The Riddle Of St Leonard's: An Owen Archer Mystery

by Candace Robb

  Savage had turned a frightening shade of crimson. ‘That is not my purpose in asking you to take her in!’

  Ravenser had wagged his head. ‘Master Savage, now who is tripping on the truth?’

  With a flourish of his mayoral robes, Savage had stormed from the room.

  Thoresby listened to his nephew’s story in growing despair. ‘For pity’s sake, Richard, Savage was right. You are dependent on the freemen of the city. And you made an enemy of the man who might have defended you to them. Have you no control of your temper?’

  A startled expression told him that Ravenser had expected sympathy.

  ‘And now the new mayor, Roger Selby, asks about her. What is so important about this lay sister? Why must you defend her? Why keep her?’

  ‘Did not Mary Magdalen find redemption as a follower of Christ?’

  ‘You would compare yourself with Christ?’

  Ravenser groaned. ‘You are a man of God, uncle. Do you not see the goodness in what Cuthbert did?’

  ‘Cuthbert has earned his place in Heaven by his desire to do good, Richard, but he has done nothing for your career. You must see to it if you wish to climb any higher.’

  Thoresby found his nephew a puzzle. His elaborate, colourful attire contradicted the naïve simplicity of his faith.

  Six

  Disturbing Developments

  Bess Merchet arrived early at the infirmary and sat watching her uncle sleep. Julian Taverner seemed old and frail. A network of veins crept across his cheeks, nose and eyelids. The skin of his neck was wrinkled. His hair was still abundant, a family trait, but it was now pure white. It curled tightly, as if someone had washed it the night before, and the singed ends had been trimmed away. That was commendable. Smoke was impossible to get out of hair any other way. A woman cried out in a bed tucked away somewhere in the forest of partitions. A dark-robed sister hurried past, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Did they sleep on their watches? Bess did not like to think that. Nor did she approve of the cobwebs in the rafters or the strong scent of urine and sweat all about, though her uncle’s bed and person smelled fresh. Once, as she’d kept her vigil, Bess had caught Don Cuthbert in the doorway and had sent him off with a hissed ‘Can you not see he is sleeping?’ Perhaps it would be best to take her uncle from here, let him recover at the York Tavern. She had an extra bedchamber for kin up above, across from her own. He would be quite comfortable there.

  Julian Taverner rocked his head back and forth on the pillow in sleep, then woke with a groan, clutching his neck with a bandaged hand. His eyes were red. He blinked, trying to focus on Bess. ‘Honoria?’

  ‘Nay, ’tis only your niece, Bess.’ Honoria indeed.

  Don Erkenwald poked his head through the doorway. ‘God go with you, Master Taverner, Mistress Merchet. May I come in?’

  Bess liked the solid bulk of the canon, and his courtesy. But she preferred to speak to her uncle alone. ‘I do not mean to be discourteous, but we have had no chance to speak since the fire. I hoped to have some private speech with my uncle.’

  Julian, his eyes still slightly unfocused from sleep, was fumbling with his bandaged hands. ‘I cannot feel with all this wrapping. Is there still a cloth over the wound at the back of my head, niece?’

  Bess straightened. ‘This is the first I’ve heard of a head wound, uncle.’

  Erkenwald stepped closer. ‘That wound is of interest to me.’

  ‘Oh aye? You are the first to care,’ Julian said, his tone petulant.

  Bess leaned over her uncle. ‘There is still a cloth round your head. Let me see the wound, uncle.’

  ‘’Tis enough to feel it.’ Julian guided Bess’s fingers to a considerable knot on the base of his skull.

  ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God! How did this happen?’

  ‘It bled so, I thought it would kill me,’ Julian said.

  ‘I see that you have suffered indeed, uncle. Answer me now – how did this happen?’

  ‘I was attacked from behind as I bent to drag poor Laurence from the burning house.’

  ‘No one told me of an attack.’

  Erkenwald leaned close, felt the wound. ‘Who hit you?’

  Julian closed his eyes and dropped his head back on the pillow, wincing as the knot compressed. ‘If I knew that, I would not be lying here.’

