by Mike Ashley
“Bells,” he gasped. “I hear bells. And the room is turning green.”
“Wolfbane,” muttered Geoffrey, who had read about the effects of that particular plant.
He watched as Edmund struggled to breathe, each gasp an immense effort. Aidan muttered a final absolution; his voice shook with emotion and Geoffrey was sure his attention was not on the words he spoke. Edmund drew a final, agonized breath, although the terror in his eyes told Geoffrey that he was not yet dead. He knelt next to the prior until the final spark of life disappeared with the last of the sun.
3
“I need your help, Geoffrey,” whispered Henry, pulling his brother away from the others. Aidan was praying, while Rhodri and Huw gazed at the dead prior as though they could not believe what was happening. Servants scurried here and there, closing shutters, lighting torches and stoking up the fire for the evening, all busying themselves in the hall so that they would be able to watch what was happening: it was not every day that a monk died in the castle.
“You have solved murders in the Holy Land and here, at Goodrich,” Henry went on. “You must discover who killed Edmund, or the whole region might erupt into violence. The murder of a prior is a serious matter.”
Geoffrey knew he was right. The monks of Flanesford would not calmly accept the loss of their leader and the river tolls, while the Welsh would bitterly resent the accusations that would inevitably come their way. Edmund’s death would be the first of many, and the resulting feud might continue for years. People had long memories for crimes committed by their enemies along the borders.
“We know what killed Edmund,” said Geoffrey. He stooped to retrieve the cup the prior had used and took it to a brazier, so that he could inspect it in the light. He pointed to a powdery residue at the bottom. “Someone put wolfbane in his wine.”
“Who?”
“One of the five people who were in a position to do so,” replied Geoffrey with a shrug. “Edmund was the last to fill his cup. You, me, Rhodri, Huw and Aidan poured our wine before him.”
“Well, we know it wasn’t you or me,” said Henry. “So, that narrows the list to three.”
Geoffrey inspected the jug. If that contained poison, then the culprit was Aidan, who had used it immediately before Edmund. But there seemed to be nothing amiss. Henry offered to test it on a servant; Geoffrey suggested using a mouse or a rat instead.
“But why didn’t Edmund say something when he saw powder in his cup?” asked Henry, puzzled.
“The daylight was fading and he probably didn’t notice. It doesn’t take much wolfbane to kill a man, anyway. The cup wouldn’t have been brimming with the stuff.”
“The killer must be Aidan,” said Henry. “When he took his wine, there were only two cups left: his and Edmund’s.”
“He certainly has a motive,” said Geoffrey thoughtfully. “With Edmund dead, the agreement you just signed is invalid. He was furious that Edmund had agreed to something detrimental to their priory. Perhaps he predicts that you’ll feel guilty about Edmund dying under your roof, and that you’ll give the tolls back to the priory to salve your conscience.”
“I might have to,” said Henry morosely. “But then Rhodri will rebel and I’ll have years of border skirmishing to deal with. Can we charge Aidan with this murder, then?”
“Not yet. Remember that Edmund intended to see the bishop about the tolls in the spring. Would Aidan really murder his prior for a few pennies collected in winter?”
“But Rhodri and Huw had no reason to kill him,” Henry pointed out. “They had just won their case.”
“For now. But the bishop would almost certainly rule in favour of the priory come spring. Now Edmund is dead, he’s in no position to petition the bishop or anyone else.”
“But if Rhodri or Huw had put poison in one of the cups, they couldn’t have been certain that Edmund would drink it. Aidan might have been the victim.”
“True. But perhaps they didn’t care which of the monks died. You want peace, but peace means that Rhodri and Huw are obliged to leave your cattle alone. Stealing cattle is more lucrative than collecting tolls, and perhaps one of them wanted the agreement to flounder. We know relations are strained in Garron. Perhaps this is Huw’s way of damaging his cousin’s reputation.”
Henry sighed. “What a mess! You’d better solve this quickly, Geoffrey: all three suspects will leave Goodrich at first light tomorrow and we must have our killer before then.”
