The Poisoned Chalice (27 page)

Thomas sat at the end of the bench while Gwyn told his tale. ‘The old hag stuck to her story at first, that she had sent Adele de Courcy away the second time, when the pills she gave her didn't cause a miscarriage.' He tore a piece of pork from the bone and spoke through a mouthful of meat. ‘I persuaded her a bit then, suggesting she might like to spend a week or two in the South Gate gaol before being tried as a witch and burned at the stake. That didn't seem to worry her too much.' He washed down the pig meat with a great swig of ale. ‘Then I punched my fist through the front wall of her miserable dwelling, probably frightening the rats inside. When I suggested that a good push would probably send it all floating down the Exe, she decided to talk.'

John was used to Gwyn building up his story to a satisfactory climax and avoided the temptation to hurry him. ‘So eventually, with bad grace and many vile words about my character, she admitted that she had directed Mistress de Courcy to someone who might help her more directly in getting rid of the unwanted burden in her belly.'

‘And who was that?' asked John, sensing that the dénouement had arrived.

‘Our favourite leech, Nicholas. It seems that he had a reputation for helping such ladies in Bristol some years ago, but one almost died and the Guild of Apothecaries there forbade him from practising his trade.'

John turned this over in his mind with interest. Nicholas might then have been the cause of Adele de Courcy's death, though it would be almost impossible to prove without his confession. If he had introduced the slippery elm into the neck of her womb, then undoubtedly, according to Dame Madge, the fatal bleeding had been a direct consequence. ‘Drink up and eat your food. We've another call to make at the leech's shop.'

While they were hurriedly finishing their refreshment, John went to the foot of the ladder to the upper floor and called for Nesta. She came down and he related what Gwyn had told her. ‘Have you ever heard of Nicholas of Bristol being involved in performing miscarriages?' he asked her.

She shook her head. ‘No, but I suspect that any leech might help a woman out on occasions, either for money or for pity. So it doesn't surprise me.'

He kissed her, and then hustled his two assistants out into the lane. They made their way through the narrow streets with their jumble of wooden and stone houses and crossed the road leading down to the West Gate to reach the leech's shop.

A man with a huge abscess on his face, which closed one eye and puffed up the whole of his cheek, was buying a pot of salve as they entered. ‘Give that one more day and I'll lance it for you,' ordered the apothecary, as the man, groaning with pain, felt his way to the door. When it had shut behind him, Nicholas produced the tray with the platter of food, the wine flask and the silver chalice from Fitzosbern's house and placed them on his counter. Then he went into his store room behind and returned with two small wooden cages, one containing a brown rat, the other, a cat, which he also put on the bench.

John, who had come mainly to accuse him of manslaughter, was momentarily nonplussed. ‘What's all this?' he demanded.

Nicholas wiped saliva from the sagging corner of his mouth with a rag. ‘My examination for poison, as you requested, Crowner. I find no evidence at all. Look at these.' He poked a finger between the withies that formed the bars of the cat's cage. The scrawny tabby looked at him fearfully. ‘I gave it a large piece of the fowl from the platter and then forced down more than an egg-cupful of the wine.' He turned to prod the smaller box containing the rat, which sat unconcernedly preening its whiskers. ‘The same for this, though it was more difficult to get wine down its throat.'

Gwyn looked at the two animals. ‘You mean they suffered no ill-effects?'

‘Nothing, they seemed glad of the sustenance.'

The quick-witted Thomas questioned the results. ‘How long ago did they eat the food – and how do we know that such beasts are as susceptible to poison as men?'

The apothecary lifted the two cages back to the floor behind the counter. ‘I gave it to them within an hour of your coming this morning, so they consumed it at least six hours ago. Ample time for it to affect such small animals. As to the effects on humans, there is only one way to test.' He grabbed the chalice from the tray and before they could protest, drained the wine that had half-filled the goblet. ‘There! If I collapse and die, then you know that I was wrong.' The trio was silent for a moment. Thomas crossed himself and watched Nicholas intently, as if to detect the first sign of his dropping into a twitching coma.

‘So what was wrong with Godfrey Fitzosbern?' grated the coroner.

