‘Lies!’ Routier yelled.

‘Yes, sir, lies! Someone is lying here.’

‘Then why not ask him?’ Routier pointed at Sir Walter. ‘Brother Athelstan, we have no poisons. Our noble gaoler has already searched our possessions.’

‘Is that true?’ Athelstan asked.

Sir Walter nodded. ‘I found nothing,’ he confirmed. ‘Nothing at all.’

‘What about the garden?’ Sir John opened his eyes, smacking his lips.

Routier gasped, open-mouthed. Athelstan hid his amusement. Sir John seemed to have the ability to sleep and listen at the same time.

‘What about the garden?’ The coroner rubbed his face. ‘There are plants growing there.’

‘Why not test us?’ Routier retorted. ‘We are sailors, my lord coroner, not gardeners. I speak for the rest: unless someone told us to the contrary, I wouldn’t know one herb from another.’

This drew murmurs of agreement from his companions. Athelstan stared down at the square of parchment. Nothing, he thought, we are learning nothing here.

‘One last question. Serriem was with you all the time?’

‘I’ve told you that,’ Routier replied wearily. ‘We supped here. We walked in the garden. We played chess, dice, other games. Nobody saw Guillaum drink or eat anything after he had left the table.’

‘You are sure of that?’

‘When the guards came to take us to our chambers, Serriem was alive and well. He took his wine cup up but it contained nothing we, too, hadn’t drunk.’

A short while later Sir John, Sir Maurice and Athelstan left Hawkmere Manor.

‘I’m glad we are out of there!’ Sir John exclaimed as soon as they were out of earshot. ‘A godforsaken place!’ He paused for a drink from his wineskin.

‘What do you make of it?’ Sir Maurice asked.

Athelstan stared back at the high, grey curtain wall and repressed a shiver. Many of the deaths he and the coroner had to deal with were the results of accidents or sudden fights. Now and again, as today, they would enter a different world, what Athelstan privately called the ‘Devil’s Domain’. Hawkmere was one of these. A place seething with malice, resentment, lies and bloody-handed murder.

‘I feel angry,’ he muttered then regretted his words.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Nothing.’

Athelstan waved his hand. He didn’t wait for the rest but left the pathway and walked across the wasteland. It dipped; at the bottom was a small mere or lake. The sun had begun to dry it up, the water receding, leaving a round, muddy circle where plants and under-growth died through lack of nourishment. A desolate place. Athelstan sat down under the cool shade of a tree. Above him a thrush sang its little heart out. Sir John came and stood over him.

‘What’s the matter, Brother?’

‘I don’t know, Sir John. It’s just a feeling, a premonition of danger.’

‘For yourself?’

Athelstan shook his head. ‘For all their effrontery, Sir John, those Frenchmen are frightened and so is Limbright.’

‘You mean none of them is the murderer?’

‘I’m not saying that. There may well be more deaths at Hawk-mere but, at this moment in time, there’s very little we can do.’

Athelstan watched a pedlar leading his donkey up the trackway. The fellow was dressed in leggings and boots and a woollen jerkin with the hood pulled over his head against the sun. He turned and waved at them. Athelstan sketched a blessing in his direction.

‘Now there goes a happy man,’ he said. ‘Very few possessions and never long in one place.’

‘What’s that got to do with Hawkmere?’

‘Those men shouldn’t be there. Sir John, how could Serriem have been murdered? Limbright knows the finger of suspicion points at him and those Frenchmen were wary of him from the start. They even took an oath to be careful what they ate or drank. We know Serriem touched nothing to create suspicion: there’s no mark on his body and his room was locked and secured.’

‘We didn’t ask them about that,’ Sir John remarked.

‘We’ll leave that for the time being. Though it’s inconceivable, Sir John, that someone forced themselves into Serriem’s chamber and made him drink poison.’

‘It could have been a trick. Someone pretending to be a friend.’

‘In which case, Serriem was very stupid for it must have been Limbright. From what I gather he keeps the keys of those chambers on his person.’

He looked over the coroner’s shoulder. Sir Maurice was crouched down, plucking at some flowers.

‘Ah, the lovelorn knight,’ Athelstan said. ‘But he’ll have to wait. Now, Sir John, if I wished to buy a poison, something out of the ordinary, where would I go in London?’

‘If you went to an apothecary or leech like Aspinall, those who have been granted a licence by the City Council, they would make an entry in their ledgers.’

‘So, an assassin wouldn’t go there?’

‘No, he or she wouldn’t. They’d go along to Whitechapel or even Southwark to those children of the night who deal in philtres and potions, magical powers, the crushed skin of toads or mushrooms plucked at midnight.’

‘And they are numerous?’

‘Well, to quote the Gospels, their name is Legion for they are many. Most of them are quacks, cunning men. They’d sell you a powder but it would be nothing more harmful than chalk. The real assassins are very few.’

Sir John closed his eyes and concentrated, sifting through names he knew, those men and women who lived in the shadow of the law, whose collars he would love to finger but never had the evidence.

‘Vulpina is the one. Well, that’s what she’s calling herself now. Years ago she was known as “Hotpot Meg”, a lecherous woman, a famous whore.’

‘What happened?’ Athelstan asked curiously.

‘Someone marked her face and slit her nose. No one knows the reason why. Anyway, “Hotpot Meg” became Vulpina, a dealer in magic potions. Queen of the Poisoners is our Vulpina. You could start with her. However, first, let’s deal with our lovelorn knight.’

They returned to the trackway and explained that they were going into the city.

‘And what about me?’ Sir Maurice spread his hands. ‘I don’t mean to sound plaintive.’

Athelstan grasped his hand. He felt sorry for the pain in this young man’s eyes.

‘Tell my Lord Regent that we have matters in hand. Don’t worry,’ Athelstan offered. ‘Love always wins through.’

The young knight seemed unconvinced but he thanked them and walked away.

‘A grand fellow,’ Sir John said, taking another swig from his wineskin. ‘Reminds me of myself in my youth, bold of eye, lean of body

…’

‘Yes, yes, Sir John. Oh, Sir Maurice!’ Athelstan called out.

The knight turned.

‘Who buys supplies for Hawkmere Manor?’

Sir Maurice looked down at the trackway, scuffing at it with the toe of his boot.

‘It’s one of my duties,’ he shouted back and, turning on his heel, walked away.

‘What on earth was that about?’ Sir John asked.

‘Just a thought, my lord coroner.’

‘But the physician said he had checked the foodstuffs!’

‘What puzzles me,’ Athelstan replied, ‘is that here we have five men who have taken every protection against poison. We are not too sure whether they are terrified of Limbright or frightened of the traitor in their midst. Now I don’t think the poison,’ he continued, ‘was collected from the manor garden. We are not even sure whether anything poisonous grows there. And, even if it does, such poisons have to be prepared. You don’t just pluck a little foxglove and give it to someone to eat. Now, the prisoners were searched, probably many times after their capture: a powder, poisons would have been noticed.’

‘So?’

‘So, Sir John, logic dictates that either the poison was brought into the manor and given to one of those Frenchmen to poison Serriem, and perhaps others, though God knows the reason why…’

‘Or,’ Sir John finished for him, ‘the poison was obtained by someone who can enter and leave that manor at will.’