Geoffrey beckoned Aidan to the hearth, where a servant was stoking the fire. The flames served to drive some of the dark shadows from the hall. But not all of them.
“Will you empty your scrip?” Geoffrey asked, gesturing to the leather pouch Aidan carried.
Aidan stared at him. “You think I killed Prior Edmund? I did not!”
But he flung the pouch on to the table, where Geoffrey emptied it. There was a pomander used when the clerk was obliged to enter particularly smelly places, a packet of salt to flavour his food, a horn spoon and a tiny knife. But there was no wolfbane.
Geoffrey called to the two Welshmen and asked them to do the same. Rhodri carried some coins and a lump of hard cheese in his pouch, while Huw sullenly claimed that he had no need to carry purses. Sensing that this made him appear suspicious, he removed his boots and shook out his tunic, to prove he had no incriminating packets hidden anywhere.
Puzzled, Geoffrey knelt next to Edmund’s body. In the cuff of one of the prior’s wide sleeves was the wolfbane. It comprised a small, neat packet, although the parchment was old and worn, as though the killer had possessed it for some time before finally deciding to use it. Geoffrey was disgusted with himself. Aidan had prayed next to the body, while the two Welshmen had been alone with it while he had searched Aidan. Since it was obvious that whoever possessed the poison was also the killer, it would make sense for the culprit to get rid of it as soon possible. And what better place than on the body itself?
4
All three suspects spent the night huddling near the fire in the hall, careful to keep a safe distance between them. Henry joined them there, afraid that the guilty party might make a bid for freedom and leave him with a reputation for allowing killers to evade the King’s justice. Geoffrey sat at the dark end of the hall, thinking.
Aidan had the most to gain from killing Edmund, yet he also had the most to lose. A new prior would probably have his own secretary, and Aidan would lose his position of authority. And would Aidan really risk eternal damnation just to secure a few pennies in tolls?
Meanwhile, Rhodri had been the first of the three to take his wine. Had he simply put poison in one cup at random, reasoning that he would gain no matter who drank it? If Huw perished, he would rid himself of a dangerous rival; if one of the monks died, he would lose the tolls, but would gain the excuse to revert to the more lucrative occupation of cattle stealing.
Edmund’s death also benefited Huw. It would be said in Garron that Rhodri had negotiated an excellent arrangement regarding the tolls, but then had lost it. It would weaken Rhodri’s leadership and pave the way for Huw to step into his cousin’s shoes. Huw’s mother was said to be a witch, and so he would also have ready access to a substance like wolfsbane.
An uncomfortable thought insinuated itself into Geoffrey’s mind. What about Henry? Had he poisoned one of the cups, hoping that it would spell the end of the dispute he had grown tired of arbitrating? Henry was not an intelligent man, and tended to regard matters simply. It was entirely possible that he believed the demise of one of the parties would make the dispute go away permanently. But would Henry have risked the life of his own brother in such a reckless gamble? With a start, Geoffrey suddenly recalled Henry’s smile as he had pushed a goblet towards him, indicating which cup the knight was to take: Henry had not allowed Geoffrey to select his own.
Sleep was impossible with clues and questions tumbling around his mind, so Geoffrey left the hall and walked to the nearby church, where Edmund’s body had been taken. The chancel was
dark, except for the candles that stood at the prior’s head and feet. Geoffrey approached the corpse and stared down at it. Edmund still wore his travelling cloak, white habit and gloves. Geoffrey examined him carefully, inspecting every fold in the robe and every inch of skin. Then he returned to the hall and studied the now empty packet of wolfsbane. By the time he had finished, he knew exactly who had killed Edmund and why.
5
The witching hour was no time to reveal his findings, so Geoffrey waited until morning, when the shadows of night were dispelled and sunlight streamed through the windows. Henry was the only one to have slept, despite the fact that he had promised Geoffrey that he would stand a discreet guard over the suspects. The others had been wakeful and restless, aware that even a short doze might mean a more permanent sleep.
“I shall take Prior Edmund home today,” said Aidan, gazing around him accusingly. “There will be much grieving, and you will be hearing from the bishop. He will not stand by and allow clerics to be murdered by greedy Welsh peasants.”
