by Ellis Peters
Cadfael went into the kitchen. She had her pots and pans in neat order and well polished, she was handy and able as well as pretty. The brazier had an iron frame built high on two sides, to support an iron hob above the heat, and there, no doubt, the little bowl had rested until Bonel was ready for it. Two benches were ranged against the wall, out of the way, but close to the warmth. Three wooden platters, all used, lay on the shelf under the open window.
In the room at his back the silence was oppressive and fearful, heavy with foreboding. Cadfael went out at the open kitchen door, and looked along the road.
Thank God there was to be no second and even more dismaying death to cope with: Prior Robert, far too dignified to run, but furnished with such long legs that Brother Edmund had to trot to keep up with his rapid strides, was advancing along the highroad in august consternation and displeasure, his habit billowing behind him.
“I have sent a lay brother into Shrewsbury,” said the prior, addressing the assembled household, “to inform the sheriff of what has happened, as I am told this death—madam, I grieve for your loss!—is from no natural cause, but brought about by poison. This terrible thing, though clearly reflecting upon our house, has taken place outside the walls, and outside the jurisdiction of our abbey court.” He was grateful for that, at least, and well he might be! “Only the secular authorities can deal with this. But we must give them whatever help we can, it is our duty.”
His manner throughout, however gracefully he inclined towards the widow, and however well chosen his words of commiseration and promises of help and support in the sad obligations of burial, had been one of outrage. How dared such a thing happen in his cure, in his newly acquired abbacy and through the instrument of his gift? His hope was to soothe the bereaved with a sufficiently ceremonious funeral, perhaps a very obscure place in the actual church precincts if one could be found, bundle the legal responsibility into the sheriff’s arms, where it belonged, and hush the whole affair into forgetfulness as quickly as possible. He had baulked in revulsion and disgust in the doorway of the bedchamber, giving the dead man only a brief and appalled reverence and a hasty murmur of prayer, and quickly shut the door upon him again. In a sense he blamed every person, there for imposing this ordeal and inconvenience upon him; but most of all he resented Cadfael’s blunt assertion that this was a case of poison. That committed the abbey to examine the circumstances, at least. Moreover, there was the problem of the as yet unsealed agreement, and the alarming vision of Mallilie possibly slipping out of his hands. With Bonel dead before the charter was fully legal, to whom did that fat property now belong? And could it still be secured by a rapid approach to the hypothetical heir, before he had time to consider fully what he was signing away?
“Brother,” said Robert, looking down his long, fastidious nose at Cadfael, who was a head shorter, “you have asserted that poison has been used here. Before so horrid a suggestion is put to the sheriff’s officers, rather than the possibility of accidental use, or indeed, a sudden fatal illness—for such can happen even to men apparently in good health!—I should like to hear your reasons for making so positive a statement. How do you know? By what signs?”
“By the nature of his illness,” said Cadfael. “He suffered with prickling and tingling of lips, mouth and throat, and afterwards with rigidity in those parts, so that he could not swallow, or breathe freely, followed by stiffness of his whole body, and great weakness of his heart-beat. His eyes were greatly dilated. All this I have seen once before, and then I knew what the man had swallowed, for he had the bottle in his hand. You may remember it, some years ago. A drunken carter during the fair, who broke into my store and thought he had found strong liquor. In that case I was able to recover him, since he had but newly drunk the poison. But I recognise all the signs, and I know the poison that was used. I can detect it by smell on his lips, and on the remains of the dish he ate, the dish you sent him.”
If Prior Robert’s face paled at the thought of what that might all too easily have meant, the change was not detectable, for his complexion was always of unflawed ivory. To do him justice, he was not a timorous man. He demanded squarely: “What is this poison, if you are so sure of your judgement?”
“It is an oil that I make for rubbing aching joints, and it must have come either from the store I keep in my workshop, or from some smaller quantity taken from it, and I know of but one place where that could be found, and that is our own infirmary. The poison is monk’s-hood—they call it so from the shape of the flowers, though it is also known as wolfsbane. Its roots make an excellent rub to remove pain, but it is very potent poison if swallowed.”
