The Riddle of St Leonard's (8 page)

A low blow. ‘Mistress Staines has performed much penance and is one of our best servants.’

‘Some would be quite puzzled by that claim, Sir Richard. Quite puzzled.’

‘You have reports of her?’

The mayor smirked. ‘In faith, you cannot be surprised. She has been seen. Even with some of your select number of corrodians.’ He rose, filling the air with musk, bowed slightly to Ravenser, who rose also.

‘Can you provide me with proof?’

Savage sniffed. ‘I shall not betray confidences.’

‘Lies, more like.’

Savage bristled. ‘Have a care, Sir Richard. I know that the hospital is in financial straits because of a shortfall in the Petercorn. If you seek the goodwill of the freemen of the city, you must earn it. By choosing those who work in the hospital with caution. By being a valuable member of the community.’

Ravenser was finding it difficult to control himself. ‘Would you be so kind as to tell me how you know about our finances?’

‘It is all over the city. One need only stand on the street and open one’s ears. I thought it common knowledge.’

‘I see.’

Savage shook his head. ‘I am left to conclude that your rejection of my mother-in-law has more to do with your dread that I might be privy to what happens at St Leonard’s.’

Ravenser could take no more. ‘Master Savage, it is widely reported that your mother-in-law is a tyrant. You wish to prevent her taking over your household, that is your motivation in trying to bully me into accepting her here.’

Savage had turned a frightening shade of crimson. ‘That is not my purpose in asking you to take her in!’

Ravenser had wagged his head. ‘Master Savage, now who is tripping on the truth?’

With a flourish of his mayoral robes, Savage had stormed from the room.

Thoresby listened to his nephew’s story in growing despair. ‘For pity’s sake, Richard, Savage was right. You are dependent on the freemen of the city. And you made an enemy of the man who might have defended you to them. Have you no control of your temper?’

A startled expression told him that Ravenser had expected sympathy.

‘And now the new mayor, Roger Selby, asks about her. What is so important about this lay sister? Why must you defend her? Why keep her?’

‘Did not Mary Magdalen find redemption as a follower of Christ?’

‘You would compare yourself with Christ?’

Ravenser groaned. ‘You are a man of God, uncle. Do you not see the goodness in what Cuthbert did?’

‘Cuthbert has earned his place in Heaven by his desire to do good, Richard, but he has done nothing for your career. You must see to it if you wish to climb any higher.’

Thoresby found his nephew a puzzle. His elaborate, colourful attire contradicted the naïve simplicity of his faith.

B
ess Merchet arrived early at the infirmary and sat watching her uncle sleep. Julian Taverner seemed old and frail. A network of veins crept across his cheeks, nose and eyelids. The skin of his neck was wrinkled. His hair was still abundant, a family trait, but it was now pure white. It curled tightly, as if someone had washed it the night before, and the singed ends had been trimmed away. That was commendable. Smoke was impossible to get out of hair any other way. A woman cried out in a bed tucked away somewhere in the forest of partitions. A dark-robed sister hurried past, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Did they sleep on their watches? Bess did not like to think that. Nor did she approve of the cobwebs in the rafters or the strong scent of urine and sweat all about, though her uncle’s bed and person smelled fresh. Once, as she’d kept her vigil, Bess had caught Don Cuthbert in the doorway and had sent him off with a hissed ‘Can you not see he is sleeping?’ Perhaps it would be best to take her uncle from here, let him recover at the York Tavern. She had an extra bedchamber for kin up above, across from her own. He would be quite comfortable there.

Julian Taverner rocked his head back and forth on the pillow in sleep, then woke with a groan, clutching his neck with a bandaged hand. His eyes were red. He blinked, trying to focus on Bess. ‘Honoria?’

‘Nay, ’tis only your niece, Bess.’ Honoria indeed.

Don Erkenwald poked his head through the doorway. ‘God go with you, Master Taverner, Mistress Merchet. May I come in?’

