Reaching his door, he paused a moment. Farther along the street he could see Coroner Roger. On an impulse he waved and shouted to him to let him know where he could find Vincent. Then, with a feeling of satisfaction, he watched as the Coroner hurried away, calling to the City Bailiff as he went.
He could remember the clear, alcoholically enhanced fantasy of killing Vincent from the tavern on Christmas Eve, and the vision rose before him again of Vincent le Berwe’s face as Nick shoved his dagger into the greedy bastard’s guts. It would be good to see the bastard squirm while spitted like a capon on a stick. But if he couldn’t do that, at least he could put the Coroner onto him. That might be even more enjoyable in its way.
The smoke above the city swirled, blown by a freezing blast from the south, and Karvinel saw the clouds scudding past at speed. It was getting dark now, and the weather looked as if it would break soon. It would be good to get inside and sit beside the fire.
Then a spirit of rebellion rose in his breast. What was the point of going home? His wife would be sitting sulking because of the loss of her maid and their bottler, and because of their financial problems. She would be waspish about any conversation he instigated, scathing about any new ventures he mentioned. Her companionship was the last thing he needed tonight.
He sniffed disdainfully and set off to an alehouse further up the street.
Coroner Roger saw Vincent le Berwe as soon as he entered the tavern. Nodding towards their quarry, the Coroner marched up to Vincent’s table and pulled up a stool without offering a greeting.
Vincent gave him a welcoming smile, but the Coroner’s face twisted into a mask of revulsion.
‘I wanted,’ he said in a low voice, ‘to see you to ask what sort of a man could do it.’
‘What?’ asked the baffled Vincent.
‘Pay his own son to perjure himself,’ the Coroner spat.
Vincent felt his face go chill, as if all the blood had drained in a moment. ‘Perjure? I… I don’t…’
‘Balls, you lying bastard! Your boy has confessed to his part in the fraud and theft from Ralph, and he’s told us how you bribed him to make sure that Ralph was conned. Were you proud to have perverted your own son?’
‘It wasn’t a perversion, it was the only way to protect him!’ Vincent snapped, stung into retaliation.
‘How?’
‘Ralph stood in my way: he was the only man who could have prevented my being re-elected as Receiver. I had to make sure that he was removed. Otherwise, how could I have built up my position in the City? If Jolly is to win my inheritance, I have to protect it. I couldn’t allow Ralph to get in the way.’
‘So you tried to ruin him?’
Vincent looked away. ‘It seemed the best thing to do,’ he muttered.
‘And when you failed, you had him murdered.’
‘No! I didn’t do that. I’ve never tried to have a man killed.’
‘Then who did? Everyone liked Ralph…’
‘What about Karvinel? He couldn’t stand Ralph, and Ralph was even more of a competitor to him, seeing both were glovemakers.’ Vincent’s brow cleared. ‘That must be it! Nick Karvinel knew that the Cathedral always ordered gloves from Ralph to be made for the Holy Innocents’ Day celebrations. If he could get rid of him, he thought he’d be able to win the contract to finish the job and earn himself some much-needed cash. So he murdered Ralph and took over that business, but he also stole all Ralph’s money.’
The Coroner eyed him with distaste. ‘So now you’ll put the blame onto another unfortunate? Karvinel is no kind of a threat to anyone, not in his present state.’ He frowned as he considered his words. Often in the past he had found that the most meek and humble people could turn to violence when they felt they had no alternative. Karvinel was moderately courteous and mild-mannered, it was true, but he also wore a dagger. He could have become so bitter that he had decided to take matters into his own hands.
‘Why should I have killed Ralph?’ Vincent said, holding both hands out, palms upwards. ‘He was no threat to me once I had put my little plan into operation. There was no point in my killing him.’
‘Maybe he realised what had happened,’ the Coroner said speculatively.
‘Not so far as I know. If I had to bet, I’d say Karvinel did it.’
Simon and Baldwin returned to their inn as dusk was giving way to full night. Jeanne met them in the crowded and smoke-filled hall, Edgar standing at her side to keep unwanted visitors at bay, glowering at any stranger who approached too close. Both appeared relieved to see the two men return.
Baldwin took his seat and motioned to the host to serve them. While waiting, he looked enquiringly at his wife. ‘Are you well? Did you enjoy your tour of the city?’
‘Yes, it was interesting enough, but not so fascinating as your enquiries. I heard another man was poisoned – is it true?’
‘I am afraid so. It was one of the Secondaries called Adam, although, thank God, he should recover. So long as the apothecary’s intervention does not put an end to him first!’
‘Who did it?’
‘There we have the difficulty,’ Simon grunted, throwing a leg over a bench and surveying the crowd in the bar. ‘Two folks have been suspected, but neither seem probable. One is only a child, while the other is le Berwe’s illegitimate son, who has no reason to want to harm Adam.’
‘I think I have news for you, then,’ Jeanne declared, and told them of Hawisia’s terrified appearance and her assertions about Jolinde.
‘She suggests that he poisoned them?’ Baldwin breathed. ‘My God. That would follow on from what the Dean told us.’
Simon nodded. ‘He said rumours suggested Jolinde had tried to kill his father’s wife and got the wrong woman – Ralph’s wife. Now Hawisia says she thinks he succeeded with poison. God’s bollocks!’
Baldwin agreed. ‘I loathe and detest poison. It is so cowardly. There is no courage in attacking someone with such an indiscriminate weapon. It is a tool used by the weak and feebleminded.’
Simon looked at him. ‘I have never heard you so scathing, Baldwin.’
‘The older I become, the more appalled I grow to see such foul behaviour. It is obnoxious to consider putting orpiment or somesuch in a man’s food or drink. A man should be able to trust that his food is safe no matter what.’
Jeanne put her hand on his arm. ‘Calm yourself, husband. Try to think of happier things.’
‘How can I, Jeanne?’ he snapped. ‘The murderer is in the city somewhere and could well strike again at any time. Perhaps it is Jolinde, perhaps it was truly the child Luke! How on earth can I relax when anyone picking up a lump of bread or piece of fruit could be poisoned? How many more will be dead by morning?’
Vincent himself was little happier. He was filled with a deep moroseness which lay heavily on his soul as he walked into his hall.
Hawisia sat waiting for him at their table, and seeing him enter she poured warmed wine into his favourite silver-chased mazer and brought it to him beside the fire. He smiled weakly at her before emptying it in one go. She took it from him and refilled it, passing it to him with solemn assurance.
‘Husband, you are troubled?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Troubled?’ He stared at her as if awoken from a slow lethargy and despair attacked him with renewed force. He shot nervous looks about him, agitatedly biting his nails. Standing, he strode over to the table and was about to place his mazer on it when the urge suddenly took him to smash it. He lifted it high as if to dash it on the floor in a rage; but as soon as the urge took hold of him, it left him, and he let his hands slowly fall to the table, setting the cup down.