merchant and his employees in the castle. They had been fetched from the cells by two guards and made to stand in the hall before the earl and Bascot while they were questioned. De Ponte had been vociferous in his protest at their arrest, his red beard bristling with indignation as he had declared that as an influential burgess of the town, and one whose family had lived in Canterbury since a decade after the conquest of England by King William I, he should not have been subjected to such treatment.

“There are not, and never have been, any lawbreakers in my family,” he had said stoutly, “and I demand to know on what grounds you ordered the incarceration of myself and my men.”

Marshal had answered him mildly, undisturbed by the outburst. Tapping the note from a local apothecary that Criel had handed him that morning, he said, “Your employees had access to a room in the royal townhouse where a deadly poison was discovered.” His words brought a gasp of dismay from the merchant, and the earl leaned forward and read the words in front of him. “It says here that a flagon of wine—which came from a keg that you supplied, Master de Ponte—contained
conium maculatum
, commonly known as hemlock, a lethal poison that kills in a very short time. You are very fortunate, Master de Ponte, that it was the steward who died from swallowing it, and not the king, else your handling would have been much harsher.”

The wine merchant’s face was ashen. “My lord, I had no hand in this, I swear to you, as God is my witness.”

Marshal leaned forward, his craggy features hard and his voice like granite. “Can you prove that, Master de Ponte? Can you provide a witness that will vouch for your innocence and testify that neither you nor any of your men are responsible for placing this poison in the king’s buttery?”

“No, no . . . of course not,” de Ponte replied. “How can I verify that an act did not take place? It would be impossible.”

“Exactly,” Marshal said. “So, merchant, you will cease your bluster and answer my questions without further ado.”

Terrified, de Ponte had submitted meekly, as had his men. They all swore that they had not known about the mixture Inglis used and could not, therefore, have adulterated it. Ailwin, the eldest of the three employees and the man who was in charge of the boat, claimed that he never left the craft while deliveries were in progress, so could not have committed the crime. The two younger men—Turgot and Eric—were visibly trembling by this time, but found the strength to vigorously deny their involvement.

Questioned as to their backgrounds, all three of the delivery men claimed, as had de Ponte, that they were from the Canterbury area and had no connection with the king’s household other than to deliver the wine. They had all spoken at one time or another to Inglis, they said, but only while they were engaged in taking their master’s wares into the townhouse; the steward had been brusque, but had never given cause for them to bear enmity. As for the washerwoman, only de Ponte admitted to being acquainted with her, and that only because her family, like his own, were longtime residents of Canterbury, but he claimed not to have spoken to her since she had arrived in town this last time, or have had any reason to wish her death. Additionally, both Turgot and Eric claimed that the steward had been in the buttery all of the time they were delivering the wine, directing them as to the placement of the kegs and so, even if they had known it was there, they had no opportunity to tamper with the honeyed concoction.

Finally, Marshal had allowed them to go, and as they hastily departed, he turned to Bascot and asked if he believed they had been telling the truth.

“I am almost certain of it,” the Templar replied thoughtfully. “And mainly for the reasons I mentioned earlier. If one of them had wanted to kill the king, why not just adulterate one of the kegs? And even if they had gone to the complicated lengths of poisoning the mixture, why not wait to see if this stratagem was successful before making a second attempt on John’s life? No, I do not think they are guilty.”

“I agree,” Marshal declared. “Besides, none of them, even de Ponte, appears to have the mettle for such a venture.”

“No, they do not,” Bascot concurred. “I fear we must look elsewhere for the murderer.”

***

Gianni and Miles de Laxton were not having any greater success than Marshal and Bascot, although they did discover another connection between the two victims. Arriving at Maud Cooper’s house just after Terce, they found the goodwife just about to set off to purchase the family’s daily victuals from the market in Burgate Street. When asked if she could spare them a few minutes of her time, she willingly assented and, at Miles’ request, sent one of the older boys from her numerous brood of children to fetch Edith Bottler from her home.

When the two women were both comfortably seated on stools in the downstairs room of Mistress Cooper’s home, a sturdily built little house two stories high with a workshop attached where her husband made the barrels he sold, the knight told them of Inglis’ murder and the manner of it. To his surprise, they were already aware that the steward was dead, and since the royal townhouse was virtually sealed off from the rest of the town, Miles asked how they had come by the knowledge so quickly.

