Paul Doherty - The House of Shadows

The clamour brought more servants and grooms up the stairs. Cranston ordered one of these to fetch a bench from the passageway below and asked the knights to step away. At first there was confusion, but under Sir John’s direction, the bench was used as a battering ram, swinging hard against the door until it buckled on its leather hinges, the locks and bolts at the top and bottom snapping back.

The room inside was warm. Athelstan noticed how the windows were shuttered, and peering round the rest, he glimpsed the pale body sprawled in the iron-hooped bathtub. Cranston, roaring at everyone to stand back, pushed his way through, almost dragging Athelstan with him. Once inside, he kept everyone else back, insisting no one should enter the room or touch anything. Athelstan quickly examined the body. Sir Stephen was beyond all help. The Dominican quickly recited the requiem and, pressing his hand against the dead man’s neck, once again made sure there was no blood beat. He crouched down and murmured the words of absolution in the hope that the soul hadn’t immediately left the body, trying not to concentrate on those half-open, staring dead eyes, the slack jaw, the bloodless lips and liverish face. The water was ice cold. Athelstan glimpsed the small overturned stool and the fallen wine cup which had stained one of the turkey carpets. He plucked a napkin from the lavarium, picked up the cup and carefully sniffed. It had a heavy, unpleasant odour, rank and foul, like rotting weeds, though when he tested the wine in the jug it smelt wholesome.

‘God rest him,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘He is dead, murdered, poisoned.’

Sir Maurice, standing next to Cranston, tried to push forward but the coroner restrained him.

‘It can’t be!’ Sir Maurice shouted. ‘Who would poison poor Stephen?’

‘I don’t know, but poisoned he is. The jug of wine is wholesome, but the cup is tainted. Was Sir Stephen taking any potions or powders?’ Athelstan asked.

‘None, none.’ Sir Maurice’s agitation was obvious. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, can’t this room be cleared?’ He gestured at the corpse. ‘Must he be left sprawled like that?’

‘A murder has been committed.’ Cranston stood, legs apart, his enormous girth blocking any further entry into the room. ‘A murder has been committed and I am the Lord Coroner. Master Rolles, take your guests away — oh, and send for a physician.’

Cranston shooed them all back into the gallery, blocking the view by pulling across the unhinged door. Then he turned, mopping his face with the hem of his cloak.

‘Athelstan, you’re sure it’s murder?’

‘Poison, Sir Jack. I would wager a year’s collection, and by the coldness of the water, he has been dead at least an hour.’

Whilst they waited for the physician, Cranston and Athelstan surveyed the room. The Dominican noticed the small coffer with its three locks and started to search for the keys. Cranston, however, was much taken with the luxury of the chamber: its glowing tapestries, the dark blue gold-fringed hangings around the four-poster bed, and the carved oak and walnut furnishings. Athelstan half listened as Sir John described the scene on one of the tapestries, Excalibur being taken down to the Lady of the Lake.

‘Ah, I’ve found them!’ Athelstan moved a candle on the small table beside the bed to reveal a thick silver key ring. He was about to try the keys in the small coffer when there was a tapping and Master Stapleton the physician edged his way round the broken door and came into the room.

Cranston and Athelstan had done business before with this cadaverous-faced leech: his ever-watery eyes and constantly dripping nose always tempted Athelstan to whisper the words ‘Physician heal thyself, but Master Stapleton had no sense of humour. He came shrouded in his customary food-stained robe, sniffing and spluttering as he stood staring disdainfully down at the corpse. He pressed his hand against the neck, felt the stomach, peered into the mouth and pulled up an eyelid.

‘Good morrow, Master Stapleton.’ Cranston leaned down as if trying to catch the physician’s glare. ‘You do know who we are?’

‘Of course I do, Sir John; in your case, once seen, never forgotten. Good morrow to you too, Brother Athelstan,’ he declared and poked a finger at the corpse. ‘This man’s dead. My examination will cost you five shillings.’

He picked up the wine goblet and sniffed at it.

‘Oh, he has been poisoned, so that’ll be seven shillings.’

‘I know he’s dead,’ Cranston roared. ‘What of?’

‘Now, now, Sir John, do not disturb your humours. You know how the black bile of anger warms the blood.’

‘Shut up!’ Cranston snapped.

‘Very well.’ Stapleton clasped his cloak with both hands, head going back like a judge about to pass sentence. ‘I suspect he died of water hemlock, probably mixed with henbane. I can tell that by the offensive smell, and before you ask, Brother, the wine would hide both taste and smell, at least for a while. Now henbane flowers in late July, so the poison was probably a dried powder, very potent. The cup’s polluted but the wine jug is free of any noxious smell. So,’ Stapleton held out a hand, ‘either he, or someone else, put poison in that cup. He drank and climbed into the bath. Death would follow fairly swiftly. The victim is fat, like you, Sir John; perhaps his heartbeat was not too strong.’

‘And the symptoms?’ Athelstan asked.

‘A stiffening of the limbs.’

‘You mean paralysis?’

‘That’s right, Brother, feet and hands first. It’s the same poison Socrates drank. So,’ Stapleton wiped his nose with the back of his hand, ‘for coming here, four shillings, one shilling for inspecting the corpse, and two for discovering a murder.’

Cranston pulled the door aside.

‘Master Stapleton,’ he smiled sweetly, ‘put your bill into the Guildhall, no more than five shillings, mind you. It was Brother Athelstan who discovered the murder.’

The physician sighed heavily and, hitching his robe, went out into the gallery to continue his argument with Master Rolles, loudly demanding he be given food and drink for his trouble.

‘I doubt if it was suicide,’ Athelstan mused. ‘Sir John, pull back that door. I want Master Rolles and the rest in here now.’

Cranston pushed the door to one side, and strode out bellowing names. Athelstan went and sat on the great chest at the foot of the bed. Rolles and Sir Maurice led the knights back in. Cranston sat down on the heavy oaken chair against the far wall, taking a generous slurp from his miraculous wine skin.

‘Can’t the corpse be removed?’ Sir Maurice protested. ‘It seems as if Sir Stephen is lying there staring at us.’

A short discussion followed. Athelstan agreed to the request and Rolles organised some of his bully boys, who stripped the bed of a sheet, lifted the corpse out, wrapped it up and removed it.

‘Put it with the others,’ Cranston shouted, ignoring the gasps of the knights.

‘I object,’ Sir Maurice declared.

‘Don’t object, sir,’ Athelstan replied. ‘You’ve read your Scripture: leave the dead to bury the dead. Sir Stephen’s body will be given an honourable burial wherever you choose, but his soul has been dispatched to God before its time, and God, not to mention the Crown and our Lord Coroner, would like to know the reason why.’

Rolles stood near the doorway, whilst the knights resigned themselves to Athelstan’s questioning. Some sat on stools and chairs. Sir Maurice stood by the door, his hand on the small coffer. Brother Malachi, having accompanied the corpse downstairs, returned with an ale pot in his hand.

‘I believe Sir Stephen was murdered,’ Athelstan began. ‘The poison was offensive and strong. It wasn’t in the wine jug but in the cup. Who brought that up?’