8,39 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Bradecote & Catchpoll
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
Whose was the hand that poisoned Godfrey Bowyer? Bradecote and Catchpoll are on the trail of the killer. Worcester, January 1145. Poison strikes down bow maker Godfrey Bowyer and his wife Blanche after their evening meal. While she survives, he dies an agonising death. Few could have administered the poison, which should mean a very short investigation for the Sheriff's men, Hugh Bradecote, Serjeant Catchpoll and Underserjeant Walkelin. But perhaps someone was pulling the strings, and that widens the net considerably. With an unpopular victim, the suspects are many and varied.
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Seitenzahl: 412
Ähnliche
5
A Taste for Killing
A Bradecote and Catchpoll Mystery
SARAH HAWKSWOOD
For H. J. B.
Contents
Chapter One
Three days before the Feast of St Agnes, January 1145
‘They are at it again.’ Alwin shook his head in disbelief. ‘You’d think as they would not have the time to let the food pass their lips, so busy are they arguin’.’
‘Not arguin’, Alwin,’ the maidservant cast the journeyman an angry glance. ‘Master Godfrey has mostly to listen to her tongue a-lashin’ of him for no good reason.’
‘And your tongue should be kept between your teeth, girl. You’ve neither the years nor the station to comment on your betters.’ The cook brandished a long-handled wooden spoon, and waved it accusingly at the girl. ‘Many’s the couple who rub along mighty well with raised voices, when the silent sit in miserable disunion. What do you, a maid in name at least, know of the wedded state?’ Having buried two husbands, Gode spoke with authority.
‘I am just sayin’ what I sees,’ mumbled Runild, and looked sulky.
‘Then you should not be lookin’. Now,’ Gode pointedly ignored Runild and spoke only to Alwin, ‘it will be about those amber beads he would not buy for her. Always wantin’ things, she is, and I says it is because she is bored and idle. What she needs is a babe to keep her occupied. That would put an end to all this.’ She sniffed. ‘And them married over a year now.’
Alwin looked shocked, and blushed.
‘None of our—’ His mumbled response was cut short by a high-pitched cry of anger and the sound of pottery breaking, and a clatter coming from the adjoining chamber. All three looked at each other, though nothing was said for a moment.
‘That’ll be the second pitcher gone since Advent. Osferth Potter’s wife says this household is keepin’ him in business almost on its own,’ sighed Gode, and pursed her lips.
‘And it is me who has to scrape bits of food off the wall afterwards, since I heard the pottage bowl follow it,’ murmured Runild, pulling a face.
‘Cleanin’ is part of your work, but I makes things to eat, not throw. ’Tis I as should be most aggrieved, and at least the wooden bowls do not break easy.’ Gode felt the girl needed to be kept in her place, firmly at the bottom of the household pecking order.
Alwin, not a man who flourished amidst strife, hunched his broad shoulders. What with the two women of the kitchen being always at odds, and a master and mistress whose relationship seemed to be conducted so that half Worcester might hear it, what wonder was it that he so often had the headache. He blamed it upon his master, for the tone of the household must surely be set by him, and he was an argumentative man, with both his kin and his neighbours. He felt sorry for Mistress Blanche, poor lady, who had revealed to him once that her first husband had been as bullish a man, and she had learnt that being meek and mild did not work. She had said that she had as well have been the rushes trodden underfoot, and she would not be so again, even though her father had ‘sold’ her to the wealthy burgess. Alwin gave thanks he was not a woman.
They finished their own meal in silence, and then, since all was quiet from the main chamber, Runild went to clear the table, and possibly the wall.
Mistress Blanche had evidently withdrawn to enjoy her ire in the privacy of the bedchamber, which was a rather grand word for the small chamber, reached by a very steep ladder-stair, that occupied the space beneath the rafters in the rear third of what was a modest hall.
Godfrey Bowyer was sat, slightly hunched, with a beaker in his hand and a frown between his brows. Neither was uncommon, and Runild glanced into the beaker of ale that stood at his elbow. It was still three-quarters full, so there was no point in her asking if he desired it to be refilled from a new pitcher. She also bent to collect the shards of broken pitcher at the base of the wall into the thrown wooden bowl. She was surprised his eyes did not rest upon her as she leant to take the other empty pottage bowl from in front of him, for Godfrey liked to leer at the way her bosom moved beneath her gown as she bent forward, as long as the mistress was not in view, and nor did he try to goose her on this occasion. He made a sullen grunting noise, and she withdrew with just a hint of a flounce at his boorishness.
Alwin, the bowyer’s journeyman, was wondering whether to sit by the hearth-warmth and put up with Gode and Runild bickering, or withdraw to his palliasse in the corner of the stave store at the back of the small yard. It would be bone-achingly cold, but he had to face it at some point. He disliked the long, midwinter nights. He lingered, watching Runild wiping out the wooden bowls, and after a while Gode noticed his miserable expression and took pity upon him. She and Runild, dislike each other as they did, had the luxury of curling up on the same lumpy palliasse in the corner of the kitchen, with the residual warmth of the cooking hearth to keep the worst of the ice-fingers from tugging at their flesh in the night-depths.
