The Riddle of St Leonard's (12 page)

‘You are kind to say so.’ Ravenser cursed his poor memory for names. He recognised the odd slurring of words caused by the crooked jaw that twisted the man’s mouth, but he could not remember the man’s name, nor what his dealings with him had been.

‘It is no flattery, Sir Richard. I am much relieved to see you, and I pray that I might have a word with you.’

Who was he and what might he want?

The goldsmith saw his confusion. ‘Forgive me. Of course you cannot remember me after so long. Edward Munkton. My shop is in Stonegate, and you once …’

‘Ah. Master Munkton. The necklace.’ The goldsmith had designed a necklace for Ravenser, a gift for his mother. It seemed such a long time ago. And indeed, the man had aged, his once round face chiselled with years, his hair grey and wispy. ‘Confer with my clerk, Douglas, to find a time convenient for both of us to talk. At my house in St Leonard’s.’

Munkton’s smile faded. He kneaded his felt hat with nervous hands. ‘If I might have a word now, I should be most grateful.’

Ravenser glanced round. ‘In the street? It affords us little privacy.’

‘God forgive me, but I would stay away from the sick at present, Sir Richard.’ Munkton’s eyes danced away in embarrassment.

But Ravenser understood. ‘Then briefly.’ He took the man aside, beneath the eaves of a closed shop, and held his ambergris down to show his trust in the man.

‘It is about Don Cuthbert,’ Munkton began, his breath sweet with fennel, ‘he came to me a few days past and asked to see my account books.’

Ravenser blinked in disbelief. ‘To see what?’ Had the goldsmith gone mad? Cuthbert?

Munkton, studying Ravenser’s face, smiled. ‘I had hoped to see such surprise, Sir Richard. I did not want to think that you had ordered your cellarer to insult me so.’

‘Of course I did not. Did he explain himself?’

‘He did indeed. He thought I might have purchased a chalice stolen from the spital. I told him that I am a goldsmith, not a trader, and that I have no need for chalices, as he might see if he took the time to look round the shop.’

A stolen chalice? Ravenser had heard nothing of this. But then, one chalice … ‘What possible reason did he have to suspect you, Master Munkton?’

‘The very thing that makes it ridiculous. My reputation for fine chalices.’

Don Cuthbert had gone mad. ‘Forgive me. I had no idea.’ Ravenser had a dreadful thought. ‘Has he so insulted any other members of your guild?’

‘Several. But I was his first victim. Not an honour I welcome.’

‘To be sure. I shall reprimand him, Master Munkton. You will receive an apology, I promise you.’

‘That is all I ask, Sir Richard.’

It was with weary mind and body that Ravenser at last passed under the statue of St Leonard and into the hospital liberty. Here the mood felt more normal, with folk going about their business and the orphans shouting at play. Ravenser’s servants had been summoned and quickly surrounded the travellers, seeing to their horses and baggage. As Ravenser crossed the yard towards the master’s house behind the church, his eyes were drawn to the blackened remains of a small building against the north wall. The roof of the house beside it had been singed. All about was the pungent odour of damp ashes.

‘There was a fire?’ Ravenser paused, trying to remember what had stood there. A house, he thought.

Topas conferred with a servant. ‘Aye, Sir Richard. It was the house of the corrodian, Laurence de Warrene. Your chess partner. He died in the fire.’

‘Laurence de Warrene.’ Ravenser frowned as he paced round the remains of the house, taking care to keep his hem away from the charred fragments. Behind the burned out shell lay the garden, dappled with ashes, waterlogged, the plants wilted, some trampled. The ruined garden, with its warring scents of life and death, struck Ravenser as more piteous than the destroyed house. ‘This was Mistress Warrene’s garden. She took great pride in it.’

‘She was taken by the pestilence,’ Topas said. ‘A fortnight ago.’

‘So I heard at Bishopthorpe. But I had not heard about the fire.’ Ravenser turned away. ‘Bring Don Cuthbert to me at once, Topas.’ He headed to his house.

