The Cornish Princess by Tanya Anne Crosby

ChapterTwenty-Five

Ia took the news of her husband’s death poorly, sobbing in her hands whilst her mother ushered the older children out of the house and held the youngest on her hip.

Once they were out of the room, Gwendolyn explained, as gently as she was able, about the discovery of her husband’s body in the alley behind the smelting house.

She didn’t tell her about the hammer, nor the state of his body after the “wolves” had their way with him. Some details were unnecessary, she decided, and it didn’t take long for Gwendolyn to realize that Ia had had nothing to do with her husband’s death.

Indeed, whoever filled those prunes knew she and her children would be gone, and that only Bryok would have access to them.

Moreover, whoever poisoned them must have known enough to know how to handle the cuttings. The fumes alone could kill as readily as the ingestion. But if one did not know how to harvest or prepare the potion—as the physician implied—it could cause blisters to form, or discolorations that lasted days, even weeks; perhaps this was what Mester Ciarán had been searching for during the examination in his laboratory?

Only now Gwendolyn wished she had inspected the most obvious suspects for evidence on their hands. Especially considering that Mester Ciarán also had a bowl of those same prunes in his laboratory. Was it Mester Ciarán who injected the prunes?

If so, and he allowed Gwendolyn to eat them, he would face the executioner. But something told her he did not. And there was also that strange encounter between Mester Ciarán and the Mester Alderman in her father’s hall the day they’d brought in Bryok’s body.

Gwendolyn knew it took about six bells after death, or thereabouts, before a body’s humors ceased to flow. She knew this because she was a hunter. Once the blood congealed, cadavers didn’t bleed, except through the ordeal of the bier. Considering that, it was rather odd Mester Ciarán should hand his staff to Alderman Eirwyn to poke at the body. Why should he do so, unless he, too, suspected the Mester Alderman of Bryok’s murder? Furthermore, if Mester Ciarán suspected Eirwyn, and Eirwyn knew it, mayhap those prunes in his laboratory were meant to silence Mester Ciarán once and for all?

As soon as Gwendolyn returned, she must seek the physician. Perhaps he would corroborate her suspicions, or mayhap he’d discovered something more.

She was only glad now that she’d taken his prunes—and then suddenly she remembered something. The day she’d eaten Mester Ciarán’s prunes… this was the day she’d retched over Málik. By far, that was the most she’d eaten at once, and not so many since.

She peered up at Málik, who stood beside her, reminding herself to tell him about this later. In the meantime, Gwendolyn laid a hand over Ia’s, and said, “Do you know of anyone who might have wished your husband ill?”

Ia shook her head.

“Did you find he was angry when you left?”

“Why should he be?”

Gwendolyn lifted her shoulders. “Because you left him?”

“Nay! I did not!” cried Ia. “I did not leave him. He told me to go!” The woman sounded utterly incensed, as though she must be telling the truth. “He said he would follow,” she said. “He said he would speak with the Mester Alderman. He said he would leave his position.” She blew her nose then, and added, “He promised me a better life.”

With Ia’s youngest on her hip, her mother patted her daughter on the shoulder, and said, “There, there.”

Unfortunately, Gwendolyn had no words to console the poor woman, and neither did she dare elaborate further when Ia was already so distraught.

Offering thanks for her time, Gwendolyn and Málik left her to be consoled by her mother, and Gwendolyn took the opportunity on the way home to tell Málik about her suspicions. With her cheeks burning hot, she reminded him about the spew on his tunic, and explained that she’d eaten prunes from Mester Ciarán’s bowl.

“Interesting,” he said.

“Don’t you think so?”

“Indeed.”

Ia’s father’sfarm was only a stone’s throw from her uncle’s village.

They’d been gone so short a time that Gwendolyn was surprised to return and discover a pyre already aflame, with Owen’s body atop it. As casually as though he were a rack of lamb, they’d tossed him onto the bier, and then stood watching as he burned. He was surrounded by strangers who would shed no tears for him and Gwendolyn forced herself to stand and watch as well—a final gesture of respect.

Beside her, Málik kept her company.

After a while, he said, “Gwendolyn.” And, far from loathing the way it sounded, Gwendolyn was moved by the way her name sounded upon his lips… breathless, like a whisper.

“Yes?”

“Those prunes must have been costly, don’t you think?”

Gwendolyn nodded. Indeed. Particularly at this time of the year when they must be imported. In fact, they were so costly that she saw none on the table at Prince Loc’s welcome feast, despite that she knew her father meant to impress.

“Moreover,” he said, perhaps wondering aloud, “only ask yourself… why would someone bother using a hammer if the method of death was poison?”

Gwendolyn blinked.

Of course she had wondered. Many times. It was part of the reason she had embarked upon this investigation, but when Málik posed the question, the answer seemed as clear as the nose on her face.

They’d used the hammer to deflect suspicion—for the same reason they’d moved the body… and for the same reason they’d cleaned Bryok’s house.

Whoever killed Bryok wasn’t a stranger.

It was someone who’d known him well enough to offer an extravagant gift of imported prunes. Someone who known him well enough to worry his death would reflect upon him poorly.

Find that man, Málik suggested, and therein discover his motive.