‘You get me a bit of sack and I will wrap up that flat stone I rests the pottage pot on. It’ll be good and warm, and it will take the chill off the bed for you.’
His response to her kind offer was aborted by an agonised bellow from the hall, which did not sound as though Godfrey Bowyer was displeased but rather in great pain. Gode stared at Alwin, and he at her, and then he mustered his courage and went to see what was amiss.
The short bench upon which the master had been sat at his table was thrown over. Godfrey was writhing upon the rush-strewn floor, clutching at his stomach and half groaning, half retching, his lips flecked with vomit.
‘Mistress,’ cried Alwin, not sure what he could do to aid his master, ‘do come down quick. Something ails the Master mighty bad.’ He heard the sound of skirts and a step upon the stair.
‘Alwin, oh Alwin, help me.’ The cry was thin, and he spun round. Mistress Blanche was trying to descend, but was swaying, and looked dreadfully pale. She managed a few steps, and almost collapsed down the last four into his arms.
‘I feel so ill,’ she moaned, and promptly vomited onto his chest.
‘Gode, Runild. Come quick.’ Alwin was now desperate.
The two women, who had waited nervously beyond the door, peered around it.
‘Sweet Heaven have mercy!’ Gode crossed herself swiftly. ‘Runild, you fetch Master Roger the Healer, and if he is not at home, find where he is now and bring him, whatever else he attends. Go, girl!’ There was panic in the woman’s voice, but she tried to be practical. ‘Alwin, you lay the Mistress on the floor, and fetch a pail for her to spew into.’ She was not sure what could be done for the master, now rolling about, incoherent, and prayed that Roger the Healer was at his bench with pestle and mortar, because he could take responsibility for the situation. Runild did not need a second exhortation, and disappeared into the front workshop, and thence the street, her skirts lifted to her knees to aid her speed.
She returned within a short time, openly chivvying Master Roger to keep up with her. The healer was breathing heavily, and stood for a moment, clutching the bag of medicaments that was slung across his body to his heaving, bony chest. Both the afflicted were lying upon the floor, though Godfrey Bowyer now lay still, whilst his wife, still moaning, was now propped up a little against a wall, with Alwin’s arm about her shoulders lest she slump over, and a bowl upon her lap, into which she had evidently retched and brought up more of whatever had been ingested. He surveyed the scene whilst removing the bag and setting it upon the table, and then spoke very calmly. Roger the Healer was not an imposing man to look upon, and not one to shout, but his very calmness exuded authority and command of the situation.
‘Did the sickness start at the same time after the meal, and did you all eat of the same dishes, or was there something special for master and mistress?’ He knelt down as he spoke, next to the now unconscious form of Godfrey Bowyer, who had curled into an almost foetal position, and placed his fingers about a wrist and the back of his other hand upon the brow. He was learning most, however, with his eyes.
‘We heard the Master first, but yes, they fell sick within minutes of each other and before Runild had even scrubbed the pot clean. We all ate the same pottage, and drank the same small beer, Master Roger.’ Gode’s voice trembled a little now, and her hands gripped her skirts and twisted them one way and the other.
‘Then I doubt this is some mischance, and a sickness like this looks like …’ Roger paused and looked up, knowing the import of his words, ‘poison.’
‘Will he live? Oh, say that he will live!’ Runild, her hands clapped to her cheeks, spoke barely above a whisper, but with desperation.
‘But it cannot be poison,’ declared Gode, ignoring the maid entirely, ‘not in my good pottage.’
Roger, feeling the turgid pulse and observing the man’s breathing and pallor, shook his head at the first question, and ignored the second. Runild began to sob loudly. He stood, slowly, and went to take a stoppered vial from among his medicines. Blanche Bowyer was looking at him a little owlishly. He poured a small amount of liquid into a beaker and knelt back upon the floor.
‘Mistress, you must drink this. It will make you give up anything left of the poison. Do you understand?’
She nodded slowly, frowning. He held the beaker to her lips, and as she opened them, tipped it swiftly, for it was a bitter emetic.
‘Leave her to me,’ he said quietly, to Alwin, ‘and you go, swiftly, to the castle, and tell the lord Sheriff’s serjeant to come right away.’
Alwin, his mind still reeling at the assertion of poisoning, nodded and rose, leaving without a word, but with a determined look upon his thin face.
Alwin was not a man used to running, although not being one who tended to the fat. He presented himself at the castle with only a slight shortness of breath and some coughing that might be put down to having run in cold weather. When he asked after Serjeant Catchpoll he was directed not within but to his home by the castle gates. Alwin went and knocked urgently upon Catchpoll’s door.
Catchpoll, who was under no illusions that a knock upon his door after dark meant anything but work, rose with a grumble from his bench near the hearth, and went to open it. He looked at the man before him, unknown to him by name but seen often enough in Worcester for him to be one whom Catchpoll would instantly identify as a resident. The salient features of the man at this moment were his heaving chest and a smell of vomit that clung to him.
