Candace Robb - The Riddle Of St Leonard's

‘Do you need anything repeated, Douglas?’ Ravenser asked, the scraping of quill against parchment reminding him of his clerk’s presence.

A further scratching, then Douglas asked, ‘How many goblets?’

‘Four,’ Cuthbert said softly, then cleared his throat. ‘I have retrieved two of them.’

‘Indeed! So you have found the thief?’

‘No, Sir Richard.’ Cuthbert pressed a pale hand to his blotchy neck. ‘But I have Honoria de Staines in custody as the recipient of stolen goods.’

‘ Jesu ! Your repentant Magdalen?’ How had his uncle known she would be involved? ‘She has told you from whom she received the goblets?’

‘She will not. In faith, she insists they are not the stolen ones.’

Had he been mistaken? Made a fool of himself as he had with the goldsmiths? ‘Are they at all similar, Cuthbert?’

The cellarer’s mouth pinched at the insult. ‘Sir Richard, I am no fool. They are of the set, I am certain.’

Ravenser groaned. ‘Perhaps it needs a gentler hand in questioning the young woman.’ He studied the uncomfortable cellarer. ‘In custody, you say?’

‘In the gaol.’

That meant all the inmates of St Leonard’s knew by now. ‘So you were wrong to trust her.’

Cuthbert straightened. ‘Nothing is yet proved against her.’

Why was the man so stubborn? ‘I shall have one of the sisters speak to her. When did these items disappear?’

‘The first we noticed was on the feast of St John of Beverley. The golden chalice.’

Early May. And had Erkenwald not summoned him, Ravenser might still have been unaware of it. Ravenser rose, paced to the window, stared out at the church, noting that work had begun on a small stained glass window. Why did benefactors choose such impractical gifts? ‘And why have you been questioning the goldsmiths? How might they help you?’

‘It is said that goldsmiths will sometimes take stolen items, melt them down, and make them into something new that cannot be identified as stolen.’

Ravenser turned to study his cellarer. ‘Are you suddenly mad or simple, Cuthbert? The goldsmiths of York are members of a guild. They would be cast out if caught thieving.’

Cuthbert lifted his hands, imploring. ‘Sir-’

‘Your theory is nonsense, Cuthbert. You will apologise.’

Cuthbert bowed. ‘Sir Richard, I-’

Ravenser silenced him with a stern look. ‘We will speak no more of it.’

‘There is one more item …’ Cuthbert dabbed his upper lip.

‘Dear Lord, what else?’

The cellarer told him of the condition of Laurence de Warrene’s corpse, and Julian Taverner’s similar head wound.

Ravenser sank into his chair, put his forehead in his hands. ‘Leave me, both of you.’

‘But Sir Richard,’ Cuthbert said, ‘we have not spoken of the finances.’

‘Discuss them with Douglas.’

Ravenser’s head felt as if a cooper were beating bands down around it. The thefts, Laurence de Warrene’s suspicious death, Julian Taverner’s wound, and a thieving and whoring lay sister in gaol. Sweet Heaven. If word of these scandals spread throughout the city he would never gain the support of the wealthier freemen. And how was he to sort out the hospital’s debts if he was so distracted by other concerns? He needed assistance. Not Cuthbert. He was indiscreet and too busy working on the accounts. Perhaps Erkenwald. But a tight-lipped outsider would be better. Archer. Owen Archer. His uncle’s spy. He would follow the threads to the culprits discreetly and quickly. And a woman like Mistress Staines might find him a more pleasing confessor. Indeed. It might be necessary to borrow Archer. Ravenser would send a request to his uncle at Bishopthorpe.

As Ravenser sat in his parlour waiting for Lucie Wilton’s physick to work on his head, his thoughts strayed to the burned shell across the yard. Laurence and Matilda de Warrene, both dead. God grant them peace. He had thought them a pleasant couple, devoted to one another and seemingly content with their lot in life. Ravenser had often enjoyed a game of chess with Laurence on quiet evenings. Matilda would sit by the fire dozing. Occasionally, Julian Taverner would be invited to keep her company, though his loud conversation broke Ravenser’s concentration.

Laurence and Julian. Had Ravenser met them separately, he never would have guessed them to be friends. Laurence had been a quiet, dignified man; Julian was boisterous, though he had another side. Laurence had spoken of Julian’s work among the sick in the first visitation of the plague, following the death of his wife. Julian had believed it to be his penance to go among the sick who had been abandoned by their families and give them succour.

‘Why penance?’ Ravenser remembered asking. ‘Was he responsible for his wife’s death?’

‘Goodness no. He was a devoted husband. No, his penance was for an older sin.’ Suddenly silent, Laurence had stared down at the board. Then, so softly he might not have meant Ravenser to hear, he had murmured, ‘But was it a sin?’ His eyes had appeared to be focused not on the chessmen, but on something far away.

‘You sit across from an expert on the topic of sin, Laurence.’

Laurence had looked startled. ‘Forgive me, Sir Richard. I was babbling.’

‘You seemed quite serious.’

Laurence had withdrawn his hand from the pawn he had been about to move, sat back in his chair.

‘Come. Ask me,’ Ravenser had urged.

Laurence had folded his hands, studied them, then brought his eyes up to meet Ravenser’s. ‘How might one unwittingly commit a sin?’ he said softly. ‘If none suffer but the guilty, has a wrong been done?’

‘Is it a riddle? I delight in riddles. Is there more?’

Laurence had glanced over to Julian, who perched on the edge of his seat, as if about to pounce on his friend. ‘Oh, if you could see your face, old friend,’ Laurence had exclaimed. ‘You see, Sir Richard, Julian is so weary of my mystical babbling he is horrified to hear it.’

‘Mystical? Then your questions were in earnest? Not riddles?’ Ravenser was disappointed, but willing to pursue such an interesting line.

Alas, Julian had joined them and, bowing to Ravenser, he had said, ‘We must get him home now, Sir Richard, else he shall make a fool of himself with more riddles. Too much of your fine wine this evening.’

Obviously a joke between two friends, for Laurence had gone good-naturedly.

But Matilda de Warrene had seemed as perplexed by the incident as Ravenser had been.

Ravenser drained his cup. It was disquieting that the Warrenes were both gone. It was strange to think that he would not see them again until he, too, was dead. And how soon might that be? Did God mean to give him time to rise to one of the high offices his uncle had taught him to covet — Keeper of the Privy Seal, Lord Chancellor, Archbishop? Or was Queen’s Receiver and Keeper of the Hanaper the best he was to do? Not that Queen’s Receiver was a lowly position, but with the Queen dying and the King besotted with his mistress, his work in that capacity would soon be at an end. For a time at least.

Ravenser rose to refill his cup. His last game of chess with Laurence had been interrupted, as he recalled; Matilda had been taken ill. He wandered over to the corner table on which he kept the chess set, curious whether the pieces had been moved. To his annoyance the set was not there. Curséd servants. He must tell Douglas to instruct them not to move things round when they cleaned. So where was it? Ravenser searched the room but did not find the chess set. In the process he also noted the absence of a pair of silver candlesticks that had stood on a chest by the door. Why was he able to find good help in Beverley but not in York? Was it the hospital environment? Were servants afraid they might be ordered to work among the sick?