Paul Doherty - The Devil's domain

‘Oh, by mouth. There’s no cut on the corpse.’

‘Could it have been an accident?’

‘Possibly.’ Aspinall gestured at the window. ‘There’s a herb garden down there, with berries and plants which might kill a man.’

‘How long does it take such a poison to work?’ Sir Maurice asked.

‘It depends. I knew of an old woman in Guttersnipe Alley who was poisoned by her son over a period of days but this was one which acted quickly. It would disturb the humours, clog the blood and, by the look on the corpse’s face, he probably choked.’

‘Well, well, well.’ Sir John tapped his boot on the floor. And where would they get poisons from?’

‘There’s none here,’ Sir Walter insisted. ‘None whatsoever.’

‘And you, Master Aspinall?’

The physician spread his long fingers and played with the gem-encrusted ring on one of them.

‘My lord coroner, I have heard of you and Brother Athelstan.’ He laughed drily. ‘Sharp of eye and keen of wit. I assure you that I brought no poison into here, left no potion, gave no medicines. The prisoners are soldiers, seamen, hard and sturdy. The food could have been improved and their humours were disturbed by being confined but nothing else.’

‘And you know nothing of the prisoners or this man’s death?’

Aspinall got to his feet. ‘I know nothing, Sir John.’

‘Why are you here today?’

‘I came to ensure all was well. I inspected the corpse this morning but thought I should return, just in case.’

‘In case of what?’ Athelstan asked, getting to his feet.

Aspinall turned at the door and leaned against it, hands behind his back. He stared up at the ceiling.

‘Brother, you are the coroner’s secretarius. I am a physician, not a master of logic. We have a man poisoned. Now it could have been an accident. He may have found something in this house and eaten it but, God knows, that’s not the truth.’

‘So?’

‘In my experience, Brother, when such deaths occur they are not isolated events.’

‘You mean others will be poisoned?’

‘I know they will be. Oh, I thought about it this morning. Why should anyone kill Serriem? Hawkmere Manor is close and securely guarded; the murderer must know that he stands a good chance of being caught. So Serriem’s death was meticulously planned. It was no crime of passion and it may be one of many.’

Athelstan scrutinised the physician. Aspinall spoke sense. Was there conflict between the prisoners? He glanced sideways at Sir Walter. Or a paying-off of old scores?

‘I’ve also checked the stores and the wine cellar.’

‘You had no right,’ Sir Walter protested.

I have every right, Sir Walter. I am physician to the prisoners. My Lord of Gaunt has paid me good silver. However, do not trouble yourself. The meat and cheese could be fresher, the wine sweeter but the food stores are not tainted.’

‘Are there vermin here?’ Athelstan asked, remembering Ranulf the rat-catcher.

‘Of course.’

‘You put down no poison?’

‘We have three great cats.’ Sir Walter smiled sourly. ‘We do not feed them and they are half-wild, they take care of the vermin.’

‘When did Serriem retire to bed?’

‘With the rest at nine o’clock. They supped at seven, walked in the garden. Serriem played checkers with one of the prisoners. Pierre Vamier.’

‘And the relationships?’ Sir John asked. ‘Between the prisoners?’

‘They are cordial enough.’ Aspinall spoke up. ‘Sir Walter will confirm this. They keep to themselves. They are homesick for their families in France, eager for their ransoms to be raised. Yet.’

Sir John undid the stopper of the wine and took two great gulps. He offered it to his companions but they shook their heads.

‘Well, go on.’

‘In the last week to ten days,’ Sir Walter said, ‘something has changed, they do seem wary of each other.’

‘How were they captured?’ Athelstan asked.

‘I did that.’ Sir Maurice spoke up. ‘There are five of them, or there were. Vamier, Gresnay, Routier, Maneil and Serriem. They were captains, lieutenants and masters of the two great French cogs of war: the St Sulpice and the St Denis. Our wine fleet from Bordeaux had sailed up into the Channel. Now, it is customary for the ships to disembark some of their cargo at Calais and make a dash across the Straits into Dover. The St Sulpice and St Denis were waiting for them.’

‘And what happened?’ Athelstan asked.

‘I was in Dover at the time,’ the young knight continued. ‘Commanding a large force of knights, hobelars, men-at-arms and archers. We had four craft at our disposal led by a cog of war, The Great Edward. The Constable of Dover Castle received information that the St Sulpice and St Denis would be waiting for our ships so we took to sea. It was a long and bloody fight: the St Denis was sunk, the St Sulpice captured.’

Athelstan picked up his writing-bag, tying the cord at the top.

‘That’s almost miraculous,’ he observed. ‘From where did the Constable of Dover Castle get his orders?’

‘By courier from London. The message was general. It simply said that our wine fleet would be leaving Calais and French privateers were busy in the Channel’

‘A remarkable coincidence.’ Sir John, wheezing and puffing, got to his feet.

‘What are you implying?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Something I’ve suspected.’ Sir Maurice spoke up. ‘The St Sulpice and St Denis came out of a French port. They had to be prepared and provisioned for sea.’ He shrugged. ‘It was common gossip that the Regent had a spy in the French camp who sent him news about this.’

‘And now the French captains themselves suspect this?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Possibly.’

Sir Walter rubbed his hands together, pleased that suspicion had been diverted from him.

‘It could well cause animosity amongst the prisoners,’ he declared, bright-eyed, ‘if they thought someone was the traitor, perhaps Serriem?’

Sir John clapped him on the shoulder. And you, Sir Walter?’

‘I know what you are thinking.’ The knight gaoler shrugged Sir John’s hand off. ‘Don’t worry, Sir John, I thought the same as soon as I knew Serriem was dead. Here’s old Limbright, a man who hates the French, who killed his wife, sons and drove his daughter witless. What a marvellous opportunity for revenge!’ He drummed his fingers against his dagger. ‘But I didn’t want them dead, Sir John. I just wanted them prisoners. I wanted them to experience the hurt that I felt. To pine for their families as I did. To walk round and round a room and feel the grief of separation.’ He faced the coroner squarely. Athelstan noticed the spots of anger high in his cheeks. ‘And if I wanted to kill them, Sir John, I’d do it honourably. I may be the knight of the dirty jerkin, ageing and bitter, but it would be sword against sword, or lance against lance, not poison in the dead of night.’

‘Well said! Well said!’ Athelstan commented.

‘And the corpse?’

‘It will be interred in some churchyard!’ Sir Walter snapped. ‘If the French want it home they’ll have to pay for it!’

‘I’d best be leaving,’ the physician interrupted.

Aspinall bid farewell, and quietly left.

Sir Walter waited until the footfalls faded.

‘Now there goes a man,’ he muttered sarcastically, ‘who believes that blunt, honest speech covers a multitude of sins.’

‘What do you mean?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Our good physician is what he claims to be but he likes visiting Hawkmere Manor.’

‘Stop talking in bloody riddles!’ Sir John snapped.

‘Aspinall is a bachelor; he’s taken a liking to young Gresnay.’

‘You mean he’s a lover of men?’