‘Evenin’.’ Catchpoll’s demeanour showed neither surprise nor great interest.
‘Serjeant Catchpoll, you must come quick.’ Alwin half fell over his words.
‘And why might that be so, and to where, friend?’
‘Godfrey Bowyer’s. He’s a-dyin’, Master Roger says, and he says as it was poison. All I knows is it don’t look natural, Serjeant, on oath it don’t, but it wasn’t us in his kitchen as did it.’
‘Fair enough. I’ll come.’ He turned, briefly, and spoke to someone that Alwin could not see. ‘Seems I picked the right evenin’ to have you sup with us, Young Walkelin. Wife, no need to keep the fire in. You gets to bed when you will, but I doubts I will be overlong.’
Alwin saw a flame-headed man, whom he knew as Serjeant Catchpoll’s ‘journeyman’, take up a woollen cap, give some words of thanks to the unseen Mistress Catchpoll, and then both joined him out in the cold, pulling the oak door closed behind them.
‘You run on ahead and tell Roger the Healer we will be with him as quick as my knees will allow,’ instructed Catchpoll, looking at Alwin, and the man obeyed without a thought.
‘Are your knees bad tonight, Serjeant?’ Walkelin was not sure whether sympathy sounded good, or the smugness of the young whose knees did not yet creak.
‘Not especially so, but it means we can speak freely afore we gets to Godfrey Bowyer’s.’ Catchpoll blew upon his cupped hands. ‘Mind you, I am glad as he lives, if lives he still does, close by the cathedral, and not right along the Foregate. Thing is, if it is poison, then the person who made sure he took it is most likely one of his household, so I wants you to watch ’em all close, and mostly them as I am not talking to. How they acts when they thinks none is watchin’ is important. I doesn’t say as we will bring in who did it tonight, but it ought not to take us long.’
‘So you think we can do this without the lord Bradecote, Serjeant?’ Walkelin asked, diffidently, as the pair of them strode, at a pace brisk enough to keep the cold from limbs, round the looming bulk of the cathedral church and into Byshoppes Strete.
‘We doesn’t always need sheriff or undersheriff to get our task done, Young Walkelin, so don’t you fall into that way of thinking, not when the death is in Worcester, which you and me knows better than lordly folk ever could. My lord Bradecote, well, I daresay few serjeants are as fortunate as we are,’ Catchpoll grinned at Walkelin, using the inclusive plural, ‘since he does not just stick that long nose of his in, sniff, and take all the credit, but is as useful as … another underserjeant, and the way he thinks can see things a mite different, which is good.’ Catchpoll sighed. ‘Besides, until that child of his is born and his lady is safe, his mind will be all on that, so let us hope we finds the culprit looking as guilty as sin, or better still, sat in the corner wanting to confess for the good of their soul.’
It was not more than a few minutes’ walk at a brisk pace to the house of Godfrey Bowyer, though it took some barging and treading upon of toes to get past the nosey neighbours who had come out of their homes to be entertained by the commotion. The dark and the cold, other than making the noses of the curious turn pink, had not put them off. There was still the sound of a woman in hysterics somewhere within. Catchpoll thrust open the door and stepped smartly through the workshop to the living quarters behind it, where a number of people were gathered. Godfrey Bowyer lay half curled upon the scattered rushes. The noise was coming from a young woman pressing herself back against the rear wall as though she might embed herself into it. To one side a well-dressed woman was vomiting into a bowl held by an acetic-looking and soberly clad individual who was commending her upon every retch, and by the rear door an older woman, of ample girth, stood with folded arms and a frown of very worried perplexity. The man who had knocked upon Catchpoll’s door was looking as though he needed someone to order him to do something. The addition of the two sheriff’s men to the chamber rendered it cosy in the extreme.
Catchpoll addressed the man with the bowl.
‘Evenin’, Master Roger. Will she do?’
‘Aye, Serjeant Catchpoll. God be praised she had taken but a single spoon of the pottage, as I hear, and thus little of the poison. Godfrey Bowyer is as good as dead now, though he still has breath in him – just. There is nothing I can do for poison if a man is insensible, and he was set upon the path to death already, by my judgement.’
‘Aye. He said nothin’, then?’
‘No. He was well beyond senses when I arrived.’
‘I was told poison, by the man here.’ Catchpoll gave a brief jerk of the head towards Alwin, but was watching Roger the Healer, whose medical opinion Catchpoll trusted. ‘Is there any doubt?’
‘Sense says it could be nought else, Serjeant, for it came upon both who ate in this chamber, and within a short time of them eating.’
‘And this poison would not be somethin’ given over a long time if they both fell ill at once,’ Catchpoll mused.
‘To have these effects it would have to be quite a dose. Most likely it was in the pottage or the small beer. There is bread still upon the table, but I discount that.’
‘Lies! Wicked lies!’ The large, perplexed woman, whom Catchpoll vaguely recalled, roused herself at this. ‘I never put aught but goodness in any dish I prepared.’
‘Save for those oysters two months since, which had me stricken for three days and fearin’ it was the flux,’ muttered the messenger, who had been standing, looking almost vacant, to one side.
