The Riddle of St Leonard's (19 page)

A
t 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.

‘And when Magda says it is likely he was poisoned, what then?’

Lucie had looked up from the unguent she was mixing slowly over a low flame and met Owen’s gaze with a crooked smile. ‘My effort to keep that from Bess would have been in vain. And she would drive you mad.’

‘Just so. When I have problems enough, thanks to His Grace.’

‘Do not pretend that you are not keen to put an end to the troubles at the hospital.’

‘You foresee that? I had hoped merely to understand them.’

‘Where will you begin?’

‘I depend on Magda having heard something that might show me where to look.’ All rumours in York quickly reached the Riverwoman.

As Owen waited for the summoned gatekeeper he thought about Honoria de Staines, the butt of so much suspicion. Julian’s death had made it difficult to judge her. Lucie was right – he must ask Bess what she knew of the gift. And whether there was animosity between Honoria’s husband and Julian. A conversation he dreaded.

‘’Tis just dawn,’ a voice muttered above his head. ‘Who goes there?’

‘Captain Archer on the archbishop’s business.’

An oath, silence, then the clanking of keys beyond the night door, the grinding of the key in the lock. The door swung wide with a groaning protest. The gatekeeper was not much cheerier.

‘Business could not wait?’

‘No.’

‘Go on with ’ee then, Captain.’ Dan stepped back to let Owen through.

Owen remembered something Lucie had said a few days past. ‘Your little one. She has recovered?’

Silence. Owen glanced round as the door was closing, caught Dan wiping his night-creased face on his sleeve. ‘May she rest in peace,’ Owen murmured and hurried on his way, cursing himself for waking a man who much needed his sleep. Dan and his wife had other children, but little Angelique had been their youngest and dearest, a fair, sweet-voiced girl not much older than Gwenllian. When Owen was out of sight of the gate he crossed himself and said a prayer for his own children.

Smoke from Magda’s cook fire rose through the hole in the upside-down Viking ship that served as her roof. Still here, then. Magda was never careless with her fire, though her home sat on a rock in the mud flats and so was isolated by water or at the least mud from the flotsam and jetsam houses clustered against the walls of St Mary’s Abbey and the city beyond. Owen knocked. As he waited, he fancied he heard a whinny nearby. Peering round the corner, he came face to face with a horse.

‘So Magda is to ride today, eh, beauty?’

‘Thou’rt out and about betimes, Bird-eye,’ Magda said from the doorway. ‘Dost thou remember Mistress Ffulford’s nag?’

‘I did not recognise her.’

‘The child groomed her better than her recent keepers did.’

Owen ran his hand down the horse’s mane, discovered a sticky concoction near the shoulder. ‘Injured?’

‘Aye. But she will mend. Come within.’

Owen bent low to clear the lintel. ‘The girl is here?’

‘Nay. Only the beast.’

‘Her kin sold it when they took her in?’

Hitching up her patchwork skirts, Magda lowered herself on to a stool by the fire, picked up a bowl and spoon. ‘Thou canst play riddlemaster all the day, Magda will not stop thee. But which answer is true she cannot say. Hast thou broken thy fast?’

‘I have. But I would not say no to a cup of ale.’ He told her of his encounter with the gatekeeper.

‘Fetch thy own drink. Thou knowst where Magda keeps it.’ She chewed on her breakfast for a while.

Owen settled on the rushes by the fire circle, drank half the cup of ale in one tilt of the head.

‘What brings thee to Magda at dawn, Bird-eye?’

He told her about the task he faced at the hospital. ‘I am wondering whether Julian Taverner’s death has aught to do with the thefts.’

‘Taverner. Aye. Magda heard of his death. Not the manqualm?’

When Owen described Julian’s symptoms and his odd last words, Magda closed her eyes, nodded.

‘Belladonna. Aye, ’tis fitting. Taverner was one to have enemies.’

‘Enemies at the hospital?’

