Candace Robb - The Riddle Of St Leonard's

The clerk bowed respectfully, but his eyes expressed his disapproval. ‘Sir Richard will see you now. I pray you, come this way.’ Turning on his heels, he proceeded to lead her whence he’d come.

Bess followed with a grim determination.

As Richard de Ravenser rose from his chair and came forward to greet her, Bess thought how much more like his uncle he looked now than when last they had met several years before. Ravenser’s lips, however, were thinner than the archbishop’s. Cold, prim lips. This man did not live life to its fullest as she suspected his uncle had in his youth.

‘Mistress Merchet. I imagine you have come about your uncle’s untimely death. I assure you that we had every confidence he was sufficiently recovered to return to his home.’ Ravenser motioned Bess to a straight-backed chair beside a small table on which were set a flagon of wine and two cups.

How civilised. Not everyone treated an innkeeper so. Bess took a seat.

Ravenser nodded to a servant, who had silently replaced the clerk, to pour wine. ‘You will share some with me?’

‘I would be honoured, Sir Richard.’ Bess passed the cup under her nose, noted the strong bouquet. Ravenser’s palate differed from his uncle’s, with which she was familiar, for they often traded barrels of Tom’s ale for casks from the archbishop’s excellent cellar at Bishopthorpe. But a taste reassured her; a serviceable wine.

‘Forgive me for not advising Douglas to expect you.’

‘Perhaps it was best. More warning might have given him more arguments.’

‘I assure you that his reluctance was not meant to offend you. He knows that the heat has brought on one of my headaches. He believes I should rest.’

Bess noted with interest that Ravenser’s hand shook as he raised the cup to his thin lips: more than an ordinary headache. Watching him taste his wine, she noted the studied grace and delicacy of his movements, set off well by his elegant garments. Perhaps he was more like his uncle than she had at first thought. He glanced up at her quizzically.

‘Forgive me, but you look so like His Grace the Archbishop.’

‘Many say so. Would that I had his wisdom as well as his features.’

A comment meant to soften her. But Bess was not about to let Ravenser’s troubles overwhelm her purpose. ‘Wisdom. Yes, well, perhaps not. Was it wise to send my uncle from the infirmary so soon? Has it occurred to you that his death might be the direct result of your haste to empty his bed?’

A flush darkened the pale face of the Master of St Leonard’s. ‘Master Taverner was still under our care. His house is not so far-’

‘Oh aye. But when his servant sent for Anneys she did not come. Only after I sent word my uncle was dying did she answer the summons.’

Ravenser pressed his fingers to his temples, closed his eyes. ‘Mistress Merchet-’

‘Would it interest you to hear that my uncle believed he had been poisoned?’

The sunken eyes snapped open. ‘What?’

‘Poisoned. That is what he said.’

‘By whom?’

She would not yet tell him she did not know. ‘Your cellarer hounded my uncle, you know. Questioned him about why Master Warrene returned to his house instead of tending the fire. Don Cuthbert thought he might have been hiding the items that have been missed round the spital. Now what do you think of that? Tormenting my uncle, injured and mourning, with such dangerous nonsense.’

Ravenser dropped his hands to his lap and seemed to fall into a deep study of them.

‘Much goes on here without your knowledge, Sir Richard. I realise that you are an important man in Westminster. But you should know your people. Laurence a thief?’ Bess shook her head. ‘A man wealthy enough to buy corrodies at your great hospital for both him and his wife. And what of these thefts? What do you know of them?’

Without raising his eyes or moving in the least, Ravenser said, ‘We were speaking of Julian Taverner’s death. What do the thefts have to do with him?’

‘What had they to do with Laurence?’

‘I shall speak with Don Cuthbert about his accusations.’

‘What of Honoria de Staines? They say you have her in close confinement. What has she to say for herself?’

‘She is not your concern, Mistress Merchet. But I assure you I mean to discover the truth of all this.’

Bess ignored the impatient note in Ravenser’s reply. ‘On the day of the fire my uncle and Laurence de Warrene were attacked. Have you any idea who the attacker was? Was it the thief? Might it not be wise to find the culprit? Must I-’

Ravenser lifted a hand. ‘Mistress Merchet, I should like to reassure you that I am doing everything I can to learn what has transpired here. But before I tell you anything, I require your reassurance that you will say nothing to anyone.’

So, despite his earlier courtesy, he thought of her as a lowly innkeeper given to gossip. ‘One’s status does not make one more or less discreet, Sir Richard.’

Ravenser pressed his temples. ‘Forgive my clumsiness. I merely meant to warn you that secrecy is necessary at present.’

‘You might better worry when you have some information to keep silent about.’

‘I hope soon to have such information. Archbishop Thoresby has agreed that Captain Archer may assist me.’

‘He has?’ Bess was of two minds about that. Owen was the best man to see through the murk, and that satisfied her. But that the archbishop had offered him meant something was indeed amiss. Lucie would not like Owen’s involvement. Would she blame Bess for it? Still, appointing Owen to the task proved that Ravenser meant to do something. ‘St Leonard’s is cursed at present.’

In a breathless voice, Ravenser said, ‘I would not say so, Mistress Merchet. Cursed is a strong word. I merely wish to discover the truth. Now pray, forgive me, I have a pounding in my head that will soon drown out all sound from without. I apologise on behalf of St Leonard’s for your uncle’s death. If, indeed, we were at fault.’

Bess rose and bowed slightly. She had many questions, but the Master of St Leonard’s was quite visibly in distress. ‘God give you comfort, Sir Richard. You might send your servant round to Mistress Wilton for a physick.’

‘I have one of her admirable medicines, Mistress Merchet. It awaits me in my chamber. God go with you.’ Ravenser courteously led her to the door, opened it. Douglas came scuttling to help Ravenser away, then shortly returned to let Bess out into the dusty yard.

Bess stayed the door with her hand. ‘I certainly did not think my mission so distressing as to make him ill.’

‘Sir Richard needed to rest after the burial. The hot sun. Had you heeded my advice …’

‘I should have as great a headache as he. God go with you.’

At Lucie’s urging, Owen walked out into the quiet streets of early morning, heading for Magda Digby’s house. It was just dawn and the gatekeeper had to be wakened, but soon the Riverwoman would begin her day, going among the sick outside the city walls and in the countryside and Owen wished to talk to her about Julian Taverner’s death before he met with Ravenser later that day.

‘Perhaps Bess should tell the tale,’ Lucie had suggested.

‘And when Magda says it is likely he was poisoned, what then?’

Lucie had looked up from the unguent she was mixing slowly over a low flame and met Owen’s gaze with a crooked smile. ‘My effort to keep that from Bess would have been in vain. And she would drive you mad.’

‘Just so. When I have problems enough, thanks to His Grace.’

‘Do not pretend that you are not keen to put an end to the troubles at the hospital.’