The Canterbury Murders (9 page)

Chapter Thirteen

As the earl nodded his agreement with Bascot, Chacal glowered. “So you are suggesting that the murderer managed to slip past my guards and slit the washerwoman’s throat, and then steal past the castle men-at-arms to place the poison and, as if that is not enough, was also able get clean away both times without being seen.” The mercenary snorted with derision. “An awesome feat, and completely unbelievable.”

The Templar held his temper in check and forced himself to answer in a moderate tone. “It is unlikely to have been a servant for two very obvious reasons. In the instance of the washerwoman, all of the household would have heard the clatter of the tub being installed in the antechamber and the water being brought through the house to fill it, and so would have known she was in the chamber preparing the bath. Why, then, would one of them make an attack on the king’s life when they knew that her presence would bar access to his person?

“Similarly, we have the cook’s evidence that all of the servants were aware that the honey mixture was used by Inglis, and not the king, so why would any of them poison it? It can only have been an outsider, and therefore an intruder, who committed these crimes, not a member of the staff.”

Despite Bascot’s cogent objection, the mercenary remained mulish. “I still say it was one of the servants. Ever since the king and queen arrived at the townhouse, the lot of them have been traipsing about all over the place, supposedly going about their duties, in one room and out another. There were a multitude of opportunities for any of them to commit either or both murders.”

“That may be so,” Bascot admitted, “but circumstances indicate otherwise.”

“Then the circumstances lie,” Chacal spat. “Even if the culprit managed to gain entry without being seen before he killed the washerwoman—and I do not agree that he did—he would never have been able to leave the premises undetected. He would have been caught by myself or one of my men before he had time to escape.”

“Not if he found a hiding place that you overlooked, and waited until after the house had been searched before he left,” Bascot said. “This is a large building. Are you certain that every chamber, including any rooms not in use at the time, were examined?”

“We searched them all,” Chacal declared, “and thoroughly, both the rooms that were occupied and those that were not. And we inspected the grounds, and all the outbuildings. We found no one.”

“What about the undercroft?” Bascot asked.

Chacal nodded. “I went down there myself, but it was empty. Flooding from the river has made the floor a sea of mud, and there were no traces of anyone’s passage in the mire.” He shrugged. “No one could have gained entrance to it anyway. There is only one way to get down there, and the door was locked with a key that the steward kept on his belt.”

As the mercenary finished speaking, Bascot noticed the cook glance at him nervously, then down at his feet. “Is there something you have not told us?” he asked the little man.

“Well, there is another entrance to the undercroft, lord, and . . . it’s one that isn’t kept locked,” the cook replied haltingly. “I have only just remembered it.”

Chacal grabbed him roughly by the shoulder. “Why was I not told of this earlier?”

Perspiration began to bead on the chubby little cook’s forehead as he gabbled his excuses, trying to justify his negligence. “Everything was in turmoil, what with the king raging and the guards running about, and it slipped from my mind and, I suppose, from everyone else’s. And we were all in fear of our life in case the murderer attacked us too. . . .”

As the mercenary tightened his grip on the cook’s shoulder, his face black with anger, Marshal ordered him to desist. “It will do no good to punish him now,” he said dismissively. “The damage has been done.”

Chacal reluctantly loosened his hold, and the cook edged closer to Marshal, seeking to put as much distance as possible between himself and the furious mercenary. The earl looked down at the cowering servant and asked him to tell them where the other door to the undercroft was located.

“It’s not a door, lord, but a hatchway,” the cook replied. “It is only a small opening leading down to a drain in the cellar, and was made to give access to clear it when it becomes blocked. But it is an impossible task—the river waters seep in continually and the conduit is always full of silt, so we gave up trying. That is why the hatchway was forgotten, because we never use it.”

“Show us,” Marshal commanded, and the cook—grabbing a large candle and thrusting it in a holder—led them towards the rear of the townhouse, past the rooms where the servants slept, and into a chamber where large bags of flour, casks of vinegar and jars of mustard were stored.

“It’s over there,” the cook said, pointing to the sacks of flour piled in a corner. The floor around the stack was covered with a dusting of flour, but at one side, and almost obscured by the leakage from the bags, the edge of a trapdoor could be faintly seen.

“That cover has not been lifted recently,” Chacal said triumphantly, pointing to the undisturbed layer of flour. “If it had, there would be marks left behind where the sacks had been moved.”

But Bascot shook his head. “Not if a couple of handfuls of flour were scattered about to make it appear undisturbed. Let us lift the lid and see what is below.”

Together the Templar and Chacal pulled the bags of flour aside, revealing the complete outline of the cover over the hatchway. A ring was set in one side, and when the mercenary grasped it and pulled it up a rickety ladder fastened to the side and leading downwards was exposed.

