The Poisoned Chalice (37 page)

Thomas was eager to consolidate his great discovery. ‘But you have a report that he was seen near the place of the assault – and he has blood on his clothing! What more do you want?'

John stood up abruptly. ‘No good debating upon it – we could do that until next Michaelmas. Let's go to see Thomas's blood spots.'

Goldsmith Street was a turning off high street, running northwards, with All Hallows Church at the near end and St Paul's further along. Just past the entrance from the high street were several shop-houses with heavy shutters and thick doors. These were the establishments of the gold-workers, the rest of the lane being dwelling-houses. Some were old and wooden, with thatched roofs. More recent ones were built either of plastered wattle in timbered frames or solid masonry.

The wind had dropped overnight, and when the coroner's trio entered the street, the atmosphere was heavy with smoke from a thousand hearth fires in the city. The fumes seemed particularly heavy in that canyon-like lane, as the smoke seeped from under the eaves of the older houses and from the few chimney-stacks of the newer dwellings.

Hugh Ferrars had his lodging half-way down on the left, the ground floor of a narrow timber building with a stone-tiled roof. It had a solar that extended right across the upper part, where other young men lodged. At street level, it was similar to John's own house, with a small entrance vestibule where his squire slept, with a passage running back to the yard behind. Another door led into the hall, a single large room whose ceiling was low and heavy-beamed, because of the presence of the upper chamber.

The street door was shut, but opened when the iron latch was raised. Gwyn stuck his head inside and called out in his bull-like voice. An answering challenge came from the hall and the squire appeared, a tankard in his hand. Behind him Hugh Ferrars, flushed of face, grasped an even larger quart jug. They moved forward into the vestibule and saw John de Wolfe behind his officer.

‘Ha, you've come to grovel your apologies, I trust,' grated Ferrars, his voice already unsteady with drink. ‘My father is seeking a meeting with Hubert Walter when he goes to Winchester next week, to indict you for your behaviour. You'll regret crossing our family, Crowner.'

John ignored this and turned his attention to the clothes hanging in disorder on the left-hand wall of the vestibule, in line with the low, narrow passage that went through to the rear of the house. Thomas pointed to a dull tan linen surcoat that hung on the wooden peg nearest to the front door.

‘What the devil are you up to now, damn you?' snarled Ferrars, his thick neck reddening with anger as he swayed forward from the hall door.

‘Is this your garment?' snapped John, pointing at the super-tunic. It was an open-fronted robe of mid-thigh length, with short sleeves reaching to the elbow, for wearing over the tunic, a tube-like gown coming to the knees.

Surprise dulled Hugh's aggression. ‘Mine? Of course it's mine. Why in God's name do you want to know?'

John bent to lift up the hem of the coat. ‘Because of these blood spots, Hugh Ferrars. Can you explain their presence?'

The young man stumbled quickly across the small room and peered at his property. The garment was hanging from its neckband on the peg and on the left side was a spatter of blood, and runnels streaking down to the embroidered hem. On the line of flagstones that crossed the earthen floor to run down the passageway were a few splashes of dried blood.

‘Well, what have you to say?' demanded John.

Ferociously, Hugh grabbed the surcoat from the peg and held it up to stare at it as if he had never seen it before. Ale sloshed from his pot as he twisted the coat this way and that to inspect it from every side.

‘I know nothing of this, the devil damn it! What game are you playing now, Crowner?' he shouted. Then he rounded on his squire, standing bemused in the background. ‘Roland, what do you know of this? Have you been using my clothes?'

As the squire made protestations of innocence and ignorance, John fixed the younger Ferrars with a cold eye. ‘When did you last wear this? And I ask you again, where were you the night before last? Were you in the cathedral precinct at any time, eh?'

For a moment, John thought that the young man was going to strike him and his hand went automatically to the hilt of his dagger.

But Hugh settled for a stream of abuse and threats of dire retribution when his father heard of this latest defamation. The coroner waited patiently for this storm of drink-laden invective to die down, then took the coat from Hugh's hand. He pointed to the blood spots, splashed thinly over an area twice the size of a spread hand. ‘Look at these, Ferrars, will you?' he asked calmly. ‘You are a fighting man, you know blood when you see it. Do you deny that this garment, hanging in your hall, which you readily admit belongs to you, has blood upon it?'