“I didn’t kill him,” objected Rhodri hotly. “I was happy with the way the tolls had been resolved and had no need to resort to murder.”
“It wasn’t me, either,” growled Huw. “I have never heard of wolfbane, and would not know how to lay my hands on any.”
“Liar!” sneered Rhodri. “Your mother is a witch; she always has an ample supply of poisons.”
Huw bristled. “She should have used some on you. And then Edmund would still be alive.”
Geoffrey stepped between them as daggers were tugged from sheaths. “Rhodri didn’t kill Edmund.”
Huw gazed at him in disbelief. “But he wants to resume his raids on English cattle, and the failure of these negotiations will give him just that excuse!”
Rhodri snarled something in Welsh and Huw stepped forward with a murderous expression on his face. Geoffrey dropped his hand to the hilt of his sword. It was enough to catch their attention: a Norman knight was a formidable fighter, and both Welshmen backed away quickly.
“I am innocent,” said Rhodri, keeping a respectful distance from him. “But what convinced you?”
“I watched you as you took your wine. Unlike the others, you faced me, and made a showy display of pouring it from a height, splashing it across the table. You had no opportunity to slip poison into Edmund’s cup: the killer was not you.”
Rhodri’s teeth flashed white in a triumphant smile. He pointed at his cousin. “It was him, then. Or the secretary. Both of them poured their wine with their backs to us. I remember it clearly.”
“They did,” agreed Henry. “Huw was almost furtive about it.”
Huw’s face paled. “But I didn’t kill Edmund! You can’t convict me on that kind of evidence.”
“The killer hid the wolfbane in his pouch until he reached the wine,” said Geoffrey. “Huw owns no pouch and his clothes are simple. There is nowhere he could have kept such a packet.”
Henry looked doubtful. “He could have concealed it in his hand.”
Geoffrey shook his head. “When Huw made his mark on the document, he took the pen in two hands, as though it were a dagger. He could not have held the poison at the same time. Also, he sprayed ink all over himself. Had he then touched the packet, there would have been ink on it.” He tossed the wolfbane on to the table. “And, as you can see, it is clean.”
Everyone looked at Aidan, whose eyes were wide with shock. “No,” said the secretary, backing away. “Not me. I loved Edmund like a father!”
“You didn’t kill him either,” said Geoffrey. He was aware of the others gaping at him, and pointed to the poison on the table. “Look at that packet again. It is old and the corners are frayed; you can see where some of it has spilled on the table already. Therefore, we can conclude that some trace of it will be in the killer’s pouch. Aidan’s, like Rhodri’s, contains no evidence that this leaky packet was ever in it.”
“Who then?” demanded Henry. He became aware that people were regarding him uneasily. “Me?” he whispered, aghast. “Why would I want to kill anyone?”
“You were prepared to kill a servant to see whether there was wolfsbane in the wine jug,” Aidan pointed out, quick to accuse now he was in the clear. “Life is cheap to men like you. You would not give murder a second thought.”
“That may well be true, but he is innocent of this one,” said Geoffrey, ignoring his brother’s indignant spluttering. “Like Huw, Henry carries no scrip; he has no need to do so, because he is at home. But Henry is innocent, because immediately after he poured the wine, his favourite dog licked his hands. He would not have allowed the animal to do so had they been tainted with poison.”
“Who did it, then?” asked Henry in confusion. He snapped his fingers as a thought occurred to him. “The servant who brought us the wine! I should have tried the poison on him!”
“Are you about to confess?” asked Aidan, regarding Geoffrey warily.
Geoffrey smiled. “During the night, I inspected Edmund’s body. Remember that he wore gloves and that he never removed them? There are lesions on his fingers that suggest he was suffering from leprosy. He could not have kept the disease hidden for much longer, and we all know what would happen to him then.”
“He would be banned from society and a mass said for his soul while he still lived,” said Henry sanctimoniously. “It is a just treatment. We all know that leprosy is a scourge sent by God to punish the wicked.”
