Chains of Folly

by Roberta Gellis

  She breathed out—too lightly to be called a sigh, but Bell knew it was a sound of relief and was satisfied. He had no desire to expose whatever shame she was hiding, except to show her he did not blame her for it. Had her parents sold her into prostitution?

  “Not in my garden,” Magdalene said. “But I cannot say I have ever looked for it elsewhere. I do not gather herbs, I buy them.”

  Magdalene was furious with herself. The comfort and ease she felt in Bell’s company, the sense that he would gladly share her problems, was dangerous. She should do something that would drive him away. As the thought came, a gray pall seemed to dim the bright design she was stitching into the cloth on the embroidery frame. She wished she had never met him! Before they came together she had been content with her life. But now it was too late. She must either live in dull safety with an aching hollow inside her or accept the danger Bell brought with the pleasure.

  Bell laughed. “I do not suspect you of murder.”

  Magdalene had a flashing image of St. Foi bleeding his life out on the floor at her feet.

  “What I am asking,” Bell continued without pause, “is whether you are willing to so far compromise one of your clients as to ask him whether he knows who sells wolfsbane?” He grimaced. “I do not want to ask these questions on the bishop’s authority. Perhaps I am overcautious, but Gehard did die in the chamber of the whore who was found in Winchester’s bedchamber.”

  “I cannot see how the bishop can be blamed for that, but it so happens that like everyone else I purchase herbs and simples. I have even bartered my embroidery for drugs, so that I am known in the apothecary’s shop I frequent as an embroiderer. Also the apothecary desires some information from me. I asked him about use of the poppy and he questioned me straitly as to how I knew about the cakes made from poppy juice. He wishes to buy those cakes and, as I told you, Umar will sell to anyone with the coin to buy. If the apothecary answers our questions about the monkshood, will you guide him to The Saracen’s Head?”

  Bell frowned. “I am not sure I think it so good a thing to spread the use of that drug.”

  “Oh, no, this is an apothecary. I doubt he will sell it for common use. He spoke to me about using it for otherwise ungovernable pain.”

  “Good enough. We can go tomorrow morning, after I have made sure that my men have their duty set and that the bishop has not changed his mind about working at home. Likely I will be back before you are finished breaking your fast. Let us hope that the apothecary you use can tell us what we want to know.” Bell grimaced again. “If not, I will need to go to Master Octadenarius, and request that he send out his men to ask about monkshood in every apothecary shop.” Bell sighed. “He will not be pleased.”

  Bell was not forced to face the disfavor of Master Octadenarius. When he and Magdalene arrived at a large and obviously prosperous shop, Magdalene was greeted with a smile by the apprentice at the outside stall. Her request to speak to the apothecary brought an accepting nod without any sidelong glances and she was directed inside the shop. Nor did the apprentice make any objection to Bell following her.

  Master Pasche, tall and thin with scanty dark hair and mud-colored eyes, was behind the counter inside. He bowed slightly in recognition. “Mistress Magdalene.” He glanced uneasily up at Bell and changed his mind about what he intended to say. “How may I serve you?” he said at last.

  “By telling me what you know about monkshood.”

  Master Pasche stiffened and sort of leaned back away from her a trifle, looking very alarmed. “What I know about monkshood?” he repeated, sounding horrified. “What would you want with monkshood, mistress?”

  Magdalene realized at once that she had stepped on a sore toe, smiled gently, and shook her head. “I do not want anything to do with it. But Sir Bellamy here needs to know who sells it.”

  Pasche looked at Bell. “It is a very dangerous substance, very dangerous. You should not keep it in your house. It might cause harm by accident.” His eyes glistened momentarily with tears. “There was a tragic case not long ago of a child who drank some of his mother’s liniment—and died of it. No. I do not even sell the liniments or salves made with monkshood to ease joint pain. There are other things.”

  “But there are medications that use monkshood?” Magdalene asked. “And apothecaries do sell it?”