This cold, direct questioning rapidly sobered Hugh's temper. Grudgingly he admitted that the spots could be nothing but blood. ‘But as God is my judge, I know nothing of it. I have not worn that coat for at least three days. As you see, I have plenty of others to choose from.' He swept a hand expansively around the vestibule, where every peg had several garments hung upon it and where many more were thrown across stools and even on Roland's tumbled bed.

Gwyn muttered something into the croner's ear, using their Celtic patois. John turned back to Hugh Ferrars. ‘Would you put that ale jar down there for me?' he asked, pointing to the ledge running around the wooden walls.

Mystified, but now deflated by the finding of blood on his clothes, Ferrars dumped the rough pottery mug on the ledge.

‘I see you wear your dagger on your left hip?' said John.

Hugh stared at him as if he had gone out of his mind.

‘Of course I do – as do you! Why, for Lord Christ's sake?'

John ignored this and puzzled the man even more by asking him to pick up his ale jar again. Rolling his eyes in exasperation, Hugh did so, and Gwyn and John confirmed that he used his right hand.

‘Have you finished your mummers' play-acting?' demanded Hugh, his truculence returning.

Suddenly, the case that the coroner and his officer were building up against Hugh Ferrars began to crumble, thanks to the inquisitive and nimble mind of their little clerk. This time it was Thomas who came to whisper into John's ear and, under the uncomprehending gaze of the tenant and his squire, the coroner's team turned their attention to the wall and the street door.

‘Gwyn, hang this surcoat on the peg, just as it was,' ordered de Wolfe.

When this was done, Thomas pointed a thin finger at the wooden planks of the wall immediately to the side of the coat. Though hard to see on the dark, weathered timber, a few spots of blood had dried at the same height as those on the gown. Some were elongated, almost fish-shaped, lying horizontally on the planks.

The clerk now pointed down at the blood spots on the grey stones of the floor. ‘Some are also spear-shaped. They could not have dripped from the coat but have struck at an angle,' he observed. ‘Now open the street door,' advised Thomas, who seemed now as keen to destroy his own theory as he had been, originally to propose it.

It had been closed after they entered, but when it was fully opened, the door swung back against the left-hand wall, its free edge reaching within a few inches of the clothes on their pegs. ‘See there, at the same level,' squeaked the clerk.

John looked and saw more small elongated splashes of dark blood dried on the rough black wood.

‘Blood has been thrown in through the open door,' rumbled Gwyn. It was now obvious that the blood on the surcoat had got there while it was hanging on its peg, the spray being confined to the side facing the doorway.

‘And some has missed the coat and spattered on to the wall, the floor and the edge of the open door,' concluded Thomas. He was now unsure whether to be complacent about his latest discovery or mortified that his original finding of the blood was now discredited as proof of Ferrars's guilt.

Hugh and Roland had been watching the others in total bewilderment, but now the significance dawned upon them. ‘I have been falsely accused, then!' ranted Ferrars. ‘Not only have you repeatedly slandered my good name, but I have been the victim of a foul plot against me!'

De Wolfe turned and bent from his greater height until his hooked nose almost touched the red face of the young man. ‘Listen, sir! You should be grateful for your good fortune. I had information that you were seen in the vicinity of the killing of Fitzosbern at about the right time. Then your bloodstained clothing is found in your own dwelling! Can you deny that those facts should lead to suspicion?'

‘False – all false!' snapped Hugh, but the logic penetrated even his fuddled and outraged mind.

‘Maybe, but you should be grateful to this astute clerk of mine, for he has removed you from suspicion. It is now obvious that someone has tried to mislead us and plant a false trail to your door.'

He paused and drew back from breathing into Ferrars's face. ‘This also involved Reginald de Courcy, but we have eliminated him by other means.'

He turned back to the line of garments and angrily tore the surcoat from its peg and threw it on the ground. ‘I should get this to your washerwoman as soon as you can and give thanks to God for the sharp eyes of Thomas de Peyne.'

His fuming anger drilled into Hugh Ferrars's brain and blew away the remnants of his indignation.

