‘Did you arrest him?’ she demanded, her attention torn between the latest scandal in the town and the need to titivate herself for the great occasion at Rougement.
‘I’ll talk to your brother about it in the morning. He’s set on squeezing a confession from Edgar, but maybe it’s the apprentice’s master who needs a little persuading.’
‘Is there any other evidence apart from that old crone’s allegation that he may have tried to get rid of Adele’s baby?’
John was reluctantly struggling into a tunic of dark red worsted, which had that fitted him two years ago but was now dangerously tight around the belly. ‘After I accused him, I got Gwyn of Polruan and my clerk to search his shop. That was a hellish task, as any apothecary’s is a mass of bottles, boxes, drawers, vials and strange bits of apparatus.’
‘Did they find anything?’
‘In one of the little drawers there was a supply of those slips of elm bark, in a dry state. The same that Dame Madge explained were meant to swell and open up the neck of the womb.’
‘What did the leech have to say to that?’
‘He seemed unconcerned. Claimed that every apothecary would have such devices, because they were used for treating severe costiveness of the bowels. He says they are pushed up the fundament to help open the obstructed gut.’
Matilda looked faintly disgusted. ‘I’ve never heard of that. You’d better check with some other leech that he’s not just making some excuse.’
John had already thought of that, but he meekly thanked her for her good advice. She was in an excellent mood, having both the invitation to the banquet and plenty of material to gossip about with her wag-tongue friends at St Olave’s.
The celebration at the Shire Hall in the inner ward of Rougemont went according to plan and Sheriff Richard was relieved that his lengthy preparations had led to a crisis-free event. The food was good and plentiful, the drink was copious and the general atmosphere was cordial. Musicians and mummers came to entertain the guests after the food had been cleared away, and at midnight the party was still in full swing.
People were moving around from bench to bench and table to table, so John had a chance to speak again to Hubert Walter, albeit briefly. The sheriff was attending on Bishop Marshall, so Hubert could speak frankly to de Wolfe. ‘This problem with de Revelle is by no means unique. Several coroners and sheriffs are at odds with each other for the same reasons,’ he confided. ‘All I can suggest is that you tread carefully and let him have sufficient cases to soothe his pride.’
John nodded as he bent over the Justiciar at his place at the top table. ‘I will do my best, but it can be difficult when he always takes the easiest road to settling a crime. We have such a situation in Exeter at this very moment.’ He briefly outlined the rape, abortion and suspected poisoning, which de Revelle was trying to clear up by summary trial and wringing confessions by torture. ‘These should be brought before the King’s justices, but God knows when they will arrive next in Devon,’ he concluded.
The Justiciar promised to do what he could to speed up the perambulation of the assize, but John suspected that he was pessimistic about much improvement.
The night wore on and John was glad that no one came to drag him out again to some mortal emergency. In the early hours, the guests streamed away in various stages of intoxication and Matilda took John’s arm to be led back to Martin’s Lane, for once happy with her lot.
Her husband, equally glad of her good mood, looked forward to a busy day ahead, wondering what fresh problems it would bring.
The first arose an hour after dawn, when the coroner went up to the sheriff’s chamber to discuss the most recent developments in the Fitzosbern intrigue. He had called at St John’s on the way and found that the silversmith was now almost fully recovered, though he was still very weak, had palpitations of the heart and strange tinglings in his feet and hands. He could speak now, but he had nothing much to say. All he could recollect was eating his meal, prepared as usual by his back yard cook. He had difficulty swallowing, as his infected throat wound was becoming more painful, but he managed to get down some of the roast fowl. Within a few minutes, he felt a numbness and tingling in his mouth and throat, which spread as a burning feeling in his belly. Then his heart began to flutter, his fingers felt numb, and he started to sweat and feel faint. That was all he remembered until he woke in the priory.
Brother Saulf stopped any further questioning at that point, but said that perhaps by the evening or next morning Fitzosbern might be well enough to be taken home on a litter to his own bed.
Now John was back in the castle keep, trying to catch Richard during his last hectic hours before Hubert Walter’s procession went on its way, back to London via Southampton and Winchester. A solid phalanx of clerks and soldiers was clustered into the sheriffs chamber and even the coroner failed to push his way inside.
As he waited in the main hall of the keep for the crowd to thin, a tall figure shoved its way towards him, manhandling aside anyone who stood in his way. It was Joseph of Topsham, followed by Eric Picot, and both were in a state of agitation.
‘What in Christ’s name is going on, de Wolfe?’ bellowed the usually serene ship-owner. ‘You sent me word about my son last evening and I came as soon as the town gates were opened. Is it true that this madman of a sheriff has arrested him on suspicion of murder?’
John explained what had happened and that he was there now to talk to Richard de Revelle about the matter. Fitzosbern was rapidly recovering and there was no real proof that he had been poisoned, according to the apothecary, although the symptoms and circumstances certainly pointed to it.
The thin, grey-bearded merchant grabbed John’s arm. ‘I must see Edgar! His mother is beside herself with worry. You are the crowner, you can take me to him. He is down below us, I suppose, in that hellhole they call a prison.’
John sensed that Joseph was in no mood to be challenged and, as one of the most powerful of the trading class in the area, he deserved attention. With a glance at the throng still milling around the door to the sheriff’s office, he led the way outside and went down the wooden staircase to the ground. A few yards away were stone steps leading down into the undercroft of the keep, which was partly below ground level.
‘What happened to that bloody man Fitzosbern?’ asked Eric Picot as they went. ‘We only have half a story.’
John told them all he knew, leaving out the allegation against the apothecary himself concerning Adele de Courcy.
‘I wish whatever it was had killed the bastard, whether it be food, poison or apoplexy,’ snarled the wine merchant, with a viciousness that surprised the coroner.
John stopped at the arched entrance to the cavernous basement and looked at Picot. ‘Where was Mabel Fitzosbern when he was taken ill?’ he asked sternly.
The dark-haired merchant laughed easily. ‘Nowhere near her husband, if that’s what you’re thinking. Though she had good cause to kill the swine, after all the suffering he’s caused her, but she was far away.’
‘I heard she went to her sister’s house in the town?’
‘Only for a night and a day. Then I took her back to my house at Wonford, well outside the city, where she could be rid of him. Her maid and my sister are with her, so she’s well chaperoned,’ he added pointedly.