The Canterbury Murders (8 page)

“I am gratified to learn that such enquires have been made, and by one who has some experience in such matters,” he replied carefully, “especially as it has been over two days since the murder was committed. Vital evidence could have been lost or destroyed in such a space of time.”

John, annoyed at his failure to breach the Templar’s reserve, stood up, indicating the discussion was at an end. “Nicolaa and her escort are temporarily residing at a townhouse on Watling Street. I shall direct Criel to have one of the castle men-at-arms take you there.”

“I have been to Canterbury before, sire, and know the location of Watling Street. I am sure I shall be able to find the townhouse without too much trouble,” Bascot replied.

Marshal, curious as to the source of the antagonism between John and the Templar, volunteered his services as a guide. Doing so would provide an opportunity to speak to him privately and see if he could discover the reason for their dissention. “I am just about to return to the priory,” he said to Bascot, “and it will be no great diversion to ride along with you and show you where it is.”

Bascot readily accepted the offer. John, not altogether pleased at their easy acceptance of each other, said, “That is settled then. I intend to go to Dover this afternoon, de Marins, to ensure the queen is comfortably settled, but I will return to Canterbury afterwards, most likely on the morrow, and will be staying at the guesthouse in the cathedral priory along with Marshal. You may send reports on your progress to me there.”

At his wave of dismissal, the pair left. John looked after them thoughtfully, wondering whether a friendship between the two might not prove detrimental to his purpose.

Chapter Twelve

Inglis’ body was not discovered until it was nearly time for the evening meal. None of the other servants noticed his absence until he failed to appear to conduct an inspection of the manner in which the table had been laid—a task he was insistent be performed exactly to his dictates—and so a search of the premises was conducted. Although he had been seen to go in the buttery earlier, no one thought he would still be there until one of the menservants, impatient with hunger, tapped on the door and, receiving no answer, pushed it open. The steward’s prone form was lying on the floor, his neck and jaw already stiffening with the death rictus.

In the meantime, Marshal and Bascot had left the castle and ridden through the streets of Canterbury to Watling Street. As they had guided their mounts through the press of townsfolk patronizing the shops, Marshal asked Bascot if he had met John on a previous occasion.

“Only once,” the Templar replied, “when he came to Lincoln three years ago for a meeting with King William of Scotland.”

Bascot, not wishing to discuss the matter further, changed the course of the conversation by asking Marshal the reason for Nicolaa de la Haye’s presence in Canterbury. The earl, recognizing and accepting the Templar’s disinclination for further discussion about his former association with the king, readily explained the purpose of the castellan’s visit and how it was that she and Gianni had come to be involved in the murder investigation.

“The youngster has been of some use to you in the past in similar situations, I understand,” he added. “I am sure you will welcome his assistance.”

“I shall,” Bascot said, then added, “And his company.”

Marshal came in with Bascot when they arrived at the townhouse and was present at the joyous reunion of the Templar and the lad who had once been his servant. Gianni’s eyes lit up with happiness when he came into the room where his former master was standing. The pair had not seen each other since the time, months earlier, that Bascot had investigated a murder in the castle precincts, and as the Templar clasped the boy gently by the shoulder in a gesture of welcome, the earl could see there was a deep bond of affection between them.

Nicolaa told Dauton to bring the best wine in the townhouse store and to send for Miles de Laxton and Gilles de Laubrec, who were both acquainted with Bascot and pleased to see him. After the two knights had been introduced to the earl, they had all repaired to the small hall on the ground floor, where the Templar was given the details of the interviews that Miles and Gianni had conducted. Afterwards, they spent a short time in general and pleasant conversation, and Marshal accepted a welcome invitation from Nicolaa to join them for the evening repast. They were halfway through the first course of mutton pottage when a knock sounded on the door and Nicholas de Criel entered.

“I am sorry to disturb you, lady,” the constable said, his expression grave, “but I have been to the cathedral priory looking for Sir William, and when I learned that he had not yet returned, I thought it possible he might have lingered here.” He turned to Marshal. “Since the king has already left to return to Dover, lord, I have come to you to report a matter of some urgency.”

“What is it?” Marshal asked, alarmed by Criel’s sober countenance.

“There has been another murder at the royal townhouse, Sir William. The steward, Inglis, was found dead not more than an hour ago. He has been poisoned.”

***

Moments later, horses were brought from the stables and Marshal and Bascot, accompanied by Gianni (with Nicolaa’s permission), were clattering towards the royal townhouse. The streets were empty; the darkness of the winter evening was closing in and most of the vendors had drawn the shutters down over the fronts of their shops. Soon lighted torches would be placed at strategic points along the main thoroughfares, but now the gloom was thick and they made their way cautiously lest an unwary bystander be trampled under the feet of their horses.