In his bedchamber, Ravenser stripped off his travel clothes and sponged off the dirt of the road and, he hoped, the stench of death he must carry on his person. Then he retired to his parlour, where a servant had set out brandywine and fruit. He settled into his favourite chair with a full cup, gazing round with satisfaction. It was a pleasant room, not as lovely as his parlour in Beverley, but comfortable, with good light. The brandywine soon eased the muscles cramped by the day’s hot ride. But he did not have long to rest. A servant announced the arrival of Don Cuthbert.

‘Send for Douglas and show them in together.’

In a few moments, the tiny, beak-nosed cellarer floated into the room, hands tucked in his sleeves. He bowed to Ravenser. ‘
Benedicte
, Sir Richard. God is merciful to send you to us at this difficult time. Your presence will be a comfort to all at St Leonard’s.’ Cuthbert carried with him the scent of damp, charred timber. Ravenser reminded himself to give orders to keep a rosemary wood fire going in his rooms to protect him from unpleasant odours.

Douglas settled himself behind Ravenser to record the meeting.

‘I have had disturbing news of your activities, Cuthbert.’

Beneath apologetically furrowed brows, an ingratiating smile flickered, baring oddly pointed teeth. ‘My activities?’

‘Accusing freemen of the city of accepting stolen goods.’

Cuthbert’s cheeks reddened. ‘I wished to be of service. To reclaim a few of the stolen items before you returned.’

Ravenser’s head began to pound, but he ignored the warning signals, sitting forward with an icy, ‘A few?’

The cellarer’s protruding eyes were suddenly expressionless, though his hands fluttered in his sleeves and he rocked up on to the balls of his feet. ‘I had hoped to spare you the worry until I had completed my investigation, Sir Richard.’

But why had Erkenwald written nothing of this? ‘Tell me about your investigation.’

Cuthbert glanced down at a chair nearby.

‘Be seated,’ Ravenser snapped. He disliked the cellarer’s false humility.

Cuthbert’s slender hands swept out from his sleeves, gracefully smoothing the habit beneath him as he slid on to the chair. ‘
Deo gratias
. It has been a long day.’

The cellarer’s movement stirred the scent of damp embers. Where did the man sleep?

‘Where to begin?’ the cellarer muttered to himself.

‘I should first like to hear the list of missing items.’

‘A list. Ah.’ Cuthbert glanced round, found no one to release him from this query. ‘The list.’

‘Are you not the one to ask, Don Cuthbert? Have you relinquished your post to another worthy canon?’

‘No. No, Sir Richard. The list.’ Cuthbert composed himself, hands returning to their comfortable nests within his sleeves. ‘Two tapestries, a golden chalice, a silver filigree missal cover with precious stones, a silver and pearl crucifix, several Italian glass goblets, an embroidered altar cloth, three blankets, and a tooled saddle.’ The canon’s attention was now on his sandalled feet.

‘Sweet
Jesu
. How could a thief walk off with so much and not be caught? There are so many of us here, we trip over one another.’

Red splotches spread on the cellarer’s pale neck. ‘In truth, I cannot say.’

In the ensuing silence, the scratching of Douglas’s quill attested to the length of the list. Cuthbert, for all his unpleasant qualities, had a keen mind and was excellent at detail.

‘Do you need anything repeated, Douglas?’ Ravenser asked, the scraping of quill against parchment reminding him of his clerk’s presence.

A further scratching, then Douglas asked, ‘How many goblets?’

‘Four,’ Cuthbert said softly, then cleared his throat. ‘I have retrieved two of them.’

‘Indeed! So you have found the thief?’

‘No, Sir Richard.’ Cuthbert pressed a pale hand to his blotchy neck. ‘But I have Honoria de Staines in custody as the recipient of stolen goods.’

‘
Jesu
! Your repentant Magdalen?’ How had his uncle known she would be involved? ‘She has told you from whom she received the goblets?’

‘She will not. In faith, she insists they are not the stolen ones.’

Had he been mistaken? Made a fool of himself as he had with the goldsmiths? ‘Are they at all similar, Cuthbert?’

The cellarer’s mouth pinched at the insult. ‘Sir Richard, I am no fool. They are of the set, I am certain.’

Ravenser groaned. ‘Perhaps it needs a gentler hand in questioning the young woman.’ He studied the uncomfortable cellarer. ‘In custody, you say?’

‘In the gaol.’

