Simon Beaufort - A Head for Poisoning

Adrian shook his head, then nodded, then made a gesture of exasperation. “I do not know! I do not understand anything about this business. But if Enide really did embark on all this subterfuge-and I say if -then her reasons would have been purely honourable.”

“Reasons for murder are seldom honourable,” said Geoffrey.

Without waiting for the priest’s reply, he steered his destrier around and headed for the path that led to Monmouth, some six miles distant, with his sergeant and man-at-arms close behind him. He glanced round briefly, jamming his conical helmet on his head. The priest stood dejectedly in the middle of the path, looking like a man who had been through a battle.

‘Barlow insisted on coming,” said Sergeant Helbye, once the track had widened sufficiently to allow him to draw abreast of Geoffrey. “He heard that Ingram has murdered the physician, and I think he wants to prove to you that it had nothing to do with him.”

“I know that,” said Geoffrey. “It was Ingram who was asking all the questions about my family and complaining that I had prevented him from looting, not Barlow.”

“Why were you shouting at the priest?” asked Helbye. “Father Adrian is a gentle man and is greatly loved by the villagers.”

“He is a gentle man who has been party to murder, the desecration of corpses, treachery, and lies and deceit beyond your wildest imaginings,” said Geoffrey wearily, sorry that a man like Adrian should fall victim to Goodrich’s creeping evil. “I should take a torch and burn this whole place to the ground, and rid the world of it! That poor Earl of Shrewsbury does not know what he is letting himself in for!”

“I am sure he will manage,” said Helbye. “But what ails you? Is it your family again?”

“I should say,” said Geoffrey bitterly. “I have just learned from Father Adrian that Enide is alive and well. And I suspect that having failed to slay one king for the simple reason that someone got there before her, she has her murderous sights set on another.”

“Enide?” asked Helbye, giving the matter some serious thought. “Yes, I suppose I could see her doing all that.”

“What?” exclaimed Geoffrey, startled “You believe my accusations so readily?”

“Oh, yes,” said Helbye, as if it were obvious. “You left here a long time ago, while Enide stayed to grow up with your older brothers and sister. So, is it really surprising that she lost the gentleness you remember? By the time she was twenty, she was just as bad as the rest of them for plotting and fighting. She was not downright evil or anything like that, but just like the others-greedy, bitter, and ill-humoured. I always wondered why you singled her out for such affection. Begging your pardon, sir.”

“But she wrote such beautiful things,” said Geoffrey sadly. “She told me about the wildflowers at springtime, and about poetry she had read or ballads she had heard sung. And Father Adrian said she was kind and gentle.”

“You cannot trust letters, lad,” said Helbye sagely. “If you believe her to be some kind of saint on the basis of some silly scrawls on parchment, then you need your wits seeing to. But there is a lot about this that I do not understand. The physician said Enide is going to kill King Henry, but Father Adrian, who is a good and honest man, believes you are wrong.”

“The good and honest Father Adrian still knows more than he is saying,” said Geoffrey. “Either that, or he is one of the most gullible men in the kingdom.”

“So what exactly is happening?” asked Helbye. “Are we off to save the King?”

“I suppose so,” said Geoffrey. “Enide and some others apparently developed a plot to kill Rufus in the New Forest, but someone beat them to it-they intended Rufus to have died this coming summer, when the Duke of Normandy would be ready to take the throne. But Tirel’s shot caught them before they were fully ready, and King Henry seized the crown instead. Now Enide plans to rid England of King Henry, too, to provide the Duke with another chance.”

“But Rufus’s death was an accident,” protested Helbye. “Tirel claims he did not mean to kill him.”

“Actually, Tirel is now claiming that he did not fire the arrow at all,” said Geoffrey. “But whether he did or not is irrelevant, because it seems plans were afoot to kill Rufus anyway. The wrong successor took advantage of the empty throne, and now a second murder is required.”

“Who, other than Enide, is involved in all this?” asked Helbye, accepting the twists and turns of the plot far more stoically than Geoffrey had done.

“According to the physician, the cabal comprised himself, Enide, Stephen’s wife, and my father. There were also others, but he declined to mention more names. I suppose Stephen might be one of the plotters, since his wife was involved.”

“So, what about this poisoning business?” asked Helbye. “Do you think that was done by someone loyal to the King to prevent the plot from hatching?”

“Godric and Enide thought so,” said Geoffrey. “But their alleged poisonings have nothing to do with anything-no one poisoned Godric and no one poisoned Enide.”

“How so?” asked Helbye, bewildered. “Sir Godric was dying from the toxins in his body.”

“I did not say that he was not being poisoned,” said Geoffrey. “I said that no one was responsible. Well, not directly, anyway. Father became ill when he handed the running of the manor to Walter and Stephen. In order to pass the time, he took up painting, using pigments that were made by the physician, who enjoyed playing with different compounds. It was the paint that poisoned father. It made Enide ill too, when she slept in his chamber so that she could take advantage of the secret tunnel for her clandestine meetings.”

“Paint?” queried Helbye. “How? Surely they did not drink it?”

“No, but it must create poisonous miasmas. I felt unwell each time I slept in my father’s chamber. At first, I assumed that I had caught an ague from falling in the river. Later, I thought it was the after-effects of the ergot. But really, it was the paint. Francis told me that he used lead powder in the darkest pigments; perhaps that was responsible. Then I experienced the same nausea in Francis’s laboratory where he was making the stuff, as I did in father’s room.”

That, and the idea of Hedwise’s fish sauce being added to it, he recalled with distaste.

Helbye rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “For a physician, Master Francis was not a healthy man. My wife tells me that it was something of a joke in the village-who wants to go to a medical man who is always ill himself? Anyway, I wonder whether he could have made himself sick with these paints of his, too.”

“He did,” said Geoffrey, as something else clicked in his mind. “He offered me a physic that day because he felt unwell himself and was about to brew something to alleviate the symptoms. And my dog knew-he ran away from Francis’s garden, and even abandoned a stolen ham so that he would not have to stay. He must have smelt the stuff. How could I have been so blind, with these facts staring me in the face all along?”

“It is hardly blindingly obvious, lad,” said Helbye consolingly.

“But it is obvious, Will! The poison could not have been food or drink, because both had been tested by Francis, and either Torva or Ine. Therefore, it had to be something to do with the room itself. It was not the mattress, and there is very little else in the room except the rugs and the chest. There are not that many rugs and it is a large chamber anyway, while Rohese and Mabel both spent some time in the chest without ill-effects. But there are plenty of paintings. Father used every available patch of wall for his art. And he always insisted that the windows remained closed, thus concentrating the fumes.”