A Plague of Poison (22 page)

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Authors: Maureen Ash

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BOOK: A Plague of Poison
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Roget took a mouthful of wine before he continued. “When I asked the monger if he knew of any enemies the lad might have had, he told me that Cooper had been dallying with one of the customers, a goodwife who lives in Spring Hill, and that maybe her husband had found out and taken his revenge for being made a cuckold.”
Ernulf nodded his head sagely. “He could be right. No man likes to have horns put on his head.”
Roget sighed. “So I thought, too,
mon ami
, until the fishmonger told me who the husband was.” At the look of confusion on the faces of his companions, he explained. “The goodwife is young, married to a prominent draper in the town who is old enough to be her grandfather. I have seen him walking with his wife when they go to attend Mass. He is small and shrivelled with age. Cooper was young and sturdy. The cuckolded husband would never have had the strength to overpower him.”
“Maybe he crept up on him and gave him a crack on the head first to knock him out, and then did the deed,” Ernulf suggested.
Roget shook his head. “No,
mon ami
, there were no marks on Cooper’s head. Not one lump or bruise. And, even if there were, it would have required great force to inflict the wound to the stomach and hold him down while he bled. The old man is too frail to have done such a thing.”
“What about Cooper’s relative, the cousin? Did he know anything?” Ernulf asked.
“The cousin is a woman. Name of Mary Gant,” Roget said.
“Is she married to a glove maker?” Ernulf asked, and when Roget nodded, he added, “I know the man, he has a good business.” Bascot was not surprised at the serjeant’s knowledge. He had an extraordinary memory for the names and faces of everyone who lived in Lincoln. “Did she know anything about Cooper that might help you find his killer?”
Roget gave a snort of disgust. “If she did, I doubt that she would care. Ah, she’s a hard woman, that one. She didn’t shed a tear when I told her about Cooper’s death, or how he had died. Said he had only lived with her for a few months and she only took him in because he had been without a home since his parents died in a terrible fire the summer before last. I think she was glad he would not be coming back.”
“I remember talk of that fire,” Ernulf said. “It happened at an alehouse out on the Wragby road. The ale keeper’s name was Cooper. The dead man must have been his son.”
“So the cousin told me,” Roget confirmed. “She said it was only because her husband took pity on Cooper that she had given him lodging. I think she would have left him to starve in the street but for that.”
The captain took another mouthful of wine before he went on. “Anyway, I asked her if she had seen Cooper last night. She said he came home after he had finished his work for the day, had something to eat and went out again. When I asked her if she knew of any enemies he might have had, she looked at me as though I was a piece of
merde
and said she had taken no interest in the company her cousin kept other than to make sure he did not bring any of them to her home.”
“As you say, Roget, a hard woman,” Ernulf opined.
“What does the sheriff intend to do about the murder now?” Bascot asked.
The former mercenary’s face grew morose. “I am to go to all of the alehouses along Danesgate tomorrow and find out if Cooper had been in any of them on the night he was killed and, if he had, the names of anyone he was seen drinking with. The sheriff thinks he was killed because of a drunken argument. He is probably right, but I do not have your talent, de Marins, for seeking out secret murderers. It will be an arduous task.”
Roget stood and wearily rubbed a hand across the scar that ran down one side of his face. “Well,
mes amis
, I must seek my bed. Tomorrow will be a long day.”
After Roget had left, Bascot called to Gianni and told Ernulf that he and the boy were going to retire as well. As the pair left the barracks and began to cross the bail, the Templar felt relieved that it was Roget and not himself who would be investigating the murder of the fishmonger’s assistant. Like the captain, he was weary of death.
Twenty-four
T
HE NEXT MORNING BASCOT WENT TO THE SCRIPTORIUM and spoke to John Blund about furthering Gianni’s education, asking the
secretarius
for his advice as to whether it would be best for the boy to attend a
schola
in Lincoln town or hire a tutor for private lessons. Blund asked about the level of Gianni’s accomplishments and then suggested that Bascot give him a few days to look into the matter, saying he would see what places were available in the schools run by the some of the churches within the town or, alternatively, if there were any suitable clerks seeking pupils.
Bascot thanked Blund for his promise of help and decided that, while he waited for the secretary to make his enquiries, he would ensure that Gianni had an ample supply of parchment and ink to keep up his scribing practice. The few pieces of vellum the boy had been using were much scraped and worn, and his supply of ink and reed pens was low. It was about an hour after Terce when he took Gianni down into the town to visit one of the shops on Parchmingate where the materials the boy required could be purchased.
The satisfactory outcome of Wilkin’s trial seemed to have restored the good humour of the people of Lincoln. Traffic on the streets had returned to normal, the markets were busy with goodwives making their purchases and there was the usual complement of itinerant traders hawking their wares from boards carried on their heads or being trailed behind them in small carts. The news of Cooper’s death had not seemed to alarm them. Like the sheriff, it would appear that most believed the stabbing had been the result of a drunken brawl. Nonetheless, mindful of the savagery that Roget had described, Bascot told Gianni to walk on his sighted side. Usually the boy, compensating for his master’s lack of vision, took up a position on his master’s right hand, but Bascot wanted to ensure that Gianni was always in his view, at least until it was determined that the murder of Cooper had not been perpetrated by someone who took pleasure in killing at random.