  The apothecary was frowning now, lips thinned, clearly alarmed. “Some do. It is very effective in soothing bruises and for pain in the joints, but as I said I have much safer salves that work almost as well. In your business—” the muscles in his jaw bunched “—such a liniment should never be used near—”

  “Oh, no. Master Pasche,” Magdalene interrupted. She laughed and said, “Thank goodness none of my women is afflicted with joint ail.” And then more seriously, “As I said, I do not want monkshood myself, but Sir Bellamy needs to know who sells it. Sir Bellamy collects my rent. He was telling me of a case being investigated by the sheriff of Southwark of a man poisoned with monkshood.”

  “That is correct,” Bell said. “I want to know who sold it and to whom.”

  “It is not the fault of the apothecary if someone misuses his drugs,” Master Pasche said defensively.

  “No, of course not,” Bell assured him. “No blame will be affixed to the apothecary, but if he could remember to whom he sold enough monkshood to poison a man—a very big, strong man—that would be of considerable help to the sheriff, who might be grateful to you and to Mistress Magdalene.”

  “Hmmm.” The apothecary now looked more thoughtful than worried. “There are only ten apothecaries in the East Chepe and two others, like me, do not stock or sell remedies that depend on monkshood. So, seven…”

  He gave them the names and the locations of the shops but warned them that there were other apothecaries who did business outside of the market itself. And then there were the apothecaries who had shops in the West Chepe. He knew some of them, but not all. The Guildmaster might well have a list of all those who belonged to the guild. Bell sighed.

  “Thank you, Master Pasche,” Bell said, sighing again. “The sheriff of Southwark is questioning the apothecaries on the south of the river. If the killer did not buy from one of them or one of the masters in the East Chepe, I will go to Master Octadenarius, the justiciar, and he will send his men all through London.”

  Magdalene also thanked Master Pasche and then smiled happily at him. “Oh, I almost forgot. I have some good news for you. The seller of the poppy cakes is one Umar who can be reached at The Saracen’s Head in Southwark. He will sell to you if you have the price.”

  “And the price?”

  “I have no idea,” Magdalene said. “I am not in any way involved in this. You must make your own bargain with Umar.”

  “But where is The Saracen’s Head? Southwark is not as large as London, but one obscure ale-house…”

  “I know where it is, Master Pasche,” Bell said. “I collect rent there too. Since you have been so cooperative, I will gladly take you.”

  They made a time to meet the following afternoon. Bell only saying that he would send a message if he could not come to the shop at the arranged time. Then he and Magdalene set out for the apothecary shops. At the first two, they were offered salves but assured that no one other than regular customers for the salve had purchased any. In one shop no purchase had been made for a fortnight; in the other the apothecary named a woman called Old Mother Heulen and said she could barely totter to the market and home and he had been selling the salve to her for many years. Neither Bell nor Magdalene could think of a way to get enough of the salve into wine to cause a swift death, and they did not bother to discover where Old Mother Heulen lived.

  The third shop had liniment as well as salve made with monkshood. Bell asked whether the liniment was dangerous, admitting he had been warned about it by Master Pasche. This apothecary agreed that the liniment if drunk could kill but said that after Pasche’s client’s child had died, he had added a substance so foul-tasting to his pro
duct that it would be spat out as soon as it touched the lips.

  Then he frowned. “What is this interest in monkshood all of a sudden?”

  “Then someone other than Sir Bellamy and myself has been asking for monkshood?” Magdalene asked.

  The apothecary did not answer at once, and Bell said, “Monkshood was used to kill a man in Southwark. The sheriff of Southwark is questioning the apothecaries there, and I was sent here to discover if I could who bought the stuff.”

  “No!” the apothecary exclaimed.

  Bell held up a hand. “No blame to you if you sold it. People who buy liniment are not usually planning murder.”

  Revelation spread across the apothecary’s face. “So that is why the man did not buy my liniment! Thank God! When I tried to make the sale, I explained to him how my liniment was safe because of the terrible taste. I thought he muttered it would not do, and he shook his head and left. He was the only one. I have not sold monkshood salve for some time.”

  “What did he look like?” Bell asked eagerly.