Nicholas shrugged. ‘Either he had some poison from elsewhere, maybe other rotten food, or his affliction was an Act of God, an apoplexy or some other natural disease. It can happen.'

This was what Brother Saulf had said, John recalled, even though he considered it unusual. ‘Fitzosbern may tell us himself soon, he seems to be recovering his senses,' he said somberly. ‘Now then, Nicholas of Bristol, I have another serious matter to put to you.'

‘Of course, he flatly denied it, it's to be expected.' John was telling Matilda of the events of the day, as they got ready for the banquet at Exeter Castle. Once again, his wife had been attended for half the day by the ferret-faced Lucille and was now arrayed in a new kirtle of yellow silk, the round neck revealing a chemise of white lawn. Huge sleeves, tight at the armpit and bell-shaped at the wrist, had tippets hanging almost to the ground. Tonight Matilda wore a white linen wimple at her throat, which framed her face under a cover-chief. This was a large head veil held around her forehead by a barbette, a linen band made popular by the old queen, Eleanor of Aquitaine.

‘Did you arrest him?' she demanded, her attention torn between the latest scandal in the town and the need to titivate herself for the great occasion at Rougement.

‘I'll talk to your brother about it in the morning. He's set on squeezing a confession from Edgar, but maybe it's the apprentice's master who needs a little persuading.'

‘Is there any other evidence apart from that old crone's allegation that he may have tried to get rid of Adele's baby?'

John was reluctantly struggling into a tunic of dark red worsted, which had that fitted him two years ago but was now dangerously tight around the belly. ‘After I accused him, I got Gwyn of Polruan and my clerk to search his shop. That was a hellish task, as any apothecary's is a mass of bottles, boxes, drawers, vials and strange bits of apparatus.'

‘Did they find anything?'

‘In one of the little drawers there was a supply of those slips of elm bark, in a dry state. The same that Dame Madge explained were meant to swell and open up the neck of the womb.'

‘What did the leech have to say to that?'

‘He seemed unconcerned. Claimed that every apothecary would have such devices, because they were used for treating severe costiveness of the bowels. He says they are pushed up the fundament to help open the obstructed gut.'

Matilda looked faintly disgusted. ‘I've never heard of that. You'd better check with some other leech that he's not just making some excuse.'

John had already thought of that, but he meekly thanked her for her good advice. She was in an excellent mood, having both the invitation to the banquet and plenty of material to gossip about with her wag-tongue friends at St Olave's.

The celebration at the Shire Hall in the inner ward of Rougemont went according to plan and Sheriff Richard was relieved that his lengthy preparations had led to a crisis-free event. The food was good and plentiful, the drink was copious and the general atmosphere was cordial. Musicians and mummers came to entertain the guests after the food had been cleared away, and at midnight the party was still in full swing.

People were moving around from bench to bench and table to table, so John had a chance to speak again to Hubert Walter, albeit briefly. The sheriff was attending on Bishop Marshall, so Hubert could speak frankly to de Wolfe. ‘This problem with de Revelle is by no means unique. Several coroners and sheriffs are at odds with each other for the same reasons,' he confided. ‘All I can suggest is that you tread carefully and let him have sufficient cases to soothe his pride.'

John nodded as he bent over the Justiciar at his place at the top table. ‘I will do my best, but it can be difficult when he always takes the easiest road to settling a crime. We have such a situation in Exeter at this very moment.' He briefly outlined the rape, abortion and suspected poisoning, which de Revelle was trying to clear up by summary trial and wringing confessions by torture. ‘These should be brought before the King's justices, but God knows when they will arrive next in Devon,' he concluded.

The Justiciar promised to do what he could to speed up the perambulation of the assize, but John suspected that he was pessimistic about much improvement.

The night wore on and John was glad that no one came to drag him out again to some mortal emergency. In the early hours, the guests streamed away in various stages of intoxication and Matilda took John's arm to be led back to Martin's Lane, for once happy with her lot.

Her husband, equally glad of her good mood, looked forward to a busy day ahead, wondering what fresh problems it would bring.

