The Poisoned Chalice (13 page)

As he vanished into the darkness, his wife found her lungs again. ‘Go then, damn you, you ungrateful wretch! Go to your squalid alehouse and your Welsh whore!'

She gathered breath for another round of abuse, but he closed the oaken door behind him with a satisfying bang.

In spite of Matilda's words, he did not turn towards the Bush, but decided on a round of investigation concerning Christina's assault. His feet took him only twenty yards from his own dwelling before he made his first call.

Pushing open the door that Christina had entered two nights before, John entered Fitzosbern's shop. The same two workers were there, toiling each evening until the seventh hour rang from the cathedral bell. The older one, Alfred, nervously clambered to his feet, the piece of metal he had been working dropping to his bench with a clang.

‘Evening, Sir John. Do you want the master?' His voice was tense, as if he had been expecting a call from the law for some time.

John nodded and swung his head round to look at the younger silversmith, Garth. This brawny fellow stared back at him blankly, no trace of anxiety in his dumb-looking face. John, who knew almost everyone in the city of Exeter, had always marked down this fellow – whom he often saw in Martin's Lane – as a little retarded, even though it was said that he was an able metal-worker. John contemplated him for a long moment.

‘A terrible business, the other night, sir,' quavered Alfred, as if unable to bear the ominous silence. ‘The young lady was in here that very evening.'

‘Your master, is he in the house?' rumbled John, ignoring the invitation for dialogue.

Without a word, Garth repeated the action he had made for Mistress Rifford: staring at de Wolfe, he swung a great fist backwards to beat a tattoo on the panel behind him.

Without waiting, the coroner pulled aside the heavy woollen drape and stepped through the inner doorway. The back workshop was again almost dark, lit only by the sleeping furnace and the glow of a lamp that came down the stairway at the back.

Though Fitzosbern's house was about the same size as John's, he had given over the whole of the ground floor to his business and lived on the upper floor, made by heavy boards supported on corbels built into the walls, seven feet above the ground.

As John advanced cautiously in the gloom, heavy footsteps clattered on the steps and the light was broken by Fitzosbern coming down to meet him. He held a tallow lamp in his hand and recognised his visitor. ‘Mother of God, it's de Wolfe! Come in and welcome. It's many a long year since you stepped into my house.'

John muttered some noncommittal words and followed the silversmith up the stairs.

The solar occupied the whole upper floor and had been divided into two rooms, one of which was a bedroom. They were better furnished than his own: the wealthy guild-master had expensive hangings to brighten the walls, wool rugs on the boards and several chairs and stools around a large table. There was a small fireplace, which seemed to be joined into the chimney of the furnace below, and the place was almost too warm, even for a winter's evening.

‘Come in and have some hot spiced wine,' effused Godfrey. Mulled wine seemed to be his first thought when any visitor arrived.

John was suddenly aware of someone else in the room: a head appeared around the side of a high-backed settle near the fire. ‘Who is it, Godfrey? Oh, Sir John, it's you!'

It was Fitzosbern's wife, Mabel, a pretty woman ten years younger than her husband. His first wife had died in childbirth six years earlier, the infant stillborn. Five years ago, he had married Mabel, the daughter of Henry Knapman, a wealthy tin-miner from Chagford on the edge of Dartmoor. Small, slim and very blonde, she was another lady in Exeter who attracted many looks of admiration and an equal number of lecherous stares.

Though John had never liked her husband, what little he knew of Mabel had left a good impression on him. She was always cheerful, amiable, and yet had that something that made men wonder whether they might have a chance with her, if the circumstances were right. Although he was as fond of the ladies as the next man, he had never contemplated making a play for Mabel, partly because she was almost on his doorstep, too near home for comfort.

Godfrey was already pouring wine and pressing an elegant glass into John's hand, a far cry from the crude mugs he used in his office in the castle.