  The apothecary frowned in thought but then shook his head regretfully. “He wore a sword and was well dressed, but nothing to note in special and…and the face was just a face. It made no impression on me. I am very sorry.”

  Magdalene smiled at him. “We are sorry too,” she said, “but you have at least assured us that our effort is not all in vain. Now at least we know that this man intended to buy the monkshood, not simply go out into the country and gather some growing wild.”

  At the fourth shop, they struck gold. The moment Bell asked about liniment containing monkshood or wolfsbane, the apothecary looked highly suspicious. Thus Bell explained at once that they did not wish to buy but hoped to trace the substance used to kill a man.

  “Heaven! Oh, heaven!” The apothecary covered his face with his hands. “I knew I should not have sold it to him. I knew it, but he seemed so distraught over his dog, a great mastiff, which had gone mad. They had the beast confined but even he did not dare go near it to kill it. It raged and howled so he said, near weeping, and he loved the beast and wanted it out of its misery. He wanted a poison that would be swift and sure, not something that would add to the poor beast’s pain and let it linger. He had seen the effect of wolfsbane. He gave me his name…”

  “Gave you his name?” Magdalene echoed. “What name did he give you?”

  “Gehard fitzRobert, he said. It was not a name like John Smith, which is real enough but so common that people say it when they want to hide their true names. I believed him. God help me. I believed him.”

  “Gehard…” Bell breathed, and looked at Magdalene. “Could Gehard have bought the poison and somehow… He was not clever. Could he have mixed up the cups or decided to taste the stuff…”

  Magdalene giggled. “He was not clever, but no one is stupid enough to drink poison he has himself prepared. No,” she added more seriously, “from what you have said of Gehard he would never even think of using poison. He would kill with his knife or sword or his bare hands.” She frowned. “And it was not Gehard who asked about monkshood in the other shop.”

  “No, it was not,” Bell agreed, and turned back to the apothecary, who was still wringing his hands and biting his lips. “It is no fault of yours,” he said soothingly. “It is a tale I might well have believed myself. There are several mastiffs in my father’s house that are well loved. Do you remember what this Gehard looked like?”

  “Yes, I do. We spoke for some time. First he asked for liniment and when I assured him it was safe to use because the honey in it was made horribly bitter, he asked if I had any pure tincture of the monkshood or some of the ground root. I looked at him hard then and asked what he wanted it for. That was when he told me the story of the mad dog.”

  “And what did he look like?”

  “Ordinary,” the apothecary said.

  Magdalene and Bell exchanged glances. At first when the apothecary was so certain he remembered what his customer looked like, each had wondered if it had been Gehard. But no one would ever describe Gehard fitzRobert as ordinary.

  “Can you say nothing more?” Bell asked.

  “Well, he was wearing a sword belt and boots for riding, which made me believe he had come from the country…the dog, you see. For the rest, he was…ah…medium. Of medium height, his hair not fair nor dark, blue eyes, I think, or possibly gray. His voice…yes…he was soft spoken, even plaintive…about the dog.”

  “Not Gehard,” Bell said. “Gehard was a giant of a man and anything but soft-spoken.”

  “I assure you,” the apothecary said earnestly, “the man who bought the tincture of monkshood from me was no giant and seemed almost weeping when he begged for the drug.”

  “Oh, we believe you,” Magdalene said. “Since murder was done with the monkshood, it is not at all surprising that the purchaser of the poison gave a false name. We were surprised because the name he gave was of his victim.”

  “Terrible. Terrible.” The apothecary shuddered. “I will never sell the raw product again. Never.”

  “A good idea,” Bell said. “And since it does not seem to be often requested in its raw form, you will lose little by it. Now, I will have to tell the sheriff of Southwark that you sold the drug, and he may come or send a man to hear the description you gave first hand—”

  “Oh, please!” the apothecary moaned. “Can you not keep me out of this? I have been honest with you. Must I be punished for that?”

