The Canterbury Murders by Maureen Ash

notice his industry and commence grooming Inglis to take his place. That had been during those dreadful days after Thomas Becket had been murdered and the king had been scourged in the cathedral for instigating the killing of the sainted archbishop. King Henry had come to the townhouse after his ordeal and Inglis had waited on him personally, bringing clean binding cloths and cups of wine while one of the royal physicians had tended the bloody stripes on his back. Had he not proved his worth then and in the years that followed, during the ten-year reign of Henry’s son Richard and now, latterly, for John? He shook his head morosely. All his hard work, it seemed, had been for naught and he had been put under guard like a common felon.
    As he mentally reviewed his litany of woes, he drank more of the wine. His palate numbed by the amount he had imbibed, and his mind distracted by resentment, he barely noticed that the vintage from the flagon he had just opened, in comparison with the one he had drunk at table, was slightly bitter in taste and had an aroma that was a little musty. Fleetingly he thought that the cook must have been overzealous with the nutmeg when he compounded the last honey mixture, but other than that, he dismissed the oddity, and began to reflect on yet another cause for pique.
    It was his habit to visit a complaisant widow in the town one night a week for a meal and an evening of bed-sport. Yesterday had been the day for his usual appointment but, because of his confinement in the townhouse, he had been unable to go, and at a time when he had a pressing need to speak to her. Even his request to send her a message had been denied by the guards. How embarrassing for a man of his status, he thought angrily, to be dictated to as though he were a lowly groom.
    He was growing ever more mawkish, and it was not until he reached for the flagon a second—or was it a third?—time that he realised his arms felt weak and his mouth overfull of saliva. Sweat began to trickle down his forehead and from under his arms and when he tried to rise from the stool he found his feet were so numb they would not support him. Then his heart began to beat so rapidly it sounded in his ears like the pounding of a hammer. He tried to cry out, but his tongue was thick and would not form the words. Helpless, he fell to his knees and, as the wine cup dropped from his hand and the contents splashed over his meticulously clean tunic, he became senseless. Within minutes he was dead, his long days of service to the monarchs of England at an end.
    ***
    As Inglis was falling to the floor of the buttery, Bascot de Marins arrived at Canterbury castle and was handing his horse into the care of a groom, instructing that the steed be given a brisk rubdown and a full measure of grain. The journey from Dover was not a long one, but the wind from the coast had been biting and he was worried that his mount, a dependable grey gelding he had ridden from Lincoln some weeks before, was suffering from exposure to the cold. As he left the stables, the constable, Nicholas de Criel, came to greet him. He and the Templar had met only once before, and briefly, but they had recognised kindred spirits in each other at that time and Criel’s welcome was a warm one.
    â€œI am glad to see you, de Marins,” he said. “I hope you can solve the mystery of this murder and put the king’s mind at rest.”
    â€œI trust it will be so,” Bascot replied noncommittally, not allowing his distaste for the task to reflect in his answer lest it unsettle Criel, a man he liked and respected. “Have instructions been left as to where I am to attend the king?”
    â€œYou do not have to go far, my friend. He is here, in the keep, anxiously awaiting your arrival. And I must warn you that he is not in the best of tempers.”
    Bascot nodded and he and the constable crossed the ward, making for the keep. As they did so, the