A Plague of Poison Read online

  Five

  ALTHOUGH THE POISONER WAS ELATED BY THE SUCCESSFUL effect of the poison, his excitement was tinged with disappointment. It had been a simple task to place the adulterated pot of honey in the kitchen, but the risk he had taken to ensure that Nicolaa de la Haye would be his first victim had failed.

  He consoled himself with remembrance of the fearful agitation among the castle household after the discovery of the poison; the secret power he held over them all had given him a heady rush of exhilaration. It would be accelerated even further when the next victims fell prey to his venom. He looked forward to it with eager anticipation.

  Six

  THE NEXT MORNING BASCOT WAS AWAKE BEFORE Prime and lay on his pallet considering the events of the previous day. Before retiring to their chamber at the top of the old keep, he and Gianni had visited the kitchen, a long, cavernous building constructed mostly of stone and attached to the keep by a covered wooden walkway. The Templar had wanted to see for himself how easy it would be to access the shelf on which the poisoned honey pot had been placed. Even though it had been late in the day, the kitchen was full of activity as scullions scraped and scoured cooking utensils and pared and chopped vegetables in readiness for the next day. The air was redolent with the lingering aroma of roasting meat and the pungent tang of onion.

  There were three large fireplaces set in one wall, their flames damped down to rest overnight, with vertical rows of ovens set in niches between each. Huge baskets of turnips, parsnips and carrots were piled on the floor, and bunches of herbs dangled from the ceiling. Deep shelves of considerable length lined almost every wall and were laid with bowls of eggs and grated cheese rinds as well as a number of earthenware jars filled with all manner of substances from grease drippings to leftover gravy. The room was brightly lit, not only by the radiance of the fires, but also by candles fitted into sconces fastened into the wall between the shelves.

  Gosbert’s assistant, Eric, was making bread, kneading dough in a huge bowl, when Bascot and Gianni entered. Some loaves had already been laid out to rise overnight; a few were of fine white manchet bread, which was served to those of higher rank, while the rest, and the most numerous, were made from the coarse-grained flour of barley or rye. Eric quickly left his task when Bascot came in, and he asked the Templar how he could be of assistance.

  The shelves that had held the honey pots before Lady Nicolaa had ordered them put into the locked storeroom were near the back, alongside a small cupboard that Eric told him was filled with spices. It was quickly apparent that, as Gosbert had said, access to the honey pots would have been relatively easy; the shelves were out in the open and within reach of all.

  Bascot asked the assistant cook how many jars of honey the shelf had contained when the cook had made the marchpane. “Perhaps a dozen altogether,” Eric replied, “but I think there were only two of the finest sort.”

  “And both of those came from the Nettleham apiary?”

  “Yes. We have used up all of those from the Haye apiary and are awaiting a delivery of more,” Eric explained. “We use a great quantity of honey throughout the year, Sir Bascot. There is not enough room to store it all in the kitchen, so Lady Nicolaa’s beekeeper sends further supplies four or five times a year, as it is required.”

  “But the Nettleham honey—it is delivered all at once, in the autumn?”

  Eric nodded. Bascot went on to ask what was done with the pots once they were empty, and Eric told him that all that were not chipped or cracked were cleansed and placed in a shed in the bail for collection so they could be used for refilling. It would be a simple matter, Bascot thought, to extract one of the empty pots from the shed, fill it with tainted honey and then bring it into the kitchen and exchange it for a pot whose contents were pure.

  As he lay in the darkness and reviewed all that he had seen, the Templar considered the likelihood of Eric being the one who had placed the poison in the jar. Was the assistant covetous of Gosbert’s position and, wishing to discredit the cook, had tainted the honey in order to pave the way for his own promotion? If so, it could be that Eric had not realised the strength of the poison and had thought it would only cause a slight illness and, as Martin had suggested, could imply that the cook’s management of the kitchen was so dilatory that food was becoming contaminated through slovenliness. Or was the assistant perhaps resentful of Gosbert’s overbearing manner and had he poisoned the honey in a malicious response to a reprimand he had received?

  Bascot sighed and turned on his pallet. Such speculation was useless. There could be a myriad of reasons for this crime, ranging from a desire to extract vengeance for some unknown enmity to something as simple as finding enjoyment in malicious mischief, and a plenitude of people who had the opportunity to do it. He did not relish the thought of interrogating every one of the more than twenty scullions who worked in the kitchen, as well as all of the servants who waited on the tables in the hall, but it might prove to be the only way of finding out if any had seen or heard something that was pertinent.

  He recalled the previous times he had been involved in discovering the identity of a secret murderer. As on those occasions, he was outraged by the cowardly stealth of the crime. Ralf, a young man joyfully anticipating marriage to his sweetheart, dead before he had been able to look on the face of the girl he loved one last time. And Haukwell, a knight deserving of meeting death cleanly, with a sword in his hand, taken from life by an enemy that did not have the courage to face him. Bascot knew that the anger he felt would be a detriment to clarity of thought and resolutely put his wrath aside, deciding to replace it with the solace of prayer.

