Free A Plague of Poison by Maureen Ash Page B

discovered.”

    Severtsson’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “I have heard of the deaths in the castle,” he said, “but not of any in the town. May I ask who it is that has died?” The bailiff was well-spoken, but his words were touched with a slight Scandinavian accent, which confirmed the impression that he was of Nordic stock.

    “A neighbour of your uncle Reinbald’s,” Bascot replied. “A spice merchant named Robert le Breve, and his wife and young daughter.”

    The information startled the bailiff. “I am sorry to hear that,” he said. “Le Breve was a good friend of my uncle’s. I know he will be distressed at his passing, and especially by the manner of it. You say the little girl was poisoned, too?”

    Bascot nodded. “The only one left alive in the household was an elderly servant. A woman named Nantie.”

    “And it is certain that the honey in which the poison was placed was purchased from the apiary at Nettleham?” Severtsson asked.

    “It was, but it was not le Breve who bought it. It was given to Maud le Breve by your aunt, and came from a stock which she said was supplied to them by you.”

    It took a moment for Severtsson to register the implications of what Bascot had told him, and when he did, the blood drained from his face. “Are you saying that if my aunt had not given the honey to her neighbour, it would have been she and my uncle who died?”

    “Yes. It would seem that the poisoner’s intended victims were members of your family, not le Breve’s.”

    Bascot gave the bailiff a few moments to recover from the shock of what he had been told and then asked, “When did you take the honey pots from Nettleham to your uncle’s house?”

    “Last autumn, just after it had been harvested,” Severtsson replied, his voice unsteady. “My uncle asked me to buy some for him and I did so, when I went to Nettleham to collect the beeswax that is the beekeeper’s fee for tenancy.”

    “After you collected it, did you leave it out of your sight for any length of time before you took it to your uncle’s house?” Bascot asked.

    “No,” Severtsson replied. “I was going into Lincoln that day and had a cart with me. I loaded both the honey and the wax on the wain and took the pots of honey directly to Uncle Reinbald’s house. It is my custom, whenever I am in Lincoln, to call on them and stay for a meal. That is what I did that day. After we had eaten, I took the beeswax to the preceptory on my way back to Wragby. The honey never left my possession at any time, nor did I leave it unattended while it was on the wain.” He ran his tongue over his lips in an agitated manner and said to Hamo, “Is it really possible that the honey could have been poisoned before I collected it?”

    “It may have been,” the serjeant replied, “and the matter must be looked into. That is why Sir Bascot wishes to go to the apiary and question the inhabitants. Tell him what you know of the beekeeper and his family.”

    Hamo’s tone was brusque, and Severtsson recovered his composure a little under the force of it. “There is the beekeeper himself, whose name is Adam. He is a widower, but he has a daughter, Margot, and her husband living with him. Margot’s husband’s name is Wilkin; he is a potter and makes jars for the apiary honey and other types of vessels which he hawks around Lincoln. They have two children, a daughter, Rosamunde, who is about twenty years old and has a babe of her own, and a young son named after his grandfather and called Young Adam.”

    “And this daughter, do she and her husband live on the property as well?” Bascot asked.

    Severtsson’s gaze faltered a little as he answered. “She has no husband,” he said.

    Bascot noted the hesitation that the bailiff had made when speaking of the girl, and had the feeling that Severtsson was being evasive. He did not pursue the impression, however; it might be nothing more serious than that the bailiff felt uncomfortable speaking