Read Online Mathilde 02 - The Poison Maiden by Paul Doherty - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Paul Doherty
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the grisly scene. Chapeleys was still wearing his oxhide boots. In the murky gloom I could not make out his face. Ingelram Berenger, a plump, white-whiskered, fussy little man, came bustling forward, mopping his face with a napkin taken from the banquet.
‘Master Bertrand,’ he blustered, ‘a guard found this.’ He gestured at the corpse. ‘A hanging! Suicide! God knows why it happened.’ He rubbed his stomach. ‘Not a night for such hideous scenes.’
‘You’ve not entered my chamber?’ Demontaigu asked.
‘Of course not.’
‘It should be locked and bolted from the inside,’ Demontaigu murmured. ‘Master-at-arms,’ he turned to one of the soldiers, ‘bring a ladder. I will go up from the outside and unlock the door; you can join me there.’
The master-at-arms brought a long pole-ladder. Demontaigu insisted that for the moment the corpse be left. He laid the ladder against the palace wall and climbed up. Master Berenger left two of the men-at-arms on guard whilst we hurried round into the building and up the gloomy, freezing staircase. By the time we reached his chamber, Demontaigu had opened the door. He ushered us in.
‘Locked and bolted from the inside,’ he whispered to me.
I glanced quickly round. Nothing looked as if it had been disturbed. The drapes on the bed were slightly creased. The empty platter and goblet still stood on the table. I glimpsed the chancery pouch and hurried across to where it lay on the floor between the chair and the still gleaming charcoal brazier. I pulled back the flaps. It was empty. I glanced at the brazier and noticed the charred scraps of parchment littering the top coals. Chapeleys had apparently burnt whatever he’d brought. There was no sign of any struggle. The cup and platter smelled untainted. The lock and bolts on the door were untouched. I examined the ring in the wall. The thick hempen rope was securely tied to it. The bolts and bars of the wooden door looked unmarked, with no sign of force.
Berenger stood in deep conversation with Demontaigu. The king’s coroner eyed me darkly when he learnt who I was. In the end, however, he seemed satisfied with what Demontaigu had said and became very dismissive.
‘A highly nervous man,’ he declared. ‘Master Chapeleys’ humours must have been deeply agitated and disturbed by all these present troubles. He must have taken his own life.’ He shrugged. ‘God knows what Holy Mother Church will say about that.’ The fat coroner spread his hands, clearly anxious to return to the festivities. ‘There is little more I can say or do,’ he pleaded. ‘Perhaps . . .’
Demontaigu offered to take care of the corpse. Berenger was only too pleased to agree and promptly disappeared. Demontaigu ordered the men-at-arms to go back to the corpse and guard it. Once the chamber was cleared, he bolted the door.
‘Nothing,’ he exclaimed, gesturing around, ‘nothing untoward.’
‘Except the contents of his chancery bag have been burnt.’
‘Chapeleys may have done that himself when he decided to take his own life. The door was locked and bolted.’ Demontaigu shook his head. ‘I cannot believe anything else. Chapeleys was under strict instruction not to open that door to anyone but ourselves or someone . . .’
‘When you left him?’
‘I brought some wine and a platter.’ Demontaigu sighed. ‘I scarcely talked to him, then I left for the chancery office. I did some work there and went direct to Burgundy Hall.’
‘And Berenger?’
‘I told him Chapeleys was a clerk much agitated by the present crisis. A man, perhaps, given to morbid thoughts.’
‘Everything indicates suicide,’ I agreed, ‘yet we know that is not true. Chapeleys was truly frightened but he wanted to live.’ I walked over to the writing table. The quill pens had recently been used. The inkpot was unstoppered. I searched the chancery bag again but it was empty. I went down on my hands and knees. Chapeleys was a clerk. He would write
‘Master Bertrand,’ he blustered, ‘a guard found this.’ He gestured at the corpse. ‘A hanging! Suicide! God knows why it happened.’ He rubbed his stomach. ‘Not a night for such hideous scenes.’
‘You’ve not entered my chamber?’ Demontaigu asked.
‘Of course not.’
‘It should be locked and bolted from the inside,’ Demontaigu murmured. ‘Master-at-arms,’ he turned to one of the soldiers, ‘bring a ladder. I will go up from the outside and unlock the door; you can join me there.’
The master-at-arms brought a long pole-ladder. Demontaigu insisted that for the moment the corpse be left. He laid the ladder against the palace wall and climbed up. Master Berenger left two of the men-at-arms on guard whilst we hurried round into the building and up the gloomy, freezing staircase. By the time we reached his chamber, Demontaigu had opened the door. He ushered us in.
‘Locked and bolted from the inside,’ he whispered to me.
I glanced quickly round. Nothing looked as if it had been disturbed. The drapes on the bed were slightly creased. The empty platter and goblet still stood on the table. I glimpsed the chancery pouch and hurried across to where it lay on the floor between the chair and the still gleaming charcoal brazier. I pulled back the flaps. It was empty. I glanced at the brazier and noticed the charred scraps of parchment littering the top coals. Chapeleys had apparently burnt whatever he’d brought. There was no sign of any struggle. The cup and platter smelled untainted. The lock and bolts on the door were untouched. I examined the ring in the wall. The thick hempen rope was securely tied to it. The bolts and bars of the wooden door looked unmarked, with no sign of force.
Berenger stood in deep conversation with Demontaigu. The king’s coroner eyed me darkly when he learnt who I was. In the end, however, he seemed satisfied with what Demontaigu had said and became very dismissive.
‘A highly nervous man,’ he declared. ‘Master Chapeleys’ humours must have been deeply agitated and disturbed by all these present troubles. He must have taken his own life.’ He shrugged. ‘God knows what Holy Mother Church will say about that.’ The fat coroner spread his hands, clearly anxious to return to the festivities. ‘There is little more I can say or do,’ he pleaded. ‘Perhaps . . .’
Demontaigu offered to take care of the corpse. Berenger was only too pleased to agree and promptly disappeared. Demontaigu ordered the men-at-arms to go back to the corpse and guard it. Once the chamber was cleared, he bolted the door.
‘Nothing,’ he exclaimed, gesturing around, ‘nothing untoward.’
‘Except the contents of his chancery bag have been burnt.’
‘Chapeleys may have done that himself when he decided to take his own life. The door was locked and bolted.’ Demontaigu shook his head. ‘I cannot believe anything else. Chapeleys was under strict instruction not to open that door to anyone but ourselves or someone . . .’
‘When you left him?’
‘I brought some wine and a platter.’ Demontaigu sighed. ‘I scarcely talked to him, then I left for the chancery office. I did some work there and went direct to Burgundy Hall.’
‘And Berenger?’
‘I told him Chapeleys was a clerk much agitated by the present crisis. A man, perhaps, given to morbid thoughts.’
‘Everything indicates suicide,’ I agreed, ‘yet we know that is not true. Chapeleys was truly frightened but he wanted to live.’ I walked over to the writing table. The quill pens had recently been used. The inkpot was unstoppered. I searched the chancery bag again but it was empty. I went down on my hands and knees. Chapeleys was a clerk. He would write