Using the candle that the cook had been holding, the Templar descended into the undercroft, breathing shallowly as a damp miasmic smell assailed his nostrils. Chacal followed behind. When they reached the bottom, Bascot found himself in a small niche that had been cut into the wall, the bottom rung of the ladder resting on a circle of stones ringing a drain choked with mud. The walls of the niche were lined with timbers that had been heavily tarred as protection against moisture—the whole fashioned like a small three-sided cubicle with the remaining side facing out into the large open space of the undercroft. Holding the candle in his left hand, Bascot grasped a rung of the ladder at shoulder height with his right and leaned out into the dank gloom of the cellar, so he could peer into the dimness with his sighted eye. It was much as Chacal had described it, the floor thick with a layer of undisturbed mud that glistened with an oily slickness in the light from the candle. A few decrepit sticks of furniture littered the far side and there were a few shelves piled high with old cracked platters. There was nothing else, not even a rat. Raising the candle aloft, he caught sight of a row of metal grilles set just above the floor line, contrivances that were meant to allow fresh air to enter, but not large enough to do the job adequately. They were all long and narrow; even if the bars of the grids had been removed, the openings into which they were set were far too small for a man to pass through. By leaning out as far as he could, Bascot could just make out, farther along the same wall on which the niche was located, the lower steps of a flight of stairs that must be the ones Chacal had used to search the cellar for an intruder.

“The mud on the floor is unmarked, as you said,” Bascot remarked, “so it would seem that no one crossed it. I take it you did your inspection from the bottom of the stairs farther along this wall?”

Chacal gave a surly nod from where he was crouched above the Templar on the ladder. “The steward gave me the key to the door at the top. But there was no trace of footsteps in the mud, so there didn’t seem any need to search further.”

“And, without having knowledge of this niche, that was a reasonable assumption to make,” Bascot replied, feeling some commiseration for the mercenary’s frustration. “It is a perfect hiding place. If the intruder kept close by the ladder, he would have been impossible to see from those stairs. He had only to wait until you and your guards had finished searching and, once all was quiet, go back upstairs and slip out of the house. You cannot be blamed for any laxity.”

Mollified by the Templar’s exoneration, Chacal gave a curt nod of agreement and went back up the ladder, Bascot following behind. When they emerged into the storeroom, Bascot told Marshal and Criel what they had found.

“This place of concealment could have been used more than once,” Marshal said, “and would imply that an intruder was involved in both murders.”

“It would seem so,” Bascot agreed. “And the most obvious suspect is one of the men who delivered the wine, although it would be a chancy business to use the same ruse twice. Nonetheless, there is a boldness in these crimes that implies the murderer is brazen, and willing to take risks.”

He turned to the cook. “You said there were two men who carried the kegs in, is that correct?”

“Aye, lord. There are always three that come with the shipment, but the deliveries are made by river craft, so one of them stays to keep watch over the boat at the loading dock out back while the other two carry the kegs inside.”

The Templar turned to address the rest of the servants, who had all followed them down to the storeroom and had waited in the passageway in hushed silence while he and Chacal had gone down the hatchway. When Bascot returned and told the earl and Criel that he had found a hiding place, there had been exclamations of surprise and a general shuffling of feet.

“Did any of you see either of the two delivery men, or both, in the house later, after the wine shipment had been made? Perhaps claiming to have come back on some pretext or other such as bringing a keg of wine that had been missed from the morning’s order?” The Templar, as he spoke, looked searchingly from one anxious face to another to stress the importance of his question.

All of them met his gaze straightly, if a little timidly, but no answer was forthcoming, and most shook their heads in uncertain denial. “We might not have noticed if they had done, lord,” the cook piped up. “We were all very busy once the king and queen arrived; there were meals to be prepared, tables to be laid and fires to be lit. Everyone was paying attention to his or her own task and wouldn’t have had time to gawk about, or wonder who was doing what, or why.”

As the rest of the servants nodded in agreement, Bascot turned to the earl. “I think, lord,” he said, “that this wine merchant must be brought in for questioning. Will you sanction his arrest?”

“Gladly,” Marshal replied.

Chapter Fourteen

After obtaining the name of the wine merchant and the location of his business premises from the cook, Marshal rapped out orders to Criel and Chacal in a manner reminiscent of command on a battlefield. First he told the constable to go to the wine merchant’s home with an escort from the garrison and arrest the vintner and the men that had delivered the wine.

