Paul Doherty - Nightshade

Corbett picked up the wineskin and threw it across. The chaplain clumsily removed the stopper, gulped greedily and handed it back.

‘Dame Marguerite also told you about the Sagittarius, who’d appeared years ago threatening her brother. You and she decided the Sagittarius must return. First to deal out terror and justice to the good citizens of Mistleham who’d supported Lord Scrope’s attack on the Free Brethren, and second to plan for Scrope’s own death. You chose your victims for execution, innocents in Mistleham. You used Dame Marguerite as your constant disguise, as you did when Wilfred and Eadburga were slaughtered. You were not guarding the door at St Alphege’s; you slipped away to commit horrid murder. Time, however, was passing. To a certain extent you and Dame Marguerite had lost control over events. The massacre, the hanging of Le Riche, and now the King’s men were coming to Mistleham. You plotted furiously. First you, Master Benedict, visited Father Thomas, calling yourself Nightshade. You issued a veiled warning, an ultimatum to Lord Scrope. Of course he recognised the truth behind your message: his evil day had caught up with him. You knew he would not repent. Already you were devising his death. A constant visitor to the manor, residing there with Dame Marguerite, you could hide away bows andarrows. One night you went hunting Scrope’s mastiffs; they also had been involved in the attack on Mordern. More importantly, they were guard dogs. Did you first mix an opiate with their meat?’

Master Benedict just smiled.

‘Then you grasped the bow and arrows Dame Marguerite had smuggled in for you and slipped out into the darkness like the hunter you are. Two arrows for each hound, one to wound and slow your quarry, the second delivering the killing blow.’

‘And then we arrived,’ Ranulf interrupted, ‘but our presence did not deter you.’

‘In a way, Master Benedict,’ Corbett declared, ‘you were pleased at our arrival. The corpses of your comrades were rotting; we ended all that. Nevertheless, you used the occasion to remind Scrope’s men that the Sagittarius was not far. However, the burning of your dead truly disturbed you. You became ill with fury; I witnessed that. You carried out immediate retribution. You discovered that Scrope’s henchman Robert de Scott was wallowing in the Honeycomb. Once again you disappeared into that warren of garrets and chambers above Mistleham marketplace to unleash death before turning on Scrope himself.’

Master Benedict bowed his head and smiled softly. Corbett suspected he was simply hiding his confusion.

‘Dame Marguerite then came into her own. By now she truly hated her brother, as she did his shadow Claypole. She was determined to harm the mayor. She’d always hated his pretensions; I suspect even before your revelations to her. Whilst her brother was away in Acre, Dame Marguerite was the one who removed the blood registers from St Alphege’s – so that if her brother died childless, Master Claypole could make no claim. True?’

‘It’s possible.’ The chaplain kept his head down. ‘Dame Marguerite truly hated Claypole, and if she’d lived, she would have dealt with him.’

‘But first her brother,’ Corbett declared. ‘On the day we burnt the dead at Mordern, you returned to the manor to take Gaston’s ring, which, God forgive his hypocrisy, Scrope had placed on the head of the crucified Saviour. You did this before slipping out into Mistleham to wreak bloody havoc in the marketplace. You strode into that chapel only to be surprised by Lady Hawisa. She came in after you full of rage at her husband and, in the silence of that place, confessed how she had often plotted to kill him with nightshade. She left and so did you, taking the ring to Dame Marguerite as well as the information Lady Hawisa had unwittingly provided.’

Corbett paused and listened to the faint sounds from outside. He thought of the list of murderous deeds this man was responsible for and wondered how Master Benedict could be brought to full justice. First, though, the indictment had to be presented.