  Bess crossed her arms over her chest. ‘Oh? You would be steady on your feet and clear in your head? How would your burned hands feel as they met his jaw?’ She shook her head. ‘I am decided now. You will come home with me.’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘It will take no time to prepare.’ Her mind full of her plans, Bess did not notice her uncle’s wet cheeks, the moisture seeping from beneath his closed lids, until he gulped, suppressing a sob. ‘Uncle?’

  Erkenwald had retreated to a bench away from the bed.

  Julian swiped at his eyes with a bandaged hand, cursed. Bess knelt on the bed, dabbed his eyes with a cloth. ‘What is this, uncle?’

  Julian batted her away. ‘I could not save him. The murderer was too quick.’

  Bess’s hand paused over her uncle. ‘Murderer? I thought the fire an accident.’

  Julian glared at her as best he could through his red eyes. ‘Of course it was no accident, you foolish woman.’

  Foolish? And she had thought to take him home, the ungrateful man. But his certainty was disturbing. She settled down next to him. ‘Tell me what happened, uncle.’

  ‘You’ll not listen.’

  ‘I am not such an idle person to ask for what I do not wish to hear.’

  Julian looked uncertain, but he said, ‘Fix my pillows so I might sit up and speak with ease, then.’

  Bess did as requested, with more energy than Julian might have liked. But he sank back on the pillows and thanked her.

  ‘When Laurence said he would burn his wife’s belongings, I offered to help him. He did not say nay. He was to come for me when he was ready. I was down with the orphans, telling them stories, when I noticed smoke. More than the usual smoke. I ran out, found the fire untended, spreading to brush that had been dropped outside the fire circle. That was worrying. Laurence was a careful man. I stepped into his house thinking he might have thought of something else that must go.’ Julian paused, a bandaged hand pressed to his forehead. He took a deep breath, dropped the hand, stared down at the floor beside his bed. ‘He lay on the ground, face down, a bloody gash in his head – bloodier than the one I was soon to receive.’

  Bess already had doubts about the story. ‘You noticed all this with the fire spreading round you?’

  ‘The fire was without, not inside,’ Julian said impatiently. ‘I knelt over Laurence to lift him and help him breathe. I was hit from behind. Not as hard as Laurence must have been hit, but it dizzied me. I fell over Laurence and rolled off him, spent a moment getting my breath back. That is when I smelled smoke inside. I looked round, the house was ablaze. So suddenly. Someone rushed out of the door, but the smoke made it impossible to tell anything about him. I dragged Laurence out, but his clothes—’ Julian’s voice broke. He shook his head.

  ‘And no one has listened to your story?’ Bess glanced over at Erkenwald, who stared thoughtfully at the floor.

  ‘They say I am confused,’ Julian said.

  ‘Who says that?’

  ‘Don Cuthbert.’

  ‘That snivelling— I’ll confuse him—’

  Julian put a bandaged hand on Bess’s arm to quiet her. ‘You would help me, niece?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘They mean to bury Laurence quickly. For fear of the pestilence. Idiots. He died by fire. But that is their aim. You must convince Don Cuthbert or someone here at the hospital, someone respected, to examine Laurence before he is buried.’

  Bess hesitated. The task did not appeal. ‘Why?’

  ‘Someone else must see his wound. Stand as my witness. Someone who would not otherwise listen to me.’

  And what if there is no such wound, Bess wondered. Julian had been kn
ocked hard – he might have imagined it all. Still, there was sense in his request. She glanced over at Erkenwald, who watched her with interest. ‘Will you be his witness?’

  ‘Gladly.’

  Honoria de Staines crossed herself and shook her head when Erkenwald ordered her to untie Laurence de Warrene’s shroud.

  ‘It is not as if we had asked you to open a grave,’ Bess said.

  The lay sister clenched her hands. ‘I do not like it.’ She had turned pale.

  Bess thought her pitifully squeamish for one who worked in an infirmary.

  ‘’Tis much the same as opening a grave,’ the woman said. ‘It is disturbing the dead.’

  ‘To prove that he was attacked. His spirit will not rest otherwise,’ Bess said.

  Honoria sank down on a bench beside the shrouded corpse, pressed the heels of her palms to her forehead.

  Don Cuthbert chose the moment to flutter into the room and demand an explanation. Erkenwald patiently told him why they were there.

