The Canterbury Murders (7 page)

Chapter Eleven

In the royal townhouse on Stour Street, the steward, Inglis, was indulging in a bout of self-pity. After drinking deeply from his personal flagon of wine during the midday meal he had, once the table was cleared, taken the almost empty flagon and retired to the buttery, shutting the door firmly behind him. The incessant chatter of the other servants at table had been irritating, and he craved solitude. The chamber where the king’s wines were stored would suit his purpose admirably. The rest of the staff knew that they were not allowed into the chamber without his permission and he would not be disturbed there.

Once alone, and amidst the comforting array of wine kegs imported from France, Spain and Portugal, he allowed his depression to deepen. Although it was not his custom to imbibe heavily, he slumped down onto a stool, tipped the remaining dregs of wine into a cup and then reached for another bottle. But, despite his maudlin mood and slight tipsiness, he stayed his hand. His annual stipend included an allowance of reasonably good wine, not as fine as that kept on hand for the king and his guests, but still robust of taste, and he always kept two flagons in readiness, alternating them in turn, so that each would have at least a day to steep in a flavouring mixture of honey, cinnamon, nutmeg and the juice of pressed mint leaves that the cook prepared for him. If he did not refill the flagon immediately, his ingrained routine would be interrupted, and his precise nature rebelled at the thought.

Meticulously, if a little unsteadily, he rinsed the empty container in a bucket of water kept ready for the purpose, refilled it with wine from a small keg set apart from the rest, added some of the honey mixture from a pot on a shelf and then sealed the bottle with a wax stopper. Only when this task was completed, and the fresh flagon placed on the floor alongside the one he had prepared the day before, did he allow himself the luxury of replenishing his cup.

Retaking his seat on the stool he now felt able to resume his morose rumination on the recent turn of events. Aside from his grief for poor Molly, whom he had known for many years, he was badly affronted that he, a trusted royal servant for nearly three decades, should have been treated as a suspect for her murder. It was an even greater insult that he, along with all the servants of lower station, was now being kept confined in the townhouse while her death was investigated.

His indignation mounting, Inglis drained his cup and poured another. Drinking deeply, he allowed the headiness of the liquor to fuel his troubled thoughts. How dare he be treated in such a fashion after all his years of faithful service? Had it been forgotten that in his time he had served three monarchs—the late King Henry, then Richard and now John—and had been commended by each of them? Was this the manner in which he was repaid for his trustworthiness, for all of the long hours he had stood in attendance, never resting in his efforts to ensure every comfort was provided for them, and the table laden with the foods each of them had most enjoyed? A pretty pass matters have come to, he thought; it was an effrontery beyond bearing.

Another swallow of wine took his mind back to the early days of his service when the late King Henry had been on the throne and he had been merely a young manservant at the townhouse, eager to advance his station and willing to put his hand to any task in order to gain promotion. It had not taken long for the elderly man who had then been steward to notice his industry and commence grooming Inglis to take his place. That had been during those dreadful days after Thomas Becket had been murdered and the king had been scourged in the cathedral for instigating the killing of the sainted archbishop. King Henry had come to the townhouse after his ordeal and Inglis had waited on him personally, bringing clean binding cloths and cups of wine while one of the royal physicians had tended the bloody stripes on his back. Had he not proved his worth then and in the years that followed, during the ten-year reign of Henry’s son Richard and now, latterly, for John? He shook his head morosely. All his hard work, it seemed, had been for naught and he had been put under guard like a common felon.

As he mentally reviewed his litany of woes, he drank more of the wine. His palate numbed by the amount he had imbibed, and his mind distracted by resentment, he barely noticed that the vintage from the flagon he had just opened, in comparison with the one he had drunk at table, was slightly bitter in taste and had an aroma that was a little musty. Fleetingly he thought that the cook must have been overzealous with the nutmeg when he compounded the last honey mixture, but other than that, he dismissed the oddity, and began to reflect on yet another cause for pique.

