‘Perhaps he thought he was a Roman emperor,’ murmured Michael, looking around in awe.
‘It drove his poor wife to distraction,’ confided John. ‘She left him in the end, and entered a convent, where she said the nuns’ black habits were a blessed relief. Of course, that was forty years ago, and I do not know what she thinks now.’
The Mayor was sitting at a table with his eyes closed and his chin resting on his chest. He looked as though he had fallen asleep over his purple meal, the remains of which lay in front of him: dried plums, pickled beetroot and elderberry wine. The only indications that anything was amiss were his total stillness and the vomit that stained his clothes.
Grym had taken the seat opposite, and tears glittered in his eyes as he contemplated the man who had been his friend.
‘I suppose I shall be Mayor of this beautiful town now,’ he said in a small voice. ‘Although it is rather sooner than I hoped.’
Bartholomew bent to examine the body. Godeston was still warm to the touch, although the sick on his front had dried, telling him that the Mayor had been taken ill some time before he had finally breathed his last. He glanced up to see that the litter-bearers had followed them inside, and were sobbing again, although more in anger than sorrow. He addressed them quietly, struggling not to make his remarks sound accusatory lest it ignited another spat.
‘He could not walk, which means he would have needed your help to get to bed when he had finished eating. So why was he not discovered until now?’
‘He could walk short distances,’ wept one. ‘And his bed is only in the next room. He sent us home early, because Barber Grym was here.’
‘I was,’ said Grym, a catch in his voice. ‘We were discussing the murder of Margery and what it might mean for the town. He said he was hungry, so I fetched him some food from the pantry before I went home …’
‘But he was well when you left him?’
Grym nodded. ‘Although desperately worried that Margery’s death would bring violent reprisals down on our heads. I suppose the strain of thinking about it induced a fatal attack. I have seen such things many times during my medical career.’
While the barber spoke, Bartholomew had continued his examination, not just of the body, but of the food and wine as well. The plums and beetroot seemed innocent, but the wine was a strong brew with a pungent smell – almost, but not quite, powerful enough to mask the distinctive aroma of hemlock underneath. He announced his findings to the others.
‘So Paycock was right?’ said Michael. ‘Godeston was murdered? By whom?’
Bartholomew raised his hands in a shrug. ‘He swallowed poison, Brother, and it was in the wine. I cannot tell you who put it there.’
‘No, no, no!’ whispered Grym, white-faced. ‘Godeston was old and in indifferent health. He died of natural causes. He was not murdered. It is impossible.’
Wordlessly, Bartholomew handed him the jug so that he could smell it for himself.
Grym accepted it warily, took a quick sniff, then shook his head stubbornly. ‘It is not hemlock. What you can detect is the stink of elderberries past their best. Poor Godeston! He never could tell a good brew from an inferior one.’
‘Then you drink some,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘And prove it is innocent.’
Grym raised his eyebrows. ‘I am not in the habit of imbibing bad wine.’
And before anyone could stop him, he stepped to the window and emptied the jug into the rose beds below, moving remarkably swiftly for so large a man. Bartholomew regarded him in astonishment, stunned not only that he should deny what was so patently obvious, but that he should destroy evidence into the bargain.
‘Good,’ said John briskly. ‘It is very sad that poor Mayor Godeston is dead, but better natural causes than murder.’
‘I quite agree,’ said Grym with a sickly smile. ‘So we will bury him today, and I shall assume the role of Mayor until we can hold an election. It is–’
‘No!’ interrupted one of the litter-bearers sharply. ‘You want to hide the truth, so the town will not march against the castle. Well, we will not be party to lies – not when it concerns the man who gave us a job. Mayor Godeston was good to us, and we will not turn our backs on his murder.’
‘Then remember who told you about the hemlock,’ put in Michael. ‘We did – which we would not have done if we had fed it to him. So kindly inform the likes of Paycock that your master’s death had nothing to do with us.’
But the litter-bearer was already thinking about something else. ‘His silk,’ he gulped, looking around in alarm. ‘Where is it?’
‘What silk?’ asked Grym.
‘The gauzy purple piece that Master Jevan brought him from London. Mayor Godeston made us promise to drape it over his coffin when the time came. We cannot fail his last wishes! He made us swear.’
‘And he said we would not get anything in his will unless we obliged,’ put in his brother.
They embarked on a frantic hunt for it. John ignored them and began to interrogate Grym, gathering information that he hoped would allow him to forestall any rumours that Godeston was the latest casualty in the war between castle and town. The barber was eager to oblige, and Bartholomew grew ever more appalled by the wild answers he gave. Michael pulled the physician aside.
‘Are you sure about the hemlock, Matt? You cannot be mistaken?’
‘I am sure. I suppose this means Grym fed it to him – he fetched the wine from the pantry at Godeston’s request, dosed it with poison, then destroyed the evidence when we homed in on it. Now he is lying to protect himself. I wonder if he killed Wisbech and Skynere as well. He admits quite openly that he uses hemlock on patients. Maybe he gave them too much by mistake.’
‘I know John wants to avert trouble,’ said Michael soberly. ‘But I dislike lies, and I am uncomfortable with the fact that he is willing to overlook the murder of a friar. It is unnatural, even for a man who wants peace.’
‘Then perhaps we should add him to our list of murder suspects.’
‘Perhaps we should,’ agreed Michael unhappily.
Chapter 8
There was no more to be done at Godeston’s house, so Bartholomew and Michael left Grym to care for his dead friend, and went outside, where John was already announcing that the verdict was death by natural causes. Unfortunately for him, the litter-bearers had a different story to spread, and began ranting to anyone who would listen. John tried to stop them, but to no avail – men like Paycock knew which version they wanted to believe. The Prior glared at Bartholomew.
‘I wish you had kept your suspicions to yourself,’ he said crossly. ‘Godeston’s murder will mean trouble for certain.’
‘I wish he had kept his suspicions to himself as well,’ agreed Michael, ‘because then Grym would not have tossed the tainted wine out of the window, thus preventing us from proving our case. Did you not find that odd?’
‘I doubt Grym killed Godeston, if that is what you are suggesting,’ said John impatiently. ‘They were friends, and Grym will be lost without him. However, I accept that Godeston died from hemlock poisoning. I thought I could smell it the moment I entered the room.’
‘Then why did you–’ began Bartholomew indignantly.
‘Because I wanted to avoid the kind of trouble that is brewing now,’ interrupted John shortly, and nodded towards Rutten Row, where several young merchants were listening to the litter-bearers with growing anger. ‘Those boys have been itching to fight the squires for weeks – several have lost their sweethearts to the rich braggarts at the castle, and they want revenge.’