A Holy Vengeance Page 11

  Roget had already told Bascot that Ferroner was known to be very generous in aiding those less fortunate than himself and surmised that the armourer’s “insignificant amount” would be substantial. He had a soft heart, Roget had said, and could always be relied upon to help anyone who was in need with funds from his considerable fortune.

  The next question was a hard one to put to a man who was so distraught, but Bascot asked it nonetheless. “Now that your daughter is gone, is there another relative who will become your heir?”

  With a glint of tears in his eyes, Ferroner gave his response. “If you are looking for a person who killed my Emma to gain profit, there is no one. She was the last of my line. I shall leave what I have to the church.”

  Although he was reluctant to distress the armourer further, there was still the need to ask him to look at the weapon that had been used in the commission of the crime. Bascot took it from his scrip and placed it on the table.

  “I know this will be distasteful for you, Master Ferroner, but this is the blade that took your daughter’s life. Have you ever seen it before?”

  Steeling himself, the armourer picked up the knife, repugnance on his face. Turning it over once or twice, he examined it, and then tested its sharpness with the ball of his thumb. Finally he peered at the hilt and haft, and then shook his head. “If I had, I would not remember. ’Tis of ordinary craftsmanship, such as is made by blacksmiths throughout all of England and of a type that is commonplace. I can only tell you that it was not made in my workshop; the blade is too inferior.”

  Although Ferroner had done his best to aid in any way he could, and Bascot felt that he had pressed the grieving armourer almost as far as he could withstand, there was yet one last question that had to be asked, and that was in regard to Emma’s marriage.

  “Your daughter had been wed almost two years. Were she and her husband complaisant together?”

  The armourer looked at him in surprise, but answered as honestly as he could. “I believe they were happy enough, except for her barrenness. Wiger was not the one I would have chosen for Emma but I gave my consent because she told me she was very much in love with him. I must admit that I would have preferred a man of more substance for her husband; one that I could be certain would be able to care for her properly after I am gone. But that concern is moot now, is it not, for I am left alive and she is the one who is gone . . .”

  Tears welled in Ferroner’s eyes and Bascot stood up. It was obvious the armourer was incapable of giving any more information. With a motion to Gianni and Roget to follow him, the Templar left the disconsolate father to his sorrow, and an existence that was now devoid of love or purpose.

  Chapter 15

  As Bascot, Gianni and Roget made their way back to the workshop to question Wiger and the rest of Ferroner’s employees, Nicolaa de la Haye was receiving Master Drogue, the apothecary she had requested to attend her.

  A man approaching his sixtieth year, Drogue had recently been elected head of the Lincoln branch of his guild. Although the apothecaries’ craft was an ancient one, their guild was relatively new, having formerly been part of the pepperers’ association. Drogue was highly respected in the town, and well liked. His choice as leader by the other guild members was not surprising.

  A tall, thin man, almost cadaverous in appearance, he had a high domed forehead and insightful brown eyes. His gown was a sober dark grey and on his head was a close-fitting black skullcap. Nicolaa knew him to be kind, honest and gentle and that he could be trusted with a confidence.

  “I have asked you to come, Master Drogue,” she told him, “on a matter of some delicacy. It concerns the young woman, Robert Ferroner’s daughter, who was recently murdered at the shrine of St. Dunstan. You have heard of the crime?”

  “I have, lady,” the apothecary replied. “The town has talked of it constantly since it happened.” He gave a sad shake of his head. “A most horrifying deed.”

  “I am in the process of trying to gather information about the victim,” Nicolaa explained to him, “and believe you may be able to help me. In the last few months, do you recall if the murdered woman ever came to you for a consultation?”

  Master Drogue’s high brow furrowed as he considered the question. “Not that I remember, lady. But I have one apprentice and two assistants. If her requirement was simple, it may have been one of them who attended her. May I know the nature of her ailment?”

  “I have been told it was to seek a remedy for infertility,” Nicolaa replied.

  Drogue nodded knowingly. “A not uncommon problem, and due, it is thought, to excessive humidity in the womb. I have instructed my staff, for this condition, to recommend the remedy I most favour, which is to place a poultice of lady’s mantle across the lower abdomen and keep it there while drinking an infusion of raspberry leaves—both of which my shop supplies. I shall check my records to see if Mistress Ferroner came to us for help, but there is also the possibility that she may have visited another apothecary or even a physician for assistance. If it was the latter, he could have submitted his prescription without divulging her name.”

  Nicolaa was not of the opinion that Emma Ferroner had sought the advice of a doctor. That part of Constance Turner’s evidence had rung true when she had said that her friend had not wished to consult a physician lest he involve her husband. If the victim, as the perfumer had said, was guilt ridden about her distaste for sexual congress, she would never wish it revealed to her spouse.

  “I am fairly certain she did not consult a leech, Master Drogue, but would like to confirm, as has been claimed, as to whether or not she sought out the services of a member of your guild. I will take up your offer to consult your records. Would it be too much trouble to also ask you to find out if she attended any of the other apothecaries in the town?”

  “Of course not, lady,” the apothecary replied.

