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

by Candace Robb

  Julian shook his head. He stared at her with wild eyes while he drank water, gulped air, and at last managed, ‘Penance. Not enough. Laurence. Me.’ He shook his head. ‘He waited so long. Or she.’

  Bess was puzzling over those words when Julian sat up, clutching at his heart, tearing at his throat as if to open it for air. She threw herself across him to restrain him and was struggling to reach a sheet on the floor with which to bind him when Owen appeared. Between them they were able to restrain Julian.

  ‘What has happened here?’ Owen asked when Julian was quiet.

  Bess was about to speak when Anneys appeared with the messenger.

  ‘Is it true? That he is dying?’

  Bess crossed herself. ‘Listen to his heart. I do not know what causes it to pound so.’

  Anneys sank down on a stool. She looked most pitiful. ‘Dear God, if he dies I blame myself.’

  ‘Now why would you do that? You have been good to him.’

  ‘I hesitated when he needed me.’

  As if she were the only one caring for Julian. ‘I hope that my ministrations have not been without merit.’

  Julian began to moan. Both women hurried over. ‘Bess?’

  ‘I am here, uncle. And Anneys with me.’

  ‘God forgive me.’

  ‘Come, uncle. Take some water.’ Bess lifted Julian’s fevered head.

  Anneys handed her a bowl of water. ‘His heart beats so loud.’

  ‘I said so. Come, uncle. Cool water.’

  But he shut his eyes and dropped his head to the side. Bess lowered him. And with a shudder, he ceased to breathe. The horrible pounding stopped.

  Anneys let out a cry. Bess knelt down beside the bed, staring at her silent uncle in shock. He had been a robust man. His injuries had not been mortal. How could he be dead? She pressed her head to his chest. Silence.

  Owen knelt beside Bess, closed Julian’s eyes. ‘He is with God.’

  ‘Mistress Merchet?’ A monk bent over Bess, his youthful face creased in concern. He made the sign of the cross over Bess and Julian. ‘I am Henry, Brother Wulfstan’s assistant. I came as soon as I might.’

  ‘God bless you for coming,’ Bess said, ‘but you are too late. My uncle is dead.’

  ‘Has he been shriven?’

  ‘I had no time to send for one of the Austins,’ Bess said. ‘It happened too quickly.’

  ‘His soul may yet linger.’ Brother Henry bent to Julian, called out his name. When he received no response, he glanced up at Bess. ‘Shall I say the prayers?’

  ‘I would be most grateful.’ She was not fond of the canons of the hospital.

  Brother Henry intoned the prayers for the dead and anointed Julian.

  ‘He must be buried quickly,’ Anneys said when the monk stepped back from the death-bed. ‘We must prepare him.’ She was her calm self once more, shaking out a clean sheet.

  ‘Why such haste? He did not die of the pestilence. There is naught to fear,’ Bess said.

  ‘I think that it was pestilence, and so do you. Why else would you have had the bowl of vinegar by your side?’

  Bess glanced at Owen, who shook his head. She stayed her tongue.

  ‘I shall tell Don Cuthbert what has happened,’ Owen said, hastening out.

  As Bess entered St Helen’s Square, her cap askew and the stench of her uncle’s sweat all over her, his thundering heartbeat echoed in her head. What horror had pushed it to such an extreme? Poisoning. Penance. He waited so long. That had been no pestilential fit. Was it possible that he was right, that he had been poisoned? She had seen enough die of the great mortality that she knew it took its victims in many ways, but none like that.

  ‘Good day, Mistress Merchet. Are you well?’

  Bess had not noticed Alice Baker standing by Wilton’s apothecary, eyeing her with interest. ‘Forgive me. My mind was far away.’

  ‘You look tired.’

  ‘God help me, so I am, Mistress Baker.’

  Alice Baker shook her head. ‘I see you carry no protection.’

  ‘I shall remedy that at once.’ Bess nodded to the woman and stepped inside the shop.

  Lucie glanced up from a customer, took in Bess’s state. ‘Jasper!’ she called. The boy came through the beaded doorway. ‘Forgive me, Master Tyler,’ Lucie said to her customer. ‘I must see to a friend in need. Jasper will finish this.’ She nodded to Bess to follow her to the back.

