‘Isolda Beaumont died a cruel death.’ Lady Anne spoke as if to herself, her voice scarcely above a whisper.
‘If I had any compassion for you and yours,’ Athelstan replied, ‘it would be for that. You, a mother, saw your daughter condemned to a most barbaric death. And what could you do to stop it? Reveal your true relationship with Isolda? Plead for a pardon or amnesty? Beg for a commutation for a swifter death? Gaunt and the judges were implacable. Escape was out of the question. I suspect on your visits to Isolda here at Newgate you did vow vengeance against all of them as well as providing Isolda with some comfort.’
‘What?’
‘You gave her a set of beads. Eleven in number, one bead for the Our Father, the other ten for the Hail Mary. You then pretended that a fierce dispute broke out between yourself and Isolda. This was a sham to cover what was really a passionate farewell. Both of you had reached the very end of what was tolerable. You left one gift, those Ave beads.’
‘Isolda snapped them and threw them away. Parson Garman returned them to me.’
‘The truth: Isolda snapped them to take the relief they offered. Some of those beads were really like nutshells – they contained a powder, an opiate, possibly the strongest dried juice of the poppy. Lady Anne, you are an apothecary. You distilled such a potion. It was your last gift to your daughter. Isolda could have taken them immediately but she didn’t. Perhaps she desperately hoped for a last-minute reprieve. Of course, that never came. On the day of her execution, Isolda chewed the beads she had secreted away. By the time she was lashed to the stake, she had sunk into a deep stupor, probably deadly in its effect.’
Lady Anne simply bowed her head. Athelstan thought she was crying but when she looked up she was hard-faced and dry-eyed, her mouth twisted in a smirk.
‘You then performed one last office,’ Athelstan declared. ‘You had Turgot dig a plot in front of the statue of St Anne which stands at the heart of your garden. A beautiful, well-tended plot with a lovely winter rosebush as part of the memor-ial. Moreover, both the statue and that small garden have been formally consecrated, I suspect by Parson Garman. It’s the last resting place of the mortal remains of your daughter, Isolda.’
‘She died at Smithfield.’
‘Who, your daughter?’
‘Isolda!’ Lady Anne’s eyes blazed with fury.
‘And her remains,’ Cranston broke in, ‘should have stayed there. Holy Mother Church and the Crown insist on that or,’ he pulled a face, ‘at some crossroads, but not in consecrated ground.’
‘You had these remains,’ Athelstan persisted, ‘collected by a man calling himself Vanner who came to Smithfield after dark and poked about the execution stake for whatever he could find. He was certainly not Vanner; as you know, at that time, Vanner’s corpse lay weed-tangled at the bottom of the mere in Firecrest Manor. I do wonder,’ Athelstan pointed a finger at his opponent, ‘did Isolda murder him at your behest, to rid herself of a clacking tongue, a weak man who might turn King’s Approver against her? In the end it was best if Vanner and any incriminating documents disappeared, be it at the bottom of that mere or a burning pit at Firecrest Manor.’
‘What has all this got to do with me?’
‘Everything, Lady Anne. The man claiming to be Vanner was in fact Wickham, your ostler, a loyal, faithful retainer totally devoted to you. A simple-minded young man, easy to manipulate. You ordered Wickham to collect the remains at Smithfield and, if possible, let it be known he was Vanner. On the one hand, you obtained what you wanted and, on the other, you deepened the mystery further by creating the illusion that Vanner was still alive and might well be the Ignifer. Wickham could see no harm or crime in what he was doing. He knew you had visited Isolda but would be totally unaware of any complex plot. Wickham was simply helping his kind-hearted mistress, to whom he was totally devoted. Even if he was challenged and it was proved you had sent him, you could easily disguise everything as a further act of charity for a poor dead woman for whom you felt sorry. The proof of what I say lies in your garden. I could have that plot dug up. I would certainly discover a funeral urn.’ Athelstan flinched at the look Lady Anne threw him. He prayed to keep calm and not give way to the anger curdling within him. ‘I have more evidence about Wickham. You used him on another occasion to create an even greater illusion, but I’ll come to that when I turn to certain sworn testimony Sir John here has taken from your steward, Picquart.’
For the first time Lady Anne showed surprise, her mouth slack, her eyes blinking before she swiftly recovered. ‘And there is the testimony of the Carnifex’s scrivener, Scrimshaw. According to him, the man at Smithfield collecting Isolda’s remains and claiming to be Vanner reeked of the stable. Picquart,’ Athelstan blithely declared to hide the fact that he was bluffing, ‘declared Wickham also smelt constantly of horses. Indeed, it was a common joke in your household. Totally different from Turgot, who sprinkled himself with the same perfume Isolda wore – crushed lilies – in order to complicate matters further.’
Lady Anne’s gaze faltered. She pressed the white cloth against her dry lips. Cranston caught her deepening unease.
‘Continue, Brother,’ he murmured.
‘Now we come to circumstance, coincidence and their cause – Sir Walter’s arrogance and total disdain for anyone else, especially women. Black Beaumont stole “The Book of Fires” in Constantinople. He brought it to London, had it copied then sold the original back to the Greeks. He kept that copy very secret. I suspect the clerk who created it did not live long afterwards. Beaumont was a professional, seasoned killer. He would murder without qualm anyone who might pose a threat. The years passed. Beaumont dipped into his copy to discover more secrets. Of course, life never stands still. Time passes. People age and, more dangerously for Beaumont, new threats emerge. The Upright Men made their presence felt. They hated Gaunt and his coven, including Sir Walter. More importantly, Beaumont had to face threats from the past. About a year ago, and you must have learnt this, Beaumont received threats, a stark, brutal message repeated time and again, “As I and ours burnt, so shall ye and yours”. We now know its source, a hideous secret from Black Beaumont’s blood-soaked past. So, Lady Anne, think of Sir Walter as he grows old, still cherishing his precious secrets. The Upright Men want to seize them – so does his pretty young wife, his brother, his servants and his rivals, not to mention Gaunt.’ Athelstan paused at a blood-chilling shriek of pain which rang through the gloomy passageway outside. ‘Indeed,’ he continued, ‘the list is endless, yes? And what can Beaumont do with his secret copy of “The Book of Fires”? Hide it in the ground? It’s not gold and parchment soon rots. Lock it in an arca, a strong chest? Then everyone would know where it is. The same is true if he handed it over to the goldsmiths and bankers along Cheapside. My lord of Gaunt would certainly keep it safe but never hand it back. No,’ Athelstan pointed at Lady Anne, ‘he gave it to you.’