  “I am most grateful for your assistance,” Nicolaa replied thankfully. “I would, however, ask you, and the other guild members,” she added, “to hold the nature of my enquiry strictly in confidence. This is a murder investigation, and all information that is garnered must be kept privily until such a time as it is known whether or not it is pertinent.”

  The elderly apothecary solemnly gave his assent and prepared to take his leave, setting down his wine cup and beginning to rise from his seat. Nicolaa forestalled him, however, saying there was one more matter she wished to discuss with him, intending to ask him if he had ever heard anything detrimental about Mistress Turner. Although the prisoner only made perfumes and unguents, her products were, in a small measure, allied to the apothecary trade, and the guild guarded their reputation jealously. If she had infringed on their rights, or sold any product that was not wholesome, she was certain Drogue would be aware of it and, if so, her trespass would have a bearing on the honesty of her claim that she did not sell medicaments.

  “You will, no doubt, have heard that a perfumer in the town, Constance Turner, had been incarcerated in relation to Mistress Ferroner’s death?”

  “So rumour says, lady,” Drogue replied. “Speculation is rampant, of course, as to the reason for her arrest. Kinder souls think it is for her own protection in case she recognised the murderer and is in danger of being attacked by him, while others, less charitable, claim it is because she killed her friend due to possession by a demon.”

  He looked straightly at Nicolaa and added, “For my own part, I would hope the former is the true reason. She is an intelligent young woman who has known much sorrow in her life, and does not deserve more.”

  “You are acquainted with her?” Nicolaa asked with a touch of surprise, and choosing not to comment on the reason that the perfumer had been incarcerated. Although she trusted Drogue to honour his word to be discreet, the fewer people that knew of the circumstances surrounding Mistress Turner’s arrest, the better.

  “Not well,” Drogue replied, “but I was
an acquaintance of her father.” He paused for a moment in reflection. “I met him on several occasions many years ago, in Boston. I had a relative there who is long since demised but was, at that time, alive and whom I was in the habit of visiting once or twice a year. I first met Master Turner on one of these visits, and at subsequent times thereafter, for he was friendly with my relative and often came to share his board at mealtimes. Our common profession gave us much to discuss and I liked him, even though some of his theories were rather eccentric—such as that bleeding a patient with fever was not necessary and might even do harm, a most unorthodox idea. I am not surprised that some of the more conservative brethren among the apothecaries in Boston were displeased with his views but I, for one, found his opinions stimulating rather than objectionable. It was with great sadness that I heard he had been ostracised over his defence of a young girl who claimed to have been raped, and how the tumult in which he became embroiled after her suicide distressed him so much that he became ill and died.”

  “Have you spoken to Mistress Turner since she moved to Lincoln?”

  Drogue nodded. “She came to see me when she first moved here four years ago, to give me greetings in honour of my friendship with her father and also, in courtesy, to tell me of her intention to live in Lincoln and earn her livelihood as a perfumer. I wished her well, but apart from nodding to her on a few occasions when we have passed in the street, have not spoken to her since.”

  “Has she ever, to your knowledge, attempted to prescribe medicaments?” Nicolaa asked.

  “Not that I have heard, and I would have been told if she had,” Drogue assured her.

  “I know your meeting with her was a brief one, but were you able to form any impression of her character?”

  As he had with the other questions Nicolaa had asked him, and was his nature, Drogue considered his answer well before he made it. “I believe so, for that was not the only time I had been in her company. I met her on two previous occasions before she came to Lincoln, when she accompanied her father to dine at my kinsman’s house in Boston. Although a young girl at the time, she was lively and cheerful, and paid careful attention to the conversations that went on around her and, when asked for her opinion, gave cogent replies. When she came to see me after her arrival here in town, I noticed that her previous animation was much diminished. The troublesome time that her father had experienced, and his ensuing death, had, I think, an adverse effect on her personality. I found her much more reserved than formerly and very cautious in manner.”

  He lifted sorrowful eyes to Nicolaa. “It was a shame to see such a bright and clever young woman brought so low. If you are asking me if I think she could commit murder, lady, I would deem it most unlikely.”

  Chapter 16

  As Gianni followed the Templar and Roget down the path to the armoury, he tried to dispel the fear that had engulfed him when Robert Ferroner had said that his daughter had been killed by a witch. Despite the fact that the evidence suggested that the murderer had not been possessed by a demon, Gianni was not entirely convinced. In Sicily cunning women were called strega and had very powerful magick at their command, able to summon up evil fairies that could force humans to do their bidding.

  He remembered one such incident as though it was only yesterday, even though he had been only a young child when it happened and it had taken place in the days before the Templar had brought him to England. He, along with a number of other homeless waifs, had lived on a wharf in Palermo and there had been an old crone who had sold oranges and apples near the docks, laying them out for sale on the doorstep of the tumbledown shack in which she lived. She was known to be a strega and had threatened all of the urchins in the area that if any of them were foolish enough to try to steal her fruit, she would retaliate by casting a spell on them. But food was very scarce and there came a time when one of the youngsters, a boy of no more than nine or ten, became so overcome with hunger that, despite her threat, the temptation of the tantalising fruit became too much for him and he ran up and snatched one of the apples. As he sped away with his prize, the crone had raised the knobby stick she always carried and shaken it at him, promising that he would soon regret the theft. That very night the boy was killed, thrown off the pier and into the sea by a drunken sailor he had tried to rob. His lifeless body was found the next morning, washed up on the shore by the incoming tide.

