Paul Doherty - The Book of Fires

‘And the Greeks?’ Cranston asked. ‘Have they troubled you since?’

‘No. I was paid my fee, Nicephorus was honest and honourable.’ Falke wiped the sweat from his face. ‘They have left me alone. Sir John, Brother Athelstan, I have told you what I can. I really must leave.’

‘Were you busy this morning?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Yes, around the Inns of Court: I attended a session of the King’s Bench in Westminster Hall. Why?’ Falke leaned forward. ‘Has something happened? It did, didn’t it? I have witnesses. I can swear to where I was. I …’ He paused as Athelstan lifted a hand.

‘Master Falke, we are finished – you may leave.’

‘Well, Brother?’ Cranston asked as the door closed behind the lawyer.

‘I don’t know, Sir John, I truly don’t. We have a number of strands here: the innocence or guilt of Isolda; the truth about a host of secrets at Firecrest Manor such as the where-abouts of Vanner; the role played by Sir Henry and his wife. There’s the identity of the Ignifer, the annulment of Isolda’s marriage, the business of “The Book of Fires” and the fact that some of its dreadful secrets are being used to murderous effect. We deal with the present, Sir John, but many of these mysteries trail back decades. Ah, well, has Parson Garman arrived?’

Cranston rose and went to the door. He talked to Mortice and returned, followed by the tall, lanky figure of Brother Philippe, Canon of the Order of St Augustine and principal physician in the House of Mercy at the Hospital of St Bartholomew, Smithfield.

‘Garman is unable to come,’ Cranston explained, ‘he is attending executions over Tyburn stream.’ He smiled. ‘However, I believe you are acquainted with our next guest.’

‘Indeed I am.’ Athelstan stepped round the portly coroner to exchange the kiss of peace with Philippe Layburn, who, in Athelstan’s opinion, was the most skilled physician in London. The Augustinian, his long, weather-beaten face smiling in pleasure, hugged Athelstan close.

‘You’re still too skinny, Dominican,’ he whispered. ‘You should eat better.’

‘Sir John does that for me,’ Athelstan replied, stepping back and studying the Augustinian from head to toe. ‘Brother physician, you look well.’ What always fascinated Athelstan was Philippe’s sharpness; it seemed to express itself in almost claw-like fingers and eyes as keen as those of a hunting hawk.

‘Brother Athelstan, I am well.’ Philippe sat down, gratefully accepting the tankard of ale Cranston poured for him on the side-dresser and brought across.

‘Thank you for coming, Philippe.’ Athelstan gestured around. ‘We live and work in very dangerous times. You’ve heard of the Ignifer?’ Philippe nodded. ‘He appears to have marked Sir John and me down for death and it’s all connected to Firecrest Manor, where you are physician, yes?’

‘One household amongst many.’

‘And Sir Walter?’

‘Brother, an enigmatic man. I fed him physic but I hardly knew him. To be honest, his household always seemed cloaked in secrets and mystery.’

‘And Lady Isolda?’

‘No better than her husband. She wore her beauty like a shield, fair of face and lovely of form. Isolda kept her distance and she made sure you kept yours.’

‘And her health?’

‘I never had to tend to either Isolda or Vanner the clerk, but Sir Walter was close to his sixty-sixth summer, a man whose body had certainly been battered by time and indulgence.’

‘In the year before he died,’ Cranston asked, ‘Beaumont fell ill, greatly confined to his bed. Could that have been poison?’

‘It’s possible, Sir John. Look,’ the physician sipped from his tankard, ‘Brother Athelstan, we have discussed this before. It is very easy to disguise poisons. Too much foxglove and the heart can be seriously affected. Too much arsenic, and remember it can be used for stomach ailments, and the person dies. I would go on oath that some of my patients who died of so-called natural causes were truly poisoned, but it’s one thing to allege, another to prove and convince a jury. Sir Walter is a fine example. He had served abroad. God knows what ills, miasmas, contagions or diseases he’d encountered. He returned to London and lived high on the hog; his belly, bowel, blood and humours must have been affected by all of this. Yes, I had my suspicions, but it was a question of much suspected and nothing really proved. I gave him potions to purge, cleanse and restore his humours. I urged caution in what he ate and drank. After a while, this wasn’t necessary – Sir Walter ate and drank very little.’

‘But on the morning you examined his corpse you concluded that he had been poisoned?’

‘I disagreed with the local physician Milemete – though, there again,’ Brother Philippe spread his hands, ‘it’s hard to link cause and effect. I examined Beaumont’s corpse most carefully: his face was liverish, eyes slightly popping, a white sputum or froth coated his lips and chin. Here,’ the physician patted his own stomach, ‘purplish blotches. Now,’ he supped from his tankard, ‘there are physicians who would argue that such symptoms could be caused by malignant humours rather than a potion. You must also remember, as I told Sutler, that Sir Walter was known to take his own remedies – for example, the last cup of posset was thickly coated with herbs and spices. The wealthy ignore my advice and, as both of you know, many gardens contain more poisons than a sorcerer’s cabinet. When I arrived in the house that morning, of course, there were whisperings and mutterings, so I was most scrupulous. I examined the inside of Sir Walter’s mouth, which had turned singularly dry. I was able to establish that he had drunk a thick, rich posset. I removed some of the crushed herbs, little shreds caught between his teeth and gum. I noticed a blackness of his tongue, mouth and throat. I detected an offensive smell and I concluded that the posset had been used to disguise something. Sutler pressed me on this and I had to be careful. I did concede that I couldn’t prove it beyond reasonable doubt. I used a less rigorous assessment, namely, that on the balance of probability Sir Walter appeared to be poisoned. Sutler seemed satisfied with that.’

‘Of course, he would be,’ Athelstan conceded.

‘You must remember my conviction deepened when Sutler produced more proof. If that steward and buttery clerk had not given evidence, it would have been very difficult to prove anything against Isolda. According to Sutler, Isolda seized the posset to feed her husband, she changed the goblet and Vanner, who went into the city to buy an extra goblet, appears to have been her accomplice. Both judges and jury fastened on that and, Brother, what real defence did Isolda muster?’

‘And the maid?’ Cranston asked. ‘Rosamund Clifford?’

‘Very strange. I was summoned to attend Sir Walter’s corpse. Buckholt told me that Rosamund was lying very ill. Of course, I examined her. She had been vomiting until her belly ached. She had a fever, a terrible thirst and looseness of the bowels, but she was also very young and vigorous.’

‘Could she have been poisoned?’ Athelstan asked. ‘It’s strange that she fell ill on the same day Sir Walter died.’

‘Brother, coincidence is one thing, proof is another. Rosamund had an ailment of the belly but such a condition, though not as serious, was common in this household.’

‘Was it?’

‘Oh, yes, Brother, belly sickness, bowel disorders, ailments of the spleen and other conditions but nothing fatal. The same applied to Rosamund. She did not die. I did ask her if she could explain the cause of her illness. She was unable to. I told her to drink good clear water and not to consume anything else until her stomach became calm and the fever abated. I distilled her a potion, dried moss mixed with sour milk. She recovered but by then her poor mistress had been arrested, tried, condemned and executed.’