  He began a repetition of the prayer of a paternoster, holding the words steadily before him in his mind’s eye. It was a practice that all Templars were encouraged to follow as a means of strengthening their resolve, and it was one that Bascot had often used, especially when he had been a captive of the Saracens in the Holy Land. On the day that an infidel lord had ordered his eye to be put out with a hot poker, he had used the prayer to sustain him through the pain and humiliation of the ordeal, focusing especially on the passage that asked God for deliverance from evil. His supplication had been answered when he had been given the opportunity to escape from his heathen captors. Now he ended each repetition of the litany with a heartfelt plea for heavenly aid in discovering the identity of the poisoner and hoped that, once again, God would look on his appeal with favour. The exercise brought him comfort, and slowly he felt his tense muscles relax.

  Sleep was just beginning to reclaim him when he heard Gianni stir on his pallet and the rustle that accompanied the boy as he rose and used the chamber pot in the corner of the room to relieve himself. Dawn was beginning to show its light through the one small casement the room possessed, and Bascot decided to get up. If he was going to get to the bottom of this matter, there was a lot of work ahead of him and no time for delay. Pushing into place the leather patch that covered his missing right eye, he pulled on his boots and shoved his arms into the padded gambeson he had discarded before retiring. Telling Gianni to follow him, he had just left the chamber and was standing at the top of the stairs leading down to the bail when he heard one of the gatewards blow his horn three times, the alarm that signalled an emergency.

  ORDERING GIANNI TO RETURN TO THE CHAMBER and fetch his sword, the Templar descended the stairs as quickly as his injured ankle would allow. When he emerged into the bail, he saw that it was the gateward on the eastern gate—the one that led out into Ermine Street—that had sounded the alarm. Ernulf and two of his men-at-arms were running in that direction. As Bascot followed them, the lanky figure of Gilles de Laubrec appeared at the door to the stables, and he hastened to join the Templar.

  “I just sent off one of the grooms with a letter to the sheriff from Lady Nicolaa,” the marshal said as he came up. “Let us pray there is no more trouble astir, else there will be need to send another messenger on his heels.”

  The gateward had come down from his post at the
top of one of the two towers that flanked the huge entrance, and he was standing with a man that Bascot recognised as a member of the town guard under the command of Roget, a former mercenary and now their captain. The guard was out of breath and had obviously been running. As the others reached him, he struggled to make his voice steady enough to speak clearly.

  “There’s been more poisonings—in the town. A spice merchant and his family. They’re all dead. Captain Roget sent me to inform Lady Nicolaa and request her orders. He’s put the house under guard, but some of the neighbours are becoming fearful for their own safety.”

  “I’ll go down there, de Laubrec,” Bascot said to the marshal. “Inform Lady Nicolaa of what has happened. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Leaving Gianni with Ernulf, the Templar accompanied the guard back through the gate and out into Ermine Street. They followed it down into the town, passing through Bailgate and onto the deep incline of Steep Hill, moving as quickly as they could on the slick cobblestones that were still wet from a shower of rain that had fallen during the night. The guard led Bascot down past the Skin Market and the Church of St. John and into the upper end of a street called Hungate, which was mainly inhabited by merchants, with the more affluent of the residents living in houses at the far end of the thorough-fare, at the point where it intersected with Brancegate. The guard led Bascot towards the intersection, and they had almost reached it when he stopped and pointed to a dwelling near the corner.

  “That’s the spice merchant’s house, over there,” he said.

  Despite the earliness of the hour, a crowd was gathered in the street, most of them in various stages of undress, wearing cloaks and hats that looked as though they had been hastily thrown on. They were muttering amongst themselves and giving anxious glances at the door to the spice merchant’s home.

  Roget came forward as Bascot and the guard pushed through the group of spectators. The captain was a fearsome-looking man, black visaged and with the scar of an old sword slash running down the side of his face from temple to chin. His dark brown eyes were alight with anger as he yelled at the crowd to move back, and the copper rings that were threaded through his beard danced with the movement.

  His greeting to Bascot was terse. “It seems this cursed empoisonneur has struck again. The spice merchant and his wife are both dead, as well as their little girl. She was only a child, de Marins, barely six years old.”

  “How long since their deaths, Roget?” Bascot asked.

  “A couple of hours. Their old cook came running out into the street just after midnight, screaming that her master and his family had become violently ill and needed help. One of the neighbours fetched an apothecary who sent for Alaric, the physician. That’s him over there. He can probably tell you more about the manner of their deaths than I can.”

  The man that the captain had indicated was garbed in a flowing black gown and was engaged in earnest conversation with one of the bystanders, a well-built fellow wearing an expensive cloak trimmed with fur that had been carelessly tossed over his shoulders.