“If you can make medicines from this plant,” said Prior Robert, with chill dislike, “so, surely, may others, and this may have come from some very different source, and not from any store of ours.”
“That I doubt,” said Cadfael sturdily, “since I know the odour of my own specific so well, and can detect here mustard and houseleek as well as monk’s-hood. I have seen its effects, once taken, I know them again. I am in no doubt, and so I shall tell the sheriff.”
“It is well,” said Robert, no less frigidly, “that a man should know his own work. You may, then, remain here, and do what you can to provide my lord Prestcote or his deputies with whatever truth you can furnish. I will speak with them first, I am responsible now for the peace and good order of our house. Then I will send them here. When they are satisfied that they have gathered all the facts that can be gathered, send word to Brother Infirmarer, and he will have the body made seemly and brought to the chapel. Madam,” he said in quite different tones, turning to the widow, “you need have that your tenure here will be disturbed. We will not add to your distresses, we deplore them heartily. If you are in any need, send your man to me.” And to Brother Edmund, who hovered unhappily: “Come with me! I wish to see where these medicaments are kept, and how accessible they may be to unauthorised people. Brother Cadfael will remain here.”
He departed as superbly as he had come, and at the same speed, the infirmarer scurrying at his heels. Cadfael looked after him with tolerant comprehension; this was certainly a disastrous thing to happen when Robert was new in his eminence, and the prior would do everything he could to smooth it away as a most unfortunate but perfectly natural death, the result of some sudden seizure. In view of the unconcluded charter, it would present him with problems enough, even so, but he would exert himself to the utmost to remove the scandalous suspicion of murder, or, if it must come to that, to see it ebb away into an unsolved mystery, attributed comfortably to some unidentified rogue outside the abbey enclave. Cadfael could not blame him for that; but the work of his own hands, meant to alleviate pain, had been used to destroy a man, and that was something he could not let pass.
He turned back with a sigh to the doleful household within, and was brought up short to find the widow’s dark eyes, tearless and bright, fixed upon him with so significant and starry a glance that she seemed in an instant to have shed twenty years from her age and a great load from her shoulders. He had already come to the conclusion that, though undoubtedly shocked, she was not heartbroken by her loss; but this was something different. Now she was unmistakably the Richildis he had left behind at seventeen. Faint colour rose in her cheeks, the hesitant shadow of a smile caused her lips to quiver, she gazed at him as if they shared a knowledge closed to everyone else, and only the presence of others in the room with them kept her from utterance.
The truth dawned on him only after a moment’s blank incomprehension, and struck him as the most inconvenient and entangling thing that could possibly have happened at this moment. Prior Robert in departing had called him by his name, no usual name in these parts, and reminder enough to one who had, perhaps, already been pondering half-remembered tricks of voice and movement, and trying to run them to earth.
His impartiality and detachment in this affair would be under siege from this moment. Richildis not only knew him, she was sending him urgent, silent s
ignals of her gratitude and dependence, and her supreme assurance that she could rely on his championship, to what end he hardly dared speculate.
CHAPTER 3
Gilbert Prestcote, sheriff of Shropshire since the town fell into King Stephen’s hands during the past summer, had his residence in Shrewsbury castle, which he held fortified for the king, and managed his now pacified shire from that headquarters. Had his deputy been in Shrewsbury when Prior Robert’s message reached the castle, Prestcote would probably have sent him to answer the call, which would have been a relief to Brother Cadfael, who had considerable faith in Hugh Beringar’s shrewd sense; but that young man was away on his own manor, and it was a sergeant, with a couple of men-at-arms as escort, who finally arrived at the house by the millpond.
The sergeant was a big man, bearded and deep-voiced, in the sheriff’s full confidence, and able and willing to act with authority in his name. He looked first to Cadfael, as belonging to the abbey, whence the summons had come, and it was Cadfael who recounted the course of events from the time he had been sent for. The sergeant had already spoken with Prior Robert, who would certainly have told him that the suspected dish had come from his own kitchen and at his own orders.