  “I am sure no blame will attach to you,” Bell said, but he knew it was not impossible that the sheriff or his man would take out his irritation on this relatively innocent bystander. He shrugged, “Well, I will tell the sheriff that we have found the source and give him a description of the purchaser. If he does not press me for where I found the information, I will not offer your name.”

  The apothecary confounded himself in thanks as Magdalene and Bell left his shop. Outside they walked back toward the bridge in silence for few moments.

  Before they reached the noisy bedlam that crossed the Thames, Magdalene said, “You know who the description the apothecary gave sounds like, to me? It sounds like Linley.”

  “So it does,” Bell agreed, “although I only saw Linley that once on the stair, and he was below me which disguised his height. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen Sir John. Is he so different?”

  Magdalene laughed ruefully. “Not really. He is of medium height. I would call his hair dark rather than neither blond nor black and I think his eyes are brown, but in the dimness of the shop they might look gray. Only, why are you so fixed on Sir John?”

  “I do not mean to be. But the only other good candidate we have is Linley and he seems to have been… Perhaps you should try to pin down the time he left Ryton’s house more firmly and I will ask again about when he arrived in the Cask of Wine.”

  “Very well. I have a pair of cuffs I have embroidered that I can bring to Claresta. Meanwhile, you should also ask in Baynard’s Castle when Sir John left there and in what direction he rode. We have only Raoul’s word for that. I cannot see why he should lie about this, but I never trust him about anything.”

  “There is also Father Holdyn,” Bell said slowly. “He is not the man who bought the monkshood. He is a very big man and dressed as a priest—”

  Magdalene shook her head. “Is he such an idiot as to wear a priest’s robes to buy poison?”

  “No, but he is not at all medium, either.”

  Now aware of the reluctance with which Bell had named Holdyn, Magdalene hesitated. They walked in silence for a few moments. Then, because she felt even Bell might not see what he did not want to see, she spoke.

  “A priest much addicted to good works would not need to buy poison from an apothecary,” she pointed out. “He could go to the still room of any hospital and take what he liked, probably without any question. You know, Bell, the man who bought the monkshood might really have had a mad mastiff.”

  “And given the name Gehard fitzRobert?”
<
br />   “No. You are right about that. The man who bought the monkshood must have been the murderer.”

  Bell sighed. “Nonetheless, I will remind Winchester that he must ask Holdyn why he lied about not knowing Nelda. But it still makes no sense. Even if he knew her and killed her, perhaps by accident, why should he kill Gehard? How could he even know Gehard? They had nothing at all in common.”

  “Yes they did. They had Nelda in common.”

  “Good God, so they did.” Then Bell frowned. “And if Holdyn was obsessed with her—I cannot think of any other reason for him to give her his crucifix—and he discovered that Gehard killed her… No. I simply cannot believe that Holdyn would use poison. I cannot.”

  “Likely he did not. How would he get into Nelda’s room?”

  Bell snorted unhappily. “Unfortunately he may have had a key. Suspicious as she was, she might have given the priest a key so he would not need to knock on her door or call out to her.”

  They had reached the bridge by then, and Magdalene thought again about getting the cuffs and going to Lime Street to speak to Claresta. However, she saw that the shadow at her feet had shrunk to near nothing; it was almost noon. It was time for dinner and then the clients would be coming. She and Bell turned into the busy chaos of the bridge, weaving past stalls and shaking their heads at insistent peddlers who thrust trays and baskets at them.

  When they had reached the relative quiet outside the Old Priory Guesthouse, she asked, “Will you come and have dinner with us?”

  He glanced upward at the position of the sun. “I think I had better see if I can catch Winchester. I do not remember that he planned to have any guest to take dinner with him today. If no one is with him, I can tell him what we learned and urge him to summon Holdyn to explain himself.”

  Magdalene nodded and rang the bell. Diot came out of the house and opened the gate. They walked in together, but at the door of the house Bell turned left. Before he started around the house to go through the gate into St. Mary Overy churchyard, Magdalene patted his arm.

  “I hope your doubts about Father Holdyn are resolved,” she said softly. “You can tell me what transpired at the evening meal.”