A Head for Poisoning (56 page)

That night, Geoffrey sat in Godric's chamber, staring into the flames that licked at the damp logs. The window shutters stood wide open so that the poisonous fumes from Godric's paintings might be dissipated, and the wind that gusted in chilled the room and made the flames dance and roar.

Geoffrey rubbed at the bridge of his nose, and glanced at the hour candle that stood in a protected corner of the room. He sighed, and then stood to pace for a while to prevent himself from falling asleep. It was well past midnight, and still she had not come. Perhaps Henry was right after all. When Geoffrey had stated his intention to wait for Enide to come through the secret tunnel, Henry had sneered in derision, maintaining that Enide was no fool, and would be well on her way to the coast to avoid being hanged for treason by the King. Olivier had agreed, while Joan had seemed too confused to think anything.

Hedwise had wept bitterly when she had learned of Stephen's death, and Geoffrey asked himself whether their relationship had been all it should. Joan and Olivier had retired to their chamber, and Geoffrey had heard them talking in low voices behind the door he was certain had been barred.

Bertrada had seen her husband laid out in the chapel next to his father and brother, and announced that she would be leaving Goodrich as soon as Walter was buried. Geoffrey had studied her sharp, hard features in the flickering light from the sconce. Her mouth was drawn in a bitter, bloodless line, and her eyes were cold and calculating. Was she fleeing the scene of her crime, he wondered, now that Enide had ensured that Walter would never inherit Goodrich? Was it Bertrada who had stabbed Godric, so that Walter could have the estates and the uncertainty would be over? Seeing him staring at her, she gave a mirthless smile, and offered him mulled wine that he refused.

He had taken nothing to eat and drink that evening, a precaution he felt justified in taking when even the dog declined to eat the various titbits offered by the others. Stephen was dead, and so would not be bringing Geoffrey wine doctored with ergot to drink, but there was still Henry, Olivier, Joan, Hedwise, and Bertrada who might harbour murderous intentions towards him.

Sitting alone in Godric's chamber, Geoffrey began to think that Henry was right to have scoffed at his belief that Enide would come that night. It would be a rash thing to do—she would be a fool not to guess that the household would be on the alert for her, and Enide was certainly no fool. Adrian had offered to wait with him, but Geoffrey had no intention of being stabbed at a vital moment by a lovelorn priest, and had asked Olivier to see Adrian away from the castle altogether.

The hour candle burned lower still. Geoffrey opened the door to the spiral stairs and listened. The castle was still, but not silent. Joan and Olivier still muttered in their room, and somewhere, someone snored at a volume loud enough to wake the dead. Geoffrey closed the door again, and went to the window, leaning out to take deep breaths of cold, crisp air. Joan and Olivier seemed to be finding a good deal to discuss. Were they talking about how they had murdered Godric, and how they might still turn his death to their advantage? And Henry and Hedwise—now the likely heirs to Goodrich Castle—were they sitting somewhere plotting and mixing their ergot and poppy powders?

He rubbed his eyes and looked at the candle. It was probably around two or three in the morning. The inhabitants of Goodrich had not been much interested in knowing the time, and all the hour candles that Geoffrey had managed to find were old and cheap. Geoffrey was not at all certain whether the wicks would burn at the correct rate. He turned back to the window again, looking at the pale glint of the river in the moonlight, and the dark mass of the tree-shrouded hills beyond. He entertained the notion that he might be better going to find a safe bed with Helbye than pacing in the castle all night.

Yet Geoffrey was convinced that Enide would come. Henry was right in that she would certainly flee—to Normandy probably, where the Duke would welcome her at the recommendation of his friend and ally the Earl of Shrewsbury—but he could not see her leaving unfinished business. Henry was still alive and stood to inherit Goodrich and, according to her reasoning, Geoffrey had slain her lover of many years” standing. She would not leave without having her revenge.