The first arose an hour after dawn, when the coroner went up to the sheriff's chamber to discuss the most recent developments in the Fitzosbern intrigue. He had called at St John's on the way and found that the silversmith was now almost fully recovered, though he was still very weak, had palpitations of the heart and strange tinglings in his feet and hands. He could speak now, but he had nothing much to say. All he could recollect was eating his meal, prepared as usual by his back yard cook. He had difficulty swallowing, as his infected throat wound was becoming more painful, but he managed to get down some of the roast fowl. Within a few minutes, he felt a numbness and tingling in his mouth and throat, which spread as a burning feeling in his belly. Then his heart began to flutter, his fingers felt numb, and he started to sweat and feel faint. That was all he remembered until he woke in the priory.

Brother Saulf stopped any further questioning at that point, but said that perhaps by the evening or next morning Fitzosbern might be well enough to be taken home on a litter to his own bed.

Now John was back in the castle keep, trying to catch Richard during his last hectic hours before Hubert Walter's procession went on its way, back to London via Southampton and Winchester. A solid phalanx of clerks and soldiers was clustered into the sheriffs chamber and even the coroner failed to push his way inside.

As he waited in the main hall of the keep for the crowd to thin, a tall figure shoved its way towards him, manhandling aside anyone who stood in his way. It was Joseph of Topsham, followed by Eric Picot, and both were in a state of agitation.

‘What in Christ's name is going on, de Wolfe?' bellowed the usually serene ship-owner. ‘You sent me word about my son last evening and I came as soon as the town gates were opened. Is it true that this madman of a sheriff has arrested him on suspicion of murder?'

John explained what had happened and that he was there now to talk to Richard de Revelle about the matter. Fitzosbern was rapidly recovering and there was no real proof that he had been poisoned, according to the apothecary, although the symptoms and circumstances certainly pointed to it.

The thin, grey-bearded merchant grabbed John's arm. ‘I must see Edgar! His mother is beside herself with worry. You are the crowner, you can take me to him. He is down below us, I suppose, in that hellhole they call a prison.'

John sensed that Joseph was in no mood to be challenged and, as one of the most powerful of the trading class in the area, he deserved attention. With a glance at the throng still milling around the door to the sheriff's office, he led the way outside and went down the wooden staircase to the ground. A few yards away were stone steps leading down into the undercroft of the keep, which was partly below ground level.

‘What happened to that bloody man Fitzosbern?' asked Eric Picot as they went. ‘We only have half a story.'

John told them all he knew, leaving out the allegation against the apothecary himself concerning Adele de Courcy.

‘I wish whatever it was had killed the bastard, whether it be food, poison or apoplexy,' snarled the wine merchant, with a viciousness that surprised the coroner.

John stopped at the arched entrance to the cavernous basement and looked at Picot. ‘Where was Mabel Fitzosbern when he was taken ill?' he asked sternly.

The dark-haired merchant laughed easily. ‘Nowhere near her husband, if that's what you're thinking. Though she had good cause to kill the swine, after all the suffering he's caused her, but she was far away.

‘I heard she went to her sister's house in the town?'

‘Only for a night and a day. Then I took her back to my house at Wonford, well outside the city, where she could be rid of him. Her maid and my sister are with her, so she's well chaperoned,' he added pointedly.

John, who was quite indifferent to the morality of Mabel leaving her husband to stay with Picot, turned and went into the gloomy undercroft. The main area was empty, the damp floor of beaten earth glistening under the light of a few pitch torches burning in iron rings fixed to the walls. The further part was walled off and a low arch with a gate of metal bars guarded the entrance to the castle gaol. John loped up to the barrier and rattled the bars violently to attract the attention of the gaoler. ‘Where are you, Stigand, you fat bastard?'

There was a clinking of keys and mumbling, then a dirty, grossly obese man dressed in a ragged smock shuffled up to the other side of the gate, peering through at the new arrivals. ‘Who's there?' he demanded.

‘It's the coroner – or are you too drunk to see straight?' snapped John. Stigand, a Saxon who previously had been a slaughterman in the Shambles, was not one of his favourite people. ‘Let us in, I want to talk to Edgar of Topsham.'