Bess liked the solid bulk of the canon, and his courtesy. But she preferred to speak to her uncle alone. ‘I do not mean to be discourteous, but we have had no chance to speak since the fire. I hoped to have some private speech with my uncle.’

Julian, his eyes still slightly unfocused from sleep, was fumbling with his bandaged hands. ‘I cannot feel with all this wrapping. Is there still a cloth over the wound at the back of my head, niece?’

Bess straightened. ‘This is the first I’ve heard of a head wound, uncle.’

Erkenwald stepped closer. ‘That wound is of interest to me.’

‘Oh aye? You are the first to care,’ Julian said, his tone petulant.

Bess leaned over her uncle. ‘There is still a cloth round your head. Let me see the wound, uncle.’

‘’Tis enough to feel it.’ Julian guided Bess’s fingers to a considerable knot on the base of his skull.

‘Holy Mary, Mother of God! How did this happen?’

‘It bled so, I thought it would kill me,’ Julian said.

‘I see that you have suffered indeed, uncle. Answer me now – how did this happen?’

‘I was attacked from behind as I bent to drag poor Laurence from the burning house.’

‘No one told me of an attack.’

Erkenwald leaned close, felt the wound. ‘Who hit you?’

Julian closed his eyes and dropped his head back on the pillow, wincing as the knot compressed. ‘If I knew that, I would not be lying here.’

Bess crossed her arms over her chest. ‘Oh? You would be steady on your feet and clear in your head? How would your burned hands feel as they met his jaw?’ She shook her head. ‘I am decided now. You will come home with me.’

‘Nonsense.’

‘It will take no time to prepare.’ Her mind full of her plans, Bess did not notice her uncle’s wet cheeks, the moisture seeping from beneath his closed lids, until he gulped, suppressing a sob. ‘Uncle?’

Erkenwald had retreated to a bench away from the bed.

Julian swiped at his eyes with a bandaged hand, cursed. Bess knelt on the bed, dabbed his eyes with a cloth. ‘What is this, uncle?’

Julian batted her away. ‘I could not save him. The murderer was too quick.’

Bess’s hand paused over her uncle. ‘Murderer? I thought the fire an accident.’

Julian glared at her as best he could through his red eyes. ‘Of course it was no accident, you foolish woman.’

Foolish? And she had thought to take him home, the ungrateful man. But his certainty was disturbing. She settled down next to him. ‘Tell me what happened, uncle.’

‘You’ll not listen.’

‘I am not such an idle person to ask for what I do not wish to hear.’

Julian looked uncertain, but he said, ‘Fix my pillows so I might sit up and speak with ease, then.’

Bess did as requested, with more energy than Julian might have liked. But he sank back on the pillows and thanked her.

‘When Laurence said he would burn his wife’s belongings, I offered to help him. He did not say nay. He was to come for me when he was ready. I was down with the orphans, telling them stories, when I noticed smoke. More than the usual smoke. I ran out, found the fire untended, spreading to brush that had been dropped outside the fire circle. That was worrying. Laurence was a careful man. I stepped into his house thinking he might have thought of something else that must go.’ Julian paused, a bandaged hand pressed to his forehead. He took a deep breath, dropped the hand, stared down at the floor beside his bed. ‘He lay on the ground, face down, a bloody gash in his head – bloodier than the one I was soon to receive.’

Bess already had doubts about the story. ‘You noticed all this with the fire spreading round you?’

‘The fire was without, not inside,’ Julian said impatiently. ‘I knelt over Laurence to lift him and help him breathe. I was hit from behind. Not as hard as Laurence must have been hit, but it dizzied me. I fell over Laurence and rolled off him, spent a moment getting my breath back. That is when I smelled smoke inside. I looked round, the house was ablaze. So suddenly. Someone rushed out of the door, but the smoke made it impossible to tell anything about him. I dragged Laurence out, but his clothes—’ Julian’s voice broke. He shook his head.

‘And no one has listened to your story?’ Bess glanced over at Erkenwald, who stared thoughtfully at the floor.

‘They say I am confused,’ Julian said.

‘Who says that?’