‘Oysters are what they are, and you can never be totally sure of ’em,’ averred the cook. Catchpoll ignored them both, though Walkelin was quietly watching as instructed.
‘Is the mistress here fit to speak to?’ Catchpoll glanced at the pale face and barely focusing eyes.
‘I am not sure you would gather much of use, Serjeant Catchpoll, not tonight. The shock of what has happened to both herself and her husband, and the weakness of body …’ Roger the Healer let his voice trail away.
Catchpoll nodded. There were the two serving women and the journeyman who would all be better spoken to without a corpse in view, and if any of the three thought that they could speak lies now and disappear with the dawn they were very wrong, for Catchpoll intended to leave Walkelin at the single entrance to the messuage until such time as he had arranged a guard through the night from among the castle men-at-arms.
‘We will speak on the morrow, to you and the lady both, and will leave her to your care. The others of the household we will speak to in the kitchen.’ The serjeant gathered them with his eyes and jerked his head to the door that led to the rear, though it took Gode’s slap to Runild’s cheek to get her to catch her breath and break the cycle of sobs. They went, sheep-like, even Gode, though she later told Runild she had made no demur because she was ‘that shaken’. Walkelin left the hall last, with a respectful nod to Roger the Healer, and closed the door behind him.
The kitchen, lacking anything out of the ordinary, made those who lived there relax a little, even if Runild was sniffing loudly. Catchpoll spoke very calmly.
‘Now, then. ’Tis a cold, dark night and we can do this two ways. Either we speaks to each of you alone, with the other two out in the winter-cold, or you all stays here, but only the person we are a-speakin’ to as much as parts their lips. Understood?’ The three nodded, very close-lipped, in unison. ‘Right. So we begin with the pottage. What exactly went into it and who was in here while it bubbled over the hearth fire?’ He looked to Gode. ‘You are the cook.’ He dragged up her name from his memory. ‘Gode, yes? You answer.’
‘Gode it is. The pottage was no different to any as I made this last week, ’ceptin’ that I used stock, leg meat and wing scraps from the fowl as I spit-roasted yesterday for them,’ her head jerked towards the hall door to indicate master and mistress, ‘and a little dried rosemary. They eats well. Er, I mean …’ Gode stopped, flustered.
‘And the rest was what, then?’ Catchpoll ignored the comment and wanted every detail of the meal.
‘Onions and barley and pease I soaked first to soften and plump up nice, and water from the well, which I brings to the boil afore anythin’ else goes in.’
‘And seasonin’?’
‘Of course. What pottage would not have a little salt, and Master buys pipor from the Jew.’ She dropped her voice very slightly, as though doing so was both a mark of being wealthy, but also slightly disreputable. After all, the merchant was not a good Christian soul and she dared not imagine how such a man might live behind closed doors.
‘Do you sit over it and watch it all the time?’ Catchpoll knew his wife averred a good pottage had to reach a simmer and be left to be stirred occasionally, for her own mother had always sworn that if you watched it from first bubble to ladling it out, it would lose flavour from the watching.
‘I am the cook, not just a pottage stirrer.’ Gode sounded affronted. ‘I had patties to make from the wood pigeon I bought this mornin’ and Runild had plucked them, so she did the stirrin’ as it was needed.’
‘When did the last thing go into it?’
‘That was the little extra pipor when I tasted it before it was ladled out. ’Tis expensive, so I does not use too much to begin with, and adds as needed at the end.’
‘And your “tastin”, was that a spoonful or just a smear of it?’ Catchpoll jumped at the chance to know for certain the point after which the poison had been added.
‘A spoonful, with that spoon there.’ Gode pointed to a large wooden spoon that had been used for stirring. Walkelin, observing her, thought she looked as if she would like to hit Serjeant Catchpoll with it for questioning her about her cooking.
‘I see.’ Catchpoll did not ask if she had suffered any ill effects, for it was patently obvious that she had not, and they would have been apparent before now. ‘And then you ladled the pottage into the two bowls?’
‘Runild took the bread in, and I filled the bowls, yes.’
‘And was you here when this was done?’ Catchpoll looked at Alwin.
‘I came in as Runild returned from the hall, because she was saying that Mistress Blanche said as she would send back the pottage if it was as salty as that from the day afore yesterday.’
‘It was not too salty. She only says such things to show this is her house and she is mistress of it. Comes from her thinkin’ all this is small after what she was used to.’ Gode huffed, like a cow coughing.
‘And what was she used to?’ Catchpoll, rapidly searching his memory for details of Godfrey Bowyer’s second marriage, was not certain of them and it would be good to learn them from someone close.
‘Why, she comes from Martley way, the widow of some lord, a very low-ranking one, mind, and no doubt saw the wealth of Master Bowyer and the excitement of living in Worcester as a great improvement.’ Gode gave a short snort of a laugh, clearly not thinking ‘low-ranking lords’ a match for a wealthy burgess of Worcester.
It sounded odd to Catchpoll, but that might well be from the cook being long with the family, and not adoring of her mistress.