‘Who did this to me, Sir John?' he muttered.

The coroner hoisted his grey cloak over his hunched shoulders as he prepared to leave. ‘I think a certain wine merchant needs to be questioned about that, young man.' He swung out of the house and walked rapidly away, with his clerk and officer hurrying after him, leaving two bemused but now very sober young men staring after them.

Ten minutes later, they were in Priest Street, at the lower end of town. This ran down from Southgate Street, past the entrance to Idle Lane, where the Bush tavern stood. The wine merchant's premises were near the lower end, not far from the town wall. They hammered on the door, but there was no response and their shouting through the crack of the shutters was met with stony silence.

Gwyn's yelling and kicking at the stout oak door soon attracted a group of idle onlookers, mostly old men and children. The noise also brought a junior priest from next door, a teacher from the cathedral school, who was home with an attack of the colic. Pale and clutching his stomach, he spared a few minutes from sitting in the privy in the back yard to tell them that he had seen Eric Picot leaving the house soon after dawn.

‘Can this door be forced?' demanded John of his henchman.

Gwyn shook his head, the unruly hair flying wildly. ‘Not without an iron bar or baulk of timber to smash the lock. I suppose it's meant to keep thieves from his valuable wines.'

The coroner glowered at the young clergyman. ‘Has Picot no manservant or worker in the wine shop?'

‘He usually has, but no one has been here today.' He was about to add something but, hit again by belly cramps, he turned and stumbled off to his earth closet, leaving the trio to stare in frustration at the closed building.

‘If he's not here, why do we need to get inside?' asked Thomas reasonably.

John, in a bad temper, scowled at him. ‘Because I can think of nothing else to do at the moment. If the man's gone, we can't question him, so the next best thing is to search his dwelling.'

‘I'll get myself around to the back lane,' grunted Gwyn. ‘There may be some better chance of entering there.' He vanished down the narrow passage between the house and the next building, which was a barn or storehouse.

A few moments later there was a series of distant crashes from the rear and soon the front door opened from inside. Gwyn stood there, a large axe in his hand.

‘This was in the woodshed, and the back door was not so tough as this one,' he announced, with smug satisfaction.

He stood aside as the coroner pushed past into the deserted house.

Almost an hour later, they were assembled in the Bush, just around the corner.

‘He's gone for good, that's for certain.' Gwyn was stating the obvious, but there was nothing else to be done or said for the moment. Thomas had been dispatched to Rougemont to inform the sheriff of the recent developments and to raise men-at-arms to form a search party.

They waited in the warmth of the tavern, sitting before a glowing fire and sustaining themselves with pots of Nesta's best ale. She sat on a bench between John and Gwyn, with old Edwin hovering nearby to eavesdrop under the pretext of refilling their jugs.

‘So what
did
you find in his house?' asked the Welsh woman.

‘Very little, except the damned furniture!' growled the coroner. ‘It was obvious that he had been preparing to leave for good. All his clothes had gone, his treasure chest was wide open and empty, not so much as a penny piece left anywhere.'

‘There was some wine downstairs, but not much,' added Gwyn. ‘He lost a lot in the wreck of the
Mary of the Sea
so he had little stock to abandon.'

De Wolfe rummaged in a pocket inside his mantle, which was thrown over the end of the bench. ‘He did leave this on his midden behind the house though, which proves his guilt beyond doubt.' He held up a small stone winebottle, pulled out the wooden stopper and up-ended the neck on to his finger-tip.

He held it out to Nesta, who saw thick red blood on his skin. ‘Probably from a fowl or a pig. Maybe from his back yard or the Shambles but, wherever it came from, no one can tell it from human.' She took it from him gingerly and looked into the open end, which was rimmed with dried blood. ‘So he threw the blood from this in through the open door over the clothing, to make it look as if Hugh Ferrars became soiled when he attacked Fitzosbern?'

John nodded as he took back the bottle and stowed it away again in his cloak. ‘If our crafty little clerk hadn't spotted the blood splashes on the door and wall, we might well have been taken in by it.' He felt a hot flush rise in his neck. ‘God forbid that I should even imagine the uproar if I had arrested Hugh. His father and half the court in Winchester would have fallen on me like a ton of quarry stone!'