‘Brother Athelstan,’ the maid quavered, ‘I have mentioned that. She undoubtedly met the Greeks but there were other times … I do not know where she went, why or whom she met.’
‘Does anyone?’ Athelstan asked.
No one replied.
‘Neither do I. Undoubtedly she met the Greeks, who wanted their manuscript returned. They approached her as they did others. But,’ Athelstan continued swiftly to hinder any comment, ‘more grave matters intervened. Your brother, Sir Henry, grew old and weak. I believe guilt for past sins weighed heavily on him but whether that sorrow was genuine or not, I cannot say. He certainly reflected on his marriage and the possibility that Isolda might be his daughter, the offspring of one his paramours when he was a lusty bachelor. Some people here,’ Athelstan emphasized his words, ‘played on such wild imaginings.’ He glanced around. Parson Garman had leaned back staring up at the ceiling. Sir Henry and Lady Rohesia kept their heads down. Rosamund was examining her fingernails.
‘Sir Walter,’ Athelstan continued, ‘decided to apply for an annulment. Undoubtedly he would have used Vanner to write a submission to the Bishop’s curia and the Archdeacon’s court asking for this annulment on the very strong grounds of consanguinity. Vanner, of course, informed Isolda, who became desperate. She encouraged Vanner to keep her informed as she maintained all the appearances of a cordial marriage. In truth, she and her husband were deeply alienated. He maintained the pretence as effectively as did she. Isolda still thought she would get “The Book of Fires”, sell it for a fortune and be free. When that door firmly closed, Isolda wanted revenge. She was keen to seize her husband’s wealth. She had failed to secure “The Book of Fires”, so the riches of this manor should really come to her. She realized that if the annulment went forward she would be depicted as Sir Walter’s cast off, disgraced in the eyes of society and once again dependent on the likes of you, Lady Anne, and the Minoresses. Isolda was so desperate she even allowed you, Rosamund,’ Athelstan chose his words carefully, ‘to keep Sir Walter company and provide whatever comfort you could.’ The maid coloured and stared down at the empty platter before her. ‘Rosamund,’ Athelstan continued softly. ‘You loved your mistress so much you would do anything for her, and yet she almost poisoned you.’
Rosamund’s head came up, her mouth gaping.
‘What do you mean?’ Falke shouted.
‘Ask Parson Garman,’ Athelstan declared, ‘a former comrade of Sir Walter during his years abroad when Black Beaumont loved figs baked in a creamy almond sauce. Yes, parson?’
‘I have told you that.’
‘Yes, you have, and how you specially purchased this delicacy to remind Sir Walter of those stirring days in Outremer.’
‘The figs!’ Lady Anne exclaimed. ‘Brother Athelstan, are you alleging they were poisoned?’
‘Not by me,’ Garman declared.
‘No, by Isolda, probably assisted by Vanner – some delicate poison which would increase in strength, the likes of white or red arsenic. Sir Walter loved his figs. He grew sick. He tried to eat them but then-’
‘But then what?’ Falke interrupted.
‘On the day Sir Walter was murdered I believe his intention to seek an annulment was on the verge of becoming public. He was about to serve his case to the Bishop for inspection by the Archdeacon’s court. Isolda and Vanner realized they had little time left and became agitated. On that memorable morning, you, Parson Garman, brought the usual delicacy – figs in a cream almond sauce, yes?’ The priest nodded. ‘You conversed with Sir Walter, the usual parry and thrust, after which you left?’ Again the chaplain agreed. ‘You, Rosamund,’ Athelstan pointed at the now pallid maid, fingers to her lips, ‘visited Sir Walter later on. He gave you the figs left by Parson Garman?’
‘How?’ Rosamund spluttered. ‘How could she poison them? I mean …’
‘I suspect Isolda also visited Sir Walter shortly after you left Parson Garman. She either exchanged the dish or poured some poison over it which would sink into that creamy almond sauce. Oh, they’d been poisoned before but very lightly; if they were eaten by a healthy person, the potion would have little effect, but this time the dosage was deadly.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Brother Philippe, your own physician, treated Sir Walter for these minor stomach ailments; he could not detect poison. He also treated others in this household suffering from a similar condition. I suspect those who shared these figs out …’ He let his words hang in the air.
‘True, true.’ Buckholt turned to Sir Henry. ‘On one occasion I had ill-humours of the belly – so did others. I am sure I had eaten some of those figs.’
‘And if you reflect,’ Athelstan declared, ‘neither Isolda nor Vanner suffered such ailments. Brother Philippe declared he had no dealings with either of them. I am certain Brother Philippe would corroborate what I’ve just said.’
‘You are correct,’ Sir Henry declared. ‘Isolda and Vanner – I cannot recall either of them having to be treated. Others certainly were …’
‘But why should they poison the figs,’ Falke interrupted, ‘if they knew Sir Walter was not eating them? I could understand them doing that at the beginning to disable Sir Walter, but as he grew more sickly the figs were left. Moreover, why coat them with a truly malignant dose if they were to be eaten by others?’
‘Oh, I shall explain that!’ Athelstan replied.
‘No, no,’ Rosamund wailed, ‘this cannot be.’
‘Oh, but it was,’ Athelstan insisted. ‘At the same time Isolda and Vanner planned to poison Sir Walter’s posset. She was furiously plotting not to be caught. If it hadn’t been for Buckholt and Mortice, she would have escaped.’ Athelstan allowed his words to hang in the air.
‘Sweet God,’ Sir Henry breathed, ‘now I understand. There would have been two deaths in this manor, both by poison: Walter Beaumont and Rosamund Clifford.’
‘I visited Sir Walter,’ Rosamund gabbled. ‘He was comfortable. He said he wanted the figs but they were too much for him. He called them a temptation. He insisted that I accept them as a gift. I took them to my own chamber and ate them. I felt …’
‘You became very ill,’ Athelstan agreed, ‘but you are a young, healthy woman. Your body would resist, even as you manifested symptoms of the sweating sickness, yes?’
Rosamund simply stared back in horror.
‘Even better,’ Athelstan continued, ‘on your return to your chamber, you violently vomited? You had to visit the latrines?’
‘I ate the figs,’ she replied, ‘and I vomited time and again through the following night until my belly ached. Later I felt a terrible thirst, and my skin burning up. Physician Philippe visited me after he had been summoned to attend Sir Walter. He examined my symptoms …’
‘By then, Rosamund, the poison was purged but your body had to recover, your humours be restored. The bile in your belly calmed, yet, remember this, your mistress almost murdered you whilst Parson Garman, whose relationship with Sir Walter was not the most cordial, would have fallen under deep suspicion.’
The friar pointed at Falke. ‘Now I shall answer your question. At first Sir Walter ate the figs and became subject to stomach complaints. Eventually he stopped eating them, or at least all of them; others tasted this delicacy and suffered similar symptoms of the belly.’