The Canterbury Murders (14 page)

Chapter Twenty-two

The snow did not cease falling until late that evening and left behind a thick blanket that covered the town and the surrounding countryside. With dawn, the clouds had cleared and the sun shone brightly, sparkling upon the whiteness. At the Watling Street townhouse, Dauton sent two menservants with long-handled shovels fitted with wide wooden blades to clear paths from the stables and front door. Householders and merchants all over Canterbury were engaged in the same task and, by mid-morning, travel was once more possible, but only on the main thoroughfares.

Nicolaa had risen late from her bed, her sleep troubled by the ramifications of John’s directive, and when she finally descended to the hall she found the rest of her entourage already assembled in front of a roaring fire. Bascot, just about to don his cloak, informed her that he was going to the royal townhouse to conduct the interviews they had spoken of the night before. She nodded absently as she accepted the cup of warmed and watered wine that Miles handed to her. At that moment, Dauton came in, and told Bascot that the vintner, de Ponte, was at the door asking to speak to him.

Instructing the steward to show the wine merchant into a side chamber, Bascot went into the room. De Ponte was hesitant, looking nervous and drained of confidence. The Templar had to prompt him a little before he summoned up the courage to state the purpose of his visit.

“It’s about something one of my men saw, lord,” he said finally. “Not on the day of the king’s arrival when they delivered the wine, but the next one. My men have been discussing the incident between themselves and this morning Ailwin came to tell me something which I thought you, and the earl, should know.”

He looked down at his hands, which were clenched together in front of him, and added, “I hope you will not think me presumptuous for disturbing you. Since I had heard that King John has returned from Dover and is at the cathedral, I thought it might be unwise to go to the priory, where I understand Sir William is staying, for fear I might prove an unwelcome intrusion, especially if the earl is with the king. And I was reluctant to go to the castle; Constable Criel is a fine man, but after my recent incarceration in the cells, I never want to enter the bail again.”

“I am more than ready to listen to what you have to say,” Bascot assured him, wishing the merchant would come to the point. “What is it that Ailwin told you?”

Relieved at the Templar’s receptive manner, de Ponte explained. “Ailwin said he had been quizzing both Turgot and Eric about what they saw when they went into the royal townhouse to deliver the wine. Not that he suspected them of any wrongdoing,” he hastened to add, “for neither Turgot nor Eric are possessed of the wits needed to place the poison in the buttery. It is Ailwin that keeps a record of the destination of the deliveries and sees to the proper accounting of the number of barrels or kegs that are taken in. I hire both of the younger men for their brawn, not their intelligence. It is because of this failing that Ailwin pressed them, hoping, he told me, to find some small incident they had seen or heard and not taken into account.”

“And I surmise, from your presence here, that he did learn something pertinent?” Bascot asked.

“I am not sure of its importance, but both Ailwin and I thought it might be worthwhile to mention,” de Ponte replied. “Under Ailwin’s questioning, Eric finally said that the next day, when they were travelling on the river to make another delivery farther downstream and going past the royal townhouse, Inglis had been outside in the yard, close to the jetty.”

He then explained how it was that Eric came to be in a position to notice the steward. “There is much travel on the river, lord, and often it is necessary to pull into the bank to allow other boats to pass. That is what happened on this morning. Ailwin says there were two large skiffs—one laden with wool, the other with barrels of ale—both vying for position in the middle of the river, and he had to pull my boat in near the quay of the royal townhouse to avoid getting involved in the congestion. It was while they were waiting there that Eric saw Inglis standing in conversation with another man.”

“And?” Bascot asked.

“Eric said the steward had what he called ‘a black look’ on his face and appeared to be in some sort of argument with the other person.”

Bascot’s interest sharpened. De Ponte paused and then said, “As I said, lord, it is only a little thing, but if the steward was at odds with someone, I thought it might have some connection with his death.”

