The Apothecary Rose

'Someone has complained?'

'Abbot Campian. He wants to know if His Grace sent you to inquire into the death of Fitzwilliam.'

A sharp pain shot across Owen's left eye. 'I am not meant for this sort of work’

'Is anyone ever meant for the work he does?'

'I do not wish to disappoint the Archbishop.'

'I told the Abbot that you are asking a few questions in exchange for the Archbishop's help in finding you a means of support.'

'Clever. Thank you.'

Jehannes nodded.

'Is he angry?'

Jehannes considered the question. 'More a matter of feeling slighted. We should have trusted him. He says you are free to return and discuss the matter with him.'

'I will do that.'

'And he entices you with some information about Fitzwilliam. Some business he had, or might have had, with Magda Digby.'

Owen perked up. I'll go there directly.' He rose.

'Have you met the Summoner's mother yet?'

Owen nodded. 'A shrewd one, Magda Digby. I came out of that interview feeling a fool.'

Jehannes smiled. 'Good luck with her. One more thing. Guildmaster Thorpe will see you at midday. He wants to talk with you about the Wilton apprenticeship.'

Owen left with a full morning before him. If the Abbot's lead seemed at all worthwhile, he meant to visit Magda Digby before midday. It would be nice to have that out of his way when he met Mistress Wilton again.

Abbot Campian offered him a cup of ale. To fortify yourself. I expect you will be off to visit Magda Digby. You should have trusted me, you know.' He flicked an invisible mote of dust off the table, folded his hands neatly before him, then looked up at Owen.

'I apologise’ Owen said. 'I am clumsy at this sort of thing.'

'You've undertaken a thankless task. But I suppose the interest of John Thoresby is worth it.' The fingers fluttered slightly. They were the cleanest hands Owen had ever seen.

'I mean to begin again’ Owen explained. 'I need the Archbishop's help. Will you tell anyone else that I am his man?'

'Only if necessary.' Abbot Campian's eyes were dark pools of calm water, Owen believed him. 'Of course this is all a waste of time. Sir Oswald Fitzwilliam was ill. He died, despite my Infirmarian’s best efforts and our prayers. It was his time.'

His manner made it difficult, even rude, to disagree. But Owen must do what he must do. 'The Archbishop wants to be certain.'

The fingers fluttered. 'One can never be certain.'

'No.'

They were silent for a while. Owen sipped the ale and let the Abbot's calm work on him. Finally, Campian spoke. 'Fitzwilliam spent his last days in the infirmary, under the watchful eyes of Brother Wulfstan and the novice Henry. I cannot see how anyone might have got to the man.'

'He went to the infirmary because he was already ill.'

The eyebrows lifted. 'Ah. So you think a poison that had a delayed reaction — '

'I am not to think anything, just to collect facts.'

'You've come to hear about Fitzwilliam and Magda Digby?'

'Yes’

'It is probably nothing.'

'I must know. Please’

'I tell you this in confidence. No one else living knows about the connection with the Riverwoman but the Digbys themselves.'

'But if I should have to tell the Archbishop?'

The fingers lifted and fell. 'That would be unfortunate. But I wish to co-operate.'

'I will tell the Archbishop only if I must.'

The Abbot nodded. 'I believe you.' He looked up at the ceiling, collecting his thoughts, then back to Owen. 'I make it a practice to keep the reasons for a pilgrim's penance to myself. Sometimes they choose to share their troubles with others, but usually I am the only one to know. It is not a confession, you understand. I break no sacred bond of silence in telling you.'

'I understand.'

The Devil inspires men in a variety of evil. You have heard of the trafficking in bodies for relics?'

'I have heard rumours of such things.'

Fitzwilliam's second visit to us followed his attempt to sell an arm for quite a large sum of money to the wrong person. Needless to say, had he been anyone else — '

'But then the Archbishop knows of this.'

'He does not know whence came the arm.'

'And you do?'

'Fitzwilliam confided in me. On this last visit. He told me that people are wrong about Magda Digby. That she is a healer and a good woman. She had just got him out of a difficulty.'

'Why was he telling you this?'

'He wanted to know how he might make reparations for a sin that he had coerced her into committing.'

'He coerced her into selling him the arm?'

The Abbot bowed his head and closed his eyes. Owen waited. 'I do not know how the incident might be connected with his death. I cannot see how she might have got to him. But perhaps she is one person who wanted him silenced.'

'Or the Summoner himself.'

'Or her son, yes.'

'Do you tell me this to ruin the Digbys?'

The soft eyes opened wide in alarm. 'No. Deus juva me. I hope that you need not tell the Archbishop. But if you find a connection with Fitzwilliam's death — ' He looked down at his immaculate hands. Softly he said, 'I do hope you will tell the Archbishop that I was co-operative’

'Why?'

'I am not his man. I became Abbot in the time of his predecessor. He does not know me. Has no allegiance to me.'

'How long ago was this incident with the arm?'

'Six years.'

'The woman might not even remember it. She would not have known who Fitzwilliam was.'

'But her son would. It was about the time he became Summoner. I'm sure he worried that if word got out, he would be ruined.'

'What did you tell Fitzwilliam?'

'Tell him?'

'How to make amends with the Riverwoman.'

'I told him to pray tor her soul.' The eyes regarded Owen calmly. This the Abbot was sure of. Prayer was the answer to the world's ills. Sufficient prayer.

As Owen left the peace of the Abbot's presence, he felt grateful to the man for his co-operation. It was plain he had found it embarrassing. The upside-down sea serpent greeted Owen alone. The Riverwoman was not outside the hut this time. Owen knocked. Heard a grunt. Took it as permission to enter. When he walked into the dry, hot, smoky room and his eye adjusted to the level of light, Owen thought he had walked into some satanic ceremony. A cat lay strapped to a table by the fire, breathing rapidly but not stirring, as Magda leaned over it with a small, sharp knife. She did not look up at the intruder, but hissed, 'Quiet.' She made some superficial cuts at the edge of a gaping wound, then put the knife down and picked up a needle and thread. While Owen watched in queasy wonder, she sewed up the wound and then turned to him, wiping her bloody hands on her skirts.

'Bird-eye is come again, eh?'

'You were cleaning the wound of a cat?'

'Little Kate's Bessy. All the world to her, that cat. Cut would fester and abscess. Magda could help.' She leaned down to listen to the animal, then straightened. 'And thy business this time?'

Owen had resolved to get right to the point. 'Six years ago you sold an arm to Sir Oswald Fitzwilliam, the Archbishop's ward.'

Magda's eyes narrowed. 'Whence didst thou hear this?'

'Fitzwilliam told the Abbot just before he died.'

'And the Abbot believed him? The lying scoundrel? Aye. The Archbishop's pup.' She spat into the fire.

'You know that Fitzwilliam is dead?'

'Aye.'

'And he might have been poisoned.'

Magda let go with a barking laugh and sat down hard on a bench by the fire. 'Magda poisoned the pup to take back the arm? Is that what thou think'st?' She wiped her eyes on her skirt. 'If thou think'st to be ferreting out a murder, thou art working with half a wit.'