by Paul Doherty
The priest stared stonily back.
‘And you, Sir Gervase, a clever lawyer might insinuate that you were not Sir Reginald’s victim but really his accomplice.’ She glanced at the de Murvilles. ‘Indeed, the same could be said for all of you.’ Kathryn saw the worried look in Blanche Smithler’s face. ‘Nor do you escape free,’ Kathryn continued relentlessly. ‘Sir Reginald chose this tavern. The Justices will ask if you and your husband were his accomplices.’
‘But it is not true!’ Lady Margaret sat forward in her chair, her hands gripped tightly in her lap, her face drawn and white. ‘Erpingham was a viper, a malignant creature.’
‘So you hated him?’ Kathryn asked.
Lady Margaret’s eyes blazed with fury.
‘I despised him!’ she spat. ‘I hated him! And, I’ll be honest, I’m glad he’s dead!’
‘If you said as much before King’s Bench,’ Kathryn retorted, ‘your high birth would not save you. Now, one of you did kill Sir Reginald Erpingham.’
Kathryn paused at the banging and crashing that broke out above her, followed by silence, then shouts of surprise. Standon came running down the stairs.
‘Mistress Swinbrooke, Mistress Swinbrooke,’ he gasped. ‘Come quickly!’
‘What is it?’
‘We lifted the floorboards just beneath Erpingham’s bed. We found – well, you’d best come and see.’
Kathryn, followed by the rest, made her way upstairs along the gallery. The door to Erpingham’s chamber had been rehung but inside all was chaos. Floorboards had been hauled up and the dust, hanging thick in the air, made her cough. Where the bed had been, Colum now sat, squatting above a gap, floorboards piled to one side.
‘Open a window!’ he ordered Standon.
The serjeant hurried to obey.
‘Come, physician!’ Colum gently mocked.
Kathryn went and stared down at the human skull and bones that lay in the dust beneath the floorboards.
‘God in his heaven!’
Kathryn knelt down beside Colum and pulled out the skull and bones, all gray-white with age.
‘Another murder victim?’ Colum asked.
‘Too old,’ Kathryn replied, studying the skull: the lower jaw was missing and the teeth nothing more than dark stumps. She turned the skull over and carefully examined the inside. ‘Bring a candle.’
Smithler passed one across. Kathryn held it carefully as she peered inside the skull. She studied the reddish glint on the top of the skull before reexamining each of the bones. She then pulled back the sleeve of her gown and searched in the cavity beneath the floorboards, scrabbling around till her hand grasped more dry bones.
‘Faugh!’ Smithler turned away in disgust at the remains of the skeletal hand which Kathryn brought out and laid gently on the floor.
‘How long have these been here?’ Colum asked.
Kathryn tapped the thin skull. ‘Many years, perhaps even centuries. The bones have only remained intact because of the cavity beneath the floor.’
‘Was someone buried here?’ Colum asked.
Kathryn shook her head. ‘I doubt it. These remains were probably hidden here. They are the tools of the black magician: the skull belongs to an executed felon, someone hanged on the gallows. As the victim strangles, blood vessels in the brain break and stain the skull. The hand’ – she tapped it delicately – ‘is what the warlocks call the Hand of Glory. You cut it from a hanged man, preserve it carefully and when you wish to summon up the demons, put a candle made of human fat between the fingers.’
‘So where did these come from?’ Colum asked.
Kathryn brushed the dust and cobwebs from one of the bones.
‘I suspect they belonged to the black magician who killed himself here: Erpingham’s ancestor but, there again, it could have been anyone.’
‘They caused the nightmares,’ Sir Gervase declared from where he stood in the doorway. ‘Can’t you see, Mistress? Erpingham did see a ghost or some spectre from hell.’
‘Nonsense,’ Kathryn replied. ‘This room may well have an evil history and a malevolent atmosphere but there must be a rational explanation, be it its choleric humours or some other natural cause, for the phantasm which plagued Erpingham’s sleep.’ She got to her feet, shaking the dust from her dress. ‘Is there anything else?’ she asked.
‘No.’
Colum gestured at Standon to replace the floorboards as Kathryn went and sat on the edge of the bed.