“And you swear to the poison? It was in this and no other food that he swallowed it?”
“Yes,” said Cadfael, “I can swear to it. The traces left are small, but even so minute a smear of the sauce, if you put it to your lips, would bring out a hot prickling some minutes later. I have confirmed it for myself. There is no doubt.”
“And Prior Robert, who ate the remainder of the bird, is live and well, God be praised. Therefore somewhere between the abbot’s kitchen and yonder table, poison was added to the dish. It is not a great distance, or a great time. You, fellow, you fetch the meals from the kitchen to this house? And did so today? Did you halt anywhere by the way? Speak to any? Set down your tray anywhere?”
“I did not,” said Aelfric defensively. “If I delay, or the food is cold, I have to answer for it. I do to the letter what I am supposed to do, and so I did today.”
“And here? What did you do with the dishes when you came in?”
“He delivered them to me,” said Aldith, so quickly and firmly that Cadfael looked at her with new interest. “He put down the tray on the bench by the brazier, and I myself set the small dish on the hob to keep warm, while we two served the main dish to our lord and lady. He told me the prior had kindly sent it for the master. When I had served them within, we sat down in the kitchen to eat our own meal.”
“And none of you noticed anything wrong with the partridge? In odour or appearance?”
“It was a very rich, spiced sauce, it had a fine smell. No, there was nothing to notice. The master ate it and found nothing wrong until his mouth began to prick and burn, and that was afterwards.”
“Both scent and savour,” confirmed Cadfael, consulted with a rapid glance, “could well be covered by such a sauce. And the amount needed would not be so great.”
“And you …” The sergeant turned to Meurig. “You were also here? You belong to the household?”
“Not now,” said Meurig readily. “I come from Master Bonel’s manor, but I’m working now for the master-carpenter Martin Bellecote, in the town. I came here today to visit an old great-uncle of mine in the infirmary, as Brother Infirmarer will tell you, and being about the abbey I came to visit here also. I came into the kitchen just when Aldith and Aelfric were about to share out their own meal, and they bade me join them, and I did.”
“There was enough,” said Aldith. “The abbot’s cook is generous-handed.”
“So you were the three eating here together. And giving the little dish a stir now and then? And within …” He passed through the doorway and looked a second time about the debris of the table. “Master Bonel and the lady, naturally.” No, he was not a stupid man, he could count, and he had noted the absence of one person both from the house and from their talk, as if they were all united to smooth the sixth trencherman out of sight. “Here are three places laid. Who was the third?”
There was no help for it, someone had to answer. Richildis made the best of it. With apparently ingenuous readiness, rather as though surprised at the introduction of an irrelevancy, she said: “My son. But he left well before my husband was taken ill.”
“Without finishing his dinner! If this was his place?”
“It was,” she said with dignity, and volunteered nothing more.
“I think, madam,” said the sergeant, with a darkly patient smile, “you had better sit down and tell me more about this son of yours. As I have heard from Prior Robert, your husband was by way of granting his lands to the abbey in return for this house and guest status for the rest of his life and yours. After what has happened here, that agreement would seem to be forcibly in abeyance, since it is not yet sealed. Now, it would be greatly to the advantage of an heir to those lands, supposing such to be living, to have your husband removed from this world before the charter was ratified. Yet if there was a son of your marriage, his consent would have been required before any such agreement could have been drawn up. Read me this riddle. How did he succeed in disinheriting his son?”
Plainly she did not want to volunteer anything more than she must, but she was wise enough to know that too stubborn reticence would only arouse suspicion. Resignedly she replied: “Edwin is my son by my first marriage. Gervase had no paternal obligation to him. He could dispose of his lands as he wished.” There was more, and if she left it to be ferreted out through others it would sound far worse. “Though he had previously made a will making Edwin his heir, there was nothing to prevent him from changing his mind.”