  Seeing the sincere concern in Lucie’s eyes, Bess collapsed on to a chair and wept.

  Lucie gently patted Bess’s back and rubbed it as she would comfort Gwenllian. She knew it was serious, whatever had so upset Bess; she was not given to hysterics, yet now she shook with grief. At last, when Bess quieted, Lucie poured two fingers of brandywine. ‘Drink this.’

  Bess did so in one tip of her head, then took a deep breath, closed her eyes, pressed her eyelids, sniffed her hands. ‘I reek of the death-bed.’ Her voice broke on the words and she wept again, more quietly now.

  Lucie waited until she quieted once more, refilled her cup. ‘Whose death-bed?’

  Bess drank, hiccuped. ‘Uncle Julian. He is dead. I cannot believe it.’

  ‘How can it be? Surely he did not die of his injuries?’

  ‘He was in such pain.’ The tears threatened. Bess blotted her eyes angrily.

  Lucie sat down, put her arm round her friend’s shoulder. ‘Tell me all.’

  Amidst much hiccuping, more tears, and three more doses of brandywine, Bess recounted the horror of Julian’s last moments. ‘Anneys called it pestilence. She is wrong. I am certain of that. And I saw in your husband’s face that he doubted it, too.’

  Wrong indeed. Lucie had never heard such a combination of symptoms from pestilence. ‘Owen was there?’

  ‘I do not know how he came to be, but I was grateful. I could not have quieted him myself.’

  Lucie was curious to hear Owen’s account. It seemed to her that the symptoms indicated something quite different, not a sickness at all. But she wished to calm Bess, not upset her further. ‘Sometimes a head wound can cause troubles long after the injury. A seizure is not uncommon.’

  ‘With such sweating and thirst?’

  ‘I should think it possible.’

  ‘I would have guessed it his heart, not his head.’

  ‘Perhaps. He has suffered injury and the loss of a dear friend. All this might weaken the heart.’

  ‘You are trying to comfort me.’

  ‘I confess that I am. How can I know what brought him down of a sudden?’

  Bess patted Lucie’s hand, stood up with a sigh, pressing her lower back. ‘I am calmer now. I can tell Tom the news without alarming him.’

  That evening, as Owen filled squares of cloth with fragrant herbs and Lucie stitched them closed, they spoke of Julian Taverner’s death.

  ‘You cannot believe that was a seizure from his head wound,’ Owen said. ‘Not so long afterwards.’

  Now there was a kind lie come back to haunt her. ‘I sought the first lie that came to me. I did not wish to tell her what I fear.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘He claimed he had been poisoned. And unless I am much mistaken, a mortal dose of belladonna would cause such a terrible death.’

  Owen nodded as he handed her the last square. ‘I had much the same thought.’

  Lucie sewed the pouch closed, put the basket of work aside. As she went to the window for some air, she said, ‘I do not like to think it, my love. Not with your business at the hospital. But Julian suggested it. And with Walter de Hotter’s death, the attacks, and the thefts …’

  Owen joined her, slid his arms round her. ‘What trouble has shattered St Leonard’s peace?’

  Lucie pressed his hands. ‘Whatever it is’ – she turned in his arms – ‘you must take great care, my love.’

  ‘Why did you not tell Bess of your suspicion?’

  ‘Your task will be difficult enough without Bess hounding you.’

  ‘You are good to
think of that. What is the thread that connects them, eh? Walter, Laurence, Julian, the thefts …’

  ‘Have you seen Ravenser?’

  ‘Tomorrow. I thought today to speak with Edward Munkton and Honoria de Staines.’

  ‘Ah. Honoria. Everyone who comes into the shop has something to say about her, and none of it kind.’

  ‘She claims Julian Taverner gave her the goblets. As a wedding present.’

  When Bess disliked her so? ‘What did Julian say?’

  ‘He was dead before I could ask.’

  Lucie crossed herself. ‘Do you think her a thief or a murderer?’

  ‘Both. Neither. I do not know.’

  ‘Julian spoke of a man running from Laurence’s burning house.’

  ‘Honoria’s missing husband?’

  A jealous husband suited the woman. ‘She has been in gaol for several days.’

  ‘But she has the freedom of St Leonard’s by day to go about her duties.’