‘Please,’ she asked abruptly. ‘Could you all leave? Colum, put the key in the inside lock. I want to be alone as Erpingham was.’
The Irishman looked puzzled but obeyed. The guests, subdued, fearful of the allegations facing them, walked out into the gallery. Kathryn followed them to the door.
‘Now, if I understand correctly,’ she began, ‘Sir Reginald came up here, carrying a goblet of wine.’ She smiled and took Sir Gervase’s goblet from his gnarled fingers. ‘Then he locked the door.’
‘Yes,’ Standon replied. ‘That’s what happened.’
‘No one came upstairs after Sir Reginald?’
‘Well, I did,’ Sir Gervase spoke up. ‘But I went straight to my room.’ He looked accusingly at the serjeant. ‘You saw me do that. You came up the stairs after me, I’m sure you did!’
‘Yes, yes, I did,’ Standon replied. ‘I was getting ready to stand on guard that night.’
Kathryn glanced at the serjeant.
‘You are concealing something, aren’t you, sir?’ she asked sharply. ‘You never told us you actually came up the stairs.’
Standon shuffled his feet; he ran his fingers nervously round the soiled collar of his tunic, scratching furiously at a pimple on his neck.
‘Did you approach Sir Reginald?’ Kathryn asked.
‘I did,’ Standon admitted. ‘But . . .’
‘Why didn’t you tell us?’ Colum snapped.
The serjeant’s small, red-rimmed eyes blinked nervously.
‘I was frightened,’ he replied. ‘Can’t you see, I was the last man to speak to Sir Reginald.’
‘What did happen?’ Kathryn asked.
‘I followed Sir Gervase up.’ The serjeant pointed to his boots. ‘These are soft leather, he would not have heard me. I wanted to make sure all was well after Sir Reginald’s nightmare the previous evening. I tapped on his door. I said, “Sir Reginald, are you well?” He replied, “Yes, yes, now go away.”’
‘I didn’t hear that,’ Sir Gervase trumpeted.
‘Well, I didn’t shout,’ Standon retorted. ‘My boots are soft and, above all, Sir Reginald did not open the door.’
‘Are you sure he was alone?’ Kathryn asked.
Standon shrugged. ‘Of course. Everyone else, apart from Sir Gervase, was downstairs.’
‘Then what?’ Kathryn asked.
‘I went back to the taproom. I drank some more wine, everyone else went to bed. The tavern settled down for the night and that was it.’
‘Fine,’ Kathryn declared. ‘Colum and the rest of you, just bear with me for a while.’
She went back into Erpingham’s chamber and closed the door, flinching at the way it squeaked on its hinges. She turned the key and pulled across the bolts at the top and bottom. She noticed these were new, replacements after the door had been forced. She gazed round the sinister chamber, shivered, then irritably kicked the small pile of bones and skull still lying on the floor.
‘Are you all right?’ Colum called from the gallery.
‘Yes, yes.’ Kathryn smiled as she echoed Sir Reginald’s words. She sat on the edge of the bed. ‘What would I do?’ she murmured, ‘If I was he? I have brought my wine in so I put it down.’ Kathryn got up, went round the bed and placed her cup on the table. ‘The door was barred and locked. The window is shuttered, there are no secret entrances, no poisonous or noxious substances in the room. I undress, I throw my clothes on the floor.’ Kathryn stared at the peg driven into the wall and scratched the side of her cheek. ‘Why would he do that? Why not hang
them up? Perhaps he was tired? I pause because Standon knocks on the door.’ Kathryn rubbed her hands together. ‘Of course I check the saddlebags. Or would I? They are strapped and buckled.’ Kathryn stared up at the rafters and sighed noisily. ‘A complete mystery. How was Erpingham poisoned and the bags of coins removed from his room?’
Kathryn went back to the door, drew back the bolts and unlocked it. She grimaced at Colum.
‘No ghosts there but plenty of mystery. Let’s visit Master Vavasour’s room.’