He settled on a chair near the fire and Mabel resumed her own seat, illuminated by the flames from the logs. He studied her over the rim of his glass, while Godfrey fussed over drinks for his wife and himself. Mabel was dressed stylishly in a pale green silk kirtle, deeply embroidered all around the neck and hem. A green silk cord was wound twice around her waist, and she wore a darker green over-tunic, laced widely open at the front. Her blonde hair was parted in the centre and two long braid hung down over each breast, with green silk tapes plaited into the strands. John could hardly fail to compare her appearance with that of Matilda, who for all Lucille's efforts and her expensive outfits still managed to look clumsy and frumpish.

Fitzosbern brought his glass and sat between them on a padded stool. ‘I expect we know what brings you on this nonetheless welcome visit, John – I may call you that, I hope?'

The coroner would prefer that he didn't, but could hardly say so while sitting by the fellow's fire and drinking his wine.

‘Is your wife well?' asked Mabel politely.

Her husband broke in effusively, ‘Indeed, I hope so. A charming lady, a pillar of Exeter society. I wish we saw more of you both.'

‘I am always very busy,' muttered John. ‘Away so much I have little time for socialising.' He gave one of his loud throat-clearings which, with his grunts, were always a preamble to serious talking. ‘As you suspect, I am looking into the sad episode of Christina Rifford's assault.'

There was a chorus of ‘Terrible!' and ‘Awful, the poor girl!' from the pair opposite.

‘I understand that the last place that she was known to be was your shop on that evening, Fitzosbern.'

‘Call me Godfrey, John, please! Yes, she certainly came here that evening but, from what I hear, it was not her last place of visitation. That was the cathedral, surely.'

John assented reluctantly. He was damned if he was going to call this vain cockerel by his first name, but the investigation must go on. ‘True, but so far we have yet to find anyone who remembers her there.' That was mainly because no one had got round to asking, but he was not going to tell Fitzosbern that.

The guild-master ran a hand through his thick curly hair. ‘The lovely girl came to the shop some time between the sixth and seventh bell. The smiths were still here, so it could not have been seven. She was here but a few moments, though I pressed her to stay and warm herself with some wine, as you are doing now.'

John noticed Mabel turn her blue eyes on her husband, but she said nothing.

‘So she didn't come upstairs, to meet your wife?' he asked deliberately.

It was Fitzosbern's turn to look at his wife now, and he paused momentarily before saying smoothly. ‘Mabel was at our house at Dawlish until yesterday. She prefers the sea air to this rather small solar above the workshop, which can sometimes get smoky when the furnace is running hard.'

‘So you were alone?'

‘Yes, but for those two louts downstairs. They are good smiths, but hardly edifying company.'

John drank down half his wine in one gulp. ‘I have to ask this, but certain insinuations have been made. Are those two men, Alfred and Garth, of good reputation?'

The fleshy face of the master silversmith assumed an expression of sudden enlightenment, which John recognised as false.

‘Are they suspect of this foulness? Well, as I said they are good at their trade, but I have no means of vouching for their characters. When they leave this shop at seven, they cease to exist as far as I am concerned. I have no means of knowing – or caring – what they get up to in their own time.'

In other words, you bastard, you are throwing them to the wolves, thought John bitterly. He would have stood up for his own men, Gwyn and even the dubious Thomas, against any slurs on their characters.

‘Have you any reason to think that they might have had any evil designs on the Rifford girl?'

Godfrey began to leer, then checked himself as he found Mabel watching him intently from her bright blue eyes. He gave a little cough. ‘Well, she is an extraordinarily attractive young woman. I suspect that many men in this town have such designs lurking in their imaginations. Alfred and Garth are probably no different.'

‘But did you see them do or say anything objectionable or suggestive?'

‘No, I did not, John. But I don't watch my servants, my interest is with my customers, especially with a daughter of one of the portreeves.'

After a few more minutes of fruitless questions, the coroner threw down the rest of his drink and rose to leave. Fitzosbern pressed him to stay and have more wine, but John sensed that he would be glad of his departure. Mabel had said not a word more, but he had the feeling that she would have plenty to say to her husband once the street door had closed behind him.