“Ah! So there was, it seems, an heir who was being dispossessed by this charter, and had much to regain by rendering it void. And limited time for the business—only a few days or weeks, until a new abbot is appointed. Oh, don’t mistake me, my mind is open. Every man’s death may be convenient to someone, often to more than one. There could be others with something to gain. But you’ll grant me, your son is certainly one such.”
She bit her lip, which was unsteady, and took a moment to compose herself before she said gallantly: “I don’t quarrel with your reasoning. I do know that my son, however much he may have wanted his manor, would never have wanted it at this price. He is learning a trade, and resolved to be independent and make his own future.”
“But he was here today. And departed, it appears, in some haste. When did he come?”
Meurig said readily: “He came with me. He’s apprenticed himself to Martin Bellecote, who is his sister’s husband and my master. We came here together this morning, and he came with me, as he has once before, to see my old uncle in the infirmary.”
“Then you arrived at this house together? You were together throughout that time? A while ago you said you came into the kitchen—’I,’ you said, not ‘we.’ “
“He came before me. He was restive after a while … he’s young, he grew tired of standing by the old man’s bed while we spoke only Welsh together. And his mother was here waiting to see him. So he went ahead. He was in at the table when I got here.”
“And left the table almost dinnerless,” said the sergeant very thoughtfully. “Why? Can that have been a very comfortable dinner-table, a young man come to eat with the man who disinherited him? Was this the first time they had so met, since the abbey supplanted him?”
He had his nose well down on a strong trail now, and small blame to him, it reeked enough to lure the rawest pup, and this man was far from being that. What would I have said to such a strong set of circumstances, Cadfael wondered, had I been in his shoes? A young man with the most urgent need to put a stop to this charter, while he had time, and into the bargain, here on the scene just prior to the disaster, and fresh from the infirmary, which he had visited before, and where the means to the end was to be found. And here was Richildis, between holding the sheriff’s sergeant fast with huge, challenging eyes, shooting des
perate glances in Cadfael’s direction, crying out to him silently that he must help her, or her darling was deep in the mire! Silently, in turn, he willed her to spill out at once everything that could count against her son, leave nothing untold, for only so could she counter much of what might otherwise be alleged against him.
“It was the first time,” said Richildis. “And it was a most uneasy meeting, but it was for my sake’ Edwin sought it. Not because he hoped to change my husband’s mind, only to bring about peace for me. Meurig, here, has been trying to persuade him to visit us, and today he prevailed, and I’m grateful to him for his efforts. But my husband met the boy with illwill, and taunted him with coming courting for his promised manor—for it was promised!—when Edwin intended no such matter. Yes, there was a quarrel! They were two hasty people, and they ended with high words. And Edwin flung out, and my husband threw that platter after him—you see the shards there against the wall. That’s the whole truth of it, ask my servants. Ask Meurig, he knows. My son ran out of the house and back into Shrewsbury, I am sure, to where he now feels his home to be, with his sister and her family.”
“Let me understand you clearly,” said the sergeant, a thought too smoothly and reasonably. “Ran out of the house through the kitchen, you say?—where you three were sitting?” The turn of his head towards Aldith and the young men was sharp and intent, not smooth at all. “So you saw him leave the house, without pause on the way?”
All three hesitated a brief instant, each casting uncertain glances aside at the others, and that was a mistake. Aldith said for them all, resignedly: “When they began to shout and throw things, we all three ran in there, to try and calm the master down … or at least to …”
“To be there with me, and some comfort,” said Richildis.
“And there you remained after the boy had gone.” He was content with his guess, their faces confirmed it, however unwilling. “So I thought. It takes time to placate a very angry man. So none of you saw whether this young fellow paused in the kitchen, none of you can say he did not stop to take his revenge by dosing the dish of partridge. He had been in the infirmary that morning, as he had once before, he may well have known where to find this oil, and what its powers could be. He may have come to this dinner prepared either for peace or war, and failed of getting peace.”
