Chains of Folly Page 22

  Having placed the flagon carefully on the foot of the table that held Gehard’s corpse next to the cup, he came to the head of the table and examined the face. After a moment he touched the slightly blistered lips.

  “Monkshood also called wolfsbane and in the classical texts mother of poisons. But it was not in the cup, only in the flagon.”

  “Are you sure, brother?”

  The monk shrugged. “I will ask our herbalist to look at the cup and what remains of the wine and let you know if my guess is wrong. Is he the kind of man who would not drink direct from the flagon?”

  “No. If no cup were there he would have drunk from the flagon. But the cup was there.” Bell shook his head. “And you are sure of the kind of poison?”

  “Yes. The tingling on my skin is typical and the blistering around the dead man’s mouth. Do you want to know how long the man has been dead?”

  “We know that. There was someone in the next room who, we believe, heard him die. Tuesday afternoon that would have been.”

  “Yes. That sounds right. But why did we only get the body today? Did the person not go and try to help?”

  Bell smiled. “Poor little mouse that she is, she would have been too afraid. She thought he was breaking up the furniture because he was angry. She did not know he was dying. But even if she had known, she could not have helped because the door was locked. She lives in a different room.”

  “She could not have helped anyway.” The infirmarian shook his head. “I only thought that if she had seen him dying and called a priest, he could have had the last rites to help his soul. From the way that drop felt on my hand, the potion was very strong. Wolfsbane kills too fast for any help but the viaticum.” Then the monk’s eyes widened. “Did I not hear you say that the door was locked?” He lifted his hand from the table where it had rested near the corpse and stepped back. “He is a self-slayer?”

  “No, no,” Bell assured him, “This was murder, not self-slaughter. He was not the kind to die by his own hand, and he had enemies enough to help him along the way.”

  “Then God have mercy on him,” the infirmarian sighed. “He died, as you said, by poison. There is some bruising, but I am reasonably sure that was from falling and striking some furniture in his death throes. There are no other wounds.”

  “Thank you, brother,” Bell said. “If any man deserved dying, I think this man did. Yet to trick a man into taking poison is wrong.”

  “It is, indeed. Who knows, had he lived long enough even this sinner might have repented and mended his ways and found salvation. To send a soul, no matter how evil, untimely to Hell is wrong.”

  Bell thought briefly of the many souls he himself had sent untimely to Hell, but he only nodded and said, “If I can right that wrong, I will.”

  Monkshood, wolfsbane, mother of poisons Bell repeated to himself as he walked to the gate in the city wall that would let him into the grounds of the White Tower. Before entering the gate, he thought briefly of taking a boat upriver to the foot of the bridge to tell Magdalene which poison killed Gehard.

  A glance at the sun told him he would probably be just in time for dinner with the women, but that meant that it would be too late to seek out the Master Apothecary. Magdalene’s clients would be coming in soon after dinner and she never left her women when clients were in the house. Besides, he would get more reaction from Gehard’s men when they first heard of his death. Seeking out the man who sold the poison could wait until the next morning when he and Magdalene could go together.

  To the gate guard, he showed the bishop of Winchester’s seal and said he wished to speak to Mandeville’s captain. The man looked at Bell’s clothing, at the richly adorned sword belt and the well-worn hilts of his sword and his poniard and passed him without difficulty. Nor did the door guard refuse entrance to the bishop of Winchester’s knight. Bell recalled that he and the captain had walked down from his chamber without any display of animosity so likely none of the men knew what had happened. In any event Bell had no trouble in getting to the captain’s quarters.

  The man looked up at Bell as he opened the door and pulled his knife. Bell held out both empty hands, palms forward, in a placatory gesture. “I am come to bring news,” Bell said, “not to make trouble, although the news itself may make trouble. Gehard fitzRobert is dead, murdered.”

  The captain looked surprised, then shrugged. “I suppose he committed one atrocity too many. I wonder how many men it took to bring him down and how many sword or knife thrusts to kill him.”

  “None.”

  “You said murdered?”

  “Poisoned.”