‘Fair enough. So the pottage was ladled into the bowls. Just the same in each?’
‘Aye, though I could have put a little more in Master’s, for he has – had the greater appetite,’ Gode could not resist a little snide comment, ‘in all things. Mistress likes to be the dainty one.’
‘And you carried in the bowls?’ Catchpoll looked now at the sniffing Runild, who nodded. ‘Straight in and out, was you?’
‘Yes.’ Runild’s lower lip trembled but she did not dissolve back into tears.
‘Not that swift,’ Gode sniffed, but it was not a sniff of sorrow.
‘Master was out front at the door, so Mistress bade me wait in case he would be long and the pottage cold. She went to the workshop door and called to ’im and I waited until she said as Master was comin’. I did not stay or see them eat.’
‘And then what happened?’ Catchpoll shot Walkelin a glance and saw that he was listening most attentively, and received the ghost of a nod in return.
‘We ladled out some of the pottage for ourselves, for there was plenty, even if Master Godfrey asked for more, and while I did that Runild took in the pitcher and beakers – and afore you asks, the pitcher was filled with the same as what we drank, as God sees all.’ Gode glanced heavenwards and then looked again at the serjeant. ‘We ate. The pair of them were shoutin’ at each other next door, which is common enough, and then we heard somethin’ smash and somethin’ strike the wall, and it was quiet, and we finished our food. Then I sent Runild to clear the board and bring back the bowls, or what was left of them.’
‘So you brought the bowls back?’ Catchpoll looked at Runild. ‘What did you see? How did Master Godfrey seem to you?’
‘Quiet-like he was, sort of grumblin’ but not takin’ any notice of me. I took up the bowl from in front of him and the one that had been thrown at the wall, and the pieces of the broken pitcher a’cos they’d thrown that too.’
‘Mighty violent meals here,’ commented Walkelin, ‘if they have thrown bowls and broken pitchers.’
‘And not as rare as you would think. If that there wall was not so thick, I dares not say what we might have heard often enough of things that should be private between husband and wife, and not all lovin’ words, neither.’ Gode sounded slightly regretful that details had been beyond her hearing.
‘Where’s what was left of the pottage?’ Walkelin interrupted, paying attention to detail.
‘I put it in a big bowl with a lid: it bein’ so cold it will last well. It means I need not do more ’n heat it up again on the morrow to go with the pigeon patties.’ Gode pointed to a pot by the rear door. ‘I would get Alwin to keep it in the stave store where it is cold.’
‘Take it to Master Roger,’ murmured Catchpoll, ‘so as he can look at it when day comes.’
Walkelin nodded and obeyed swiftly, returning while Gode still looked outraged at this ruination of her plan for the following day’s dinner. Catchpoll ignored her and stared at Runild once more.
‘And Master Godfrey showed no sign of being ill, other than this grumblin’, girl?’ Catchpoll wanted all the pieces he could find to ‘see’ how this had happened.
‘No.’ Runild shook her head.
‘So, was it long afore you heard anyone was ill?’
‘We had cleared away, and Runild had scoured the eatin’ bowls.’ Gode looked at Alwin. ‘I was offerin’ to put the pot-stand stone in a cloth for Alwin here.’
‘I sleeps in the stave store, and ’tis mortal cold there at night. I was about to go to my bed when we heard the cry,’ murmured Alwin, almost apologetically. ‘I went to see what it was, and saw Master Godfrey writhin’ upon the floor, clutchin’ his guts, and lookin’ terrible bad.’
‘So Mistress Blanche was not there?’ Walkelin was paying close attention.
‘No, up above, she was. I called to her to come quick and then she started down the stairs but was all unwell and half tumbled the last bit. I grabbed her and she spewed up on me, she did. Then Gode and Runild came in, and Gode sent Runild for Master Roger. And when he gets here he sends me to you, cryin’ poison.’ Alwin sounded overwhelmed by the course of events.
‘Well then, we will take this to the lord Sheriff, and return in the morning.’ Catchpoll did not tell the trio to remain in the house, since there was no sensible reason why they should leave during the night, and if one of them did, they would encounter Walkelin or his replacement. It would be a very good sign of guilt. He nodded to Walkelin, and the pair went back through the hall, acknowledging Roger the Healer as they passed, through the workshop and out into the biting cold in the street. This alone had reduced the number of onlookers to a handful of the most intrigued neighbours.
‘Is they all dead, then?’ The question, which had an element of hope to it, was muffled by a woollen cloth wrapped about a man’s head. After all, there was not much excitement in Worcester in a dismal January.
Catchpoll afforded no more answer than a growl, and a suggestion that catching one’s death of cold for the sake of curiosity was a fool’s idea. He left Walkelin on watch, assuring him he could return home as soon as he was relieved, and went back to the castle, to send out a guard.
Chapter Two
Serjeant Catchpoll, with Walkelin beside him, made his report to William de Beauchamp in the cold light of day. The lord Sheriff of Worcestershire did not appear very surprised that Godfrey Bowyer was dead, but only that he died by poison.