“His body was seen being removed to the death house at All Saint’s church,” Edith Bottler replied and then gave a sad smile. “There’s not much that goes on in Canterbury that can be kept secret, lord,” she said. “’Tis also known that Master de Ponte and some of his servants were taken to the castle gaol, but as to that, ’tis not yet known why.”

Her last words finished on an interrogative note, hoping that Miles would enlighten her, but the knight sidestepped the subject, saying that he and Gianni had come to try and discover if Molly’s death and the steward’s were connected, and asking if either of them could remember Molly speaking of Inglis or expressing her opinion of him.

“Aye, lord, she did,” Maud replied and then added, “She said he were a lecher.”

Both men looked at her in amazement, and Edith Bottler spoke up. “Now that weren’t exactly true, Maud,” she said in admonishment. Turning to Miles, she said, “Molly only said that he was in the habit of bedding a widow woman in the town. ’Tis not quite the same thing as going willy-nilly all about and tumbling a whole multitude of females.”

“No, it’s not,” Miles replied, trying to suppress a smile. “Do either of you know the name of this woman?”

Maud nodded. “Her name is Cecily Wattson and she lives in St. Peter’s Street, close to Westgate.”

As Gianni jotted down the information on his tablet, Miles asked both women if Molly had said anything else about Inglis. “Was she a friend of his, do you think, one with whom she might have exchanged confidences?”

Maud and her neighbour exchanged glances and then Edith said, “I don’t rightly think they were friends, lord. Molly said the steward was a testy man and often took advantage of his position.”

Miles waited for her to expand on her statement and, after a moment’s pause, she did so, choosing her words carefully. “I don’t wish to speak ill of one who has been so foully murdered, but Molly told us that Inglis often took victuals from the king’s kitchen to give to the widow when he visited her, and that she took him to task about it on one of her visits to Canterbury. He told her to keep her opinions to herself and look to her own transgressions and leave his alone.”

Maud’s face blushed with embarrassment and Miles said gently, “Did Molly ever bring you supplies from the king’s store as well, Mistress Cooper?”

“Only some half-cakes of soap once, lord, and another time she brought me some linen that was worn. ’Twas things that were not good enough for the king and Molly said they would only be thrown away, so I might as well have them.” Her words came out in a rush and then she asked worriedly, “I won’t be charged for thieving, will I, lord? I didn’t take them myself and Molly is dead. . . .”

“Do not worry, mistress. Your sister was correct. The king put a high value on your sister’s service, and would not begrudge her taking things that were no longer of any use to him,” Miles said soothingly.

At the look of relief on her face, the knight returned to the subject of Inglis, addressing Edith. “So it would appear that Molly would not have confided in the steward if there was anyone she had reason to fear, or some indiscretion to report?”

“Well, as to that, lord, I’m not exactly sure. They had both been royal servants for a very long time and Molly might have shared such a confidence with him, especially if it was to do with one of the servants at the townhouse. If she did tell him anything, there’s a chance he repeated it to Cecily Wattson. Inglis had been seeing the widow for nigh on ten years afore he was poisoned, ever since her husband went to his own grave, and if the steward was like most men, he’d of been as likely as not to spill a secret or two to the woman who was sharing his pillow.”

Chapter Eighteen

Nicolaa had waited in silence, and with some trepidation, for Archbishop Walter to elaborate on the king’s request concerning the Templar. Before he did so, however, he had leaned forward and spoken to her earnestly.

“You must know that after Richard died, I was not certain that the Earl of Pembroke had the right of it when he urged me to support John’s ascension to England’s throne. I believed then that Arthur, even though young and untried, would be preferable. I even went so far as to tell Marshal that he might live to regret his choice although, in the end, I agreed to uphold it. I now realise that I was in error. Arthur is arrogant and brash. He would have been completely unsuitable as a monarch while John, for all his faults, does take his responsibilities seriously and, for the most part, carries them out well. And that is why I have supported him throughout his short time on the throne, and the reason I am supporting him now. It is important that you understand this, lady, and know that I would not ask for your cooperation if it was not necessary in order to keep John, and his hold on the throne of England, secure.”

Nicolaa nodded. Despite her reluctance to be involved in whatever plot John and the archbishop were hatching, she could hardly refuse if the situation was as serious as Walter claimed.