‘That is for thee to discover.’ Magda set aside her bowl, reached for a cup, drank. ‘But mark this. Taverner’s inn was small compared with the York Tavern. Yet he owned costly plate, paid dearly for a corrody at St Leonard’s. Have the Merchet’s such wealth?’

‘He was a smuggler.’ Owen downed the rest of his ale. ‘But so are they all in Scarborough.’

Magda barked in laughter. ‘A goodly number is all, eh? Men are keen to make rules of such things. Seldom of use.’

‘Even so. With so
many
about the same business in Scarborough, why would Julian Taverner be particularly likely to have enemies?’

‘Now Magda makes a rule. A man with no enemies does not think of poisoning. But thou wilt find the truth.’

‘I cannot see how it was done. He was tended by Bess, the lay sisters, and his servant, and had the walls of the hospital round him. How did the poisoner reach him?’

‘Aye. Thou hast much work ahead of thee.’ Magda put aside her cup, stretched as she rose.

‘Honoria de Staines spends her nights in St Leonard’s gaol, did you know?’

‘Aye. For owning glass and silks above her station.’ Magda lifted a pouch from a peg, carried it to her work table.

Owen followed. ‘I wonder whether they have been right about her guilt, wrong about her sin. She was much with Julian Taverner.’

As Magda filled the bag with simples and such, she said, ‘Honoria served him two years before she wed. She
would
be much with him.’

‘Were they lovers?’

‘And for that she poisoned him?’ Magda crossed to her fire circle, crouched beside it.

‘What of her missing husband?’

‘She loved him. Fair poisoned herself trying to get with child for him.’

‘She is barren?’

Magda wagged her head as she spread the embers and covered them. ‘So many men and never quickening? Aye. He beat her, blamed her. But ’twas folk’s grins poisoned him for her. She will not see him again.’

‘You do not think he returned to have his revenge?’

Magda barked with laughter. ‘Thou’rt so desperate as to believe that?’ She began to rise, refused Owen’s proffered hand. ‘Away with thee. Magda must begin her day.’ She closed the pouch, slung it over her shoulder.

As Owen stepped into the daylight, the horse greeted him. ‘Where did you find her?’

‘Tied without a tumbledown hut. Folk said a stranger abandoned the horse at the city gate when a cart tipped over, frightening it.’

‘You believed them?’

‘’Twas too grand a catch for them. So Magda asked about the stranger. Clerk’s gown, wounded in arm and leg, and in too much pain to calm the beast.’

‘And he did not return for it?’

‘Nay.’

‘How do you come to have it?’

‘Magda predicted they would have trouble trading it.’

‘What will you do with it?’

‘Climb upon the beast’s back and ride upriver.’

‘You are concerned about the child.’

Magda shooed him off. ‘Thou hast thy worries, Magda has hers.’

Tom Merchet glanced up from his work as Owen entered the dimly lit tavern. ‘Any news of my godchild?’ With the archbishop, Tom shared the honour of being godfather to Hugh.

‘We may have some soon. His Grace is stopping there to tell Tildy of her brother’s death.’

‘He is good to do it. Few messengers on road these days.’

‘Aye. Is Bess about?’

‘In kitchen. Cook is ailing. A blistered hand. Much better thanks to Lucie’s unguent. Wife tells me you mean to avenge Julian.’

‘Holy Mary. Such a rumour—’

Tom silenced Owen with a slap on the back. ‘Rest easy. She said nothing like.’ His round face was jolly. ‘But she did say you are to help Sir Richard with his troubles.’

‘That I am. I must be off to see him midday. I thought I might speak with Bess about her uncle.’

‘Keep up a chatter and she will be out here.’

Owen sat down across from Tom, touched the corner of the table the innkeeper had been smoothing. ‘What happened here?’

‘A bench brought down sharp on table.’

‘And a customer?’

‘Aye. He will live. And his attacker paid well for damage.’

