‘Good morning, good morning,’ said Grym cheerfully, turning to smile as the three scholars approached. ‘How are you this fine day?’
‘It is not a fine day,’ countered Langelee. ‘It is raining.’
‘Every day is a fine day in Clare,’ averred Grym. ‘How could it be otherwise?’
‘True,’ acknowledged Godeston. ‘There is no better place in the whole wide world.’
‘Nicholas told me that you use hemlock when you amputate,’ said Bartholomew to Grym, launching into a medical debate with an abruptness that made his colleagues wince. ‘Does it work?’
‘It depends what you mean by “work”,’ replied the barber cautiously. ‘It certainly stops the patient from thrashing around, especially when combined with a good dose of poppy juice. Unfortunately, they are usually dead by the time I finish.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, not sure he would be so flippant about what sounded to be a rather high failure rate. ‘How long do these procedures normally take you?’
‘Oh, not long at all. I do not maintain my princely size for my own benefit, you know – I learned years ago that a surgeon needs a bit of meat on his bones for amputations, or he is forced to saw and hack for ever, which patients tend to dislike. Perhaps you would care for a race later?’
‘I do not think so,’ said Bartholomew primly, startled by the offer, not to mention the problem of acquiring suitable subjects. ‘Speed is not everything.’
‘It is as far as the victim is concerned,’ countered Grym, not unreasonably.
‘I understand you are the town’s investigator,’ said Michael, before he could hear something he might wish he had not – he knew from past experience that Bartholomew could be grisly when conversing with fellow medici. ‘And you have explored several suspicious deaths recently.’
‘He is not an investigator,’ interposed Mayor Godeston. ‘He just offered to inspect the bodies and give us an official cause of death for our records.’
‘Because no one else is qualified,’ explained Grym, and smiled amiably. ‘Although I have something of an aptitude for it, if you want the truth.’ He gestured to the mason’s tomb. ‘Roger was my first. I was able to ascertain that he was killed by a falling plank, but that it was all his own fault for standing in a dangerous place without a proper hat.’
‘So it was an accident?’ probed Michael.
Grym nodded. ‘Next was Talmach from the castle. He was old and frail, but insisted on riding with the hunt to impress his pretty young wife. It was a wet day, so no one was surprised when his horse skidded in mud and threw him. However, it was I who pointed out that he was unlikely to have landed square on his dagger.’
‘In other words, he was murdered,’ said the Mayor. ‘Probably by one of his castle cronies.’
‘Then Charer the coachman drowned,’ Grym went on. ‘He was a sot, who should not have been walking by the river alone and in the dark, but I am fairly sure he should have been able to pull himself out – which means that someone prevented him from doing so.’
‘And Skynere and Wisbech died from swallowing hemlock,’ prompted Bartholomew.
Grym inclined his head. ‘Wisbech was found dead in the castle chapel–’
‘The Lady thinks the town killed him,’ put in Godeston, ‘but she is wrong. One of her minions did, in the hope that the Austins would join their side in the quarrel.’
‘I ascertained that there was hemlock in the meal he had eaten in his vestry the previous evening,’ Grym went on. ‘He died during the night, and was discovered the next day. The same thing happened to Skynere – the poison was in his dinner, and Godeston and I found him the following morning, stone dead and still sitting at his table.’
‘It was horrible.’ Godeston shuddered and his bearers did likewise, forcing him to grip the litter to avoid being pitched out. ‘He was just sitting there, as if he had fallen asleep. Personally, I suspect the squires did it. They are a wild horde.’
‘Hemlock takes time to kill its victims,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So why did Skynere – or Wisbech, for that matter – not summon help?’
‘Perhaps they tried, but it was night and they were alone,’ replied Grym, essentially repeating what Nicholas had claimed. He turned to Godeston. ‘Yet I do not think the squires were responsible, as poison seems too artful a modus operandi for brutal fellows like them. My money is on Philip de Jevan. I have never liked him.’
‘Who is Philip de Jevan?’ asked Michael.
‘A member of the Lady’s council, who comes from London four times a year to give her the benefit of his wisdom.’ Grym pulled a disagreeable face. ‘He is a terrible man.’
But the Mayor was shaking his head. ‘If it is not the squires, then it will be Stephen Bonde, the Lady’s favourite henchman. Now there is a killer if ever I saw one.’
‘A killer, yes, but not a poisoner,’ argued Grym. ‘He is more the kind to use his bare hands. Jevan would use hemlock, though – a sly weapon for a sly man. He reminds me of a rat, slinking about and never stopping to exchange pleasantries.’
‘Jevan is all right,’ said Godeston. ‘I asked him to bring me some nice cloth when he next came up from London, and he gave me this.’ He reached into his scrip and produced a length of purple silk so fine that it seemed to float in the air. ‘I have left instructions that it is to be draped over my coffin, should the unlikely day ever come when I might need one.’
‘Very pretty,’ said Michael, who was also of the opinion that his own death was optional. ‘Although Jevan did not need to go to London for it. Matt’s sister sells that in Cambridge.’
‘Of course, Lichet will be familiar with hemlock,’ mused Godeston, putting the silk away. ‘He calls himself a learned man, but he has the look of the warlock about him. Nicholas calls him the Red Devil, which suits him very well – we all know that red is Lucifer’s favourite colour.’
‘I always understood it was black,’ said Michael.
Godeston raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you really believe that St Benedict would insist on his monks wearing black if it made them attractive to Satan? Of course not! Satan loves crimson, which is why you will never see any habits of that colour.’
‘Cardinals wear scarlet,’ Bartholomew pointed out.
‘Quite, and what does that tell you?’ retorted Godeston. ‘However, I know for a fact that Satan loves red, because it is the colour of Christ’s blood – something in which he rejoices.’
‘I am sure he does not, theologically speaking,’ argued Michael. ‘Because it symbolises eternal salvation and the forgiveness of–’
‘Rubbish,’ interrupted Godeston. ‘Lichet is the Devil’s familiar, and if you have any sense, you will stay well away from him and trust nothing he says.’
‘We shall bear it in mind,’ said Michael.
* * *
Clare Castle boasted two huge baileys, both protected by walls, wet ditches and earthworks. The outer one was filled with wooden service buildings – stables, storehouses and quarters for retainers. The inner was marked by four squat towers and a motte with a massive central keep. However, the building that really commanded attention was the handsome palace that stood at the heart of the complex. It had been designed for comfort rather than security, and had large windows to fill it with light and a plethora of fireplaces to keep it warm.
‘Oxford, Maiden, Auditor and Constable,’ said Langelee, gazing approvingly at the fortifications – the living quarters did not interest him. He became aware of the bemused glances of his Fellows. ‘Those are the names of the four towers.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Bartholomew.