  A man of middle years, with an unlined countenance and bushy eyebrows, the physician came forward when Bascot beckoned to him. A scholar’s cap sat firmly on top of his thatch of sandy-coloured hair.

  “Are you sure the deaths in this household are due to poison?” Bascot asked.

  The physician nodded solemnly. “I am. The whole town has heard of the two recent deaths in the castle and that it is believed they were due to ingesting a poison that is commonly used to exterminate vermin. The symptoms that Master le Breve and his family suffered are exactly those that such a poison would cause.”

  “Were you with any of them before they died?”

  “Yes. All were still breathing when I first came, but purging dreadfully. There is no antidote for this type of venom. I could only make them as comfortable as possible and wait for them to die.”

  “How was the poison administered?”

  “It seems the old woman who is the household cook made a dish of stewed plums and covered them with a custard that had been sweetened with honey. It would appear that the honey she used had been, as it was at the castle, liberally laced with a poison made from the plant Helleborus niger.”

  The physician’s last words were pompous in tone. Bascot had never met him before but had heard him spoken of as a man of great learning, one of the few who had completed a rigorous course of nine years’ study at the great medical school at Montpelier and had his licence to practice granted in the name of the pope.

  “Where is the pot that contained the poisoned honey?” Bascot asked tersely, disliking the man for his overweening pedantry.

  “It is still inside. I thought it best not to remove it for examination until Lady Nicolaa had been informed of the deaths.”

  Bascot gave him a curt nod and motioned for Roget to accompany him into the house. As they went in through the door, Roget said, “I have already been in here, de Marins. One of my men was on his rounds when the old cook’s commotion started. He sent for me immediately but they were already dead when I arrived.” His eyes darkened. “Sweet Jesu, it was terrible. The man and his wife were covered in vomit, their eyes open and staring as though they had witnessed the depths of hell, and the little girl . . .” His voice broke as he told Bascot of the child. “La pauvre petite, she was curled up at her mother’s side, her little hands clutching at the arm of her ma-man , as though beseeching the poor woman to save her. I tell you, de Marins, this poisoner is more foul than an imp of Satan. Only a man without a soul would willingly cause the death of such an innocent.”

  The smell that invaded their nostrils when they entered the home was the same foul stench that had been in the scriptorium when Ralf died. The old servant who had raised the alarm was sitting on a stool just inside the entrance, her hands clasped together and tears streaming down her cheeks as she rocked herself to and fro and moaned in distress. The sleeves and front of her kirtle were stained with vomit and blood.

  “Her name is Nantie,” Roget said. “The neighbours told me she has been in the household many years and was wet nurse to the spice merchant’s wife at the time of her birth. When the wife grew up and married, Nantie came with the young bride to her new home and stayed on as maid and cook.” He lowered his voice as he added, “I fear that what has happened has unhinged her mind.

  After Alaric told her what had caused the deaths, she realised that it was she who had served the dish that killed them all and became as you see her now.”

  The Templar knelt down in front of the woman and spoke to her gently. Although old, her shoulders were unbowed and the hands that she was wringing together were large and strong. When she raised her ravaged face, he could see that her features were firm and her brow, under the plain white coif on her head, was wide and intelligent.

  “Nantie,” Bascot said softly, “I must ask you to show me the pot that contained the honey you mixed into the custard.”

  The old woman’s eyes struggled to focus, and Bascot repeated what he had said, keeping his voice low and calm. She slowly came to her senses and looked directly at him. “ ’Twas the honey that killed them, wasn’t it, lord? The physician said someone put poison in it.”

  “It seems likely, I’m afraid,” Bascot affirmed.

  Her eyes again flooded with tears. “I didn’t know it was poisoned. I didn’t eat any myself because I thought to save my portion for little Juliette to have tomorrow. Oh, Sweet Mother Mary, how can this have happened?”

  “Nantie,” Bascot said a little more firmly, “we need to see the honey pot. The markings on it will show which apiary it came from and might help us to find the person who did this terrible thing.”

  His words seem to penetrate her grief, and she wiped the tears from her face with her sleeve and answered him straightly. “Yes, lord. Whoever did this must be caught and the souls of that sweet baby and her parents avenged. I will show you the pot.” She got up from the stool and led them down a passage and out a
door at the back to the small building that housed the kitchen. It contained a fireplace, a table on which were laid some cooking utensils with a solid three-legged stool beside it and an open-faced cupboard filled with pots and jars. On the floor, in front of the stool, a large bowl was upended with the half-plucked carcass of a chicken lying nearby. Feathers were strewn about as though the old woman had been engaged in the task when le Breve and his family had been taken ill.

  Nantie confirmed this, saying, “I was working late at my chores and preparing a chicken for stewing in the morning when I heard my mistress cry out. I ran into the hall and all three of them were purging. Poor little Juliette was the worst, she was clutching her bottom and crying because she had fouled herself and her gown was getting soiled.”