When they reached their destination on Stour Street, they found Chacal, the mercenary captain, standing at the door, his arms akimbo. Some of castle men-at-arms were outside, holding lighted torches and searching through the yard and outbuildings. The captain’s gaze was steady as he watched Marshal and the others approach.

“So there has been another death while you were on duty,” the earl said to him abruptly. “I doubt whether the king will retain your services after this.”

“With respect, lord,” Chacal answered tightly, “my men and I left the premises this morning, after standing the night watch. It was the castle men-at-arms that were on duty today. I came because I was told there had been another murder and I wished to know the circumstances. If there is some connection between this death—when I was not responsible for security—and that of the washerwoman, it will prove that neither I nor any of my men were derelict on the night she was killed.”

Marshal grunted and went into the townhouse, followed by Criel, Bascot and Gianni, with Chacal trailing behind. The Templar glanced around as they went down a stone-flagged passage to the rear of the premises. The dwelling was a large one and no expense had been spared in its building or its maintenance; wooden paneling lined the walls, the banisters alongside the stairs that led to the upper stories were of good solid oak and thick beeswax candles in sconces lit the whole of the interior. He glimpsed the confines of a large hall through an open door, and on the other side of the passage was another, smaller chamber, both rooms fitted with tables, padded chairs and settles, and tapestries adorning the walls.

Criel led them to a chamber near the end of the passage, outside of which a group of male and female servants, including Aquarius and the two men who had carried up the water for the washerwoman, were silently standing. “It would appear that Inglis died earlier this afternoon,” the constable said. “He used this chamber as a buttery and allowed none of the other servants inside without his permission; that is why he was not found earlier. It wasn’t until he didn’t appear for the evening meal that a search was made and his body discovered.”

The corpse could be seen from the doorway. Inglis lay curled up in a fetal position, one hand folded over his stomach and the other flung out as though reaching for help. On the floor, amidst a pool of spilled wine, lay an overturned cup and stool. Nearby stood a flagon impressed with a stylised “I” on the side. Another receptacle, similarly inscribed, stood a little way apart, underneath some shelving.

“What makes you think he was poisoned?” Marshal asked after viewing the body for a few moments. “He does not look to be a young man; it is possible he was taken by a seizure of the heart.”

Bascot, who had also taken in the details of the scene from where he stood at the earl’s side, pointed to a spot near the body, just at the edge of the puddle of wine. “I would surmise that is the reason, lord,” he said.

There, lying on its side in the shadows, was a large black rat, mouth agape and all four limbs stiff with death.

***

As Bascot moved forward to examine the body more closely, the cook, a rotund little individual dressed in a voluminous apron, spoke up. “That’s right, lord. We saw the rat and knew neither it nor Inglis died natural. We’re always plagued with vermin here, being so close to the river. It must of crept in and taken the same poison as Inglis.”

While the earl, Criel and Chacal watched from the doorway, Bascot carefully turned the steward over on his back and motioned for Gianni to come forward and take note of the condition of the body. A drool of saliva trailed from the corpse’s mouth and when Bascot gently lifted one of the half-closed eyelids, they could see that the pupil of the eye was dilated. Gianni picked up the flagon and sniffed the contents before handing it to Bascot. The Templar held it to his nose. Overlying the tart tang of grape and the scent of spices and honey was a musty, mouse-like odour. He told Gianni to remove the stopper from the flagon below the shelving. This wine, too, had the same disagreeable smell.

“It will need an apothecary to confirm my suspicions, but I am certain the wine in these flagons is poisoned,” he said to Marshal. “The keg from which they were poured must have been adulterated.”

“It is sure to be that one there,” the cook piped up, peeping past the broad shoulders of the earl as he pointed to a small keg in the corner. “That’s the wine Inglis kept for himself. The others”—he waved a hand at the rest of the barrels stacked in neat piles around the room—“are for the king’s use only.”

The Templar walked over to the keg the cook had indicated and hefted it. It was about a third full. Taking an empty cup from one of the shelves, he poured some and smelt the contents. Apart from the familiar scent of grapes, it held no indication of any additive or, indeed, the musty odour that he had detected in the flagons.

“This wine is pure,” he declared, “which means that only the flagons are tainted.”