‘I don’t see as how we needs call my lord Bradecote from his manors, my lord, not for a killing like this.’ Catchpoll really meant ‘since his lady is due to be delivered of a babe within a week or so’, but felt that sounded too personal.
‘By “we”, Catchpoll,’ William de Beauchamp eyed him with weary scepticism, ‘you mean you. And I do not give a whore’s promise what you want in the matter. Godfrey Bowyer is – was a man of status among the burgesses, but we know, you and me both, that he could rub people the wrong way.’
‘Aye, my lord. As I recall, last time he came before you with a complaint, you said as you wished he might strangle himself with his own bowstring.’ Catchpoll’s voice was a monotone, and not a muscle quivered in his face.
‘How fortunate, then, that I was here with a hall full of witnesses at the time of the death.’ William de Beauchamp smiled at his serjeant, although men had been known to cower in the face of that smile. Catchpoll knew just how far he might go with his superior after over two decades, and played the game to an inch.
‘Why, that is very true, my lord. I shall remove you from my list of suspects this very moment,’ he sounded much cheered by this thought and let his mouth lengthen into the vestige of a grin, ‘and I agree he had his gainsayers, but when me and young Walkelin find who poisoned him, it will be a household killing.’
‘That is but the half of it, you old fox. You do not know for sure which of them did it, or else you would have come to me with news that you have the killer in the cells. What is more, unless one of the household bore a mighty strong grudge against their master, someone else got them to do it, and we will need two hanging ropes. You know it as well as I do. No, this will need us to show more interest than most, and in this case “interest” means the undersheriff, however unwilling he may be.’
‘Very good, my lord.’ Catchpoll was not going to win, and had the sense to know it, but it had been worth the attempt.
Catchpoll was not a man who rode for pleasure, especially on a bitterly cold January morning, but he had decided on this occasion that he would ride to Bradecote and give the unwelcome news to its lord, rather than let Walkelin face the awkwardness of passing on William de Beauchamp’s command. This was not so much a kind act as the suspicion that Walkelin might just return alone.
He rode at a steady canter once he reached the top of Suthberi Hill, glad that at least the weather was cold and dry, rather than windy and wet. The manor gates were closed upon his arrival, for the ground was hard and there was little activity in the fields during these short midwinter days. He thumped upon the gate and was admitted by a man who nodded in recognition and swung the gate wide without question. Catchpoll rode into the bailey and dismounted slowly, grunting a little as he did so. A lad came and took his horse, and was told not to unsaddle it, but walk it up and down to keep the beast warm. Then Catchpoll sniffed, rubbed his cold nose, and entered the hall. There was a fire in the hearth, but the family would be in the smaller solar, which would be easier to heat. A serving maid, sat upon a stool by the fire, content to sit and be warm whilst being on duty to attend any call from the inner chamber, looked up, stood, and made Serjeant Catchpoll a small obeisance, for she saw him as more important than the manor steward. Catchpoll raised a hand at that to quell it, for he did not see his as a rank that was about bobbing up and down by anyone.
‘The lord Bradecote is within?’ Catchpoll jerked his head towards the solar door, and the girl nodded. He went and knocked upon it, and entered upon being bidden to do so.
Hugh Bradecote was sat in a high-backed chair, at his ease, one long leg crossed over the other at the ankle, watching his son and heir, a lusty infant of eighteen months, who was sat upon a sheepskin and banging a wooden spoon on an upturned elm bowl with every sign of delight. His wife, whose form indicated the imminence of a new arrival, was also seated, leaning back a little into a sheepskin cast over the back of her chair. She looked content but for something that Catchpoll could not have named yet recognised as being at the point where the waiting was becoming a trial of its own.
Bradecote usually greeted Catchpoll with a smile, be it ever so wry, but on this occasion the serjeant was met with a serious frown.
‘My lord, I knows as I am as welcome as frost in May, but I am bid by the lord Sheriff to bring you into Worcester to aid us in takin’ the killer of Godfrey Bowyer, burgess, by poison.’
‘Why?’ It was a bald question. There was a pause, and Bradecote thawed just a little. ‘I mean, why do you need me, right now? A Worcester death, and by a means that surely limits those who come under suspicion, does not need more than you and Walkelin.’
‘Well, my lord, you may think that, and so does I, but not the lord Sheriff who commands us both. He says as since Godfrey Bowyer was so important among the burgesses, who are a thorn in the flesh of the lord Sheriff with their complaints and demands, he needs to be seen to be taking every step to catch the killer, to keep ’em from mewlin’.’
‘Then he can do so by being involved himself.’ Bradecote reached a hand to place over one of his wife’s, laid upon the arm of her chair. ‘At this time I am needed here, above all things.’
‘You can think that all you likes, my lord, but knowin’ William de Beauchamp as we both does, if you does not come in with me, willin’, he will send half a dozen men-at-arms to bring you in upon his displeasure. Aye, and not be swift to release you from duty, neither.’
