When he woke, it was dark, and he was aware of low voices coming from the people who were huddled around the table. Cautiously he raised his head, and saw Adrian, Francis, and Helbye deep in conversation. Julian, who had been sitting near Geoffrey, stood when she heard the rustle of straw from the bed.
Julian’s movement attracted the attention of the others, and Helbye came towards him, his face anxious. Warily, Geoffrey sat up, relieved that the paralysing dizziness seemed to have gone and that the strength was back in his arms and legs. He stood.
“You deserve to feel atrocious for not taking the medicine that I so painstakingly prepared,” admonished Francis severely, referring, Geoffrey assumed, to the casual way he had flung a few powders into the bowl of warm water. “But it seems you have recovered without it anyway. And I have more good news for you. I believe I can prove you were not your father’s killer.”
“I am grateful someone can,” said Geoffrey, going to sit on the bench at the table next to Father Adrian. “How have you acquired this proof?”
“As a physician, I have access to a certain knowledge of the dead,” began Francis, a touch pompously. “After I left you, I went immediately to inspect poor Sir Godric’s corpse. None of your kinsmen had seen fit to lay it out in a decent manner, so I was able to inspect the scene of crime undisturbed, as it were. He was slain by a single wound to the stomach.”
“But he was stabbed in the chest,” objected Geoffrey. “I saw the knife there myself.”
“Did you, now,” said Francis thoughtfully. “Well, that clears something up, at least. As I was saying, the fatal wound was to his stomach. I imagine he would have died reasonably quickly from blood loss, but certainly not instantly. The knife, however, was embedded in his chest-as you yourself have attested.”
“I do not understand,” said Geoffrey.
He shook his head as Adrian offered him some ale. The priest took a deep draught from the beaker, and offered it a second time. Somewhat sheepishly, Geoffrey accepted, for his throat was dry and he was even more thirsty than he had been at times in the desert.
“How did the knife move from his stomach to his chest?”
“Well, it did not do it on its own,” replied Francis facetiously. “The wound in the chest had been inflicted after Godric had died. I can tell such things by the amount of bleeding-wounds bleed little or not at all after death, and there was virtually no bleeding from the injury to Godric’s chest, unlike the gash in his stomach.”
“So someone killed my father with a fatal, but not immediately effective, wound in the stomach, and then stabbed him in the chest after he was dead?” asked Geoffrey doubtfully. “That does not sound very likely.”
“Likely or not,” said Francis haughtily, “that is how it happened. Now, the blood was still sticky although the body was cool. I estimate that Godric died sometime around dawn, or, more probably, a little earlier.”
But that did not help Geoffrey very much at all, because it did not tell him whether his father had died before or after Walter had risen and left. If he had died after, then Walter was probably as innocent of the murder as was Geoffrey. But if he had died before, then there were three possibilities. First, Walter, like Geoffrey, was drugged in some way to make him sleep through it-although he had not seemed ill that morning; second, Walter had killed Godric while Geoffrey slept, and had left Bertrada to discover the corpse; or, third, Walter had not killed Godric, but was complicit in his murder at the hands of another. And, despite Francis’s claim, Geoffrey could not see how the physician’s evidence proved that Geoffrey was not responsible.
Francis appeared to read his mind, for he smiled, and leaned across to dilute Geoffrey’s ale with water from a jug from which Julian had been drinking.
“Avoid wines and strong ales for a day or two-the body will need time to recover. But you are interested in proving your innocence in all this, I see. Very well, then. I am almost certain that the poison used on you was some kind of poppy powder mixed with a tiny amount of the juice of ergot. You were not given enough to kill you, although whether by design or chance, I cannot be certain.”
“Chance would be my wager,” said Helbye with conviction. “Someone does not want you at the castle, lad. Whoever poisoned you wanted you dead, not sick.”
Geoffrey was thoughtful. Someone had gone to some trouble to ensure that his dagger was used to kill Godric, and that he was still in the room when the body was found. Was it because-as the Earl had claimed-someone had wanted him accused of his father’s murder? Or was Helbye right, and the poisoner had actually wanted him dead? He sighed, not knowing what to think, or where to start looking for answers.
He turned to Francis. “Were the wound in Godric’s stomach and the wound in his chest caused by the same implement?”
Francis’s hitherto smug expression faded. “I did not think to look. How could I have forgotten to test for something so obvious?”
“No matter,” said Geoffrey. “I can look myself.” He drank more of the watered ale. “But you still have not explained your reasoning that the murderer was not me.”
“Next to the hearth was an opened bottle of wine and an empty bowl. Both contained the unmistakable aroma of poppy and ergot. You have already told me that you consumed something before you slept and, judging from your condition when you came to me, you could not possibly have been in a fit state to kill Sir Godric before dawn. The poppy would have had an effect almost immediately, and you were still under the ergot’s influence when you came here this morning.”
Geoffrey did not consider Francis’s logic to be without its flaws, especially since the bowl was empty because he had tipped Hedwise’s broth down the garderobe shaft, and he certainly would not wish to hang his defence in a court of law on such a fragile thread. But at least it served to gain him another ally-two, if he included the priest Adrian, and, in a place like Goodrich, allies might mean the difference between life and death.
He rubbed his eyes, and tried to make some sense out of the evidence Francis had provided him. “So both the wine and the broth were treated with ergot?”
“Not just ergot,” said Francis pedantically. “There was poppy powder, too.”
“Why bother with two poisons?” asked Geoffrey. “It seems that the poppy powder would have served its purpose alone.”
“There are a number of possibilities,” said Francis. “Ergot in large quantities is fatal, but the poisoner probably did not want you wandering about the castle waking everyone as you died publicly-hence he or she added the poppy so that you would slip away quietly. Or perhaps each was the preferred compound of a different poisoner.”
“You mean that two people at the castle tried independently to poison me last night?” queried Geoffrey incredulously. “I know I am not popular with my brothers and sisters, but I do not think anyone but Henry holds genuine murderous intentions.”
“I think you overestimate your claim on your family’s affections,” said Adrian sombrely. “I heard in the village this morning that Godric presented a copy of his latest will to you, naming you as his sole beneficiary. You have been away, so you cannot know the importance to which the inheritance of Goodrich has soared among your brethren. Walter, Bertrada, Stephen, Henry, Olivier, and even Joan and Hedwise would not hesitate to kill to get Goodrich.”
The priest’s words were far from comforting, and it was with some gratitude that Geoffrey accepted Helbye’s offer of a bed by his hearth that night. The knight huddled near the embers, twisted slightly to one side to avoid the drips that came through the roof from the rain outside, and thought about what he had learned. There was no question whatsoever in his mind now that Enide had been the victim of some foul plot, the prize of which was the inheritance of Goodrich. She had known about the documents that proved Walter’s illegitimacy and that claimed Sigurd, not Godric, was the father of Stephen. The poachers Henry hanged had been innocent.