It was his habit to visit a complaisant widow in the town one night a week for a meal and an evening of bed-sport. Yesterday had been the day for his usual appointment but, because of his confinement in the townhouse, he had been unable to go, and at a time when he had a pressing need to speak to her. Even his request to send her a message had been denied by the guards. How embarrassing for a man of his status, he thought angrily, to be dictated to as though he were a lowly groom.

He was growing ever more mawkish, and it was not until he reached for the flagon a second—or was it a third?—time that he realised his arms felt weak and his mouth overfull of saliva. Sweat began to trickle down his forehead and from under his arms and when he tried to rise from the stool he found his feet were so numb they would not support him. Then his heart began to beat so rapidly it sounded in his ears like the pounding of a hammer. He tried to cry out, but his tongue was thick and would not form the words. Helpless, he fell to his knees and, as the wine cup dropped from his hand and the contents splashed over his meticulously clean tunic, he became senseless. Within minutes he was dead, his long days of service to the monarchs of England at an end.

***

As Inglis was falling to the floor of the buttery, Bascot de Marins arrived at Canterbury castle and was handing his horse into the care of a groom, instructing that the steed be given a brisk rubdown and a full measure of grain. The journey from Dover was not a long one, but the wind from the coast had been biting and he was worried that his mount, a dependable grey gelding he had ridden from Lincoln some weeks before, was suffering from exposure to the cold. As he left the stables, the constable, Nicholas de Criel, came to greet him. He and the Templar had met only once before, and briefly, but they had recognised kindred spirits in each other at that time and Criel’s welcome was a warm one.

“I am glad to see you, de Marins,” he said. “I hope you can solve the mystery of this murder and put the king’s mind at rest.”

“I trust it will be so,” Bascot replied noncommittally, not allowing his distaste for the task to reflect in his answer lest it unsettle Criel, a man he liked and respected. “Have instructions been left as to where I am to attend the king?”

“You do not have to go far, my friend. He is here, in the keep, anxiously awaiting your arrival. And I must warn you that he is not in the best of tempers.”

Bascot nodded and he and the constable crossed the ward, making for the keep. As they did so, the Templar looked around him and noticed there were more guards than seemed necessary on the walls.

“You have a heavy complement of men on duty,” Bascot remarked, “and more, I would have thought, than is needed to provide additional security while the king is in residence.”

“You are right, de Marins,” Criel replied. “That is because of this murder. Until we find out who is responsible for the death, I cannot take any risks with John’s safety. Whenever he is in the ward, I double the watch and have no doubt that de Burgh has done the same at Dover, while the queen is staying there.”

“I have not been told any details of the crime,” Bascot said. “Was the victim someone close to the king, a person of eminence?”

Criel shook his head. “No, she was only a servant, John’s washerwoman. It was not her standing, but the place where she was slain that has given cause for alarm.”

“And that was?” Bascot asked.

“In an antechamber in the royal townhouse, and done while the king and queen were in the next room.”

As Criel led Bascot up the stairs to the chamber where John was waiting, the Templar pondered the constable’s words. He had little liking for the king; the last time they had met John had attempted, by means of a bribe, to persuade Bascot to rescind his decision to rejoin the Templar Order and remain in the service of Nicolaa de la Haye. The king had claimed to have done so in the hope of pleasing Lady Nicolaa, of whom John was fond, and that may have been true, but Bascot could not help but remember the relish with which the king had made his offer, and his obvious enjoyment of placing a man who was a monk in a moral quandary, forcing him to choose between his love for another human being and his faith. It indicated an innate maliciousness in John’s personality and was not a trait that could be admired in any man, let alone a monarch.

When Criel knocked at the door of the chamber and they were bid to enter, Bascot found that John was not alone, but sharing a flagon of wine with a tall knight with a rangy but muscular build. He was not young, being well past his middle years, and wore a badge with a red lion rampant on a field of gold and green on the breast of his tunic. The king gave Bascot a greeting full of seeming bonhomie.

