Candace Robb - The Riddle Of St Leonard's

Julian closed his eyes and dropped his head back on the pillow, wincing as the knot compressed. ‘If I knew that, I would not be lying here.’

Bess crossed her arms over her chest. ‘Oh? You would be steady on your feet and clear in your head? How would your burned hands feel as they met his jaw?’ She shook her head. ‘I am decided now. You will come home with me.’

‘Nonsense.’

‘It will take no time to prepare.’ Her mind full of her plans, Bess did not notice her uncle’s wet cheeks, the moisture seeping from beneath his closed lids, until he gulped, suppressing a sob. ‘Uncle?’

Erkenwald had retreated to a bench away from the bed.

Julian swiped at his eyes with a bandaged hand, cursed. Bess knelt on the bed, dabbed his eyes with a cloth. ‘What is this, uncle?’

Julian batted her away. ‘I could not save him. The murderer was too quick.’

Bess’s hand paused over her uncle. ‘Murderer? I thought the fire an accident.’

Julian glared at her as best he could through his red eyes. ‘Of course it was no accident, you foolish woman.’

Foolish? And she had thought to take him home, the ungrateful man. But his certainty was disturbing. She settled down next to him. ‘Tell me what happened, uncle.’

‘You’ll not listen.’

‘I am not such an idle person to ask for what I do not wish to hear.’

Julian looked uncertain, but he said, ‘Fix my pillows so I might sit up and speak with ease, then.’

Bess did as requested, with more energy than Julian might have liked. But he sank back on the pillows and thanked her.

‘When Laurence said he would burn his wife’s belongings, I offered to help him. He did not say nay. He was to come for me when he was ready. I was down with the orphans, telling them stories, when I noticed smoke. More than the usual smoke. I ran out, found the fire untended, spreading to brush that had been dropped outside the fire circle. That was worrying. Laurence was a careful man. I stepped into his house thinking he might have thought of something else that must go.’ Julian paused, a bandaged hand pressed to his forehead. He took a deep breath, dropped the hand, stared down at the floor beside his bed. ‘He lay on the ground, face down, a bloody gash in his head — bloodier than the one I was soon to receive.’

Bess already had doubts about the story. ‘You noticed all this with the fire spreading round you?’

‘The fire was without, not inside,’ Julian said impatiently. ‘I knelt over Laurence to lift him and help him breathe. I was hit from behind. Not as hard as Laurence must have been hit, but it dizzied me. I fell over Laurence and rolled off him, spent a moment getting my breath back. That is when I smelled smoke inside. I looked round, the house was ablaze. So suddenly. Someone rushed out of the door, but the smoke made it impossible to tell anything about him. I dragged Laurence out, but his clothes-’ Julian’s voice broke. He shook his head.

‘And no one has listened to your story?’ Bess glanced over at Erkenwald, who stared thoughtfully at the floor.

‘They say I am confused,’ Julian said.

‘Who says that?’

‘Don Cuthbert.’

‘That snivelling- I’ll confuse him-’

Julian put a bandaged hand on Bess’s arm to quiet her. ‘You would help me, niece?’

‘Of course.’

‘They mean to bury Laurence quickly. For fear of the pestilence. Idiots. He died by fire. But that is their aim. You must convince Don Cuthbert or someone here at the hospital, someone respected, to examine Laurence before he is buried.’

Bess hesitated. The task did not appeal. ‘Why?’

‘Someone else must see his wound. Stand as my witness. Someone who would not otherwise listen to me.’

And what if there is no such wound, Bess wondered. Julian had been knocked hard — he might have imagined it all. Still, there was sense in his request. She glanced over at Erkenwald, who watched her with interest. ‘Will you be his witness?’

‘Gladly.’

Honoria de Staines crossed herself and shook her head when Erkenwald ordered her to untie Laurence de Warrene’s shroud.

‘It is not as if we had asked you to open a grave,’ Bess said.

The lay sister clenched her hands. ‘I do not like it.’ She had turned pale.

Bess thought her pitifully squeamish for one who worked in an infirmary.

‘’Tis much the same as opening a grave,’ the woman said. ‘It is disturbing the dead.’

‘To prove that he was attacked. His spirit will not rest otherwise,’ Bess said.

Honoria sank down on a bench beside the shrouded corpse, pressed the heels of her palms to her forehead.

Don Cuthbert chose the moment to flutter into the room and demand an explanation. Erkenwald patiently told him why they were there.

To Bess’s surprise, the cellarer pressed a linen cloth to his nose and waved them on.

‘We cannot convince this sister to co-operate,’ Bess said. ‘Do I have your permission to open the shroud?’

‘Make haste!’ Cuthbert gasped.

Erkenwald nodded at the tiny canon. ‘It is not a pleasant odour. But better now than once in the ground.’

Bess made short work of the knot, then bent over the corpse, gingerly turning the head. The odour was indeed unpleasant.

Erkenwald leaned close, touched the wound. ‘Someone knew where to aim it.’

‘God help us,’ Cuthbert said.

Bess glanced over at the cellarer. ‘Come here. Feel this.’

Instead of approaching, Cuthbert took a step backwards. ‘Pray, there is no need for me to feel it. I shall gladly take Don Erkenwald’s word for it.’

Bess did not like it. There was something between the two men, some animosity that might work against her uncle. ‘I wish you both to witness it. I want there to be no suspicion that I am protecting my uncle, or accepting the words of a confused man, as you called him. You must feel the back of the head.’

The cellarer looked to Erkenwald.

‘You are the master in Sir Richard’s absence. I think he would expect you to have examined Master Warrene,’ Erkenwald said.

Cuthbert crossed himself and, muttering a prayer, stepped forward and allowed his hand to be guided to the wound, though he tried to jerk it away at once. ‘It bleeds!’

Erkenwald held him still a moment. ‘The man is dead. He no longer bleeds. You feel that there is a wound there?’

‘Yes, I feel it.’

Erkenwald released Cuthbert.

The cellarer took out a cloth and wiped his hand. ‘And yet what does it prove save he was hit? Perhaps by Master Taverner.’

‘Then come with me and feel another knobbly wound,’ Bess said.

Cuthbert sighed. ‘It is my duty.’

When Bess turned to ask Honoria to summon someone to replace the shroud, she discovered that the lay sister had disappeared.

*

Satisfied that both Cuthbert and Erkenwald had now heard Julian’s story, noted the serious and similar wounds, and that Cuthbert had promised to write to the master of the hospital about it, Bess took herself off to Lucie Wilton’s apothecary. She wished to consult with Owen. He had dealt with suspicious deaths before. Cuthbert had asked that she remain silent about the wounds and her uncle’s story, but he would never know she had spoken to Owen.

The streets were quiet for mid-morning. A house in Lop Lane was marked with a cross: a poor soul dead or dying of pestilence within. Bess crossed herself and hurried past.

The shop was empty but for Lucie, who sat on a stool behind the counter mixing dried herbs in a large bowl.

‘What is this?’ Bess said by way of greeting. ‘Only yesterday I could not see the floor for the customers.’

Lucie pushed the bowl aside, wiped her hands in her apron. ‘While the river mist lingers in the alleyways it is often quiet. A friar who passed through the city a few days ago said that it was the vapours that seep beneath the skin and raise the buboes.’