  “Merciful Mary, a woman killed him?”

  Bell shrugged. “I have no idea. No more has the sheriff of Southwark. The door to the rooms where we found Gehard was locked. The shutter of the window was secured on the inside, and there were no marks on the sill or wall or ground below the window to show that someone had left that way.”

  The captain stared at him, then breathed, “Witchcraft?”

  Plainly, Bell thought, it did not occur to the captain for a moment that Gehard would kill himself. But witchcraft? Bell frowned. He had not thought of that. To die by witchcraft was possible, but he had never heard of a witch using poison. Men and women who died of witchcraft wasted away or suddenly strangled on their own breath or fell as if smitten when no blow had been struck.

  “No. I think not,” he said. “Gehard died of poison. He went to the room of Nelda Roundheels, she who died by falling down the stairs on, we think, Tuesday, and there found a flagon full of wine. We think he drank of it—

  The captain snorted. “If there was wine, Gehard would drink it.” His lips thinned and he glanced sidelong at Bell. “He drank too much. Well, you can ask him no questions, so what do you here?”

  “I need to speak to his men. The bishop does not tolerate murder, even of an enemy. I need to try to discover who would have wanted to kill him.”

  There was a long silence while, Bell thought, the captain sought for an excuse to refuse the request. Then his lips thinned again and he said, “Go speak to them, but if you cause any trouble in the troop I will complain to the bishop. Winchester cannot run roughshod over everyone because he was annoyed by a silly jest.”

  Bell opened his mouth and then firmly shut it. He did not regard a dead whore carrying a letter from Gloucester propped in the bishop’s bedchamber as a silly jest nor an attack by an armed troop, even if it was true that the troop had orders not to harm the bishop. However he noted that the captain was careful to avoid any salacious hints. It was more important to speak to Gehard’s men than how this man thought of Winchester.

  “Thank you,” Bell said, and turned on his heel and went out and down the stairs again.

  A question to the guard below got him direction to the men’s barrack. He was considerably relieved when he heard the normal hubbub of a large group of men-at-arms at their ease. Now he thought what a fool he had been. He had never asked the captain whether the men were on duty, and therefore spread all over the Tower grounds, or on leave, and therefore anywhere at all. The bishop was evidently in favor with the heavenly host, so his man’s path was smoothed by having Gehard’s troop ready for duty but not yet engaged in it.

  The door was open to encourage any breeze to come in, but the large open barrack was definitely cooler than the bare trampled earth outside in the full glare of the sun. Bell looked around. The place stank of many men who worked hard and did not bathe frequently enough. There was some disorder, clothing dropped on the floor and blankets crumpled on stained but not fetid pallets. However, the men’s armor was laid neatly ready, pikes were stacked out of the central aisle but in place for easy seizure, and swords were propped or hung to be taken in hand. One or two men looked up as Bell’s shadow fell ahead of him into the room.

  “All right you men, listen up,” Bell bellowed in English.

  The battleground voice cut like an axe through the talk. Silence followed. Every head turned in Bel
l’s direction.

  “Gehard fitzRobert is dead,” Bell continued in the same loud voice and then stopped speaking.

  “Knew it,” a man near Bell gasped.

  “Nothin’ else give us a rest an’ keep ‘im away,” another fairly close muttered.

  From the back of the room, a man called, “How? What happened?” and a bald, hard-faced man with small hooded eyes that had all the expression of dull marbles thrust through a group to whom he had been talking and came forward. “I’m Sedge Raffson, Gehard’s second. Who the hell’re you t’bring th’ news?”

  “I am Sir Bellamy of Itchen, the bishop of Winchester’s knight. I have been seeking the answer to who killed the whore Nelda Roundheels and today went to Nelda’s rooms because I was told of a disturbance there—which should not have happened because the rooms were locked up. And they were locked when I arrived. When I unlocked the door, I found Gehard dead on the floor.”

  “Witchcraft!” a voice Bell could not identify yelped.

  “What else could kill ‘im ‘hind a locked door?” another voice intoned.