They went farther along the gallery. Colum unlocked the room, they went in and he immediately unshuttered the window to provide more light. The chamber was smaller than Erpingham’s though comfortably furnished with a four-poster bed, chair, stool, table and a chest at the foot of the bed for clothes. Kathryn opened this and went through Vavasour’s meagre belongings: a change of clothes, a writing case, some rolls of parchment, a dagger in a battered sheath, but nothing remarkable. Colum pushed away the bed: Standon hurried forward to pick up the silver pieces lying there.
‘Was Vavasour throwing his money about?’ Kathryn asked.
‘And there’s one over here,’ Lady Margaret exclaimed, picking up a coin.
‘And here!’ Tobias Smithler sifted amongst the rushes close to the wall near the door.
Standon was staring at the coins curiously.
‘They’re from the taxes!’ he exclaimed.
‘How can you be so sure?’ Colum asked.
‘They are freshly minted,’ Standon asserted. ‘Sir Reginald collected them from a merchant who had recently come from London. Look, Master Murtagh!’
Colum examined the coins. The silver was of good quality, not like the debased currency that had been circulating during the recent civil war.
‘Is Standon correct?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Oh yes,’ the Irishman replied. ‘You see, the King defeated the last Lancastrian armies at the beginning of May. Not until the end of July did the Mint in the Tower begin to fashion new coins, the first time for a number of years. The King was able to use his enemies’ estates and treasure to buy bullion from the Genoese.’ He tossed a coin in his hand. ‘I was responsible for some of this bullion being safely transported into London.’
‘I never saw Vavasour with these coins,’ Standon said excitedly. ‘He must have taken them from the taxes.’
‘Is this true?’ Kathryn asked Smithler. ‘Did Vavasour, or Sir Reginald, use such coins?’
The landlord examined the coin he was holding. ‘No,’ he said. ‘This is the first time I have ever seen such a freshly minted piece. It’s the new King’s shilling.’
Colum beckoned with his fingers for all the coins to be handed over to him.
‘It will be small consolation to the King,’ he declared, ‘that I can hand a little of his taxes back.’ He put the silver into his purse then caught the look on Standon’s face. ‘Don’t worry, man. These will find their way to the royal Exchequer.’
Colum then organised a thorough search of the room. One more coin was found at the far side of the bed but nothing else.
‘How long will this go on?’ Sir Gervase wailed as they reassembled in the taproom.
‘How long is a piece of string?’ Kathryn replied tartly.
She gazed back at the stairs. Something was wrong. Something she had seen in Vavasour’s chamber.
‘Kathryn?’ Colum touched her gently on the arm.
‘I don’t think this is fair,’ Father Ealdred complained. ‘Vavasour’s dead and some of the coins have been found in his chamber.’
‘So?’ Kathryn asked.
The lean-faced priest replied, ‘It’s obvious. Vavasour was party to the theft. Otherwise the coins would not have been found, would they?’
‘How do you know they were not put there?’ Colum asked.
‘Impossible!’ Smithler’s mouth twisted in a sneer. ‘The only person who had a key to that room was Vavasour. I never went in there. Did anyone else?’
A chorus of denials greeted his words.
‘It’s true,’ Colum murmured.
Kathryn sat down on a chair. ‘So you think Vavasour had an accomplice and they stole the money, though how is a mystery. They killed Erpingham, and that too is a mystery, then they quarrelled. If that is the case,’ she continued flatly, ‘why would Vavasour, who has his share of the money, go out in the dead of night and trek through an icy, snow-filled meadow to meet this accomplice? Why should he do that? According to you, the stolen coins must have been divided, otherwise Vavasour would not have dropped those coins.’ She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t make sense. I can’t accept that Vavasour, an accomplice to murder, treason and theft, would be so careless as to throw the proof of his crime around his chamber for anyone to see.’ She shrugged at their silence. ‘Somehow that money was placed there. Are you sure, Master Smithler, there’s no second key to his chamber?’
The landlord threw up his hands in despair. ‘Mistress Swinbrooke, you have lived in Canterbury many years. You know Forquil the locksmith? He lives not very far from you on the corner of Jewry Lane.’
‘Yes, I know him,’ Kathryn replied.
‘Go and ask him. Last year he fashioned new locks for every chamber in this tavern. I wanted them strong and reliable. Forquil said he could only make one key for each lock, the mechanism is so refined and sensitive.’