‘My lord, railing against this is foolish. If the death is one where your rank is needed to impress the burgesses, but it is swift to be solved, you may find yourself home within a day, perhaps two, and the babe kicked me but last eve as I lay in bed.’ Christina Bradecote’s voice was very calm. ‘From experience I know they grow quiet before they come into the world. This child is not going to arrive this day, nor yet tomorrow. What is more, the skies do not bode snow, and if – if, my time of travail should begin, well, it is but four miles to the castle. Even if you returned at the gallop, what then would you do but pace up and down and wait, for you would be waiting and waiting?’ Christina smiled, and laid her other hand upon his.
‘A babe may come fast.’ Hugh Bradecote knew his wife was right, but that was all head, not heart. Heart cried that if he heard her cries he shared a little of her suffering, and if God was not merciful, then he would be near if …’ The black chasm that haunted his dreams opened, and she saw the panic-shadow in his eyes.
‘None I ever bore were that swift, my lord.’ She turned her face to Catchpoll. ‘Take my lord, Serjeant, and give him other things to think upon for a day or so, and I will be grateful, for his loving concern is like to make me fear where no fear need be. The blessèd Saint Eadgyth has watched over this babe from its conceiving, and it will arrive safely.’
‘But Christina—’
‘And she watches over me also.’ She knew what Hugh would say, but he was wrong. She had no fear, only, if she were honest, a weariness of his, borne of love though it was. A few days of calm and not feeling that every little twinge and ache was watched as a windhover hangs in the air and watches the slightest movement for a vole in the grass, would be restful.
‘You want me gone, lady.’ It was said half in jest, but husband knew wife well enough to read her thought.
‘That you might return the sooner, my lord.’
‘Then I go, but reluctantly.’
‘I know. Now, take an extra undershirt and your warmest cloak, my lord, and,’ Christina glanced at Catchpoll, ‘you send him back to me with not so much as a torn nail, Serjeant Catchpoll, or my wrath will be far worse than that of William de Beauchamp.’
‘Aye, my lady, I will cosset him like a hen with a single chick.’ Catchpoll grinned, relieved that the lady had made his task the easier.
‘Heaven preserve me from that!’ Bradecote managed half a smile.
With Catchpoll sent to have Bradecote’s horse saddled, lord turned to lady.
‘At any time, you send to me if things begin.’
‘Of course. You give your mind to finding the killer of this burgess, and leave me to my waiting. Now, make sure you wear a hat.’
Bradecote and Catchpoll trotted out through the manor gates a few minutes later, and if the undersheriff did not say much upon the ride into Worcester, Catchpoll did not mind. It was only when they began the descent of Suthberi Hill that Bradecote really left his wife and manor and focused his mind upon the task ahead.
‘So, this Godfrey Bowyer – what made him so important a burgess and a man who met a violent end, Catchpoll?’
‘He was the best bow maker in Worcester, and did very good trade upon that reputation. A wealthy man was Master Bowyer, which set him high among the burgesses, but not one as folk said sweet words about. He knew his own worth and then added to it, so to speak, and treated others, when not sellin’ ’em a bow, like they was no better ’n flies annoyin’ him. Had a rovin’ hand as well, if the cook’s words are true.’
‘He used his cook?’ Bradecote sounded surprised.
‘Her?’ Catchpoll laughed. ‘Oh no, I doubts that mightily, for she is a large and fierce bird, but others, yes, I can see him as one who would, but as much to cuckold rivals as to gain pleasure.’
‘That sort.’ Bradecote disliked the deceased already. ‘So did his wife resent that and ply him with poison because he sought younger and prettier fare?’
‘He might find younger, my lord, but not prettier, not without a search. Mighty strikin’ woman is Blanche Bowyer, though she looked less fetchin’ last eventide, spewin’ up into a bowl of Roger the Healer’s holdin.’
‘She was ill too?’
‘Aye, but far less so. Only took a spoonful or so, as is reported.’
‘Which makes me ask why?’ Bradecote’s interest in what had happened, that had flickered like a tinder flame, was now caught, and Catchpoll relaxed a little.
‘Indeed so, my lord, but there is an answer for you to that. The meal was not, shall we say, peaceful. Husband and wife were known to be of the arguin’ sort, as some are, and the wife’s pottage was cast at the wall, and the pitcher of small beer also. We will speak more to the household of this, but first I shall present you before the lord Sheriff so as he knows you is here. And then I will tell all while sat about my hearth, if you has no objection, because that was a cold ride, and we has a firkin of cider broached only a day or so ago and a beaker of it, warmed, will keep our thoughts from seizin’ up with cold like my poor knees.’
They cantered down into Worcester and were shortly dismounting in the castle bailey.
Walkelin, who had been setting a new watch upon the door of Godfrey Bowyer’s messuage, walked through the castle gateway at that moment, and came to them.
‘My lord, ’tis good to see you.’ He grabbed the woollen cap from his head as he spoke, and made a nodding obeisance. ‘None has tried to leave Godfrey Bowyer’s since Master Roger, a while after Lauds in the dark hours, and there was no need to prevent him, o’ course.’
