‘Ah, I’ve found them!’ Athelstan moved a candle on the small table beside the bed to reveal a thick silver key ring. He was about to try the keys in the small coffer when there was a tapping and Master Stapleton the physician edged his way round the broken door and came into the room.
Cranston and Athelstan had done business before with this cadaverous-faced leech: his ever-watery eyes and constantly dripping nose always tempted Athelstan to whisper the words ‘Physician heal thyself,’ but Master Stapleton had no sense of humour. He came shrouded in his customary food-stained robe, sniffing and spluttering as he stood staring disdainfully down at the corpse. He pressed his hand against the neck, felt the stomach, peered into the mouth and pulled up an eyelid.
‘Good morrow, Master Stapleton.’ Cranston leaned down as if trying to catch the physician’s glare. ‘You do know who we are?’
‘Of course I do, Sir John; in your case, once seen, never forgotten. Good morrow to you too, Brother Athelstan,’ he declared and poked a finger at the corpse. ‘This man’s dead. My examination will cost you five shillings.’
He picked up the wine goblet and sniffed at it.
‘Oh, he has been poisoned, so that’ll be seven shillings.’
‘I know he’s dead,’ Cranston roared. ‘What of?’
‘Now, now, Sir John, do not disturb your humours. You know how the black bile of anger warms the blood.’
‘Shut up!’ Cranston snapped.
‘Very well.’ Stapleton clasped his cloak with both hands, head going back like a judge about to pass sentence. ‘I suspect he died of water hemlock, probably mixed with henbane. I can tell that by the offensive smell, and before you ask, Brother, the wine would hide both taste and smell, at least for a while. Now henbane flowers in late July, so the poison was probably a dried powder, very potent. The cup’s polluted but the wine jug is free of any noxious smell. So,’ Stapleton held out a hand, ‘either he, or someone else, put poison in that cup. He drank and climbed into the bath. Death would follow fairly swiftly. The victim is fat, like you, Sir John; perhaps his heartbeat was not too strong.’
‘And the symptoms?’ Athelstan asked.
‘A stiffening of the limbs.’
‘You mean paralysis?’
‘That’s right, Brother, feet and hands first. It’s the same poison Socrates drank. So,’ Stapleton wiped his nose with the back of his hand, ‘for coming here, four shillings, one shilling for inspecting the corpse, and two for discovering a murder.’
Cranston pulled the door aside.
‘Master Stapleton,’ he smiled sweetly, ‘put your bill into the Guildhall, no more than five shillings, mind you. It was Brother Athelstan who discovered the murder.’
The physician sighed heavily and, hitching his robe, went out into the gallery to continue his argument with Master Rolles, loudly demanding he be given food and drink for his trouble.
‘I doubt if it was suicide,’ Athelstan mused. ‘Sir John, pull back that door. I want Master Rolles and the rest in here now.’
Cranston pushed the door to one side, and strode out bellowing names. Athelstan went and sat on the great chest at the foot of the bed. Rolles and Sir Maurice led the knights back in. Cranston sat down on the heavy oaken chair against the far wall, taking a generous slurp from his miraculous wine skin.
‘Can’t the corpse be removed?’ Sir Maurice protested. ‘It seems as if Sir Stephen is lying there staring at us.’
A short discussion followed. Athelstan agreed to the request and Rolles organised some of his bully boys, who stripped the bed of a sheet, lifted the corpse out, wrapped it up and removed it.
‘Put it with the others,’ Cranston shouted, ignoring the gasps of the knights.
‘I object,’ Sir Maurice declared.
‘Don’t object, sir,’ Athelstan replied. ‘You’ve read your Scripture: leave the dead to bury the dead. Sir Stephen’s body will be given an honourable burial wherever you choose, but his soul has been dispatched to God before its time, and God, not to mention the Crown and our Lord Coroner, would like to know the reason why.’
Rolles stood near the doorway, whilst the knights resigned themselves to Athelstan’s questioning. Some sat on stools and chairs. Sir Maurice stood by the door, his hand on the small coffer. Brother Malachi, having accompanied the corpse downstairs, returned with an ale pot in his hand.
‘I believe Sir Stephen was murdered,’ Athelstan began. ‘The poison was offensive and strong. It wasn’t in the wine jug but in the cup. Who brought that up?’
‘I did,’ Rolles declared. ‘And before you mention it, I had nothing to do with that man’s death. Ask my servants in the kitchen. Sir Stephen came back from Mass, he was complaining he felt hot, he had the rheums, and a slight fever.’
‘Sir Stephen often suffered from them.’ Sir Laurence Broomhill, a narrow-faced man clearly agitated by his comrade’s death, played with the Ave beads wrapped round his fingers.
‘So he had a fever?’ Athelstan confirmed. ‘His nose was full of mucus?’
‘He was coughing,’ Sir Maurice agreed.
‘So,’ Athelstan chose his words carefully, ‘Sir Stephen comes back to the tavern, orders a hot bath and a jug of claret. The tub is brought up and filled with hot water. You, Master Rolles, brought a tray with a jug of wine and a cup?’
‘Yes.’ The taverner nodded.
‘And when you came in here?’
‘Sir Stephen had begun to strip. He had complained about his boots being muddy. I told him to leave them in the basket outside, one of my pot boys would clean them.’ Rolles spread his hands and blinked. ‘Brother Athelstan, Sir John, I swear the cup was clean. The wine was the best Bordeaux. If I meant to poison Sir Stephen I would hardly have brought it up myself, would I?’
Athelstan agreed, but his searching stare disconcerted