  “Poison,” Bell bellowed. Let these men believe Gehard died of witchcraft and not one would dare be of any help lest the witch be angered and curse him. “Gehard was killed with poison, left for him in a flagon of wine.” He looked around, letting his mouth curl in open distaste. “I did not like Gehard fitzRobert, I will say that plain, but even less do I like this cowardly attack on him. If he had been challenged and killed in a fair or even a not-so-fair fight, I tell you true that I would have looked away and said nothing. But poison, poison not even given face to face but left as a trap…pfui!”

  Murmurs of agreement, disagreement, question, comment, even some nervous laughter made a rising sound throughout the room. Sedge Raffson stared without expression at Bell for a moment.

  “You did’n come here t’give us news. You would’ve told th’ captain first and he would’ve told me. What d’ye want?”

  “I did tell the captain. He said I might question the men to discover whether they had any idea of who would want to kill Gehard.”

  Raffson laughed, but his eyes were wary. “Y’ mean aside from th’ men ‘emselves? There’re few who don’t bear scars ‘v ‘is ordered whippin’s or ‘ve mem’ries ‘v beatin’s.”

  Bell shook his head. “Unless you know of a recent punishment that could arouse more than usual anger, it makes no sense. If he were killed by his men, it would have happened a long time ago.”

  The master-at-arms second nodded and Bell saw the man relax somewhat as he began to hope that Bell was not simply seeking a scapegoat among the men-at-arms. Raffson uttered another nearly mirthless laugh.

  “There’s a army ‘v ‘em Gehard pissed off. He weren’t easy tempered, an’ ‘e didn’ care ‘bout makin’ enemies.”

  “Enemies who would have a way into Nelda Roundheels’ locked apartment and were desperate enough to give Gehard poisoned wine?”

  “As fer a way into Nelda’s rooms,” a man who had been listening intently said, “I wus gate guard by th’ Thames Street gate ‘nd I saw Gehard catch one ‘o th’ captains a’rter ‘e come in. Did’n see ‘oo it were; they us b’hind me. But Gehard wus angry, ‘e said ‘oo ‘e was talkin’ to better get Nelda t’ giv’ it t’ ‘im. But that wus afore Nelda died.”

  “How th’ hell do y’ know ‘bout Nelda?” Raffson asked.

  The man who had spoken was young with dirty tow-colored hair, but his eyes were a light, bright brown and Bell thought full of intelligence—or at least shrewdness.

  “I’ve eyes ‘nd ears,” the young man said. “Nelda come lookin’ fer Gehard mor’en once, ‘nd he wus flush ‘ith coin arter he went ‘ith her, ‘stead ‘v th’ other way. Once wh’n he weren’t ‘ere, I asked ‘v I could serve instead. I could do ‘ith s’me extra coin.” He looked squarely at Bell when he said that, but continued without pausing. “She looked me up ‘nd down ‘nd said, maybe someday but I weren’t suited for her purpose yet.”

  “One of the captains,” Bell muttered.

  “Not ours,” Raffson snapped. “Hmmm. There wus a captain askin’ fer Gehard…ah yestiday. Lef’ a message t’ meet ‘im arter duty in th’ Cask ‘f Wine. Yeah. Man called Linley.” Raffson snickered. “Must’a waited quite a while ‘cause Gehard must’a been dead a’ready.”

  So Linley had not known that Gehard was dead, Bell thought. But could he have been the “captain” the gate guard heard Gehard threatening?

  “Did Gehard know Sir John?” Bell asked. Magdalene might say he was reaching for the moon, but Gehard could have known about the letter.

  There was a glutinous chuckle. “ ‘nother one he didn’ like.” An older man, missing an ear and with a scar running from the stub across his cheek, pushed in beside the young tow-head. “Sir John, ‘e wus one ‘f Me Lord’s pets. Gehard wus alms arter ‘im ‘bout where ‘e’d bin ‘n whut ‘e did. Mostly Sir John wouldn’ tell ‘im.”

