Catesby.
The old man shook his head and was dismissed.
'Is there anything else?' my master asked.
'What do you mean?' snapped Carey.
'Something in the room perhaps?'
A brief search was made but nothing untoward was found. Ruthven's ink-stained quill was lying on the floor. My master picked it up, scrutinised it carefully then threw it on the table.
'A mystery,' Agrippa announced. He glared round at all of us. 'But someone here is a murderer who knows how Ruthven died!' He sighed and looked at Carey. 'Enough of this, Queen Margaret must be informed.'
We all trooped downstairs, my master staying behind to scrutinise the room once more then joining me outside, shaking his head.
'Doctor Agrippa is right,' he whispered. 'A true mystery. How can a man, hale and hearty before he retired, be found poisoned the next morning, when no one visited him and he remained locked in his room?' He looked at me sharply. 'You saw him?'
I nodded. 'You heard me,' I replied. 'He opened his chamber door, smiled at me and picked up his cat.'
'So how was he poisoned?'
The question dominated our discussions as we gathered in what used to be the long Chapter Room of the Knights Templar.
Queen Margaret sat at the head of the cracked, dangerously shaky table whilst Catesby ordered benches to be brought in for the rest. The King's sister was white-faced and tight-lipped, obviously finding it difficult to control her anger.
'Someone here,' she snapped, her eyes darting round us, 'murdered Ruthven! Someone here is also a traitor, guilty of the blackest treason. Why does the House of York plague us with their romantic dreams and stupid ambitions? The assassins, in their temerity, even left a white rose to mock us! Doctor Agrippa…' her voice trailed off.
The good doctor beamed around.
'We must account for our movements,' he said. 'Each and every one of us.'
His prompting was summarily answered. No one had approached Ruthven. Both Master Benjamin and myself had heard nothing amiss and Moodie, who had been in the chamber adjoining Ruthven's on the other side, could also confirm this.
'How was Ruthven?' Catesby asked. 'I mean, in the days before his death? Did he say or do anything untoward?' He looked around. 'To whom did he talk?'
'He talked to Moodie,' Melford observed.
'Well?' Agrippa asked.
The mouse-faced chaplain became even more agitated than usual.
'Ruthven kept to himself,' he stammered. 'He was distant, lost in his own thoughts.' 'What did he talk about?'
'About Selkirk's murder. He found the fellow's mutterings strange.' 'Anything else?'
Moodie licked his lips and looked nervously at Queen
Margaret. Then, placing his hands on the table, he looked down, refusing to meet anyone's eyes.
'We also talked about the days before Flodden – the doings of the late King and the gossip of the court.'
'What gossip?' Queen Margaret asked smoothly.
'Nothing, My Lady. Just memories… recollections of happier days. I assure you, that was all.'
'The rose?' Benjamin asked abruptly.
'What about it?' Agrippa retorted.
'Well, there are no roses here!'
'There were in Canterbury,' Scawsby pointed out. 'Small, white rosebuds, the type which come late in the year.'
'So,' Benjamin continued, 'the murderer planned Ruthven's death, then…' He let his comment hang like a rope in the air.
'There is no doubt,' Agrippa intervened silkily, 'that Ruthven died by the same hand and in the same way as Selkirk in the Tower.' He took us all in with one sombre glance. 'How Ruthven was murdered, and why, is a mystery.' He looked at Scawsby. 'There was no food or wine in the room?'
The old quack shook his head.
'And you, Shallot, were the last person to see him alive?'
'And I heard no one come up!' I snapped.
Agrippa took a deep breath, placing both hands on the table before him.
'Is it possible, Master Physician, for poison to be administered in slow drops?'
Scawsby grimaced. 'I suppose so, but that would be dangerous. The poisoner would have to infuse the potions many times and, if he was caught…'
'Is it possible,' Catesby grated, 'for a poison to be slow acting?'
Scawsby smiled peevishly. 'I have never heard of such a potion. And, even if one existed, Ruthven would surely have felt the effects before he retired.'
'Master Scawsby is correct,' Benjamin added. 'Ruthven was meant to die in that room, behind a locked and barred door.' He waved a bony finger in the air. 'Remember, the door was locked and bolted from the inside. The assassin is subtle and clever. No one heard him come up but he must have got in for Ruthven to die and the white rose to be found.'
'And you, Master Daunbey, were in the chamber next to him,' Lady Carey retorted. She glanced balefully at me. 'Your servant was the last man to see him alive. Isn't it strange that you, Benjamin, were the last person to see Selkirk alive!'
'I am sure,' Queen Margaret intervened smoothly, 'no suspicion of foul play can fall on the Cardinal's nephew.' She glanced angrily at Lady Carey, then smiled falsely at us.
But, oh, that was a clever move by Carey! The damage had been done because when you fling dirt, some sticks. The rest of the group stared at us like a hanging jury before sentence is passed. Benjamin smiled as if savouring a secret joke.
'Lady Carey is correct in some of what she says but her logic is faulty,' he commented. 'Ruthven died because he knew something. He was probably the only one, besides the murderer, to understand all or some of Selkirk's verses.' He leaned forward. 'The murderer is definitely here. I wonder which of us has Yorkist sympathies. Melford?'
The mercenary stirred like a cat alerted to danger.
'What is it, Daunbey?'
'Didn't your family fight for the White Rose once?'
The mercenary smirked. 'Yes, but that's true of everyone here. Isn't it, Carey?'
The old soldier fidgeted as memories stirred. Accusations grew heated, voices were raised. The sum total of charge and counter charge was that every person in the room, besides myself and Benjamin, had some affinity or link with the House of York and the cause of the White Rose. Queen Margaret sat back in her chair watching disdainfully. Catesby looked furious whilst Doctor Agrippa, eyes closed, arms folded, sat like some benevolent friar after a hearty meal. At last he stirred. Drawing a long, thin stiletto from his belt, he rapped the top of the table.
'Come, come!' he shouted. 'You are like children playing a game. These angry words prove nothing. Ruthven could have been killed by magic' He grinned down at me. 'But we are here on other business.'
'Master Daunbey, we have lost enough time over Ruthven's death.' Catesby interrupted. 'Have your bags packed. You are to leave within the hour. The steward will provide you with a local guide.'
Benjamin tugged at my sleeve. We rose, bowed to the head of the table and left our companions to their baleful conjecturing. Benjamin skipped lightly up the stairs but, instead of going to our own chamber, took me into Ruthven's. The corpse still lay sheeted on the bed. Benjamin scrutinised the room, especially the objects on the desk, picking up the quill, the ink and paper. He sniffed at each, shook his head and put them back.
'What are you looking for, Master?'
'I don't really know,' he replied.