‘Don Cuthbert.’

‘That snivelling— I’ll confuse him—’

Julian put a bandaged hand on Bess’s arm to quiet her. ‘You would help me, niece?’

‘Of course.’

‘They mean to bury Laurence quickly. For fear of the pestilence. Idiots. He died by fire. But that is their aim. You must convince Don Cuthbert or someone here at the hospital, someone respected, to examine Laurence before he is buried.’

Bess hesitated. The task did not appeal. ‘Why?’

‘Someone else must see his wound. Stand as my witness. Someone who would not otherwise listen to me.’

And what if there is no such wound, Bess wondered. Julian had been knocked hard – he might have imagined it all. Still, there was sense in his request. She glanced over at Erkenwald, who watched her with interest. ‘Will you be his witness?’

‘Gladly.’

Honoria de Staines crossed herself and shook her head when Erkenwald ordered her to untie Laurence de Warrene’s shroud.

‘It is not as if we had asked you to open a grave,’ Bess said.

The lay sister clenched her hands. ‘I do not like it.’ She had turned pale.

Bess thought her pitifully squeamish for one who worked in an infirmary.

‘’Tis much the same as opening a grave,’ the woman said. ‘It is disturbing the dead.’

‘To prove that he was attacked. His spirit will not rest otherwise,’ Bess said.

Honoria sank down on a bench beside the shrouded corpse, pressed the heels of her palms to her forehead.

Don Cuthbert chose the moment to flutter into the room and demand an explanation. Erkenwald patiently told him why they were there.

To Bess’s surprise, the cellarer pressed a linen cloth to his nose and waved them on.

‘We cannot convince this sister to co-operate,’ Bess said. ‘Do I have your permission to open the shroud?’

‘Make haste!’ Cuthbert gasped.

Erkenwald nodded at the tiny canon. ‘It is not a pleasant odour. But better now than once in the ground.’

Bess made short work of the knot, then bent over the corpse, gingerly turning the head. The odour was indeed unpleasant.

Erkenwald leaned close, touched the wound. ‘Someone knew where to aim it.’

‘God help us,’ Cuthbert said.

Bess glanced over at the cellarer. ‘Come here. Feel this.’

Instead of approaching, Cuthbert took a step backwards. ‘Pray, there is no need for me to feel it. I shall gladly take Don Erkenwald’s word for it.’

Bess did not like it. There was something between the two men, some animosity that might work against her uncle. ‘I wish you both to witness it. I want there to be no suspicion that I am protecting my uncle, or accepting the words of a confused man, as you called him. You must feel the back of the head.’

The cellarer looked to Erkenwald.

‘You are the master in Sir Richard’s absence. I think he would expect you to have examined Master Warrene,’ Erkenwald said.

Cuthbert crossed himself and, muttering a prayer, stepped forward and allowed his hand to be guided to the wound, though he tried to jerk it away at once. ‘It bleeds!’

Erkenwald held him still a moment. ‘The man is dead. He no longer bleeds. You feel that there is a wound there?’

‘Yes, I feel it.’

Erkenwald released Cuthbert.

The cellarer took out a cloth and wiped his hand. ‘And yet what does it prove save he was hit? Perhaps by Master Taverner.’

‘Then come with me and feel another knobbly wound,’ Bess said.

Cuthbert sighed. ‘It is my duty.’

When Bess turned to ask Honoria to summon someone to replace the shroud, she discovered that the lay sister had disappeared.

*

Satisfied that both Cuthbert and Erkenwald had now heard Julian’s story, noted the serious and similar wounds, and that Cuthbert had promised to write to the master of the hospital about it, Bess took herself off to Lucie Wilton’s apothecary. She wished to consult with Owen. He had dealt with suspicious deaths before. Cuthbert had asked that she remain silent about the wounds and her uncle’s story, but he would never know she had spoken to Owen.

The streets were quiet for mid-morning. A house in Lop Lane was marked with a cross: a poor soul dead or dying of pestilence within. Bess crossed herself and hurried past.