Mathilde 02 - The Poison Maiden (8 page)

‘It’s Chapeleys,’ Demontaigu murmured when I joined him. ‘He is dead. Hanged himself!’

‘Who is Chapeleys?’ Guido asked.

‘Sir,’ Demontaigu gestured back at the door, ‘I must ask you to return. You too, Mistress Agnes. This concerns me. A man sheltering in my chamber has died. Mathilde, Ingleram Berenger has asked for you to attend.’ Demontaigu didn’t wait for an answer, but spun on his heel.

I made my apologies to Guido and Agnes and hurried after him.

‘Bertrand?’ I asked. ‘Ingleram Berenger, he is a physician, the royal coroner.’

‘Precisely!’ Demontaigu snapped. ‘He did not ask for you, but
I
need you, Mathilde. Come, you’ll see.’

It was a freezing cold evening, a stark contrast to the warm splendour of the Grande Chambre. Once we’d left Burgundy Hall, Demontaigu guided me by the elbow down needle-thin alleyways, across derelict gardens and deserted yards, dark as a devil’s mouth except for the flickering torches of the men-at-arms hurrying before us. In the far distance, on the corner of a building, I glimpsed torchlight and the glitter of armoured men. I soon realised it was the outside of Demontaigu’s chamber. I drew closer and glimpsed Chapeleys hanging by his neck from the window-door, open above him. An eerie, sinister scene. The corpse hung slack about a yard from the ground, arms and legs swaying slightly as if the man was still alive. I reckoned the drop from the window-door was at least another two. At first glance, to all intents and purposes, Chapeleys had opened that small window-door and, with one end of the escape rope clasped to that ring in the wall, fashioned a noose with the other, slipped this over his head and stepped into eternal night. The men-at-arms staring up at the corpse let us through. I peered at the grisly scene. Chapeleys was still wearing his oxhide boots. In the murky gloom I could not make out his face. Ingelram Berenger, a plump, white-whiskered, fussy little man, came bustling forward, mopping his face with a napkin taken from the banquet.

‘Master Bertrand,’ he blustered, ‘a guard found this.’ He gestured at the corpse. ‘A hanging! Suicide! God knows why it happened.’ He rubbed his stomach. ‘Not a night for such hideous scenes.’

‘You’ve not entered my chamber?’ Demontaigu asked.

‘Of course not.’

‘It should be locked and bolted from the inside,’ Demontaigu murmured. ‘Master-at-arms,’ he turned to one of the soldiers, ‘bring a ladder. I will go up from the outside and unlock the door; you can join me there.’

The master-at-arms brought a long pole-ladder. Demontaigu insisted that for the moment the corpse be left. He laid the ladder against the palace wall and climbed up. Master Berenger left two of the men-at-arms on guard whilst we hurried round into the building and up the gloomy, freezing staircase. By the time we reached his chamber, Demontaigu had opened the door. He ushered us in.

‘Locked and bolted from the inside,’ he whispered to me.

I glanced quickly round. Nothing looked as if it had been disturbed. The drapes on the bed were slightly creased. The empty platter and goblet still stood on the table. I glimpsed the chancery pouch and hurried across to where it lay on the floor between the chair and the still gleaming charcoal brazier. I pulled back the flaps. It was empty. I glanced at the brazier and noticed the charred scraps of parchment littering the top coals. Chapeleys had apparently burnt whatever he’d brought. There was no sign of any struggle. The cup and platter smelled untainted. The lock and bolts on the door were untouched. I examined the ring in the wall. The thick hempen rope was securely tied to it. The bolts and bars of the wooden door looked unmarked, with no sign of force.

Berenger stood in deep conversation with Demontaigu. The king’s coroner eyed me darkly when he learnt who I was. In the end, however, he seemed satisfied with what Demontaigu had said and became very dismissive.

‘A highly nervous man,’ he declared. ‘Master Chapeleys’ humours must have been deeply agitated and disturbed by all these present troubles. He must have taken his own life.’ He shrugged. ‘God knows what Holy Mother Church will say about that.’ The fat coroner spread his hands, clearly anxious to return to the festivities. ‘There is little more I can say or do,’ he pleaded. ‘Perhaps . . .’

