A Shrine of Murders Read online

  Four men had been murdered, all poisoned. At least two potions had been used: foxglove and arsenic. There was no apparent motive, no evidence linking the assassin with his victim. All had been pilgrims at Canterbury; thus the writer of the anonymous doggerels apparently hated the shrine, saw it as mummery and was bent on a twisted revenge against it and the whole idea of pilgrimage. Lastly, he chose his victims by profession. Why?

  Kathryn fell into a day-dream. She half-heard Thomasina and Agnes come back into the house. The smells from the kitchen became more tantalising as Kathryn stared down at what she had written. She picked up the quill, dipped it into the green ink and carefully wrote:

  ‘The murderer – a man? Someone who could disguise himself as a menial servant and move unnoticed amongst the crowd. Yet he must be intelligent, educated and fairly prosperous. He could write doggerel verses, knew a great deal about poisons and had access to a ready supply.’ Kathryn stopped and underlined this, idly twisting the jewelled bangle on her wrist as it sparkled in the light. There could only be one conclusion: the poisoner must be either an apothecary or a doctor.

  Kathryn went back and studied the details of the last death, the doctor’s, Robert Clerkenwell, at the Checker Board Tavern. He had been drinking Rhenish wine. This was white and clear. Its sharp taste would hide the tang of foxglove, and since this poison came in crushed white powder, it would dissolve in only a few seconds. Like any apothecary, Kathryn knew that foxglove could be used in minute doses to strengthen a sickly heart, but that in larger quantities it would lead to seizure and death. Only a trained physician or apothecary would know that foxglove has to be left to dissolve for a few seconds before it could be drunk. She put down the pen. The poisoner, she reflected, must be someone who lived in or near Canterbury, someone who knew the streets and alleyways, who could disappear, hide and re-emerge in a different disguise. But why? Why the verses? Why the hatred for the shrine? Kathryn jumped, startled as she heard a knock at the door and the harsh voice of Colum Murtagh demanding entrance.

  Chapter 4

  Colum came just inside the door, moving restlessly from foot to foot. Thomasina stood next to him, holding a ladling spoon whilst Agnes peeped from behind her as if the Irishman had come to plunder and rape. Kathryn hurried towards him.

  ‘Master Murtagh, you are most welcome.’

  The Irishman looked at her and Kathryn suddenly felt embarrassed. Murtagh had taken pains to prepare himself for the visit. Someone had cut his hair, he had shaved and washed, and his sun-tanned face now had a clean, sharp, polished look. He had also changed his dress: a crisp linen shirt under a dark velvet jacket with silver buttons on the sleeves and fresh hose of brown fustian pushed into shining black riding-boots. He still wore his great leather war belt and from a brass ring hung sword and dagger in their sheaths. His fingers kept touching these, as if he were reassuring himself that all was well. Kathryn waved him to the table now laid out for the meal.

  ‘Master Murtagh,’ she repeated, ‘you are most welcome.’

  He coughed and walked towards her, his hand going inside his jerkin. He pulled out a piece of long blue silk and almost pushed it at Kathryn.

  ‘This is for you, Mistress.’

  His hand went down to his dagger as if he expected Kathryn to throw the present back. Kathryn unrolled the gift, enjoying the feel of its silkiness on her hands.

  ‘It’s a scarf,’ Colum announced abruptly, staring round the kitchen. ‘It’s a long time, Mistress, since anyone invited me to eat in their house.’

  ‘Small wonder,’ whispered Thomasina.

  Kathryn folded the silk carefully, ignoring the oohs and aahs of Agnes.

  ‘Someone else’s property,’ Thomasina mumbled.

  Kathryn glared at her maid and stroked the silk gently. ‘It’s beautiful.’ She was about to say ‘Master Murtagh’ when the Irishman stepped closer, touching her gently on the back of her hand.

  ‘Colum, my name’s Colum.’

  ‘And she,’ Thomasina interrupted surlily, ‘is Mistress Swinbrooke.’

  Kathryn grinned and told Agnes to take the present to her chamber. Colum relaxed, no longer the veteran soldier but rather embarrassed and shy. He dug inside his jacket again and brought out a silver bangle, a fine strip of pure silver thickened at each edge, and before Thomasina could object, Colum strode over and clasped it gently round her pudgy wrist.

  ‘And that’s for you,’ he murmured.