  ‘Perhaps Bess will remember Julian giving the goblets to Honoria.’

  ‘What was Honoria to Julian, I wonder?’

  ‘You can be sure Bess has an opinion about that.’

  Thirteen

  Bess’s Complaint

  The master’s house at St Leonard’s, though merely of timber, was comfortably large and well appointed with several glazed windows. Bess’s knock was answered at once by a round man in a plain clerical gown, obviously more than just a servant. Bess adjusted her beribboned cap and stated her intention to speak with the master.

  The clerk looked pained. ‘God go with you, Mistress Merchet. Your uncle was a good man. May he rest in peace.’

  ‘I intend to ensure that he does. Now I must see your master.’

  ‘Sir Richard is resting. Perhaps tomorrow would be more—’

  ‘Not tomorrow, no. I spoke with your master a few days ago and he invited me to come when I would. And I am here today.’

  ‘But on such a day, Mistress Merchet …’ Ravenser had just officiated at Julian’s burial.

  ‘My uncle is at rest. I cannot be until I speak with Sir Richard.’

  With a sigh, the clerk invited her to stand just inside the door. He disappeared through an archway, and, faintly, Bess heard a sharp greeting, murmured words, then nothing. She glanced round, noted some bags still lying in the middle of the hall, unopened. Good. Sir Richard deserved to be inconvenienced, neglecting her uncle as he had done. She had been polite to him in public, but she meant to give him a piece of her angry mind. And something to ponder. She wandered over to the bags, crouched down, felt the leather. Supple. Expensive. Of course. They said Sir Richard set his sights as high as his uncle Thoresby’s standing. He must have many prebends as well as his posts in chancery and in the Queen’s household to pay for such leather. Bess sidled back towards the door as footsteps approached.

  The clerk bowed respectfully, but his eyes expressed his disapproval. ‘Sir Richard will see you now. I pray you, come this way.’ Turning on his heels, he proceeded to lead her whence he’d come.

  Bess followed with a grim determination.

  As Richard de Ravenser rose from his chair and came forward to greet her, Bess thought how much more like his uncle he looked now than when last they had met several years before. Ravenser’s lips, however, were thinner than the archbishop’s. Cold, prim lips. This man did not live life to its fullest as she suspected his uncle had in his youth.

  ‘Mistress Merchet. I imagine you have come about your uncle’s untimely death. I assure you that we had every confidence he was sufficiently recovered to return to his home.’ Ravenser motioned Bess to a straight-backed chair beside a small table on which were set a flagon of wine and two cups.

  How civilised. Not everyone treated an innkeeper so. Bess took a seat.

  Ravenser nodded to a servant, who had silently replaced the clerk, to pour wine. ‘You will share some with me?’

  ‘I would be honoured, Sir Richard.’ Bess passed the cup under her nose, noted the strong bouquet. Ravenser’s palate differed from his uncle’s, with which she was familiar, for they often traded barrels of Tom’s ale for casks from the archbishop’s excellent cellar at Bishopthorpe. But a taste reassured her; a serviceable wine.

  ‘Forgive me for not advising Douglas to expect you.’

  ‘Perhaps it was best. More warning might have given him more arguments.’

  ‘I assure you that his reluctance was not meant to offend you. He knows that the heat has brought on one of my headaches. He believes I should rest.’

  Bess noted with interest that Ravenser’s hand shook as he raised the cup to his thin lips: more than an ordinary headache. Watching him taste his wine, she noted the studied grace and delicacy of his movements, set off well by his elegant garments. Perhaps he was more like his uncle than she had at first thought. He glanced up at her quizzically.

  ‘Forgive me, but you look so like His Grace the Archbishop.’

  ‘Many say so. Would that I had his wisdom as well as his features.’

  A comment meant to soften her. But Bess was not about to let Ravenser’s troubles overwhelm her purpose. ‘Wisdom. Yes, well, perhaps not. Was it wise to send my uncle from the infirmary so soon? Has it occurred to you that his death might be the direct result of your haste to empty his bed?’

  A flush darkened the pale face of the Master of St Leonard’s. ‘Master Taverner was still under our care. His house is not so far—’

  ‘Oh aye. But when his servant sent for Anneys she did not come. Only after I sent word my uncle was dying did she answer the summons.’

