Athelstan took Buckholt to the top of the stairs and asked him to go down and stay as long as he remembered being distracted by Vanner. The steward agreed. Once he’d left, Athelstan strode back to Sir Walter’s bedchamber. He carefully rehearsed what he’d been told about Isolda. He pretended to take a goblet from his gown; half fill it, sprinkle in powder and pour in some of the posset then feed this to his make-believe victim. Once satisfied, Athelstan hurried across to the garderobe, sustaining the pretence of throwing down the goblet before returning to sit on the edge of the bed, sharing the goblet he’d left as Lady Isolda must have done. Athelstan concluded he had more than enough time to do all this before Buckholt returned. However, one fact puzzled him: he certainly did not have enough time, according to his reckoning, to persuade her husband to hand over the key around his neck, open the casket, take out ‘The Book of Fires’, hide it on her person and return to the bed.
‘Isolda did not have enough time,’ Athelstan murmured to himself. ‘And that’s only the start. Why should Sir Walter surrender so quickly and easily a manuscript he had kept hidden for decades? If Lady Isolda forced him, surely there would be the ugliest confrontation?’ Puzzled by this, Athelstan sat on a stool. Buckholt, who had returned, stirred restlessly, pleading that he should return to his duties.
‘Master Buckholt,’ Athelstan glanced up, ‘I will take you into my confidence and ask you a question. I could not express it yesterday but it troubles me.’
‘Brother?’
‘Why should Lady Isolda go through this ritual of waiting for you to bring up a posset? Surely at any time during the day she could have brought her husband a goblet of wine, milk, water or whatever?’
‘Falke mentioned this during her trial. He also pointed out Parson Garman had brought an almond sweetmeat which had disappeared.’
‘Yes, I remember that.’ Athelstan smiled as Buckholt slightly coloured. ‘Master Buckholt, are you partial to almonds?’
The steward nodded. ‘Brother, I am. Now and again Parson Garman brought such a delicacy. At first Sir Walter used to eat them but then, as he sickened, he gave them away to his ser-vants. Brother, ailments of the belly are common enough here at Firecrest Manor but Sir Walter was most subject to them. In fact, that answers your original question. During the trial, Master Sutler rightly pointed out that Sir Walter’s stomach was very sensitive. He had grown very fussy about what he ate and drank, especially uncut wine. Ask any of the servants or indeed Physician Philippe. However, one thing Sir Walter did like, and looked forward to, was his evening cup of posset.’ He shrugged. ‘It was a daily ritual, well known to the household.’
‘And?’
‘Sutler argued most convincingly that if Lady Isolda, or indeed had anyone else, had tried to coax her husband to drink something tainted during the day, it would be more than obvious. For a start, Sir Walter would protest. Other people would discover it, and if Sir Walter died soon afterwards …’
‘True,’ Athelstan conceded. ‘The Lady Isolda had little choice but to exploit this ritual. Moreover, posset, dark wine laced with herbs, would provide a most effective disguise. If Lady Isolda had brought such a drink out of time that too would have been noticed. So,’ Athelstan sighed, getting to his feet, ‘this brings us to a further point which Master Sutler must have emphasized. Lady Isolda wanted to create an opportunity to poison her husband but do it in such a way that no suspicion could ever fall on her. She must be seen sitting, sipping from the same goblet. She must return that goblet to the buttery where someone else might decide to drain the dregs. Yes, that’s what happens in great households. You have just proved it. Garman brings some sweetmeats, Sir Walter doesn’t want them so he gives them away.’
‘I would agree, Brother,’ Buckholt murmured.
‘So we have it.’ Athelstan moved across to the window, running his finger around the heraldic design on the mullioned glass. ‘Lady Isolda wanted to show that the goblet she held was untainted. According to Sutler, however, she served her husband a poisoned chalice and, if it had not been for the sharp-eyed buttery clerk and your own keen suspicions, Lady Isolda would now be the sole owner of these great riches. She gambled, she should have won but by God’s grace she lost. However, Master Buckholt …’ Athelstan turned, crossing his arms and staring down at the floor.
‘Brother?’
‘My apologies. I have established that Lady Isolda had more than enough time to do what she was accused of, except,’ Athelstan gestured towards the coffer, ‘remove “The Book of Fires”. Would Sir Walter allow her to hold it, to read it?’
‘No,’ Buckholt retorted, ‘never! I never saw “The Book of Fires”. Sir Walter did make reference to it being kept in a very safe place which would be a revelation to everyone. He once muttered about it being held on the island of Patmos.’
‘What did he mean by that?’
‘It made little sense to me. You know, Brother, sometimes I wonder whether “The Book of Fires” really existed.’
‘And yet Sir Walter must have used it to create different combustibles?’
‘True, Brother. Sir Walter once said he could raise the fires of Hell here on earth yet he seemed frightened, cautious of doing that.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know.
‘Where did he get the manuscript from?’ Athelstan asked.
Buckholt just shook his head. Athelstan went over and stared down at the coffer at the foot of the bed.
‘Mark the Greek’s “The Book of Fires”.’ He spoke half to himself. ‘A rare manuscript. Nobody would sell such a great secret. Therefore I deduce that Walter Beaumont stole it from someone. When would he do that? During his journeys in the east? Now,’ Athelstan wagged a finger, ‘if he had stolen such a precious manuscript, those who owned it would be very angry and pursue him as a thief. I wonder if Sir Walter could not exploit the full secrets of that book lest he attract the attention of its original owners? Was he wary of revealing all its secrets lest he incurred the vengeance of those who still might pursue him, and who would that be? Well, I would wager the Greeks from their great city of Constantinople. After all, Sir Walter was threatened, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes, Brother but, if Sir Walter had stolen the book, why didn’t his pursuers just kill him?’
‘Oh, for a number of reasons; this is London not Constantinople. Sir Walter was a close friend of the Regent. More importantly, they didn’t want Sir Walter’s death, they just wanted their book back. Indeed, if they’d killed him that might never happen. No, they would try bribes. I just wonder if Sir Walter was busy raising the price?’
‘He never mentioned that to me.’
‘No, no, he wouldn’t. As you and others have informed me, “The Book of Fires” was something Sir Walter kept to himself.’
‘Brother Athelstan, is there anything else?’
The friar raised his hand in blessing. ‘I am sure there is, Master Buckholt, but you will only answer what I ask and that will take time.’
The steward left and Athelstan walked around the chamber, pausing before a gilt-edged painting. The scrolled sign beneath proclaimed ‘Lady Isolda Beaumont’ followed by the name of the artist. Athelstan peered closer. Like many a wealthy burgess, Sir Walter had hired one of those many Italian painters now flocking to London to seek a patron amongst the rich and powerful. Such craftsmen brought not only a fresh array of colours and settings, but a keenness for accurate depiction. If this was so, Lady Isolda had been a truly beautiful woman. She had an oval face and perfectly formed features, arching brows over the lightest blue eyes, a laughing, full mouth and, beneath the white gauze veil, the richest golden hair braided with bejewelled silver twine. She conveyed a deep certainty, a serenity about herself, though there was something mocking in that look of pure innocence. Athelstan marvelled at her beauty, yet he recalled the old proverb of someone being too sweet to be wholesome.