“But that cannot be,” the astonished cook burst out. Bascot asked him to come forward and explain his assertion. The little man squeezed past Marshal and came farther into the chamber, his head barely level with the Templar’s shoulder. “Inglis always kept his two personal flagons, the ones with his mark on them, filled and ready for use,” he declared. “He flavoured them with a mixture I prepared for him in the kitchen—I always reminded him the spices were not meant for the use of anyone except the king, but he didn’t pay me any heed and had me make it anyway—and after he had finished one flagon, he would fill the other, add the honeyed mixture and then stopper it. Then he would leave each one to sit for a day, in order to give the honeyed concoction time to enhance the flavour. Today, I noticed that the flagon he was drinking from at the midday meal was near on empty, so he would have refilled it after he came in here.”

The little cook pointed to the one Gianni had just opened. “It’s got to be that one, but I don’t see how it could be poisoned if the wine in the keg is not.”

The cook’s protestation made sense. If someone had stolen into the buttery and poisoned the wine in the flagon that had been prepared earlier, how did it come about that the fresh one, which Inglis must have refilled from the wine in the keg, was also noxious?

There could only be one answer and, to confirm his suspicion, Bascot asked the cook, “The honey and spices that Inglis added to his wine, are they kept in the kitchen?”

“No, lord,” the cook said. “Inglis mixed them himself and kept them in a little pot—’tis over there, alongside the cups on that shelf.”

Bascot took down the small earthenware jar and lifted the lid. It was nearly empty, but filtering through the heady aroma of spices and honey was the same unpleasant odour as had come from the adulterated wine.

“The poison was in the mixture,” Bascot said to Marshal, “not in the wine keg. The steward must have come in here, refilled the flagon he had been using at midday, added the mixture and then, as the cook tells us, followed his usual custom of setting it aside to steep. Then he opened the one he had prepared yesterday, and to which he had already added the tainted honey and spice blend, then drank from it and died.”

William Marshal looked down from his great height and spoke to the cook. “Are you the only one that knew the steward used this mixture?”

The cook’s rotund face went white. “N-no, lord,” he stammered. “We all did—well, all of us who are on the regular staff.”

“But not those who came with the king when he arrived from Dover?”

The cook thought for a moment. “No, I do not think so . . . but wait—yes they did.” His fat cheeks flamed red with embarrassment as he explained. “Inglis was a sour individual and, may God forgive me for saying so, we often used to laugh at his habit of adding the honey concoction to his wine, saying that not all of the sweetness in the world would bring a smile to his face. I had a fresh batch standing on a table to cool when the Norman servants arrived and came into the kitchen for a cup of hot cider after their journey. One of them, I cannot remember which, remarked that it smelt good and was sure the king would appreciate such a tasty confection. I chuckled at the mistaken notion, and so did my scullion, and we explained who it was for.”

Chacal, who had been standing listening to the conversation, responded to the cook’s declaration with venom. “It is as I said; an intruder did not get past my men on the night the washerwoman was murdered because there wasn’t one. She was killed by one of these servants and that same person has now done the steward to death.”

At the accusation, the little group of servitors gathered in the hallway cringed back in fear and Bascot held up his hand. “That is the obvious conclusion, Chacal, but it may not be the correct one.”

The mercenary gave a huff of disagreement but Bascot, ignoring the discourtesy, addressed the cook. “When did you last have a delivery of wine?”

“There was one earlier in the week, but we also had an additional delivery on the day King John arrived,” the cook replied. “A messenger was sent some days ago to warn us that the king was expected, and Inglis ordered some additional casks of the king’s wine, and some of the delicacies he prefers, such as eels. The victuals came from vendors in the town and were here when the king arrived, but the wine merchant had to procure some of the wine from London, so the delivery was delayed.”

“And the men who brought the wine, would they have come in here?”

“Of course,” the cook assured him. “It is part of their job to carry the kegs in and stack them neatly.”

“Then it would have been possible for one of them to adulterate the mixture while they were delivering it,” Bascot mused.

“Surely poisoning is a complicated way to go about murdering the steward,” Chacal protested. “If someone from without the household wanted Inglis dead, they could easily have stuck a knife in his ribs while he was out in the town. As I said, it must be one of the servants here in the townhouse, one who held a grudge against both the steward and the washerwoman and decided to kill the pair of them.”

Although he recognised the routier’s desire to justify the competence of himself and his men, Bascot was tiring of his obstructive comments. “Use your wits, man, and consider the alternatives. The cook has just told us that the servants who arrived from Normandy made the logical assumption that the flavouring mixture was meant for use at John’s table. And so would an assassin think if one managed to get inside the building. It might just as easily have been the king, and not the steward, that the poison was meant to kill.”