After Alaric told her what had caused the deaths, she realised that it was she who had served the dish that killed them all and became as you see her now.”
The Templar knelt down in front of the woman and spoke to her gently. Although old, her shoulders were unbowed and the hands that she was wringing together were large and strong. When she raised her ravaged face, he could see that her features were firm and her brow, under the plain white coif on her head, was wide and intelligent.
“Nantie,” Bascot said softly, “I must ask you to show me the pot that contained the honey you mixed into the custard.”
The old woman’s eyes struggled to focus, and Bascot repeated what he had said, keeping his voice low and calm. She slowly came to her senses and looked directly at him. “ ’Twas the honey that killed them, wasn’t it, lord? The physician said someone put poison in it.”
“It seems likely, I’m afraid,” Bascot affirmed.
Her eyes again flooded with tears. “I didn’t know it was poisoned. I didn’t eat any myself because I thought to save my portion for little Juliette to have tomorrow. Oh, Sweet Mother Mary, how can this have happened?”
“Nantie,” Bascot said a little more firmly, “we need to see the honey pot. The markings on it will show which apiary it came from and might help us to find the person who did this terrible thing.”
His words seem to penetrate her grief, and she wiped the tears from her face with her sleeve and answered him straightly. “Yes, lord. Whoever did this must be caught and the souls of that sweet baby and her parents avenged. I will show you the pot.” She got up from the stool and led them down a passage and out a door at the back to the small building that housed the kitchen. It contained a fireplace, a table on which were laid some cooking utensils with a solid three-legged stool beside it and an open-faced cupboard filled with pots and jars. On the floor, in front of the stool, a large bowl was upended with the half-plucked carcass of a chicken lying nearby. Feathers were strewn about as though the old woman had been engaged in the task when le Breve and his family had been taken ill.
Nantie confirmed this, saying, “I was working late at my chores and preparing a chicken for stewing in the morning when I heard my mistress cry out. I ran into the hall and all three of them were purging. Poor little Juliette was the worst, she was clutching her bottom and crying because she had fouled herself and her gown was getting soiled.”
The old woman stifled a sob as she said the last words. “I tried to aid them, but they just kept on being sick so I ran out into the street to get help. One of the neighbours came running to see what was the matter, and when he saw how ill they were, he sent for an apothecary.”
She drew a deep breath and added, “Had I not foregone my own portion of the plums and custard I would be lying dead beside them. And I wish I was. When my own babby died and my husband not long after, I came to give my milk to the mistress and have cared for her ever since. She is the only one I have ever loved for all these years, except for little Juliette, who was just as precious to me.”
Raising eyes filled with despair, she added, “I have no wish to live on without them.”
“I understand your sorrow, Nantie,” Bascot said compassionately, and Roget murmured his agreement. The two men waited a moment to give the old woman time to compose herself, then Bascot again asked her to show them the pot that had contained the poisoned honey.
She went over to the open-faced cupboard and removed a jar. It had the same bright amber glaze as the one that had been adulterated in the castle, and when Bascot tipped it on its side, the cross pattee of the Templar Order could be clearly seen.
Seven
Themidday hour was fast approching by the time Bascot and Roget returned to the castle to give their report to Nicolaa de la Haye.
“Three deaths, lady,” Roget told her once he and Bascot were in her presence. “A spice merchant named Robert le Breve, his wife and their little daughter. They were all poisoned by tainted honey that was contained in this pot.” He laid the jar carefully on the table at which Nicolaa sat; it was wrapped in a clean cloth he had taken from the spice merchant’s kitchen. “We tested it on a rat. It had the same effect as the honey that killed Sir Simon and the clerk. The rodent was dead soon after he had eaten it.”
“The old woman who is a servant in le Breve’s household used it to make a dish of spiced custard,” Bascot added. “It is marked on the bottom with the Templar insignia and must have come from the same apiary as the one in the castle kitchen.”
“Did the servant know when her master bought it?” Nicolaa asked.
“He did not buy it,” Bascot told her. “It was given to him by a neighbour, Reinbald of Hungate.” The Templar paused for a moment, recalling his meeting with the man in the fur-trimmed cloak he had seen talking to the physician before he and Roget had gone into the spice merchant’s house. The man had waited outside until Bascot had emerged then explained to him that it had been his wife who had given the honey to her neighbour and had, by doing so, caused the death of le Breve and his family.
“Reinbald is a wine merchant, and he often had dealings with le Breve in the course of business. He and the spice seller were good friends, apparently, as were their wives. Le Breve’s wife, Maud, had said she would like to try some of the honey from Nettleham, for she had heard how flavoursome it was, and so Reinbald’s wife exchanged the jar for a bag of cinnamon from the spice merchant’s store.”
“Did you speak to Reinbald’s wife and ask her where she bought the honey?” Nicolaa asked.
“We did,” Bascot replied. “It was one of eight pots obtained for her by her nephew, a man named Ivor Severtsson. He is a Templar bailiff and oversees a property at Wragby, which includes the apiary at Nettleham.”
Nicolaa dabbed at her nose with the square of linen, but the congestion from which she had been suffering seemed to be abating. Her voice was no longer hoarse, and her eyes were clear. “Did she have any other pots left in her kitchen?”
“There were three,” Roget informed her, “and we had them all tested. Only the one that she gave to Maud le Breve contained poison.”
“Reinbald’s wife, whose name is Helge, told me that all of the pots have been in her store since last autumn,” Bascot added. “It seems to me most strange that these poisonings have occurred within days of each other. If the honey was poisoned during the months since it was harvested, or even before it left the apiary, then it is a rare chance that both pots should be opened at almost the same time.”
“You think, then, that both of the poisonings were done recently, while the pots were in their respective kitchens?” Nicolaa asked.
“I do,” Bascot affirmed. “Reinbald’s wife showed me the place where she kept the honey. The pots are on a shelf in the cookhouse, just as they are in the castle kitchen, and they are arranged with containers of other condiments so that one of each type is to the front. She told me the one she gave to le Breve’s wife was the next to hand. If someone placed a poisoned pot there, it was in the most likely place for it to be used within a short space of time.”
Bascot’s voice was filled with irritation as he continued. “Reinbald’s kitchen is much like the one in the castle, of easy access to many people. He is an affluent man and has a large number of visitors to his home, including customers who come to select the wines they wish to purchase from his store. As well as these, there are also the carters who deliver the wine and a number of tradesmen who bring a variety of other supplies to the house.
“And it might not even have been one of the people who were legitimate callers that placed the poisoned honey in the kitchen,” he added. “At the back of the property, behind the building where he keeps his tuns of wine, there is a fence and, beyond that, a lane that leads to Brancegate at one end and Spring Hill at the other.
Anyone who wished to enter the premises unseen could simply come down the lane and climb over the fence, or through the gate that is set into it, for the portal is only locked at night just before curfew. They had only to wait until the cook had left the kitchen to go on an errand and then slip inside.”
Nicolaa got up from her seat and paced the length of the room and back, the skirt of her plain grey gown swishing back and forth as she did so. Never had either Bascot or Roget seen her so perturbed. It was evident her
