Simon Beaufort - A Dead Man's secret

After a while, Gwgan persuaded Hilde to visit the market with him to buy homecoming gifts for Isabella, and Geoffrey asked the innkeeper where he might find a physician. He was directed to a house near the church, where a man named Huw plied his trade.

‘You do not look as if you are in need of my services,’ said Huw, a kindly, smiling man with a demeanour that inspired confidence. ‘I have rarely seen a man more shining with health and vitality. Although I might recommend that you worry less and sleep more. You seem weary.’

Geoffrey suspected neither of those options was going to be available for a while. ‘If I describe what I know of the death of a man who died before his time, could you give me a diagnosis?’

‘No!’ Huw laughed.

‘Then will you be able to tell me whether poison might have played a part?’

Huw looked alarmed. ‘Murder?’

Geoffrey told Huw all he had learned about William’s demise, including the theory that butter might have been responsible. He described the days William had taken to die, during which he had been delirious. He also mentioned the seizures Pulchria had noted, the spells of vomiting observed by Gwgan, and the blackened fingers seen by Mabon, Richard and Cornald. When he had finished, Huw sat back thoughtfully.

‘Vomiting, convulsions and blackening of the extremities are all signs of poisoning from bad grain. It is known by many names – ergot, fire-dance, wolf-tooth or rye-bane.’

‘Wolf-tooth?’ asked Geoffrey uneasily. ‘There was wolf-tooth in a potion that killed another man recently, but he died very quickly.’

‘Then something else was added to this potion, because wolf-tooth is not a rapid killer.’

Geoffrey thought about what Gwgan had said: that Mabon’s tonic had included henbane, too. Did that mean the killer was someone skilled in the use of such substances – such as Gwgan? Or did it imply an amateur, who just added whatever deadly toxin was to hand?

‘Is wolf-tooth ever used to kill rats?’ asked Geoffrey, recalling what Pulchria had claimed about Joan’s medical supplies – which Olivier had denied.

The apothecary’s eyebrows went up. ‘Not sensibly – there are far more effective substances for that.’

Geoffrey frowned. ‘You said wolf-tooth is also called ergot. I was fed ergot not long ago, but my fingers did not turn black, nor did I have fits.’

‘It depends how much was administered,’ explained Huw. ‘Clearly, yours was diluted, whereas your first victim was subjected to a much larger dose. Perhaps you are right, and it did reach him via butter – especially as no one else seems to have partaken of the stuff.’

‘It was said to be rancid. The others must have tried a little or they would not have known.’

‘A little might have had no discernible effect. Or perhaps the wolf-tooth was concentrated in one area – in the middle, perhaps – so that those paring off the edges were spared.’

‘How would wolf-tooth come to be in the butter?’

Huw shrugged. ‘It could have been added when the butter was churned, or later, when it was being delivered to your victim or while it sat unattended in the kitchen. Regardless, it is a vicious thing to have done, and I recommend you be on your guard if you are travelling with the person you suspect for this crime.’

Geoffrey had every intention of being careful. ‘How easy is wolf-tooth to acquire?’

‘Oh, very easy. You merely gather up the diseased grains. I do it myself; if applied properly, wolf-tooth can be a useful therapeutic tool.’

‘But such harvesting suggests the crime was premeditated.’

‘Unquestionably. To collect and store wolf-tooth, then slip it into butter that might have been consumed by a large number of people… well, it suggests a callous ruthlessness.’

When Geoffrey returned to the inn, all his travelling companions except Richard and Edward were already there. Roger, Sear and Alberic were in high humour, the brothel having exceeded their expectations. Bale and Pulchria sat side by side with dreamy smiles on their faces, while Delwyn regaled them with complaints about the local abbey – they had taken one look at his filthy habit and declined to let him in. Gwgan appeared without a word and did not say where he had been, but his face was pale and he was in discomfort. Leah was lying down with a headache, and Cornald’s tunic was spotted with crumbs from the repast he had enjoyed with his fellow butterer.

‘You were right to avoid the fish soup,’ said Richard, slumping down a few moments later, one arm across his middle. ‘I think it was tainted. Trust you to select an inn that serves its guests rancid food, Geoffrey.’

Sear released a spiteful bray of laughter. ‘Hah! Perhaps it is divine justice, because you failed to save me some. God struck you down for selfishness.’

‘God had nothing to do with it,’ said Gwgan in a quiet voice that was indicative of his own suffering. ‘Neither did Geoffrey. Sometimes food is just bad.’

‘I thought the soup smelled bad,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I was surprised you did not notice.’

‘You let us eat rotten food?’ snarled Richard. ‘If I felt better, I would run you through!’

‘I thought it smelled rotten, too,’ said Delwyn smugly. ‘But had I said so, you would have accused me of being girlish, so I held my tongue. Clearly, Sir Geoffrey and I have better noses for that kind of thing.’

He smiled ingratiatingly, which Geoffrey supposed was either a form of apology for his earlier threat or an effort to encourage him to lower his guard. Richard began to berate the landlord for providing putrid wares, although his diatribe came to an abrupt end when he was obliged to dash outside. Gwgan followed quickly, and Sear and Alberic sniggered at their discomfort.

‘There was nothing wrong with my soup,’ declared the innkeeper angrily. ‘It was made from the finest trout giblets. Why do you think there was not much left? Because it is popular with my regulars, and they ate most of it before you arrived! None of them is ill.’

He stamped away, leaving Sear crowing about divine vengeance and Cornald defending the food industry by blaming the sickness on Richard and Gwgan drinking from streams. Then Edward arrived, his plump pink face a mask of consternation.

‘We cannot linger in Brechene,’ he said urgently, purple-gloved hands flapping in alarm. ‘I have just been with Bernard de Neufmarche, and he tells me there is a contagion in the castle. Half my men have been affected, and he has ordered me to leave my whole garrison there, lest they carry the disease with them and spread it around the country.’

‘What kind of contagion?’ asked Delwyn uneasily, glancing to where Richard and Gwgan had just returned from the latrines.

‘One that has the capacity to kill within hours,’ said Edward. ‘So I recommend we leave before we fall victim to it.’

Delwyn stood quickly, his face pale. ‘Then let us go. I have heard about such agues, and I have no intention of succumbing to one myself. I will collect Abbot Mabon from the stable.’

‘He is right,’ said Richard, struggling to his feet. ‘I do not want to be trapped here. I have been gone from Kermerdyn too long already. I never wanted to attend that silly ceremony in Gloucester – the King knows I am loyal; he does not require a scrap of parchment telling him so.’

‘It gives him peace of mind to know he has loyal officers,’ said Edward quietly. ‘I am happy to sign and swear anything he likes.’

‘He does not need anyone else when he has me,’ declared Sear loftily. ‘My loyalty is worth that of ten men, and I have never been asked to swear fealty. His Majesty knows it is not necessary.’

‘You do not look well,’ said Geoffrey to Richard and Gwgan, cutting across the argument he saw was about to begin. ‘I have observed no signs of contagion in Brechene and see no harm in resting here until tomorrow.’