  To Bess’s surprise, the cellarer pressed a linen cloth to his nose and waved them on.

  ‘We cannot convince this sister to co-operate,’ Bess said. ‘Do I have your permission to open the shroud?’

  ‘Make haste!’ Cuthbert gasped.

  Erkenwald nodded at the tiny canon. ‘It is not a pleasant odour. But better now than once in the ground.’

  Bess made short work of the knot, then bent over the corpse, gingerly turning the head. The odour was indeed unpleasant.

  Erkenwald leaned close, touched the wound. ‘Someone knew where to aim it.’

  ‘God help us,’ Cuthbert said.

  Bess glanced over at the cellarer. ‘Come here. Feel this.’

  Instead of approaching, Cuthbert took a step backwards. ‘Pray, there is no need for me to feel it. I shall gladly take Don Erkenwald’s word for it.’

  Bess did not like it. There was something between the two men, some animosity that might work against her uncle. ‘I wish you both to witness it. I want there to be no suspicion that I am protecting my uncle, or accepting the words of a confused man, as you called him. You must feel the back of the head.’

  The cellarer looked to Erkenwald.

  ‘You are the master in Sir Richard’s absence. I think he would expect you to have examined Master Warrene,’ Erkenwald said.

  Cuthbert crossed himself and, muttering a prayer, stepped forward and allowed his hand to be guided to the wound, though he tried to jerk it away at once. ‘It bleeds!’

  Erkenwald held him still a moment. ‘The man is dead. He no longer bleeds. You feel that there is a wound there?’

  ‘Yes, I feel it.’

  Erkenwald released Cuthbert.

  The cellarer took out a cloth and wiped his hand. ‘And yet what does it prove save he was hit? Perhaps by Master Taverner.’

  ‘Then come with me and feel another knobbly wound,’ Bess said.

  Cuthbert sighed. ‘It is my duty.’

  When Bess turned to ask Honoria to summon someone to replace the shroud, she discovered that the lay sister had disappeared.

  *

  Satisfied that both Cuthbert and Erkenwald had now heard Julian’s story, noted the serious and similar wounds, and that Cuthbert had promised to write to the master of the hospital about it, Bess took herself off to Lucie Wilton’s apothecary. She wished to consult with Owen. He had dealt with suspicious deaths before. Cuthbert had asked that she remain silent about the wounds and her uncle’s story, but he would never know she had spoken to Owen.

  The streets were quiet for mid-morning. A house in Lop Lane was marked with a cross: a poor soul dead or dying of pestilence within. Bess crossed herself and hurried past.

  The shop was empty but for Lucie, who sat on a stool behind the counter mixing dried herbs in a large bowl.

  ‘What is this?’ Bess said by way of greeting. ‘Only yesterday I could not see the floor for the customers.’

  Lucie pushed the bowl aside, wiped her hands in her apron. ‘While the river mist lingers in the alleyways it is often quiet. A friar who passed through the city a few days ago said that it was the vapours that seep beneath the skin and raise the buboes.’

  Bess sniffed. ‘Nonsense. ’Tis the bodily fluids in the boils. Why else would the dying thirst so?’

  Lucie shook her head. ‘I envy you, Bess. I wish I could be so certain of the cause.’

  Bess noted a sadness in her friend’s voice. She knew Lucie was beset with doubts now that she had sent the children to the country. And there was no consoling her, for there was no remedy. ‘Is Owen about?’

  ‘He and Jasper went to St George’s Field to practise at the butts. Why? What is amiss?’

  There was no need to add to Lucie’s worries. ‘’Twas but a passing thought.’ Bess went on to her other business in the shop. ‘Would you mix me a soothing poultice for my uncle’s burned hands?’

  ‘Gladly.’ Lucie turned towards the jars that lined the wall behind her, then turned back with a quizzical look. ‘But do the sisters not attend him at St Leonard’s?’

  ‘I would rather they used your medicines on him.’

  ‘I should not interfere.’

  ‘Not you. Me. His niece.’

  ‘You do not trust them?’

  ‘I do not wish to test them is all. Particularly Honoria de Staines. What could that idle creature know of healing such wounds?’