  That, too, was very interesting, Bell thought, and asked if Sir John had been at the Tower recently. No one had seen him since he had arrived from France Thursday past. Other men had tales of Gehard’s unpleasant ways, but nothing so direct or any specific threat. It seemed unlikely to Bell that the men named would be angry or frightened enough to poison Gehard. Not enough was at stake to merit murder.

  Bell found farthings for those who had volunteered information—but not until no one else came forward. If he had offered money in the beginning, the men would all have found tales to tell—true or not. To Raffson he gave a whole silver penny, saying that he might want to come back and ask further questions in the next few days. The man-at-arms second nodded brusquely, tossed the silver in the air, and said he’d be welcome but that he wouldn’t trust the men not to make up things. In answer to which Bell laughed and said he would come with specific questions to which he knew the answers and only needed confirmation.

  He had dinner in a cookshop in the East Chepe and then set out to find the men who had quarreled with Gehard. Not one of them was the least saddened by the news of Gehard’s death; on the other hand Bell did not think any of them was sufficiently angry or bitter to commit murder. All seemed to be prosperous merchants from whom Gehard had made purchases at his captain’s behest and from whom, with varying degrees of success, he had tried to extract a healthy commission. Bell made a mental note to get one of the clerks who handled Winchester’s accounts to discover whether any of the merchants was in debt or otherwise in trouble so that the requested commission would be seriously damaging.

  By the time he had spoken to the last man, the afternoon was well advanced. Bell set out for Winchester’s house with a strong sense of satisfaction. Most of the bishop’s business for the diocese of London was conducted in the morning. The late afternoon was often given over to his private affairs and messages from the diocese at Winchester. Having first made sure that all was well with his men and no problems had arisen, he asked for an audience with the bishop and was admitted immediately. He gave Winchester the news about Gehard’s death and his investigation of it.

  Winchester frowned even as he nodded. “Oddly, that kind of man, one anyone would believe would be the first to be murdered, often dies in his bed in miserable old age. So, you have no idea of who might have killed him?”

  “I know that he threatened ‘a captain’ and that he was on bad terms with Sir John who obtained the letter you now have. But—” Bell shook his head slowly “—I cannot see how he would have access to Nelda’s rooms to leave the poison, unless he is the one who killed Nelda and took her key.”

  “What of the landlord, Linley?”

  “I took his key and he did not kill Nelda. He was either at Master Rhyton’s house or dead drunk when Nelda died.”

  “Those who spoke for him are telling the truth?”

  Bell shrugged. “According to Magdalene, the woman Claresta would be glad to be rid of him and would not lie to protect him. And by my judgment, his fellow officers in Surrey’s household do
not like him and also are not likely to lie for him. Of course, Diot picked the lock so it could not have been very hard to do. But it is not something one can do quickly—and I think the little girl next door would have noticed and told Magdalene.”

  “You are sure the woman Nelda did not give out keys?”

  “Not sure, my lord, but from what we have heard of her, it is not likely. She was suspicious and, being a thief herself, I would think unlikely to trust others.”

  There was a little silence and the bishop sighed. “There was something between that whore and Father Holdyn whether or not he lay with her. She stole from him and he did not seek to punish her. Perhaps he is the one person whom she would trust enough to give a key.”

  “I had forgot Holdyn,” Bell muttered. “Could Gehard have killed Nelda? We know he beat her two days before she died. And if Gehard killed her, could Father Holdyn have sought revenge for her death?”

  “A priest commit murder with poison?” There was a bleakness, but no utter rejection in Winchester’s voice.

  “I think, my lord, you must confront Father Holdyn and discover what power the woman had over him. I cannot believe he is guilty…and yet…” Bell cleared his throat. “Meanwhile, I would like to borrow one of the clerks of your household to examine the businesses of those from whom Gehard tried to extort money to make sure his exactations would not have ruined anyone.”

  Winchester sighed again. “Very well. You know my chief clerk. Tell him which men must be examined and he will appoint someone with the skill appropriate for the task. If they find anything suspicious, they will let you know.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  The bishop looked down at his hands, clasped before him on the table at which he had been working. “You believe it was this man, this Gehard, who arranged the attack on me?”