Paul Doherty - The Anger of God

Oh, Lord, Athelstan prayed silently, don’t let Sir John sit down and go to sleep. Not now. Please, please!

Cranston, however, seemed to have the bit between his teeth as he advanced threateningly on the frightened steward.

‘Are you sure that Fitzroy ate and drank only what we did?’

‘Of course, Sir John. You see,’ the steward turned, bobbing to the King and the Regent, ‘all meats and all drinks were served to His Grace the King and my Lord of Gaunt first, then to everyone else. If any servitor had returned for more wine or meat by the time he had reached Sir Thomas, I would have remembered.’

‘Can the servants be trusted?’ Goodman jibed.

The steward glared furiously back. ‘How could any of us,’ he retorted, ‘while serving meat and drink with both hands, stop to sprinkle or pour poison with others, including Fitzroy, watching?’

‘I only asked!’ Goodman smirked.

Cranston made a rude sound and walked over to Athelstan. He towered above the friar and glared down at him. ‘You’d better be right!’ he hissed.

‘Don’t worry, my good Coroner.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘Ah, here comes the physician.’

Theobald de Troyes, swathed in a voluminous cloak, strode into the room, eyes heavy with sleep and face angry at being disturbed so late. Adam Clifford arrived at the same time, his riding boots covered in mud, the spurs still attached, clinking and jangling. As the physician went to crouch beside the corpse, Gaunt signalled Clifford away from the rest and stood whispering. Athelstan watched Clifford’s face and knew that not only was he right about Fitzroy but, from the look of surprised anger on the Regent’s face, this second murder was a major blow to Gaunt’s political dreams.

Clifford asked the Regent a question. Gaunt drew back his head sharply and shook his head. Clifford strode forward, pushing his way through the group of Guildmasters. Without a by-your-leave, he curtly ordered the physician to stand aside whilst he searched the dead man’s wallet, ignoring cries of protest from the others. At last he found what he was searching for and, with a key in his hands, beamed triumphantly at Gaunt.

‘We have it, My Lord!’

‘Good!’ The Regent sighed with relief. ‘Keep it for a while.’ He turned. ‘Master physician, can you determine the cause of death?’

‘Oh, yes.’ De Troyes got to his feet, wiping his hands on his robe. ‘Oh, yes,’ the physician repeated sarcastically. ‘First, Sir Thomas is dead. Second, the cause is murder. And third, the means is probably white arsenic administered to his food and drink.’

‘Impossible!’ Goodman shouted, his bulbous eyes glaring at the doctor. ‘How do you know he didn’t eat or drink something before he came here?’

‘Now, now.’ The physician held up his slender fingers. ‘I am merely the physician, not the poisoner.’ De Troyes turned, choosing to ignore Goodman. He smiled and bowed at Sir John and Athelstan. ‘My Lord Coroner, Brother Athelstan, so we meet again?’ The physician enjoyed seeing Goodman’s bubbling fury at being snubbed. ‘You are the city Coroner, Sir John. I have been summoned here to determine the cause of death and have given it. May I now ask a question of my own? How long were you feasting here before Fitzroy collapsed?’

‘About three hours,’ Cranston replied. ‘Why?’

‘Well, white arsenic would take about an hour to strike at the humours. The patient would feel some discomfort but perhaps dismiss it as wind or a piece of food stuck in the stomach. Death, however, follows rapidly after.’

‘Well, he did complain,’ Sir James Denny spoke up. ‘He mentioned some discomfort but, as is well known, Fitzroy liked his food and ate like a pig.’

‘Sir John,’ the physician continued, ignoring the Guildmaster, ‘you have my verdict: Fitzroy was poisoned here. Now, do you need my assistance any further?’

‘Yes, we do.’ The young King, who had been conversing with his tutor, Sir Nicholas Hussey, tapped his boots until he had everyone’s attention. Richard’s voice was surprisingly strong. ‘We have established certain matters, have we not, dearest Uncle?’ He smiled at Gaunt’s sullen expression. ‘First, Sir Thomas Fitzroy has been murdered by poison. Second, the poison was administered here. Yet, third, Sir Thomas Fitzroy ate and drank what we did.’

Gaunt bowed. ‘Your Grace, my dear nephew, you are as usual most perceptive. A wise head on such young shoulders. So what do you advise next?’

‘Let My Lord Coroner finish his task.’

Cranston bowed, walked back to Fitzroy’s table and removed the napkin. He beckoned the physician over and he, Brother Athelstan and the Coroner carefully examined the remnants of the food, the wine cup, and Fitzroy’s napkin and knife. The others looked on, moving restlessly and talking amongst themselves. De Troyes, despite being a fussy man, listened carefully to what Athelstan said as they sniffed, touched and slightly tasted everything on the table.

‘Nothing,’ de Troyes declared. ‘My Lord Coroner, I suggest the remnants of all this food be given to me. There are ways of testing it — perhaps left as rat bait. But I must conclude there’s no poison in anything on Sir Thomas’s table.’

Athelstan stood perplexed. He was sure that no one had touched anything after Fitzroy’s collapse. He and Cranston had been the first to cross to the stricken man and, even as Fitzroy had sprung to his feet, clutching his throat, Athelstan had carefully watched the men on either side of him. Neither Goodman nor Denny had made any move to take or replace anything on the table. Sir John carefully went through the dead man’s pouch but could find nothing which would explain Fitzroy’s sudden death by poison.

The atmosphere in the hall had now subtly changed. People were drawing apart as the full implications of the day’s events sunk in. Sudbury spoke for them all.

‘My Lord of Gaunt,’ he declared defensively, ‘we began this day in such amity, yet within hours two of our company are dead, foully murdered.’

‘What are you implying?’ Clifford snapped. ‘These deaths cannot be laid at the Lord Regent’s door!’

‘I merely describe what has happened,’ the Guildmaster replied smoothly.

‘Your Grace.’ Determined to take charge of the situation, Gaunt walked towards his nephew. ‘Your Grace,’ he repeated, ‘you should retire. Sir Nicholas!’ He glared at the royal tutor.

‘We will go now,’ Richard declared. ‘But, sweet Uncle, two foul murders have occurred in the Guildhall. Someone must account for them.’ Spinning on his heel, the young King swept out of the Hall of Roses, followed by Hussey and the physician.

Gaunt waited until they had gone. ‘Clear the room!’ he ordered the serjeant-at-arms.

‘Sir,’ the steward spoke up. ‘The banquet is not yet finished. Shall I serve the dessert?’

Gaunt’s look of fury answered his question and the steward and the other servants scuttled from the hall.

Clifford whispered to the archers and soldiers that they too should leave. He had no sooner closed the door behind them than a loud knocking made him re-open it. Athelstan glimpsed a liveried servant who muttered a few words and thrust a piece of parchment into Clifford’s hand. He re-closed the door and walked into the centre of the room, read the parchment then handed it to the Regent. Gaunt studied it and fury flared in his face.

‘Take your seats!’ he ordered. ‘I have news for you.’

They all obeyed, Athelstan and Cranston included. Gaunt sat down in the King’s chair, the piece of parchment held before him. They waited until the four archers, summoned by Clifford, came in and bundled Fitzroy’s corpse unceremoniously into a canvas sheet, carrying it out of the room with as much care as they would a heap of refuse. Gaunt stared round the now silent, watchful guests.