Michael JECKS - The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker

‘That is a fair summary. There might have been something else he had poisoned.’

‘In which case we’re even less likely to discover it. Which brings us to the second likely possibility: self-murder.’

‘A fellow like him? It is possible. Certainly we cannot afford to exclude it as a potential solution.’

Simon nodded. He and Baldwin both knew of men who had committed that sin while their minds were unbalanced. Simon himself could almost comprehend the despair which could lead a man to do so. When his little son Peterkin had died, he had thought he would never recover from the hideous black depression which engulfed him. But the pain had eased eventually, as all such miseries do. ‘A fellow of his age – what could lead him to commit suicide? A girl?’

‘Not, perhaps, the most likely possibility,’ Baldwin grinned.

‘You may not think so, but priests are always being caught with women. Look at Jolinde. He’s been sleeping with Claricia – they both admit it.’

‘Yes,’ Baldwin agreed thoughtfully. ‘Which means that anyone else could have visited Peter in that little hall and given him food. A sweetmeat or pie – it wouldn’t have to be much to hold enough poison to kill a man.’

‘Wait! Jolinde said that Peter had been unwell for a few days. Would a poison kill him so slowly?’

Baldwin considered. ‘There are poisons which would do that, yes. The Saracens know more about poisons than you would wish to have commonly understood, Simon. But there are other poisons that a man could consume which would slowly weaken him until a large dose finished him off. And don’t forget that he might have looked as if he was being poisoned because he was so worried about being inhabited by a demon.’

Simon shivered. He had never lost his superstitions. ‘Don’t,’ he said.

Baldwin smiled. ‘Very well. But what if someone had taken to poisoning the bread each evening, slowly increasing the dosage?’

‘Why should someone wish to kill him? Because of the glovemaker’s robbery?’

‘The motive is still unclear but the two murders must be connected. And that, I think, means it is likely that someone in the city was responsible, not someone from the Cathedral.’

‘Why?’

‘Because most of the men from the Cathedral would be locked up behind their walls at night. We know that Jolinde went to the tavern, but surely most of the Cathedral staff were in the precinct when poison was put in the food…’

‘ If it was put in the food while it lay in the tavern.’

‘If it was,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘Also, Ralph died first thing in the morning. All the Cathedral staff should have been within the choir.’

Simon nodded. Both knew that all the clerics would be expected to attend every service. ‘All I wonder is, whether someone wanted to kill Peter but make his death look natural, or perhaps it was someone who was squeamish about using a knife and preferred to kill in this foul manner. And either way, did he decide to murder Peter purely in order to get his fists on the money?’

‘Yes. The money.’

Simon threw his friend a quick look. ‘What is it? The difference between the receipt and what Ralph was given?’

Baldwin laughed. ‘I long for the day when I can surprise you. Yes. The good Dean told us that the receipt showed four rubies, fifty small gems and fifty small pearls, as well as two pounds five and sixpence. Yet Elias told us he counted two pounds one shilling and a farthing and there were only two rubies and forty-four gems. And then Peter went back on the day Ralph died and delivered the shortfall.’ He stared into the distance, trying to make sense of it all.

He raised both hands in a gesture of despair. ‘Ah! Look at the sun! It must be well past noon. Jeanne will be wondering where we have got to. Let us return and see her. It is Christmas Eve and here we are dawdling like two old peasants.’

The quiet streets had become bustling and raucous. Youths chased each other or girls; hawkers bellowed their wares from the street corners while shopowners leaned against their doorframes watching the passers-by with measuring expressions.

They had almost arrived at Paul Street when Baldwin stopped and glanced at the shop they were passing. It was an apothecary’s, and on the trestle before the window were displayed many different herbs and powders.

‘Look – orpiment ,’ Baldwin said, ‘and realgar . Yellow and ruby arsenic. I wonder…’

Simon followed him inside.

‘Godspeed, sir,’ said the keeper. He was a tall, hunched man in his late twenties, with a significant pot-belly, but pale and slender in his build apart from that. He had acid scars on his hands and a livid burn above one eyebrow that made Simon wince at the sight. It could so easily have taken out his eye, had it been one inch lower. ‘Can I help you? My name is Gilbert of Lyme. What can I do for you?’

‘Good day,’ Baldwin said. He had drawn himself up to his full height, and with his hand arrogantly set atop his sword-hilt, he looked very much the elegant, courtly knight, even with his unfashionable beard. ‘I see you sell orpiment.’

‘Ah, yes sir. It’s quite local, from a mine not far from here.’

‘Can you refine it?’

‘It is not difficult, my Lord. I can produce some for you,’ the man said, but now there was a hooded wariness in his eyes. ‘However, I should have to warn you – it is a very potent poison.’

‘I am glad to hear your warning. Is there anywhere else to buy it in the city?’

The shopkeeper glanced from Baldwin to Simon. ‘Sir, I do not understand why you are asking me so many questions, but yes, you could buy it from the rat-catcher, I expect. He likes it for poisoning vermin. Others use it to kill wasps and flies in the summer. And then again there are many uses for orpiment. It’s a most practical and adaptable substance. It is used for colourings – the yellow for golds, the ruby orpiment for good, strong reds…’

‘Such as the Canons would use!’ Simon breathed.

‘Why, yes, sir. Only last week I supplied a pound of the yellow to the Cathedral.’

‘Who bought it?’ Baldwin said.

‘It was a young Secondary from the Treasury, sir – a fellow named Jolinde.’

Jolinde had no idea that his name was being linked to the death of his friend in this way. As Baldwin and Simon exchanged a meaningful stare, he walked from the small house back towards the Cathedral.

It had taken him some little time to wrap up his friend’s clothing and the palliasse, now sadly leaking all its stuffing, and take the lot to the hall downstairs, where he set it against a wall, wondering what to do with it. Perhaps, he thought, the laundrymen would take the robes and wash them ready for some other new Secondary. With that thought he returned upstairs and stitched together his own palliasse where Baldwin had slashed it.

There was no point in going through his friend’s things, since he had already checked everything as soon as he was released from the services that morning. While the congregation sat dumbfounded, staring at the figure shaking and quivering as his life fled, he had gone to Peter’s side, listening for the last prayer. Not that he had heard anything. Peter’s eye had met his own accusingly, but only for a second, and Jolinde could well have mistaken it. But as soon as Peter was dead, the thought of the money waiting to be collected was like a cattle prod in his arse. At the first possible moment after the body had been carried away and the services had been completed, Jolinde scurried off to their rooms.

‘You fooled me again, didn’t you, you hypocrite?’ he said sadly, perusing the paltry belongings of the lad he had lived with for so many years. ‘You thought I was going to try to take it all back from you, didn’t you? But I wouldn’t, I never wanted it for myself.’