But as the darkness faded to pale grey, Geoffrey realised he had been wrong. He slumped against the wall and stared at the white embers of the dead fire. Enide must have decided to leave revenge until later. He hauled off his surcoat, and then tugged at the buckles on his hauberk with cold fingers. Divested of his armour, he went to a bowl of water on the chest and splashed some of it over his face, wincing at the chill. As he dried his face on his shirt-sleeve, he heard a faint tap on the door.

“Yes?” he called, striding across the room to where his sword lay under his pile of chain-mail. He relaxed when he saw it was only Hedwise carrying a tray. She balanced it on her knee, and turned to close the door, so that their voices would not disturb others who still slept.

“She did not come?” she asked unnecessarily, glancing around the empty room.

Geoffrey shook his head. “I was wrong and Henry was right. She will be well on her way to the coast by now. Then she will board a ship for France, and will not return until the Earl of Shrewsbury has determined that England is ripe for an invasion by the Duke of Normandy.”

“You look tired,” said Hedwise, sympathetic to his frustration. “Come and sit down. I have brought you some of my broth. I will build up the fire, and then you should rest. Your father and brothers will not be buried until mid-morning, and you should try to snatch some sleep before then.”

She set her tray on the table, and pulled out a stool for Geoffrey to sit on. He flopped down and rested his head in his hands.

“I was certain she would come tonight,” he said. “But it seems I am seldom right when it comes to Enide. She is not the person I once knew.”

“I really could not say,” said Hedwise. “I have known her only as she is now. Your hands are frozen. Here, drink some of this broth.”

She pushed a steaming bowl into Geoffrey's hands, and stood behind him. A strong smell of fish rose into his face, and his stomach rebelled.

“What is it, ergot flavour?” he asked, somewhat discourteously, given that she had just been kind to him.

“Well, yes, actually,” said Hedwise, as, simultaneously, Geoffrey felt the sharp prick of a dagger through his shirt. “And you have a choice: drink the soup, or have me run you through. Which will it be?”

“It was you?” asked Geoffrey, startled. He started to turn, but Hedwise dug the dagger into him in a way that made him certain she was in earnest. “You poisoned me last time?”

“I put ergot in the broth, but I miscalculated and you survived. I suppose you did not finish it. There were only so many times that I could urge you to drink without arousing your suspicion. Afterwards, I guessed it would only be a matter of time before you worked out that the ergot was in my broth, not Stephen's wine—”

“So you came back later, and added ergot to the wine, too—which is why the physician found ergot and poppy powder in both.”

“Correct,” said Hedwise.

“But why?” asked Geoffrey. “I was not a danger to Henry and his inheritance. Even if the will naming Godfrey as his heir had been approved in court, I would not have taken Goodrich.”

“So
you
say,” said Hedwise. “But as it happened, it was Walter I was after—your death was just part of my plan to get
him
out of the way. Walter had had a good deal to drink, and is a heavy sleeper anyway. My notion was for you and Godric to be found dead, and Walter blamed. But you survived, and that ridiculous Henry started claiming that
you
were responsible for Godric's death! It was so ludicrous that I almost laughed. I tried several times to dissuade him and shift the blame to Walter, but you heard how he would have none of it.”

Geoffrey was angry with himself. He had assumed that because the ergot had not killed him and because his dagger had been used to stab Godric, the would-be poisoner had wanted him accused of the murder. That the whole elaborate situation had been devised to place Walter in a dreadfully compromising position had not crossed his mind.

“But why Walter? What has he done to deserve all this?”

“He was simply the first on my list. Getting rid of you was a bonus, but not really an important one because you are younger than Henry and so do not present a threat. Stephen was to be next.”

“I take it that Henry is unaware of all the pains you are taking to secure his inheritance?”

She laughed. “Do not ask stupid questions! Of course he does not know what I am doing—he has neither the brains nor the capacity for the discretion that is necessary for a successful outcome. But I do not have all day. Drink the broth or I will stab you. I recommend the broth, because it will kill you without too much discomfort. I cannot say the same for the knife, since I have not done it before. It might take more than one attempt.”

Geoffrey took a tentative sip at the broth, pretending to take more than he had. He grimaced at the strong flavour and the way the poison burned his mouth—even from the tiny amount he had taken.