“You were correct to come and tell me,” the Templar assured him, pleased with the information. “Is Eric able to identify the man Inglis was speaking with?”

“No, lord, he is not. But he did give me a description of his appearance.”

As de Ponte related the details of the man’s stature, facial features and what he had been wearing, Bascot felt a thrill of satisfaction. The description matched that given by Cecily Wattson of the person who had joined Inglis and the washerwoman in the churchyard, and there was no doubt in Bascot’s mind that the man both she and de Ponte’s employee had seen could be none other than the bath attendant, Guillaume Aquarius. This was the second occasion on which he had been seen in conversation with Inglis, and this time it would seem there had been a conflict between them. It made his need to question the bath attendant again all the more urgent.

***

As the vintner was leaving, Bascot followed him out into the entryway, intending to leave at once for the royal townhouse, but as Dauton opened the door for them both to exit, a messenger wearing the archbishop’s badge on his livery was coming up the path.

“I have a message from the king for Lady Nicolaa de la Haye and Sir Bascot de Marins,” he said to the steward. “They are both requested to attend him in the priory guesthouse just before Vespers this afternoon.”

With a polite nod, Dauton said he would relay the summons to his mistress, and Bascot—identifying himself to the messenger—confirmed that he would also attend, and then hurried to the stables to instruct one of the grooms to saddle his horse. While he was waiting for the task to be done, he handed another of the grooms a sealed message and told him to take it with all despatch to the Templar guesthouse near Northgate. The missive was to Master Berard in London, and was a recounting of all that had passed in relation to the investigation, including Nicolaa de la Haye’s request that he make her privy to all information before it was revealed to anyone else. The warden of the Templar house would make sure it was sent to Berard as soon as the road to London was passable. For the first time since he had met her, Bascot was a little unsure of Nicolaa’s motives. While he was certain that her request was, in some way, associated with the king and she saw it as her duty to obey him, he, as a Templar, was not bound by any such obligation. At the end of the missive he had asked Berard for his instruction in dealing with the matter, and hoped he would receive a reply soon.

He made reasonable time to the royal townhouse on Stour Street. The snow had been cleared from most of the main streets and the warmth of the sun had melted the layer that had covered the refuse channel in the middle of the byways, from which now rose malodorous wisps of steamy moisture.

As he navigated his horse through a particularly deep patch of snow splaying out at the corner of Castle and Watling streets, he mulled over his relationship with Gianni and how the murder investigation had caused a rift between them. Earlier that day, he had told the lad that he would be going to the townhouse alone and would not require Gianni to come with him and take notes. The hurt in the lad’s eyes was evident.

“It is not because you lack competence, Gianni,” he had assured the lad, “or that I do not desire your company. There are reasons, of which I cannot tell you, for my decision. You must trust my judgement in this.”

Gianni had given him a solemn nod of understanding but Bascot knew that the boy, despite the assurances, felt betrayed, and the Templar, not for the first time, cursed King John and his machinations. As he continued on his way, his mood continued to darken and by the time he approached the royal townhouse and caught sight of Chacal, lounging against the doorpost with a truculent expression, his choler was high.

***

“Hola, Templar,” the routier said as Bascot dismounted and tied his mount to a post in front of the townhouse. “Have you come to finally admit that I am right, and that one of the king’s servants is responsible for these murders?”

“That is a sweeping statement, and a safe one,” Bascot replied in a deceptively mild tone. “Excepting the brothers of my Order, are not all within the king’s domain his servants? Including those who take his silver to guard him?”

The mercenary captain’s face went tight with anger at the implication of the statement but Bascot had dropped his hand to his sword as he uttered the challenge, and Chacal made no further comment.

Bascot looked around and saw that the guards surrounding the townhouse were from Chacal’s band. “Why are you here?” he asked the mercenary. “I understood that Criel’s men were on duty during the daylight hours.”

Chacal shrugged. “There is no set routine. We change shifts according to which men are available.”