  Thomasina, for once, was lost for words. She opened her mouth to protest, caught Kathryn’s warning glance and stomped back to the fire, muttering that the food would be spoilt.

  The meal was a strange affair. Thomasina was an excellent cook, but it had been a long time since Kathryn had entertained anyone. Naturally, Thomasina and Agnes had laid places for themselves, determined to watch the Irishman and criticise his every move. At first, the conversation was desultory: the weather, the price of crops, interspersed by Colum’s direct questions about Canterbury, its city, buildings, people and customs. He rarely looked at Kathryn but directed most of his questions at Thomasina or Agnes. Kathryn let the conversation flow as she discreetly studied the Irishman. At first she thought he was a common soldier, yet, although he ate hungrily, he complimented Thomasina on her cooking and cut his meat and used his napkin like any courtier. Kathryn bit her lip and vowed not to make such hasty judgements. The Irishman was the King’s marshal, and he had been entrusted with special tasks, so he must be acquainted with courtly etiquette as well as the rules of war.

  At last the meal ended. Agnes, who had drunk rather deeply, was heavy-eyed with sleep. Kathryn told her to retire, leaving Thomasina to clear the table. As she was removing dishes, trenchers, bowls and plates and taking them into the scullery, the Irishman pushed back his chair and sipped slowly from the wine goblet. His dark, hooded eyes caught and held Kathryn’s.

  ‘You like the silk, Mistress Swinbrooke?’

  ‘My name is Kathryn, and yes, I did. It was most courteous of you.’

  The Irishman smiled, as if it was a matter of little importance. Kathryn would have loved to have asked him directly. Had he bought the gifts, or were they plunder from some pillaged house or the tents of an enemy?

  ‘I bought both in London,’ he said quietly, as if reading her mind. ‘I am not a thief, Kathryn, and in Ireland a gift is a pledge of friendship. What I have, I hold.’ His voice became hard. ‘And what I hold is mine.’

  Kathryn looked away. She just hoped Murtagh wouldn’t detect the faint blush of embarrassment on her neck and cheeks.

  ‘Why was I chosen?’ she asked sharply.

  Colum pulled a face. ‘Why not? I am told you have a reputation for being a fine doctor. In fact, a physician with a special skill for herbs and potions. Most doctors I have met are quacks or charlatans.’

  ‘It might have been easier to have chosen a man.’

  Colum put the wine-cup back on the table and leaned forward.

  ‘Newington recommended you. I made enquiries, and although that proud clerk Luberon is a pompous little prig and Bourchier is a priest, they both confirmed the alderman’s comments. And before you ask, Kathryn, I have no difficulty in working with a woman physician. In Ireland all healers are wise women.’ His glance fell away, then he looked up and grinned. ‘Yet they are not as comely as you.’

  Kathryn smiled back.

  ‘And how long have you been out of Ireland, Colum?’

  Murtagh became defensive. ‘Fifteen years.’

  ‘And you have been a royal marshal and messenger ever since?’

  Colum drew in his breath. ‘I was a member of the household of the present King’s father.’ He shrugged. ‘You know the way it is. I had a skill for horses.’

  He moved the wine-cup round the table. Kathryn noticed how strong his brown stubby fingers were. She saw their muscles tense and knew the Irishman did not want to open the baggage of his past.

  ‘So now you are the Keeper of the royal stables at Kingsmead?’


  Colum laughed drily. ‘Stables!’ he exclaimed. ‘The manor-house is derelict, the stables cracked and dirty. The meadows over-grown, fences broken down. The place is more like a wasteland than anything else!’

  ‘And this task of trapping the murderer?’

  Colum leaned back in his chair. ‘You know as much as I do. You see,’ he continued briskly, ‘His Majesty the King’s attitude towards Canterbury is that of a father who wishes to chastise a favoured child. Canterbury, or rather its mayor, Nicholas Faunte, declared for Lancaster. Faunte is to be hunted down, and when he is captured, he will hang. The Corporation must be punished, yet Becket’s tomb is a jewel in the crown. The King, the Archbishop, the monks of the cathedral wish it protected and cannot allow some assassin to strike like the Angel of Death whenever he so wishes.’

  ‘What makes you think it’s a man?’ Kathryn interrupted. ‘It might well be a woman.’ She leaned her arms on the table. ‘You have no proof that it’s not me.’