‘Lord Scrope was now truly frightened,’ Corbett continued. ‘Dame Marguerite was still acting the role of the loving, loyal sister. Secretly, and I admit this is conjecture, she went to see him. She would act all concerned and anxious, bemoaning how no one could be trusted, how the very walls had ears.’ Corbett shrugged. ‘It would not be too difficult with Scrope haunted and hunted by the past as well as the present. Dame Marguerite would argue that no one could be trusted, not even his wife, who, she told him, also desired to end his life. She offered to bring proof, revelations about the mysterious threats, either herself or through her faithful chaplain. One of you would cross the secret ford and visit him that night in the reclusorium; thatwas the best place for such a confession to be made, where no one could see or hear.’

‘And Lord Scrope would agree to that?’

‘Why not? What did he fear from his faithful sister or her creature, the whey-faced chaplain? God knows what Dame Marguerite offered, what she said, but Scrope certainly accepted.’

‘But that ford at night?’

‘Nonsense, Master Benedict, you know Mistleham Manor well. You’ve been there for over a year, Dame Marguerite had shown you the place. You may have even practised crossing it. I did once, quite safely. You could do it easily armed with a staff, a rope and a shuttered lantern horn.’

Master Benedict glanced up in surprise. Corbett noted the fear in his eyes, the realisation of how hard the case pressed against him.

‘What had you to fear, cold water? The guards were sheltering well away under some trees. Robert de Scott had been dispatched to hell, the guard dogs slain. Dame Marguerite was ready to swear that you were ill all night. No, no – you safely crossed to the rear of the reclusorium and, as agreed, tapped on a shutter. Lord Scrope, lying on his bed, gets up, pulls aside the drapes, opens the shutters and lets you in. What can he, a warrior, fear from a pious, unarmed chaplain carrying a small pannier bag? Scrope sits down in his chair and you, all nervous, stand over him. You fumble with the bag but swiftly grasp the dagger and plunge it into Scrope’s heart. In the blink of an eye Scrope was killed because he had been faced with the totally unexpected and had no time to resist, to struggle. You plunged that dagger deep. Scrope tried to grasp the hilt and bloodied his hands. You just stood and watched the life light fade in your enemy’s eyes. You then took the keys fromround his neck and ransacked his treasury. You later returned the keys, pulled out your dagger and thrust in the one taken from the crypt at Westminster.’

‘And the poison?’

‘Oh, you may have disturbed the herb plant at the manor, or the nightshade may have been given to you by Dame Marguerite from her stock of powders in the convent infirmary. Anyway, you poured the phial of poison into the jug, then filled that yew cup. A mysterious, mischievous twist that would suggest Lady Hawisa’s guilt. You later departed as you came, through the window, pulling over the drapes, closing the shutter and going back across the ford.’

‘I could have been noticed.’

‘I doubt it. A dark shadow on a black, freezing night? You were no longer the timid chaplain, but a soldier skilled and ruthless.’

‘But those shutters remained unbarred.’

‘Dame Marguerite took care of that. She’d arranged to see her brother the following morning in the reclusorium with Father Thomas, a gesture that would reassure her brother about his midnight visitor. She’d promised to go over to discuss certain concerns, but also to secretly consult with him on what to do next. Scrope would see that as logical reassurance that you were what you pretended to be, his loyal, loving sister’s emissary. Father Thomas was a cat’s paw: the abbess and the parish priest paying a visit to their manor lord. Of course this is mere conjecture, because Dame Marguerite’s real intention was to conceal the mystery of her brother’s brutal murder. On that morning she crossed by boat. The door was locked, so she directed Pennywort to break the nearest shutter, which he did. He climbs in and seesthe horror. He hastily unlocks the door and Dame Marguerite sweeps in. Father Thomas immediately acts the priest, tending to the corpse. Dame Marguerite, pretending to be all flustered, hastens around the reclusorium. She quickly pulls aside the drapes of that window, lowers the bar, and lifts the pegs against the shutters. Remember, the reclusorium was cloaked in darkness; most of the candles had guttered out. Father Thomas is busy. Pennywort is standing outside by the door. Dame Marguerite can do what she likes and the mystery is complete. The alarm is then noisily raised. People hasten across, trampling any sign, if any remained, of Scrope’s secret assassin.’