  Later that day, alerted by a couple of witnesses who had seen the sailor assault the boy, two members of the town guard had come to arrest him. He had vehemently denied his crime, saying he had no memory of the incident and had slept soundly all through the night without disturbance. When the guards laid their hands on him to take him to gaol, he had fought with a strength beyond that of a mortal man, slaying one of the guards with the knife he carried and fatally wounding another. He was hung a few days later, and the people who witnessed his death had fearfully reported that evil fairies had been seen dancing on his shoulders as he expelled his last breath.

  Gianni shivered. Could it be that Ferroner was right, and just as that Sicilian strega had caused the sailor to kill the boy, this English cunning woman had magicked up an imp of Satan that compelled some luckless man to slay the armourer’s daughter? And what would happen to those who tried to apprehend this bedevilled murderer? Would they, too, like the town guards in Palermo, be attacked and killed by the superior might of such a man? Silently sending up a plea to Lord Jesus for protection of all those involved in the investigation, he hastened his steps to follow his former master into the armoury workshop, hoping his prayer would be effective.

  * * *

  It was almost midday by the time all of Ferroner’s employees had been interviewed. There were six workmen in all: two that had achieved the status of master armourers, and four apprentices, of whom Wiger was one. Bascot, with Gianni beside him making a record of each employee’s answers, had spoken to them all separately in a little shack that was used to store iron ingots. The burning rays of the June sun made the inside of the shack almost as hot as the workshop, and one of the younger apprentices kept them supplied with ewers of ale to quench their thirst. Roget stood on guard outside the door to ensure no one could overhear the questions that were being asked, or the answers.

  Deciding to leave Wiger until last, intending to try to find out from the rest of Ferroner’s employees more about the relationship between Emma and her husband, the Templar spoke to the other apprentices first. All were in various stages of learning their craft and none had been with the armourer long enough to have more than a passing acquaintanceship with Emma, or much knowledge of her activities. With regard to the relationship between her and her husband, none had noticed any discord or resentment on the part of either.

  Of the two master armourers, the first one had been working for Ferroner for only the past year, having recently moved to Lincoln from Grantham and been hired soon after his arrival in the town, and therefore did not have any useful information, but the other master, a man named Noll, had been friends with Ferroner since they were young lads, and knew both him and his daughter well. He was a short, stocky man, and very hirsute, with a mat of thick dark hair covering his arms and shoulders under the scant cover of the leather apron he wore. Old burns had left bald patches on his shoulders and forearms, and there was also a large scar on his left biceps that looked as though it, too, had been caused by an accident with molten metal, and which he absently rubbed as he spoke.

  “Robert’s father was a grand man, and ’twas through him that I came to work here,” he informed Bascot. “He always made me welcome from the time I was just a little lad and soon had me plyin’ a tiny hammer just like Robert. Later, when I was old enough, he offered to make me an apprentice and I gladly accepted.”

  “And Mistress Emma—you knew her well?”

  “Aye, I did, and her poor dead mother,” was the response. “I was right fond of Emma from the day she was born; she was the delight of her fa
ther’s heart and a merry little girl who gave pleasure to all who knew her.” He looked up at Bascot with deep sorrow in his dark brown eyes. “I can’t believe that she is gone; ’twill be the death of Robert, he doted on her so.”

  It was evident from his anguish that here was a man who would never wish any harm to Emma and could not be considered as a suspect. Bascot asked him if he knew of anyone who had borne her enmity.

  “Not to my knowledge, lord,” Noll replied. “But I hadn’t seen much of her since she got wed. Afore that, when she was younger, she often used to come to the workshop with Nan Glover, the woman who attended her after her mother died, to bring us all a bit of pasty or some other treat. But after Nan left, she didn’t come so much, so I didn’t often have many opportunities to talk to her and learn how she was faring, or if she had quarrelled with anyone.”

  “Was she happy in her marriage, do you know?”

  The master armourer’s face darkened. “I won’t tell you no lies, lord, for the truth of the matter is that I don’t like Wiger, nor do I think he made her a good husband.”

  “And why is that?” Bascot prompted, his senses quickening.

  Noll heaved a sigh. “Well, he seemed alright when he first came to work here. He was only a lad then, and mucked in willing enough with the rest of us. His father was a blacksmith, an acquaintance of Robert’s, and when the father was killed one day—kicked in the head by a horse he was shoeing—Robert offered the lad an apprenticeship. He was eager to learn and has become more than competent at our trade, I’ll admit, but I think he only chased after Emma because he had an eye, through her, to owning the armoury one day. If he has a love for anything, it’s this workshop.”

  “Then you do not believe he cared for Emma personally?” Bascot asked.