Demontaigu offered to take care of the corpse. Berenger was only too pleased to agree and promptly disappeared. Demontaigu ordered the men-at-arms to go back to the corpse and guard it. Once the chamber was cleared, he bolted the door.

‘Nothing,’ he exclaimed, gesturing around, ‘nothing untoward.’

‘Except the contents of his chancery bag have been burnt.’

‘Chapeleys may have done that himself when he decided to take his own life. The door was locked and bolted.’ Demontaigu shook his head. ‘I cannot believe anything else. Chapeleys was under strict instruction not to open that door to anyone but ourselves or someone . . .’

‘When you left him?’

‘I brought some wine and a platter.’ Demontaigu sighed. ‘I scarcely talked to him, then I left for the chancery office. I did some work there and went direct to Burgundy Hall.’

‘And Berenger?’

‘I told him Chapeleys was a clerk much agitated by the present crisis. A man, perhaps, given to morbid thoughts.’

‘Everything indicates suicide,’ I agreed, ‘yet we know that is not true. Chapeleys was truly frightened but he wanted to live.’ I walked over to the writing table. The quill pens had recently been used. The inkpot was unstoppered. I searched the chancery bag again but it was empty. I went down on my hands and knees. Chapeleys was a clerk. He would write and perhaps reject what he’d written. I was proved correct. Under the table near the far leg lay a twisted piece of parchment. I picked this up, smoothed it out and glimpsed the scrolled letters. I slipped it into the velveteen purse on my belt. Demontaigu hurried across but I held a finger to my lips and gestured at the door.

‘Not now. Let’s first tend to the corpse.’

Demontaigu went across to the window-door and shouted at the men-at-arms to be ready. He then told me to help him hold the rope. He sliced this expertly, took the strain and gently lowered the corpse. The soldiers, using the ladder, grasped the body and laid it out on the cobbles below. A macabre sight! The cadaver sprawled on its back. In the shifting pool of torchlight, Chapeleys’ white face seemed to stare up at me in reproach. I diverted myself by re-examining the knot in the noose which the soldiers passed to us.

‘A clerk’s doing,’ I murmured. ‘As they fasten the twine of a pouch containing a bundle of manuscripts, twice tied, the ends slipped back through the knot.’ I rose and scrutinised the chamber once more.

‘Nothing out of place.’ Demontaigu voiced my thoughts.

‘And that is the refrain the assassin wants us to repeat,’ I replied.

We left the chamber and joined the men-at-arms, who carried the corpse across the palace grounds into the mortuary chapel of St Margaret’s, the parish church of those who lived and served in the palace. The Keeper of the Death House was waiting. He merrily welcomed, as he put it, his new guest into the Chamber of the Dead: a long, barn-like structure lying between the corpse door of St Margaret’s and God’s Acre, the parish cemetery. The walls inside gleamed with lime-wash, studded here and there with black crosses. The carefully scrubbed floor, set with pavestones, was strewn with crisp, freshly cut rushes. Mortuary tables, neatly arranged in three long rows, stretched from the door to the far wall. Most of these were, in the words of the keeper, a lay brother from the abbey, occupied by his special guests.

‘It’s the gallows, you see,’ he intoned mournfully. ‘They have to be cleared before the great feast, felons and villains! All quiet now, washed and anointed, ready for God.’

Chapeleys’ corpse was laid on a table near the door. The men-at-arms were eager to be gone from such a gruesome place; it reeked of death and decay despite the pots of crushed herbs and boats of smoking incense placed on sills and ledges. Demontaigu also asked the keeper to withdraw. The lay brother would have objected, but the silver coin I drew from my purse and the promise of some lady bread and meat, the leftovers from the lavish royal banquet, sent him scrambling through the door, which he slammed noisily behind him.

