Simon Beaufort - A Head for Poisoning

“Well, how many corpses are there at Goodrich missing their heads?” cried Geoffrey, looking from one to the other in confusion.

“I am beginning to wonder the same thing,” said Adrian sombrely, regarding Geoffrey with troubled eyes. “But I can assure you that this not Enide’s.”

“How can you be sure?” asked Geoffrey. “Look again. You must be mistaken.”

“I am not mistaken,” said Adrian. He indicated a figure standing in the shadows holding something carefully in both hands. “Because this man has just brought me Enide’s head.”

Mark Ingram stepped forward importantly and set his bundle on the table next to the one that Geoffrey had brought. With a flourish like something a juggler might have employed, he plucked away the cloth that covered it, and revealed the severed head that lay beneath, setting it upright on the stump that had been its neck when it tipped to one side. Geoffrey sank down onto a bench, and regarded the face about which he had wondered for so long.

Enide had possessed thick brown hair, darker than Geoffrey’s, and the teeth that were bared in a disconcerting grimace were white and strong. But the skin was discoloured and rotten, and Geoffrey could not tell whether she had been beautiful in life or not.

“She looks like you,” said Ingram to Geoffrey, glancing from one to the other.

Adrian silenced him with a glare, while Rohese ran from the house with her hands over her eyes.

“Is it really her?” asked Geoffrey, tearing his eyes from his sister’s face to look at the priest. “Is this really Enide?”

“It is Enide,” said Adrian unsteadily. He came to sit next to Geoffrey on the bench, and they stared at the head together. “I would know her anywhere.”

“But Enide died at the end of last summer,” objected Geoffrey. “It seems to me that this poor woman has not been dead three weeks!”

“You are wrong, Geoffrey,” said Adrian. “This is Enide without question. And she did die last summer. I saw her body, remember?”

“Ask the physician,” said Geoffrey, his thoughts spinning. He had encountered many dead during his life as a soldier and, although no expert, was certainly able to tell whether a person had been dead three weeks or four months. “This is not the head of a person dead since September.”

Adrian looked away. “Please cover her,” he whispered.

When Ingram did not move, Geoffrey snatched the cloth from him, and draped it over the head. Geoffrey saw that the priest was deathly white, and his eyes were hollow with shock. It had been a shock for Geoffrey too-for he had not imagined that he would set eyes on the face of a sister so long in her grave-but he had not known her as Adrian had, and his grief was not so ragged and raw.

“And how do you happen to possess my sister’s head so suddenly, Master Ingram?” Geoffrey asked, thinking that a few days ago, he could never have imagined uttering such a sentence.

Ingram’s eyes glittered. “That is information which will not come free. That silver chalice you seem to have found again will make an acceptable payment.”

Geoffrey was across the room and had the young soldier by the throat almost before he had finished speaking.

“I think I misheard you, Ingram,” he whispered menacingly, holding the soldier up against the wall by his neck so that his feet barely touched the ground.

“Geoffrey, please!” said Adrian, coming to pull at his arm. “I want no violence in my house. It stands on hallowed ground.”

“Not far to go for a burial, then,” said Geoffrey, not relinquishing his vice-like grip on Ingram. “Now, where did you get it?”

“I found it!” squeaked Ingram, the malicious glint in his eyes replaced by fear. “Please! I cannot breathe! Let me go!”

“Let him down, Geoffrey,” said Adrian, tugging harder. “I do not want more filthy murders committed, and I will not stand by and watch one happening under my very nose.”

“Where did you find it?” demanded Geoffrey, ignoring him and giving Ingram a shake.

“In the churchyard,” gasped Ingram. He lashed out in a feeble attempt to escape, but Geoffrey leaned his weight against the struggling soldier to pin down the flailing arms. Ingram shrieked.

Geoffrey felt his dagger hauled from his belt and shoved at his side. He turned to the priest in surprise.

“Enough!” said Adrian, firmly. “There will be no more violence! Let him go, Geoffrey.”

The priest held the knife awkwardly, demonstrating that he had little experience with weapons. Geoffrey turned his attention back to Ingram. “Where in the churchyard did you find it?”

He gasped suddenly as the dagger dug into him, and Ingram went sliding to the floor. Geoffrey gaped at the priest in astonishment.

“I said enough!” shouted Adrian angrily. “I want no more violence!”

“Not so much as to prevent you from stabbing me,” said Geoffrey, holding his side. “God’s teeth, man! That hurt!”

“You were going to strangle him,” raged Adrian. “In my house-on consecrated ground!”

“Whereas you have just knifed me,” retorted Geoffrey. “On consecrated ground! You do not know me very well, priest! I would not have strangled that snivelling little dog, although God knows he deserves it.”

“Your eyes are red with the blood lust of killing!” snapped Adrian, defensively.

“They are red because there is sand in them,” shouted Geoffrey.

“Tell me, Mark,” said Adrian, pushing Geoffrey away and kneeling next to Ingram, who half sat, half lay against the wall, gasping and clutching his throat. “Where did you find it?”

“Go to hell!” Ingram croaked hoarsely. “I will never tell you now! Even if you were to give me that chalice.”

“Please, Mark,” said Adrian. “Look, here is the chalice. Take it. But tell Sir Geoffrey what he would like to know.”

Ingram scrambled to his feet, and snatched the silver cup from Adrian’s hand. Then he spat, straight into the priest’s face, and darted through the door, taking the chalice with him.

“Oh,” said Adrian, looking at the dagger he still held, and wiping his face with his sleeve.

“‘Oh,’ indeed,” said Geoffrey, sinking down on the bench, his hand still to his side. “Now what do you suggest? Shall we chase after him and offer him the church silver if he will answer our so-politely-put questions?”

“I was doing what I thought was right,” said Adrian defensively. He flung Geoffrey’s dagger away from him in sudden disgust, while the knight twisted awkwardly to see if Adrian’s nasty jab had damaged his chain-mail. “I thought he might tell us where he had found her if we treated him with kindness, rather than roughness.”

“Then clearly you do not know him very well, either,” said Geoffrey. “Ingram is absolutely capable of digging up a grave in order to make a profit. He has been ferreting around in the village and asking questions of all sorts of people about Enide, my father’s poisoning, and the death of that drunken servant-Torva. I wondered why. Now it is clear he was bent on extortion.”

“No!” protested Adrian. “His father is my verger, and Mark Ingram himself has been on God’s holy Crusade. He would not do something so despicable.”

“Really?” said Geoffrey. “So you think his demand for my chalice in return for information was so that he could make a donation to the poor, do you?”

“It is possible,” said Adrian. “You are too quick to see the evil in people.”

“And you are too quick to see good that is not there,” snapped Geoffrey. He rubbed his sore side and sighed. “Arguing will get us nowhere. Are you sure that second head belonged to Enide?”

“For God’s sake, yes!” cried Adrian. “How many more times must I tell you? It is my Enide!”