The Relic Murders

flattery. We took sweetmeats and white wine in the parlour. They complimented me on my growing fame and then Edmund, the elder weasel, leaned forward, a bag of silver clinking in his hand.
    'Dearest Roger.' Tears brimmed in his eyes. 'Mother is unwell, a fever; would you, for love of us, bring the spear to cure her?'
    I should have sensed a trap but the clinking of silver was music to my ears. Moreover, you can fake a relic but very rarely a real fever so I agreed. We journeyed back across the valley to the house of the Great Mouth. For once she was silent, lying like some great bloated toad against the bolsters, her black hair damp with sweat, her fat, pasty face shimmering like a lump of lard under the sun. She had a fever. Now I had brought the phial with me and asked the Poppletons for a cup of watered white wine. Edmund and Robert hurried off together and they brought it back in a heavily embossed pewter cup with a broad bowl, thick-stemmed on a heavily bejewelled base. I sought a diversion asking for a napkin and poured the powder in. Edmund then took the cup and gave it to his mother. At my insistence she sipped and sipped, then I laid the spear by her side.
    Now, I certainly didn't want to shelter in the house of my enemies all night. I declared I would stay until dusk when they would see a change in their mother's complexion. The brothers left and I wandered round the chamber. There were a few little gee-gaws, a ring, a cross, which all disappeared into my sack. I had sensed a change in the Poppletons' attitudes: their veneer of politeness was now punctuated by sneers and malicious looks. I doubted if I would get my silver so I also took the cup. Lying sprawled on the bed, the Great Mouth was becoming calmer, her breathing light, her skin cool to the touch so, when I heard the village bells chiming across the fields for Vespers, I took my spear and made to leave. The Poppletons, still servile, surprisingly paid me my silver. I passed Lucy in the gallery, winked and blew her a silent kiss. I collected my horse and rode like the wind back to the manor.
    In retrospect, I admit, I was a tittle-brain. I should not have been deceived by those glass-faced flatterers, those vipers, those malt worms, those diseases in human form.
    I was awoken just before dawn by a pounding on the door. I woke thick-headed, my mouth still sweet with the taste of wine. Lucy, accompanied by my bailiff John Appleyard, a good, honest man, stood in the gallery. 'In heaven's name!' I exclaimed. 'Roger, you must flee!' Lucy pushed me back into the room. 'Roger, you must flee or you'll hang!' 'In heaven's name, woman!' 'Mistress Poppleton is dead! Her sons are now claiming you poisoned her!' 'She had a fever!'
    'Aye, and you made it worse!' she exclaimed. 'No one but you gave her anything to eat or drink. A physician was called and has already shrieked poison.' She grasped my shoulders and shook me. 'Roger, they'll take and hang you!'
    'She speaks the truth,' Appleyard declared. 'They'll know Lucy is gone by now and they'll not wait for the sheriff. Master Roger, you know the Poppletons! An axe in your head or an arrow in your back and they all take the oath that you were trying to flee.' 'But I hardly touched the woman!' I cried.
    'They say you are a thief, that you stole objects as well as the cup in which you put the poison.'
    I closed my eyes. Oh, what a terrible pit I had fallen into. I had stolen and, in my heart, I knew Appleyard was correct. I dressed quickly. I took my war-belt and stuffed my panniers with whatever coins I could lay my hands on. I filled another saddlebag with my relics, a change of clothing and all that I had borrowed from the Poppleton household. I took the fastest horse from my stable, told Appleyard to look after the manor and gave Lucy a juicy kiss. I then fled, even as Appleyard cried that he could see dust along the trackway as the Poppletons approached.
    I rode like some bat spat out of hell. I stopped at night to rest my horse and ease the ache in my bones. On the following morning, despite my master's strictures, I entered London. Oh, it was good to be back in the melting pot, in that great cauldron which bubbles all day and every night with excitement and knavery. I kept well away from the beaten path and, in those early hours, I crossed the city into the stinking alleyways and maze of warrens around Whitefriars.
    Now. I am not going to give you a treatise on coincidences. In the end, I suppose,