‘Only one as foolish as guilty would try to run, so no surprise in that, but we would have looked the fools if no watch had been set.’ Catchpoll rubbed his hands together, feeling the cold numbing his fingers. ‘We sees the lord Sheriff and then we starts sniffin’ good and proper.’
The three of them turned and went in search of William de Beauchamp, who looked at Bradecote, assessing just how much his undersheriff resented being called in. That it was a lot did not worry him. It did no harm to assert authority over one’s vassals, and although Hugh Bradecote was a vassal he trusted and valued, he must never think himself too high.
‘As soon as we have the killer of Godfrey Bowyer you can go back to your lady, Bradecote, but we need to be seen to be making every effort, and you are my way of doing that. Setting the undersheriff on the hunt for the killer of a burgess of his standing makes it harder for the others to add “and remember the killing of Godfrey Bowyer” whenever they want to bring a litany of complaint to my door and say I care nothing about them, which of course I do not. Why should I? I just want their taxes.’ William de Beauchamp made no pretence.
‘Very good, my lord. I would be about this swiftly, and Serjeant Catchpoll will provide all the details as we go to speak with Bowyer’s household.’ Bradecote sought dismissal and received it with a nod, leaving de Beauchamp calling for a scribe to read a document from the King’s exchequer. Such things never put him in good humour.
Catchpoll’s hearth fire was not large, but then nor was his home, and the three sheriff’s men sat around it, clasping their hands about beakers of warmed cider provided by Mistress Catchpoll, who was these days less agitated at the thought of having the lord Undersheriff of Worcestershire within her walls. She busied herself as far from them as possible, to indicate she was not listening, and sniffed loudly, not from complaint, but from the effect of chopping onions for the day’s pottage.
Bradecote listened as he felt his hands warm into full mobility, until Catchpoll had given all that had been discovered the previous evening.
‘So, Master Bowyer is dead and his wife was sick, but not unto death, and the poison was put in the pottage after it was ladled into the bowls, or just possibly the pitcher of small beer, because the servants were not afflicted, and husband and wife fell ill within minutes of each other, which means it was not something given over a long period.’ Bradecote summarised when Catchpoll had given him the tale of the previous evening’s events. ‘There are but three servants, and the ones with best opportunity to add the poison must be the maidservant who handled the bowls and pitcher last, or the cook who ladled the pottage into the bowls without anyone else present. It was not the journeyman, because he did not come in until the girl was coming back in after placing the food on the master’s table.’ Bradecote tried to sound as though that was that, but ended upon a sigh. ‘I hope this ends quickly, but … this is, Catchpoll, as you love to remind me, your place. You know it better than any. Is this a simple domestic murder that we can deal with today, or is there more to it? I expect you will say it isn’t going to be that simple, for it so rarely is.’
‘No, my lord, not likely to be. If we finds a reason for it, all to the good, but I doubts it will be staring us in the face, nor be given up easy.’
‘Then let us speak with cook, maid, journeyman and, if she is well enough, grieving widow.’ Bradecote drained his beaker and declined the offer of having it refilled. ‘Oh, and we do not yet discount the widow, since she may have thrown her own bowl at the wall, knowing a little of the pottage would not kill her.’
‘Possible, my lord, but a risk.’ Catchpoll nodded.
‘One of the things worrying me is that if it was one of the household that poisoned the pottage, they were prepared for both master and mistress to die,’ continued Bradecote. ‘There must have been a very big grievance against them to incite that, and would it not have put the killer’s future at risk, even making the huge assumption that you would not have them in the castle cells before two dawns? If they kill those who put a roof over their head, they can neither be assured of work or home.’
‘Well, my lord,’ Catchpoll pulled a face that any stonemason would love to sketch for a grotesque upon an abbey’s eaves, ‘my gut instinct says it is a crime in the home, as I said, but the truth of it is that we cannot dismiss the fact that had Mistress Bowyer supped as her man, we would indeed have two corpses and quite a few people, hereabout, who will not hang their heads in misery at one death or two.’
‘So you suspect someone is behind the poisoner, to which, Catchpoll, I have to say “who” and “why”?’
‘“Why” is the easier, my lord. Godfrey Bowyer was full of himself, all puffed up like a cock on a dunghill, crowing loud. He liked bein’ looked up to, and also liked lookin’ down on everyone else. He was always in the forefront of the burgesses if any complaint was made to the lord Sheriff, and as for Orderic the Bailiff …’ Catchpoll shook his head.
‘Orderic the Bailiff?’
‘Yes. You see, my lord, while the lord Sheriff holds the shire for the King’s Grace, and all come to bleat to him over matters of security and law, and the castle comes under him, though he has delegated it to the lord Furnaux and regrets it every time they sit at the table together, it is Orderic the Bailiff folk go to about anythin’ that does not involve the law, or the King’s taxes. If it is about payin’ for the upkeep of Worcester’s defensive wall, an argument over a burgage plot wall, or even the amount of muck floatin’ in the street of a summer evenin’ and givin’ a ripe old stench, then the townsfolk bleat at him, poor bastard.’
‘Why so poor?’ Bradecote scarcely expected Catchpoll to show sympathy for his fellow man.