It was a good thing Tom Merchet was well padded with bulk and muscle. An innkeeper could never be too strong.

‘Tell me what you know of Julian Taverner.’

Tom sanded for a while, gathering his thoughts. ‘Owned an inn at Scarborough harbour. Swan, he called it. And as all men from Scarborough, he was fond of ships grounded in foul weather.’ Tom’s prejudice had more to do with Bess’s fond memories of her first husband, a clerk in Scarborough.

But there was perhaps some truth in what he implied; Magda too had suggested that Julian’s money had come from somewhere other than the inn. ‘He emptied the broken hulls?’

Tom laughed. ‘Aye. Most like. While a taverner. But when his wife and daughter drowned in a storm, he changed. Blamed himself for the drowning, though he was nowhere near. Sudden storm, even the best get caught. He called it his punishment. And when pestilence came to Scarborough, he took it as his penance, went out and took care of folk left to die.’

‘Punishment for what?’

‘A leman, most like. What else? Though he never spoke of it.’

‘Telling tales, husband?’ Bess stood braced in the doorway that led out to the kitchen.

‘You have a better answer, wife?’

Bess joined them at the table. ‘Is it true, then, Owen? You have offered to help Sir Richard?’

‘Offered? Nay. I have been ordered by His Grace.’

‘No matter. However you come to it, I am pleased. You will put my mind at ease and that is all I can ask now he’s dead.’

‘I fear I might disappoint you.’

‘Nay. You are too shrewd.’

‘Then you will not mind if I pry a bit, eh? Do you know any of his old comrades from his smuggling days?’

Bess reared back. ‘Smuggling? Who told you that?’

‘He lived well in Scarborough, Bess.’

‘The Swan is a fine inn now. It was grand when Julian ran it.’

‘This is a fine inn. But could you afford a corrody at St Leonard’s?’

‘Nay. But you would do well to look elsewhere. John Cooper had somewhat to say about the deaths at the hospital.’

Owen waved away the rumour. ‘I have heard it. Unholy and dangerous gossip, Bess. See that you do not repeat it. And none are to know what I am about, eh?’

‘You can trust us,’ Tom said.

Bess said nothing, but her injured expression reassured Owen.

‘I have something else on my mind that you might help me understand, Bess.’

‘Oh? And what might that be?’

‘Honoria de Staines.’

Bess sniffed. ‘Impudent harlot.’

Owen told her of his conversation with Honoria, though he did not mention it fell on the day of Julian’s death.

‘Goblets of Italian glass?’ Bess shook her head. ‘I knew the old man had been a fool about her, but goblets of Italian glass!’

‘You did not attend the wedding?’

‘I did not! Shameless hussy. I feared a child would arrive in short order with my uncle’s eyes and nose, and our family’s thick hair.’

Then Honoria’s barrenness was not common knowledge. ‘So he had bedded her?’

‘I would think it more the other way. She lured him.’

‘You have proof of this?’

‘It is her nature, my friend. Why? Has this aught to do with my uncle’s death?’

‘No. Not at all. Just the goblets. They are very like the ones stolen from the master’s house.’

‘Ah. Well. She has no need to steal, that woman. She makes her money on her back, she does.’

‘Your uncle witnessed their vows. Was he a friend of the groom?’

‘Nay. He thought it a foolish match.’

‘There was enmity between them?’

Bess made a face. ‘He did not cuckold the young man, if that is what you are thinking.’

It was plain Owen could not rely on Bess’s opinions in this.

The daylight burned his eyes as Brother Wulfstan stepped outside after a long vigil with the latest plague victim.

John Tyler, so recently bereaved, called from the doorway, ‘Do you need an arm to steady you on your way?’

Brother Wulfstan shook his head, waved away the man’s concern. ‘See to your own, Master Tyler.’ He had lost wife and infant, but he had yet a son and daughter to tend. ‘You were a brave man to stay with them till the end. Many do not.’