  Colum flicked a crumb of bread from the table-cloth.

  ‘We have discussed this. You’re no murderer, Mistress. Moreover, what witnesses we have talk of a man. However, you do accept that the murderer is a physician?’

  Kathryn nodded. ‘Only a physician or a skilled herbalist,’ she replied, ‘would know how to use arsenic or foxglove. Such poisons are expensive, so our assassin is a man of means with a ready provision of such potions. He also knows Canterbury well, so he is able to slip through sideways and alley-ways whenever he wishes. He can change his appearance, and the doggerel verses illustrate he has some learning. So, yes, Colum, our assassin is probably a physician. But who he is and why he kills is a mystery.’

  Colum tapped his chin with his fingers. ‘Yes,’ he replied softly. He stopped and looked round. ‘So where is the ever-watchful Thomasina?’

  ‘I’m in the scullery, Irishman!’ Kathryn’s maid retorted loudly. ‘And, believe me, I can hear your every word!’

  Kathryn grinned. Colum threw a smile towards the scullery door and without asking picked up the pewter jug of wine and filled both his cup and Kathryn’s to the brim.

  ‘In vino veritas,’ he murmured. ‘In wine truth, Mistress Swinbrooke. Tell me what makes a man hate a shrine so much he will commit murder after murder as a blind act of revenge?’ He stared narrowly at Kathryn. ‘People kill for two reasons.’ He picked up the wine-cup and stared at it. ‘They kill because they are paid; perhaps I am one of those. Soldiers in battle, hacking and hewing, fighting for a cause they don’t really believe in except it will profit them, put silver in their purses, food in their bellies and a roof over their heads. At Tewkesbury, however, the great ones fought for something else, not just for power and wealth but out of hate.’ He looked sharply at Kathryn. ‘I was there at the end when the Lancastrian lords surrendered in the abbey. You have heard the story?’

  Kathryn shook her head.

  ‘They dragged them out,’ Colum continued. ‘No longer great lords but battered and bruised men. The King’s brother, Richard of Gloucester, sat in a great chair before the abbey gates and judged them guilty of treason. They were hustled down to the nearby market-place and I fell asleep that night to the sound of the executioner’s axe striking heads from shoulders.’

  Kathryn watched him carefully. The wine had loosened his tongue, for Colum was talking as if there were no one there. She also noticed how quiet Thomasina in the scullery had become.

  ‘People kill,’ Colum said quietly, ‘because they like it. And why do they like it? Because they hate. And what is hate but love grown cold?’ He moved suddenly. The wine slopped onto his hose and he wiped it angrily away. He faced Kathryn squarely. ‘Our murderer is someone who hates the shrine because he was disappointed by it. A physician who once placed great trust in it but now holds it responsible for some terrible event. Don’t you agree, Mistress Swinbrooke?’

  ‘Why did you fight?’ she asked abruptly.

  The Irishman smiled but his eyes remained hard. Kathryn looked away. She would have to be careful with this man. Was he like Alexander? Did he have a demon in his soul which would surface when the wine flowed and beat in his head?

  ‘I fought,’ he grated, ‘because I had to, because I was paid. I would like to lie, Kathryn, to say I was only a messenger, but at the beginning of one battle I killed a man, an enemy scout who tried to surprise me. He came running at me. I moved my horse and brought my sword down to catch him neatly between shoulder and neck.’ He licked his lips. ‘I can still see his face,’ he murmured, ‘that terrible, surprised look.’ Colum blinked and stared around as if he realised he had said too much. ‘It could have been someone you knew.’

  Kathryn caught the challenge in his question. ‘You mean my husband?’

  ‘Alexander Wyville was a Lancastrian.’

  Kathryn refused to be drawn. ‘My husband died long before any battle,’ she replied in a half-whisper.

  ‘Do you know if he’s dead?’

  Now Kathryn stared at the wine in her own cup.

  ‘I don’t know. I do not wish to talk about it.’ She felt a chill run down her back. What could she say?

  Colum studied her carefully. Throughout the meal Kathryn had maintained her poise, but he sensed her husband’s disappearance was a chink in the armour of this rather austere, self-contained woman. Oh, she had smiled and laughed, she had eaten and drunk, but until now, never once had she made any movement, given any sign, of what she really felt.