“I am much indebted to the Order, de Marins, for allowing you to leave your duties and come to my assistance,” he said, motioning him to take a seat and help himself to a cup of wine. Then, gesturing to his companion, he asked, “Are you acquainted with the Earl of Pembroke?”

“No, sire, I am not,” Bascot replied, giving Marshal a nod of salutation, which was amiably returned.

“Has Criel apprised you of the events that led to my request for your presence here?” John asked.

“Briefly, yes. He said that the victim was one of your servants, and slain in a room adjacent to the one you were occupying.”

“A foul deed, perpetrated by a coward,” John declared with feeling.

“When did the murder take place?” Bascot enquired.

“Late in the evening of the day before yesterday,” John replied. “The queen and I arrived from Dover three days ago and had taken up residence in the royal townhouse on Stour Street. All went well until the second day when, after the evening meal, we repaired to our bedchamber and I decided to have a bath before I retired. The servant who was murdered—my washerwoman—was preparing the tub when she was killed.”

As John went on to explain the details of Molly’s death—the manner in which she had been killed and how she had been found by his bath attendant—the earl studied the Templar knight. The only reason for Marshal’s presence in the chamber was that he had been in the castle keep earlier and when John arrived, he had invited him to share a glass of wine while he waited for the Templar. The king had seemed in a conciliatory mood and, since Marshal was not an intractable man, he had accepted. If John wished to put their recent difference of opinion aside, he was willing to do the same.

Now, his contribution to the conversation not necessary, he took the opportunity to assess the Templar monk and found that he liked what he saw. Although courteous, de Marins was not diffident towards the king, and the gaze from his one pale blue eye was forthright. In his penurious younger days, the earl’s ability to correctly estimate the character and abilities of an opponent had played a major part in his continued success, and he decided the Templar was not a man he would have welcomed as an adversary. Well muscled in shoulder and neck, he had a tenacious look that implied he would prove difficult to overcome. The earl also sensed, from the slight clenching of the muscles in Bascot’s jaw while he conversed with John, that the monk felt some degree of antipathy towards the king.

“The sheriff is incapacitated at the moment,” John was saying as Marshal returned his attention to the conversation, “and the town bailiff, while a worthy individual, does not have the resources, or the experience, to carry out a competent investigation into the death. That is why I need your help, de Marins.”

The Templar gave a brisk nod. “First of all I will need to inspect the chamber where the murder was committed, and then question everyone who was on the premises at the time.”

John smiled. “I am pleased to tell you that those tasks have already been done, and by one whose competence I am certain you will not doubt.”

Bascot was both surprised and irritated. The king had just finished telling him that no one was available to conduct the enquiry; who then was he speaking of? And if there was someone of ability already leading the investigation, why had he been sent for?

John took a moment to consider the man seated in front of him before explaining his statement. He had met the Templar only once before but knew, from that occasion, how much fondness the monk had for the mute Italian boy who was now Nicolaa’s clerk, regarding him as a father would a son. He also judged, by the Templar’s polite but distant manner, that the monk still retained some enmity towards him from their last meeting and that being ordered to investigate this crime was not a welcome duty. But John was sure that once the Templar was aware that the lad was involved, his focus would sharpen.

“A fortuitous turn of events has dictated that you will not be devoid of all assistance in this matter,” John said smugly. “Lady Nicolaa de la Haye is in Canterbury at the moment and in her company is the young boy you once took under your protection, and who, I am told, often assisted you in previous investigations.”

John paused for a moment, gratified by Bascot’s startled look. “At Lady Nicolaa’s suggestion, I gave permission for the lad to carry out the initial enquiries into the death, which he has now completed. I am certain the report of his findings will prove useful to you.”

A wave of pleasure washed over Bascot at the news that Gianni was in Canterbury, but nonetheless, he kept his response to John non-committal, wary of the king’s penchant for manipulation and that he might be attempting, once again, to use the youngster as a pawn in their dealings with each other.