battered leather coffers stood scattered around. On the narrow cot bed lay the corpse. Athelstan glimpsed a protuberant nose, greying skin; the dirty sheet meant to cover it had slipped to one side. Although he had given the last rites to many people, Athelstan was always struck by how pathetic a corpse looked. This was no different.
Athelstan crossed to the bed. He was not a physician but one glance told him that Guillaum Serriem had died in agony. The eyes were open, the pupils rolled back, the mouth hung slack. The skin of the face was puffy and discoloured. Athelstan pulled up the shift, noting the dark purple blotches which discoloured the chest and the muscular stomach. He opened the small writing-bag he always carried and took out a thin-stemmed horn spoon. He forced this into the mouth; the cadaver was stiff though the jaw was still slightly slack. The pink skin inside the mouth had turned a dark purplish hue, the gums and tongue were swollen. Athelstan sniffed. There was an odour, slightly sweetish. Athelstan knew and recognised a number of poisons but not this, which had the sugary smell of marzipan. He inspected the corpse for any recent wound or mark. Serriem’s body was lean and muscular; it bore the high, pink, furrowed cuts where old wounds had healed but nothing out of the ordinary. Athelstan whispered the Requiem, made the sign of the cross over the corpse and pulled the sheet over that ghastly face. Sir John was sitting on a stool mopping his brow. Sir Maurice was playing with the wrist guard, Sir Walter was going round the room touching things as if he might find something significant. The door was pushed open. A young man entered, tall, thin and stooped, long brown hair falling to his shoulders. He was sharp-eyed and clean-shaven with a kindly face.
‘Osmund Aspinall,’ Sir Walter introduced him. ‘He’s our leech and apothecary.’
The physician hitched his fur gown and pulled up the belt which hung loose round his thin waist. He shook Sir John’s hand and then Athelstan’s, peering at them closely as if short-sighted.
‘I’m a physician,’ he joked. ‘Most people call me a leech. I have chambers in Cripplegate and Sir Walter here pays me to keep an eye on the prisoners.’ He sat on the edge of the bed and patted the corpse. ‘Poisoned, yes?’
‘How do you know?’ Athelstan asked, going to sit on the small bench under the window.
Aspinall shrugged. ‘Brother, there are as many poisons on the market as there are pigeons round St Paul’s. Belladonna, henbane and at least three types of arsenic.’
‘But this one?’ Sir John asked.
‘I can’t recognise it but, as I have said, there are so many.’
‘How was it administered?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Oh, by mouth. There’s no cut on the corpse.’
‘Could it have been an accident?’
‘Possibly.’ Aspinall gestured at the window. ‘There’s a herb garden down there, with berries and plants which might kill a man.’
‘How long does it take such a poison to work?’ Sir Maurice asked.
‘It depends. I knew of an old woman in Guttersnipe Alley who was poisoned by her son over a period of days but this was one which acted quickly. It would disturb the humours, clog the blood and, by the look on the corpse’s face, he probably choked.’
‘Well, well, well.’ Sir John tapped his boot on the floor. And where would they get poisons from?’
‘There’s none here,’ Sir Walter insisted. ‘None whatsoever.’
‘And you, Master Aspinall?’
The physician spread his long fingers and played with the gem-encrusted ring on one of them.
‘My lord coroner, I have heard of you and Brother Athelstan.’ He laughed drily. ‘Sharp of eye and keen of wit. I assure you that I brought no poison into here, left no potion, gave no medicines. The prisoners are soldiers, seamen, hard and sturdy. The food could have been improved and their humours were disturbed by being confined but nothing else.’
‘And you know nothing of the prisoners or this man’s death?’
Aspinall got to his feet. ‘I know nothing, Sir John.’
‘Why are you here today?’
‘I came to ensure all was well. I inspected the corpse this morning but thought I should return, just in case.’
‘In case of what?’ Athelstan asked, getting to his feet.
Aspinall turned at the door and leaned against it, hands behind his back. He stared up at the ceiling.
‘Brother, you are the coroner’s secretarius. I am a physician, not a master of logic. We have a man poisoned. Now it could have been an accident. He may have found something in this house and eaten it but, God knows, that’s not the truth.’
‘So?’
‘In my experience, Brother, when such deaths occur they are not isolated events.’
‘You mean others will be poisoned?’
‘I know they will be. Oh, I thought about it this morning. Why should anyone kill Serriem? Hawkmere Manor is close and securely guarded; the murderer must know that he stands a good chance of being caught. So Serriem’s death was meticulously planned. It was no crime of passion and it may be one of many.’
Athelstan scrutinised the physician. Aspinall spoke sense. Was there conflict between the prisoners? He glanced sideways at Sir Walter. Or a paying-off of old scores?
‘I’ve also checked the stores and the wine cellar.’
‘You had no right,’ Sir Walter protested.
I have every right, Sir Walter. I am physician to the prisoners. My Lord of Gaunt has paid me good silver. However, do not trouble yourself. The meat and cheese could be fresher, the wine sweeter but the food stores are not tainted.’
‘Are there vermin here?’ Athelstan asked, remembering Ranulf the rat-catcher.
‘Of course.’
‘You put down no poison?’
‘We have three great cats.’ Sir Walter smiled sourly. ‘We do not feed them and they are half-wild, they take care of the vermin.’
‘When did Serriem retire to bed?’
‘With the rest at nine o’clock. They supped at seven, walked in the garden. Serriem played checkers with one of the prisoners. Pierre Vamier.’
‘And the relationships?’ Sir John asked. ‘Between the prisoners?’
‘They are cordial enough.’ Aspinall spoke up. ‘Sir Walter will confirm this. They keep to themselves. They are homesick for their families in France, eager for their ransoms to be raised. Yet.’
Sir John undid the stopper of the wine and took two great gulps. He offered it to his companions but they shook their heads.
‘Well, go on.’
‘In the last week to ten days,’ Sir Walter said, ‘something has changed, they do seem wary of each other.’
‘How were they captured?’ Athelstan asked.
‘I did that.’ Sir Maurice spoke up. ‘There are five of them, or there were. Vamier, Gresnay, Routier, Maneil and Serriem. They were captains, lieutenants and masters of the two great French cogs of war: the St Sulpice and the St Denis. Our wine fleet from Bordeaux had sailed up into the Channel. Now, it is customary for the ships to disembark some of their cargo at Calais and make a dash across the Straits into Dover. The St Sulpice and St Denis were waiting for them.’
‘And what happened?’ Athelstan asked.
‘I was in Dover at the time,’ the young knight continued. ‘Commanding a large force of knights, hobelars, men-at-arms and archers. We had four craft at our disposal led by a cog of war, The Great Edward. The Constable of Dover Castle received information that the St Sulpice and St Denis would be waiting for our ships so we took to sea. It was a long and bloody fight: the St Denis was sunk, the St Sulpice captured.’
Athelstan picked up his writing-bag, tying the cord at the top.
‘That’s almost miraculous,’ he observed. ‘From where did the Constable of Dover Castle get his orders?’
‘By courier from London. The message was general. It simply said that our wine fleet would be leaving Calais and French privateers were busy in the Channel’