Assured of her willingness to listen, Walter sat back in his chair and spoke in calm, quiet tones. “What I am about to tell you is known to only the few whose inclusion was unavoidable. Arthur, and his well-being, have been the subject of many rumours since John took him prisoner at Mirabeau—that he has been maimed and tortured, or even been put to death by the king. All of them are falsehoods. The truth is that John has not committed any of these heinous acts and Arthur is still alive.” He gave a heavy sigh. “Although, lady, I must say that it might be better if he were, in fact, dead.”

Shocked by the cruel statement, Nicolaa audibly drew in her breath, and the archbishop gave a wry smile. “Your reaction is understandable, lady, but please hear me out before you pass judgement. I am not as heartless as I may appear.”

After taking a brief sip of wine, he told her what had happened earlier that year on the eve of Eastertide, and how John had Arthur brought to a private chamber late at night to make one final effort at reconciliation.

“Only William de Briouze, constable of Rouen castle, was present at the meeting between them and he was the sole witness to a violent argument that broke out between the pair, and which, unfortunately, was heard by a servant passing outside the door of the chamber. It was this servant’s overhearing that probably gave rise to the many rumours, and with the embellishment it is common for most people to add to any exciting event of which they in truth know little, it became a report that the king, in a rage, had murdered Arthur. But even though the lad’s reaction to John’s effort to heal the breach between them was his usual belligerence, castigating his uncle and claiming he was a hypocrite, the king never had any intention of harming the boy. John has assured me of this and I believe him.”

Walter gave Nicolaa a searching look, and she knew he was about to reveal the truth of the matter. “It is what happened at the end of that confrontation that has been kept hidden, and is in dire need of remaining so,” he said. “It is also the reason for your presence here.”

At Nicolaa’s nod of understanding, he continued. “The argument was heated, as I said, and realizing the futility of any further discussion, John ordered Briouze to take his nephew back to his cell. But Arthur would not go willingly, and continued to yell insults at the king. Briouze got him as far as the door when one of the hounds that had been in the chamber—a wolfhound that is a favourite of John’s—became very agitated and sprang at Arthur, knocking him backwards, through the open doorway and down the stairs. The steps are steep, and spiral. John and the constable immediately ran to see if he had sustained any injuries. Arthur was unconscious, but they saw that he had struck his head most severely and that one of his legs was twisted unnaturally.”

Walter’s voice was full of chagrin as he went on. “The king immediately sent for the infirmarian of the Priory of St. Gervais—as I am sure you will know, the priory is not too far distant from the castle. By the time the monk came to examine the lad, he was vomiting and his demeanour was nonsensical—his speech was slurred and he kept rubbing one eye as though his vision was dimmed. The infirmarian’s assessment was daunting. One of Arthur’s kneecaps had been smashed by the fall, but much more serious was the injury he had sustained to his head. It was the infirmarian’s opinion that Arthur’s brain had been severely damaged, and that it might result in permanent cognitive disability or even death. He suggested that the prince be taken to the infirmary so he could be properly cared for. John agreed and Arthur was secretly taken to the priory that night, and has been there ever since. There has been little improvement in his condition over the intervening months. The damage to his knee has mended as well as it ever will, but he is crippled. His vision has not improved and he is now almost blind in one eye. But severe as these injuries are, even worse is his inability to reason. Sometimes he raves unintelligibly and at other times he stares off into space and says not a word. The infirmarian is of the opinion that he will remain in such a state for the rest of his life.”

Walter paused and took a sip of wine, the tenor of his voice diminished slightly by the recounting. “As I said, Arthur still lives, but in his present state, he could not rule a henhouse, let alone the Duchy of Brittany. And if the infirmarian is correct in his prognosis, he will never be able to do so. There is no alternative but for him to remain where he is, in the care of the monks.”

Nicolaa was appalled by the tale. “Do you believe this is the truth of what happened?”

The archbishop looked at her straightly. “The details are muddled, I admit, but I am certain that it was an accident. I contacted the prior of St. Gervais after the king told me of what had passed, and he assures me that the injuries Arthur sustained are consistent with a fall down the stairs.”

Nicolaa thought of the repercussions of what she had just been told and became angry that John had kept the reason for his nephew’s disappearance from the rest of the world, especially the Bretons. “And is it John’s intent to leave the people of Brittany indefinitely ignorant of their ruler’s fate?” she demanded. “Their present situation is untenable, for there is no one to take Arthur’s place except his sister, Eleanor, and John imprisoned her at Corfe castle after he quelled the rebellion at Mirabeau. Does he intend to release her?”

