Paul Doherty - The Book of Fires

Rosamund’s head came up, her mouth gaping.

‘What do you mean?’ Falke shouted.

‘Ask Parson Garman,’ Athelstan declared, ‘a former comrade of Sir Walter during his years abroad when Black Beaumont loved figs baked in a creamy almond sauce. Yes, parson?’

‘I have told you that.’

‘Yes, you have, and how you specially purchased this delicacy to remind Sir Walter of those stirring days in Outremer.’

‘The figs!’ Lady Anne exclaimed. ‘Brother Athelstan, are you alleging they were poisoned?’

‘Not by me,’ Garman declared.

‘No, by Isolda, probably assisted by Vanner – some delicate poison which would increase in strength, the likes of white or red arsenic. Sir Walter loved his figs. He grew sick. He tried to eat them but then-’

‘But then what?’ Falke interrupted.

‘On the day Sir Walter was murdered I believe his intention to seek an annulment was on the verge of becoming public. He was about to serve his case to the Bishop for inspection by the Archdeacon’s court. Isolda and Vanner realized they had little time left and became agitated. On that memorable morning, you, Parson Garman, brought the usual delicacy – figs in a cream almond sauce, yes?’ The priest nodded. ‘You conversed with Sir Walter, the usual parry and thrust, after which you left?’ Again the chaplain agreed. ‘You, Rosamund,’ Athelstan pointed at the now pallid maid, fingers to her lips, ‘visited Sir Walter later on. He gave you the figs left by Parson Garman?’

‘How?’ Rosamund spluttered. ‘How could she poison them? I mean …’

‘I suspect Isolda also visited Sir Walter shortly after you left Parson Garman. She either exchanged the dish or poured some poison over it which would sink into that creamy almond sauce. Oh, they’d been poisoned before but very lightly; if they were eaten by a healthy person, the potion would have little effect, but this time the dosage was deadly.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Brother Philippe, your own physician, treated Sir Walter for these minor stomach ailments; he could not detect poison. He also treated others in this household suffering from a similar condition. I suspect those who shared these figs out …’ He let his words hang in the air.

‘True, true.’ Buckholt turned to Sir Henry. ‘On one occasion I had ill-humours of the belly – so did others. I am sure I had eaten some of those figs.’

‘And if you reflect,’ Athelstan declared, ‘neither Isolda nor Vanner suffered such ailments. Brother Philippe declared he had no dealings with either of them. I am certain Brother Philippe would corroborate what I’ve just said.’

‘You are correct,’ Sir Henry declared. ‘Isolda and Vanner – I cannot recall either of them having to be treated. Others certainly were …’

‘But why should they poison the figs,’ Falke interrupted, ‘if they knew Sir Walter was not eating them? I could understand them doing that at the beginning to disable Sir Walter, but as he grew more sickly the figs were left. Moreover, why coat them with a truly malignant dose if they were to be eaten by others?’

‘Oh, I shall explain that!’ Athelstan replied.

‘No, no,’ Rosamund wailed, ‘this cannot be.’

‘Oh, but it was,’ Athelstan insisted. ‘At the same time Isolda and Vanner planned to poison Sir Walter’s posset. She was furiously plotting not to be caught. If it hadn’t been for Buckholt and Mortice, she would have escaped.’ Athelstan allowed his words to hang in the air.

‘Sweet God,’ Sir Henry breathed, ‘now I understand. There would have been two deaths in this manor, both by poison: Walter Beaumont and Rosamund Clifford.’

‘I visited Sir Walter,’ Rosamund gabbled. ‘He was comfortable. He said he wanted the figs but they were too much for him. He called them a temptation. He insisted that I accept them as a gift. I took them to my own chamber and ate them. I felt …’

‘You became very ill,’ Athelstan agreed, ‘but you are a young, healthy woman. Your body would resist, even as you manifested symptoms of the sweating sickness, yes?’

Rosamund simply stared back in horror.

‘Even better,’ Athelstan continued, ‘on your return to your chamber, you violently vomited? You had to visit the latrines?’

‘I ate the figs,’ she replied, ‘and I vomited time and again through the following night until my belly ached. Later I felt a terrible thirst, and my skin burning up. Physician Philippe visited me after he had been summoned to attend Sir Walter. He examined my symptoms …’

‘By then, Rosamund, the poison was purged but your body had to recover, your humours be restored. The bile in your belly calmed, yet, remember this, your mistress almost murdered you whilst Parson Garman, whose relationship with Sir Walter was not the most cordial, would have fallen under deep suspicion.’

The friar pointed at Falke. ‘Now I shall answer your question. At first Sir Walter ate the figs and became subject to stomach complaints. Eventually he stopped eating them, or at least all of them; others tasted this delicacy and suffered similar symptoms of the belly.’

‘Of course,’ Lady Rohesia murmured, ‘it served as a cover for what they were doing. Sir Walter suffered stomach cramps but so did others; it would lessen suspicion, create the impression that this was some household sickness.’

‘And a fatal dose,’ Athelstan declared, ‘would help deepen suspicion that a poisoner was waging war on Sir Walter and his entire household. Let me explain. If Isolda and Vanner had not been detected by Mortice and Buckholt, if Rosamund had also died of suspected poisoning,’ he gestured at the prison chaplain, ‘against whom would the finger of suspicion be pointed? And you, Rosamund, were chosen by mere chance. It could have been Buckholt or anyone who ate those figs. It didn’t really matter as long as someone else in the household died of poisoning.’ Athelstan paused to let his words reverberate through minds and hearts. Garman and Rosamund were deeply shocked as their awareness deepened of how close Isolda had brought them to destruction. Sir Henry and his wife looked cowed, lost in their own thoughts. Falke stared unbelieving, his eyes blinking and lips moving wordlessly as if searching for words. Buckholt sat grinning to himself. Only Lady Anne, the mute Turgot behind her, seemed alert. She rolled back the voluminous cuffs of her cloak and leaned forward, tapping the table.

‘Brother Athelstan, what you say is logical. God be my witness.’ She stared around, hands outstretched. ‘We’ve seen Vanner’s corpse. What else can we believe except that Isolda was an assassin? Yet surely Sir Walter must have entertained his own suspicions? Why didn’t he voice them?’

‘Oh, he did, but he was very wary. In fact, he trusted none of you. That’s the problem with men like Sir Walter – everyone is suspect. And he was right, wasn’t he? Sir Henry, your brother realized you were waiting for him to die, praying that he would do so without an heir. No, no,’ Athelstan waved a hand, ‘now is not the time for protests of false innocence. Parson Garman, you know I speak the truth about your relationship with Black Beaumont. You hated him. You wanted revenge. Good enough motives for murder? Rosamund, you only graced Sir Walter with your company at your mistress’ behest. She used you to distract her husband, perhaps to discover the whereabouts of “The Book of Fires”. Sir Walter must have realized that. Lady Anne, Sir Walter may have respected you but never enough to confide in you. Moreover, like his wife, he may have come to resent you for introducing Isolda to him. Who knows, he may have suspected you of some nefarious, deeply laid scheme to discover his secrets …’

‘Nonsense!’ she snapped. ‘What would I want with them?’