The poisoned chalice

stone and slate, each with its own fenced garden. On the far side of the village was a small water mill, probably used for grinding corn. In the centre of the village green stood a black-spired church, nothing more than a tower and nave hastily thrown together, the type you can see in any village in England or France. It was ringed by its own walls, a cemetery to one side, the priest's house to the other. Even from where we looked you could glimpse the glint of the huge carp pond where Abbe Gerard had drowned.
    We rode slowly down the beaten track. Women in thick, serge dresses and wooden clogs gathered at the doors of their houses and watched us pass whilst half-naked children ran behind us, screaming in their patois for a sou or something to eat. A few old men dozed on benches. Around them scrawny-necked chickens pecked at the dust, jostling with thin-flanked pigs for something to eat. We reached the church and rode through the lych gate. Benjamin thanked the groom and told him to return to the chateau. We tied our horses to a small rail and knocked on the priest's house door.
    A young, thin-faced man with brown hair, a sharp needle nose and watery eyes answered. His skin was rather yellow as if he had bile problems or a stone in his kidneys. He was friendly enough, thankfully a Norman born, so Benjamin could converse easily with him whilst I could follow the general gist of their conversation. 'I am the Cure Ricard,' he murmured. 'You are…?' (I was sure he was going to say 'Goddamn'.) 'English, from the Chateau of Maubisson.' 'Come in. Come in.'
    The cure ushered us in. He lived as poorly as his peasant parishioners. The room was simple. There were a few sticks of furniture and the floor was beaten earth, rather cold despite the summer. A fire burnt in the hearth. Next to it squatted a young girl about fifteen or sixteen years old. Her hair was thick and coarse, her face raw and peeling from work in the sun. She hardly looked up as we entered but continued to stir the huge, black pot which hung above the flames, now and again throwing in a scattering of herbs and the occasional piece of raw, fatty meat. 'My housekeeper,' Ricard shamefully announced. (Aye, I thought, and I wager she does more than just work in the kitchen, but who am I to judge the poor man's morals? Look at my chaplain! From what I gather he spends more time in the hay loft with young Mabel from the village than he does in his church. Ah, see, he squirms! He thinks I am old and senile. I tell you this, not even the bloody sparrows land on my lawns without my permission.) Anyway, back to the poor priest. At least he did an honest day's work. He told us to sit down and served us vinegar-tasting wine. When he wasn't looking I poured mine on to the floor.
    'Monsieur le Cure,' Benjamin began, 'you came here after the Abbe Gerard died?'
    'No, Monsieur, I served with him. But the bishop has yet to make up his mind about a successor.' 'So you were here the night he died?'
    'Yes and no. On that Wednesday after Easter I was absent from the church. The abbe had allowed me to visit friends. He stayed and cooked his own dinner.' The cure spread his hands. 'Some scraps of beef, he opened a small jar of wine. The abbe liked his claret and he had been fasting during Lent.' He must have seen the look in my eyes.
    'No more than two cups, certainly not enough to make him drunk. Just before dusk one of the villagers, walking through the church grounds, saw the abbe in the garden looking down at the carp pond. I returned after dark.' He looked sideways at the girl stirring the pot. 'Simone and I returned. Abbe Gerard was not to be seen. I went down to the garden. It was a beautiful evening. I thought he might still have been there.' The cure's eyes filled with tears. 'He was floating face down in the carp pond!' 'And there was no mark or sign of violence?' 'No, Monsieur.' 'And the cup and jar of wine?' 'They were found with him in the pond.' 'Ask him where the wine came from,' I demanded. Benjamin translated my question. The cure shrugged.
    'God knows. The abbe may have bought it. But don't forget, Monsieur, it was Easter. Our parishioners, even the people of Maubisson, send us gifts. Fruit, flowers, wine and sweetmeats.' 'Why would the abbe stare at the carp pond?'
    The cure laughed abruptly. 'Monsieur, everyone stands by the edge of the water and stares at the fish, that's why we have such ponds. It's a bit like asking why someone looks at the sky or watches the