Paul Doherty - The Book of Fires

‘And when did Sir Walter become ill?’

‘Oh, about a year ago.’

‘In the light of what actually happened,’ Athelstan asked, ‘do you now think that Sir Walter was being poisoned in the months before his death?’

‘Perhaps, but hindsight makes us all very wise. My brother used to love his food. He had a terrible weakness for figs in almond sauce. I believe Parson Garman, who had learnt of this delicacy whilst abroad, would bring him some.’

‘I repeat my question: did you suspect poison?’

‘No. Nor did our physician, Brother Philippe. I believe you know him, Brother Athelstan?’

‘I certainly do. I have a very high regard for him. I will be asking his opinion. By the way, did Brother Philippe attend young Rosamund?’

‘Yes, he did, but he could detect nothing except the fever. Brother Philippe became very busy with this household. Rosamund fell ill on the very day that Lady Isolda took the goblet from Buckholt.’

‘Tell me now,’ Athelstan glanced quickly at Sir John, who now sat with his eyes half closed, ‘your brother travelled abroad about …?’

‘Forty years ago.’

‘And he was away for about fifteen years?’

‘Yes.’

‘He returned and married?’

‘Yes, but his first wife, Matilde, died of a bloody flux only a few months after their wedding. By then my brother was winning a reputation as a great merchant. In fact, we both were. The House of Beaumont was respected, and still is, by Crown, court and Church.’

‘Your brother was a widower. Did he seek consolation with other ladies? Please,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘I don’t want to give offence but simply comment on what many men do.’ He shrugged. ‘And, I confess, some priests as well.’

‘He certainly did.’ Rohesia lost some of her stone-like demeanour.

‘Could that be the reason,’ Athelstan chose his words carefully, ‘Sir Walter was so generous to the Minoresses in Aldgate, well known for their care of female foundlings?’

‘Yes, yes.’ Sir Henry coloured slightly and shifted in his chair. Athelstan wryly noticed how he edged away from his wife and the friar wondered if Sir Walter had made reparation through alms to the Minoresses for his brother’s sins as well as his own.

‘Before you ask,’ Sir Henry measured his words, ‘it is possible my brother may have sired a bastard child, a girl but,’ he added hurriedly, ‘I really can’t say.’

‘No, no, you can’t,’ Athelstan agreed sardonically. ‘In fact, you can’t say much about anything.’

‘And your brother’s murder?’ Cranston, smacking his lips, pulled himself up from his chair. ‘Did you notice anything amiss, out of place, in the weeks, days preceding his death?’

‘Vanner!’ Lady Rohesia exclaimed. ‘We noticed he and Isolda grew much closer. Of course, at the same time, my brother-in-law was confined more and more to his bedchamber. Isolda, when she wasn’t consulting with Vanner, and neither of us can tell you about what, also kept to herself. Oh,’ Lady Rohesia waved a gloved hand, ‘we sensed something was wrong but we had no proof and we were very busy. Sir Walter’s death was a great shock, then the allegations were made and Sutler swept like a tempest into the house. Sir Walter was found dead on Tuesday morning. On the following Friday, just before compline, Sutler returned with a guard and a warrant for Isolda’s arrest.’

‘And Vanner?’ Cranston asked. ‘He was your brother’s clerk. You must miss him?’

‘Yes, I do,’ Sir Henry tapped the table, ‘but now he is gone. He was last seen on the Thursday before Isolda’s arrest going out into the garden just after the angelus bell.’

‘He must have fled?’

‘Apparently so, Sir John, but he took none of his possessions with him, no money or valuables.’

‘And his manuscripts?’

‘I think he took most of them. Brother Athelstan, you may see what is left – nothing remarkable or noteworthy.’

‘And your brother’s chancery?’

‘Of course, we have been through all his papers, Rohesia and I, assisted by Mortice and Buckholt. Do you know, Sir John, Brother Athelstan, that I searched, as did the others, but we discovered nothing from those years my brother spent abroad? No mention of “The Book of Fires”. Oh, there are billae , memoranda, indentures and lists of this and that, but nothing really significant.’

‘And “The Book of Fires” itself?’

‘I’ve told you, Brother, Sir Walter hardly ever referred to it, and when he did he gave that sly smile, tapping the side of his nose and claiming its whereabouts would be a revelation to everyone but that it was safe on the island of Patmos, and no, I don’t know what he meant.’

‘And this morning?’ Athelstan asked. ‘You went into the city accompanied by Buckholt and Rosamund?’

‘Yes.’ Lady Rohesia raised her eyebrows. ‘Why? Has something happened?’

‘Did you stay together?’

‘No, when we reached Cheapside we went our separate ways.’ Lady Rohesia gestured. ‘We all had different tasks, errands, items of business.’

‘For how long?’

‘Brother, at least two hours. Sir Henry said we should all meet at the Standard as the bells chimed for noon,’ she glanced at her husband, ‘and so we did.’

Athelstan sensed he would make little progress on this issue: it would be difficult, if not impossible, to prove one or more of them slipped away to launch that murderous attack so he just nodded, tapping his sandalled feet against the floor.

‘Now, Sir John, are we finished here?’ Sir Henry asked.

Cranston looked at Athelstan, who nodded. Once they’d left, Athelstan sat back in his chair.

‘We never did anything wrong,’ he whispered. ‘But, there again, we never did anything right.’

‘Friar?’

‘An epitaph inscribed above Hell’s door, Sir John. Believe me, that precious pair could tell us more but chose not to. Ah, well, you have summoned Falke and Garman?’

‘Yes, and let’s see if they have arrived.’

Nicholas Falke, blond hair all dishevelled, face flushed, blue popping eyes blinking with anger, was ushered into the buttery. Mortice served more ale.

‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan,’ Falke began, ‘I am very busy.’

‘Aren’t we all?’ Cranston replied. ‘So let’s be brusque and brisk. Tell the truth and you will have nothing to fear.’

‘Sir John, are you threatening me?’

‘Yes. I am Lord High Coroner of London and this session is as valid as any court. So first, before you defended Lady Isolda did you have any dealings with her?’

‘No.’

‘So why did you defend her? Come on,’ Cranston snarled and banged on the table, ‘I will have you put on oath and, if you lie, haul you off to Newgate on a charge of perjury.’

‘For the love of God,’ Athelstan whispered, ‘Falke, you did your duty. You tried your best but Isolda has gone to God. We need to know why you, a complete stranger, a well-respected lawyer, defended her. Isolda, so we understand, had very little money of her own?’

Falke, raising his hand in a sign of peace, scraped back his chair and walked over to the window. He pulled back the shutters and stared through the thick mullion glass.

‘I truly believed that Isolda was innocent. I accepted and still do that the story about the goblets was a mere fabrication. Isolda maintained Sir Walter must have been poisoned by others.’

‘Like whom?’

‘Oh,’ Falke didn’t turn round, ‘Buckholt, even Vanner. But I saw these accusations as the outpourings of a tormented mind. All she could cite was household gossip.’

‘And Vanner?’

‘She admitted he was her ally here at Firecrest and, like the others, had grievances against his master. She pointed out that Sir Walter could have been poisoned before she gave him the drink or at some time during the night. People could have gone in or out of his chamber – after all, he wasn’t found dead until after daybreak.’