“Secure them in holding cells and Sir Bascot and I will be along later to question them. Do not give them any information as to why they are being brought in. If one or more of them is party to these crimes, we do not want to give them an opportunity to concoct a plausible alibi. Also, arrange for the coroner to come and record the details of the death so the body can be released for burial. Then send the mixture that the steward used to flavour his wine to be taken to an apothecary with a request that he try to determine which poison was used to adulterate it. Tell him to send his conclusions back to you.”

As Criel departed to carry out the earl’s instructions, Marshal turned to Chacal. “Stay here and oversee the constable’s men. After the coroner has been here, Inglis’ body can be taken to the death house of the nearest church, but lock the buttery door after the corpse has been removed and put a guard on it, lest the chamber requires further examination. Until I say otherwise, you will keep this townhouse secure. Let no one enter or leave.”

When the routier had left his presence, the earl turned to Bascot. “Come, let us return to the townhouse where Lady Nicolaa is staying and finish the meal that was interrupted while we wait for Criel to take the merchant and his men into custody. I am in need of good food and a cup of wine to take the stink of death out of my mouth.”

Bascot willingly fell in at the earl’s side and, with Gianni mounted on his pony behind, they all rode back to Watling Street. A chill wind had arisen, gusting against the flames of the torches that had now been lit along the main streets, and bringing with it a few swirling flakes of snow. The warmth of the fire in the townhouse would be more than welcome.

As they recounted what had passed to Lady Nicolaa, the snow began to fall more heavily and Criel brushed a thin layer of it from his cloak as he dismounted in front of a house located a little over a quarter mile north of the royal townhouse. The premises also backed onto the Stour River, and was where the wine merchant, a man named Martin de Ponte, both resided and operated his business. De Ponte knew the constable well, and when Criel was led by a maidservant into the hall where the merchant was eating his evening meal with his wife and two young sons, de Ponte greeted him with cordiality. Moments later, after he had been told the purpose of the constable’s visit, his attitude underwent an abrupt change.

“I am to be taken into custody?” de Ponte said in disbelief. “Surely, Sir Nicholas, this is some sort of evil jest.”

“I am afraid not,” Criel replied. “You are to accompany me to the castle immediately.”

“Then you must tell me the reason why,” de Ponte challenged.

“I am under instructions not to do so,” the constable said. “Suffice it to say that the order was issued by the Earl of Pembroke.”

“You cannot do this,” de Ponte declared angrily. The vintner was a robustly built man of some forty years with a full head of thick red hair, and his florid complexion was now bright with fury. “I would remind you that I have some influence in the town and do not intend to submit to this outrage without protest. The provost shall be informed of your actions.”

“You can complain all you wish, de Ponte,” Criel said soberly, his usual bluff good-humour absent. “But I do not think that the provost will willingly intercede on your behalf, not against such a powerful noble as William Marshal.”

Grudgingly admitting the truth of the statement, de Ponte submitted and Criel asked the whereabouts of his employees, saying he was also to take into custody the three men who had made the delivery to the royal townhouse on Stour Street on the day of King John’s arrival.

“I have five employees that carry out deliveries for me,” de Ponte informed him sullenly. “But two of them use the roads and a horse-driven cart to carry my wares; it will be the others you want. They are in charge of all shipments that go by water, and made the delivery on that day.”

“And where might I find them?”

“At this hour, they should be in the wine store taking their evening meal,” de Ponte replied. “Their daily sustenance constitutes part of their salaries. I’ll send a servant to fetch them.”

“No,” Criel replied, cautious about giving alert to the suspects and having them flee before he could arrest them. “Show me where they are, and I will take them in charge.”

Shaking his head in bemusement, de Ponte lighted a torch and led the constable and the two men-at-arms he had brought with him out through the back door and into a yard alongside the banks of the river. On one side of a substantial loading quay was a stable for the horses that pulled the merchant’s dray and on the other, adjacent to the house, was a large building where the wine was stored. At the edge of the quay, a broad-beamed skiff rocked gently on the water.

When they entered the storehouse, de Ponte threaded his way through the tuns and kegs of wine that were piled in orderly rows to the rear of the huge room. There, sitting around a brazier and munching on bread and cheese, were three men. Two of them were fairly young, while the third looked to be approaching middle age. All had brawny arms that swelled with muscle and were clad in thick jerkins and woollen hose and caps with flaps pulled close down over their ears against the cold.

They all looked up in surprise and rose to their feet when their employer and Criel appeared, casting puzzled glances at the men-at-arms.

“Master de Ponte,” the older man said, “is something amiss?”

“I hope not, Ailwin,” de Ponte replied, “but I am afraid that all of you, and myself, must go to the castle.” The merchant held up his hands to ward off the questions he could see in the faces of his employees. “It is no use asking me why, for I do not know.”