We turned to Chapeleys. In the light of the oil lamps and guttering wall torches, his face had a livid hue, eyes popping, tongue jutting out of his protuberant mouth, the skin a hideous, mottled colour. Demontaigu crossed himself, leaned over and whispered the words of absolution into the dead man’s ear. Afterwards, with a phial of oil he must have taken from his chamber, he swiftly anointed Chapeleys from forehead to feet whilst whispering the solemn invocation to St Michael and all the angels to come out and meet the dead man’s soul. We then stripped the corpse down to its pathetic soiled linen undershirt and drawers. I carefully examined the flesh for bruises and cuts but could detect none. No binding or force to the fingers, hands or wrists could be traced; nothing but that deep, broad purple-red weal round Chapeleys’ throat and the slight contusion behind the right ear where the knot had been fastened. I studied the discarded noose I’d brought with me; the slipknot was expertly done, still tight and hard. I searched amongst the dead clerk’s possessions. His wallet held a few coins which I left on the mortuary table. The dagger was still in its sheath and slipped easily in and out. I sat down on a stool and stared in exasperation at Demontaigu, now covering the corpse with a death cloth.

‘Who knew Chapeleys had arrived at Westminster?’

‘Nobody,’ he replied, ‘at least to our knowledge.’ He gathered up the dead man’s possessions in a bundle, came across, and stood over me. ‘Mathilde, I recognise the problems if it was murder. Who knew Chapeleys was in my chamber at Westminster? Who killed him? How so expertly, so quickly? How did the assassin get in that room, attack an armed man who would certainly have resisted, and overcome him so soundly, so expertly, with no sign of force or disturbance. He then arranged Chapeleys’ hanging and disappeared just as mysteriously. Chapeleys may have admitted him into the chamber, but why? He was frightened, under strict orders from us to be vigilant. And if he made a mistake why did he then not resist?’ Demontaigu paused at a knock on the door. The Keeper of the Dead shuffled in.

‘If he took life by his own hand,’ he murmured, gesturing at the corpse now covered in a shroud, ‘he cannot be buried in God’s Acre.’

‘Come, Brother.’ Demontaigu picked the coins up from the table. He went over and thrust them into the lay brother’s hands whilst placing Chapeleys’ meagre possessions at his feet. ‘If no one claims the corpse, and I doubt they will, these are yours. Why cause a fuss?’

‘How did he die?’ the keeper asked.

‘I do not know, Brother,’ I insisted. ‘That is the truth!’

‘When did he die?’

I glanced back at the corpse. The flesh was cold but the limbs were still soft. The freezing weather had drained the warm humours. The keeper’s question was pertinent. Had Chapeleys been killed before the feast or during it? Had someone from our banquet slipped away and carried out the dreadful act? But if so, how was it done? I simply shook my head.

‘Brother, I am unable to answer that.’

We were about to leave when there was a disturbance outside. The door was flung open and an irate Berenger strode into the chapel. Servants followed, carrying another corpse under a cloak. The keeper, clucking his tongue at how busy he’d become, hastily directed the bearers to an empty table. A grey-haired woman followed, sobbing uncontrollably; others entered, led by a young man who looked terror-stricken, his pimply white face sweating as he loudly protested his innocence. As the keeper went over to console the sobbing woman, Berenger shouted for silence. Something about the distraught woman caught at my heart; she reminded me of my own mother. I went across, pulled back the cloth and stared down at the corpse of a young woman dressed in a faded green gown. Long auburn hair hid her face, which tilted sideways. I pushed the hair back and stared at the horror: once comely, her face was the same livid hue as Chapeleys’, mottled and slightly swollen, eyes popping, tongue sticking out due to the garrotte string tied tightly round her soft white throat. I drew my own dagger and cut the cord; the corpse jerked as air was expelled and, for a heartbeat, silenced the clamour in the death house. Another young woman, black hair tied tightly back behind her head, lean, spiteful and full of anger, pushed her way through. She screamed accusations at the young man, who simply flailed his hands and shook his head. Once again Berenger shouted for silence.

‘What happened?’ I asked.

‘The dead woman is Rebecca Atte-Stowe.’ Berenger apparently decided to swallow his pride and speak to me. ‘She was a serving wench in the buttery and pantry.’ He gestured around at the clamour of accusation. ‘She was found as you have seen her, in a storeroom where the maids keep their aprons, caps and gloves for use in the kitchens. Anyway, she was to help with the feast but hadn’t been seen since the Vesper’s bell.’