“What is wrong?” asked Hedwise. “Do you not like it?”

“Not especially,” said Geoffrey. “It is too hot.”

He set the bowl on the table and Hedwise gave him a poke with the dagger.

“Broth is meant to be drunk hot. Pick it up.”

Geoffrey lifted it. “But you did not kill Father, did you? You might have intended to, but you did not actually do it.”

He could hear her breathing behind him. “No. He was already dead when I came for him. He often calls out in the night, and so would have thought nothing odd about me bringing him fish soup around dawn. But, as you seem to know, he was already dead. Now I realise that Enide must have killed him.”

“She did not,” said Geoffrey. “In fact, she was one of the very few for whom Father's murder would have been impossible. Rohese heard him alive and arguing with Stephen, and then stayed with him until he died. At father's insistence, Rohese fled to the tunnel after he was dead. No one used it after that, so while Enide might well have come up it to kill him, she could not have left that way. And any other way would have been difficult, since everyone but Stephen thought she was dead. It would have caused a stir to say the least.”

“Well, who did kill him then?” asked Hedwise. “Do you know?”

“Actually, no one killed him,” said Geoffrey. “I think he killed himself.”

There was a pause, and then Hedwise laughed. “I know what you are trying to do. You think you can distract me by spinning wild tales. Drink the broth, Geoffrey, or it will be cold. Then it will not be nice at all.” The dagger pricked again, adding venom to her words.

Geoffrey pretended to take another sip from the dish, almost gagging as the smell of fish long past its best wafted into his face. He had no intention of drinking the stuff, and Hedwise was right: Geoffrey intended to talk to her and tell her what he had reasoned until an opportunity arose that would allow him to overpower her.

“Stephen met Enide, and he learned from her that she planned to kill King Henry in Monmouth. Stephen then told Father, who was appalled and started to shout his objections to the plot. Rohese heard him carrying on, but I did not because I was drugged. Walter had already left by then. Father knew that he would be implicated in the plot, guilty or not, and rather than risk the shame and inevitable punishment that such an accusation would bring in the last few days of his life, he decided to take his own life, so that his reputation could never be so besmirched.”

“He killed himself to avoid a scandal?” asked Hedwise in disbelief.

“More or less. The King had overlooked Father's part in the plot to kill Rufus, but he would not overlook one to kill himself. Father had been given his chance, and so could not expect to evade justice a second time. He decided to kill himself, so that no one could accuse him of anything. I have seen men kill themselves with daggers before. The way he died was very typical of a self-inflicted stroke.”

“But you have no evidence! This is all supposition.”

“Not all,” said Geoffrey. “Father was killed with the dagger that William the Conqueror gave him—I found it bloodstained in the moat a couple of days ago. You had all been hunting around for it when you thought he was dead—just after I arrived—and he told me he had hidden it where no one would find it. It was clear that none of you knew where it was—and therefore none of you could have killed him with it. He retrieved it from wherever it was secreted, and stabbed himself.”

“But he would go to Hell for suicide,” said Hedwise, unconvinced.

“I do not think he saw it as suicide,” said Geoffrey. “Rohese said he blamed us for killing him—he believed that his children had murdered him because he saw us as responsible for putting him in the situation where he was forced to take his own life. Anyway, he always maintained that as long as he confessed his sins before he died, he would go more or less straight to the pearly gates. Shrewsbury's fat priest had heard his confession that very night, and had given him last rites. What better a time?”

She was silent. Geoffrey swirled the contents of the bowl around absently.

“And then you came in,” he continued. “You found that I was still alive, but that Father was dead. You took my dagger and plunged it into his chest in the hope that one of us—Walter or me—would be accused of his murder. You tipped the wine out of the window to make it appear as though I had been drinking heavily, and then you threw his precious dagger after it.”

“Very good,” said Hedwise. “But enough of all this speculation. Drink the damn broth!”

Geoffrey half lowered the broth, and then with a sudden, abrupt movement, he hurled it over his head directly into her face. She gagged and choked and staggered backwards. At the same time, he heard a sound from the garderobe passage.