‘It’s true,’ Father Ealdred said. ‘Mistress Swinbrooke, that’s now the custom in many taverns. If a second key is fashioned, or there is a master key, the landlord or his servants are always blamed if anything is stolen.’
Kathryn just glanced despairingly at Colum; even before Father Ealdred’s interruption, she knew the landlord was telling the truth. Because of the volume of pilgrim trade to Canterbury, landlords were eager to assure their customers that any possessions left in their chambers would be safe.
‘So, how are the rooms cleaned?’ Colum asked. ‘Sheets and bedding changed?’
‘We always do it when the guest is there,’ Blanche Smithler explained. ‘Ask any of the maids or slatterns. For God’s sake, Master Murtagh, we have problems enough without allegations of theft being levelled against us, especially when we have no proof whether a customer is making a spurious claim or not.’
‘So, no one goes near the bedchambers at all when the guests aren’t there?’ Colum insisted.
‘Except to change the water in the fire buckets,’ Blanche Smithler replied hastily. ‘Hardly ever.’
Kathryn stared down at her hands. We are finished here, she thought; even this silver is a mystery. Vavasour’s key was found in his wallet and so no one else could have entered his chamber. She swallowed hard. She dare not tell Colum that he would have to make a report to the King’s Council at Westminster. She chewed the corner of her lip: there seemed to be no solution to this mystery. She closed her eyes and thought of Erpingham and then Vavasour’s chamber.
‘Who will bury Vavasour?’ Smithler spoke up. ‘I can’t keep his corpse out in the stable for long.’
‘Take it to the castle,’ Colum ordered. ‘He can be buried alongside his master.’
‘Tell me.’ Kathryn rose to her feet. ‘After we left on our last visit here, did Vavasour say or do anything strange or untoward?’
‘He kept to himself,’ de Murville replied, ‘which wasn’t difficult. If we didn’t like the master, we hardly had any respect for his servant.’
Kathryn looked at Standon.
‘And you?’
‘Vavasour hardly talked,’ the serjeant replied. ‘And, when he did, he was very keen on proverbs. You know, “A stitch in time saves nine.” He said that to me once as I passed him on the stairs. On a couple of occasions, when I asked him about Erpingham’s death, he smiled secretively and quoted the old adage, “There’s many a slip ’twixt cup and lip.”’
‘And he didn’t explain that?’
Standon shook his head.
Colum and Kathryn then made to leave, the Irishman repeating his instruction that ever
yone was to stay at the Wicker Man until his investigations were finished. He also told Smithler to burn the bones they’d found. Once they were outside, crossing the cobbled yard, Colum grasped Kathryn’s hand.
‘There is no solution, is there?’ he asked.
Kathryn looked over her shoulder at the light-filled windows of the tavern.
‘No,’ she answered. ‘This time, Colum, the murderer may well walk away scot free.’
Chapter 10
On their return to Ottemelle Lane, Kathryn and Colum spent the rest of Saturday having to cope with the effects of the thaw. The garden path had become flooded. A hole in the roof was discovered above the small garret Kathryn used as a storeroom, and the water butt was filled with dirty ice that slid off the red-tiled roof. Colum began to complain about having to go out to Kingsmead, wondering if Luberon had returned, so Kathryn had little opportunity to reflect on what she had learnt at the Wicker Man. At the same time she was concerned about Blunt and how she could tell Colum and Luberon the truth behind her suspicions.
Wormhair came round to see Kathryn, still clutching his stomach. He sat in the kitchen like some Jonah come to destruction, loudly protesting that he was on the verge of death.
‘If you die,’ Wuf shouted, ‘can I have that wooden buckler you made last Michaelmas? And does that mean I can marry Agnes?’
The young maid became so aggrieved, Kathryn shooed Wuf away and took Wormhair into her chancery office. She carefully examined the young man.
‘Well,’ she declared gravely, pressing his stomach, then listening to it through a small pewter horn. ‘The good news, Wormhair, is that you are not going to die, at least not yet.’
Wormhair just stared at her, his clear blue eyes even larger and rounder in his thin, pale face.
