Candace Robb - The Riddle Of St Leonard's

‘You are kind to say so.’ Ravenser cursed his poor memory for names. He recognised the odd slurring of words caused by the crooked jaw that twisted the man’s mouth, but he could not remember the man’s name, nor what his dealings with him had been.

‘It is no flattery, Sir Richard. I am much relieved to see you, and I pray that I might have a word with you.’

Who was he and what might he want?

The goldsmith saw his confusion. ‘Forgive me. Of course you cannot remember me after so long. Edward Munkton. My shop is in Stonegate, and you once …’

‘Ah. Master Munkton. The necklace.’ The goldsmith had designed a necklace for Ravenser, a gift for his mother. It seemed such a long time ago. And indeed, the man had aged, his once round face chiselled with years, his hair grey and wispy. ‘Confer with my clerk, Douglas, to find a time convenient for both of us to talk. At my house in St Leonard’s.’

Munkton’s smile faded. He kneaded his felt hat with nervous hands. ‘If I might have a word now, I should be most grateful.’

Ravenser glanced round. ‘In the street? It affords us little privacy.’

‘God forgive me, but I would stay away from the sick at present, Sir Richard.’ Munkton’s eyes danced away in embarrassment.

But Ravenser understood. ‘Then briefly.’ He took the man aside, beneath the eaves of a closed shop, and held his ambergris down to show his trust in the man.

‘It is about Don Cuthbert,’ Munkton began, his breath sweet with fennel, ‘he came to me a few days past and asked to see my account books.’

Ravenser blinked in disbelief. ‘To see what?’ Had the goldsmith gone mad? Cuthbert?

Munkton, studying Ravenser’s face, smiled. ‘I had hoped to see such surprise, Sir Richard. I did not want to think that you had ordered your cellarer to insult me so.’

‘Of course I did not. Did he explain himself?’

‘He did indeed. He thought I might have purchased a chalice stolen from the spital. I told him that I am a goldsmith, not a trader, and that I have no need for chalices, as he might see if he took the time to look round the shop.’

A stolen chalice? Ravenser had heard nothing of this. But then, one chalice … ‘What possible reason did he have to suspect you, Master Munkton?’

‘The very thing that makes it ridiculous. My reputation for fine chalices.’

Don Cuthbert had gone mad. ‘Forgive me. I had no idea.’ Ravenser had a dreadful thought. ‘Has he so insulted any other members of your guild?’

‘Several. But I was his first victim. Not an honour I welcome.’

‘To be sure. I shall reprimand him, Master Munkton. You will receive an apology, I promise you.’

‘That is all I ask, Sir Richard.’

It was with weary mind and body that Ravenser at last passed under the statue of St Leonard and into the hospital liberty. Here the mood felt more normal, with folk going about their business and the orphans shouting at play. Ravenser’s servants had been summoned and quickly surrounded the travellers, seeing to their horses and baggage. As Ravenser crossed the yard towards the master’s house behind the church, his eyes were drawn to the blackened remains of a small building against the north wall. The roof of the house beside it had been singed. All about was the pungent odour of damp ashes.

‘There was a fire?’ Ravenser paused, trying to remember what had stood there. A house, he thought.

Topas conferred with a servant. ‘Aye, Sir Richard. It was the house of the corrodian, Laurence de Warrene. Your chess partner. He died in the fire.’

‘Laurence de Warrene.’ Ravenser frowned as he paced round the remains of the house, taking care to keep his hem away from the charred fragments. Behind the burned out shell lay the garden, dappled with ashes, waterlogged, the plants wilted, some trampled. The ruined garden, with its warring scents of life and death, struck Ravenser as more piteous than the destroyed house. ‘This was Mistress Warrene’s garden. She took great pride in it.’

‘She was taken by the pestilence,’ Topas said. ‘A fortnight ago.’

‘So I heard at Bishopthorpe. But I had not heard about the fire.’ Ravenser turned away. ‘Bring Don Cuthbert to me at once, Topas.’ He headed to his house.

In his bedchamber, Ravenser stripped off his travel clothes and sponged off the dirt of the road and, he hoped, the stench of death he must carry on his person. Then he retired to his parlour, where a servant had set out brandywine and fruit. He settled into his favourite chair with a full cup, gazing round with satisfaction. It was a pleasant room, not as lovely as his parlour in Beverley, but comfortable, with good light. The brandywine soon eased the muscles cramped by the day’s hot ride. But he did not have long to rest. A servant announced the arrival of Don Cuthbert.

‘Send for Douglas and show them in together.’

In a few moments, the tiny, beak-nosed cellarer floated into the room, hands tucked in his sleeves. He bowed to Ravenser. ‘ Benedicte , Sir Richard. God is merciful to send you to us at this difficult time. Your presence will be a comfort to all at St Leonard’s.’ Cuthbert carried with him the scent of damp, charred timber. Ravenser reminded himself to give orders to keep a rosemary wood fire going in his rooms to protect him from unpleasant odours.

Douglas settled himself behind Ravenser to record the meeting.

‘I have had disturbing news of your activities, Cuthbert.’

Beneath apologetically furrowed brows, an ingratiating smile flickered, baring oddly pointed teeth. ‘My activities?’

‘Accusing freemen of the city of accepting stolen goods.’

Cuthbert’s cheeks reddened. ‘I wished to be of service. To reclaim a few of the stolen items before you returned.’

Ravenser’s head began to pound, but he ignored the warning signals, sitting forward with an icy, ‘A few?’

The cellarer’s protruding eyes were suddenly expressionless, though his hands fluttered in his sleeves and he rocked up on to the balls of his feet. ‘I had hoped to spare you the worry until I had completed my investigation, Sir Richard.’

But why had Erkenwald written nothing of this? ‘Tell me about your investigation.’

Cuthbert glanced down at a chair nearby.

‘Be seated,’ Ravenser snapped. He disliked the cellarer’s false humility.

Cuthbert’s slender hands swept out from his sleeves, gracefully smoothing the habit beneath him as he slid on to the chair. ‘ Deo gratias . It has been a long day.’

The cellarer’s movement stirred the scent of damp embers. Where did the man sleep?

‘Where to begin?’ the cellarer muttered to himself.

‘I should first like to hear the list of missing items.’

‘A list. Ah.’ Cuthbert glanced round, found no one to release him from this query. ‘The list.’

‘Are you not the one to ask, Don Cuthbert? Have you relinquished your post to another worthy canon?’

‘No. No, Sir Richard. The list.’ Cuthbert composed himself, hands returning to their comfortable nests within his sleeves. ‘Two tapestries, a golden chalice, a silver filigree missal cover with precious stones, a silver and pearl crucifix, several Italian glass goblets, an embroidered altar cloth, three blankets, and a tooled saddle.’ The canon’s attention was now on his sandalled feet.

‘Sweet Jesu . How could a thief walk off with so much and not be caught? There are so many of us here, we trip over one another.’

Red splotches spread on the cellarer’s pale neck. ‘In truth, I cannot say.’

In the ensuing silence, the scratching of Douglas’s quill attested to the length of the list. Cuthbert, for all his unpleasant qualities, had a keen mind and was excellent at detail.