Parchmingate was a street that ran parallel to Hungate and had three parchment shops along its length. Two of them were small, located on the second storey of the premises, and mainly provided the services of a clerk who would charge a fee for scribing a document that was required by a customer who was illiterate. These ranged from a simple letter to be sent for the purposes of business or to a relative or friend, to the much more complicated outline of a plea that the customer wished entered before a magistrate. The third shop, and the one to which Bascot took Gianni, was much larger and was situated on the lower floor of a house that was owned by the parchment seller and had living quarters for himself and his family on the storey above.
Gianni was almost dancing with excitement by the time they entered the shop, and when the owner, a tall, thin man with ginger red hair encircling a prematurely bald pate, motioned to his two assistants that he would personally deal with the customer who had just arrived, the boy puffed out his small chest with importance.
The parchment maker had noted the Templar badge on Bascot’s tunic and came forward obsequiously, asking how he could be of assistance. When told that a quantity of medium-grade vellum was required, as well as some ink, reed pens and a knife for sharpening them, he led his customer to the back of the shop where an array of goods was laid out. The air was filled with the powdery smell of parchment and the sharp tang of ink.
The pair spent a happy hour choosing the purchases, with Gianni carefully examining everything they were shown before his master gave his nod of approval to the parchment maker. When the paper and ink had been selected, Bascot asked that a wax tablet, of the small, portable type that could easily be carried in a scrip to copy down short notes and then later scraped clean, be included, as well as a ruler and a leather satchel to hold the parchment. When they left the shop with all of the materials packed into the satchel, Gianni carefully tucked it under his arm and smiled his thanks at his master. The happiness on the boy’s face was reward enough for Bascot. He felt once again the rightness of his decision to leave the Templar Order and take care of the boy.
They walked back towards the castle along Parchmingate and, as they approached the marketplace, saw Roget standing near the fish stalls. Bascot walked up to the captain and asked him how his investigation into the death of the fishmonger’s assistant was progressing.
“Not well,” Roget admitted in exasperation. “It would seem that Cooper vanished into the air after he left his cousin’s house. I have been into every alehouse between Clachislide and Danesgate and have not found one person who saw him. I have just been speaking again to the fishmonger, asking if he knew of any friends that his assistant might have visited in their homes, but he could not help me.”
He motioned with his head towards the fish stalls where a richly dressed young woman of some twenty-five years was choosing some eels. She was attended by a female servant who was much older than her mistress. “That is the matron that Cooper was swiving. I did not want to call at her house in case the draper should be home and become suspicious of his wife’s involvement with the dead man. I am waiting for her to finish her shopping and then will ask her if she can help me.” He gave Bascot a doleful look. “She is my last hope, de Marins. If she knows nothing of where Cooper might have been on the night he was killed, then I fear I must admit defeat and the
chien
who murdered him will go free.”
As he was speaking, they saw the young matron recoil a step or two in seeming horror at something the fishmonger had told her. She was very handsome, with corn-coloured hair that hung in two heavy braids from beneath her coif, and eyes that were a luminous dark brown. Her maid stepped forward and placed a hand under her mistress’s arm as though to comfort her, but the goodwife shook it off and seemed to recover herself. She completed her purchase, spoke a word of thanks to the fishmonger and then started to walk in the direction of St. John’s Church, the entrance to which was just a few steps away from where Roget and Bascot stood, at the intersection where the top of Hungate Street debouched into Spring Hill. Her eyes were filled with moisture.
As she neared the gate into the churchyard, the captain stepped forward. “Mistress Marchand, may I speak to you for a moment?” he asked respectfully.
She raised a face full of distress and looked at him. “You are Captain Roget, are you not, of the sheriff’s town guard?”
“I am,” Roget confirmed, plainly impressed by the beauty of her heart-shaped face and lissom figure. She wore a perfume that had the faint scent of gillie flowers.
The captain introduced Bascot and then asked the young woman if she had heard of Cooper’s death.
“Indeed I have,” she replied, tears welling afresh in her eyes. “Just a few moments ago, from the fishmonger. I am very sorry to hear of it.” She nodded towards the church. “I am just on my way to St. John’s to light a candle and offer up a prayer for the repose of Fland’s soul.”
Roget explained the reason he wished to speak to her in a tone that was carefully devoid of innuendo. “I am trying to find out where Cooper was on the night he was killed and, so far, have not met with any success. The fishmonger told me that his assistant often delivered purchases of fish to your home, Mistress, and I am wondering if, when he did so, you may have engaged him in conversation and perhaps heard mention of the names of any friends whose company he was in the habit of keeping.”
The draper’s wife dabbed a scrap of white linen edged with lace to her eyes and regarded the captain thoughtfully. “It is true I was friendly with Fland,” she admitted, “and we did, on occasion, speak together.” Her lips curved a little as though in happy remembrance of those times, and then she compressed them as her distress returned. For a few moments she stood thus, as though in contemplation of Roget’s request. Finally, she seemed to come to a decision. “If you will wait for me in the churchyard while I go into St. John’s, Captain,” she said, “I will speak to you when my prayers are done.”
As she walked through the gate, Roget gave Bascot a hopeful look. “Perhaps fortune is finally beginning to smile on me, de Marins,” he said. “She may have information that will help me discover who was with Cooper on the night he was killed.”
The Templar wished the captain luck and turned to go, but Roget forestalled him. “Will you wait a little and keep me company while I talk to her?” He gave a Gallic shrug and a knowing smile. “In case her husband has suspicions that she is making him a cuckold, it would be better if she was not seen alone in my company while I question her, and no one,
mon ami
, is likely to believe I would importune such a lovely women with a chaste Templar by my side.”

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