Paul Doherty - Nightshade

‘Well, Master Physician, what do you think?’

‘I have served as a coroner, Sir Hugh, and my immediate conclusion, well, it’s threefold. First,’ he held up a stubby finger, ‘of course you have not been told the truth here; that’s hardlysurprising: no one here is going to make a full confession. Everybody has something to hide. What binds them all together is a deep dislike, even hatred, for Lord Scrope.’

‘And?’

‘Second, Corbett, this is like a disease, a malignancy. The root, in my view, is the past. You keep asking about Acre; that seems to be the radix, the root of it all. Something mysterious undoubtedly happened there. Men from Mistleham went to Acre; only Scrope and Claypole returned. Old soldiers like to talk about their wars and battles, their wounds, the glories, the triumphs. Scrope and Claypole did not – why? We know they escaped. We also know they plundered the Templar treasury, but they haven’t really given the people of Mistleham, the likes of Father Thomas, a true and faithful account of how their colleagues died. Third, if Acre is the root, the flowering is what has happened here. We must, or you must, discover how a killer crossed that icy lake in the dead of night, without being seen or disturbed, and gained entry into a small but fortified house. The assassin then murdered Lord Scrope, who offered no resistance, plundered his treasures and escaped unscathed and unseen. I suggest, Sir Hugh,’ Ormesby got to his feet, ‘you begin there. If you can solve that, then I believe everything else will fall into place.’

‘I would disagree.’ Ranulf spoke up. ‘Master Ormesby, what you say is perceptive and truthful; nevertheless, there are lies we can still pick at. Master Claypole, for example. I don’t believe the story of Le Riche being captured and hanged out of hand; something’s wrong there. The same is true of Brother Gratian. He is so glib. He is hiding behind his status and his privileges. If we could only discover a path in.’

‘True, true,’ the physician murmured, ‘but gentlemen, unless you need me, I must be gone. I will visit Lady Hawisa.’ He stretched his hand out and clasped Corbett’s then Ranulf’s. ‘Please call on me again if I can be of further assistance but, as for the truth behind this? I cannot explain,’ he shook his head, ‘perhaps not even ever.’ And grumbling and muttering under his breath, the physician left the hall.

Corbett rose, went to a side table, filled two goblets of wine and brought one back for Ranulf.

‘Very well, Ranulf. Chanson,’ Corbett beckoned the Clerk of the Stables across, ‘fill yourself a goblet of wine. This is what we will do. Ranulf, clear the table here then wander the manor. Try and find the truth of what we’ve been told about where people were, anything untoward. Chanson, keep an eye on Brother Gratian. If you discover anything, come to my chamber.’

Corbett immediately visited the chapel and sat in a chair before the lady altar; then, getting to his feet, he carefully examined everything whilst wondering what Lord Scrope had meant about something being stolen from there. He gazed up at the crucifix hanging above the entrance to the small sanctuary, then at the altar and side tables, but could see nothing out of place. He returned to his own chamber, took off his boots and lounged in front of the fire. The wine he’d drunk had its effect. He half dozed, and darkness had fallen by the time Ranulf and Chanson returned.

‘Nothing,’ Ranulf declared, slouching down on a stool next to Corbett. ‘Nothing at all, master. Everything we heard is true. The servants sang the same hymn. Dame Marguerite, Brother Gratian, Master Benedict and Lady Hawisa were all in their chambers thenight Lord Scrope died, whilst of course, Father Thomas and Master Claypole were not even glimpsed here. So what now?’

‘I found something.’ Corbett turned to where Chanson was standing by the door. ‘Brother Gratian is going to distribute more Mary loaves tomorrow,’ the Clerk of the Stables reported.

‘Be there,’ Corbett urged. ‘As for you and me, Ranulf, we will sleep late, take our horses and let no one know where we are going.’

‘Where to?’ Ranulf asked fearfully, half suspecting Corbett’s answer.

‘Mordern,’ Corbett replied. ‘It holds a secret and I intend to discover it.’

‘And the Island of Swans?’ Ranulf asked. ‘I talked to Pennywort; he’d racked his memory and said a bridge once spanned the lake where the jetties now stand. Dame Marguerite was correct, Lord Scrope destroyed it. I asked if anyone could swim between the two jetties. Pennywort laughed. Apparently the lake is at its deepest at the crossing point.’

Corbett half listened and nodded. ‘First Mordern, Ranulf,’ he murmured, ‘and when we have collected enough to sift the gold from the dross, we will return to the Island of Swans. Until then it can keep its mystery.’

The following morning Corbett and Ranulf attended the Jesus Mass at St Alphege’s. Once Father Thomas had left the sanctuary, Corbett returned to scrutinise the wall painting.

‘Master?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Look,’ Corbett replied, ‘the defenders of that city, they wear russet and green livery.’

‘The colours of Lord Scrope?’

‘Precisely! Though only some of the figures do, and you have to study the painting closely to distinguish them. Now is this fortress Acre or Babylon? These dark figures fleeing, are they Scrope and Claypole? Who’s the figure in the bed? Is this Gaston, Scrope’s cousin? And the banquet scene with Judas celebrating, what does that mean?’

‘And these.’ Ranulf pointed to the plants or herbs the artist had drawn round the edges of the painting. ‘Is this deadly nightshade?’

‘Perhaps, and this.’ Corbett gestured at the cross and the gleaming wounds of Christ. ‘Is it a reference to the Sanguis Christi? Ah well.’ He sighed. ‘I wish I knew more. Come.’

They left the church, paid the urchin holding their horses and swung themselves into the saddle. Others were also leaving the church, traders eager to have their stalls ready by the time the market bell rang. The cold morning air stank of horse manure and the wet straw strewn across the cobbles; these odours mingled with the savoury tang from the bakeries, cook-shops and taverns. Across the square three roisterers, now half sober, screamed at the beadles to free them from the night stocks. The officials did so, but only after pouring buckets of freezing horse piss over their heads. On the steps of the market cross a crier warned traders that only bread bearing a baker’s seal could be bought, whilst everyone should be wary of jugs of watered wine, milk or oil, not to mention bread containing too much yeast, stale fish drenched with pig’s blood to make it seem fresh, and cheese made to look richer by being soaked in cheap broth.

‘That reminds me of a funny story.’ Ranulf leaned over. ‘A man once asked a butcher for a reduction in price, bearing in mindthat he’d been a customer for seven years. “Seven years!” the butcher exclaimed. “And you are still alive?”’

Corbett laughed and urged his horse across the square towards a stall set up in front of a cookshop. It offered platters of pastries filled with chopped ham, cheese and eel, all seasoned with pepper and other spices. He bought two pastries hot from the oven. He and Ranulf moved their horses into the mouth of an alleyway and ate as Corbett stared round the sprawling marketplace. He noticed the many windows and doorways as well as the ribbon-thin alleyways and runnels between the houses. He was certain that the Sagittarius must have used one of those windows above the forest of brazenly coloured signs: a bush for the vinter, gilded pills for the apothecary, a white arm with stripes of red for the surgeon-barber, a unicorn for the goldsmiths and a horse’s head for the saddlemakers. He bit into the pastry carefully, his other hand grasping the reins. He was oblivious to the hum of noise, cages and pens being opened to release ducks, chickens, capons and screaming piglets, which were then tied to the stalls, waiting for customers to choose one.