  With a nod, Lucie turned back to the jars. ‘Is there aught else you need for him?’

  ‘Something for a painful knob on the back of his head.’

  Lucie frowned at the detail as she eased a large jar on to the counter. ‘How did that happen?’

  Bess had walked right into that one. She thought fast. ‘I imagine a falling beam. The roof collapsed, you know.’

  Lucie bent to the task.

  Erkenwald wished to go somewhere to be alone to think; or, better yet, find Owen Archer. But Cuthbert had asked him to accompany him to the cellarer’s garden. There was no avoiding it. Erkenwald was himself to blame for involving the man.

  The little cellarer stood in front of a cluster of comfrey heavy with bloom. He trembled with rage. ‘Have I not instructed you to keep still to the world at large about our problems?’

  ‘God help me, but you do begin far into the matter,’ Erkenwald said. ‘Of what do you accuse me?’

  ‘Now Mistress Merchet has heard her uncle’s tale.’

  ‘She is his niece. She has a right to know.’

  ‘You—’

  ‘I told her nothing. Master Taverner told her. How did you hope to hide it? She might have thought little of it, but your secrecy made it a discovery. What are you doing about it, eh? Have you spoken with people who might have seen aught? Do you realise how dangerous it is to have a murderer loose?’

  ‘Murderer.’ Cuthbert spat out the word. ‘You do not believe his story?’

  ‘And why not? Do you have a better explanation for the knot on his head? And the one that felled Master Warrene?’

  ‘We have never had such problems before.’

  ‘Oh? What of Walter de Hotter?’

  ‘That had naught to do with the hospital.’

  ‘And the thefts?’

  Cuthbert blanched. ‘Those I cannot explain.’

  ‘Do you know what folk are saying? That your reformed sinner Honoria de Staines wears underskirts of linen. That when away from the hospital her wimple is of silk.’

  ‘Mistress Staines is not a thief.’

  Erkenwald shook his head. The time had come to rattle the cellarer’s complacency. ‘You will have much to explain to Sir Richard.’

  ‘I pray that all will be quiet once more before his next visitation.’

  ‘I doubt it. He has sent word that he is on his way from the south.’

  Cuthbert pressed his hands to his stomach, closed his eyes. ‘You betrayed me.’

  ‘I did what I thought best.’

  Seven

  A Vow to Heal

  Owen questio
ned his wisdom in bringing Jasper out this morning. The wind was from the south and the sky a sickly grey, neither stormy nor fair; the sort of weather some said brought pestilence. Owen was not inclined to believe it, or the new fear of river mist. Such weather was common and far more often than not brought nothing more horrible than a lack of sunshine. But the quiet streets made him wonder whether he was being foolhardy. Jasper, too, seemed disturbed, gazing about with a worried frown.

  The gate of Davy Hall was latched and chained as if the family had fled to the country. The few folk in the streets scurried about their business, heads low, many holding scented bags close to their faces. Near the Franciscan friary the street was almost deserted. A friar made the sign of the cross as he hurried past them and slipped into the friary, from which came a familiar smell.

  ‘Juniper wood,’ Jasper said.

  ‘Aye. ’Tis a pleasant scent, though I do not know whether I believe burning it can save a man from the poisoned air.’ They headed down to the staithe and walked along the jetty that would bring them quickly to St George’s Field.

  ‘Mistress Baker wondered whether smoke from the hospital fire carried pestilence.’

  ‘Alice Baker discovers new causes and cures each day. I would not pay her much heed, Jasper.’

  But the boy was not so easily dissuaded. ‘What did Mistress Merchet say? Were they burning the dead?’

  Thus began a rumour founded on naught. ‘Mistress Baker should not speak of what she does not know. They were not burning the dead at the hospital. A house caught fire.’ Owen did not add that Laurence de Warrene had been burning the clothing of a plague victim.

  ‘Mistress Merchet seemed most upset.’

  ‘Oh, aye, she was that. Her uncle’s friend died in the fire. And her uncle, who tried to save him, has burns and injuries that will take long to mend.’

  ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘They say Laurence de Warrene had collected some clothes, bedding, and such to burn. The fire flared up in his face and caught his clothes. He fled to the house and set it alight before anyone could help.’