‘Perhaps we should warn Radwinter.’
‘No. That’s Maleverer’s job, this will have to go to him.’
We broke off at the sound of light footsteps on the stairs. Radwinter entered. He closed the door and studied Barak. Then he smiled humourlessly at me, showing his little white teeth. ‘Do you feel you need a man to protect you when you meet with me?’ he asked.
Even now he was trying to undermine me. ‘Master Radwinter,’ I said, ‘I have no time for games. This is a serious business.’
‘I have ordered the blankets and brazier to be brought,’ he said curtly. ‘I will not have that man die under my watch,’ he added angrily. ‘By the throat of God, I won’t!’ He turned to us. ‘I want you to come with me. I am going to question that cook.’
‘But surely if it was the cook who provided it he would have fled the scene after adding the poison to his meal,’ Barak observed. ‘He’d be the obvious suspect, he wouldn’t hang around.’
Radwinter gave him an evil look, then turned to me. ‘You allow your servants to speak on your business?’
‘Barak talks sense,’ I answered flatly.
‘Does he?’ Radwinter’s eyes went to the bruise on my head. ‘Have you been angering someone else with your caustic manners?’
‘I told you before, there is no time for games. Let us see this suspect.’
‘Very well.’ Radwinter grasped his bunch of keys tightly. ‘By Jesu, I’ll have the truth from him.’ He waved us out of his room with an angry gesture.
THE COOK SAT ON a stool in the guardhouse, a soldier either side of him. He was a fat fellow, as good cooks are, with a bald, egg-shaped head. Yet there was a sharpness in his face and in his frightened eyes; Radwinter was right, the man had something shifty about him. The gaoler walked over to the prisoner and stared into his face, smiling grimly. There was a brazier in the room, with a poker sticking out of the charcoal. Radwinter turned quickly, pulled it out and held it up. The cook started, then gulped as Radwinter showed him the glowing tip. It was red-hot, I could feel its warmth faintly from where I stood. The soldiers looked at each other uneasily. Radwinter stroked his neat little beard thoughtfully with his free hand, then said to the cook, softly, ‘Your name?’
‘D-David Youhill, sir.’
He nodded. ‘And you used to work for the monks at St Mary’s.’
Youhill’s eyes went to the poker, widening in fear. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Look at me when you answer, churl. How long for?’
‘Over ten years, sir. I was third cook to the monks.’
‘An abbey-lubber then. Soft living and easy work. Must have been a shock when you were put out on the road when that papist den closed.’
‘I got work here, sir.’
‘And now you have used your post to poison a man the King wants kept alive. You know the punishment for a cook who tries to kill by poisoning the food he cooks? It is to be boiled alive. By order of the King.’ Youhill gulped again; he was sweating now. Radwinter nodded seriously, fixing the man with his merciless eyes. ‘That’s a painful death, I’ll warrant. Though I’ve not seen it done. Yet.’
‘But – but I didn’t do anything, sir.’ Youhill broke down suddenly, words tumbling out of him, his eyes staring wildly at the poker. ‘I only made the leek pottage for the guards same as always, with ingredients I bought in town. The prisoner’s food was taken from the common pot, the last of it’s still in the kitchen. If there was poison in there everyone would have had it.’ He turned to the soldiers. ‘Giles, Peter, you’d swear to that.’
The guards nodded. ‘That is true, sir,’ one said. Radwinter frowned at him.
‘I can only tell what I saw, sir,’ he said. ‘The cook had no chance to interfere with the prisoner’s food.’
‘And you brought his bowl and cup, maister,’ Youhill said. ‘And his beer was poured from the common barrel as you saw.’
‘Who cleans his bowl and cup?’ I asked.
‘I do that.’ Radwinter stroked his black beard, then lowered the poker slowly towards the cook’s nose. I decided if it came too near his skin I would intervene. Youhill squirmed in his chair, making little mewling sounds of fear.
‘I don’t know how you did it, yet, master cook. But no one else could have. I’ll get it out of you, never fear. You see, I know you servants from the monasteries. You took in the papist ideas that infested those places, then when you were turned out it went to resentment against His Majesty, and if a chance to do ill comes you’ll take it. I’ve had abbey-lubbers brought to me in the Lollards’ Tower. Mostly they’re like you, fat and soft; they break after a little pain.’
‘But I hated the monks!’ Youhill burst out. Radwinter halted the poker, six inches from his nose.
‘What?’
‘I hated them! Hated the way they lived soft and easy while I slept on sacks. I always knew their ceremonies were aimed at nothing more than getting money from gullible folk. I was one of Lord Cromwell’s informers!’
Radwinter’s eyes narrowed. ‘What nonsense is this?’
The cook twisted his face desperately away from the heat. ‘It is true,’ he cried, ‘by God’s holy blood! When Lord Cromwell’s commissioners came in ’35 they questioned all the servants; they found I’d been in trouble for drunkenness, though a man may surely take a drink in the town. They asked if I’d pass any snippets of gossip to Lord Cromwell’s office, promised me a good job if the place closed. And they kept their promise, they got me work at the castle. I’m as loyal to the King as any man in England!’
Radwinter studied Youhill, then shook his head slowly. ‘That is too easy a tale, master cook. I see by your face you are a crafty and devious man. But you poisoned my prisoner, and I will have the truth. I’ll have you brought up to my room. Then we shall have another conversation – there is a brazier there as well.’ He thrust the poker back into the coals. ‘Bring him,’ Radwinter ordered the guards. He looked into my disapproving face. ‘Master Shardlake, you will not be needed.’
Youhill gripped the arms of his chair convulsively. The soldiers looked at each other. Then, to my surprise, Barak stepped forward and addressed the cook. ‘I used to work for Lord Cromwell,’ he said. ‘I did some work with monastery informers back in ’36, learned how the system worked.’
The relief that came into the cook’s face showed that what he had said was true. ‘Then help me, sir!’
‘You would have had to send letters. Can you write?’
‘My brother can. I told him what to put.’
‘To whom did the letters go?’
‘The office of Master Bywater, at the office of the Vicar-General at Westminster,’ he said eagerly. ‘For the attention of Master Wells.’
Barak turned to us. ‘He speaks true. He worked for Lord Cromwell all right.’
‘He could have turned his coat,’ Radwinter said.
Barak shrugged. ‘True, but he looks too scared to me.’
‘And there’s no evidence,’ I added. ‘Also, Master Radwinter, you have no legal authority to torture this man. He may be kept close for now, but he is not to be harmed. I will report to Sir William Maleverer, but I cannot see how this man can have poisoned Broderick.’
‘Perhaps the poison wasn’t in his food at all,’ Barak added.
‘Ay. Consider what other ways there might have been, Master Radwinter, and I shall too. I will return once I have seen Sir William.’
OUTSIDE THE WIND was fiercer, whipping more rain in our faces and sending leaves whirling across the bailey. Radwinter followed us out, his face dark with fury, and grasped my arm.
‘You will not interfere with my enquiries, sir! Your duty is limited to the welfare of the prisoner!’
‘You have no authority to make any enquiries! This must go before Sir William.’
He gripped my arm harder, eyes blazing with anger.
Barak put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Enough, sir,’ he said quietly.
Radwinter paused, then released me with a laugh. ‘It is as I said, you fear to face me without protection.’ He looked at my assistant. ‘Barak, is that your name? A Jewish name, is it not? From the Old Testament.’