That meant all the inmates of St Leonard’s knew by now. ‘So you were wrong to trust her.’

Cuthbert straightened. ‘Nothing is yet proved against her.’

Why was the man so stubborn? ‘I shall have one of the sisters speak to her. When did these items disappear?’

‘The first we noticed was on the feast of St John of Beverley. The golden chalice.’

Early May. And had Erkenwald not summoned him, Ravenser might still have been unaware of it. Ravenser rose, paced to the window, stared out at the church, noting that work had begun on a small stained glass window. Why did benefactors choose such impractical gifts? ‘And why have you been questioning the goldsmiths? How might they help you?’

‘It is said that goldsmiths will sometimes take stolen items, melt them down, and make them into something new that cannot be identified as stolen.’

Ravenser turned to study his cellarer. ‘Are you suddenly mad or simple, Cuthbert? The goldsmiths of York are members of a guild. They would be cast out if caught thieving.’

Cuthbert lifted his hands, imploring. ‘Sir—’

‘Your theory is nonsense, Cuthbert. You will apologise.’

Cuthbert bowed. ‘Sir Richard, I—’

Ravenser silenced him with a stern look. ‘We will speak no more of it.’

‘There is one more item …’ Cuthbert dabbed his upper lip.

‘Dear Lord, what else?’

The cellarer told him of the condition of Laurence de Warrene’s corpse, and Julian Taverner’s similar head wound.

Ravenser sank into his chair, put his forehead in his hands. ‘Leave me, both of you.’

‘But Sir Richard,’ Cuthbert said, ‘we have not spoken of the finances.’

‘Discuss them with Douglas.’

Ravenser’s head felt as if a cooper were beating bands down around it. The thefts, Laurence de Warrene’s suspicious death, Julian Taverner’s wound, and a thieving and whoring lay sister in gaol. Sweet Heaven. If word of these scandals spread throughout the city he would never gain the support of the wealthier freemen. And how was he to sort out the hospital’s debts if he was so distracted by other concerns? He needed assistance. Not Cuthbert. He was indiscreet and too busy working on the accounts. Perhaps Erkenwald. But a tight-lipped outsider would be better. Archer. Owen Archer. His uncle’s spy. He would follow the threads to the culprits discreetly and quickly. And a woman like Mistress Staines might find him a more pleasing confessor. Indeed. It might be necessary to borrow Archer. Ravenser would send a request to his uncle at Bishopthorpe.

As Ravenser sat in his parlour waiting for Lucie Wilton’s physick to work on his head, his thoughts strayed to the burned shell across the yard. Laurence and Matilda de Warrene, both dead. God grant them peace. He had thought them a pleasant couple, devoted to one another and seemingly content with their lot in life. Ravenser had often enjoyed a game of chess with Laurence on quiet evenings. Matilda would sit by the fire dozing. Occasionally, Julian Taverner would be invited to keep her company, though his loud conversation broke Ravenser’s concentration.

Laurence and Julian. Had Ravenser met them separately, he never would have guessed them to be friends. Laurence had been a quiet, dignified man; Julian was boisterous, though he had another side. Laurence had spoken of Julian’s work among the sick in the first visitation of the plague, following the death of his wife. Julian had believed it to be his penance to go among the sick who had been abandoned by their families and give them succour.

‘Why penance?’ Ravenser remembered asking. ‘Was he responsible for his wife’s death?’

‘Goodness no. He was a devoted husband. No, his penance was for an older sin.’ Suddenly silent, Laurence had stared down at the board. Then, so softly he might not have meant Ravenser to hear, he had murmured, ‘But was it a sin?’ His eyes had appeared to be focused not on the chessmen, but on something far away.

‘You sit across from an expert on the topic of sin, Laurence.’

Laurence had looked startled. ‘Forgive me, Sir Richard. I was babbling.’

‘You seemed quite serious.’

Laurence had withdrawn his hand from the pawn he had been about to move, sat back in his chair.

‘Come. Ask me,’ Ravenser had urged.

Laurence had folded his hands, studied them, then brought his eyes up to meet Ravenser’s. ‘How might one unwittingly commit a sin?’ he said softly. ‘If none suffer but the guilty, has a wrong been done?’