He left the house and walked around the corner of Martin's Lane into the high street and on up to the Rifford house on the other side, towards the castle and the East Gate. Several bells from the many churches rang out for their services at the seventh hour, taking their cue from the deeper toll that issued from the cathedral. The bitter wind had blown up again from the east and there were few people about the darkened streets.

He came to the house on the corner of the lane and rapped on the door. It was opened by old Aunt Bernice who, in a confusedly flustered manner, ushered him inside. Near the fireplace, Henry Rifford was standing, feet apart, almost as if he was guarding the hall. Then John saw the feet and skirts of Christina, who was seated in a large chair. As he advanced across the rush-strewn floor, he was surprised to see the gaunt figure of Dame Madge on a bench opposite the girl.

Christina looked pale but composed and greeted him civilly, but with a wary look in her eyes, which he suspected would be bestowed upon every man for a long time to come.

The usual courtesies were exchanged rather stiffly and, though invited to sit, the coroner remained standing. ‘I have no wish to intrude, but I wanted to enquire after you, Mistress Christina, and to hope that you are recovering from your ordeal as well as might be expected,' he said, rather stilted.

She inclined her beautiful head gracefully. ‘I improve in body every hour, Sir John,' she said, with the implication that her mind would take a great deal longer to heal.

Dame Madge rose to her feet. ‘I, too, called to see if there was anything more I could do for the poor girl, but her bruises are fading quickly. She has a good spirit and is a devout and noble soul. All I can do is pray for her rapid return to full health and happiness.' She walked towards the door, in a stately fashion, like a ship under sail, her white head-rail flowing down over her black habit, a wooden cross flopping against her flat bosom. ‘The city gates are long closed, so I will go to St Nicholas's to pray, and beg a bed in their infirmary.' This was a small priory lower down the road not far from the apothecary's shop where Edgar was apprenticed.

Rifford and John thanked her for her continued support and she sailed out into the night, one of Henry's servants accompanying her, to see her safely to the priory.

Henry Rifford, his large face returned to its customary redness, came back to the fire. ‘Was there anything in particular you wanted, Crowner, apart from your kind enquiries about my daughter?' He said this in a half-challenging way, as if daring John to intrude further upon their private grief. As one of the bishop's and sheriff's faction, he had opposed John's appointment as coroner but for political rather than personal reasons.

‘Much as I dislike disturbing you, I need to discover all I can about this crime, Portreeve. This perpetrator must be caught, not only to avenge your daughter, but to prevent further such evil. If he is not caught, he may well think that he can get away with such an act again. There are many other pretty women at risk in the city, even if none quite so fair as Christina.'

This was quite a speech for the usually taciturn de Wolfe, but it put Rifford in a position where, as a leader of the community, he was unable to resist doing all he could to assist the public good. ‘But how can we help? All that can be said has been said. De Revelle has been here three times himself and now favours one of those smiths that work with Godfrey Fitzosbern as the most likely suspect. If I thought that to be true, I would go down there tonight and hack the bastard's head off with a sword.'

Matilda's loose tongue had done its work well, thought John sourly. Once the sheriff got astride a convenient idea, he would ride it into the ground and to hell with justice or common sense. He turned to Christina, who sat apathetically, her hands crossed in her lap, dressed in a dull gown of brown wool, her hair flowing loose and unbraided from under a white linen coif.

‘Christina, you have been asked this many times, but do you still have no recollection of anything – anything at all – that might help to identify this man?'

Tears glistened in her eyes, though she made no sound.

‘You couldn't sense if he was big and heavy or lean and sinewy?'

‘He was so strong, that's all I know.'

John tried another tack. ‘You told my wife that in the silversmith's shop the two workers made you feel uncomfortable?'

She nodded, a little more animated now that he had moved from the scene of her shame. ‘They stared at me a great deal, but nothing more. I have learned, in the last year or so, how men look at me when they – they – think things,' she faltered.

Her father now indicated that he was nearing the limit of his indulgence and that John should conclude his questioning.