Walter shook his head. “The king has deemed it wise to keep her far from the influence of Philip of France, for whom she, like her brother, has much sympathy. She will remain in custody unless, and until, she promises to swear fealty to John, which so far she has refused to do.”

“Which leaves the people of Brittany with only a young child as claimant to the throne of the Duchy,” Nicolaa protested, referring to Alix, Constance of Brittany’s infant daughter by her third marriage. “Can it be wondered they are furious?”

The archbishop conceded the point but said, in John’s defence, that the king had little choice in the matter. “Immediately after the incident, John maintained a small hope that his nephew would partially recover or at least regain his reason. By the time it became apparent that he would not, it was too late to reveal what had happened. No one would ever have believed that the injuries were accidental and instead would have been convinced that they were the result of the maiming and torturing John had threatened earlier, and rashly, to inflict on the boy.

“What else could he do, lady,” the archbishop said in a tone of mild reproach, “but hide the truth until he has had an opportunity to repel the invasion of Philip of France?”

***

Nicolaa barely listened as Walter outlined John’s concern that the security of Arthur’s condition may have been breached, perhaps at the priory where he was being cared for, or by one of the two guards that Briouze had bribed to assist in transporting the young count to St. Gervais. Her outrage was building at the clandestine manner in which the incident had been handled and now, her own unwilling involvement in the deception.

“It is quite possible that Arthur’s wretched state has nothing to do with these murders,” the archbishop added, “but it would be foolish not to take into consideration that if John’s covert action with regard to his nephew has been discovered, and the murderer is taking reprisal on the king because of it, then the whole matter could be revealed when the killer is apprehended. And that must, at all costs, be prevented. Even though many believe Arthur already dead, his fate is still an unproven rumour and, with the passage of many months since his disappearance, his name has begun to dim in people’s memory. Can you imagine the outcry, lady, if it was suddenly revealed that he was alive, and in such a piteous condition? No one would doubt that his injuries had been inflicted by John, and they would revile the king for it. There are already many English nobles who are dissatisfied with John’s rule; it is almost certain they would use his supposed mistreatment of his nephew as an excuse to withdraw their support and encourage others to join in rebellion. And Philip of France would be jubilant; what a coup it would be for him to have his enemy deemed such a villainous knave. It would not take long for John’s cause to be completely undermined.”

“Deception often has undesirable repercussions,” Nicolaa said acidly. “That is why it is never wise to employ it.”

“I will not argue that point with you, lady,” Walter said, “but only ask if you are willing to comply with the king’s request.”

Nicolaa was seething with a fury she was scarcely able to contain. Why had John decided to keep the matter hidden? If Walter’s recounting of the king’s confrontation with his nephew was a true one, Briouze was a witness who could have testified that Arthur’s injury had been an accident and the priory infirmarian could have confirmed that, in all likelihood, the blow to the lad’s head had not been deliberately inflicted. All of this artifice could have been avoided if only John had been honest, and there would have been no need for this conspiracy of silence.

And she was all too aware that the knowledge she now possessed could be dangerous—that if she did not acquiesce with John’s so-called request, reprisals could follow, not only towards herself and her husband, but also to her son. The threat, if unspoken, was there nonetheless. She felt as though she were a game bird snared in a fowler’s net, and knew it would be futile to struggle against her royal captor. Her regard for John was all but gone, and her confidence in him severely shaken.

And she need not ask what the fate of the murderer would be if he was caught and John’s fear realised. Both she and Walter knew the answer. He would be swiftly and covertly executed, and never heard of again.

The archbishop gazed at her with a hint of compassion in his eyes, as she thought how easily she had been gulled into cooperating with the murder investigation. If Sheriff de Cornhill had not been incapacitated there would have been no need for her involvement, but as he was—and she had no doubt he would have been subjected to the same coercion as herself if he had been available—John had chosen her to be the instrument of his deceit. This was the reason he had sent for the Templar, being confident that, through her, de Marins could be manipulated. Unbidden, her husband’s words echoed in her mind—“Be careful what you promise, wife,” Gerard had said. “John’s word cannot be relied on.”

Good advice but, unfortunately, she had been too tardy in heeding it. Rising stiffly from her seat, she told Walter that she would do as John asked. “But you may tell the king, Your Grace, that since he has left me little choice in the matter, I do so with a heavy heart and much aversion.”