“Better hope he didn’t give it to you, then,” muttered Geoffrey. Henry blanched and inspected his hands. But Geoffrey doubted his brother would become ill – he had seen many forms of leprosy on his travels and not all were contagious.
“We would have found him a place,” objected Aidan tearfully. “Our Order is compassionate to the sick, and we have lazar houses to care for victims of that horrible disease.”
“But he wouldn’t have been prior,” Geoffrey pointed out. “And Edmund was a man used to power. He decided to kill himself. The state of the packet suggests that he had carried it with him for some time, waiting for the right opportunity – or perhaps the courage – to use it. If you look in his scrip, you will see grains of the poison at the bottom, where it spilled. When he saw that his priory was about to lose the river tolls, he decided the time was right for him to end his life.”
“He did it for us,” said Aidan wonderingly. “He arranged his suicide to seem like murder, so that the agreement giving the tolls to Garron wouldn’t be honoured. The bishop would assume the Welshmen had murdered Edmund, and they would have lost the tolls for ever.”
“So, he poisoned his own wine,” concluded Henry. “He was the last to drink, and he put the poison in his own cup.”
Geoffrey nodded. “It was his parting gift to the priory he loved. It is just a pity that his act of sacrifice would have seen an innocent man hang for his murder.”
Rhodri shuddered. “And it might have been me! Well, his plan didn’t work. The tolls will stay with Garron.”
“No!” cried Aidan. “That is an outrage! I will not allow my prior’s death to have been in vain.”
There was a sudden clatter of hooves in the courtyard outside, followed by footsteps on the stairs. Two men entered the hall, wearing insignia that marked them as the King’s tax collectors. Henry groaned, seeing that he would be obliged to part with his twenty pounds sooner than he had anticipated, while Rhodri and Huw exchanged the kind of nervous glance that indicated they did not have what the King’s men expected to be given.
“Why is the King taxing us so harshly?” demanded Aidan as the two men walked towards the little knot of people near the hearth. “We are poor folk, and cannot afford to pay for Crusades to distant lands or for wars in France.”
The agent regarded Aidan in surprise. “The King does not want your money for fighting. And you should know why he has taken an interest in the Goodrich estates, Brother Aidan. It was you who wrote to tell him about this dispute over the tolls.”
“I wanted to see
justice done,” said Aidan, aware that he was on the receiving end of looks that were far from friendly from his neighbours. “I wrote to ask the King to ensure that the tolls went to the priory, where they belong.” He swallowed nervously. “I wrote in the heat of the moment, actually. I didn’t seriously expect an answer from a busy man like the King. But what has my letter to do with the taxes?”
The agent smiled. “Can you not guess? He’s going to use the money to build a bridge across the River Wye – just to the south of Garron. It won’t matter who owns the ford tolls in a few months, because people will use the bridge instead.”
“And who will have the tolls from the bridge?” asked Geoffrey curiously. “Henry, because he will finance the bulk of its construction? Rhodri and Huw, because the ford tolls currently belong to Garron? The priory, because Aidan wrote to appeal its case?”
“Of course not,” said the agent scornfully. “The King will have the tolls. He is a clever man: he has resolved an age-old dispute and will provide you with a new bridge in one decisive action. How could you begrudge him a few pennies in tolls?”
“How indeed?” asked Geoffrey, laughing at the King’s transparent opportunism and the abject dismay on the faces of his brother, the Welshmen and the secretary. “How indeed?”
The Isle of Saints
Kate Ellis
Kate Ellis (b. 1953) is the author of the fascinating series of West Country crime novels featuring amateur archeologist and Detective Superintendent Wesley Peterson. Although set in the present day the series creates intriguing links between modern crimes and past events. The series has reached five novels: The Merchant’s House (1998), The Armada Boy (1999), An Unhallowed Grave (1999), The Funeral Boat (2000) and The Bone Garden (2001). The following story does not feature Wesley Peterson but takes us back over 800 years to the time of the great traveller and theologian Giraldus Cambrensis or Gerald of Wales (1146–1220).