  Ravenser pressed his fingers to his temples, closed his eyes. ‘Mistress Merchet—’

  ‘Would it interest you to hear that my uncle believed he had been poisoned?’

  The sunken eyes snapped open. ‘What?’

  ‘Poisoned. That is what he said.’

  ‘By whom?’

  She would not yet tell him she did not know. ‘Your cellarer hounded my uncle, you know. Questioned him about why Master Warrene returned to his house instead of tending the fire. Don Cuthbert thought he might have been hiding the items that have been missed round the spital. Now what do you think of that? Tormenting my uncle, injured and mourning, with such dangerous nonsense.’

  Ravenser dropped his hands to his lap and seemed to fall into a deep study of them.

  ‘Much goes on here without your knowledge, Sir Richard. I realise that you are an important man in Westminster. But you should know your people. Laurence a thief?’ Bess shook her head. ‘A man wealthy enough to buy corrodies at your great hospital for both him and his wife. And what of these thefts? What do you know of them?’

  Without raising his eyes or moving in the least, Ravenser said, ‘We were speaking of Julian Taverner’s death. What do the thefts have to do with him?’

  ‘What had they to do with Laurence?’

  ‘I shall speak with Don Cuthbert about his accusations.’

  ‘What of Honoria de Staines? They say you have her in close confinement. What has she to say for herself?’

  ‘She is not your concern, Mistress Merchet. But I assure you I mean to discover the truth of all this.’

  Bess ignored the impatient note in Ravenser’s reply. ‘On the day of the fire my uncle and Laurence de Warrene were attacked. Have you any idea who the attacker was? Was it the thief? Might it not be wise to find the culprit? Must I—’

  Ravenser lifted a hand. ‘Mistress Merchet, I should like to reassure you that I am doing everything I can to learn what has transpired here. But before I tell you anything, I require your reassurance that you will say nothing to anyone.’

  So, despite his earlier courtesy, he thought of her as a lowly innkeeper given to gossip. ‘One’s status does not make one more or less discreet, Sir Richard.’

  Ravenser pressed his temples. ‘Forgive my clumsiness. I merely meant to warn you that secrecy is necessary at present.’

  ‘You might better worry when you have some inform
ation to keep silent about.’

  ‘I hope soon to have such information. Archbishop Thoresby has agreed that Captain Archer may assist me.’

  ‘He has?’ Bess was of two minds about that. Owen was the best man to see through the murk, and that satisfied her. But that the archbishop had offered him meant something was indeed amiss. Lucie would not like Owen’s involvement. Would she blame Bess for it? Still, appointing Owen to the task proved that Ravenser meant to do something. ‘St Leonard’s is cursed at present.’

  In a breathless voice, Ravenser said, ‘I would not say so, Mistress Merchet. Cursed is a strong word. I merely wish to discover the truth. Now pray, forgive me, I have a pounding in my head that will soon drown out all sound from without. I apologise on behalf of St Leonard’s for your uncle’s death. If, indeed, we were at fault.’

  Bess rose and bowed slightly. She had many questions, but the Master of St Leonard’s was quite visibly in distress. ‘God give you comfort, Sir Richard. You might send your servant round to Mistress Wilton for a physick.’

  ‘I have one of her admirable medicines, Mistress Merchet. It awaits me in my chamber. God go with you.’ Ravenser courteously led her to the door, opened it. Douglas came scuttling to help Ravenser away, then shortly returned to let Bess out into the dusty yard.

  Bess stayed the door with her hand. ‘I certainly did not think my mission so distressing as to make him ill.’

  ‘Sir Richard needed to rest after the burial. The hot sun. Had you heeded my advice …’

  ‘I should have as great a headache as he. God go with you.’

  Fourteen

  Complexity

  At Lucie’s urging, Owen walked out into the quiet streets of early morning, heading for Magda Digby’s house. It was just dawn and the gatekeeper had to be wakened, but soon the Riverwoman would begin her day, going among the sick outside the city walls and in the countryside and Owen wished to talk to her about Julian Taverner’s death before he met with Ravenser later that day.

  ‘Perhaps Bess should tell the tale,’ Lucie had suggested.