Bascot nodded and went into the townhouse. The entryway was empty, but he could hear the faint sound of voices coming from the rear of the building. As he shut the door behind him, a maidservant came running from that direction and, when she saw Bascot, she hastily bobbed in deference and came forward to take his cloak.

The Templar had decided before he left Watling Street that he would carry out a thorough inspection of the townhouse before speaking to Aquarius or any of the other servants. On the one occasion he had been here, at the time of Inglis’ death, he had only gone into the rooms on the lower floor and down the ladder into the undercroft. It was time to see the chamber where the washerwoman had been killed, and the adjoining ones, and also the yard where the vintner’s men had seen the bath attendant arguing with the steward. He also wanted to check Inglis’ belongings, to see if there was any clue amongst them that might provide information pertaining to his murder.

Dismissing the maidservant, he went into the rooms on the ground floor that led off the passageway, looking into each. All were tidy and appeared to have been freshly swept and dusted, except for the buttery where Inglis had died, and which had been kept locked. Deciding it would not be necessary to examine that room again, he went upstairs, and into the antechamber where the washerwoman had been preparing John’s bath. It remained as Gianni had described it in his notes, the tub still in the middle of the floor—the water now scummy and malodorous—the rug on the floor in front of the tub now dry, but stiff and stained with blood. After quickly looking into the royal chamber and finding nothing of interest, he went into all of the rooms on the same floor. There were a number of them, most fairly large in size, and each fitted out with beds laid with blankets, tables and small coffers; at the end of the passage were storerooms containing a supply of fresh napery, candles and cups. All of them seemed in order and undisturbed.

On the floor above the rooms were smaller, most with only a narrow slit of a window to allow light to enter, and more sparsely furnished. One, although tidy, appeared to be occupied, for there was a cloak on a hook behind the door, and a case of writing implements on the floor. Again, there were two more storerooms on this floor, stacked as were the storerooms on the floor below with neat piles of bedding, drinking utensils, rush lights and chamber pots.

Returning to the passageway, he noticed a ladder that led up to the attic. Taking a tinderbox, candle and holder from a niche set in a wall, he lit the candle and went up the ladder to open a hatchway so he could inspect the space under the eaves. Apart from a thin layer of dust, it was empty. Bending over almost double, he went to each end, looking for traces of an intruder, but there were none, so he went back down the ladder, snuffed out the candle and replaced it where he had found it, and descended to the lower floor.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, the passageway was empty except for two maidservants peeping out from behind the door that led to the kitchen, watching him with anxious eyes. Calling to them, he asked them to direct him to the servants’ quarters, which Gianni had noted in his report were located at the back of the house.

Timidly, they led him down a narrow passage to two large rooms, both fitted with pallets that had been rolled up and neatly stacked against the walls, and an array of hooks on the walls from which hung odd items of clothing—cloaks, hats and the like. “This one is for the women servants,” one of the maids said nervously, indicating the door of the room in front of which they were standing, “t’other for the men.”

Glancing around both chambers, and finding nothing untoward, he asked if Inglis had slept in the room allotted to the men. The maid shook her head. “He had his own chamber, lord,” she informed him and pointed to a door at the end of the passageway. Going inside, Bascot found a comfortable bed laid with a thick mattress and wool coverlet, a wooden coffer and a table on which stood a candle set in a pewter holder alongside a pile of parchment. On the wall hung a cloak made of good wool and a fur-lined hat. As befitted the steward’s station, his room was far more comfortably furnished than the ones allotted to the other servants.

Dismissing the two maids, Bascot examined the papers on the table. All of them were concerned with the running of the household—a list of supplies that required ordering, the amount of wages that had been paid to the servants at Michaelmas and an inventory of all the furnishings, right down to the last candle, that were in the townhouse. All had been written in a neat hand and the columns of figures were carefully aligned. It seemed that Inglis had been conscientious in his duties.