  Colum rose and stretched, slapping his thigh gently, easing the belt round his stomach.

  ‘You have a garden, Mistress Swinbrooke?’

  Kathryn stared at him. Was he baiting her? Did he know more than he had revealed? The Irishman smiled apologetically.

  ‘It’s warm,’ he murmured. ‘I wondered if the night air would refresh both of us.’

  Kathryn realised she was being churlish, and smiled. She led Colum out into the warm velvet darkness. They stood on the raised pavement just beyond the porch. Kathryn was glad it was dark. In the silver moonlight she could discern the herb-banks, the white flowers picking up the light, but beyond lay the small dark orchard, the source of her secret nightmare. Colum pointed at the herbs.

  ‘You grow your own produce?’

  ‘Only some,’ Kathryn answered. ‘Others I buy, but the price is high and soldiers on the road send prices even higher.’

  Colum smiled wolfishly and looked up. ‘I’m glad the war’s over,’ he said. ‘And I am free of camp and court.’

  ‘So you think it’s ended?’

  ‘Edward the Fourth, God bless him, will keep what is his. You have heard the news?’

  Kathryn shook her head.

  ‘The Lancastrians are finished. Margaret of Anjou is captured and her son was killed at Tewkesbury.’

  ‘And the old King?’

  ‘Ah, that’s the news. He died in the Tower.’

  Kathryn stared up at the sky, trying to conceal her fear. The Irishman was telling her that the Lancastrian King had been murdered. The Lord’s anointed, old Henry VI, had been assassinated in that narrow prison, probably by men like the one standing next to her.

  ‘Do you think our murderer has a herb garden?’

  ‘He must have,’ she answered. ‘But there’s something else.’

  Colum turned and faced her. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I accept this assassin in the shadows is a physician, a man who knows both Canterbury and herbs well and cherishes a great grudge against the shrine. Yet those doggerel verses remind me of something. And why does he choose his victims by their profession? Why not just kill indiscriminately? Can you answer that, Master Murtagh?’

  Colum was about to reply when Thomasina came bustling through the door.

  ‘Mistress! Mistress! Come quickly!’

  Kathryn followed her back into the kitchen. The table had now been cleared, the fire dampened. Thomasina had even put out Kathryn’s herb cutting board, with its sharp knife ready for business the next morning.
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  ‘Thomasina, what is it?’

  Her maid handed over a small square piece of parchment. Kathryn took it and went across to the table. Even as she unfolded and read it in the light of the candle, her heart beat a little quicker. The message ran the same: ‘Where is Alexander Wyville? Where is your husband? Murder is a felony and felons hang.’ Beside the usual rudely scrawled words was a gibbet with a caricature of a woman hanging from the rope. Kathryn felt a surge of rage. Crackling the piece of parchment in her hand, she tossed it furiously into the flames.

  ‘Mistress, what is it?’

  ‘Nothing, Thomasina. Leave me alone.’

  Kathryn’s face was white and drawn. Her eyes, dark pools of anxiety, reminded Thomasina of how Kathryn used to look after those dreadful nightly quarrels with her husband. Kathryn blinked and forced a smile.

  ‘Thomasina, I’m sorry, but please, go to bed. I will be well.’

  ‘Not while he’s here!’ Thomasina flung her hand out at Colum, who was watching Kathryn curiously.

  ‘Your mistress is safe with me,’ he snarled. ‘Which is more than I can say for yourself! Now go, woman!’

  Thomasina glared at Kathryn, who nodded, and the maid, her face red with anger, backed out, throwing one last cautionary look at her mistress. Kathryn heard her go down the passageway and slowly climb the wooden stairs to her bedchamber; she stood staring into the flames turning that hateful note to powdery ash. Who was it, she wondered, who sent such malicious messages? Where was her husband? What had happened in the garden? And was her father’s last confession true? Should she go back and talk to Father Cuthbert? Yes, perhaps it was time. Colum touched her hand.

  ‘Kathryn, what is the matter? Mistress, your hand is cold. It’s like ice.’

  Kathryn glared up at him. ‘Let go of my hand, Irishman!’

  Colum squeezed it tightly.

  ‘Irishman, let go of my hand! Believe me, soldier, there are more ways of killing a man than with dagger, sword or spear! Ground glass in wine would turn the hardest man’s belly to a bloody pulp!’