Paul Doherty - The Devil's domain

Athelstan shook his head. ‘Nothing. At least for the moment. Tell me now, on your oaths. Forget I am an Englishman, think of me only as a priest. Tell me, is there anything you saw or heard which provoked suspicion?’

The three men sat in silence then, one by one, shook their heads.

‘Your two colleagues who have been murdered, you saw neither of them eat or drink anything extra?’

Again the shake of heads.

‘Or did they say anything to you?’

‘Brother.’ Maneil spoke up. ‘We have been down the same paths ourselves. We have no food or drink in our chambers. All our sustenance comes from Sir Walter’s kitchens, paltry though it may be.’

‘Does de Fontanel bring food?’

‘Never. Sir Walter would not allow it.’

‘I tell you this.’ Gresnay pointed a finger. ‘Yesterday morning we all took a solemn oath not to eat or drink what another didn’t. We also searched each other and the shabby garrets which serve as our chambers. Nothing was found.’

‘You did that?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Brother, a killer stalks us. We have to be sure.’

Athelstan got to his feet.

‘One thing does intrigue me.’

‘What’s that?’ Vamier asked.

‘Well, Routier escaped this morning. He climbed the garden wall, crossed the yard and went through an outhouse. How did he know which path to take? How did he know that the outhouse was deserted, that the shutter was loose? You have never been allowed into that part of the manor, have you?’

All three shook their heads.

‘Then I bid you good day, sirs.’

Athelstan left the hall and wandered out into the garden. He looked up at the parapets and realised that, if the sentries were less than vigilant, it would be easy for someone to cross the corner of the wall and climb the crumbling buttress. He now did this and let himself down the other side. The yard or bailey was deserted. A slight breeze was blowing up little clouds of dust. Built alongside, into the far curtain wall, were a line of wooden outhouses, probably used for storage. Athelstan crossed over and went in. Most of the doors were closed. Athelstan went through the one which hung ajar. Inside the walls were dirty and cobwebbed, and there was a smell of straw and horse manure. In the far wall the shutters were closed and barred. Athelstan lifted the bar, opened the shutters and looked out across the sun-scorched heathland. He put his bag down, climbed out and began to walk, following the same path Routier had probably taken. He stopped and looked about him. Above him a crow circled, cawing raucously. Athelstan saw that there was no sentry on the rear wall while those along the side must not only have been lax but distracted by the supposed quarrel taking place among the prisoners. Routier would have run, heading for that distant copse of trees. Even if the sentries had glimpsed him they might have thought it was some chapman or peasant, not realising one of their prisoners had escaped. He looked back at the window whose shutters still hung open. Routier had probably closed them when he fled. Athelstan scanned the sky.

‘There’s something wrong here,’ he said to himself. ‘Something I’ve seen and heard but it’s always the same: pieces in a puzzle!’

He walked back, climbed through the window, closed the shutters behind him and went out. His two companions were waiting for him in the hall. As Athelstan arrived, Aspinall came downstairs.

‘Are you leaving now, Sir John?’

‘Once we’ve asked you some questions, sir.’ Athelstan smiled.

Aspinall peered at him. ‘Why, Brother, what can I tell you?’

‘Well, first, how is Sir Walter?’

‘I persuaded him to go back to his chamber. He has fallen asleep. I will see to his daughter’s corpse. Sir Walter will probably have it taken to the city and buried in the house of Crutched Friars; that’s where Sir Walter attends Sunday Mass.’

Aspinall sat down on a bench and stretched out his legs.

‘What other questions, Brother?’

‘Does Sir Walter often go into the city?’ Sir John asked. ‘We know he was a customer of the poisoner Vulpina.’

Aspinall glanced up quickly.

‘As you were, sir.’

‘Vulpina’s dead,’ Aspinall said. ‘She died in a house fire.’

‘No, she was murdered.’ Athelstan sat down on the bench next to him. ‘She was murdered, Master Aspinall. Someone wanted to keep the secrets Vulpina held secret for ever.’

The physician shifted uneasily.

‘What are you implying, Brother? Yes, I went to Vulpina. Her collection of herbs and poisons was well known throughout the city. An evil, ruthless woman,’ Aspinall continued. ‘She still had every herb and, yes, I bought poisons from her. Foxglove can be used to quicken the heart and stir sluggish blood. Arsenic, both red and white, can be administered to those who have pains in the gut. Just because a plant is poisonous doesn’t mean it can’t be used to heal. It all depends on the quantities you use.’

‘Did you know Sir Walter purchased potions from her?’

Aspinall was about to deny this but then he shrugged.

‘Yes. Sir Walter bought potions and poisons. I advised him not to but he followed Vulpina’s advice.’

‘Why?’ Sir John asked.

‘For his daughter,’ Aspinall replied. ‘I believe there was nothing that could be done for the poor girl. She was witless, her mind was empty. Vulpina advised Sir Walter differently. He bought herbal remedies to keep her calm and soothe her ramblings: St John’s wort, a little belladonna. Such plants can have a soothing effect when the humours of the mind have been disturbed and are no longer in alignment. Nevertheless, I tell you this, Brother, the deaths which have occurred here are not the work of some common potion. I have never seen a poison with such an effect. You see,’ he saw the puzzlement in Athelstan’s eyes, ‘if you want to poison a man, such potions take effect almost immediately. If I gave a man of Sir John Cranston’s girth a cup heavily tainted with arsenic he would, within a short while, feel its effect. This is different. If you disbelieve me, ask any physician from the city. A man like Routier could take the poison but its effect is much slower to begin with; then it hastens up and the malignancy stops the heart.’

‘So?’ Athelstan asked. ‘The murderer has chosen this potion because it works slowly?’

‘Possibly,’ Aspinall agreed. ‘What I’m saying, gentlemen, is that most poisons kill quickly. If you reduce the grains, illness may occur but not death. This, whatever it is, acts in a simple way: it is prolonged yet still deadly. A good choice, because the assassin certainly doesn’t want to be near when his victim dies.’

‘But if that’s the case,’ Sir Maurice asked, ‘how did the poor wench die?’

I think it was an accident. I really do. Somehow or other, Lucy found this poison and ate it. You saw her yourself: she was constantly picking things up and putting them in her mouth. I have seen her in the hall after meals are finished, eating crumbs from the table.’

‘It’s possible,’ Athelstan mused. ‘I wonder if the assassin intended to kill Routier and one other? Perhaps a sweetmeat was left? A piece of cheese or bread smeared with a noxious substance? Master Aspinall, are the prisoners’ rooms locked?’

‘From what I can gather, at night they are but, during the day, no. They are allowed to take the air in the morning and evening but, for most of the time, the prisoners are kept here in the manor. They talk, sleep or play a game.’

‘So Lucy could have wandered into one of their rooms?’ Sir John asked.

‘That’s possible.’

‘In which case,’ Athelstan declared, ‘those prisoners told me a lie. They said they had searched each other’s rooms to clear any suspicions but nothing was found. Yet here’s a witless maid who not only finds the poison but eats it.’