Maureen Ash: A Plague of Poison

Nicolaa stood up. “It would seem we are once again involved in the machinations of a murderer, de Marins. Let us pray we are as successful in catching him as we have been beforetimes.”

When Bascot came down into the bail a small crowd of servants was gathered in front of the cookhouse, watching Thorey as he tested the honey on his rats. There were about twenty pots lined up beside him and he had three cages set on the ground in front of him, a rodent in each one. Only a few of the pots bore a glaze of the same bright colour as the one that had been contaminated; most were tinged with a greenish hue, and a few had no glaze at all. Thorey’s little terrier dogs were still watching the proceedings from a short distance away, their gaze never wavering from their master’s actions.

Bascot walked up to Ernulf, who was standing with a couple of the men-at-arms near Thorey and watching as the catcher fed a piece of honey-soaked bread to each of the rodents in turn. Gianni ran to his master when he saw him emerge from the keep. The boy’s eyes were still a little fearful, but the excitement caused by the discovery of the poison and the catcher’s testing of the honey had gone a small way to alleviate his concern.

“Had to send to town for more rats,” Ernulf told Bascot. “There’s too many pots of honey and not enough rats to test them all. Thorey’s vermin are already so sated with bait that they’re refusing to take any more.”

As he spoke, they heard the guard on the eastern gate give a shout and turned to see another rat catcher stride through the huge portal. He was a much bigger man than Thorey, resplendent in a cape and peaked hat made completely of rat skins, and was carrying a long ratting pole set with sharp metal barbs. Alongside him trotted another, much younger man, dressed more conventionally in plain tunic and hose, carrying two cages, each containing half a dozen rats. The rodents were huddled close together and squeaking with fear.

“Serjeant Ernulf,” the catcher said as he came up to where they stood. “I have come as you directed.”

“This is Germagan,” the serjeant informed Bascot. “He’s the premier rat catcher in Lincoln town.”

The catcher bowed in the Templar’s direction, sweeping his cape aside as he did so. “My lord,” he said, “I am pleased to be of service.”

Gianni’s eyes grew big with wonder as he looked at the cape and hat the catcher wore. The skins at the edges of both still had the heads of the rodents attached, and beneath the multitude of whiskered noses, small, sharp teeth gleamed ferociously as the catcher moved to take a place beside Thorey. His assistant set the cages down alongside the others, and Germagan listened intently as Thorey explained the purpose of the honey baiting. Soon, more pots had been opened and pieces of bread smeared with a spoonful of the contents before being fed to each of the caged vermin in turn. Once that was done, both catchers sat down on the ground to await the results.

“This will take some time, Ernulf,” Bascot said, “and most of the day will be gone before all those pots have been tested. I am going to question Gosbert. Lady Nicolaa is not convinced that he is guilty, and if she is correct, he may have information that will help us discover who else had an opportunity to poison the honey.”

“I didn’t reckon it was the cook, either,” the serjeant replied, his face grim. “But you can tell Gosbert from me that if it’s proved he did try to poison milady I’ll make him rue the day he was born. By the time I get through with him he’ll be begging for an easy death from a hang-man’s noose.”

Bascot made no reply; he merely left the serjeant to overseeing the testing of the honey and made his way to the holding cells.

Bascot’s interrogation of the cook provided no indication of any person who, other than the cook himself, might have been responsible for placing the poison in the honey. Gosbert was relieved to hear that his mistress was not convinced of his guilt and once again adamantly denied his culpability. “Lady Nicolaa has always had a fondness for marchpane, and when I heard that her appetite was failing, I thought that if I put some atop the simnel cake, it might tempt her into eating,” he said. “Had I known the honey was tainted I would have eaten the marchpane myself rather than send it to her.”

There was outrage in the cook’s eyes as he spoke and no trace of evasion as he answered the questions the Templar put to him. He had not noticed anyone touching the honey pot that had been contaminated, he said, but it could have been easily done. At least two pots of the same grade were always kept on an open shelf in the kitchen, along with a few of the inferior type. To remove one of them and replace it at a later time would be a simple task. And it would be even easier to do as Nicolaa de la Haye had suggested, bring in the tainted pot concealed in a basket or some other receptacle and exchange it for a pure one.

“Either way would be the work of only a moment,” Gosbert said, “and with all the activity in the kitchen, especially at mealtimes, would not have been noticed.”

When Bascot pressed him for the names of those who had access to the place where the honey pots were kept, Gosbert threw up his hands in dismay.

“They are in easy reach of all the scullions and the servants that wait on the tables in the hall. Then there are the squires and pages that come to get a special dish for the household knights, and the servants that bring bags of flour or wood for the ovens, and the carters who deliver supplies of pots and ladles…”

Gosbert’s voice began to tremble as he stumbled to a halt. “How are you to find the guilty one among so many, Sir Bascot?” he asked. “I am doomed. Even though Lady Nicolaa believes me, she will not prevail against the evidence. I will be hanged for a crime I did not commit.”

The Templar tried to console the cook, telling him that it would be some time before such a thing came to pass and that, in the meantime, there was every hope the true culprit would be found.

“Cast your memory back over the last few months, Gosbert. Try to remember if there was any occasion when one of the people of whom you have just spoken was near the honey pots without good cause or seemed to be acting in a furtive manner.”

“I will do my best, Sir Bascot,” Gosbert promised fervently. “My life may well depend on it.”

When the templar left the cell where the cook was imprisoned, he saw two monks standing by the rat catchers, who were still busy testing the honey. One of the brothers he recognised as Jehan, the elderly infirmarian from the Priory of All Saints, but the other was a much younger monk that Bascot had never met before, although he had seen him within the ward a couple of times in the company of the servant who tended the plants in the castle herb garden. Jehan was deep in conversation with Thorey and Germagan, nodding his head as they spoke while his companion listened with unswerving attention. As Bascot headed in the direction of the keep to tell Nicolaa de la Haye that Gosbert, unfortunately, had not been able to give him any useful information, the two monks left the catcher and made haste to join him.

“Greetings, Sir Bascot,” Brother Jehan said, and he introduced the monk who was with him as Brother Andrew, recently come to the priory from another enclave of the Benedictine Order. The younger monk was perhaps thirty years of age, very tall and rangily built. He had an austere appearance about him which was relieved only by the generous mobility of his wide mouth.

“I just received a message from Lady Nicolaa requesting our assistance in regard to poisonings that have taken the lives of two people in the castle household,” Jehan said. “The matter seemed an urgent one and I thought it best to come at once.” He gestured towards the younger monk. “Brother Andrew has had some training in the herbal arts and so I brought him with me. His knowledge may prove useful.”